꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ drunk!jason todd x fem!reader, fluff, talks of pregnancies, art by ciricearts
“Sweetheart, we’re gonna have a baby?” he mumbles, lifting your shirt to press messy kisses up your stomach. You’re not sure where he got this idea from. The two of you have never talked about kids, mostly because you’ve been afraid to bring it up.
You learned early on that the future was something you didn’t mention around him. Every time you made an offhand comment about a ring, or how cute babies were, you’d see his shoulders tense, his throat bobbing.
Now, at his words, your heart speeds up. “Uh…”
“I hope she has your eyes and your nose and your pretty smile,” he slurs.
“Jay, what are you—”
He cuts you off when his nose brushes your stomach softly. “Our baby,” he adds.
When he looks up at you, his blue eyes are glassy, cheeks dusted in pink.
You can’t bring yourself to shatter the moment. Especially not when he’s looking at you like that.
“That’s…nice, honey,” you hum, fingers threading through his black curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
He sighs like a puppy. “You feel nicer.”
Your lips curve up at that. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you whisper as you try to pull him up.
But the man's too stubborn. He stays rooted and grunts in disapproval.
"Not done talkin' to her," he tells you, arms wrapping around your hips.
“her?” you repeat softly. “How do you know it’s a her?”
"Father's intuition," he says it like it should be obvious.
You laugh and he pouts when he feels your shoulders shaking. "You really want a baby?" you ask him.
He tilts his head. And he's never looked so unguarded before.
"Wanna give you everything."
Maybe in the morning you'll find the courage to ask him again. But for now, your expression softens. You don't know what to say, so you kneel with him and throw your arms around his neck. He smells like gunpowder and leather, and this time a tang of alcohol clings to him.
summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
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ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
You would be dying before those kids.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
bruce wayne with a girlfriend who wants to film a grwm for social media but he walks past the camera shirtless (and hot) and it turns into a playboy, billionaire bruce wayne thirst trap used in 1838373 edits because his fans are unhinged
dick grayson with a girlfriend who tosses off her high heels mid walk because it hurts to walk in them, making him speed up his pace to fetch her heels before it gets into her way
barbara gordon with a girlfriend who melts in barbara’s arms while getting back scratches and then she proceeds to brag to her followers that no one will have such an intelligent and amazing and hot and kind and sexy and loving and ethereal girlfriend like she does
jason todd with a girlfriend who snaps a quick ootd and says “twirl” and he actually listens to show his outfit
cassandra cain with a girlfriend who always shows her newest haul, in real life or per video chat doesn’t really matter, and wants cass to clap or compliment her
stephanie brown with a girlfriend who demands to get carried yet steph proceeds to throw her over her shoulder instead
tim drake with a girlfriend who calls him good boy whenever he does a quick favour for her and they both cringe but tim secretly doesn’t mind
duke thomas with a girlfriend who bakes with him and she intentionally smears whipped cream or flour or any sort of shit she can get into her hands onto his face (it doesn’t end well)
damian wayne with a girlfriend who forces him to participate in tiktok trends. he appears maybe once or twice per month (if you’re lucky)
dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne
synopsis: your boyfriend reveals to you his secret identity finally, just not in the way he would have liked... tags: established relationships, angst to comfort, miscommunication, assumptions of/illusions of cheating (dick and bruce), happy ending, language
a/n: back at it again with another fic i squirreled away lol no timmy this time, sorry tim drake enjoyers!! i couldn't think of a good idea for him;; hope y'all enjoy!!
Dick Grayson (wc: 2.7k):
You like to think of yourself as an understanding person. Someone who puts faith in their partner a hundred percent of the time. But there has to be a limit right? What you’re doing right now is rational right?
You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor of Dick’s apartment, staring blankly out ahead of you in questioning numbness as your inner thoughts compare notes. It comes and goes in waves. Sometimes the Doubter wins out, making your body move with a fueled rush to gather all your clothes, all your belongings you’ve left over as his place, cursing his name and your naivety as you try to make any evidence of you disappear.
And then, a little voice pipes up in the middle of you stuffing mugs wrapped in shirts into trash bags that freezes you on the spot.
“But Dick isn’t like that.”
And then you sit or you stand in the middle of his apartment, mind blank from overwhelming conflicting beliefs, for several minutes. Sometimes you silently cry, keeping your sobs down so as to not disturb the neighbors at such a late (or rather early) hour.
But right now the tears are dry on your cheeks, your thoughts have leveled out some but you were still indecisive. You start to turn your mind back, trying to recall if there was any proof of Dick’s cheating or if it was just your abandonment issues flaring up again.
Your relationship with Dick wasn’t perfect, but it was damn near close. You two had disagreements or communication issues that would be resolved in an evening. The worst fight you had was when Dick flaked on meeting your parents when they were in town. It wasn’t a big deal, just a light breakfast at a cafe or a lunch downtown sometime during the week they were visiting; something casual to introduce your family to the man you loved.
And he flaked all week. Each excuse was different to the point you weren’t sure why he bothered rescheduling if he was just going to not show up.
But that was then. Dick had made up for it in spades by insisting you both go see your family in your old hometown one weekend and it was amazing. Your parents loved him (as who wouldn’t) and you got to show him where you grew up so far away from the grimness of Bludhaven.
Dick would miss a few dates here and there, but you never thought about it fully. Until one night when Dick was sleeping over at your apartment and you woke up to him missing. You rarely woke up in the middle of the night while Dick was over (he made sure you had no excuse not to sleep soundly after he was finished with you), but during a sudden cold snap through the city you woke up freezing cold and alone.
At first you waited, curling the comforter around you as you waited for your darling heater to return. But the longer you waited, the more the chill got to you, and the more the chill got to you, the more awake you became. It wasn’t long before you sat up, worried, you pulled on Dick’s sweater from the floor and padded around your cold apartment looking for him.
You checked the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, and found no sign of him. You see that his phone is still connected to the charger by the bed but his shoes are missing from the front door. You try not to worry about it too much but in the end, you couldn’t return to sleep.
You heard the front door open sometime around four in the morning. You wait on top of your bed, waiting to see if your mind was playing tricks on you. But when you heard the jingle of keys hit the bowl by the door, you rushed to your feet.
You crashed into Dick’s warm body before he could even toe his second shoe off. His arms loop around you, his warmth seeping into the chill of your body from the cold and also from the lack of him. He mumbled softly with amusement as he petted your hair, “Well, hello to you too.”
As you pull Dick back towards your bedroom to return to sleep, you ask him where he went at such a late hour. He told you he had forgotten something at his apartment and didn’t want to wake you up over something so small. And you believed him, he was your Dick afterall.
Even though his apartment was only a few blocks up the street and he didn’t return with anything in his hand, you believed him. Because you loved him.
But then it kept happening.
For several nights, you would wake up to Dick missing and returning to your apartment hours later. Sometimes you would ask him where he went. He was always forgetting something at his apartment, always something small and different like his toothpaste or a change of underwear. Sometimes you would fake being asleep in your bed when he returned home. He would shower (in the dark as the lights would no doubt wake you up) then return to bed, curling an arm around your body as if he never left.
You wanted to press for more but you were more than aware about your own relationship issues. You had to trust that what Dick said was true even if your anxiety was fighting against you. You confided in your friends about it and they suggested a test.
Stay the night over at Dick’s apartment and see if he leaves in the middle of the night. If he does, it was all the evidence you would need that he was lying about where he was going for hours at a time.
And so you began to encourage the idea of spending the night at Dick’s apartment rather than yours. Your clever excuse was that you wanted to see Hayley more as your apartment didn’t allow pets. Which wasn’t a total lie. You loved Hayley to bits and loved taking her with you and Dick during dates to the park or a pet friendly restaurant.
Soon Dick’s apartment became a common location for late night movies and after-dinner sleepovers, rotating sporadically with your own apartment depending on where you two ended up and whose apartment was closer.
And while he still snuck out when he stayed at your apartment, Dick never snuck out of his. You always woke up in his arms with Hayley snugly curled in the gap between your legs. You would curl into his arms with a breath of relief, falling right back to sleep every time.
That was, until tonight.
When you woke up to Hayley whining at the door of the bedroom, gently pawing at the closed door. You sleepily sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you gently called out to her. She hurries over to you, tail wagging excitedly as you make your way out of the bed.
You notice Dick missing immediately but assume he was somewhere else in the apartment, accidently trapping Hayley inside the bedroom in his haste to close the door so the light from the living room didn’t disturb you.
You open the door, Hayley scampering out finally free from the bedroom and it takes you all of three seconds to realize the living room is dark. And empty.
And now here you sat, in the middle of Dick’s living room with two garbage bags full of belongings. Thinking about it only solidifies the obvious truth to you, Dick was lying to you. Whether or not he was cheating didn’t matter because he still lied and you weren’t going to make an excuse for him anymore.
“Baby?”
Your head snaps up. Dick is standing in his doorway, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy joggers. He barely gives Hayley any attention when she runs up to him excitedly, licking at his halfheartedly extended palm as his eyes flick over you.
You don’t look injured, or sick. But you’ve been crying and you’re not meeting his eyes. Dick swallows. He’s seen this before. His eyes flick to the garbage bags before he offers a light hearted joke, “Doing some late night cleaning?”
You don’t reply, just close the bag in your hand into a tight knot. You stand up slowly, a tied up bag in each hand. You struggle for a moment, wanting to keep your voice neutral and even as you say, “Take me home…please.”
The silence that follows your simple request is heavy with unspoken accusations and bending under the pressure of—not rage—finality. This wasn’t the first time a civilian he was dating broke up with him due to his work as a vigilante (though none of them knew that was the reason why). He tried fighting against it before, trying to get them to see reason but it always ended in an angry shouting match with flying accusations and a slammed door. So he started to just accept the break ups when they happen, shrug them off like they don’t matter—like they don’t carve a piece of his heart out every time.
For a while, he stopped dating civilians as it would only end in heartbreak for the both of them. But then he met you, completely by chance. Dick wasn’t usually a romantic, but your chance encounter was practically right out of a rom-com.
Catching the eyes of an attractive stranger across a busy intersection, their hearts skipping a beat as if their souls knew something they didn’t. The light changes, the moment the two of you would pass each other going in opposite directions, probably never to see each other again, was fastly approaching.
And Dick’s arm shot out, he grabs you before you leave his sight, as he desperately asks to buy you a coffee.
It’s been total bliss since then. Sure there were bumps and bruises, but God were you worth it. Dick never wanted to come home to someone more than you, he never felt safer than when he was with you. He loves you. So much it’s irrational considering the timeframe. He was happy at whatever pace you wanted to go, letting you lead in everything in the relationship.
He’s been wanting you to move in since the third date (highly irrational and very insane of him, according to Jason), so he was more than excited when you brought up staying at his apartment more. He made sure his schedule was clear whenever you were over so he could appreciate seeing you in his apartment, making yourself at home.
He had decided to reveal his secret identity to you once you officially moved in, whenever you were ready to make that step. He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to go the more fun or the more serious route when it came to telling you.
But now it looks like it won’t matter.
“I…” Dick struggled to speak, struggled to wrap his head around the reality he was seeing. A reality that only existed in his worst nightmares. He takes a step towards you, “Baby—”
“Dick,” he freezes as you take a step back, holding up your hand to stop him. Your tone carries a warning, though it wasn’t harsh—it still hurts. You don’t meet his eyes, “Please, just take me home.”
Dick can feel his heart racing, the bruises welting against his skin from patrol pulsing with dull pain in harmony. He shouldn’t have left. He should have ignored Batman’s call, should have told him to deal with the problem without him. He had tons of other wards, why’d it have to be him? And why did it have to be while you were here, waiting for him?
How long did you agonize and swirl in your thoughts before you started to pack everything? Or was it something you’ve been itching to do for a while now?
Dick takes a cautious step forward, “It’s not what you think—”
“How can it be anything else?” you accuse before you can catch it. You shake your head, you don’t want to fight or yell right now. You just want to keep yourself whole. Just for a little longer. “Just—take me home, please.”
“Can’t I explain myself first?” Dick argued. He steps in front of you when you try to walk around him, “Honey, please—”
“I’d rather not know, okay?” you snap back. You feel the tears start up again and you wipe at them before they can fall, “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know who it is or why or where—”
“Baby, it’s not like that,” Dick says as he holds your arms. His hands slide upwards, up over your shoulders until he finally cups your face in his warm palms. He forces your eyes upwards, his gentle eyes pleading as he softly repeats, “It’s not like that.”
You sniffle, eyes scrunching up as you want to believe him. But how could you? The tears slip as you dejectedly reply, “What else could it be?”
When Dick leans in, you think he’s about to kiss you as a final goodbye, maybe whisper an apology of admission. But instead he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and long, as if trying to reassure you. He lets out a long exhale when he finally moves away, hands lingering on you for as long as he could before he goes to pull off his sweatshirt.
At first you go to cover your eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time Dick used his body to distract you long enough to win a petty argument and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be messed with. But you hesitate when rather than see the color of his skin, you see black. You lower your hands slowly as you stare at Dick’s exposed upper body, fully covered in neck to wrist tight black-blue spandex that clung to every curve of his body.
Your eyes fixate on the symbol on his chest. Wide and blue, shaped vaguely in a V with cut outs to imply wings—you know that symbol.
Everyone in Bludhaven knows that symbol.
Dick swallows, your staring in awed silence wasn’t exactly reassuring. He drops his sweatshirt to the wayside as he steps back in, his hands gently reaching for yours. You let go of the bags almost instinctively, letting them drop with a plop as your eyes continue to take in the electric blue of Nightwing’s insignia on his chest. Even as Dick’s hands intertwine with yours, you remain transfixed. Dick rubs his thumb up against your index finger in soothing strokes, his eyes never leaving your face, “I wanted to wait until you moved in to tell you.”
Your eyes shoot up to his face, eyes wide in surprise, “Moved in?” You feel your heart start to race, your hands tightening their hold on Dick’s, “You wanted me to move in?”
Dick lets out an airy laugh as he smiles with a tilt of his head, “Of course I do.” He tugs you forward, releasing your hands so they could rest on his chest as his hands came to rest on your hips. His eyes look down at your lips, “Since the third date, actually.”
Your heart thumps, “Really?”
Dick nods, his gaze transfixed on your face. He leans in to kiss you this time, and you melt so easily. It’s brief, a chaste little thing only meant to quell Dick’s urge for now. Even so, Dick pulls back reluctantly, his hand coming up to hold your face. His thumb gently rubs against the warm apple of your cheek and he says, “Would you like to sit down for a bit? I would like to tell you something.”
You find yourself nodding, eyes half lidded, “Yeah, anything.”
Dick kisses you again, unable to help himself. He was okay to do whatever you want to so he could keep you right here in front of him. He would have waited until you were both gray if you wanted. But after what happened tonight, you’ll have to forgive him when in two weeks time he gets down on one knee and asks you to marry him.
Jason Todd (wc: 2.6k):
Despite how Jason was with other people, he rarely ever fought with you. You were someone he chose, who he respected, who he loved. The most you two would do is bicker over small things or discuss (very passionately) about miscommunication and reassurances. But neither of you would ever label moments like that as “fights”, no matter how heated they were in the moment.
But this.
This was a fight.
“I can’t believe you’re defending him right now!” you shout mid-pace in Jason’s living room as said man was sitting on the couch, trying not to blow more of a fuse than he already has.
“I’m just saying,” Jason started, trying to remember to be calm about this despite how stubborn you were at the moment, “his intention was to–”
“I don’t give a fuck about his stupid intention, Jason! He fucking groped me,” you spat back, stopping to turn towards him.
“Putting a hand on your waist is not groping!”
“Oh sorry, were you the one that was touched? I didn’t think so!”
Jason ran a hand down his face, his eyes glaring off to the side in annoyance. Not at you so much as himself and his big fat mouth. The topic of this fight was an incident at a bar a few nights ago. Jason knew that you were out with friends that night but didn’t know where. So when his latest mission as Red Hood came to a head in a ten versus one above some dive bar in Crime Alley with shitty infrastructure, he was more than a little shocked that when the floor suddenly gave way and he ended up falling in the middle of a game of pool, that you were there. Literally feet away from him, slightly dusted in sawdust or asbestos or whatever was used as insulation, clutching a pool stick close to your chest in surprise in the middle of the quietest bar Jason had ever been in.
Immediately more concerned about you than himself, Jason ignores the pain in his back to flip over and address you with urgency, “Are you hurt?”
It’s only when his voice comes out modulated and he sees the surprised look in your eyes as you frantically shake your head that Jason remembers, he’s Red Hood right now. Even so, that fact didn’t stop him from launching his body to cover yours the second the smugglers he was fighting opened fire down at him below. He rolls the both of you under the pool table, screams and breaking glasses echoing all around you as the other bar guests frantically run for the exit. All Jason was thinking at that moment was how to get you out of there as safely as possible, his mind flicking through options and ideas in his head like a flipbook, meanwhile you were trying not to pass out from sheer fear and panic.
Because on the one hand, the sexy Red Hood grabbed you of all people to save and hide under a low pool table with and he wasn’t shy about personal space in the slightest. On the other hand, there were fucking bullets ricocheting everywhere. Not to mention you were pretty sure your boyfriend was never going to let you go out on your own ever again.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
You more felt Red Hood’s words than heard them, his chest rumbling and brushing against yours with each word due to the close confines. His elbows rested on either side of your head, the milky white eyes of his helmet staring blankly down at you. You couldn’t see the frantic searching of Jason’s irises as they looked over your face, searching for scratches, blood, bruises, anything.
You felt your heart start to pound when Red Hood leaned closer towards you, Jason leaning down to inspect a swipe of something dark against your cheek that he hoped wasn’t blood. You quickly place your hands on Red Hood’s torso right under his pecs (the only place you could reach since your arms were pinned under his hunk of a body, not because you wanted to) and turned your head to the side as you quickly, and quietly, spat out, “I have a boyfriend!”
Jason paused, the cute embarrassed expression on your face making him smile. He wasn’t obtuse, he knew Red Hood was considered a “sex god” by many civilians in and out of Gotham and from the few conversations you’ve had with your friends that he’s overheard, you thought so too. But the way you were rejecting Red Hood because you were dating him made his stomach twist up in knots. He couldn’t help the warm chuckle bubbling out of his throat.
Unfortunately for Jason, that warm chuckle sounded more condescending through the modulator to your untrained ears. And even though the words Red Hood said seemed harmless to Jason, they set off little red alarms in the back of your mind, “I think that’s the least of your concerns right now, sweets.”
The whole smuggler situation was resolved within twenty minutes, Nightwing was called in along with Spoiler to assist. Even though Jason was sure he could handle them on his own, he didn’t want to risk any harm to you and remained under the pool table as Nightwing and Spoiler took out the smugglers. Once the coast was clear, Red Hood offered you a hand to help you stand which you rejected. You could still feel the ghost of his hand that was on your side while you two waited out the skirmish. His hand rubbing up and down against your side in comforting strokes. Jason thought he was soothing you considering you were trembling under him and you responded well when he did it during horror movie marathons. But that was when he was Jason. Right now he was Red Hood and it was very uncomfortable for you. Not to mention conflicting.
The patterns felt too familiar, too comforting from a total stranger that it made your body react positively even though you knew the person touching you at that moment wasn’t your boyfriend. You felt guilt starting to swirl. Of course you thought Red Hood was hot, who didn’t?! But you were committed to a relationship with the sweetest, most romantic man you’ve ever met and you’d be damned if some handsy hero wanted to get fresh with you just because he saved your skin.
Even though you rejected his hand, Red Hood still put his hand over the edge of the pool table, something Jason usually did when you would crawl under the table to grab something you dropped. The action that usually invokes fluttering butterflies, now felt tainted when it was done by another man. You just wanted to get home and sleep, then rant about Red Hood’s handsy-ness to your boyfriend next you see him. You were all cleared to leave by Spoiler (no injuries outside of a rogue thin scrape from when a vigilante fell in the middle of your pool table) so you turned to start the walk home to your apartment.
Only to feel your feet lift off the ground when a strong arm wraps itself around your waist to drag you backwards into a hard warm chest, “And where do you think you’re going?”
That was the final straw for you. You hadn’t had to get aggressive with an unwanted man since usually Jason was intimidating enough to keep people back, so you were probably way harsher than you should have been. Then again, you were in the middle of a shoot out in your favorite bar just moments ago so maybe your violent shove was more than a little warranted.
You spun around, finger jabbed out towards, but no where near touching, Red Hood’s chest as you spat out, “Keep your fucking hands off me.”
Jason was stunned silent at the expression on your face. You never looked at him with such disgust and rage before. You spun around to start walking but Jason called after you, “Why are you being such a bitch?”
Okay, maybe calling you a bitch was a little harsh and Jason immediately regretted it. Even if you weren’t his romantic partner, he shouldn’t be calling any civilian a bitch after the night they just had. So you had every right to stop and spit back something just as harsh, “Why do you feel so entitled to fucking touching me? Oh, what, because you saved me from the mess you caused I should get on my knees and suck your fucking dick?!”
Jason stiffened in surprise, grateful for the helmet that hides his growing blush as it creeps up all over his face as his siblings snicker behind him. He bites back, “No! But you should at least be grateful!”
“For what? You doing your job?” you reply. You give an exaggerated bow, “Wow, thank you so much for saving me, Mr. Red Hood, sir.” You scowl, “Happy now?”
You turn to walk off only for Jason to scoff, annoyed. Usually you were kinda hot when you cursed people out, but right now you were being fucking unreasonable for no reason. In the end, Jason tightened his jaw before beginning to follow you. Even if you were mad at him, (for some reason) he wanted to make sure you got home safe after all that.
You, however, disagreed.
“Don’t fucking follow me!” you shouted over your shoulder.
“What, am I not allowed to make sure you get home safe?” Jason shouted back, exacerbated.
“I don’t want you to know where I live, pervert!”
“Pervert?!”
“Okay, Hood, how about I walk them home?” Nightwing suggested.
“Not a fucking chance,” both you and Jason say at the same time, the one thing you agree on but for different reasons.
For Jason, he didn’t want Dick finding out about his relationship with you (though at this point it might as well be out of the bag). Meanwhile, for you–
“I can walk my own damn self home just fine,” you respond.
Jason conceded, throwing his hands up in the air, “Fine, whatever. Get lost already.”
You flip him off, turning again to finally begin the walk home. Jason watched your retreating figure, his eyes never leaving your back, “Spoiler.”
“Follow ‘em, got it,” Stephanie replied, immediately shooting off her hook to follow your walk home from the rooftops.
“Can I ask–”
“No,” Jason snapped, silencing Dick for now as he turned his attention back to the smugglers that started this whole mess.
Jason only eased up when Stephanie told him that you made it home, but he relaxed when you texted him the same thing. Though when you added that you had a rough night, Jason felt a little guilty for being such an asshole to you. He was set on apologizing to you next time he saw you.
It was only when he saw you a few days later that he was reminded, again, that he was Red Hood to you that night and not your beloved Jason Todd as you recount everything Red Hood did to you that made you uncomfortable. Things that Jason thought were helpful, were actually creepy when it wasn’t him saying or doing it. And Jason felt awful for coming off like that, happy to let you rant about your terrible night out and how touchy Red Hood was despite you telling him you had a boyfriend (it was him but again, you didn’t know that). But when you started to insinuate Red Hood’s actions were more insidious than they were (because again, Red Hood was your boyfriend even if you didn’t know it), Jason couldn’t stop himself from jumping to his own defense.
The spark that started this whole fight to begin with.
“I can’t believe you’re actually defending this guy!” you shout, incredulous. “Meanwhile, if anyone so much as stares longer than a second at me, they deserve an elbow to the throat!”
“Hey I’m still working on that!” Jason replied, defensive. “They’re fucking sleazeballs with a staring problem. He beats up bad guys. Not exactly the same cloth here, babe.”
“Oh so because he’s a hero, he gets a pass is that right?” you snidely remark. “So if Nightwing gets all handsy next time I should just let him?”
Jason jumps to his feet, “Did he fucking touch you? Because I swear to God–”
“No you fucking idiot,” you snap, “It was an example. But how come you’re more upset about fucking Nightwing who’s all the way over in fucking Bludhaven, than you are about the fucking guy who is out in our neighborhood?!”
“I–That’s different!”
“How?!” you insist, “How is it different, Jason?! They’re both men, both heroes that save people, what makes it okay for Red Hood to feel me up but not Nightwing?!”
“Because he’s me, dammit!”
Silence overtakes the apartment. Jason can’t even look at you, hand running through his hair as he curses himself for letting it slip so easily. But what other option did he have? Jason knew realistically that he had to tell you, but he was putting it off for as long as he could. Because once you knew about him, you’d know everything. What he did as the Hood, that he died, that he came back. He was scared that you’d never see him the same. And it didn’t help that your opinion of Red Hood was soured very recently by his own inability to keep his hands off of you.
“That’s not funny, Jason,” you finally say.
Jason sighed. Denial. At least you weren’t shouting any more. Though, he probably preferred that over your quieter tone that lacked any tell of your true thoughts. He still couldn’t look at you, crossing his arms to protect himself, “I’m not joking.”
Another moment of silence. Until you punched him square in the arm.
“Ow!” the reaction was automatic, your knuckle was sharper than Jason was expecting and seemed to be the worst part of the punch. Though he’s seen you scrap in a bar fight before, you could definitely punch harder than that, “What was that for?”
“You asshole, why didn’t you say anything?!” you hissed, no true anger in your words or stance. If anything you looked…embarrassed. “I said all that fucked up shit about you. You should have just told me it was you.”
Jason stared in disbelief, “You’re not…” He wasn’t sure what he was expecting your reaction to be. Anger? Betrayal? Disgust? “You’re not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad,” you said. “I just wish you gave me a signal or something, I don’t know.”
Jason snorted, “Yeah next time I need to reveal my secret identity to you I’ll pinch your left hand.”
You slap his arm for teasing you, making him laugh as you roll your eyes, “God whatever, asshole.”
Jason entered your space, something he was careful to not cross when you two were fighting but now was craving it when he saw your smile. He gently took your hands, weaving your fingers together casually, his eyes never straying from your face, “You sure you’re not mad?”
You snort with a smile, “Of course not, Jay. If anything I’m relieved.” You give your entwined hands a tug, urging him to take a step closer as you look up at him with a knowing smile, “Shoulda knew it was you the whole time anyway. Only you could make my heart go stupid when you get your hands on me.”
“Oh yeah?” Jason replied, releasing one of your hands to loop an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer, “I make your heart go stupid, baby?”
“Mm hmm,” you hum, leaning into his warmth. His safety. “Only you, Jay.”
Jason leans down, his lips brush against yours. Soft like a rose petal. Romantic like a sonnet. Even as you try to urge him to kiss you more with a simple break in your lips, a silent invitation, he doesn’t go farther. Not yet. His lips touch yours slightly as he speaks.
“Only me and Red Hood, apparently.”
“Oh fuck off.”
Bruce Wayne (wc: 4.7k):
This conversation was a long time coming. In all honesty, it was way overdue. About three years overdue but who’s counting (the kids and Alfred, with the answer varying depending on who you ask). Bruce knew he liked you from the day he met you, he knew he loved you nine months into dating you, and he knew he wanted to be with you forever three years ago. The ring he bought for you was hidden in his home office in a drawer in his desk, easily found if you were to open it but you never did.
You respected his privacy too much to do that. Which was both a blessing and a curse. If you were just a little more curious, a little more invasive into his private life, maybe the secret that was preventing Bruce from popping the question for three whole years wouldn’t have been such an issue. But he never blamed you. Only himself was to blame for the fact that you refer to him as your boyfriend rather than your husband after five years of dating.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you with his secret, with his children’s secret. He knew that marrying the man who was Batman was a huge ask, bigger than being a parent to children who weren’t your own or the spouse to a man forever under a spotlight. You handled the other two with ease, even as your status as just a romantic partner. You treated his boys and girls with respect and guidance. Bruce has never seen Damian cave to an adult’s requests faster in his life. Even Jason was open to your words of advice even if he didn’t explicitly ask for any. You treated the press as nothing more than words on a page. Though in your own words, you never read gossip columns much anyway so why would you bother to now?
But those two things were softballs compared to the lead sphere that was Batman. But in a way, you were already living with Batman, you just didn’t know it. All the missed vacations or rain check dates, you never held it against him so long as he told you about them the second he knew he wasn’t able to commit anymore. You never questioned him, never asked for more than he was willing to give. It was a blessing really, to have a partner so independent and trusting, and Bruce was happy to keep it that way. Even if that ring were to never be used as he wouldn’t feel right asking for your hand without you knowing all of what you were getting into, he was content so long as you stayed by his side.
Then he worked with you, as Batman. And he fell harder for you than he ever had before. You worked as a forensic lead at Gotham PD’s crime lab, specialized in toxicology and chemistry as the best in your field. So it wasn’t surprising that Commissioner Gordan suggested you when Batman asked him to borrow a forensics expert for an on-going drug case. What Bruce should have done was keep you as far away from this case as possible as your life could be in danger because of it. But as he hit deadend after deadend, asking you for help became his only option.
At first, Batman would only meet you in your lab or workplace. But as the case further developed and culprits attacked your workplace trying to get to you, you had to be moved to the lab in the Batcave until the case was solved. You fit in like a missing puzzle piece they didn’t know they were missing, the Bats and Birds more than thrilled to have you in the cave alongside them even though you didn’t know it was them under the cowls and masks. You acted no differently than if you were with Bruce and his family out of uniform, your parenting instincts and humor making an appearance even in the most serious of circumstances.
It was as Batman was watching you in the lab, chatting with his wards as you worked and gently swatting Robin’s hand from touching the burette and ruining your titration, that he realized that you belong here. In the cave. With his wards. With him. With Batman. He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t feel like you two have gotten closer since your stay in the Batcave began. Sometimes he would even catch you looking at him, only for you to quickly turn away and return to your work having been caught.
Once the case was over, it was obvious everyone else felt the same.
“Father, when will (L/n) return to the cave?” Damian asked him.
“When we require their expertise.”
“Hey B, is (Y/n) in today? I have some blood I want them to run,” Dick said with a bagged sample.
“You can run the sample on your own without their assistance.”
“(Y/n) would have laughed,” Tim lamented when his joke fell flat.
“They would have, yes, you’re still going with Robin.”
Bruce could take a hint, but it didn’t mean he was going to act on it. More often than not he’d find himself in the Batcave sitting in front of the Batcomputer with the ring box in his hands, opening and closing the lid repeatedly. That was how Alfred found him one evening after patrol, alone with his thoughts and your ring. Alfred approached, standing next to his master before saying, “Everyone has gone to bed for the night, Master Bruce.”
“Right, thank you Alfred,” Bruce responded absentmindedly, the soft click of the ring box closing and opening filling the silence that followed.
Alfred watched silently for a few moments before he said, “They would say yes, you know.”
“To Bruce Wayne,” Bruce agreed, clicking the box closed one final time. He envelops the velvet box in his palm, “To Batman? I have my doubts.”
“You say it as if those are two completely different men.”
“To (Y/n) they are.”
“Only because you refuse to tell them otherwise.” Bruce gives his oldest friend an unamused look that would pass as a pout if he wasn’t a man in his early forties. Alfred continued with a reassuring smile, “Master Bruce, in the five years that I have had the privilege of knowing (Y/n) as your partner, they have never once made me doubt their affection towards you. I believe that warrants a little risk, don’t you?”
Bruce contemplates for a moment. His eyes cast over to the dark and empty lab. He feels his chest warm at the thought of you working in that lab, helping him on cases, giving him first aid, being the support he needed when his back hit a wall. Bruce stands, shoving the ring box into his belt with one hand and pulling his cowl over his face with the other, “I won’t be long Alfred.”
“So you say,” Alfred said with a knowing smile, watching Batman hurry out, “Give (Y/n) my regards and congratulations.”
By the time Batman arrived at your city apartment, you were getting ready for work. You hadn’t showered yet, enjoying the early hours by yourself before getting your day officially started. Still dressed in a silk pajama pair that Bruce bought you two birthdays ago, hair still unkempt, you started brewing your cup of coffee. Batman watched from your highrise balcony, the morning light not bright enough to reveal his silhouette too clearly. His hand rested over the pocket on his belt. Batman doesn’t get nervous. He’s fearless and certain. Bruce on the other hand…
He taps on the glass before he can stop himself, fighting back a smile when you jump in surprise. You walk over quickly, you unlock the door and pull it open slightly to stick your head out, “Batman? Is everything alright?”
No. Everything was not alright. You looked positively radiant right now and it made the stoic bat stiffen at the realization–he could get used to seeing you like this. You two barely spent the night together outside of weekends away or the rare vacation, both too busy with work to spend the night in each other’s bed. Seeing you in such a domestic lighting, looking up at him with concern–God you were perfect.
Bruce swallowed, “May I come in?”
You nod, further opening the door to let the dark knight effortlessly glide into your apartment. Bruce has visited a few times before but he looked around anyway as his memories took over. That couch was where you introduced Bruce to the Fast and Furious franchise, a guilty pleasure you claimed to never share with anyone else before him. The coffee table where you fanned out several magazines that had Bruce as the front cover–an embarrassing discovery he was left alone to find when you were still getting ready for your third date. You still claim they weren’t yours.
Bruce’s eyes rested on the pictures on the wall, arranged in a style like a prized feature wall in a gallery. That wall was bare when the two of you started dating. Now it was overflowing with photos of your relationship. Couple pictures at beaches or restaurants. Group photos for the rare family vacation you always insisted they try to take. Some were just you and his kids. You and Damian at a school art show, you and Cass backstage at her performance with a bouquet in her hands, you giving a pep talk to Stephanie and Tim before a debate competition, several candids of Dick, Duke, and Jason both with and without you. It was all so touching, the evidence you had of how much you loved Bruce and his family. The evidence of how important you were to them.
“Is it another case?”
Batman turns, watching as you pour your creamer into your mug and mix it in. You use the spoon to taste, a habit Bruce found entertaining as even after thirty years you still couldn’t get the ratio exactly how you like it on the first try. You add a little more and put the creamer away, you pick up your mug and walk around the counter, “Should I pack a bag?”
Batman blinks out of the fond haze you put over him and walks deeper into your apartment, “No, that isn’t necessary.” He stops in front of you, “I’m not here for a case.”
“Oh,” you reply, surprised, “To what do I owe the pleasure of Batman's company?”
Your hand in marriage.
Batman waved away the thought, instead focusing on reciting the speech he had laid out in his head prior to his arrival on your balcony, “I have something to say to you.”
You nod, taking his serious tone in stride and placing your mug on the counter behind you to give him your full attention. Bruce takes a breath, “Your…assistance–expertise, on that drug case was instrumental to me–to us. And I wanted to thank you.”
You smile, “There’s no need to thank me, Bats. I was just doing my job.”
Bruce paused at the nickname. He’s heard you say it before, even giving you explicit permission when you panicked about being too friendly to the vigilante the first time you said it. You said it so casually, so effortlessly; with an inflection Bruce was familiar with when you spoke his own name. Batman cleared his throat, “Yes well, there was something else.” You waited patiently as Bruce gathered himself, his hand going to rest on his belt over your ring. “You see, during your stay in the cave I–we grew fond of your presence there. If anything, your absence now is more noticeable. Almost…” his eyes catch yours, you’re hanging onto every word, “irritating.”
“I’m sorry,” you can’t help mumbling, your heart speeding up against your better judgement. “I didn’t mean to cause such an upset.”
“Quite the contrary,” Batman disagreed. He steps closer, your back digs into the counter but you don’t dare to look away. Almost like you can’t help it. “If anything, you revealed something that I have been struggling with for quite some time. And now that I know what it feels like to have someone like you by my side, I am ready to risk everything for a chance to feel it again.”
Your eyes flick over his face. They flick down to his lips, betraying the tension you feel that you try to cover up with intense eye contact, “I don’t understand.”
But of course Batman noticed. He noticed everything. His hand comes around your neck, your breath stutters. His thumb brushes against your jaw, “I want to lay my heart bare to you, my love. Reveal all its scars, all its pain–I want you to be a part of my life, all of it.”
When your eyes betray you again, he leans in. Batman captures your lips softly in his, tenderly. He’s kissed you so many times but this time felt different–real. Like he was able to shred the masks he wore in front of you for so long, able to feel the fresh breeze your presence gave him directly onto his naked skin. You kiss back almost instantly, the slight gasp of surprise melts with the tension of your body. You meet his lips with pliant acceptance, as if giving in to temptation.
When he pulls away to continue at a different angle, he feels your hands on his chest and a small push as your head turns away from him and you mumble, “...I think you should go.”
He doesn’t understand. You were kissing him back–you accepted him. Didn’t you?
You refused to look at him as he wordlessly moved away. The way you were holding yourself, the quiver in your lips–you were upset. But why? What did he do wrong? What could he say to change everything back to the way it was? Or was that your last gift to him–to Bruce, your final kiss goodbye?
Batman turned away with a mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t move, even after he left your balcony and disappeared into the early morning sky you were frozen in place. Your fingers shake as they brush against your lips, the guilt and shame swirling into a nauseous spiral in your stomach. You weren’t a cheater. You never looked at another person outside of Bruce no matter the missed dates or neglected nights alone, you never strayed. And yet all it took was a stoic hero of the night to sway your steadfast heart. A few weeks on a case with him and five years went down the drain like it was nothing. How could you look Bruce in the eyes now? The kids? Alfred? You had kissed someone who wasn’t Bruce Wayne.
And you liked it.
There were many downsides to raising wards to be brilliant detectives. Any surprise parties were spoiled before the cake could be made. Outings to escape rooms were practically children’s riddle books. And any information intended to be hidden would be found out within the day. Bruce was experiencing that last downside when he finally left his room to try to pretend his heart wasn’t broken this morning to grab something to eat. Preferably something sweet. And cold. With cookie dough chunks in it.
Bruce didn’t even make it past opening the freezer before Damian sidelined him with a question, “What did they say, Father?”
Bruce played dumb, turning his head towards Damian and trying to look as pleasantly neutral as possible, “What did who say?”
“(L/n),” Damian elaborated. Bruce shut the freezer door, opting for a bottle of water instead. Damian watched his father as he walked past, “You did ask them for their hand in marriage, correct?”
“Where did you hear that?” Bruce deflected.
His youngest followed him out of the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back as they walked, “My sources must remain anonymous.” Meaning he was just taking a guess. “You are planning on asking, correct?”
The usual response of “Yes, of course, when the time is right” died in Bruce’s throat as he hesitated. Was there even a point in asking after you sent him away this morning? Could Bruce even assume that you two were dating anymore? Did you break up with him or did you just need time to process everything?
“Father?”
Shit. Bruce hesitated for too long, now Damian was suspicious. And if he was suspicious, he’d start prying. And Bruce really didn’t need his ten year old son to start digging around in his love life. Again. He also didn’t want Damian or any of his children to despise you for your choice. Bruce hoped that even if this was the end, that you’d still be a guiding light to them when he wasn’t able to be. Bruce turned to his youngest, catching Damian’s hard gaze that was softened at the edges with worry. He put a hand on Damian’s head, ruffling his hair, “Sorry, my thoughts got away from me there. Don’t worry about that, okay?”
And with that, Bruce walked away, leaving Damian to disobey his father’s words.
It took you over six hours to gather the courage to come to Wayne Manor and tell Bruce what happened this morning. At first, you were going to just sweep it under the rug and forget about it. But it didn’t sit right with you for long. You don’t think you could pretend that everything was fine to Bruce’s face and you certainly didn’t want him to find out on his own later. So you decided to just tell him, the sooner the better. You had already called off work that morning (there was no way you were going to work after that) and after hyping yourself up for hours, you managed to get yourself in front of the manor and knock on the door.
Now all you had to do was wait.
And then confess to the love of your life that you kissed another man.
On second thought maybe you should go home–
The door opened, revealing Duke as he poked his head out to check who it was before he opened it further upon realizing it was you, “Oh! (Y/n)! Hi!”
“Hi Duke,” you say with a smile, feeling a little more at ease that it wasn’t Alfred. Out of all the children Bruce took under his care, Duke was the one who made you the least nervous to be around when you were first introduced. So it was a blessing that he was the one who answered the door, “Is Bruce in?”
“Oh yeah, he’s somewhere around here,” Duke said as he held the door open for you to enter, “C’mon in, I’ll help you find him.”
It didn’t take long for the pair of you to find Bruce after hearing a slightly heated muffled conversation coming from one of the parlor rooms. Duke opened the door in the middle of the conversation.
“I beg of you to drop this,” Bruce said.
“So we can’t be worried about you?” Dick asked, arms crossed.
Only Bruce and Dick are standing, the rest of the family scattered around in chairs and couches as if watching a play. You think you spy popcorn in-between Tim and Stephanie.
“I’m not saying you can’t be worried, I’m just not ready to discuss it,” Bruce replied.
“Father is deflecting again.”
“Damian–”
“You asked me to help keep you accountable,” Damian argued. “You asked all of us to.”
“Yeah, B, what’s so bad that you can’t tell us?” Jason asked.
At that moment, Tim spotted you and he elbowed Stephanie, who saw you standing there too. She beamed, waving her hand excitedly, “Oh hey (Y/n)!”
At the mere mention of your name, Bruce stiffened. Immediately all the detectives in the room zeroed in on Bruce like hawks spotting a mouse in the grass. You were none the wiser, Bruce’s reaction too subtle for untrained eyes to spot. You begin to pick at your nails, “Hi Steph, um, if you all aren’t too busy, may I borrow Bruce for a moment?” You pause, “Alone?”
The eyes that flicked to you, flicked right back to focus on Bruce, waiting for a reaction, a tell. Bruce was stiff as a board. He knew his children were studying him, trying to gauge from his reaction (or lack thereof) what you wanted to speak to him about alone. Everyone knew that an alone talk could only mean something bad. Everyone could see you were nervous, hesitant even. This was quickly spelling out to be a bad conversation.
“If you’re busy–”
“No,” Bruce was quick to say. He turns towards you finally, his smile not reaching his eyes like it usually does and it forms a pit in your stomach. He knows. Bruce walks towards you, “No, it’s fine. It must be important for you to come all this way.”
He notices your fidgeting fingers, a habit from your youth that you still haven’t broken despite being well into your late thirties now. Bruce instinctively reaches out to gently pry your hands apart. Then he hesitates. He hesitates for a little too long before his hand drops. When he looks at you, he doesn’t catch your eyes, “Shall we go to my study?”
You can only nod, your stomach twisting in on itself. It only eases just a little when Bruce puts a warm hand on your back. Higher than usual as if you were a colleague rather than his romantic partner, and he leads you out of the parlor room into his study.
Bruce doesn’t say a word as you both enter, closing the door behind you and opting to stand behind his desk by his chair as you stand on the opposite side. The invisible wall of tension now having a physical form as pregnant silence filled the space. You start picking your fingers again.
“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Bruce asked, the silence eating away at him just as much as the sight of you so anxious in front of him.
Rather than jump into your own issues, you couldn’t help thinking about the conversation you walked in on and instead asked, “Are you alright?”
Bruce is surprised, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his surprise from you, “I…I suppose. Why?”
You shrug, “The children have very strong intuitions. If they are worried about you, you must have something troubling you.” You caution a small smile in his direction, “They get that from you, I believe.”
That makes Bruce give a small laugh, a matching smile rising on his face at your compliment, “I wouldn’t be so sure. Even I can be wrong sometimes.”
My intuition certainly failed when it came to you.
Bruce frowned at the bitter thought, pushing it away to instead press the conversation forward, “I’m fine, though, I assure you. So please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
You pause, trying to gather the right thing to say, the right way to explain without so much pretext he may not even want to know. When you finally stop picking your fingers and gather your resolve, Bruce tenses. His hand digs into the mahogany wood of the desk, bracing himself for the break up that would ruin him for the rest of his life.
You raise your head, shoulders back, and blurt out, “I kissed Batman.”
Bruce blinks, his hand relaxing immediately in surprise.
I would think so, I was there, he couldn’t help thinking. Confused, he echoed your statement back to you as if to make sure that was the confession you meant to say, “You…kissed Batman.”
You nod once, still steadfast in your declaration despite the pounding in your chest at your false bravado, “Yes. And I liked it.”
That got the tips of Bruce’s ears starting to turn red. He shouldn’t be so flustered but the way you said your confession so confidently…was really fucking cute. When he didn’t respond, you started to explain everything. You explained that Batman brought you on a case and you had to stay in his Batcave for your own safety. During those weeks, you couldn’t help being fond of the masked hero but you knew it couldn’t be anything more than fondness, after all you loved Bruce–still do! Your heart never swayed from him, you reassured many times as you explained how your heart swayed away from him. Bruce brought his hand towards his mouth, trying to cover the embarrassingly sickly sweet smile that was worming onto his face. You were still so serious but Bruce couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity.
You had no idea that Bruce was Batman. For the past six hours and twenty-seven minutes, Bruce was agonizing over losing you because he was Batman when this whole time you genuinely had no idea. In your defense, he wasn’t exactly explicit in his reveal (he wasn’t explicit at all, he’s so used to his children’s observation skills that he forgot you were normal) and all subtly was lost to you. Even the pet name that he calls you all the time wasn’t obvious enough for you.
It was midway through your apology that Bruce let out an airy laugh. You stop dead in your tracks, staring at Bruce with confusion and mild offense, “Are you laughing?”
“I–” he couldn’t stop the small chuckle as the situation was just too silly. He was sure if you were in on it, you’d be laughing too. But Bruce was a little bit of a menace so he wanted to hold on to the reveal as long as possible, “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, my love.”
“Then what are you laughing at?” you ask, any guilt and shame you had was soon replaced by mild annoyance, “You think it’s funny that I kissed another man? That I cheated on you?”
Oh it was all too tempting to respond with something akin to, “you cheated on me with myself” but the look on your face was just too beautiful. The crossed arms, the slight furrow of your brows, the annoyance in your eyes that barely masked the guilt that still swarmed inside–now was the moment. It wouldn’t be the most romantic one, far from it. But it was the moment Bruce thought, yeah, this is it.
Bruce couldn’t help smiling as he reached for his desk drawer and pulled it open with a, “My love, there’s something I’d like to ask you–” His smile faltered. The ring was gone. It wasn’t in the drawer where it always was.
“Ask me what?”
Bruce’s head snapped up like a child caught in the cookie jar, your concern waning with each second as your patience grows thinner. His eyes flicked to the grandfather clock behind you. His belt!
“Just a moment, my love,” Bruce said as he hurried around to the clock, leaving you sputtering in confusion as he opened it and revealed the passageway hidden behind it. He rushed down the stairs, “I’ll be right back.”
“What?! Bruce!”
“Stay there!”
Of course you weren’t going to stay there, your boyfriend just revealed a secret passageway behind a grandfather clock that you’ve seen for five years without a hint of suspicion. Not to mention he was acting strangely. First with the laughter while you were confessing that you kissed Batman, and now he was frantically searching for something. He could really be confusing sometimes which made it hard not to be annoyed with him when he got like this, often hurrying away in the middle of a date after you mention something off-handedly.
As you walked down the smooth stone steps, your annoyance was replaced by awe. Who knew that such a large underground was hidden underneath the manor. You couldn’t help the thought about the risk to the house, would it fall in one day with all the children, Bruce, and Alfred still inside? The hypothetical safety concerns came to a screeching halt when you reached the bottom of the steps. Your eyes flick around quickly, taking every familiar thing and putting them together like a puzzle.
The Batmobile. The Batcomputer. The dinosaur. The many Batman suits. The giant penny. Bruce rifling through a Batman suit trying to get to his belt. The training grounds. The equipment laid out messily on a table. The lab.
You stare at the lab. The very very familiar lab. It all dawns on you very quickly.
“Oh my God.”
You turn to look at Bruce, he pauses under your gaze. Batman’s belt clutched in one hand, your eyes honing in on the velvet box in the other.
“Oh my God.”
a/n: i tried to keep each of them even but bruce's just got away from me;; hope y'all still liked it anyway!!
divider credits (in order of appearance): @lobster-graphic @cursed-carmine @/enchanthings @strangergraphics-archive
⠀ ⠀⠀ — fem!reader, fluff + suggestive on jasons, batboys + clark, established relationships
bruce wayne — 5/10
it really depends on the day for him. the whole world knows youre his so why fuss over someone who doesnt know their place? hes the one who lays in your arms at the end of day. but some days he can get really sulky, and i mean really sulky. hes gonna act all dismissive about it at first, then leave subtle hints about a guy who lingered too long at the gala and then full on sulk in your arms. those are the three stages.
stage three might be your favorite because bruce lays on top of you, massaging your hip with soft strokes of his thumb while asking if you still loved him, wanted to be with him and if you liked his features. your man might be a billionaire but inside he is just a guy who loves his wife very much and never wants to be apart from her.
dick grayson — 8/10
now this one is a doozy. hes a very territorial type of guy... not in a toxic way god no! he loves his girlfriend so much so it physically pains him to see a guy trying to talk to you. he immediately acts up upon it, snaking an arm around your waist or shoulders and up fronting talking to the guy. zero shame in being jealous.
and obviously he would be begging for your attention afterwards, just to ease down his nerves, not like youre going anywhere but he wants to feel grounded with his girl!
jason todd — 6/10
the dude is scarred, we all know this, so i dont think he would overly be jealous but more protective. he knows you love him so dearly, so why be jealous of weak men who try to hit on you? a nice threat gets them going on their way.. normally.
when a guy is really being persistent with you, at a party for example, he would be nasty with you, full on animalistic. grabbing you by the ass and pulling you into a make out until the guy gets the idea to leave. and if you confront him about being jealous? he will just huff and say its no big deal, yeah right!
tim drake — 1/10
he has bigger things to worry about. most of the times you want him to get a little jealous because of how chill he is! of course he will always protect you from guys wanting your number but why be jealous of some guy who will never reach the level of intimacy that he has with you? youre his girlfriend, the love of your life!! he wont be jealous over a guy who doesnt even have youre number.
sometimes, he will have his weaker moments. where he doesnt feel certain of himself but you are always there to comfort him and reassure him that he is, and youre gonna love him either way.
damian wayne — 10/10
he is a bit of a mess. when it comes to jealousy, hes not really… vocal about it. the scars from his past made him feel heavily unwanted and used, so if another guy hit on you per say, he would feel heartbroken. the problem would be he wouldnt tell you! damian thinks being cold and distant would help himself and you — spoiler alert: it doesnt.
it takes a lot of talking with him for him to open up and be more vocal of his insecurities. hes not perfect and is getting better with telling his feelings to you every single day! at the end tho he knows you love him so much — putting up with shit and all reminds him how everything in the end will be to his liking.
clark kent — 3/10
by popularity, people think hes a big puppy who gets jealous when his owner is playing with another dog but truth be told — he isnt! he knows how amazing his wife is and he doesnt blame who would want to try a shot. most people know about the marriage anyways, so why he should bother? he knows you can take care of yourself and if you needed, he would be there in an instant.
tho there are times where it gets to him if a guy is being really persistent on you. hes a soft boy after all and would make small comments if he himself needed to do anything better. it all ends tho with you kissing his sweet face saying there is nothing to worry about — and he believes it with all his heart.
⟢ 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: this is rushed im sorry im trying to post daily but its taking a toll on me!! i might start posting once every two or three days idk… thank u guys so much tho for all the support!!! im incredibly happy will all ur nice comments u guys are so freaking cute <3
IN WHICH... after a fight with your boyfriend, you force him to sleep with a pillow between you. here's how he handles it.
featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne, damian wayne, and tim drake.
warnings: fluff, crack, f!reader, established relationship (wife!reader for bruce, gf!reader for everyone else), EXTREME mommy kink!tim—dni if this is "too freaky" for you!!
inspired by this ask
dick grayson:
dick definitely would be upset and would try at least 3 times to ditch the pillow.
but each time he yanks the item from between you and tucks it under his head, you yank it right back and lodge it between your bodies.
he gives up on removing it after attempt #10.
you're turned on your side away from him, seeming way too unbothered for his liking. he's probably pissing you off even more, but attention from you is all he wants.
he pokes your shoulder repeatedly, arm draped over the barrier pillow. "baby, baby, baby, baby," he repeats with each poke.
he grins big and wide when you finally turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. "do i need to get a bigger pillow?" you scoff.
"no. this one's perfectly fine," he chirps. "though i'd prefer no pillow at all. i can't feel my baby up like this!"
you roll your eyes. "you don't deserve to feel me up, richard. go to sleep." you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, juuust far enough that he can't reach you.
he groans dramatically, flopping down on his side with a huff. "fine, whatever. you don't love me, i get it. goodnight, i guess."
he falls asleep with a big, babyish pout on his face, his lip jutted out like a toddler's rather than a 20-something year old's.
his spirits are definitely raised in the morning, though, because he wakes up to his body being draped over the stupid pillow barrier, head nestled against your chest.
jason todd:
jason would take it much worse than dick. he'd feel personally offended, undoubtedly.
he'd glare daggers at the pillow separating his body from yours, wishing he could burn it to ashes with just his eyes. his arms are crossed over his beefy chest like a child told no to dessert.
finally, he tears his eyes from the pillow and onto your sweet body. your beautiful, worship-worthy body. "can i touch you yet?"
"no, jay! that's the whole point of the pillow. no cuddles allowed, i'm angry with you."
he grumbles. "no cuddles isn't the same as no touching. can't i at least hold your hand, ma?"
"no."
"ma, please?"
"jason peter," you snap, giving him the look. "i said no. goodnight."
his eyes remain trained to your back, watching it rise and fall as you breathe. "...night."
you feel much worse about how you spoke to him when you wake up the next morning. his side of the bed is cold, and the pillow in the middle looks as if it hadn't moved once since it was placed.
you get up, padding to the kitchen where jason is flipping pancakes at the stove. his shoulders are slumped, head swaying as if it's too heavy for his neck. he lets out a deep sigh. you frown.
your arms wrap around yourself as you approach. "jay?" you call softly, standing beside him at the stove. no touching, not yet. he doesn't look at you, so you tilt your head to get a look at his face and oh...
his eyelids droop with exhaustion, eyes a bit red from straining to stay awake. his under-eyes are dark bags. his lips are chapped. "baby? what's up with you?"
alas, he looks at you, his lips don't smile, eyes don't soften. he holds out your plate of pancakes and you accept it. "i did not sleep."
"...why?"
he looks at you as if it's obvious. "well, i did not have you to hold, and i can't guarantee your safety without holding you. i tried to sleep, but then i had a nightmare that i'd...lost you. every time i shut my eyes i saw the same thing as the dream. so, i decided to just stay awake."
you've never felt like a shittier person. you throw your arms around him, feeling him slump against you. you vow to never but him on a touch ban again, no matter how angry he makes you.
bruce wayne:
personally, i feel like bruce just...wouldn't even put up with it lol.
unlike how dick and jason kept the pillow and respected the rule (to an extent), bruce would just laugh in your face when he comes in for bed.
he stands at the foot of the bed, looking at your scowling face and the fluffy pillow at your side. "what's with the barrier?"
you huff. "no touching, bruce. i'm not in the mood."
he places his glass of water on his nightstand, casually crawling into bed and tossing the pillow across the room.
"bruce!" you glare, but you can't do much when he snakes his beefy arms around your waist and tugs you close until your back meets his chest. "i said no touch—"
"—i know what you said, darling. and—no offense—i don't give two fucks," he chuckles, the sound low and deep in your ear. fuck, why does he sound so good when you're so upset? "if i want to hold my wife, i'm going to hold my lovely wife."
you grumble, fighting his grip, but to no avail. "bruceeee," you groan.
"g'night, honey," he only croons, kissing your jawline so sweetly. "i love you."
moments of silence pass.
"i said i love you," he repeats, pinching your waist.
you squirm. "ughhhuh, i love you, too."
"good girl," he grins into your neck, holding you closer. "get some beauty sleep, i'll have alfred prepare you a spectacular breakfast tomorrow morning—y'know, as my apology."
true to his word, you wake up to his arms still locked around you like chains. however, the delectable scent of pancakes, waffles, berries and cream, eggs, and coffee wafts into the bedroom.
"ugh, i hate you, you promising, handsome bastard," you grumble, relaxing into his arms with the assumption that he's still sleeping. "i can never stay mad at you."
you feel lips curl into a grin against your shoulder. "yes, yes, you hate me," he mumbles sarcastically. "my wifey hates me and my lovely arms and the breakfast i make her."
"you didn't make anything. alfred made it."
"i made him make it. lovable by association, honey."
damian wayne:
when damian's told that you'd be sleeping with a pillow between you, your sweet baby's signature scowl is tainted with unshed tears. you feel bad, but your anger from the fight overpowers your remorse.
"a...pillow barrier?" he mumbles. "really, habibti?"
you nod. "a pillow barrier. i'm so upset with you, dami. i don't wanna cuddle."
he nods his head once. "i'll try to cope," he sighs, climbing into bed and throwing the covers over his head.
all of damian that shows is a little peek of jet-black hair from under the sheets. despite yourself, you have to bite back a smile. so cute.
"night, damian," you murmur.
his voice is muffled by the comforter. "goodnight, habibti. i love you oh so dearly, my world."
you're glad that he's hiding under the sheets, that way he can't see your grin breaks through—can't see your walls cracking. "i love you too, dami."
dami. the nickname makes your boyfriend smile. dami rather than damian, that's progress.
what you don't see is damian tossing and turning for hours until the clock strikes 2 am. he just can't sleep without his beloved woman in his arms, without your hair tickling his cheek as you drool into his neck.
so, he crawls out of bed and into the cool nighttime chill of the manor. if you won't cuddle him, he shall find a replacement. he returns to the bedroom a bit later with alfred the cat tucked under his arm and titus trailing lazily behind him.
he reunites with the warm blankets, holding alfred close under his chin. titus climbs into bed, sprawling comfortably over damian's legs.
you awaken the next morning the most adorable sight. your dami, arms (and legs) full of his cherished pets.
his hold on the cat is tight, the animal purring softly into damian's neck. titus has since inched his way up the bed, his head level with damian's—the dog is nearly spooning your boyfriend, doggy drool coating his sleep shirt.
well, at least he found a way to get his fix of drool and warmth. your walls finally crumble, and you reach over the pillow to stroke your knuckles against his cheek. that wakes him up.
he peels one eye open, grinning at the gooey look on your face. "what? i needed something to hold."
tim drake:
mommy kink!tim is activated almost instantly, and he tears each and every one of your walls down until you forget why you were even upset with him in the first place.
his face falls when you announce the pillow's presence. "what?!"
"you heard me, tim. pillow stays."
"no...no, no, no, no," he whines softly, feeling helpless. he tosses his phone haphazardly onto his nightstand, flopping onto the bed. "please, no."
you huff. "i'm upset, tim! i can't cuddle with you tonight, i just can't."
"mommy, please!" he begs pathetically, shoving the pillow out from where it's lodged between your bodies. he nuzzles up into your side instantly. his dark locks brush your cheek. "can't sleep without my mommy...need her to hold me, and love me, and tell me i'm a good boy."
you arch a brow. "but you're not a good boy."
he whimpers, eyes drilling shut in regret at your words. "o– okay, then to tell me i'm a bad boy. that i'm such a bad boy and don't deserve my mommy's affection."
"okay, fine. you're a ba—"
"—no! i change my mind. don't tell me any of those things," he whines, big blue eyes looking apologetically up at you through thick lashes. fuck, the eyes. "i'm so so so sorry, mama. i wasn't a good boy, but i can be! a good boy, that is."
you run a hand through his hair, and he whimpers—loud and desperate for more touch. "you promise you'll be good? you're not lying to mommy so she'll cuddle you?"
he keeps his eyes on yours, so melty and gentle. "i'd never lie to you, mommy. i swear."
"okay, then. if you say you can be a good boy, timmy, then i'll cuddle you tonight. but don't make me mad again, understand?"
"understand, mommy," he coos, smiling happily now that he's won you over. he snuggles into your chest, sighing contentedly. "thank you."
a/n: anyone peep the reference at the end of bruce's headcannons?🫣
Jason Todd is a sweetheart when you're drunk, but a complete mess when he is.
Whenever you decide to let loose a bit, whether to only get tipsy or just get smashed drunk, because the drinks were fruity and tasty--Jason is there. He will pick you up from wherever you went out to, or just help you back home if you attended a party together. He carries your heels for you and has you draped over his shoulder. You never have to worry about waking up with your makeup smudged all over the pillows, because he learned how to take it off for you. He puts you to bed, changes you into the most comfortable pyjamas you own and sits on the edge of the bed with makeup wipes or cotton pads soaked with micellar water. He even puts on some of that moisturiser you love so much.
Then he prepares the nightstand for the morning after: fills up your water bottle and adds ice, has painkillers on the go, a big bowl just in case you need it. And then he joins you in bed and cuddles you until you pass out, listening to your mumbles about how perfect he is and how much everything is spinning, and how you're never drinking again. He's absolutely holding your hair back in the bathroom, rubbing your back and carries you around if you're dead on your feet.
Drunk Jason however...
Oh that boy is a mess. He doesn't get drunk often, mind you. He needs to be alert all the time and it's just hard to let go. But if you reassure him hundreds of times that it's okay to have some fun once in a while, you make a mental note to never do it again. Drunk Jason is clingy, messy and absolutely adorable. You can barely bring the big guy home, but once you do, he's sprawled on the bed like a starfish. Groaning about his head, whining that he loves you so much. If you manage to get him ready for bed, which takes much longer than you'd like to admit, he's all over you. His hands are caressing you, his face is smushed between your breasts.
Can't forget about the drunken sex.
You try to explain to your endearing boyfriend that he's out of it and sex can wait, but he will just whine more. You can't help, but chuckle, before his lips are messily moving against yours and his hips are rutting into you clumsily. For half of it, Jason doesn't even realise he's not inside you. He's just grinding his cock against you like a needy puppy, but you let him. He's a whimpering mess, mumbling I love you's and you're so perfect all the time, until the pressure is too much. He cums so quickly when drunk and it's messy, adding another fifteen minutes to clean him and yourself up. You watch over him when he's passed out, already preparing for his hangover tomorrow morning.
