you slide your card toward the register like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the last hour watching dick grayson smile at you across dinner and pretending your knees weren’t weak.
he notices immediately. of course he does. this man has the reflexes of a cat and the dramatic instincts of a theatre kid raised by ninjas.
“hey— hey, hey, hold on.” he’s already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide, voice half-laughing like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “what do you think you’re doing?”
you blink. “...paying?”
dick presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “paying? you? for me?” he shakes his head slowly, lips twitching. “that’s cute. wrong, but cute.”
you try not to smile, because he’s being ridiculous, standing there in his leather jacket, hair falling into his eyes like he was crafted to be your weakness. “i just thought I could take this one.”
“no, no, sweetheart.” he steps closer, resting his palms on the counter beside your hand. you can feel the warmth of him, the way he crowds in without being pushy. “that’s my job.”
you raise a brow. “your job?”
his grin softens just enough to make your heart stutter. “yeah. my job. i asked you out. i pay. that’s the rule.”
“that’s not a real rule.” you argue.
“it is in the dick grayson handbook,” he counters, tapping the imaginary badge on his chest. “chapter one: be a gentleman. chapter two: do unnecessary flips. chapter three: pay for dates.”
you snort. “i swear you make half of this up.”
he leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret just for you. “only the parts meant to make you smile.”
your cheeks warm and he definitely catches it. His eyes flicker in that smug soft boy way, not arrogant, just unbearably fond.
dick nudges your card back toward you with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “look… i know you can pay. you’re capable, you’re independent, you scare the hell out of me in the best way.” he pauses, blue eyes bright, honest. “but let me treat you tonight. i want to.”
you swallow. “you really don’t like when i try to pay, huh?”
he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “i like that you try. i like that you’re thoughtful. but it also makes me wanna wrap you up in my arms and say ‘nope, not happening’ every single time.”
“possessive much?” you tease.
“only when it comes to you,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most natural truth in the world.
he takes your card, sets it back in your bag, and presses the tiniest kiss to your forehead before you can argue. “let me do this one. consider it… an investment in more nights like this.”
you look up at him, fighting a smile. “and what do i owe in return?”
dick shrugs lightly, looping his fingers with yours as he hands his card to the cashier. “just keep showing up.”
and the way he says it. Soft, earnest, like you’re the best thing to happen to his week...yeah.
summary: standing ovulation, or whatever they say. (or, in other words, you want clark to fuck a baby into you)
wc: 4.2k
genre/tags: husband!clark, mentions of pregnancy, fluff, smut, p w/lil plot, no protection is used (the fic is based off juno by sabrina carpenter....we're talking babies here), feral!clark, breeding kink, slight praise kink, p in v sex, fingering, dry humping/grinding, making out, big dick!clark ofc
notes from auddie: in celebration of sab's album coming out tn, have this fic inspired by one of my fav songs hehe. this is a little break from my super long beast plot-driven fics and was super fun to write! ...and i need clark as my husband stat.
you don't mean to be staring, but how could you not?
clark's standing at the dresser across from your shared bed, back turned to you, pulling off his shirt – slow and casual, as if he doesn't know what he's doing to you.
he's talking about something mundane – leads at work he wants to pursue, perry's latest rant, jimmy's recent fling – but you can't hear a word of it.
all you see are the deep lines of his back muscles, the slope of his shoulders, the way his biceps flex when he drags the fabric over his head.
he tosses the shirt into the hamper in the corner of your bedroom and finally turns to you, probably to ask why you haven't given any input in the time he's been speaking. it's an odd occurrence, being that he's usually the listener between the two of you.
you feel your pulse spike when his hands move to the buckle of his leather belt, skillfully pulling the material from the loops of his slacks.
"am i boring you?" clark asks, quirking a brow upward at your silence.
it takes a minute for his words to register in your brain, slowly blinking back to his attention, humming absently, "hm?"
his eyes narrow slightly and you can read his expression. he's using his damn super vision to determine if anything was biologically wrong with you. therefore, he'll be quick to know that–
"you're staring," he says, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"no, i'm not," you lie. plain as day.
clark's brow lifts, playing along. "no? you've said nothing for two whole minutes."
"i'm allowed to enjoy the view in my own home," you shoot back, tone pitched too high. too innocent. or, at least, a poor attempt at sounding innocent.
clark chuckles, walking closer to the foot of the bed. he still hasn't bothered to put on a shirt – he knows exactly what he does to you. "you, mrs. kent, are insatiable," he murmurs.
"excuse me," you scoff, trying to appear nonchalant but you know the pounding of your heart betrays you. "you're the one walking around looking like that. shirtless. muscles out. like i'm not supposed to be drooling."
"you're married to me," he reminds you, all calm, climbing up onto the bed. "you've seen it a thousand times."
"and it never gets less rude."
he laughs again and then he leans in to kiss you.
it's supposed to be a sweet kiss to your lips, but the second his mouth brushes yours, you surge forward, grabbing his jaw and pulling him closer.
and clark, the most attentive lover there can be, adapts to your eagerness, allowing you to guide him to lean back against the headboard.
"baby," he murmurs against your lips when you climb into his lap.
"you're literally obscene," you mumble, trailing kissing along his jaw and down his neck. "looking like that everyday," you add, grounding your hips against his lap, already feeling the stirring within his slacks.
clark groans, soft and choked, as his grip tightens around your hips, instinctively squeezing the flesh there. "i was just trying to talk to you about work," he manages, his voice raspier now.
"you can tell me after," you breathe, "i need you right now."
clark kisses you like he's trying to be patient, but you feel the way his hands grip tighter, his breathing grows heavier, like he's holding back because he knows what happens when he doesn't.
and honestly, you're waiting for that patience to snap.
you grind down once in his lap, just to test him. just to see.
he groans, low and rough like you lit a match in his chest.
"jesus, sweetheart," he murmurs against your lips, hands gripping your hips to still you. "what's gotten into you tonight?"
"you," you breathe, rocking once more to make sure he feels your neediness. "just you."
he huffs a laugh, though it comes out strained, like he's working harder than usual to keep his composure. "just me, huh?"
"always you," you whisper, eyes wide and desperate when they meet his. "but-" you bite your lip, hesitant for only a moment before it all rushes out. "i don't know, clark. lately it's like i can't think about anything else. you, your hands, your mouth... the way you feel inside me."
he stills beneath you, chest rising in a deeper breath as his blue eyes search your face. whatever he finds there – probably sheer desperation – makes his jaw tighten, something tender sparking behind his gaze.
"sweetheart..." his thumb brushes your cheek, his voice low, coaxing. "you've been wound up all day, haven't you?"
heat flares in your chest, down to your stomach, pooling between your thighs. you nod, breath shuddering. "it's worse than usual. i-" your voice breaks as you cling tighter to his shoulders, confessing in a rush, "i keep thinking about... about babies. about you giving me one."
it's true that you'd been thinking about this for a while now. it's only natural, after all! you and clark have been married for two years now, building a home, creating a rhythm that feels so solid it sometimes makes your chest ache with how much you love and adore him.
lately, though, it's been impossible to ignore the way your friends keep announcing pregnancies, showing off ultrasound pictures, or casually dropping that they're "trying." each time, a flicker of longing sparks in your chest – one you usually try to dismiss as typical baby fever. until times like this. when it roars up and consumes you whole when clark is right there in front of you, or in this case, beneath you.
maybe its hormones, maybe its timing – hell, you know you'er ovulating right now, your body practically begging for it – but it doesn't feel shallow. it feels like a need. deep, bone-deep need. and clark is the center of all of it: the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way you know without a doubt he'd be the most incredible father.
and now, you can't stop fantasizing the face of a child with his matching smile. maybe his deep ocean eyes, if you're lucky.
your words hang in the air, hot and heavier than anything you've ever blurted mid-makeout. but clark doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. if anything, his expression softens, though his body underneath you goes taut with a different kind of tension.
"baby..." he breathes, this time not in playful endearment toward you but as if the word itself is sacred on his tongue with its other meaning. his hands steady on your hips, grounding you, even as you feel him hardening beneath you. "is that what you want? really?"
your answer is a quiet, desperate "yes," before you can think better of it. "i've been thinking about it for weeks... months even. all our friends, pregnant or trying... it just- clark, it makes me realize how much i want that with you. with our family. i already know you'd be a great father."
his gaze melts, a mixture of awe and something more primal flickering under his long lashes. "yeah, sweetheart? months?" he murmurs, almost to himself. then he swallows hard, voice dropping to a husky growl. "'ve thought it about it, too. more than i probably should."
you suck in a short breath, brows raising at the lowness of his tone and his words. "you have?"
he hums in confirmation, the sound bubbling in his throat. "yeah," he rasps. his hands, once firm on your hips, glide to your belly, fingers dancing over the fabric of your t-shirt. "thought about you swelled up in here," he murmurs, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to gently caress the skin there.
you shiver at his touch, hips pressing involuntarily into his lap. "clark..." your voice cracks, low and needy, betraying just how much this is all affecting you. your mind is already muddled with a lust-filled haze from ovulation and his words aren't making it any better. the warmth of his hands against your stomach, the idea of him imagining you like this, it makes you ache.
he leans down, brushing his lips over your collarbone, just above the collar of your shirt. each of his kisses are deliberate, teasing. "you want me to make you a mommy?" he murmurs, low against your skin.
his gaze is heated, the grip of your waist nearly bruising from the sheer amount of restraint he's holding inside. he's truly so considerate, gentle in the way he always holds you, despite holding the amount of strength that can easily harm you. but he never does.
to this day, you wonder how he manages it – how someone with the power to move mountains can touch you like you're the most fragile thing in the universe.
but tonight, there's a crack in his usual control, and you can feel it in the way his dingers dig deeper into your waist, the way his breath comes ragged against your collarbone.
he lifts his head and his eyes flicker down to your lips, and then your stomach. you can read his mind clear as day behind his eyes. he's picturing it. you. swollen with his baby, carrying his family. it's as if the image makes something primal twist inside him – and you, too – and when his gaze meets yours again, it's darker. hungrier.
"sweetheart..." his voice is a rasp, reverent and rough at the same time. "i'm trying... trying to be careful." his words are emphasized by the way his hands glides up and down your sides, perhaps in a way that prevents him from squeezing you too roughly.
you cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you, grounding him as much as you're urging him on. "you don't have to be careful," you whisper, lips barely grazing his as you speak. "not tonight."
he exhales sharply with a slight groan. his grip tightens, dragging you flush against him until you can feel the full length of his cock straining between you.
"i need you, clark," you insistent, desperation clear in your tone as you rock against him. "i want all of you. everything. no protection."
your words are basically gas to the fire already brewing simmering within him. his head dips, lips crashing against yours, the kiss much rougher now, full of teeth and need. his hands roam with more urgency, no longer holding back as he palms your ass, dragging you against him.
the kiss grows messy, your breaths tangling together and his tongue hot and insistent against yours. he groans deep in his chest when you grind down against him harder and then, all of a sudden, you're no longer in his lap.
with one fluid motion, clark flips you on your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he cages you in. your gasp breaks the kiss, but his mouth is persistent, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and throat.
"clark–" you manage, breathless and clutching his shoulders.
"sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin, his voice raw. his hands slide beneath your shirt, dragging it upward to your neck, palms warm as they roam up your stomach, ribs, cupping your breasts. "needed you spread out f'me... needed to see you."
he groans as his hands shower attention to your breasts. his thumbs graze your nipples until they pebble beneath his touch. "so pretty," he murmurs, reverent as he rolls the hardened peaks between his thumbs and forefingers. "these'll get so big," he adds, groaning to himself as if imagining it – the growth your breasts will have all to do with the eventual pregnancy hormones.
your breath hitches at the idea, arching into his touch as a shiver runs down your spine. "yeah," you agree with a whisper, nodding.
his lips brush against the curve of one breast, feather-light at first, then harder, trailing wet and teasing kisses down to your nipple. he groans against your skin as he swirls his tongue around the pebble, flicking it with practiced precision, all while keeping his gaze locked on yours.
you whine when he gets rougher, biting and nipping at your breast with more fervor, the sharp pleasure making your fingers tangle in his curls.
"so, so perfect," he says, lips leaving a wet trail of saliva down your chest to circle the other nipple with his tongue with equal reverence. his thumb rolls the previous peak, puffy and wet from stimulation.
you writhe beneath him, the need too much between your thighs. you're sure you're soaked through your panties and pants and it's taking all of you to not rip them off yourself. "clark," you whine impatiently, hips bucking upward against the bulge in his slacks.
"alright, alright," he murmurs, his voice bordering a deep growl. his hands drift from your breasts, gliding down your bare sides, sending shivers down your spine, until they reach the waistband of your leggings. with a quick force, he tugs the material down your thighs and calves, pulling them off your feet and tossing it behind him.
in the meantime, you tug the rest of your shirt up above your head and toss it aside.
he growls low in his throat as he slides his hands up the bare skin of your thighs, reaching the apex. one hand dips between your thighs, making contact with the heat of your core through your panties.
his fingers press lightly at first, teasing over the soaked fabric with slow, deliberate strokes. the friction has you gasping and arching, hips lifting into his hand.
he hums, low and rough as he presses harder, the pad of his finger pushing right against your clit through the cotton of your panties. "oh, sweetheart. you're absolutely drenched," he growls, fingers finally tugging aside the material to expose your core to the air. "all dripping for me already... just thinking about carrying my baby, and you're soaking like this for me?"
you moan, the sound raw and needy as you nod, fingers clutching the sheets as he begins teasing you, brushing over your clit with precise, yet slowly agonizing strokes. "mhm, 'm so wet, clark. i want more," you beg, hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more.
he hums in acknowledgment, but even you can tell his patience is fraying. he makes quick movement in tugging your panties down your thighs, also discarding them somewhere on the floor behind him.
with massive hands, he spreads your legs apart, watching as you core clenches around nothing. his hand returns back to your heat, gathering some of your slick with a drag of his hand.
his fingers slide inside you just enough to tease, pressing against your folds while he drags the pad of his thumb over your clit again and again. each motion is deliberate, savoring your wetness. "don't think 've ever felt you this wet before," he muses, voice a mixture of awe and desire. "feel like i could slide right in without prepping you."
"you can!" you're quick to point out, hips twitching eagerly.
you hear him chuckle lowly before dipping a finger past your entrance. "maybe, but that wouldn't make me a gentleman, would it?"
you whine, arching your back restlessly, fingers clutching the sheets. "please... don't tease me. i'm ready," you insist. "want all of you. now."
his laugh is low, vibrating through your as he leans down, lips brushing against your in a fleeting kiss. "my insatiable wife," he murmurs, teeth grazing your lower lip. "so eager..."
you can't help but whimper, nodding when he leans back to look at you. your eyes round with pure want, and your teeth trap your bottom lip.
"who am i to deny my wife when she's asking – begging me to put a baby in her?" he asks rhetorically, leaning back to finally unbutton his slacks. it's a shock how he'd managed to keep his pants on this long with the way his cock is straining against the slim fabric.
he slides his slacks down, freeing himself at last. the head of his cock glints in the dim light of your bedroom, twitching with need, and you breath hitches.
"all this time..." he rasps, voice rough and low as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself lazily. "always careful... condoms, always... and now, i get to have you raw."
you gasp as he leans forward, sliding his fat cock between your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. he groans, biting his lower lip as he lines himself up with your welcoming center.
you nearly choke on a moan a the swollen head nudges against your entrance, the sensation sending a shockwave through you without that thin barrier you've alway had between you.
your thighs fall apart even more – if that's even possible – welcoming him in, your hands reaching up to clutch at his broad shoulders.
with a low guttural groan, he sinks the head of his cock past your entrance, stretching you inch by inch. the burn is immediate, overwhelming, but so is the delicious flow of pleasure seeping into you at the feeling of him bare inside you for the very first time.
"oh my," he whines, feeling your heat engulf him in a way he never felt before.
your mouth falls open on a broken moan, nails digging into his shoulders and carving crescents into his skin. every inch feels different, raw and unfiltered, his skin dragging against yours with no barrier between you.
clark shudders above you, arms trembling as he braces himself. "sweetheart..." he breathes, almost reverent, forehead pressed to yours. "you're... wow, you're squeezing me so tight. feels like i'm inside you for the first time all over again."
his voice trembles and your walls flutter at his words, clenching around the thick intrusion as your body adjusts.
he groans low, jaw tight, and you can tell he's fighting the urge to slam the rest of the way inside you.
"clark–" you gasp, voice shaking beneath him. "it's so – ah– s'much!"
"i know, i know, baby." he peppers kisses across your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, your jaw, his hips rocking into you just enough to sink another inch inside you. "just breathe, sweetheart."
the stretch makes your thighs quake, toes curling into the sheets as he pushes deeper, inch by inch. when he finally bottoms out, your whimper turns into a cry, arms winding tight around his neck and pulling him closer to you.
your whines have barely has the chance to fade before clark pulls back, his hips grinding slowly, savoring every bare inch of you.
but, through bleary eyes, you notice something shift within him. something in his face changes; his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged as if your heat alone snapped some final tether insied you.
"gosh," he groans, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in to the hilt, making the headboard slam against the wall. your cry is loud, broken and desperate, and it only spurs him on. "you're... jesus... you'll take every drop i give you, yeah?"
your nails rake down his back, but the words are stolen from your throat when he suddenly hooks your knees, folding you in half with shocking ease. your thighs press against your chest, body bent open beneath him and you're utterly helpless under the strength of his body.
"clark-!" you gasp, eyes flying wide at the intensity of the position.
"mating press," he rasps, rutting into you hard enough to make the mattress squeal beneath your bodies. "that's what you want, isn't it? me breeding you like this?"
the sound you let out is more a sob than a moan and his grin is feral, sweat dripping down his temples as his hips piston into you, faster, deeper, filling you to the brink every time. the slap of skin against skin fills the room as he finds his rhythm, mingling with your cries and his low growls.
"you're gonna get so full of me... my seed inside you, making you a mom... your belly all swollen. oh, you'll be such a good mom," he rambles between grunts, pushing his cock back and forth into your core.
every thrust drags his cock deeper against your sweet spot inside you, your gummy walls fluttering around him, tightening as though your body is begging to be thoroughly bred.
"i'll take of you so well. y'wouldn't lift a finger at all. leave it to me," he continues, lost in his own words, no doubt playing the image of you both with your little family of your own.
your cries break into a scream – your poor neighbors – when his thrusts turn brutal, his cock slamming into you with single-minded desperation. the angle, the force, the sheer intensity of him above you has your body spiraling too fast to keep up.
"clark– wait! 'm going to-"
"cum for me," he grits out, voice rough. "want you to cum 'round my cock for the first time."
the command tears through you, and you tip over the edge, cleching down around him so hard he chokes on a moan. your release gushes hot against his cock, coating him as you tremble beneath him.
"atta girl, sweetheart. you're doin' so well," he pants, his pace going erratic as he chases his own high. "you were made to be bred by me," he rasps.
when you clamp down again against him, your pussy quivering from the stimulation, his hips stutter.
he gasps, slamming himself all the way to the hilt, holding you down in the mating press as his cock pulses deep inside you. the first hot spill makes you moan, the sensation unlike anything before – thick, raw, flooding you in heavy spurts that seems endless.
clark's head tips back with a low moan as he ruts through it, fucking his cum as deep as he can push it. "take it," he pants, breath shuddering. "take every drop, baby. don't waste a single bit."
you whine at the stretch of him, and you feel the sticky warmth that leaks out around his length, only for him to push it back inside you with another sharp thrust.
he stays locked inside you, while he catches his breath, still holding your thighs up. when he looks back down at you, he's met with your fucked-out expression: lashes fluttering, eyes glazed over with unshed tears, and flushed cheeks.
he lets go of your thighs and gently hoists them back down on the bed, making you hiss from the soreness. one of his hands reach up to cradle your jaw, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "was i too hard, sweetheart? 'm sorry."
you shake your head firmly, despite your desirousness. "no, you were perfect," you croon softly, your chest heaving as you catch your bearings.
"you took me so well," he murmurs, voice reverent. "so good f'me," he praises.
you reel from the praise, a soft smile lifting your cheeks. you feel his cock twitch inside you, still half-hard within your walls. as if remembering what this was all about, you glance down at your stomach, noting the belly bulge you sport from his cock nestled deep inside you. you hum softly, reaching to pat your belly.
"we're going to be parents," you coo warmly, glowing at the image of you cradling a little baby in your arms.
"yeah," he agrees, his voice a low rasp. with a cheeky grin, he adds, "as long as my seed takes, that is."
you chuckle softly. "given how much you cum, i'd be surprised if it didn't."
he laughs lowly, leaning down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss, one that's much less rough than the prior ones you shared in the past half hour.
when he leans back, you feel his hands rub up and down the skin of your thighs, gently soothing the aching muscles. "we can never be too sure," he rumbles smoothly, eyes glinting mischievously.
i have a feeling i'm not leaving this bed anytime soon.
"not if i can help it," he murmurs. you hadn't realized you said your thought out loud.
he spreads your thighs out, glancing at the your shared juices coating and gathered at the base of his cock. "think you could go a few more rounds, sweetheart?"
despite your exhaustion, your gaze hardens, more determined than anything. "i said i wanted a baby, didn't i?"
clark grins, slow and boyish, leaning back on his knees, letting his gaze rake over you like he's re-memorizing every curve, every line, every inch of your spent body.
then, you notice it – the way his gaze drifts down and stays there, locked on your navel. your stomach tenses instinctively.
"oh my god," you gasp, eyes widening in realization. "don't tell me you're using your x-ray vision to see through me right now."
he smirks, utterly shameless. "gotta make sure i made it into your womb," he murmurs. his casual confidence makes your already trembling knees go weaker.
you laugh breathlessly, a mixture of disbelief and want, and you press your palms against his chest. "clark kent, you are so full of yourself."
"only when it comes to my wife, mrs. kent," he counter, leaning down to nip at your jaw, fingers tracing lazy circles over your belly again. "ready for round two?"
you swallow, heat pooling between your thighs again despite you fatigue, and nod eagerly. "always," you whisper, voice soft but steady.
"good," he rasps, rolling his hips enough to make your breath hitch. "because i'm not stopping until you're stuffed full of me, sweetheart."
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masterlist || please check out my 1k event! || based on this request!
You weren’t supposed to hear it.
You’d come to the manor to surprise Jason after a long patrol — cookies you’d baked earlier still warm in the container, his favourite hoodie of yours draped over your arm like a peace offering. The boys were in the cave, voices carrying up the stairs. You’d paused at the top, smiling, ready to head down when you heard your name.
“…and her,” Jason was saying, voice tight with frustration. “She keeps trying to fix me. Like I’m some broken project. I don’t need her worrying about me every night. It’s exhausting.”
Dick’s voice was calmer. “She cares about you, Jay. That’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m one bad night away from falling apart again. I’m not her charity case.”
The words landed like punches.
You stood there, frozen on the stairs, the container of cookies suddenly too heavy in your hands. Your chest tightened, breath shallow. You weren’t supposed to hear that. You weren’t supposed to know that’s how he saw you — as exhausting. As someone trying to fix him when he didn’t want to be fixed.
You turned around quietly and left before anyone could see you.
The next few days were quiet.
You didn’t text him back right away. You didn’t show up at his apartment like you usually did. When he called, you let it ring. You needed space. You needed to stop feeling like you were a burden he tolerated because he felt guilty.
On the fourth day, he showed up at your door.
It was pouring rain. He was soaked, leather jacket dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide with something close to panic.
You opened the door in your pajamas, arms crossed. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at you like you’d stabbed him. “You’ve been avoiding me. What did I do?”
You stepped aside, letting him in. Water pooled on your floor as he stood there, dripping, looking lost.
“I heard you,” you said quietly. “In the cave. Talking to Dick. About how I’m exhausting. How I treat you like a project. How you don’t want me worrying about you.”
Jason went very still. The colour drained from his face.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice cracking. “I know.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair, looking wrecked. “I was angry. At myself. At the mission. At everything. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… venting. I didn’t mean you were exhausting. I meant that I hate making you worry. I hate that I come home bloody and you have to see that. I hate that I can’t be the guy who makes your life easier instead of harder.”
You hugged yourself tighter. “It still hurt.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you but was afraid you’d pull away. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m not a project. You’re the best thing in my life. You make me want to be better. You make me want to come home. I was an idiot. I was scared. I push people away when I feel like I’m too much. And I took it out on you. I hate myself for it.”
His voice cracked on the last words. He looked so small suddenly — the big, scary Red Hood reduced to a man standing in your doorway, dripping wet and terrified he’d ruined the only good thing he had.
You swallowed hard. “I love you, Jason. All of you. The angry parts. The broken parts. The parts that come home bloody. I worry because I care. Because losing you once was enough for a lifetime. I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be with you. Even on the bad nights.”
He let out a shaky breath and crossed the distance, pulling you into his arms. He held you tight, face buried in your hair, body trembling slightly.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice rough. “So much it scares me. I don’t know how to do this right. I get angry and I say shit I don’t mean and I push you away because I’m terrified you’ll finally see how fucked up I am and leave. But I don’t want you to leave. I want you here. I want you worrying about me. I want you baking cookies and leaving notes and making my apartment feel like home. I want all of it. Please don’t go. Please.”
You held him back just as tightly, fingers threading through his wet hair. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. Then he kissed you — desperate and soft all at once, hands cupping your face like you might disappear. You kissed him back, pouring all the hurt and love into it until the ache in your chest eased.
When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll do better. I’ll talk to you instead of shutting down. I’ll stop pushing you away. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”
You smiled, small and teary. “I won’t. I love you too much to give up on you.”
He held you tighter, chin resting on your head, arms wrapped around you like a shield. “I love you more. Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.”
The rain kept falling outside. In your apartment, with Jason’s arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the hurt started to fade.
He wasn’t perfect. Neither were you.
But you were choosing each other anyway.
a/n : I was gonna last this a few hours ago but I’ve been reorganising my comics. gulp.
buffering
dick grayson x reader | fluff, suggestive
summary: aftercare with dick after a long night that leaves you a little out of it and him very smug (wc: 0.9k).
Dick says something, and you know this because his mouth moves, sound comes out, and he's looking at you with that patient little tilt of his head. The words themselves, however, fail to make it through the pleasant static filling your skull.
"Hm?" you manage.
"Do you want water?"
You blink at him. This time, the question filters through the haze in scrambled pieces, but you decide you’ve got the general idea and answer with complete sincerity.
"Tomorrow."
There’s a beat of silence, and Dick goes very still.
You frown. Something about his expression isn't right. He's staring at you with his mouth pressed shut and eyes wide, like he's holding something in. You can't figure out what, because your brain is still running at half speed and—
Dick breaks. He folds forward laughing, one hand braced on the mattress, the other covering his mouth, trying and failing to be kind about this. His shoulders shake helplessly, head dropping as the sound spills out of him bright and full and impossible not to love.
Then it clicks.
Oh no.
"No, because I meant yes," you say quickly. "I meant yes now. Right now."
"Right now?" he asks. "You sure? Don't want to sleep on it?"
“Stop,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.
He’s still laughing when he gently pulls them away, eyes shining.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m never letting that go.”
"That was a vulnerable moment for me."
"It was a historic moment for me."
You glare at him, but it isn't as intimidating as you think, because his grin only sharpens.
"Okay, okay," he says, holding up three fingers. "How many?"
You stare at him. "You're not serious."
"I asked you a yes or no question and you said tomorrow. I'm doing my due diligence.”
"Three, you absolute—"
"Good. What's your name?"
You tell him, flatly.
"What year is it?"
"The year I become single if you keep this up."
He ignores that completely. "Who's the mayor of Blüdhaven?"
You open your mouth, but pause for just a fraction too long.
Dick doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to.
"I know the answer," you insist. "I was going to say it."
"Sure you were."
"You did this to me." You point at him, accusatory. "This is your fault."
"I accept full responsibility." He bites down on his lip, voice strained with the effort of keeping a straight face. "I am genuinely so proud right now."
You exhale, sinking deeper into the mattress, and your exhaustion must show, because he quiets at once and his expression softens.
He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “C’mere, beautiful.”
His hand slides behind your neck as he helps you sit up against him. The movement makes your limbs feel like wet sand, heavy and uncooperative.
"Easy," he murmurs.
He steadies you, one arm around your waist while the other reaches for the water bottle already waiting on the nightstand and brings it to your lips, and you drink obediently. The cold water hits your tongue and you actually sigh.
"There you go,” he says quietly, thumb brushing once at the base of your neck.
You hum, barely, and he presses a kiss to your temple. He reaches for the nightstand again and grabs a granola bar, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece before holding it up expectantly.
"I can feed myself."
"Can you?"
You open your mouth, and he places the bite on your tongue with a small smirk.
"That's what I thought," he says, but it's gentle.
You lightly flick at his bicep, and he only feeds you another piece.
The room glows amber from the bedside lamp. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the air still warm, the mattress dipping where he sits close beside you. Your body feels pleasantly overused, every muscle loose and humming.
Dick watches your face as you chew slowly, then swallow.
"Sore?" he asks, voice low.
You shake your head. "Just sleepy.”
He studies you for another second anyway, checking for anything you're not saying.
“You sure?”
"Promise," you reply with a little smile.
His expression eases. He sets the granola bar aside and shifts behind you, drawing you fully into him until your back rests against his chest. The blanket comes up around both of you, tucked under your arms with absent practice.
"Proud of you," he murmurs.
You huff out a laugh. "For what?"
"Persevering through adversity."
"You're unbearable."
"And yet," he says, "still your favorite."
You're too tired to deny it properly. His hand slips beneath the blanket to rest on your stomach, palm warm and grounding. The other traces slow shapes against your arm: circles, lines, little absent patterns that make your eyelids heavier by the second.
Beneath your ear, his heartbeat knocks steady and sure.
"You know," you mumble, words starting to slur, "if you tell anyone about this, I'll deny everything."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I'll just treasure the memory forever."
"That's somehow worse."
He tucks his head over yours, and you let your heavy lids fall over your eyes, body sinking deeper into him. His fingers keep moving soothingly over your skin.
Just before sleep takes you, he speaks into your hair.
"Tomorrow," he repeats fondly.
You groan weakly, and his soft laugh follows you under.
summary: for the entire year you and jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea that you weren't.
warnings: none but lmk if i missed something, just jason being oblivious, might be a little ooc
UNEDITED!!!
jason isn't stupid—he knows there's rules that define whether or not two people are dating. but he is just a bit dense.
you'd met on a rooftop about a year ago, a classic vigilante encounter. instant tension, instant bickering between you and jason. he hadn't been entirely smitten. he simply thought you were beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.
not until you two start working together. bruce sends the two of you out on a mission, and you say something along the lines of, "let's make it a date, then." you said it with such an arrogant, cheeky grin.
and because that mission had gone so well, you and jason are consistently sent out together. alone.
because you'd said "let's make it a date!" he began to say it back. just a little joke. he'd say something like, "save the date..." quite bashfully. and you'd snicker and agree.
and that consistency is what makes jason think the two of you have started dating.
every single time the two of you are dispatched on a mission, it's always "save the date" or "let's make it a date" with you.
it happened so effortlessly, in his mind. so seamlessly. he doesn't feel like he needs to perform around you. he's not a blushing mess, he doesn't stutter or even treat you very differently, hence why you don't notice that he thinks the two of you are together.
except for when he stops by and gets little trinkets. maybe a stick of chocolate for valentines day. not flowers, because he wasn't able to gauge whether or not you'd want some.
for your birthday, he got you a small gift. something that reminded him of a childhood story you'd once babbled on about.
he's just a little bit sweeter and a little bit softer around you, compared to when he's conversing with other teammates.
this you notice, and you begin to consider that maybe he has feelings for you. a little crush. but you'd never in a million years consider that he thought you guys were fully dating.
his strange acts of kindness spark a tiny crush inside of you. you're spending more time with him. enjoying your missions with him just a bit more. laughing, smiling. and he begins to feel like home.
you wonder—should you ask him out? he doesn't seem like he's going to make a move any time soon. and, after all, he's been picking up so many small gifts for you here and there. maybe he's waiting for you to do something.
so, one night, you consult his brothers.
"jason likes you. i can tell," dick reassures. "he likes being around you, whether that's as friends or because he likes likes you, i dunno."
"definitely," tim had said. "jason with chocolates in his hand? never seen before. until you."
damian rolled his eyes when you asked. he scoffed and said, "i've been waiting for you to catch on. why don't you just ask each other out already?"
they act like jason is acting so differently. perhaps you just don't know him as well as they do.
one night, on a mission, you gather enough courage to turn to him and ask. "hey..."
"yeah?" he says, tipping his head towards the starless sky.
"i...um...i know we do a lot together. and i don't want to ruin our friendship."
"friendship?"
you nod. did jason even consider you a friend? why did he seem so confused? "yeah. i just...i really like having you around. so don't make it weird, okay?"
he dips his head. "okay...?"
"do you...want to go on a date with me?"
he blinks. once, twice. "are we not on one right now?"
you shrug. "i mean, i would hardly consider this a date." you gesture to the honking cars below, to your feet swinging off the edge of the roof.
"why are you asking me out?" he says, leaning forward.
you're a little stunned. a bit hurt. "because...i like you? because we spend a lot of time together and i think you're fun to be around? i don't know."
jason waves his hands in the air. "yeah, i know. but...why? i mean, we're already dating. if you wanted to go for a date and not have to go on a mission at the same time, you could've just said—"
"i'm sorry, what?"
"you...could've just said you wanted to do something different for our dates?"
you shake your head frantically. "no, no, no. you said that...you just said that we're dating?"
he stares at you like you're the one not making sense. "yeah...?"
"we're not dating, jason."
his mask hisses as he pries it off his face. his brows furrow and his cheeks redden with embarrassment. "we're...not?" he says it so softly, so painfully that you almost want to convince him that you are dating him.
"jason...oh, jason. did you think that all our talk about dates made this a date?" you can barely stifle your laughter. "jason, oh jason...you're so sweet. darling, it's an expression."
"so we're...not dating?"
"how long have you thought that?"
"about a year now." bashfully, jason's shoulders sink. "i thought we were, since you never turned down any of my gifts."
"i just thought that was you being nice. i'm sorry, i never thought to give you anything back. i just...thought you were being nice."
"of course i was just being nice. i...liked having you around."
it sounds silly saying it all aloud, but now that you think of it, jason's loyalty to you was plain as day. he was a reserved person, so it was easy to think he was just being a loner, like usual.
there was time the two of you went undercover. two girls had been ruthlessly vying for his attention. both infinitely attractive. some men, too. and he hadn't even blinked. you assumed he was just playing his part when he scooped you into his arms and wouldn't let go of you the entire night.
the way he listened to you—that gift he'd bought you for your birthday. reminiscent of some stupid childhood story you'd told him on some meaningless, random night. yet he'd remembered.
because that night hadn't been meaningless to him. no night with you had been meaningless.
perhaps he wasn't dense or stupid for thinking the two of you were already dating. perhaps you were in fact the dense one, for not seeing the signs. for not seeing how sweet he was sooner, for how silently loyal he was.
"jason." you loop his hand in yours. his pulse beats steadily. he's not nervous around you. neither are you anymore. "how long did you say we were dating?"
"we're not—"
"how long did you say we were dating for?"
he bites his lip. "tomorrow would've been...uh, our one year anniversary. i didn't know if you wanted me to plan something. you didn't seem to care very much, like the people do in the movies." because you hadn't even known. "i did want to plan something, though. you just never seemed like an 'event' sorta person." he chuckles. "i guess...i guess i know why, now."
"i love surprises," you mutter. "you can still plan something. there's still time."
"but we're not...you said we're not dating." he just seems so damn sad about it.
you shake your head. "what're you talking about?" you grin and rest your head on his shoulder. you can't believe he thought you just didn't like events, you didn't want to cuddle. you just hadn't known.
so you smile, allowing the stench of gotham celebrate the countdown to your first anniversary. the moon hangs high in the sky, and you check your watch. midnight strikes, and you snuggle into jason.
reader biting jason’s biceps blurb (jason todd look-alike contest in my bedroom tn)
you’re laying together on the couch, watching the new season of a tv show you both love, and you’re laying on his chest, both of his arms wrapped around you. you half watching the show, half focused on jason’s arm right next your face. the way his t shirt strains against his biceps or his muscles twitch when he adjusts his grip around you.
“are you even watching?” he asks, having noticed your gaze drifting away from the tv occasionally.
you don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on his biceps, his tanned skin, his muscles twitching again. fuck, you don’t know why, but you’d really like a taste of his arm right now.
the only other time where you’ve resorted to biting his biceps was when you were under him, his hips meeting yours in a steady pace as he whimpered into your neck, and you sunk your teeth into his arm to keep quiet. the neighbors had recently begun complaining, and you didn’t want any conflicts to be created.
“sweetheart? you listening- ow!” before he can finish his question, you’ve already nipped his skin softly. then you sink your teeth in deeper. he says you name in confusion, but doesn’t pull away. you just dig your teeth in a little deeper before pulling them off, placing as soft kiss where your bite mark is now visible on his upper arm.
jason stays silent while you relax back into his chest, your eyes now focusing on the tv show still playing. you let out a content sigh, bringing one hand up to rest along the crook of his elbow. then you hear his voice. “i can’t believe you just bit me.” but you can hear the smirk in his voice, and you know that he didn’t really mind.
Uuuuhh... can I get a fic with Damian high on meds after having a surgery.... with extra drama in the form of him having a secret relationship, and asking for her(reader) while drugged.... uhh with a side of fluff hold the angst .... that's all thank you
Love ur fics sm, have a great day/night
݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓗ALF-𝓐WAKE, 𝓦HOLLY 𝓨OURS !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x fem!reader
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian gets knocked out during a mission and wakes up post-surgery with enough pain meds in his system to dissolve every wall he’s ever built. you’re supposed to be secret, but he exposes your relationship, obliterated by narcotics and his complete inability to hide how deeply he’s attached to you.
WAYNE MEDICAL WING LIGHTS WERE TOO BRIGHT for someone who’d just stopped being technically unconscious, but damian surfaced like someone annoyed at being dragged from a nap he didn’t consent to, an insult so personal his eyelids twitched before they even opened. the brightness pressed through his skull like it was trying to etch itself directly into his brain. sterile white, the kind that had never once existed in a place he trusted. he cracked his eyes open anyway.
bad choice.
the ceiling came into focus in pieces: harsh tiles, vents humming cold air downward, a hairline crack near the corner he’d catalogued months ago during someone else’s medical emergency. except this time it wasn’t someone else lying flat on their back in a bed built for recovery and compliance. it was him. which meant something had already gone terribly wrong.
the sheets were tucked too tightly, pinning him with all the subtlety of a net trap. the IV line tugged whenever he moved his fingers. his throat tasted dry, surgical dryness, not dehydration, and every breath carried that over-sterile antiseptic scent that hospitals diffused like perfume. it stung in a way memory recognized before consciousness did.
he hated it. he hated it viscerally, instinctively, the way you hate an enemy you’ve fought before.
a chair creaked. dick. of course. no one else sat that way, half-slouched, half-alert, like a golden retriever trying to look responsible. “hey, baby bat,” dick welcomed softly, which was exactly the wrong volume. “back with us?”
damian squinted at him as if being spoken to was rude. his voice, when it came, sounded like someone had replaced his mouth with cement. “why,” he croaked, blinking slowly, “are you here.”
“you had surgery.”
damian paused like the word needed to be decoded. then his eyebrows knit together, slow, offended, gradually outraged. “i didn’t agree to that.”
dick huffed a tired laugh. “yeah, well… it was kind of an emergency. and you were unconscious. and also? you literally signed the consent form before the anesthesia.”
damian stared at him, long and unimpressed. “forged.”
“it wasn’t forged.”
“i do not sign things.”
“you sign things all the time.”
damian shut his eyes briefly, like acknowledging that was beneath him. then he opened them again, narrower, sharper, but the effect was ruined by how unfocused the pupils were, drifting like his thoughts kept hitting walls before reaching their destination. the air was too clean. the lights too white. the smell coiled into his chest and pulled memories he’d rather leave buried, metal tools, cold hands, the way the world looked when he was small and helpless and expected to endure instead of resist. nothing specific, just impressions. sensations. hospitals always woke old ghosts.
his jaw tightened. he wasn’t supposed to be the one in this bed. he didn’t get hurt. not enough to be downed like this. the last patrol replayed in flashes — a blade catching him off-balance, the impact hot, surprising. he remembered the pain, but not falling. not blacking out. that made his stomach twist.
failure. vulnerability. unacceptable.
dick watched him with that older-brother sensitivity that always made damian bristle, like being perceived was an attack. “before you say anything,” dick added, “you did not lose the fight. you didn’t mess up. you got blindsided by a meta with a strength boost and you still managed to take him down. you just… didn’t stay upright afterward.”
damian glared. “i don’t recall being horizontal.”
“because you passed out.”
another glare. this one personal. dick raised his hands. “don’t look at me like that. i didn’t make you lose consciousness.”
damian’s fingers twitched against the sheets. the fabric felt wrong, stiff, overwashed, hospital-issue. the kind meant for patients who stayed still. he hated being still. he shifted slightly, and something tugged sharply at the back of his hand. his gaze snapped downward.
an IV. taped in place. tubing snaked up to a bag overhead, dripping fluid into his bloodstream without permission. his entire expression went cold. “remove it.”
dick inhaled sharply. “damian—”
“remove it.”
“don’t— okay, don’t—” dick took two hurried steps forward as damian’s fingers curled around the line. “don’t you dare pull that out. i mean it. don’t.”
“i am not a lab specimen.”
“you’re not,” dick agreed. “you’re someone who needs fluids and pain meds because you were— what’s the word— oh yeah— stabbed.”
“it was minor.”
“it was internal.”
damian blinked at him, insulted. “i don’t want it.”
“too bad.”
there was tension in damian’s shoulders. that hyper-focused alertness from childhood, when beds were places you recovered because you weren’t allowed to move, not because someone cared. his muscles remembered even when he didn’t think about it. his back never fully pressed to the mattress, his hands never fully relaxed. his breath always came measured, as if steadying itself for violence. the medical wing amplified that tension. the smell. the lights. the machines. everything too reminiscent of control.
he’d been so busy cataloguing exits and shadows and the exact height of the IV stand that he hadn’t even noticed how his own body felt until—
oh.
there it was.
the meds hit him. that soft, warm fog rolling in, blurring everything he tried to focus on. his thoughts glitched, trying to line up in formation and instead tripping over themselves. “grayson,” he said, voice suspicious, “did you put something in my blood?”
dick, who’d been leaning on the side of the bed like a worried parent pretending not to be one, blinked back. “uh—no, bud. you were asleep during the operation, remember? anesthesia? pain meds?”
damian stared at him like dick had just recited a riddle in an unfamiliar dialect. “i was… asleep,” damian repeated. “you let them do that.”
“you needed them to do that.” dick corrected.
damian’s eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by how glazed they looked. “i do not need unconsciousness to survive.”
“you do when your insides are trying to become your outsides.” dick muttered.
damian ignored him entirely, still watching him with a narrowing-bandwidth intensity. “you allowed it.”
“you signed the form.”
“forged,” damian said, again, instantly, with the complete confidence of someone who barely remembered what a pen was. “i would not voluntarily be medically compromised.”
“it wasn’t forged,” dick sighed. “you filled it out. you even wrote your full name at the bottom—very neatly, might i add.”
damian frowned like he was conspiring against him. he opened his mouth to deny it… but then a wave of dizziness rolled through him, like someone had tipped the room on its axis. he went still. his eyes went a little wide. “i feel… peculiar.”
“that’s the painkillers.”
“i dislike them.”
“i can tell.”
damian shifted, which was a mistake, his brain lagged behind the movement by a full second, like his consciousness had to sprint to catch up with his body. “my head is—” he paused, searching the ceiling as if the correct vocabulary word was written there. “—float-adjacent.”
“you’re high, dami.”
“i am not—” damian began, then stopped mid-denial, staring at the wall with deep betrayal. “i am.”
“yep.”
“i dislike this.”
“we’ve got that part,” dick said gently. “but you’re safe. and you’re okay. and it’s temporary.”
damian’s eyes tracked dick’s face like it was the only stable object in a shifting landscape. his brow furrowed with an almost childlike confusion. “i… don’t remember agreeing,” he murmured. “or anything. i was… focused. then pain.” he paused, blinked. “…then nothing.”
“that’s normal.”
“…where’s—”
but the name got lost on damian’s tongue.
not forgotten, more like the conveyor belt of his brain jammed halfway through delivering it. he blinked, confused, mouth still slightly open like the word might tumble out if he waited long enough. dick straightened, alert. “where’s who, bud?”
damian stared back at him, unfocused. something flickered behind his eyes, something searching, reaching. but whatever it was refused to surface. his brows knit, annoyed at his own mind for failing him. “…i don’t—” he frowned, as if the thought had slipped between his fingers. “i knew it. i know it. i just… can’t… hold it.”
dick softened. “hey. it’s okay. you’re still coming out of anesthesia.”
damian frowned. the door opened before dick could say anything else, tim walking in first, rubbing his eyes, followed by cass. tim raised his coffee cup. “look who’s conscious.”
cass tipped her head.
damian’s eyes snapped to them—well, halfway. they snapped, stalled, then drifted into their direction like his neurons were buffering. “you are loud,” damian announced.
tim blinked. “we… didn’t say anything.”
“your face is loud.”
tim nodded solemnly. “makes sense.”
cass stepped closer, tracking damian’s micro-movements with an ease that came from years of knowing how to read bodies better than minds. damian tried—tried—to push himself up. his arm trembled. his shoulder lifted a fraction. cass reached out with one finger and pressed it lightly to his sternum. damian went down like gravity had increased selectively on his body alone. his eyes went wide. “that is unfair.”
cass offered a tiny smile. “doctor’s orders.”
“i do not listen to orders.”
“you listened to hers.” tim added dryly.
damian glared at him. or tried to. the effect was softened by the fact his eyelids kept drooping like they were too heavy. “she cheated,” damian muttered.
cass watched the way damian’s eyes refused to work with him and smiled shyly. “you’re high.”
“i am not—” damian started, then hesitated, as if realizing halfway through the lie that he didn’t have the cognitive precision to pull it off. “i am… moderately under the influence.”
“that’s one way to put it.” tim mumbled.
damian’s head tilted back toward dick like his mind was circling back to unfinished business. “i was asking.”
“about who?” dick asked.
damian stared at him again. long, slow, pondering with the full force of a malfunctioning operating system. he opened his mouth, then closed it. frustration etched across his face. “…gone,” he said finally. “i lost it.”
“it’ll come back.”
“i hate this,” damian declared. “i hate hospitals. i hate beds. i hate drugs. i hate this room. i hate—”
“oh boy,” tim breathed. “here we go.”
damian lifted one hand. studied it. flexed his fingers—delayed, clumsy. he stared like his own hand had betrayed him. “my reaction speed is compromised. this is humiliating.”
“don’t worry,” tim said cheerfully. “we’re taking mental notes.”
damian shot him a bleary glare. “i will end you.”
“in your current state?” tim asked. “you couldn’t even end a game of tic-tac-toe.”
“i could,” damian insisted, leaning forward as if to intimidate him, except his torso only made it two inches up before cass’s finger sent him right back down again. damian let out a low, affronted noise. “stop that.” he told her.
she shook her head.
damian’s eyes narrowed, then drifted, then narrowed again as if the glare needed to be reinstalled every few seconds. he sighed, long and dramatic. “i should not be in this bed.”
“you were stabbed,” dick said gently.
“everyone gets stabbed.”
“not in the liver.” tim said, absolutely delighted to be here, absolutely delighted that damian wasn’t at full power to stop him.
damian blinked. “my liver?”
“yes.”
he frowned, deeply betrayed. “i use that.”
“not today you don’t.”
damian ignored him, attention wandering again, circling back toward the hole in his memory like a bee drawn repeatedly to the same window. tim rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, grin already sharpening. “so,” he began casually, “speaking of things you ‘use,’ want to talk about the stuff you were saying while you were unconscious?”
dick’s head snapped toward him. “tim. no.”
tim ignored him completely. “because wow. i didn’t know you had a romantic side. like—it was actually kind of sweet? a little embarrassing? honestly extremely embarrassing.”
damian’s face twisted. “what are you—”
“you kept saying,” tim continued, pitching his voice into a dreamy falsetto, “‘my beloved… come back… come here… where are you…’” he clutched his chest dramatically.
“I did not say that,” damian barked, though it came out slightly slurred, tragically soft, devastatingly unthreatening. “drake is lying.” damian announced to the ceiling, as if the ceiling could issue a rebuttal.
except —- then damian froze, not visibly, internally, like someone had pulled the emergency brake on his thoughts. the hazy warmth in his veins pulsed, rising like heat behind his ears. something in his chest tightened, memory stirring sluggishly but insistently. the drugs softened everything except that. that memory. that wanting.
the warmth in his bloodstream pulsed again, stronger, like a tide he couldn’t fight. he blinked slowly, vision blooming and fading at the edges, and in the middle of that blur, something clear rose to the surface. you.
your face. your voice. your hands brushing the hair off his forehead last week. your breath against his neck in the quiet hours. your laugh that he pretended didn’t undo him. he inhaled sharply, like the thought of you punched through the haze. tim, seeing the shift, took a step back. he knew this was no longer teasing territory, this was damian’s guard dissolving in real time. dick moved a little closer. “damian?”
damian blinked again. confusion, longing, frustration, and beneath all of it, a tenderness so raw it seemed to surprise even him. “where’s…” his voice wobbled, more breath than sound. “(y/n)?”
tim’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. cass’s head tilted, studying him. damian didn’t notice their reactions—didn’t even register that he’d slipped. the meds made the truth feel natural, inevitable, impossible to contain.
“i want her here.”
dick blinked rapidly. “her?”
“yes, her,” damian muttered like they were stupid for being confused, tone clipped but dreamy, like he was trying to be irritated through marshmallow fog. “she should be here.”
dick tried gently, “who—”
“(y/n).” damian snapped. “the one i— the one who—” he cut himself off, annoyed at how hard the words suddenly were. his tongue felt slow. his brain fuzzed.
everything except the wanting.
“i’d much rather be with her than you guys.”
damian pushed on, voice dipping into something warm and unrestrained and utterly unlike him. “she doesn’t talk so loudly,” he mumbled, glaring at tim for existing. “and she doesn’t hover.” a pointed look at dick. “and she’s gentle.” he added, a little dreamily, glancing at cass.
cass’s eyes softened. dick’s heart did a little somersault. tim opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. damian continued, because the drugs had him rambling, pouring out affection he’d buried so deep even he forgot it was there. “and she smells nice,” he said, brows furrowing like this was deeply important. “and she holds my hand when i’m hurt. why isn’t she here.”
“d,” dick said softly, “we… didn’t know she existed.”
“that’s not my problem.” damian glared at the wall. “she should be here.” he shifted, trying to sit up, but cass stopped him again. he slumped back instantly, blinking up at her like she’d just used dark magic. “i need to talk to her,” damian insisted. “she’s probably worried.”
damian’s face, already soft from the medication, creased in a way none of them had ever seen. not anger, not annoyance, something else. something gentler. unguarded. dangerously unguarded.
he frowned. a slow, heartbreakingly earnest frown. “…she should be here,” he murmured again, more wounded this time, as if the room’s failure to produce you was a insult.
tim whispered, “we’re in uncharted territory,” like a man narrating a nature documentary about a dangerous, delicate creature.
dick pulled a chair closer. “we’re not keeping her from you,” he said. “no one knew you wanted her here.”
damian scowled. “i always want her here.”
tim choked on a laugh. cass elbowed him. but damian wasn’t done—if anything the words were pouring out faster now, because every thought of you made the meds tug him deeper into that warm, floaty honesty. “she knows how to touch my hair the right way,” he admitted, cheeks flushing faintly. “you don’t just— you have to go with the grain, not against the—” he gestured vaguely at his head, missing by several inches. “she knows. why isn’t she here.”
“she doesn’t know you’re awake.”
“you should have told her,” damian argued, scandalized. “you should have— obviously you should have—” his breath stuttered, foggy frustration ripping through him. “i want her.” he repeated, smaller.
“okay,” dick said. “okay. we’ll get her. just… try to relax.”
damian tried to glare, but it melted halfway into a woozy pout. “i won’t relax until she’s here.”
dick exhaled, long-suffering but soft. “i’ll call her. just—stay in the bed. stay horizontal. stay… not ripping out your IV.”
damian made a grumpy sound that was supposed to be dignified and was absolutely not.
you arrived like someone who had run every red light between your apartment and the wayne medical wing. you hadn’t even finished tying your shoes when the call came—an unfamiliar number flashing on your screen, a clipped voice saying, “hi, uh, this is dick grayson—damian’s brother—please don’t panic, he’s okay, but he’s asking for you and we… think you should come.”
you barely remembered hanging up. or grabbing keys. or the elevator door almost closing on your shoulder. ten minutes, maybe eleven, but it felt like one long breath held in your chest. in those ten minutes, everything in your head spun: damian doesn’t get hurt. damian doesn’t call for anyone. damian doesn’t need.
so what could’ve happened for dick to sound like that? what could’ve happened for damian to ask for you?
the security staff let you through without question—dick must’ve put your name on some list, because no wayne employee is normally that chill about strangers sprinting through sterile hallways with fear in their eyes.
your boots echoed off polished floors. the medical wing always had that cold, expensive, unnecessarily white look—a place built to fix bodies, not calm nerves. you followed the signs, heart hammering, palms damp.
room 3B.
your hand hovered on the handle for half a second—half a breath—because you had no idea what version of damian you’d find on the other side of the door. injured damian? angry damian? scared damian?
you pushed the door open.
damian had not relaxed. if anything, he had stewed, curled miserably in a hospital bed that looked like it was offending his entire lineage by existing. his hair was a mess. his eyes were half-lidded and glassy. a deep, irritable crease sat between his brows.
when you stepped in, the room shifted. dick straightened in his chair, relief flooding him. tim blinked like he couldn’t believe you were a real person. cass smiled at you like she’d expected this all along. but damian—
damian’s eyes snapped open like someone had turned the sun directly toward him. the transformation was instant. his whole face softened and brightened all at once, surprise flickering into recognition, recognition melting into something warm and wreckingly tender. “beloved,” he breathed.
and it was so quiet.
then he tried—immediately, stupidly, disastrously—to sit up. “no—no, no,” dick sputtered, grabbing his shoulder, flattening him instantly.
damian blinked up at him, betrayed for the thirtieth time today.
but then his gaze dragged back to you, heavy, warm, intoxicated—not just by meds but by relief. “you’re here. finally.”
your heart dropped somewhere into your stomach. “of course i came,” you started, glancing wearily at everyone in the room but stepping closer. “you called for me.”
“i needed you,” he said, so matter-of-factly it felt like the room stopped breathing. “i told them. repeatedly. they were slow.”
“hey—”
dick shot tim a glare.
damian reached for you without hesitation, fingers outstretched, messy and uncoordinated but desperate. cass gently caught his wrist to keep him from yanking at his IV. “come here,” damian insisted, eyes locked on yours. “i hate this place. i hate all of them.” he gestured vaguely at his siblings. “i want you.”
your lungs forgot how to work. “dami,” you murmured, stepping to his bedside, taking his free hand carefully—careful because he was loopy, careful because he was fragile, careful because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of fog.
he exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief the moment your skin touched his. “yes. that. stay.”
and suddenly you’re the idiot standing in a hospital room surrounded by the waynes. you don’t look at any of them. you can’t. eye contact feels like a trapdoor.
because this is the exact scenario damian spent months avoiding. the one he insisted would “complicate matters” or “invite unnecessary scrutiny” or “destroy our operational advantage,” which was his very dramatic way of saying he didn’t want his family to know he had feelings like a human being.
and now he’s clinging to your wrist like a toddler afraid you’ll evaporate. your voice tries to work but it comes out small. “uh… okay. i’m here. not going anywhere.”
dick makes a soft, amazed sound, like he’s watching a wild animal eat out of someone’s hand for the first time. tim is frozen in place, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to run a facial-recognition scan on the situation. cass just looks deeply entertained. damian doesn’t notice any of it. he’s too busy hauling your hand into his chest like he needs the pressure to stay anchored.
he nudges closer to you on the pillow—well, he attempts to, but he’s so high that the movement is less “smooth shift” and more “gentle toppling.” you catch him before he face-plants, hands awkward around his shoulders, and he… softens. actually softens. melts into your touch like he’s never heard of pride in his life. “don’t leave,” he mutters. “they’re awful. you’re the only tolerable one.”
his siblings watch this happen with the energy of people witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. your heart does something inconvenient. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say again, softer.
he’s going to regret every single word of this when the pain meds wear off. damian relaxes immediately, head tipping toward you, completely unconcerned that half his family is witnessing this emotional striptease he’ll definitely deny later. then his hand paws clumsily at the air until it finds yours again. he drags it to his chest, then up toward his jaw, nudging, nudging, nudging like a disgruntled cat demanding to be held exactly the right way. you blink down at him. “what are you doing.”
“you know what i’m doing,” he mutters, pushing your palm against his cheek like he’s molding clay. “closer.”
“i am close.”
“not enough.” a pout forms soft lower lip pushed forward in wounded royalty. “you’re supposed to…” he gestures with his other hand, fingers fluttering like he’s trying to summon the word. “kiss me.”
your body goes rigid. “damian. your entire family is three feet away.”
tim chokes on spit. dick makes a strangled noise. cass is already covering her smile with her hand. dick, bless him, claps his hands together. “alright! great time to take a break. we’re gonna… uh… give you two some space.”
“a lot of space,” tim adds, sprinting for the door like the room is on fire.
cass pauses beside the doorway, gives you a thumbs-up, then closes the door behind them. immediately, muffled bickering erupts.
“you didn’t record that?”
“i’m not filming our brother in the hospital!”
“coward.”
“guys, shut up—”
“i can’t believe he said kiss me—”
“cass stop laughing—”
“OH my god—”
you drag a hand down your face. “this is mortifying.”
damian doesn’t care. damian cares zero percent. damian is busy guiding your hand back to his cheek and pressing into it like it’s a heat source keeping him alive. “they’re idiots,” he announces, voice thick with anesthesia and indignation. “loud. insufferable. invasive.” he blinks heavily, lashes brushing your wrist. “i’m glad they’re gone.”
“they’re right outside the door still arguing.”
“they’re always arguing,” he says, sleepy venom coating every syllable. “they argue about toast.”
you try not to smile. “and you don’t?”
“i argue with purpose.” he says this with the gravitas of a dying king. “they argue because they’re incompetent.” his fingers curl around your wrist and he tries to tug you closer again. “come here,” he murmurs, cheeks pink from more than medication. “you’re being difficult.”
“i’m being respectful.” you correct.
he frowns. actually frowns, like you’ve just informed him gravity is optional now. “disgusting.” he sighs like a martyr. “just kiss me.”
his fingers skate clumsily up your wrist, slipping twice before finally hooking behind your hand, dragging it back to his cheek with the determination of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. his pulse flutters beneath your palm, fluttery in that way that tells you the meds are hitting harder. “i need one,” he murmurs, barely audible. “just—one.”
“damian—”
“please,” he whispers. he looks at you like you’re the single point of focus in a world that’s tilting. pupils blown, cheeks flushed with medication and emotion he can’t register enough to restrain. he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open, to hold onto you, to stay with you in the haze.
the battle between logic and instinct lasts all of four seconds. maybe less. you lean in, careful, so he can pull back if he wants. he doesn’t. he meets you halfway, or at least tries to, except he misjudges the distance and bumps your chin first, blinking like the world betrayed him again. you soften. cup the side of his face, steady him, then you kiss him.
it’s gentle. warm. barely there at first, just the press of your mouth against his, letting him feel it, understand it. his breath catches, a soft inhale against your lips like he can’t believe he got what he asked for. then the tension melts out of him all at once. his shoulders sag. his hand slides up to clutch weakly at your shirt. he makes this tiny, involuntary sound—half sigh, half relief—like the kiss untied some knot inside him he didn’t know was choking him. he kisses you back clumsily, lazily, chasing the contact with unfocused devotion. the kind of kiss that says i’m not fully here, but what i feel for you is.
when you finally pull back—because he’s still recovering—his eyes remain closed for a moment, like reality hasn’t quite caught up. they open, glazed and adoring in a way he will absolutely deny to the grave. “that,” he murmurs, voice dropping like he’s drifting toward sleep. “better.”
you smooth his hair back gently. “yeah?”
he nods against your hand, eyelids lowering again. “you fixed the… everything.” his lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the energy. “kiss me again later.”
you can’t help it. you laugh. “we’ll see.”
he hums—hums, like he’s some exhausted, medicated cat settling into sun-warm sheets instead of a post-surgery assassin with a reputation to maintain. for a few minutes, everything is strangely easy. soft. he drifts in and out, eyes half-lidded, expression mellow in a way that would terrify gotham’s criminal underground. he asks you three questions in a row (“what time is it… why does the ceiling breathe… can you make the bed stop tilting?”), only for his attention to wander halfway through the third answer.
you stroke his hair and he melts like warm wax, that stiffness he always carries dissolving like you’re seeing a piece of him that only exists under anesthesia and around you. “you should rest,” you observe.
“i am resting.” he sounds offended you’d suggest otherwise. “i’m the picture of—” he yawns without warning. “—discipline.”
“sure,” you say, hand smoothing down his cheek. “very disciplined.”
he narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by how heavy his eyelids are. “mockery is unbecoming.” he drifts again, fingers twitching once like he wants to pull you even closer but can’t muster the energy. ten more seconds pass before he murmurs, barely audible, “don’t be gone long.”
your chest folds in on itself. “i won’t.”
but you still have to go. he needs his siblings updated. you need to breathe something other than recycled medical-wing air. and—let’s be honest—you need to apologize for walking in and accidentally detonating a family-secret bomb.
you pry his hand gently off your shirt, not easy, because he makes a soft, grumpy noise at the loss, and settle it over his blanket. “i’ll be right back,” you whisper.
he scowls, soft and half-asleep. “you better.”
you slip out. the door clicks shut behind you, and immediately, the hallway noise stops. immediately. like a switch. one second there’s muffled arguing, sharp whispers, annoyed sighs, something that sounds suspiciously like tim saying “that’s not fair, cass, you can’t hit people in a debate—”
and the next? dead silent.
you step fully into the corridor. three faces turn to you at once, frozen mid-conflict like you just walked in on a crime scene. dick stands with his arms out like he was physically separating people. tim looks defensive, hands half-raised, mouth half-open. cass is calmly holding what looks like tim’s hoodie string, like she’s been yanking him back into line.
they all stare. you blink. “…hi,” you say. it comes out small. painfully polite. the kind of greeting you use when you’ve just barged into the batfamily’s private meltdown because your secret boyfriend couldn’t keep quiet on morphine.
dick straightens so fast you actually hear the click of his spine. “hi! hey! um. hi. wow. okay. you—you came out.”
tim elbows him. “of course she came out, she used the door—”
cass smacks the back of his head without looking.
“ow???”
you exhale slowly. “so… um. i guess i should say—sorry? for all of that? he’s… not usually like this.”
three pairs of eyes give you the exact same expression:
oh we know.
you swallow, fingers twisting together because suddenly you’re seventeen again and meeting someone’s parents in a too-small living room where everyone is staring. “right,” you say. “um. so. i’m—” the word lodges in your throat. girlfriend.
technically true. emotionally true. secretly true. publicly, though… this was supposed to come out months from now. carefully. intentionally. maybe after damian finished having a internal breakdown about letting anyone know he had feelings at all. definitely not in a fluorescent hallway with him high on enough pain meds to take down a rhinoceros.
you clear your throat. “i’m… his—”
they all lean in a fraction. like wolves scenting vulnerability.
“—girlfriend.”
silence. not the casual kind. not the “oh okay” kind. no. this is the thick, suffocating, batfamily kind of silence, where shock ricochets between them. you want to die.
“wow,” dick finally says, voice high and bright and absolutely panicked. “so you’re—uh—wow. okay.”
tim takes a step back from you like you’re a rare cryptid. “wait, wait. damian—our damian—has a secret girlfriend and he didn’t tell anyone?”
“it wasn’t—” you rub your face. “it wasn’t my idea to keep it secret.”
every head turns toward the door behind you. the door damian is behind. three simultaneous: “of course it wasn’t.”
you sigh. “he didn’t… want the attention. or the questions. or the—” you gesture vaguely at the cluster of energy in front of you “—this.”
dick nods so hard you’re briefly concerned for him. “yeah. okay. right.”
tim crosses his arms. “he trusts none of us with his personal life. unbelievable.”
cass tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “he likes her,” she says simply.
everyone turns to her, startled by the rare verbal input. she shrugs. “i watch him.”
you’re still mortified.“i’m sorry,” you say again, because apologizing feels easier than existing in this moment.
“no, no,” dick insists. “don’t apologize. we’re just—processing.”
“poorly.” tim adds.
“yes, poorly.”
you glance at the door, then back to them. “he… didn’t mean to tell you. he’s just… really high.
tim snorts. “yeah, we noticed.”
but then—dick softens. visibly. his whole posture loosens. “we’re… glad you’re here. really.”
cass nods once. tim looks like he wants to be annoyed, but deep down, he’s already building a spreadsheet called damian’s girlfriend: things to investigate. you inhale, steadying yourself. this is fine. you’re here. damian’s safe. they’re… intimidating, but also weirdly welcoming in a way. dick takes a half-step toward the door. “he’s probably freaking out that you’re gone.”
you grimace. “…yeah. he’s not subtle right now.”
tim snorts. “understatement of the century.”
you all slip back into the room—well, you walk in, and the batfamily kind of fans in behind you like an unnecessarily dramatic procession—and immediately you’re met with a very specific sound: damian huffing.
he’s upright again, God knows how he managed it with stitches and sedation, blanket bunched around his waist, hair a complete disaster, eyes sharp but unfocused and dark with irritation. he looks like someone who’s been abandoned in a desert for hours, not eight minutes. the second he sees you, everything in him unclenches. the frown softens. the shoulders drop. the tension behind his eyes dissolves like sugar in tea. “finally.”
you take a slow breath. “i was gone for like ten minutes.”
“ten minutes,” he repeats, scandalized. “i could have died.”
dick, behind you, mouths jesus christ into his hands.
you step closer and damian instantly reaches for you, hands out, grabby, zero dignity, all instinct. he looks like he’s two seconds from climbing out of bed and onto you. “i told you,” he mutters, leaning toward you with the gravity of someone confessing state secrets, “i can’t sleep without you.”
your brain stalls. his siblings collectively short-circuit behind you. “you’ve… never said that.”
“i’m saying it now.” he tries to sit up even straighter, immediately winces, then stubbornly ignores the pain. “i hate it when you disappear. it’s—” he squints, trying to find the word in the fog of anesthetic swimming through him, “—unacceptable.”
“unacceptable,” tim echoes under his breath, shaking his head like this is the best day of his life.
damian hears it and snaps—not very effectively, because it’s slurred and soft and deeply non-threatening—“shut up, drake.” then he turns back to you, expression going gentle again so fast it’s whiplash. “come here,” he says, voice lower, sleepy, warm. “please.”
you move without thinking. “better,” he mumbles, leaning into your palm. Leaning. “i hate hospitals.”
“i know you do.”
“they smell like fear and bleach. drake smells like bleach too. it’s suspicious.”
tim throws both hands up. “what—why—what did i even do?!”
damian doesn’t answer, mostly because something else catches his attention. his gaze drifts back toward the IV taped to his hand like he’s just spotted an enemy combatant. “…it’s still there,” he mutters darkly.
you can practically hear dick’s soul leave his body. “damian—”
too late.
damian’s fingers curl, determined and clumsy, reaching for the line like he’s about to solve all his problems via self-sabotage “nope,” you say quickly, sliding your hand over his before he can yank. “don’t start with that.”
he blinks at you, startled. “but it’s in me.”
“yes,” you say calmly, “and it’s supposed to be. if you pull it out, it’s going to hurt, you’ll bleed everywhere, and dr. thompson will throw a fit.”
damian glowers at the IV like it personally betrayed him. “i do not consent to its presence.”
“tough,” you say softly. “leave it.”
and something miraculous happens.
he listens.
he actually stops. his fingers relax under yours, he gives one final deeply offended exhale, then slumps back against the pillow, letting you guide his hand away from the tubing entirely. dick stares at the exchange like he just watched a unicorn descend from the ceiling. “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
tim narrows his eyes. “yeah, no, I want that in writing. he listened? willingly?”
damian doesn’t even look at them. his attention is fully back on you, as if he’s forgotten anyone else exists. “you’re better at giving orders,” he mumbles, voice slurred and honest.
your eyebrows shoot up. “i didn’t give an order.”
“yes you did,” he insists, even poutier now. “and i liked it.”
tim chokes. you press a hand over damian’s, trying not to laugh. “okay. well. thank you for listening.”
“i listen to you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “you make sense.”
and then—inevitably—damian’s gaze drifts, catches something on the wall-mounted TV across from the bed, and brightens in a way that is actually alarming. “tch. finally,” he mutters. “something decent.” it’s… an anime. some shonen fight scene paused on a commercial break. “they always have commercials on. americans have no discipline.”
“do you—watch that one?”
“i watch everything,” he says, as if this is another well-known fact. “i have criteria.”
“criteria,” tim echoes. “oh this I gotta hear.”
damian lifts a finger dramatically, like he’s addressing a senate hearing. “strong character arcs. accurate sword technique. no filler episodes.” he narrows his eyes like the concept personally offended him. “most of them… disgraceful.”
and then—god help you—he turns his head toward you and says, in a tone so earnest it almost knocks you over: “if i recommended shows to you, you would watch them. properly.”
tim inhales sharply. “are you ASKING her to watch anime with you? publicly? in front of witnesses?”
damian blinks once. twice. “yes?” he says, baffled that this is even a question. “why wouldn’t i? she listens.”
dick puts a hand over his heart. “this is the most emotion he’s displayed since he was born.”
damian ignores him completely because a new thought has struck him, and he must share it immediately or die.
“and she likes animals,” he says. “this matters.”
you look around. “…does it?”
“yes.” he nods, solemn. “people who don’t like animals are not to be trusted. it is… foundational.”
“i mean—true,” you mumble, trying not to laugh.
“she,” he says, pointing at you again, “lets titi sleep on her jacket. on purpose.”
tim freezes. “wait. the demon cat? on their clothes? and—no blood?”
you shrug awkwardly. “she’s actually very sweet—”
“HA,” damian cuts in, triumphant. “i told you.” then, with no transition at all: “titi likes her more than she likes you.”
this is addressed to the entire batfamily.
gasps. outrage. betrayal. you pat damian’s arm, trying to settle him down. he looks up at you instantly—immediate, instinctive. “don’t go again,” he says, like you abandoned him for years instead of stepping outside to apologize to his siblings.
“i’m right here,” you soothe.
he exhales, satisfied. “good. if you leave, they talk. they always talk.” his voice drops to a whisper, conspiratorial. “they gossip.”
“WE DO NOT.”
damian waves a dismissive hand. “yes you do. you gossip like… hens.”
“hens??”
“LOUD hens,” damian corrects, settling further into your side. “and idiotic.”
you choke on a laugh as all three brothers erupt in overlapping offended noises. and you’re just sitting there thinking—
yeah. he is absolutely, utterly, painfully doomed when he sobers up.
