SUMMARY:When Bruce Wayne is away, Jason Todd steps in as the next responsible adult for Damian PTM meeting — and suddenly, literature class isn’t the only thing sparking between him and the teacher. A shared love of books leads to lingering glances, playful teasing, and slow-burn tension that neither of them can ignore. From stolen moments over coffee to charged encounters in the quiet of Jason’s apartment.
WORD COUNT: 5k
part two
The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of Gotham Academy’s conference room, slicing into neat gold lines across the long mahogany table. You glanced down at the attendance list for the faculty meeting — and, as always, the name Wayne, Damian sat at the top of your stack of notes.
Damian Wayne. Bright. Brilliant. Unbelievably stubborn. You’d been his literature teacher for almost a year now, and while he could quote Shakespeare from memory and debate Dostoevsky like a grad student, he still refused to use capital letters in essays. Out of principle, apparently. He was infuriating, fascinating, and far too sharp for his age.
You had to admit, though — you’d grown rather fond of him.
Tonight’s meeting was meant to be a brief discussion with parents about the new term’s curriculum and upcoming events, but according to the email you’d received that morning, Bruce Wayne would be unable to attend. Not surprising. He was impossible to get ahold of — all business, all travel, and rarely ever showing up in person.
His assistant’s message was brief: Mr. Wayne is overseas. A family representative will attend in his place.
You sighed softly. That could mean anyone. You’d met Dick Grayson once at a gala fundraiser — polite, charming, with a smile that could defuse a bomb. Alfred Pennyworth had shown up another time, the perfect gentleman. You’d half expected him tonight too.
Instead, when the clock struck 5:55, the heavy oak door creaked open.
A man stepped in — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark leather jacket that looked far too out of place amid the blazers and sweaters of Gotham’s teaching staff. His boots echoed on the marble as he crossed the room. His eyes scanned the space once, sharp and assessing, before settling on you.
“Jason Todd,” he said simply when he reached the head of the table. “Here on behalf of Bruce Wayne — Damian’s father.”
The murmurs started instantly — polite, curious, a few teachers whispering that they hadn’t known Bruce had another son.
You straightened in your chair, forcing a professional smile. “Ah, Mr. Todd. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He nodded slightly. “You can just call me Jason.”
There was something disarming about him — casual but composed, with a presence that filled the room effortlessly. You gestured to an empty seat beside you.
“Please, have a seat. We were just about to start.”
Jason sat, shrugging out of his jacket just enough to rest it against the chair. The soft thud of something inside caught your attention — rectangular, heavy. A book, maybe? You tried to refocus as the meeting began.
“So,” you began, scanning your notes, “our first item tonight is the new funding proposal for advanced literature electives…”
Jason leaned back slightly, quiet, observing more than speaking. When he did glance your way, it was with an attentive curiosity — the kind that made you hyper-aware of your own gestures. The curve of his lip when you cracked a joke. The quiet nod when you mentioned Damian’s impressive grasp of classical literature — though Jason’s smirk at that suggested he already knew his little brother’s ego didn’t need the praise.
“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath at one point, “that sounds like him.”
You smiled faintly. “Sharp, isn’t he?”
“‘Sharp’ is one word,” Jason said. “Try ‘mini dictator.’”
You stifled a laugh. “He’s… passionate.”
“Sure,” Jason replied, his mouth twitching. “That’s one way to put it.”
You tried to hide your grin behind the meeting agenda.
The conversation drifted back to test scores, curriculum changes, and field trip approvals. But your eyes flickered again to his jacket, to the small rectangular bulge pressing against the leather pocket. You knew that outline anywhere. You were a literature teacher, after all.
Finally, during a lull, your curiosity won.
“Sorry,” you said quietly, leaning closer so only he could hear, “but is that… a book in your jacket?”
Jason blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he admitted after a beat. “Couldn’t leave it at home.” He pulled it halfway out — a black-and-white paperback, edges worn.
You recognized it instantly. “Wait. Is that Lapvona?”
He raised a brow. “You know it?”
You couldn’t help laughing. “I’m reading it right now.”
Jason’s eyes lit up, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. “No kidding.”
“No kidding,” you said, and pulled your own copy from your tote bag like proof of fate.
A few teachers looked over, mildly amused at your exchange, but neither of you cared.
“What page?” you asked.
Jason flipped his open. “Uh… one seventy-three.”
Your laugh came out bright and genuine. You turned your copy around. “One seventy-three.”
He chuckled lowly, leaning back in his chair. “So we’re literally on the same page, huh?”
“Seems like it,” you said, unable to hide your smile.
The moment lingered — quiet, oddly charged. Then the conversation resumed, and you had to force yourself to look away from him.
By the time the meeting ended, the sun had dipped low, painting Gotham’s skyline in shades of burnt gold. Teachers began filing out, gathering their bags, while you stayed behind to pack your folders. Jason lingered too.
“Thanks for running that,” he said finally. “Didn’t think I’d survive an hour of school bureaucracy.”
“You did fine,” you teased. “Better than most parents.”
He snorted softly. “I’m not a parent.”
“No, but you definitely have the exasperation of one.”
That earned a laugh from him — a real one. “You know Damian, then.”
“I do,” you said with a knowing smile. “He’s brilliant, but he likes to test limits.”
Jason smirked. “That’s putting it lightly.”
“Still,” you said, slipping your folders into your bag, “he’s got potential. You can tell he wants to prove himself.”
Jason’s expression softened. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You noticed his gaze drift to the copy of Lapvona again. You tilted your head. “You really picked that one up just for fun?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sort of. Saw someone online talking about it — thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Someone online?” you echoed, curious.
He hesitated — just long enough for the silence to feel heavy. Then, quietly: “You’ve got a book blog, don’t you?”
You blinked. “Wait — you read my blog?”
He gave a small, guilty grin. “Yeah. Been following for a while, actually. You’ve got good taste.”
You stared at him, surprised. “I didn’t think anyone from the Wayne family even read my stuff.”
Jason shrugged. “Guess I’m the odd one out.”
You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought Damian was the prodigy.”
“He gets that from someone,” Jason said, grinning.
The last teacher exited the room, leaving the two of you alone. The faint hum of the city drifted through the tall windows.
“So,” you said lightly, “you take all my recommendations, then?”
“Most of them,” he said. “Not sure I’ll ever recover from that Russian lit streak you went on last winter, though.”
You laughed — and he looked at you like he was memorizing the sound.
“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” you said. “Maybe I’ll post something lighter.”
“Lighter?” he asked, smirking. “What’s that mean for you?”
“Murder mystery, probably.”
He chuckled. “I like your definition of light.”
You raised a brow. “You really shouldn’t say things like that to a teacher, Mr. Todd.”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Good thing class is over, then.”
Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
He straightened again, slipping Lapvona back into his jacket. “Anyway, I should go. Gotta make sure the kid’s not painting the manor walls with oil pastels or something.”
You smiled. “Tell Damian to finish his poetry assignment first.”
Jason groaned. “He’s got one of those?”
“He does. And if he claims he’s too advanced for it, tell him I said even Tolstoy had to do his homework.”
Jason laughed under his breath. “I’ll pass that along.”
He started toward the door, then paused. “Hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “you still posting your thoughts Sunday nights?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Usually.”
“Good to know,” he said, smirking. “But I might prefer hearing them in person.”
Before you could respond, he was already halfway down the hall, boots echoing softly on the marble.
You stood there for a moment, heart still racing, staring at the door he’d just walked through. You looked down at your copy of Lapvona, tracing your thumb over the spine. Same page. Same book. Same strange coincidence.
Later that night, when you opened your laptop to draft your next post, a new comment popped up beneath your latest review.
JasonT_92: still on page 173. thinking the shepherd might be worse than the priest. thoughts?
You smiled, typing back before you could second-guess it.
LitTeacher: definitely worse. but you’ll have to keep reading to find out why.
A minute later, the reply blinked into existence.
JasonT_92: guess i’ll see you on the next page.
You leaned back, grinning at the screen.
Across the city, Jason Todd tucked his own copy of Lapvona into his jacket before climbing onto his motorcycle, the engine growling to life. The city lights glimmered in his visor as he rode into the dark, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.
For once, Gotham felt a little less heavy — and maybe, just maybe, a little more like a story worth turning the page on.
The next week blurred by in the usual Gotham rhythm — lesson plans, grading, coffee, more grading. You hadn’t heard from Jason Todd again, not directly anyway, but you caught yourself checking the comments section of your book blog every night before bed.
He hadn’t replied since that last message: guess i’ll see you on the next page.
And yet, you’d reread it more times than you’d ever admit.
On Friday afternoon, the Academy’s annual “Literature and Arts Showcase” filled the hallways — a chaotic blend of students rehearsing poetry, painting backdrops, and juggling nervous energy. Damian Wayne, as expected, was in the middle of it all, directing two students twice his age with the authority of a small general.
You smiled faintly from across the hall, clipboard in hand. “Damian, maybe let them breathe,” you called.
“They are ruining the pacing,” he argued. “Art demands discipline, Miss.”
You bit back a laugh. “Maybe art also needs a break once in a while.”
He huffed but obeyed, stalking toward the refreshment table. As he passed, he mumbled, “My father will be attending this evening.”
“Oh,” you said, arching a brow. “Really?”
He gave a faint shrug — and, if you weren’t mistaken, a ghost of a smirk. “He’s sending someone in his place.”
You blinked. “Someone?”
But Damian had already walked off.
By the time the showcase began that evening, the auditorium filled with parents and faculty. You stood near the stage, making sure the microphone worked, when the back doors opened.
Leather jacket.
Jason Todd.
He looked slightly out of place in a room full of blazers and pearls — and completely unbothered by it. His hair was a little mussed, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he scanned the crowd until his eyes found yours.
You didn’t expect your pulse to spike like that.
He smiled — small, knowing, enough to make your chest tighten.
“Evening, teach,” he said when he reached you.
You folded your arms, trying to look composed. “Back representing the Wayne dynasty again?”
“Someone’s gotta do it,” he replied. “Bruce is out of the country, Dick’s in Blüdhaven, and Damian made it sound like this showcase was life or death.”
“That sounds about right,” you said, smiling. “He’s been… intense.”
“Intense is our family brand,” Jason said, half-joking.
You caught a glimmer in his eyes then — warmth under the humor, maybe even pride. It was strange, seeing that from someone who carried himself like he lived behind walls.
When Damian stepped up to perform his reading — a dramatic monologue adapted from Macbeth — you and Jason both turned to watch. Damian’s diction was sharp, his posture precise, and he commanded the stage like he owned it.
“He’s good,” Jason murmured.
“Very,” you said quietly. “He’s got your family’s presence.”
Jason chuckled softly. “You mean arrogance?”
You smiled, but didn’t deny it. “Confidence,” you corrected.
The performance ended with polite applause. Damian gave a single, imperious nod to the audience before leaving the stage.
Jason leaned closer. “He’s gonna be unbearable after this.”
You laughed, glancing up at him. “Oh, definitely.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you shifted — warmer, denser somehow. You were suddenly aware of how close he stood, of the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket.
Jason noticed it too. His gaze lingered on you, his smirk fading into something quieter.
“You really got through to him, you know,” he said after a moment. “He actually likes your class.”
You tilted your head. “That’s not what he tells me.”
“Yeah, well. Kid’s allergic to admitting things.”
“That sounds familiar,” you teased.
Jason’s lips twitched. “You saying I’ve got a lot in common with him?”
“Maybe just the stubborn part.”
He let out a soft laugh, but his eyes never left yours.
The principal called you to help with the next segment, breaking the spell. You nodded to Jason — maybe too quickly — and stepped away, focusing on anything but the heat in your chest.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of student recitations and applause. When it finally ended and the crowd began to thin, you stayed behind to tidy the stage. Jason lingered again, leaning against the edge of a table, watching you.
“You always stay this late?” he asked.
“Part of the job,” you said, gathering papers. “Besides, someone has to make sure the podium doesn’t collapse before Monday.”
He pushed off the table and walked closer. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
You looked up, startled to find him right there — close enough that you could see the faint scar at the corner of his jaw, the one he usually kept in shadow.
“I don’t mind,” you said quietly.
“I know,” he murmured.
Something in his tone made you stop moving. The auditorium was nearly empty now, the echo of footsteps fading in the hall. The air hung still between you.
Jason’s gaze dropped briefly to the stack of books you were holding — your students’ reading copies. Lapvona sat on top, its spine slightly bent.
“You finished it yet?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Not yet. Almost.”
“Me too,” he said. “Been waiting to read the ending.”
“Waiting for what?”
Jason hesitated, then smiled faintly. “For you to catch up.”
You felt your pulse skip. “So you could talk about it?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Something like that.”
The silence stretched again — not uncomfortable, but charged.
You shifted the books in your arms, trying to break the spell. “Well, if you want my thoughts, you’ll just have to check the blog.”
“I already do,” he said softly.
You looked up. His voice had dropped, low and smooth, the kind that settled into your spine. He didn’t look away.
For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole world had gone still — just the two of you, standing too close under the soft auditorium lights, both aware that something was changing.
Then Damian’s voice echoed faintly from the hall: “Todd, we are leaving!”
Jason huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to let the air move again. “Duty calls.”
You smiled, though part of you didn’t want him to go. “You better not let him drive.”
Jason grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He took a step backward, still watching you. “See you online, teach.”
“See you, Jason.”
He turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.
You stood there, books in hand, heart still drumming, the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air.
Later that night, when you opened your blog, a new comment appeared beneath your latest post.
JasonT_92: finally finished. can’t believe the ending. you free to discuss in person?
You stared at the screen for a long moment before typing your reply.
LitTeacher: depends. are you bringing spoilers or coffee?
His answer came almost immediately.
JasonT_92: both.
You smiled, leaning back in your chair. Outside, the Gotham skyline shimmered under the city lights. Somewhere out there, Jason Todd was probably grinning at his own screen, thinking the same thing you were.
That this — whatever it was — wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Because sometimes, being on the same page was only the beginning.
The café was quieter than you expected for a Saturday evening — low jazz humming from the speakers, the smell of espresso and rain hanging in the air. You sat near the window, a copy of Lapvona resting on the table beside your half-empty cup, watching the city shimmer under the wet Gotham light.
He was late.
Not that you minded.
Not really.
You’d told yourself you were calm, that this was just two people meeting to talk about a book. But the minute you saw him push through the door — leather jacket, damp hair, eyes scanning until they landed on you — your calm evaporated.
Jason smiled when he saw you, that small crooked grin that did dangerous things to your pulse.
“You beat me here,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you. “Guess I owe you a coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You already said you’d bring one.”
He lifted a paper cup from the counter and slid it toward you. “See? I keep my promises.”
You took it, hiding a smile. “So, we’re really doing this. A book club for two.”
Jason leaned back, stretching one arm over the back of the chair. “Hey, I take literature very seriously.”
“You’ve got a reputation to uphold, Mr. Pocket Book,” you teased.
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “You still remember that?”
“How could I forget?” you said. “Not every day I see a guy with Lapvona stuffed in his jacket.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “But it worked, didn’t it? Got your attention.”
You felt your cheeks warm. “Maybe a little.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s all I needed.”
You pretended to focus on your cup, trying to steady the sudden flutter in your chest. “So,” you said, clearing your throat, “what did you think of the ending?”
Jason’s expression shifted, thoughtful. “Dark. But honest. Kind of reminds me of Gotham — no one gets a clean escape, but there’s beauty in the chaos.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “You read deeper than I expected.”
He smirked faintly. “You thought I was just a guy in a leather jacket?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But I’ll admit… you surprised me too. Not many people catch my attention the way you did.”
The air changed between you — subtle but undeniable. The playful rhythm of the conversation slowed, replaced by something heavier, quieter. You could feel the heat from where his fingers brushed the table, inches from yours.
Outside, thunder rolled softly over the city. The café lights flickered once, and for a heartbeat, everything felt suspended — you, him, the space between.
“You always this charming with teachers?” you asked, your voice lower now.
“Only the ones who make me want to read books I’d never pick up on my own,” he said.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You really take my recommendations?”
“Every single one,” he admitted. “Started following that blog months ago. Didn’t even know it was you until the meeting with Damian.”
That made your breath catch. “So when you said we were on the same page…”
He smiled slowly. “I wasn’t lying.”
For a long second, neither of you moved. You could hear the faint tap of rain against the window, the hum of the lights, the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
Then Jason reached across the table, his hand brushing over yours. His touch was careful — testing, deliberate. You didn’t pull away.
“I’ve been wanting to see you again,” he said quietly. “Not just for the books.”
Your voice barely came out. “I know.”
He smiled at that — small, real — and then he stood, walking around to your side of the table.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the window. “It’s clearing up.”
The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, the streets glistening with reflected light. You followed him outside, the cool air sharp against your skin.
He walked beside you in silence for a while, hands tucked into his jacket, the world narrowing to the sound of your footsteps and the glow of street lamps. At the corner, you both stopped under a canopy.
Jason looked down at you, eyes shadowed but warm. “You ever notice how quiet the city gets after it rains?”
You nodded. “It’s like Gotham exhales.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it’s holding its breath the rest of the time.”
You met his gaze then — steady, searching — and for once, neither of you looked away.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every chance to pull back.
You didn’t.
When his hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, your pulse tripped. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your jaw, and then his thumb brushed your cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
You shook your head, barely breathing. “Don’t.”
The space between you vanished. His lips met yours — soft at first, almost hesitant, but it deepened quickly, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t. You felt the tension of every near-moment before this one pour into it, something sharp and sweet all at once.
When he finally drew back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, both of you caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
Jason’s voice was a whisper against your skin. “Guess we really are on the same page.”
You smiled, eyes half-open, your hand still resting against his chest. “Careful, Jason. You might make me think you read for the plot.”
He laughed softly — the sound low and real — and brushed another quick kiss against your temple.
“Only when the story’s worth it,” he said.
The rain started again — light, gentle — as the two of you stood there under the awning, the city stretching endlessly around you. Somewhere in the distance, Gotham rumbled, restless as always, but for once, you didn’t care.
You had your story — and this time, you weren’t reading it alone.
It started with a simple offer.
“Let me give you a ride,” Jason said as the rain thickened again, voice steady but eyes warm.
You hesitated for a heartbeat — maybe out of habit, maybe out of caution — but something in his tone, that quiet care he didn’t try to hide, made you nod.
The drive through Gotham was mostly silent. The streets gleamed slick and silver under the streetlights, and the city moved around you like a restless dream. Jason’s hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other tapping in rhythm to the muffled hum of the radio.
When he stopped in front of your apartment building, you realized you weren’t ready for the night to end.
He must’ve noticed, because he glanced at you, half a smile tugging at his mouth.
“You look like you’ve still got a few words left in you,” he said.
“Maybe,” you admitted. “You?”
“Always,” he said, and then, quieter: “Come up for a bit. I’ll make coffee. No strings.”
You hesitated again — not out of fear, but because you knew this was the edge of something new. Still, when you met his eyes, there was only patience there, and warmth.
“Okay,” you said softly.
His apartment was exactly what you expected — lived-in, dimly lit, the faint smell of leather and coffee lingering in the air. Books lined the shelves in mismatched stacks; you caught sight of Lapvona on his table, half open and marked with a torn napkin.
“You dog-eared a napkin,” you said, amused.
He shrugged, pulling off his jacket. “Couldn’t find a bookmark.”
You smiled. “That’s criminal.”
“Guilty,” he said. “Want a drink?”
You shook your head. “I’m fine.”
He nodded, stepping closer. “Then sit. You don’t have to stand like you’re grading me.”
You laughed softly, letting him guide you toward the couch. The air between you was warm — not stifling, but alive. You could feel it in the way his fingers brushed yours as he handed you a mug, in the way his knee rested close to yours when he sat down.
“I still can’t believe you read all my recommendations,” you said, looking into your coffee.
“I told you,” he said. “You’ve got good taste.”
“You barely knew me.”
“Didn’t need to,” he said, voice low now. “Sometimes you just know when something’s worth your time.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it pulsed, steady and full. Jason’s gaze lingered on you, soft but intent, and you could feel the pull between you like a current.
You tried to say something — anything — but your words tangled in your throat. When you finally looked up, he was already leaning in.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. It was a slow, inevitable gravity — a quiet pull that neither of you tried to fight.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tracing the edge of your jaw. You felt his breath before you felt his lips — warm, hesitant, asking rather than taking.
You nodded once, barely, and that was all it took.
The kiss was soft at first, careful, almost questioning — then it deepened, as if both of you had been waiting too long to find out what this would feel like. His hand slid to the back of your neck, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The world outside could have vanished and you wouldn’t have noticed.
When you finally pulled apart, the space between you was barely there — his forehead against yours, both of you trying to steady your breath.
Jason smiled, his voice quiet and rough around the edges.
“So… this is the part where I say I’m glad we’re on the same page again.”
You laughed softly, fingers still caught in his collar. “You’ve used that line before.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it’s still true.”
The rain outside started again, tapping against the windows in slow rhythm. You leaned back slightly, and Jason’s hand stayed in yours — not possessive, not uncertain, just there.
Neither of you said another word. You didn’t have to. The night had already filled in the rest.
As you leaned back, Jason’s gaze darkened, his breath catching slightly. The tension in the air thickened, charged with unspoken desire. His thumb brushed along your jaw, tracing the line of your face, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asked, his voice low and husky, as if he were trying to contain the heat between you.
You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Please.”
The moment his lips connected with yours again, it was a different kind of kiss—more urgent, more desperate. His hand cradled the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss as if he wanted to memorize every curve of your mouth. You responded eagerly, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer.
Jason’s other hand explored your waist, his fingers pressing into your side, igniting fire wherever he touched. You felt your heart race, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. As he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, you could feel the heat radiating off him, surrounding you like a warm, inviting cocoon.
“God, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to gaze into your eyes. His breath was warm, mingling with yours, and you could see the desire flickering in his dark gaze.
You smiled softly, emboldened by his words. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “You have no idea what kind of trouble you’re getting into, do you?”
“I think I might like a little trouble,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.
With a swift motion, Jason stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You laughed in surprise, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carried you to the couch, setting you down gently but with a deliberate intention. He settled beside you, the space between your bodies shrinking as he leaned closer.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and serious, searching your face for confirmation.
“More than okay,” you replied, your heart racing as you leaned in, capturing his lips again.
This time, the kiss ignited a wildfire, both of you losing yourselves in the moment. Jason’s hands roamed your body, sliding under your shirt, his fingertips brushing against your skin, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body. You gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch, craving more.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes trailing over your face, lips swollen and flushed. “You’re stunning,” he murmured, eyes dark with desire.
“Show me,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips before you could think them through.
Jason’s expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and excitement crossing his features. He leaned down, capturing your lips again, but this time, he trailed kisses down your neck, his mouth leaving a blazing path of fire across your skin. You moaned softly, tilting your head back, giving him more access, urging him to continue.
His hands explored your sides, fingers dancing along the hem of your shirt. With a teasing smile, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Are you sure?”
“More than sure,” you replied, voice thick with need.
With that, Jason wasted no time, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and lifting it over your head, exposing your skin to him. His eyes darkened, hungry with desire, and he pressed soft kisses against your collarbone, trailing lower down your chest.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of confidence as his lips continued their exploration. As he worshipped your body with soft kisses and gentle touches, you felt like you were melting into the couch, every kiss igniting a deeper need.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, pulling back to look into your eyes, his own smoldering with intensity.
You took a deep breath, feeling bold. “I want you, Jason. All of you.”
With a wicked grin, he captured your lips again, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as the world outside faded into nothingness.
ak!jason with puppy!reader in subspace ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა
“takin’ me so well sweetheart,” jason grunted as his balls slapped against your ass as he had you pinned down in a mating press. sex with jason was always passionate, full of emotions whilst he took charge destroying your cunt in every single way. he was so damn big the stretch would slightly burn, but seeing the way he praised you, calling you his sweet girl motivated you even more. jason was never one to be gentle during sex, it was always rough. his hand would go up to your throat, gently squeezing it, whilst he would whisper the filthiest things in your ear. occasionally, if you whined to squirmed too much, he would spank you, your cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink or even red.
“s-so good jacey,” you whined, your eyes shutting tightly as you bit your lip. jason always took charge, there was just something about seeing you all submissive and wide eyed that drove him insane. the way you were so damn obedient to please him and how you bent yourself in every single damn position he wanted was addicting to say the least. you were his own personal toy, his sweet girl.
“always so good for me,” he groaned as your tight walls gripped around him, “always so tight for me hm? guess your pussy knows where home is.” he wasted no time to increase his pace, the lewd sound of skin slapping against each other filled the room.
jason being the generous man he is, always allowed you to come multiple times, until you were starry eyed with a small pathetic smile, whilst thanking him sweetly.
“gonna cum jay,” you whined as your perfectly manicured pink nails clawed his back. “yeah? you’re gonna come for me sweetheart?” jason cooed.
in a matter of seconds your walls tightened, almost milking him when you came. you were always so gorgeous when you came, the post orgasm glow on your face, and the dazed hazy expression in your glassy eyes.
you mumbled incoherently before turning rolling into the blankets pulling the material over you. “don’t sleep yet sweetheart, i need to clean you up,” jason whispered softly as he tried to pull your blankets down from your body, but you resisted stubbornly.
“t-tired,” you said with your softest voice as you tightly shut your eyes, refusing to let the blanket go. “cuddle jay?” you pouted as you clung onto your favourite teddy bear he bought for you.
“i know sweetheart, but i need to clean you up ok? just let me wipe you with the towel.”
“n-no, don’t leave me,” you whined, immediately grabbing his hand to restrain him.
“i’ll be right back sweetheart.”
jason would be lying to say that his heart didn’t break when he turned back in the bathroom, seeing you all soft and vulnerable in bed cuddling your teddy with the saddest expression on your face was adorable and heartbreaking. you were like a puppy who just got kicked.
as jason wiped down you down he couldn’t help but to noticed your dazed expression, your eyes staring into nothing whilst your mouth was opened in a small ‘o’ shape.
“you there sweetheart?”
you nodded, barely. it was like he fucked you so hard you were gone.
“speak to me sweetheart,” his hand gripped your chin softly, forcing you to look at him.
“m just tired,” your voice barely audible as you avoided eye contact, as your hands fidgeted with your teddy bear.
after wiping you down, jason placed your favourite blanket over you, wrapping you up in a burrito. “cuddles j-jacey you promised.”
jason let out a low chuckle before wrapping you tight on his arms. “play my show,” you mumbled, your fists clenched around your favourite blanket like it was going away. jason knew you were going to be like this for a while, and he didn’t mind, he loved taking care of you.
there was just something about cuddling up with you, watching your favourite cartoon show whilst you held your stuffy tightly. these times were also so intimate, he would go and brush your hair, fixing the mess he created during sex, untangling the knots whilst he brushes your hair until it was fully smooth.
his hand would gently pet your head in an attempt to coax you out, whilst giving the constant reassurance that he wasn’t going to disappear into thin air.
a/n: annnd I'm back folks! Sorry for the long wait I...have no excuse really. I was just being lazy. Sorry! Also, sorry if my attempt at a Cajun accent are pretty bad. I was channeling by inner Remy Lebaue for those parts. If you think they suck, my apologies! It'll only be for now! Please enjoy Alfred's POV
Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC
For what it was worth, Alfred liked to think he was rather proud of Miss Celestine.
She had come rather far from her turbulent arrival at Wayne Manor.
Her arrival had come at a tumultuous time, months after Master Jason’s murder passing and while Master Tim was still settling into the manor, with the weight of his parents’ deaths weighing heavily on his shoulders. And while the grass had yet to regrow over the unsettled graves of Janet and Jack Drake, an eerily similar death knell would ring out for another child, one whose life would forever entwine with the Wayne family.
Manon Doucet was a fleeting fancy in the fast-paced life of Master Wayne, akin to a comet—bright and burning, yet fated to vanish, leaving only a streak of luminosity to scar the darkness. An obscure but beloved artist from the outreaches of rural Louisiana, the affair she had with Master Wayne had been brief yet passionate, from what he could recall. Although never significant enough to endure, nor to find any place in the legacy of Bruce Wayne.
Her death, however, would carve a wound that no amount of time could erase. Furthermore, it would set in place a series of events that only ended in tragedy.
The autopsy reported that she died at the scene of a head-on collision caused by an intoxicated driver. She was survived by her only child, Celestine Doucet.
And the nine year-old wisp of a child had barely graced the threshold of Wayne Manor before he knew their time together would be far from painless.
It had been late into the night when the dilapidated truck had arrived along the gravel path of Wayne Manor. Rain misted through the high beams like smoke, and the vehicle’s uneven rumble echoed off the stone walls like something feral and unwelcome.
From the driver’s side of the truck emerged a lean and wiry figure, with sun-leathered skin and inky, coiled hair. Alfred observed the man take the girl in the passenger side into his arms, from his position under the portico.
Raymond “Ray” Broussard had been in a relationship with Manon since Celestine’s birth, though never made her official guardian in that time. However, as Alfred watched him tenderly brush back the now damp tresses from her fever-flushed face, he couldn’t help but think that one would not make a twenty-hour drive if they were anything less than a true father. Nevertheless, he made his way down the steps to greet the man.
“Mr.Broussard, I presume?”
"Yessuh, Ah’m Ray Broussard.” He said, not rudely but not very warmly either. “Dis li’l gal right here—das Celestine."
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the duffel bag that dwarfed her small frame, nor the oil-stained patchwork overalls, nor the threadbare shirt hanging from her shoulders. It was her bare feet, red clay caked thickly across the soles.
If she heard her name being said, Miss Celestine didn’t react much to it. Instead she chose to look over the man’s shoulder at the still running truck.
“An’ you da one dey call Mistuh Pennyworth, yeah?” The man spoke mournfully, with a somber tone and haggard, hound looking eyes. “Where Mistuh Wayne gone to?
“Master Wayne…had a sudden emergency arise.” Alfred didn’t necessarily lie to the man.
Ray shifted the bundle that was Miss Celestine in his arms, uncertainly, like he was mulling over what to say next. Licking his chapped lips, he timidly asked:
"Mo’ 'portant than now?"
The silence stretched out between them as the question lingered in the air.
Alfred's gaze flicked toward the little girl, who still refused to look at him.
“I daresay,” he finally said, voice measured, “that nothing ought to be more important than now. And yet, here we are.”
Ray didn’t reply, only gave a long, quiet sigh through his nose, heavy as the wet air. His arms lingered around the child a moment longer before he slowly knelt to set her down. Her toes curled instinctively against the cold gravel, one foot sliding behind the other.
“She’s been runnin’ fever goin’ on three days now,” Ray murmured, eyes not leaving her. “I got her what medicine I could, but we ain’t had no power since the storm rolled through. She don’t eat much, neither.”
“She been like this since the accident?” Alfred asked.
Ray nodded once. “Ain’t cried once,” he said, voice brittle.
The wind shifted, tugging at Alfred’s coat, and with it came the faintest whiff of bayou rot—mud, mildew, and something metallic.
He gestured toward the manor doors. “Let’s get her inside, shall we?”
Ray hesitated, as if crossing that threshold meant something permanent. Then, gathering the duffel bag, he said softly, more to the child than to Alfred:
“G’on, ma p’tite. Dis where you go now.”
Miss Celestine didn’t move. Not at first.
“Dis ain’t it, a’right? Ah’ll see ya ‘gain soon”
Ray gently brushed her a stray eyelash, nearly translucent in the rain, from her cheek. Still, Miss Celestine didn’t reply.
“Don’ forget yer mama, cher. But if ya gotta…forget ‘bout me real quick, ya hear?"
Alfred stepped forward and offered her his hand, not insisting. She looked up at him for the first time—eyes pale, glassy, and ringed with shadows far too old for nine. She didn’t take his hand, but she did follow when he turned back toward the manor.
Ray watched them go. He did not follow.
The doors groaned shut behind them, muting the hush of rain. The silence inside the manor was far heavier, nearing judgmental. Miss Celestine stood just past the threshold, her arms locked stiffly at her sides, chest rising and falling in an irregular cadence Alfred noted how she wouldn’t look at the grand staircase nor the high windows. Her eyes stayed low, on the floor, where muddy water began to pool around her feet.
He retrieved a towel from a nearby closet.
“You’ll catch your death standing in those wet clothes, Miss Celestine” he said, gently.
She didn’t move. Nor blink.
Alfred knelt slowly, not so much to meet her eyes as to avoid towering over her. He offered the towel without a word this time, waiting.
When she finally reached for it, it wasn’t to take it from him. She snatched it–yanked it, really– as if it were being wrestled from his grasp. He allowed it.
“I’ll have some dry clothes sent up to your room,” he offered. “A bath has been drawn.”
Still she said nothing. She scrubbed her face harshly, then wrapped the towel around her thin shoulders like a shield.
“Miss Celestine—”
“I ain’t Miss Celestine,” she said flatly. Her voice was husky, raw from fever. “Ain’t nobody call me that but old ladies in church.”
There was venom in the correction, but Alfred let it pass without remark.
He stood, smoothing his coat. “Very well,” he said, with cool civility. “What would you prefer I call you?”
The girl paused before she shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling beneath the towel. “Don’t matter none. I ain’t stayin’ long, anyways.”
Alfred paused at first, but his eventual reply held an edge of a dare in it.
“I’m afraid that decision isn’t yours to make.”
And for the first time, Miss Celestine looked him in the eyes, with her pearly-blue irises, seeming to rise to the challenge as she let the towel fall in a limp pile at her feet.
Subsequently, Miss Celestine made sure to let her displeasure be known in the days, weeks, and months that would follow.
The child had been a startlingly beautiful girl, even when she was younger. Possessing a doll-like visage, with porcelain skin and eyes of opaline that seemed too perfect for reality, Manon’s beauty was more than apparent in the willowy slip of a girl.
And yet, that beauty hid an abhorrent attitude and crass nature.
It had been somewhat easy, at first. Miss Celestine had a rather egregious fever and could scarcely keep any food down. She would refuse to eat at the dinner table, choosing to remain in her dusty bed in a remote guestroom of a far-flung wing of Wayne Manor. That first week passed in a rhythm: Alfred would check on her periodically, deliver her meals every few hours, and receive, at best, silence in reply to inquiries about her health. At worst, she would mutter something sharp in French-Cajun, the tone leaving little room for misinterpretation. More often than not, the meal, no matter how light, left her ill, and Alfred would have to change the sheets and draw another bath. Tedious as it was, those early days were among the easier ones with Miss Celestine.
When the fever subsided to a degree, things grew more difficult with the young girl. The illness had settled a dubious compliance within the willful Miss Celestine, so when the feeble hand of the ailment had lost its grip, a restless, prowling energy seemed to surge forward, despite how ill-suited to her frail frame it was. She began to wander the halls, without permission, which was rather precarious for the coming and goings of Master Wayne and Master Tim. Attributed by him to a rare stroke of luck in the time of misfortune, Miss Celestine had never caught either of the two in compromising positions. Nevertheless, though Alfred had firmly dissuaded the young girl from any aimless wandering, she remained rather stubborn in meandering about. When he caught her outside her room at night, it made for an eerie sight to behold. The dim lighting that hit her, whether it be from the moon or a stray light, made her glow in an unnerving way that would have startled a lesser man.
She would eat in fits and starts, sometimes outright refusing to eat what she was brought by Alfred, only to scavenge through the pantries like a wild animal whenever she pleased. It didn’t seem to matter what he served her, as nothing seemed adequate to Miss Celestine. Even when she did grow hungry enough, she’d only eat whatever she found in the kitchen rather than any proper meals. During that time, Miss Celestine noticeably lost weight, from what he could discern through the ill-fitted clothing she had brought with her, as Master Wayne had yet to properly purchase a wardrobe for the young girl.
Over time, Miss Celetsine grew bolder yet also remained distant and cold. Wandering the halls had lost its allure to her, it seemed, as she then chose to languish within the Wayne Manor’s garden. Though scarcely out during sunny days, Alfred had found her more than once in the shadows of the perfectly manicured shrubbery and topiary of the garden. When he’d approach, he’d see the sight of her, kneeling in mulch and soil and furiously clawing at the earth until he’d stop her. Grabbing her the wrist and asking what exactly she thought she was doing, Miss Celestine, if she’d grace him with any words, would say,
“It’s so ugly out here. And where da hell all de bugs at?”
“Miss Celestine,” Alfred would reply with little patience, “You will not speak to me like that, nor will you ruin the gardener's hard work.”
She'd huff and sulk off, leaving muddy stains in her wake and a perturbed and slighted man behind her. She wouldn’t change, either, leaving muddy trails to be cleaned up as well.
Alfred had dealt with obstinate wards before, and yet his nerves felt more than frayed after every interaction with the girl. Her speech, whenever she actually chose to speak, was as sharp and unvarnished as a broken bottle. A slurring drawl of profanity and outright defiance had sorely tested his patience as the days came and went.
It came to a head one day.
The morning had been gray and stifling, the sort of heavy air that clung to the skin and made tempers short. Alfred had already endured a skirmish over breakfast, Miss Celestine had pushed her porridge away with a look of disgust, muttering something in French-Cajun that he caught only in fragments, none of it flattering. He’d let it pass, but the slight lodged in his mind.
The day had tested them all, as Master Wayne and Master Tim had buried themselves in various cases that left them worse for wear physically and mentally, so much so that Master Dick had to intervene to the unhealthy behavior of the two. Unfortunately, that had been right before the three were ambushed in a deal gone wrong. Now, it was his responsibility to patch the wounded soldiers back up to fight another day. As it always was.
Sometimes, Alfred would think back on those days of turbulence and wonder if it would have been easier with Master Wayne consoling his only daughter in her state of grief. But it would only be a passing thought.
It was the faint sound of running water that finally drew him toward the east wing. The bathroom door at the far end of the corridor stood ajar, steam curling out into the hall. Inside, Miss Celestine sat cross-legged on the marble floor, still in her night shirt a large porcelain bowl before her filled with dirt from God-knew-where. She was stirring it with the handle of a silver hairbrush, her movements slow and deliberate, like a ritual.
“What,” Alfred began, his voice clipped but even, “do you think you are doing?”
She didn’t look up. “Fixin’ it.”
“Fixing what, exactly?”
She finally glanced at him then, those pale irises glinting faintly in the lamplight. “The garden,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Ain’t right out there. No worms, no roly-polies, no nothin’. Dead dirt.”
Alfred stepped into the room, the click of his shoes sharp against the tile. “You’ve tracked soil through three rooms and stolen a piece from the sterling set to… ‘fix’ the garden?”
She shrugged, still stirring. “Ain’t stealin’ if it ain’t bein’ used.”
He took the bowl from her before she could react, his patience finally thinning past civility. “It is theft, Miss Celestine, and I will not have you behaving like a feral creature under this roof.”
Something sharp snapped behind her eyes, like Alfred had finally gotten through to her, but she instead exclaimed back, “I ain’t no thief! Don’ call me that!”
“What am I supposed to call someone who takes what isn’t their’s?”
Her dainty fingers curled into ugly fists, still blackened with soil.
“I ain’t stealing. Ah’m fixing it. Nobody else is–” Her accent was slurring out even more thickly, grating on his already fried nerves.
“Celestine”
Alfred cut her off, past the point of civility.
“I will not hear any excuses for your unacceptable behavior. Nothing warrants acting like a wild animal.”
Celestine glared back, her cheeks growing an ugly shade of red, and she shouted.
“Least animals don’t talk so much!”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed, the weight of years and disappointments settling into his voice like a blade.
“You might have been your mother’s daughter,” he said slowly, deliberately, “but you are now a Wayne. Act like it.”
The words struck her like a blow. Her shoulders stiffened, and for the first time since her arrival, something like doubt flickered behind her pale, glassy eyes. She swallowed hard, but no tears came. Only a cold, brittle silence, as he turned and left with the medkit in hand.
That night, passed in eerie silence. As did the following nights.
Miss Celestine slowly but surely sunk into the gloom of Wayne Manor. It was a few days after the incident that she, Master Wayne, and Master Tim had their first meal together. When questioned about her absence for the past month, the Miss Celestine replied politely:
“Ah was…I was sick. I’m sorry.”
The first meal shared between the three was a quiet thing: tense, tentative, and measured in a way that spoke of fragile beginnings rather than true reconciliation. Alfred watched as Celestine sat opposite Master Wayne and Master Tim, the flicker of a tentative submission in her pale, haunted eyes. She ate with a careful politeness, eyes cast downward most of the time, but when she glanced up, there was a sort of timidity behind her eyes. Like an animal that had felt pain for the first time.
The days of fits and childish tantrums seemed to dissolve like a fading nightmare. Miss Celestine grew quiet and still, her face settling into a carefully painted mask of calm.
Even as Master Wayne handed her over to Gotham’s elite, parading her as the new media darling.
Even as Master Dick hailed her as a “miracle” and a “wonder,” overlooking the exhaustion beneath her composure.
Even as Master Tim dismissed her presence, treating her like a lifeless plaything.
Even as the failures and shadows of the past crept back, haunting the edges of their fragile peace.
Slowly, inexorably, Alfred watched Miss Celestine Doucet become Miss Celestine Wayne.
And, despite it all, he couldn’t help but sigh with a quiet relief.
a/n: I'm trying to portray Alfred as more human than a saint. Did it work? Sorry for the length, I know it's suuuperr long! Also, Celeste Lore! Yay! (Maybe?)
imagine, captured Batsis who's guarding their hobby like a hound bc if batfam finds out what it is they will make it another "family bonding" experiance, ruining it for them
buuut the Waynes are not only your kidnappers but also very skilled detectives who will learn what it is
and so you decide to make your passion their living hell:
no, Damian won't get to bond over your passion for art. If he even looks at it for a milisecond you will destroy it immiediately.
Jason saw you writting once? That's a shame, you burned every draft
Oh somehow he saw that stuff on your laptop too? Yeah, no, it drowned in the bathtub last night, sorry.
Tim saw you enjoying photography? Also destroyed. Not a single piece to be cherished or shared. It fell to a shradder, how sad.
you may also play an instrument or sing. Not near Dick tho. Somehow your skill no longer exists near him.
(but it magically reapires again, just so you can play "baby shark" for five hours straight)
imagine not even giving Alfred some slack and using his trays as palettes for paint (yeah i do that)
asking Bruce to let u do an art exibision, just so u can stick a banana with a ductape and call it modern art
(they would probably wholeheartly belive u tho)
every furniture or expensive clothes are covered in paint.
every present you get too
and if you get any art supplies from them? You will use them in the most brutal ways possible. A designer pen? Smashed in a fit of writting inspiration. A 100 dolar paintbrush? You chewed on it. The most proffesional camera on the market? U tried making photos while kicking it, it's a new technique.
also, imagine being asked to draw the batfam only so u can scratch some stickfigures
or just instantly claim to have an artblock (while drawing lol)
your sculptures are going to be thrown into at least one of the bats. Don't worry tho, they will try to catch it!
aaand if Damian wants some constructive critique from u, he will only hear "oh thats nice" in the most disinterested tone. No amount of interrigations or bribes will work.
can u guess how long i've been in the dc fandom? cuz I'm scared that somehow my fingers will slip and i will write the most inacurate descriptions of the batfam, im so new to this oh gosh
I need someone(me) to rewrite Tim and Kon as Red White and Royal Blue.
Imagine it for me.
Bruce is the King, he’s always been royalty, and Luthor is the President due to some serious lapses in judgement (he’s canonically been president before sigh)
Tim comes from a loving family, has a good support system, has close best friends. (His official Knight Protector who happens to be his on and off ex[steph] and his brother[duke])
It’s not that Clark isn’t supportive of Kon. He tries to be. But he also hates Lex. With a burning passion. And Lex has rights to Kon and keeps him at his side and Clark can’t stand to be around him so they don’t spend time together. He doesn't really know his other father.
But Tim and Kon still meet and mingle at Events because they have to
Kon is burning with anger and jealousy.
Tim is everything he's not, everything he wants, all the freedoms he hasn't been given. Effortlessly beautiful, all the right angles and well defined body that he keeps tucked beneath a perfectly tailored suit. He’s got the manners, he’s got the friends, he’s got the connections and he’s got the charm.
Kon watches him kiss Stephanie once and shatters the glass in his hand. Tim doesn’t even look up.
Tim hates him because Kon hates him- flat out ignoring him and Tim hates it.
Tim thinks Kon is an asshole who's clearly rebelling against Daddy and hates him and every interaction they have is curt and ends with Kon insulting him in some way and then flicking on sunglasses and walking away.
Kon spends more time with Luthor whenever Tim’s around, and it makes Tim loathe him even more. Because it’s Lex.
But they still talk and then the Event happens.
Something colossal. Something near Identity Revealing stuff. (maybe Bruce is just King and Lex is just a horrible person but Kon and Tim are vigilantes anyway idk)
And Kon and Tim are forced to play nice. Forced to shake hands and smile and grit teeth at each other.
And Kon learns Tim's perfect life isn't all perfect. And Tim learns Kon doesn't really hate him.
Anyway idk. Just pls.
Them being outted and Tim having a panic attack and Bruce immediately going "oh honey" and enveloping him in a hug and then they're on the floor and he's crying and when did that happen and Damian is hugging him and oh-
Kon befriending Duke and Steph and being sort of half in love with both of them. And being afraid of Dick and Jason but Damian most of all because he's the first one to clock his gay ass and glowers at him with all the rage of an eleven year old heir to the throne and hisses "what are your intentions with my brother!" while passing the peas at family dinner
Tim knows he's bi, has for a long time, but Kon is just barely figuring out that he can like men as well as women.
Kon still kisses him first, though.
Kon slowly being adopted by the family. Calling Bruce "Pa" jokingly.
Having so many de aged! Jason feelings. I might just burst.
Dick and Tim theorize on how a small, happy little baby winded up in Jason's apartment. It's no secret their brother, a wall of bulk with a tender core, houses the homeless sometimes.
Maybe the baby is someone's? But if so, why was he alone? Jason isn't exactly famous for his unquestionable wisdom, but he's too caring to leave a defenceless infant by himself.
More importantly, why is this baby rolling on his tummy on a familiar brown jacket, evidently craving to be picked up?
"Can you take him? I'm not..." Tim's not good with kids; It's a running joke among them. Even If there's nothing comical about this.
Dick nods. His pride does swell when the baby giggles and coos.
"He has good taste."
" Okay, Narcissus. Let's take him home before your head pops,'' was Tim just a tiny bit jealous this little chubby cheeked thing was snuggling close to Dick, while downright glowering at him?
Maybe. A little. But babies were glorified chunks of meat, shaped just enough like a human to be considered cute. What did they know?
So they get home. It's a pleasant rarity, but they're all in one place.
All except Bruce, of course. Too busy bleeding on the streets to spend any time with them, Dick huffs,
Poor Damian is trying to jump and leap amongst them giants, struggling to take a peek at their young guest, " Grayson! I want the baby!"
" He's not a toy, Dami," they all share a silent look, clearly thinking the same thing. He got it from Bruce,
"What does it do?"
" He's a baby, Steph. He's not even aware he exists!"
" God I wish that were me,"
Duke looks at Babybird, as Dick affectionately took to calling him, with a strange, quizzical look, " He looks familiar. You said you found him at Jay's?"
" Yeah, but I'm taking him to a firestation. I just had to show B. You know he likes volunteering at daycares. Maybe he'll recognize him."
" Recognize who?"
Babybird was chewing on his own foot when the elevator doors slid open. Cass wasn't a wordsmith.
She read movements and actions as one listens to music.
Every member of her beloved family was a song of their own; Dick was motivational and calming.
Stephanie was packed with action, brimming with electrifying energy that just made you want to jump.
Tim was clean and precise with accents of pop. Duke was light and happy and silently confident. Damian was angry, and passionate and brave.
Bruce was powerful, sad, and perfectly tragic.
But when Babybird shrieked, yelled out in happiness and excitement and tried to wiggle out of Dick's arms with a sunshine beam and grabby hands?
Her father was a love song.
"Jay," The name sounds like Bruce is choking. His eyes are burning with tears, marching directly to Dick, " Jay? Jay!"
" Wh--"
"Dada!" Babybird, -- Jason? They only now noticed the white curl bouncing on top of his head, ( their inner detectives groan) " Dadadada, pap papi pap,"
They can't do anything, frozen in place, as Bruce spends the following two hours planting a garden of kisses on Jason's cheeks, full with laughter, while they read and color and build blocks.
"Uh, Bruce? I'm...I'm gonna call Zatanna."
" In a minute."
" DAD, --"
" In a minute."
It wasn't just a minute. It was an entire week.
As ridiculous as it was? They were starting to get jealous.
jason,bubba ,michael and carrie with a s/o who loves fnaf and spend hours talking about the teorys and lore ?
oh yeah baby I know what the fuck is up with this shit right here
Jason
Get's invested because you talk about it so often
Definitely has names remembered and and gives you nods of acknowledgement whenever you re tell him something, signaling that he understands
Its a bit therapeutic for him to hear you go on and on, especially seeing how much your face lights up or contorts whenever you speak about specific timeline events. If only he got to experience this when he was a kid
Hates William with a burning passion. Like whenever he comes up in conversation he wants to combust (real)
His favorite animatronic is Glamrock Bonnie, but hates talking about the theories, makes him sad
Bubba
Just nods and smiles the whole time you talk, just happy to hear you speak to him about cute little animals and whatever the fuck a mega pizzaplex is
Can't remember shit about the lore, but absolutely remembers the names of the animatronics, at least up until the 3rd game
Has both the worst and best times playing the games if you have them. Every jump scare works on him and while he jumps and yells, he can't help but seem to be a bit of an adrenaline junkie and can't wait for another one
His favorite animatronic is Chica, specifically from fnaf 1
Michael
Retains barely any information whatsoever. Picks up on some of the names but just sits there and listens. However, you can't tell if he's breathing heavy under that mask or snoring
Doesn't jump a single time whenever you watch gameplay, who would've thought?
Now that I think about it, would probably get jump scared once and then get embarrassed it scared him so he'd punch the screen and then act like nothing happened for the rest of the day
His favorite is the red one, although favorite is a strong word
Carrie
Takes her a bit to get the ropes of what you're talking about, seeing as it's a form of media she would never be allowed to get into if she was still with her mother
Is as happy as can be while she listens to you speak for hours about the lore and the story line and she gets really emotional about it to
Thinks the story is extremely sad and always puts in her two cents about how awful William is or how bad she feels for the animatronics/kids
Absolutely adores Helpy and hates seeing him get hurt in those minigames LMAOOO
