Yandere!Boyfriend x Reader (ft. Reader's cat that hates him)
Yandere!Boyfriend views himself as a dark, calculating mastermind who has meticulously eliminated every rival in your life. He took care of the flirty coworker, he blocked your annoying ex, and he curated your entire schedule around him. But his entire criminal empire completely crumbles the second he steps into your apartment and locks eyes with your 8-pound tabby cat, Mr. Chonk.
Mr. Chonk doesn't just dislike him; Mr. Chonk recognizes him as an apex predator trespassing on his territory. The very first time your boyfriend tried to sneak a lock of your hair while you were napping on the couch, the cat dropped from the top of the refrigerator like a tactical navy seal, hissed directly into his face, and swatted him across the nose. It was an instant, blood-soaked declaration of war.
His yandere logic is completely warped by this animal. He genuinely treats the cat like a romantic rival. He’ll sit on the kitchen floor, glaring at the cat under the dining table, and hiss back in a whisper so you won't hear him. "You think you're safe because they feed you? I could replace you in a second, you furry little demon. They're mine. Stop looking at them like that." Mr. Chonk just blinks at him and licks a paw, completely unfazed.
Yandere!Boyfriend realizes very quickly that if he wants to achieve his ultimate goal of moving in with you and keeping you all to himself, he has to earn the cat's trust. If he doesn't, you’ll never let him sleep over. So, his data-mining and stalking skills are suddenly redirected toward animal behavior. He spends hours on the dark web and sketchy forums, not looking up your background, but searching: “How to bribe an aggressive feline,” “Cat psychology manipulation,” and “Can you gaslight a cat into liking you?”
Yandere!Boyfriend's attempts at bribery are incredibly intense and deeply dramatic. He’ll show up at your apartment with a bouquet of roses for you, and a literal premium can of wild-caught salmon for the cat. He’ll slide the dish under the couch where the cat is hiding, kneeling on the carpet with a deadpan, serious look on his face. "Eat the tribute, beast. Let us form an alliance. We both want them to stay inside forever. We are on the same side." Mr. Chonk just bats the can away and claws his finger.
Yandere!Boyfriend gets aggressively jealous of the affection you give the cat. If you’re sitting on the couch, scratching Mr. Chonk behind the ears and cooing about how he’s "the handsomest boy in the whole world," your boyfriend will literally pout. He’ll crawl over, shove his own head into your lap right next to the cat, and look up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "I'm handsome too. I don't shed. And I don't scratch you. Pet me instead, please." This usually results in the cat swatting his forehead again, sparking a silent glaring match right in your lap.
Yandere!Boyfriend eventually tries to use high-tech gamer gear to win the war. He buys a super-powered, military-grade laser pointer to entertain the cat, thinking he can tire out his rival. He stands in the center of your living room, frantically flicking his wrist, running the red dot up and down the walls while laughing like a cartoon villain. "Yes! Run! Consume your energy, creature! Collapse from exhaustion so I can have her undivided attention!"
The day Mr. Chonk finally decides to tolerate him is the funniest day of his life. Your boyfriend is sitting on the couch, completely drained and miserable because you went to the store, and the cat casually hops up, sniffs his leg, and plops down right on his chest completely pinning him to the cushions. When you walk back into the apartment, you find your terrifying, possessive boyfriend frozen stiff, breathing softly, with a terrified but triumphant look on his face. He whispers to you: "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The demon has accepted my offering. I am officially part of the hierarchy. We can get married now."
Organized!Yandere gets off on how careless you, Messy!Ready are while at the same time is desperate to control you. Every time you manage to slip away into the chaos it only turns him on more. Till he realizes he can only control you when he’s fucking your brains out. And he uses it to his utmost advantage.
Organized!Yandere has never once loved someone as much as he loved you, his Messy!Reader. While he always thought he’d need someone like him to keep him sane, he’s found insanity yo be quite a refreshing feeling.
While he plans down his days to a T, even scheduling off time to fuck you, every time that he calls for you, you simply come on right over. No matter what time it’s like you drop everything for this. He just has to ask while throwing your leg over his shoulder, squeezing the flesh of your thigh, and feeding his dick right into your tight silken core without hesitation. Bottoming out with a hard wet plap.
“What were you doing before hah! coming here?”
Organized!Yandere moans wantonly, eyes rolling back as he picks up pace when you tell him you left a business meeting early. Made up some excuse and left mere minutes after ending the phone call with him. Possessive satisfaction thrums through his veins. You chose to be with him, throwing away your plans for him.
He asks what plans you have for the rest of the day, wondering if you plan to go back to work. But when you say simply say ‘nothing much’ his hips buck and he nearly paints you with his seed early. Fuck, you were so unhinged. A dark part of him ached— longed— to control you. To keep you pretty under his thumb where he could admire you and always know where you are.
His hand slips between your sweat-soaked bodies and he rubs you toward completion. Controlling your orgasm down to the very last second. When he utters a choked, ‘Cum, ffffuuckin’ cum now— mmph,’ your body listens.
You clamp down tight around his cock as if begging for him control. He’s sure of it. The thought sends him right over the edge with you, filling you up with his hot seed to the point your belly distends with the hefty amount inside of you.
Organized!Yandere tries to do just that not long after. Control you. Plan a daily schedule for you to follow without exception. Still somehow you’re nowhere to be found the first time he tries to check in on you. No matter what tactic he puts in place to control you, you always find your way out of it. Ending up at the most random places he never would’ve thought to look.
The more he tries to control you the more you end up slipping away from him. Disappearing like a magician performing their greatest trick. Of course you’re just going about your day as normal.
Deciding nah, you don’t wanna workout that day, or maybe you’ll take this meeting next week instead, that you’re feeling more Italian than BBQ for lunch, maybe a new movie caught your eye on the way home from work so you go there before heading home.
Totally casual and normal things to you but to him it was a nightmare.
Organized!Yandere has to track you down, he has to, whenever you go tragically missing (are out of reach for more than twenty minutes). Eventually he ends up losing complete control over not only your schedule but his own too. Making his already spiraling mind tumble down into actual insanity. While he appears to hate it, every rational thought left in my mind supporting that fact, in actuality he loves it. Craves it!
Because all of that frustration and twisted lust funnels straight back into you. Each time he calls on you and you come right away. He can fuck out his emotions into your willing body for as long as he desires. It’s the only time he has any real control over you and that is the hottest damn thing anyone’s ever done for him.
You’re perfect.
The next time Organized!Yandere manages to get you in his clutches he fucks you till you’re nothing but a slobbering babbling mess, too fucked out to form a proper coherent thought.
Your eyes probably permanently crossed as he pounds away at your sloppy cunt, refusing to let you cum. Not yet, not yet. But you were so messy already, new waves of your slick gushing out of you every time he mashes his engorged cockhead into your spongy cervix.
Whenever the pressure rises in your belly he feels the fluttering of your walls, how close you are, and slows down till it ebbs away. Leaving you a begging sobbing mess with every denial. By now he can’t make out any of the begging no matter how much you keep going.
“What, Bunny, you wanna cum?” He asks you, his voice the picture perfect example of mocking sympathy. You garble and whine over a few choked moans and he raises a brow, leaning in closer as if he’s actually trying but it’s only fault of your own that he can’t understand. “Hmm? Said that again, I couldn’t quite hear you.”
Another harsh round of hiccups wracked through your chest as you cry, opting out to just nod along desperately. Talking was no use.
A faint smirk pulls at his lips and he presses his body close to yours, faces mere inches apart. Denying you even now as you ache to kiss him. His lips brush against your own as he says, “Then cum for me.”
For once you listen instantly, coming with a strangled cry. Your body warps and hopelessly you try to meet his controlled thrusts. He works you through your orgasm, sliding into your battered fuck hole over and over. Talking you through it too, demanding you keep coming for him.
Organized!Yandere keeps going and the realization dawns on your mushy mind that he intends to keep going. Moving from one round right into the next. He hasn’t even cum yet and by the look on his face he doesn’t plan to for a long time. Not when he can ruin you first.
Weakly you whine and try to squirm away. The constant sensation already too much. You don’t know how much more you can take. His laughter makes something in your chest twist before he grabs your hips and slams you back down his length.
“Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. Where d’you think you’re gnngh! g-going? I’ve got the whole day scheduled off so I can play with you, baby.”
His hands slide up and down your sides, soothing out the tremors as his hips snap forward, burying himself within you so hard it sends you sliding up the bed a little. Your screams of pleasure pierce the air and you know you won’t be sneaking off any time soon.
By the end of this you’re not even sure you’ll be able to walk for the foreseeable future. Keeping you right in place where he wants, where he can see you, where he can check in on you at any time and know you’d still be there.
Organized!Yandere leans down and nuzzles into your neck, peppering kisses along your feverish skin. Worshipping you as he always does when he can slow down and get a real good look at you.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader, platonic!damian wayne x fem!reader, platonic!tim drake x fem!reader
summary: It was supposed to be a routine patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. Well, things don't always go as planned. Now Damian and Tim had to keep Jason from finding out that his girlfriend had been turned into a cat, a cute, fluffly cat.
word count: 1.2k
warning(s): English is not my first language, not proofread, no use of y/n.
Silence and tension hung heavy in the Batcave. It had been over half an hour since the small group had returned from their patrol. The streets of Gotham had finally reached that peak of silence just before dawn.
“He’s going to kill us.”
“He won’t kill us if he doesn’t find out about this.”
Damian’s statement put Tim’s fears to rest; Tim’s hair was tousled, and he had a twitch in his eye from the stress that had built up in just a few minutes.
A growl sounded below them.
They both looked down. A pair of piercing eyes glared at them angrily.
“And you won’t tell him about this.”
Another growl was heard, but this time two fangs were visible.
“Oh, God,” Tim exclaimed, pulling off his mask and pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Jason is going to kill us.”
“Todd won’t find out.”
“And how can you be so sure of that? Look at her!” he said, pointing with both hands at the cat in front of them. “They turned her into a cat, and we don’t know how to reverse it!”
“Drake,” Damian exclaimed irritably. “Jason won’t be back for another two days; we have more than enough time to figure this out.” Damian’s gaze shifted to the white-furred animal with black spots. “Maybe we can bribe her with tuna.”
The cat hissed at what she considered a degrading comment about tuna.
“Tt. Calm down. We’ll call Zatanna first thing tomorrow and sort this out.”
Tim sighed wearily and nodded at Damian’s words.
“It’d be best if you stayed tonight. It’ll be easier… for everyone.”
Ever since Bruce was a child, it had been perfectly normal to see Alfred walking through the hallways of Wayne Manor, cleaning and tidying things up.
What wasn't a common sight, however, was a cat trying to reach the doorknob of one of the manor's many doors, trying to open it.
Alfred let out a sigh.
“Master Damian really needs to start exercising some self-control around animals.”
With patience and grace, he made his way toward the door, while the cat waited for the butler. Alfred turned the doorknob, and the animal wasted no time in entering the room.
“I should remind Master Jason to tidy his room,” he muttered to himself. “Or at least ask him to let me do it.”
As the butler thought aloud, his gaze never left the cat, which was slipping between Jason’s clothes on the bed.
With her tiny paws, she gathered the clothes together, and when she decided she’d had enough, she lay down on top of them, relaxing her little body as if letting out a sigh with her body language.
Alfred’s eyebrows shot up in a frown. “Interesting.”
The man couldn't help but notice the strange detail around the cat's eyes. A perfect line around each eye, strangely reminding him of Jason's girlfriend and the eyeliner she wore every time they met.
Not wanting to get involved in another vigilante problem, he decided to simply pretend he hadn’t seen anything.
He left the door ajar, just enough so that Jason’s girlfriend could come and go freely from the room.
Tim and Damian were running all over the manor, searching for the sudden—and temporary—member of the family.
“Where is she?!”
As they frantically rushed through the rooms, they disrupted all the order Alfred had worked so hard to maintain.
When they reached the second floor, they stopped abruptly upon seeing Alfred.
“Alfred, by any chance haven’t you—?”
“Don’t finish that question, Master Tim,” he said wearily. “What you’re looking for should be in Master Jason’s room.”
Without another word, the butler left, leaving the two young men alone in the long hallway. And without wasting any more time, they both headed for Jason’s room.
“Can you see her?”
They both started moving around the room, not caring if they made a mess of it. That was the last thing on their minds.
“Where the hell did she go?”
Tim picked up the pile of clothes on the bed and carelessly tossed it onto the floor so he could search through the sheets.
A loud meow of surprise and indignation echoed through the room.
Both boys turned their heads toward the source of the sound.
Two pointed black ears poked out from among the clothes, and soon a white body covered in black spots appeared.
“I’m sorry,” Tim apologized, murmuring your name.
The cat snorted indignantly.
How dare they toss you into the air like that when you were sleeping so peacefully among your boyfriend's clothes?
Oh, you would never have thought of something like that, but you were hoping someone would come over so you could bite their hand.
The sound of an engine cutting off in the driveway caught the attention of the three people in the room.
Damian and Tim were sitting on a couch, far away from where she was. Even though the cat had already bitten them when they got careless trying to lift her off the floor, they didn’t want to take any more chances.
The three of them looked expectantly toward the door, hoping to see Zatanna so they could resolve this once and for all.
But what appeared was far worse, in Damian and Tim’s words.
An excited meow echoed through the room the moment Jason appeared in the doorway. The cat’s small, furry paws slid off the armchair and pushed off, landing on Jason’s chest, its claws digging in slightly to keep from falling.
“What the hell?” the newcomer grumbled. “Come here and get this thing out of here, you little demon.”
An annoyed growl escaped her lips. How dare he call you a thing?
Jason met her gaze.
Just like with Alfred, he furrowed his brow when he noticed the eyeliner on both her eyes, highlighting the color of her eyes that had him so smitten.
Jason shifted his gaze to both boys, then back to her. He stayed that way for a few seconds, until his brain managed to connect the dots.
“Doll?”
A meow was the answer he needed to confirm that it was his girlfriend.
“What have you done?” Jason asked the two men, his annoyance evident in his eyes and the tone of his voice. Meanwhile, he cradled his girlfriend in his arms as she purred, happy to be there.
“It was an accident, Todd.”
Tim also chimed in, trying to calm things down. “Zatanna is just a few minutes away; we were waiting for her.”
“Yeah…” Damian said. “We thought it was her at the door. What are you doing here, Todd? You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.”
“My mission ended early,” he replied simply. He looked at his girlfriend, transformed into a cat, sleeping comfortably on his arm. “And when I didn’t see my girlfriend at home, I figured she’d be here… but I didn’t expect to find her like this.”
With a hint of hesitation, he stroked her behind the ears, receiving a soft, contented purr in return.
“Stop laughing, Jason!” the woman pleaded, exasperated. “It’s not funny! Your brothers fed me nothing but tuna for two days! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”
“But you looked so cute.”
The woman slapped his chest with her hand, trying to get her boyfriend to stop laughing.
“Maybe we should get a cat,” he said out of the blue, “that way you’ll have a friend the next time this happens.”
She grumbled in annoyance.
“That’s it! I’m going to ask Zatanna to turn you into a fish, so I can flush you down the toilet!”
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You don't know your boyfriend is Robin just yet, and to his utter horror—you want to get matching plushie keychains of Robin and Flatline. Damian puts his dignity on the line to get out of this one.
word cnt. 3.1k
aka ›››› "Can we make out later?" You whisper. For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits. Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt
“I’m going to break up with you,” Damian mutters as you shift him by the shoulders, turning him around beneath the skeletal winter trees of the Gotham park, their bare branches webbing together overhead like veins against a washed-out sky.
Snow crunches softly under your boots as you move, the kind that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to melt or commit, and Damian can hear the giddy lift in your breathing even before he hears the faint jingle of metal as you clip the plush Robin keychain onto his backpack. Your fingers are swift but careful, fussing with the tiny ball chain like this is something sacred, like if you don’t secure it just right the whole day might fall apart.
“You love me,” you coo, voice bright and teasing, making absolutely sure the clasp is fastened before you gently turn him again and rest your chin on his shoulder, your scarf brushing his jaw, warm and soft against the sharp cold of the air.
“It doesn’t even look like him,” Damian sighs, gesturing with his chin toward the small stand set up along the park’s pathway, where a folding table is draped in a faded black cloth and weighed down at the corners with stones so it doesn’t lift in the wind.
You look anyway, at the angry little chibi face of the plush that's no taller than ten centimeters, expression stitched into a permanent scowl, tiny blush marks sewn into its cheeks. It’s surrounded by others just like it, all handmade, all a little uneven in that earnest way.
“It looks exactly like him,” you say without hesitation. “Now pay the nice lady, Damian.”
He grumbles as he reaches into his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold, but when he hands over the cash there’s a small, barely-there smile he doesn’t bother to fight. “You’re the Robin fan, not me,” Damian says as he turns back to you, snowflakes catching briefly in his hair before melting away. “Why do I have to wear the Robin keychain?”
“We’re going to match,” you grin, already turning back toward the stand like you’re being pulled there by gravity itself.
Two tables have been pushed together, forming a long, uneven display: the popular heroes clustered on one side where most people stop—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—Robin placed neatly beside Batman like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then, as the stand stretches on, the choices on people get stranger, more niche.
“Match?” Damian repeats, softer now, the word settling somewhere behind his ribs. His ears might as well perk up, even if he doesn’t realize it. He already knows the keychain will disappear into a drawer the second he gets home, hidden from judgment and siblings alike, but right now, standing here in the snow with you smiling up at him, he can’t bring himself to care.
Then something catches, sharp and unexpected.
The last time you wanted to match with him, it had been phone charms—two little chibi anime characters swinging from your cases, identical except for color.
Love interests.
The memory lands quietly but heavily, like snow piling up until a branch finally gives.
“Who are you picking?” he mumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at the stand, voice low enough that it almost blends into the hush of the park. Your hair tickles his cheek, your scarf smells faintly like your perfume and something warmer beneath it, and if the world were kinder to him, if this weren’t Gotham and public and complicated, his face would already be buried in it, pretending the cold didn’t exist at all.
Damian feels his stomach drop the moment you reach for it.
Your fingers hover for only a second before lifting the Flatline plushie from the stand, the small fabric body light and unassuming in your hand. You hold it up to show him like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided, snow catching briefly in the stitched hair before melting away. “Matching set, see—”
“No.”
The word cuts through the cold air sharper than it has any right to, abrupt enough that it startles even him. His smile is gone before you can register it, wiped clean like a slate dragged through snow.
You blink at him, confusion flickering openly across your face, your brows knitting together as if you’re trying to reorient yourself in a conversation that just took a wrong turn. “What do you mean no?” you ask softly. “Aren’t they dating?”
“No,” Damian repeats, faster this time, too fast, shaking his head with a firmness that feels rehearsed, defensive, like if he says it clearly enough it’ll become truer than it already is.
You hesitate, then glance back down at the plushie in your hand. It’s cute in that deliberately rough way—stitched eyeliner, a crooked smile, jagged strips of fabric meant to pass as hair. Someone put care into it. Someone thought it was charming.
You would agree.
To Damian, it’s a mirror he didn’t ask to look into.
From the outside, it probably looks like you’re considering whether to buy another toy. From the inside, he’s fourteen again for half a second, standing too close to a decision he made when he was younger and louder and trying very hard to be something other than a child. A pretty idea, he thinks bitterly. That’s what it was. Not good. Not smart. Just pretty in the way things are when you don’t yet know how sharp the edges can be.
Only a fourteen-year-old boy would do that to himself, he thinks—would step into a relationship with someone whose morals clashed so violently with his own and call it maturity instead of what it really was: curiosity dressed up as bravery. Damian was acting his age without realizing it. Making mistakes not because he was careless, but because he didn’t yet know what was worth protecting then.
“I swear I saw them kiss in some magazine when I was like fourteen,” you mumble, tilting your head just slightly, blinking that way you do when you’re genuinely confused, the kind of look that would melt someone else entirely, maybe make them brave enough to reach out and take your hand. But Damian has priorities right now.
“Nope.” He shakes his head firmly, voice low and final, cutting through the muffled hum of the park.
“Well… she’d still go really cute on my bag,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your black purse with its silver clasps, silver catching faint light and matching the tiny chains on the plushie like a cosmic coincidence.
“If you want something to match your bag—get like… I don’t know… Black Canary? I’ll get Green Arrow and—”, Damian starts up hopelessly.
You pause, shrugging, as if you can’t quite see the logic or consequences of this little suggestion.
“Do you have something against emos?” You chuckle, awkwardly, nervously, because the way he’s gripping the strap of his backpack and staring at the plushies like they’re miniature conspirators is absurd and almost endearing.
Damian wants nothing more than to bury himself in snow and never come out, to let the cold cover him like armor, but there’s warmth in your voice, stubborn and bright, that sticks to him anyway, like the last ember before winter fully claims the city. He shifts, quietly, unsure whether to scowl or laugh, and the snow keeps falling, silent witness to the chaos you bring.
“Babe… I go to Comic Con,” Damian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by a battle he knows he’s losing. “What do you think?”
“Then…” you brighten instantly, voice lifting with dangerous cheer, “…I’m buying her!”
It’s obvious now—you’re doing this on purpose. Less about matching, more about poking him until he reacts. You pivot on your heel, already half a step past him, snow crunching under your boots.
“So you hate me,” Damian says, loud and dramatic, pitched just high enough to be heard over the low murmur of the park.
That’s what stops you.
You freeze mid-step, breath fogging in front of you as the words settle in your chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s harmless. And it sounds exactly like something a clingy, needy girlfriend would say to get her way.
Worse—you’re pretty sure you’ve said it to him before.
Slowly, you turn back around, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern.
Oh.
Oh two can play that game.
“Oh?” you hum, leaning into it, letting your shoulders slump just a touch. Your voice softens, exaggerated, wounded in a way that’s almost theatrical. “So… you don’t trust my taste?”
You glance down at the plushie in your hand, thumb brushing over the stitched smile, then lift it up beside your face like a comparison photo, tilting your head. Snow dusts into your hair and clings to your scarf, framing you like you’re part of the display.
“You don’t think she’s pretty?”
The park seems to go quiet around him—snow falling heavier now, lights blurring, the vendor’s stand glowing too brightly in his peripheral vision. Damian feels heat crawl up his neck as if Gotham itself is laughing at him, every flake of snow another accusation.
He stares at you, at the plushie, at the smug little curve of your lips that he wants to kiss off.
More importantly though, Damian wants to bury himself in the snow.
After he kills himself.
Preferably before you say anything else.
Two options.
Yes—okay, fine, I’ll buy it for you—let’s match. And Damian knows the second he plucks up the courage to tell you his secret, the real, hidden identity beneath all the layers of leather, gadgets, and shadow, he’ll never be able to let it go. It will linger like a blade at his ribs, a promise unfulfilled. Fuck, maybe you won’t even care that he called his ex-girlfriend pretty in front of you, but he will. Damian holds honor like a lifeline, grips it harder than he does his own shadow, and the last thing he wants is to ever diminish yours—even with something so small, so meaningless to everyone else and possibly you.
No—just pick something else. And he has to watch it: the flicker of disappointment cross your face, subtle but sharp, like icicles breaking underfoot. Your shoulders slump, just a little, your smile forced and small, fragile against the cold wind curling through the skeletal branches overhead. It lingers for what feels like an hour in the still, gray Gotham afternoon, punctuated only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots. He hates it already.
So he picks neither.
Instead, Damian’s sharp gaze flicks past the smaller plushies—the chibi Robin, the little Flatline you’d picked up with careful hands—to the towering, overpriced giants at the back of the stand.
Batman and Superman, looming like they’ve stepped out of a newspaper cartoon, stitched with care, their soft capes catching the faint light of the hanging bulbs strung along the vendor’s table.
The tags gleam, $150 each, bold and unapologetic.
Or.
Hold onto a spinning pull up bar for 10 minutes for a chance to win.
“We match with those,” he says, voice low but decisive, a knife of authority cutting through the quiet hum of the falling snow.
You blink, heart tipping forward in your chest, tracking his line of sight, eyes glistening as they flicker between him and the plushies. Your words come out hesitant, fragile, soft as frost melting on bare skin. “I…I don’t know, Damian…those are…a little pricey. And if your thinking about the second option I don’t want you to strain yourself—”
Not a no.
Damian practically runs to that fucking bar.
There’s a small wait, stretching like it’s testing your hesitance, the snowy Gotham afternoon muffling the usual chaos of the park. Two boys, maybe fifteen, fumble at the little bar, their hands slipping over the smooth surface. You wince when the taller one loses his grip entirely and falls backward into the snow, boots flailing, a small puff of icy powder puffing around him.
Your scowl sharpens as the old man running the bar part of the stand cackles, the laugh too loud, too brittle, a sound that makes the air feel colder.
You open your mouth, “Hey, I don’t know—” and stop. Mid-sentence, your gaze falls on Damian. And all the chatter, the clatter, the wind whipping icy flakes into your scarf, fades. He’s there, quiet but unyielding, every movement precise, deliberate. His shoulders squared against the cold like a prince, his hands adjusting the straps of his backpack, the faint tilt of his chin, the way he surveys the small chaos of the park as if he can contain it all with sheer will.
And he notices you. Not the boys or the falling snow or the absurdly loud old man—just you. The way your fingers curl slightly tighter on his coat sleeve, the tilt of your head, the slight flush rising against the winter chill.
You can feel it in the way he shifts, the careful calculation of his steps, the subtle angle he takes to stand beside you rather than in front of you, the gentle awareness of your personal space. He carries you in that way, like he’s holding both of you in balance without touching too tightly, a quiet knightship that leaves a warmth behind.
Okay.
Weirdo.
The thought strikes, soft, unbidden, curling like smoke into your chest. Determined, stubborn, impossibly careful—he’s all of it and somehow still this impossibly magnetic presence, grounding and wild all at once. You notice the sharpness of his jaw under the winter light, the way his silky black hair captures a few snowflakes, the way he carries himself like every small motion is meant to shield you, protect you, be near you without needing to touch.
…Your weirdo.
And it hits differently now. You can’t help it; you watch the way he shifts, just the faintest tilt of his head toward you, the way he glances at your footing on the cracked snow covered pavement, small things that are just for you. You want to reach for him, to lean into that protection, to let yourself melt into the care he carries in the simplest motions.
The thought betrays you before your mind can resist: he’s yours, always has been, and the snow, the park, the ridiculous little plushies, they all fade to the edges. All you can see, all you can feel, is him.
“Hey.” You mumble it so quietly it almost dissolves into the cold air, more breath than word.
Damian glances down at you, dark and thick brows knitting just slightly, thrown off by how suddenly your demeanor shifted from hesitant to soft, how the energy around you has shifted. The park hasn’t changed—snow crunching under boots, the two teenage boys still failing spectacularly at the bar a few feet away, the old man hovering near the stand like a gargoyle—but it feels like the space between you has narrowed anyway. The fair hums around you, crowded and loud in theory, yet everyone is wrapped up in their own little worlds, conversations overlapping and blurring together until it’s all just background noise.
“Mhm?” he murmurs back, instinctive, distracted—and then his hand is at your waist, firm and warm through layers of fabric, guiding you just a little closer to him, just a little farther from the walking path. It’s protective without being obvious, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you without ever needing to say it out loud.
You hesitate for half a second, then lean into your scarf, hiding your mouth and nose like it might save you from your own boldness. “Can we make out later?” you whisper, the words barely surviving the cold, ridiculous and sincere all at once.
For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits.
Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt, his free hand flying up to yank his scarf over the lower half of his face, eyes wide and burning as red creeps up his ears. You burst out laughing immediately, loud and unrepentant, the sound bright against the gray winter air.
He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, absolutely refusing to look at you, while you’re still cackling like you’ve just won something. And maybe you have—because even as he pretends to recover, its like his hand can't leave your side even for instant, lingering just enough to remind you that he did not say no.
“Happy?” Damian mumbles once the two of you are back in your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. The space feels different immediately—quieter, sealed off from the cold and the crowd and the noise. No one else is home. Just you, just him. The heater hums low in the background, and somehow the room already feels warmer than it should.
“Very,” you say brightly, grinning down at the Batman and Superman plushies cradled in your arms. They’re oversized, ridiculous, far more expensive than anything you’d ever justify buying for yourself.
Damian hadn’t even broken a sweat.
The memory flashes uninvited: the way a small crowd had slowly gathered as he stepped up to the bar, coat shrugged back just enough, gloves still on, expression bored in that familiar way that always means he’s about to show off without admitting it. The effortless strength in the way he’d lifted himself, clean and controlled, hanging there like gravity was optional. The man at the counter growing redder by the second because he must have been sure the bar was polished to the point of only causing slip.
The murmurs. The phones discreetly angled because Damian Wayne is practically a B-list celebrity.
And Damian—trying and failing to hide his grin because you were staring at him like he hung the sun and strung the moon.
Even bundled up, even half-hidden behind winter layers, the way you looked at him had warmed him more than the coat ever could. He’d felt it in his chest, in the way his balance wavered for just a split second when he caught sight of your face.
Especially when you’d turned that sharp, unapologetic glare on the small group of women giggling nearby, daring them to keep looking.
That glare—Gods. It was the only thing that almost made him lose his grip entirely.
Now, back in the apartment, he watches you from a few steps away, plushies in your arms, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes bright and satisfied as you find a place on your bed to situate the one you want to keep. His shoulders finally loosen, tension bleeding out of him as he exhales.
Yeah.
You’re happy.
The proof of it makes his heart settle.
⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a,
reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ
Note - this is for you @milkysea-02 for inspiring and encouraging me to write this. Also FEMALE Reader. Thought since I did a hotd and one for targaryens, its only fair I do this au with them too
Baelor Breakspear + Sharing your soulmate's emotions
Soulmates were a favorite subject among poets and bards. Tales sung so often the prince couldn't escape the word even if he tried. It was an endearing concept but Baelor knew how things worked in Westeros. Soulmates meeting were a rarity and even rarer if they fell in love. Yet the prince could feel you, so strongly in fact. To many it’s a curse, but the prince found it comforting.
He adored the moments he could feel your joy. Wondering what brought you such happiness. When anger or sadness tugged at his chest, he would frown wishing he could be there to offer comfort and ask what troubles you. Yes, meeting your soulmate was almost impossible, yet Baelor often thought of you; what you might be like. As he fiddles with his rings, nervous. He wonders if you feel it too. If you too ever ponder on what's bothering him. And when one day he finally meets you. Your father eagerly greets him, introducing you and your sister. It was painfully clear your father wished for Baelor to wed your sister.
And Baelor being the good man he is, indulges the man despite him promising no intention. Yet for some reason Baelor felt something pulling him towards you. He can tell you are nervous... because he can feel it. The prince tries not to jump to conclusions, but every glance, every conversation confirms his growing suspicion. And when he finally had a moment alone with you, he reached for your hand. Feeling every ounce of your emotion. And Baelor knew. He found his soulmate; his other half. No one would ever forget the look on your father's face when Baelor announces he will indeed wed his daughter. Just not the one he planned.
Maekar Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate after the worst event in your life
Maekar didn’t believe in this soulmate nonsense. It's just tales told to children so they have them hope for nothing. Maekar didn’t even believe in it. What were the chances that among thousands of people there was only one meant for you? Especially when he had already loved. His marriage to Dyana was happy, the many years spent together. She had bore him children he loves dearly. For what reason did a man like him need for a soulmate? Then tragedy struck. Where once Maekar was a devoted husband, he has become a widower. He did not weep. He did not beg or pray for the gods. He just stood there, unmoving and silent.
People offered sympathetic glances, kind words, a hand placed on his shoulder. It did nothing. For his wife was dead. She is gone where he shall never see her again, left with children who have no one else to seek but him. “My prince,” the voice called to him when he thought he was finally alone in the hall. It was you. He didn’t remember you for a second before it clicked. You were one of Dyanna’s ladies in waiting. Dressed in black with a seldom expression on your face as you offer your condolences. Maekar barely hears your words, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.
Then you touched his arm. A small gesture. Nothing more. An offer of comfort. It would have earned you a scolding had anyone else seen it. But Maekar merely froze. Staring at you with wide eyes feeling a pull within his chest. Something that is deeper than his grief. For a moment, you looked radiant, almost alluring. An urge almost overtaking him to just pull you in his arms. It couldn’t be. It fucking can’t be. The prince harshly tore his arm away from your touch, storming away. Leaving you staring at his back in confusion and dread as his footsteps echo through the hall.
Lyonel Baratheon + Soulmate marks are only visible after touching
The laughing storm never thought much of soulmates as many men in his time. He laughed at the idea often enough. Jesting his soulmate might be somewhere in the Essos cities dreaming of his touch. Until he came upon you. You weren't even meant to be in his tent. Your house was a minor one not like the Beesbury or the Fossoway; small enough to remain humble. Yet you defied your father and slipped into the tent. Music played, people laughed and drank, and there was Lyonel Baratheon dancing among them, his laugh filling the tent.
Eventually you joined the dancing, enjoying yourself. Till you were paired for a moment with Lyonel, your hands touching. And there it was, both of you hissing in pain. A line forming across your skin; itching and burning on the surface. Lyonel too gripped his wrist, staring in disbelief where the same mark appeared on his skin. Around you the party continues, blind to what’s happening right in front of them. Swallowing nervously, fearing what he might say or do and also fearing your father’s fury - you try to slip away. But Lyonel caught your wrist, pulling you to him. “Stay, you’ve only just arrived haven’t you?”
You had no choice as he led you to his table, his grip still around your wrist. He nudges you to take the chair next to him. His men stared in confusion while Lyonel pays them no mind, filling your cup with wine and taking a sip before passing it to you. You sip too, trying to ignore your lips are where his lips once were, all while his eyes are on you, an amused smile on his face. “So soulmate, can I at least have your name?” Gasps are heard from the men around you. And you can only think of how to explain this mess of a situation to your father.
Valarr Targaryen + Soulmates having their names on each other's wrists
Your parents held their breath the day you showed them your wrist and they saw the name. Valarr Targaryen. Of all the possible soulmates, yours had to be the prince. The heir to the iron throne right after his father. Your family was from a minor house. Approaching the royal family, offering them your hand with nothing but the only reasoning of being the prince’s soulmate would be laughable at best, insulting at worst. So you were instructed to keep it hidden. Always.
People will talk and if Valarr perhaps weds someone else, his wife may take offense to the words being said and your family simply couldn’t afford such a scandal. It was why with the tourney coming up, your father refused to take you at first. But you pleaded for days on end until he finally relented, making you promise that you would draw no attention to yourself. You fully intended to keep to your word. Till you accidently collided with the prince at the gathering before the tourney. Valarr instinctively grabbed you before you fell.
He asked if you were alright. But words were stuck in your throat, heart racing at the sight of him. It couldn’t be, it shouldn’t be. Your friend behind you who witnessed it all, calls your name asking if you are alright too. Watching as realization washes over Valarr’s face. He repeats your name back to you and you shake your head. “You have the wrong person, my pri-” “Show me your wrist.” It wasn’t a request. With shaking hands you allow him the honor to lift your sleeve, inhaling his breath when he sees his name on your skin. Valarr made you return back to your family, praying the matter was finished. So why was Valarr approaching his father, whispering something to his ear? And why has the heir of the throne now approaching your father directly?
Raymun Fossoway + Red string around your pinky is attached to your soulmate's pinky
Soulmates were a comforting thought to Raymun despite everyone else belittling him for it. He often wondered what you might be like. Were you beautiful? Were you out there thinking of him too? After all, you shared a piece of each other’s soul. It was said being far from your soulmate ached and losing them is described as the same pain one would feel if they took a spear to the chest. Sometimes when he was bored or upset, Raymun tugs the string gently just to gouge a reaction, his way of saying hello.
And every time he felt the sting being tugged back, he smiled. Sometimes he even did it at night when he couldn’t sleep, feeling a bit guilty if he woke you up. His cousin mocked him whenever he caught him staring at his pinky playing with the string invisible to the eye. It was one day in his cousin's tent, he was speaking with another squire. Then he felt a sharp tug on the string. It was stronger than usual, almost moving his hand forward. The realization struck him. Were you possibly close?
Without thinking, Raymun excused himself and stepped outside of the tent, ignoring the squire's concerns in the process. Raymun follows the invisible pull until it led him straight to you. He paused for a moment. Even from afar, you looked absolutely beautiful. Were you a servant, a traveler, a lady? Raymun truthfylly didn’t care as he approaches you, clearing his throat to catch your attention. “You’re my soulmate,” he blurted a little too loudly. People close to you both turned to stare. Raymun mumbled an apology before asking if he could speak with you alone.
Aerion Targaryen + Timer for when you shall meet your soulmate
Like his father, Aerion dismissed the idea of soulmates as foolish nonsense. Rolling his eyes whenever his sisters would dreamingly talk of meeting theirs. Content to never find his. He was a dragon, he had no need for such bonds. He hated that timer on his wrist. Felt like it was mocking him, making him feel that lack of control; that he couldn't escape it. Aerion ignored it for years, covering the timer with sleeves long enough so his eyes wouldn’t accidently peek.
But one day, while preparing for a feast, he noticed it. Only a few hours? Aerion frowns, squinting to make sure he is seeing it right. He dismisses it; it's just ridiculous. Until during the feast, sitting next to his father. He curiously glanced down again and saw only one minute lift. What stupidity, what mad- but his thoughts are cut short. There you were, approaching his table. Nudged by your mother to greet your hosts. Politely introducing yourself, curtsying even complimenting the prince.
And Aerion. He was staring. Couldn’t tear his eyes off you. Till his father called his name in confusion before Aerion realized he had been silent far too long. “Yes- yes, that’s kind of you,” he mutters before watching you return to your family once more. Then he notices you glancing down at your own wrist, frowning. And feeling a pair of eyes on you - you look up to see the prince already staring intensely. Was it lust? confusion? Hatred? As he watches you piece it all together.
Daeron Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate in your dreams
Ever since he was a boy Daeron had been haunted by his dreams. Only becoming harder and harder to cope with over the years. The sweet taste of wine helped at first. Before he started drinking more and more he ought to forget just for a moment. But in the middle of it all, there was you. The only thing he found calming. At first he assumed you were part of his visions. Till he realized you reacted to him, understood his words and spoke back to him. When he touched you. You felt real.
You didn’t appear as often as he wanted. Other times his head was filled with prophecies he couldn’t decipher; dragons, fire, death. Whenever you would show, relief washed over him. Daeron cherished those few moments he had. Begging you not to leave when he felt you slipping away, back to the conscious world yet again. Waking up with your name on his lips. And when he finally saw you in the flesh. Daeron was almost trembling. Gods, you were just as beautiful as you were in his dreams.
He wanted to take you in his arms right there and then. But too many eyes were watching, his father among them. When he finally had a moment alone, in a dark hall with no one in sight. Daeron pulled you close burying his face in your neck. “You’re here,” he whispers shakingly, “Gods, you’re here”. Sighing in relief, breathing your scent, letting his lips touch the skin of your nape. Daeron doesn’t care if your family came to summerhall for a mere visit. He doesn’t care what his father might say. He finally had you here, in his arms. He can’t afford to go back to the days where he just had you in dreamless nights.
Duncan The Tall + Time slows down when you meet your soulmate
Dunk had always been told soulmates were frivolous nonsense. Ser Arlan has said it more than once when the topic came up in passing. So Dunk moved through his days never giving it much thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe soulmates existed. He just assumed it wasn't meant for a hedge knight like him. Not until the chain of events. Trying to enlist in the tourney, meeting a little boy who goes by egg, speaking with prince Baelor himself.
As Dunk stood in the hall, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Ser,” he heard you address him, not realizing he was in your way. When Dunk turns to look at you. It happened. The world was slowing down, figuratively and literally. Dunk blinked a few times. Has he gone mad? Every sound was stretched out, every breath louder than it should be. Both of you lock eyes with one another, confusion shared. A second passes and everything snaps back to normal. Still, you and Dunk remain transfixed on one another, realization dawning your faces.
And then your name is called from a knight down the hall, informing you your father has been waiting. You nod and move past dunk who steps aside. As you walk down the hall, you glance back for just a second only to see him still staring at you in an almost daze. Dunk cursed silently to himself. Clearly you were a lady, a woman of a higher birth and status. He should leave it be. Yet somehow Dunk found himself watching you again later from across the tourney stands, Egg on his shoulder. And you notice him, trying so hard not to look back for long.
⋆˚࿔ when you find out you're pregnant you're so excited to tell jason, you want to make everything perfect as you can already picture the emotion on his face and his joy. but when you get mugged and lost your baby before you had the chance to tell him you can't give him this pain, so you hide it from him as long as you can, suffering alone as the purest act of love
⋮ request
You wake up in Jason’s bed, curled into the warmth he left behind, his side still clinging to the heat of his body even though he’d slipped out at dawn for patrol follow up with Bruce. He kissed your forehead before leaving, he always did, murmuring a sleepy “Be back soon, sweetheart” before his boots carried him away. And you had smiled into the pillow, your fingers curling around the pregnancy test hidden beneath Jason’s t-shirts in the drawer.
Three weeks. You were three weeks along. Barely a whisper of a life, barely the smallest flicker of existence, but it was there, and you’d been holding the secret so carefully, keeping it tucked inside like something sacred. You had planned to tell Jason tomorrow night. You had planned everything. You’d even cooked an actual dinner reservation, not something you ever do lightly, not something Jason ever did without teasing you, but you wanted it to be special. You imagined the look on his face when you told him, the widening of his eyes, the way his breathing would stutter, the complicated twist of emotions, shock first, of course, then fear (he always felt fear when he cared too much), and then finally that softening he never let anyone see except you.
You imagined his hand trembling when he touched your stomach. You imagined him whispering “We’re gonna be parents?” with that gravelly wonder in his voice. All of that swirls inside your chest as you spend the morning at work pretending everything is normal, even though you’re smiling more than usual, even though you keep touching your stomach in distracted gestures, even though you feel strangely light despite the exhaustion you’ve been carrying for days. You should have known nothing good stays untouched in Gotham, you should have known that even tiny miracles are fragile in this city. You’re walking home after your shift, taking the shortcut Jason always tells you not to take, but the only reason you take it is because you want to get home sooner, you feel nauseous, dizzy, but you tell yourself it’s normal, it happens, it’s early. You don’t notice the men following you until it’s too late. Three of them, shadows peeling themselves from the alley behind the shuttered florist shop.
They don’t look like the usual Gotham scum, they’re too intentional, too quiet, too clean for the chaotic criminals who usually roam the city. The tallest one blocks your exit. “You shouldn’t walk alone this late” he says, but the way he says it tells you this isn’t about robbery. It isn’t even about you. It’s about who you’re connected to. “I don’t want trouble" you manage, stepping back, hand instinctively going to your stomach even though they don’t know. They shouldn’t know. They can’t know. “No trouble,” the man says, too calm. “Just a message.” You try to run, you really do. You fight, too, Jason taught you well, taught you how to kick your way out of a grab, taught you where to aim when someone bigger grabs your arm, taught you to never freeze. And you don’t freeze.
But three against one, and you haven’t eaten properly all day, and nausea hits you like a fist in the gut. They shove you down, your back hits concrete, a foot drives into your ribs. You hear one of them say, “He’ll get the picture.” The world splinters into noise, a ringing in your skull, the cold scrape of pavement against your palms, the jolt of impact when a boot catches your side so close to your abdomen you scream without meaning to. Everything flashes white, then black, then somewhere in between. They leave you there, of course they do, because they’re not trying to kill you, they’re trying to hurt him.
You drag yourself up eventually, shaky and trembling, vomiting once in the gutter from pain. Your hands are shaking so violently you can’t get your phone out at first. You want to call Jason, god, you want to call him so badly, want him to find you, want him to hold you, want to feel safe. But something stops you, because you know what’ll happen if Jason sees you like this. He’ll burn the city down. And worse, you’re terrified of what you already know deep in your bones. You’re terrified something is wrong, terrified that the ache low in your stomach isn’t just bruising, terrified that the small miracle you carried this morning might already be gone.
You get home on autopilot, stumbling into the apartment you share with him, locking the door with hands that don’t feel like your own. You go straight to the bathroom. You barely get there before the pain hits you in a way that steals your breath. It’s sharper than anything you’ve ever felt, an internal collapse, a tearing grief you’ve never known. Blood comes too fast, too much, too bright. You bite your hand to keep from screaming. You know. You know. You know. You slide to the floor and curl forward, forehead against your knees, gasping through the pain and the horror and the realization that the tiny flicker of life didn’t survive the violence you took. You cry, silently, violently, painfully, shaking until your whole body feels hollowed out. And all you can think, again and again, is you were going to tell him tomorrow. Tomorrow. And now there is no tomorrow.
When you finally crawl to the sink to clean yourself up, you stare at your own reflection. You look like someone else, someone emptied, someone scraped raw. You shower until your skin burns, you scrub away the blood, the dirt from the alley, the smell of fear, but nothing takes away the ache, nothing closes the wound inside you. When you step out, the apartment is quiet. Jason isn’t home yet. You’re grateful, you’re terrified, you’re destroyed. You put on one of his hoodies, the big gray one you always steal, because it makes you feel like you’re wearing armor. You sit on the couch and stare at nothing, hands wrapped around your middle.
When the door finally unlocks, your body jerks like you’ve been shot. Jason steps in, tossing his helmet onto the table, shoulders stiff from patrol, hair damp from rain, eyes tired but still sparking when he sees you. “Hey, babe” he says with that softened grin, walking over to kiss you. You go still, frozen, but he doesn’t notice. Not yet. He kisses your temple, warm and safe and so heartbreakingly gentle that it nearly knocks the air out of you. “Why’re you up?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You okay?” You nod, you lie. “Yeah. Just… long day.” Jason sighs, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Tell me about it.” Your throat tightens. You can’t. You can’t breathe the words, you can’t watch his face fall, you can’t watch hope die for a baby he’ll never know existed. So you lean into him instead, carefully, so carefully, resting your head on his chest while he wraps his arms around you without hesitation. His heartbeat thumps steady under your ear. Strong. Alive. Warm. And you break silently against him, eyes burning, throat tight, grief swallowing every corner of you while you keep your body perfectly still, perfectly calm, perfectly composed. He doesn’t know, he has no idea his arms are around someone who is bleeding on the inside.
You bury your face deeper into him so he won’t see the tears slipping down your cheek. He strokes your back and murmurs, “I missed you.” Your lip trembles. You force it still. “Missed you too” you whisper. Your voice cracks, barely, but he doesn’t push, he doesn’t know to push.
You want him to know but you can’t let him know. Not now. Not like this. So you cling to him quietly, sinking into his warmth, while inside you grieve alone for a future that vanished before it ever had the chance to bloom. And Jason holds you, completely unaware that tonight, in the safety of his arms, you are breaking beyond repair.
The days after the attack become a blur, a slow suffocating fog that never lifts, no matter how much sunlight touches the windows, no matter how often Jason reaches for you, no matter how many times you tell yourself to breathe. Every morning you wake with a bruise deep inside yourself that no one can see, every night you lie next to him with your back pressed to his chest, feeling the weight of his arm around your waist and swallowing down the sob that claws up your throat. He sleeps peacefully, unaware. Unaware that you lost something he never even got the chance to dream about, unaware that every time he kisses your stomach absentmindedly, like he always does when he pulls you closer in bed, your entire chest caves in. You get good at pretending. Too good. You laugh when you’re supposed to, you answer when he talks, you smile when he looks at you with those blue eyes that always saw straight through everyone, everyone except you now, because you’re blocking every window, every crack, every opening.
You don’t let him see. You can’t let him see. You tell yourself it’s to protect him. You tell yourself the guilt will destroy him. You tell yourself that if he knew, Jason would blame himself until he bled for it. But the truth is simpler and more selfish: you can’t survive watching the devastation on his face. So you bury it, deeper and deeper, until it feels like you’re walking around with a secret grave inside your ribcage.
Jason notices something is wrong almost instantly. He’s Jason, hyper observant, hyper attuned, made of instincts sharpened by trauma. He starts small. “Babe… you’ve been quiet” “You’re not eating much” “You okay?” “You’re jumpy.” “Did someone bother you?” You brush him off every time and every time it chips at him. He’s patient at first, trying to coax you in those soft ways he only ever shows you, sitting close, resting his hand on your thigh, brushing your hair back behind your ear, murmuring, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” But when weeks pass and you still stay curled inside yourself, he starts pacing more, starts clenching his jaw when he thinks you’re not looking, starts watching you with that particular kind of tension that only Jason Todd can carry, like he’s preparing for a battle he can’t see.
The problem is that Jason doesn’t know how to deal with secrets between the people he loves. He can’t. He’s lived a life full of them, used as weapons against him, used to hurt him, used to betray him. So every day that passes with you shutting him out feels like another betrayal he can’t name out loud. And you feel it. You feel the distance tightening like wire between you both.
Eventually the strain becomes something alive in the apartment, something you both tiptoe around. You start sleeping with your back turned to him, he starts getting home later, staying out longer on patrol, throwing himself into danger with more recklessness than usual. You hear it in his boots when he walks in at 3 am, the heavy, tired, angry stomp of a man who doesn’t want to be asked where he’s been. He still kisses you goodnight, every night. But sometimes the kiss lands on your cheek instead of your lips because you’ve already turned away. Sometimes his hand hovers over your hip but doesn’t settle, like he’s not sure if he’s welcome. And sometimes, those are the ones that break you, he lies down beside you but leaves a few inches of space between your bodies, breathing slow and controlled like he’s holding himself together with nothing but stubbornness. The worst part is that he doesn’t say a word about it. Not one. Jason stays silent, because silence is the only weapon he has left that won’t hurt you. But it hurts anyway. It hurts so much.
A month passes. Then two. Then three. And you think maybe you can just keep pretending until eventually the grief dulls enough that you can tell him the truth without breaking apart. But grief doesn’t dull, it grows teeth, it gnaws at you at unexpected moments, when a child laughs on the street, when you pass a maternity ad, when Jason puts his hand on the small of your back and the instinctive picture of a family flashes before you like a ghost. You start losing sleep, you cry in the shower so he won’t hear, you cling to him at night like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. And he knows. He knows something is wrong but you still say nothing. It gets to the point where he pulls away from a kiss one evening and murmurs, “You don’t want me anymore, do you?” You freeze, your lungs collapse. “What? No, Jason, no—” “Then why won’t you touch me?” His voice cracks on the last word and you realize you’ve hurt him more by hiding the truth than you ever would’ve by saying it. But still, you can’t. You can’t. Not yet, not like this. “I’m just tired” you whisper, lying again, hating yourself for it. Jason nods, jaw tight, eyes hollow. “Right. Tired.” He walks away, you curl into the couch and shake.
Two more weeks pass. You don’t see the explosion coming, not until it hits. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed folding laundry, staring at nothing, drowning in the same grief you carry every day, while Jason storms in, helmet still on, shoulders rigid, breath unsteady like he just barely survived a fight. He pulls off the helmet and slams it onto the dresser so hard the wood cracks. You jump and he notices, his eyes narrow. And something in him just breaks. “Just tell me,” he says, voice low, too controlled. “Tell me what I did.” Your stomach drops. “Jason—” “No.” He steps closer, running a hand through his hair, pacing in small, agitated circles. “No more. No more of this—this silence. This distance. You flinch every time I touch you. You look like you’re drowning and you won’t let me help. So just—fucking tell me what I did wrong.” Your throat closes completely, you shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Then why won’t you let me in?” His voice breaks. It shatters something inside you.
“I can’t lose you” you whisper, trembling, because it’s true, the moment you tell him, you’ll have to face it again. You’ll have to relive it. You’ll have to watch him bleed for something he didn’t even know he’d lost. Jason stares at you, chest heaving. “You’re already losing me.” The words cut through you like a blade. “Jase, no—” “You don’t trust me.” “I do—” “No, you don’t.” His eyes are burning now, blue and furious and heartbroken. “You shut me out. You don’t talk to me. You’re scared of me touching you. And you won’t even tell me why. So maybe you should just say it. Maybe you should tell me you don’t want to be with me anymore.” It’s too much, your chest crumples, the grief twisting so violently you can’t hold it back anymore.
“I lost our baby” you choke, and the words rip out of you like they’ve been waiting, festering, clawing through your throat for months. Silence. The kind that swallows the world. Jason goes absolutely still, every muscle, every breath, every flicker of expression freezing at once. His mouth opens, closes. No sound comes out. Everything pours out in one long, strangled flood. “I was going to tell you the next day—I had everything planned—I was so excited—Jason, I was so happy—and then I was attacked, and I tried to protect them, I tried—” Your body shakes so violently you can barely speak.
“I lost it in the bathroom while you were out on patrol. I was alone. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to hate yourself. And I just—I couldn’t—” Jason’s breathing is uneven, ragged, like someone is squeezing the air out of him. He steps back, a full step away from you like the weight of your words physically pushed him. His chest rises and falls too fast. His hands are shaking. You’ve never seen Jason shake. “We…” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “We had a baby?” You nod, tears streaming down your face. Jason looks like someone just shot him. “And you… you went through that alone?” You sob, he scrubs a hand over his face, pacing backwards again, eyes wide, horrified, shattered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I was scared.” “Of me?” “No. Of course not. Of watching you blame yourself.” He lets out a broken, humorless laugh. “I blame myself anyway.” “Jason—” “I wasn’t there.” His voice is getting louder, wilder, trembling with grief he doesn’t know where to put. “I should’ve been there.” “You didn’t know—” “I’m Red Hood. I’m supposed to protect the people I love. And you—you were out there alone and—god—” He turns away, pressing a fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking. Your heart cracks open watching him break. “Jason,” you whisper, reaching out.
He flinches, not because he doesn’t want you, because he doesn’t believe he deserves to be touched. “I can’t—” his voice fractures, “I can’t look at you right now.” The world stops, your knees go weak. Jason sees it instantly and the horror on his face deepens. “I didn’t mean—fuck—no, baby, I didn’t mean that, I just—” He squeezes his eyes shut, breath shaking. “I’m drowning.” “I know” you whisper, “I know, I am too.” “Why didn’t you let me drown with you sooner?” The question guts you because he’s right, because you kept him outside the pain and now he can’t find his way in. You sit on the bed, covering your face with your hands. Jason stands across the room breathing like he’s trying not to break everything he can reach. And for a long time, neither of you moves. It feels like the end, it really does, like something between you is splintering under the weight of everything you didn’t say.
Hours pass in silence. Eventually Jason sits down beside you, not touching, just close enough that his presence warms the air. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m not mad at you.” You nod weakly, still crying. “I’m mad at the world. At myself. At them.” He swallows. “But not at you.” You look up at him and his face softens in the way only Jason’s can, fierce and grieving and full of impossible love. “We almost lost each other tonight,” he says quietly. You nod. “I don’t want to lose you” you whisper, voice breaking. He reaches out, finally, hesitantly, and cups your face with both hands like you’re something fragile but precious.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “I’m angry and I’m hurting and I’m fucked up, but I’m here.” You break all over again, leaning into his touch, and he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you so tightly you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest. He buries his face in your shoulder and you can feel his tears. Jason Todd does not cry easily but he cries for this, for you, for the child you both lost without ever having the chance to know. “We’ll get through this” he whispers into your neck, voice raw. “It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna take time. But I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”
You cling to him like he’s air, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. And slowly the fracture between you begins to close. Not perfectly, not immediately, but together.
Hey guys, so when I made this post, I was extremely frustrated and annoyed. Now that I’m way more mellowed out and had the chance to read a lot of reactions and responses, let me act my age and actually clarify some things.
First, I want to apologize to those who were deeply upset by my post. My post overall was towards those who claim they don’t write for a specific audience, and yet put specific descriptions in their work. There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with adding certain details to your reader, such as gender or body type. The issue comes in when you don’t properly title and tag it as so, or completely ignore it altogether.
If you see my post as an eye opener and want to change up your work, then you have every right to do so, but please do not think that this is an attack or jive directed at you. It’s just that some of us readers want exactly as promised. That’s like blindfolding someone, telling them that you’re gonna feed them an apple, and then making them bite into a banana - peel and all.
I know some writers have said that they want to be more inclusive in response to my criticism. If that is what you truly want, then by all means, but I cannot stress enough: write what YOU want to write. Do not feel as though you’re being pressured to change what you put out; it’s just a means of how you categorize it.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, respond, and engage with my original post. I truly appreciate the perspectives shared, they’ve helped me see things more clearly and refine my thoughts.
