tilly

21. ad astra per aspera. multi fandom clusterfuck.

[osclogy]

my championship leader

[ragingbookdragon]

I Can’t Believe You’re Dating My Best Friend PT. 1

Batsis x Roy Harper (Arsenal) Story

Word Count: 3.5K Warnings: Explicit Language, Mature Themes

Author’s Note: I edited this so it reads better! Enjoy!- Thorne

*******************************************************************************************

The shrill sound of her ringtone startled her from sleep, and she fumbled along the nightstand beside her for her phone; her thumb slid across the screen and she brought it to her ear, words still laced heavy with sleep. “Mmm…hello?”

A chuckle sounded from the line followed by someone asking, Are you still in bed, babe?

She groaned and rolled over, squinting at the alarm clock. “Boy-Toy, it’s nine A.M. on a Saturday. Yes. I’m still in bed.”

A slight pause came from the line then he muttered, …Well, I can’t say anything because I’m still in bed too.

“Okay, well I actually have a reason for sleeping in. I save Gotham all night. Staying up playing video games isn’t reason for sleeping in.” she retorted.

Keep reading

[iydiamartinx]

TERRITORY, MARKED

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader ft. Dick Grayson

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.1k synopsis: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park—but when his older brother tags along one day and takes a little too much interest, Damian decides one thing for certain: this was not supposed to be a shared friendship. a/n: I got this cute request from @kitkatscabinet hope you liked it 🩵

He didn’t like the noise, the chaos, or the strangers who insisted on asking where his parents were—just because he was twelve and walking around with a dog half his height. The scrutiny was always the same: curious stares, patronizing smiles, or the occasional busybody who seemed convinced he was lost. He wasn’t. He had perfect directional memory and could incapacitate a grown man with two fingers.

But Titus needed exercise, and Alfred had made a rather pointed comment that morning about how “a well-socialized pet is a reflection of his owner’s discipline.”

So here he was, standing stiffly beneath a tree with his arms crossed, watching Titus bound after a tennis ball like a slobbering oaf. His nose wrinkled slightly as a group of women near the water fountain cast him a judgmental look—three of them with toy dogs tucked neatly into designer purses like accessories. Damian could feel the weight of their stares on him and Titus and he was just about ready to call it a day when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s a gorgeous dog,” you said, gaze following Titus. “Yours?”

Damian turned, immediately wary.

He looked you over with practiced suspicion, eyes narrowing just slightly. You were older than him—maybe around Grayson’s age—but you didn’t speak to him with the gratingly high-pitched, patronizing tone adults so often used. There was no forced sweetness, no condescension, no judgment. Not even fear. Just curiosity.

An unclipped leash hung loosely from your fingers, and a husky stood at your side, tail wagging as it trotted toward Titus with a cheerful bark.

“Yes,” Damian replied curtly.

You didn’t flinch at his curt reply. Didn’t backpedal or fill the silence with awkward chatter the way most people did when confronted with Damian’s usual icy demeanour. Instead, you just nodded as your husky bounded up to Titus, sniffing noses and circling excitedly.

“They’ve got good instincts,” you said casually, eyes on the dogs. “Mine doesn’t usually approach ones that size unless they’re friendly.”

Damian followed your gaze. Titus, ever the soldier, stood tall and still, allowing the inspection without so much as a twitch. Then, with a quiet chuff, he gave a single, measured wag of his tail and lowered his head in greeting.

A rare sign of approval.

Damian’s stance eased—just slightly. “…He doesn’t usually tolerate strangers,” Damian said slowly.

You smiled a little at that. “Guess today’s just full of exceptions.”

He studied you again, this time with a shade less suspicion. You didn’t have the overenthusiastic energy most dog people radiated. You weren’t trying to pet Titus without permission, or asking how old he was like he was a child running errands without supervision. You simply stood there, hands in your pockets, content to watch the dogs with quiet interest.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you offered after a beat, though your tone made it clear there was no pressure to respond.

“…Damian,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Damian.”

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then let his gaze return to the dogs. Titus and your husky had taken to one another quickly, and Damian felt another piece of his wall chip when he saw how happy Titus was with his new friend. 

Silence settled between the two of you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You eventually moved to the nearby bench, letting your dog roam in a wide circle with Titus while you scrolled through your phone.

Damian didn’t sit beside you—not right away. But after a few minutes, he shifted his weight. Then stepped closer. Then finally sank onto the far edge of the bench, arms still crossed but no longer on guard.

That was how it started. The next time he saw you, you sent him a friendly wave. The time after that, you offered him a spot beside you. You never pushed for him to speak but eventually he began responding to your idle chatter, until he found himself opening up and talking about his day—about school, about people who annoyed him, about books he liked. Something about you was easy to talk to, you listened with interest, asking questions when needed, and even occasionally talking about your own daily life, which he found oddly… validating. You didn’t treat him like a child and you were smart enough that you could keep up with him. 

Soon, it became a routine. Titus and your dog would charge off together the moment their paws hit the grass, while you and Damian claimed your usual spot beneath the shade. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. Either way, it worked.

Damian had always found it difficult to spend time with kids his age. He didn’t understand them—and frankly, they didn’t understand him. They were loud, immature, easily distracted. The only exception had ever been Jon, and even then, their bond had been forged under very specific circumstances. Neither of them had to hide who they were. They were both born into the life of heroes but And even then, their friendship was… unconventional at best.

Damian rarely connected, even among the other young heroes His surly personality, sharp tongue, and rigid discipline kept most of them at arm’s length. Jon, ever the optimist, was the rare outlier—a ball of sunshine who somehow wormed his way past Damian’s walls with unwavering sincerity. 

You were something entirely different. A civilian. Someone completely outside the world he’d grown up in, that he began considering as a friend.

But, of course, with a family like his, someone was bound to find out eventually. Damian had done his best to keep this to himself—this quiet corner of his life that belonged only to him. He changed his routes, downplayed his outings, gave vague answers when asked where he’d been.

Still, everyone had started to notice the change.

Subtle things, at first. The way he stopped groaning every time he was told to take Titus out. The way he came back from his walks with less tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t snapping as much. Wasn’t muttering under his breath with the same venom he usually reserved for Gotham’s general population.

So when Dick insisted on tagging along one weekend—something about “needing fresh air” and “brotherly bonding”—Damian should’ve known his secret was on borrowed time. His friend, his quiet routine, his piece of normalcy… it was no longer going to be just his.

Still, he thought he’d pulled it off. He left early, ditching Dick. He even took the long way around, doubled back twice just to be sure he wasn’t followed. And it worked—he made it to the park alone. What he hadn’t expected was that Dick would show up anyway. 

“Hey, Dami!”

Damian tensed mid-sentence, shoulders going rigid as if preparing for an ambush. You glanced up in time to see the source of the disruption. With a coffee in one hand, and a leash in the other, the man beamed brightly. An adorable grey puppy trotted beside him, ears bouncing with every step, tongue lolling out in sheer delight. Her leash was slack—more of a formality than a necessity.

Taking a moment to study the man himself, he was tall, handsome, and fit, with bright eyes and a golden grin. There was an easy confidence to him, an effortless charm that told you he was a people person…right up until he saw you.

And then he just—froze.

You offered a polite, amused smile. “You must be his brother.” 

You’d heard Damian complain about his brothers enough to make a pretty solid guess. Drake and Thomas were still juniors—too young to be this guy—and from everything Damian had said about Todd, he sounded more like the leather-jacket, punch-first type. This guy? He was too put-together. Too clean-cut. Too… sunny. Which really only left one option.

Grayson. The apparent golden boy.

Beside you, Damian sighed loudly, rubbing his temples like this entire interaction was causing him physical pain. “Unfortunately.”

Dick blinked. “I—uh—hi. I’m Dick.” He caught the raised brow you gave him and immediately flushed, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. “Richard. Grayson. Dick Grayson. That’s me.”

“…Right,” you said, lips curving into a slightly wider smile. 

Damian didn’t have to look at you to know. He could already feel the secondhand embarrassment crawling up his spine like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He was going to commit fratricide. Right here. In broad daylight.

Meanwhile, you let your gaze drop to the ball of grey fluff at his side, her tail wagging lazily as she sprawled out across the grass like she owned the park.

“And who’s this?” you asked, your tone cooeing.

Dick followed your gaze, smile brightening instantly. “Haley,” he said warmly. “She’s still a bit of a mischief maker, but we’re working on it.”

As if on cue, Haley let out a happy little yip and rolled onto her back, paws curled in the air, clearly angling for attention. You laughed, reaching down to scratch her belly, and she kicked her legs like she’d just won the lottery.

Titus and your dog trotted over from where they’d been playing nearby, drawn by the sight of the unfamiliar puppy. Their postures were relaxed, tails wagging in casual curiosity as they circled around to greet her. Dick crouched down and unclipped Haley’s leash without hesitation, giving her a soft pat on the side.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Haley didn’t need to be told twice. With a delighted bark, she bounded forward to meet the others. Within moments, the three dogs were weaving around each other in playful loops, tails high and tongues lolling, a flurry of paws and joyful energy filling the open stretch of grass.

Pushing past his momentary embarrassment, Dick dropped onto the bench beside you without being asked, angling his body a little too fully in your direction. His smile was quick to return, all easy charm and boyish confidence.

“So,” he said, leaning in slightly. “You’re the mysterious dog park friend. I’ve heard… absolutely nothing about, because apparently someone likes to keep secrets.”

You chuckled, casting an amused glance at Damian. “I didn’t realize I was being kept a secret.”

“You weren’t,” Damian snapped, a little too quickly and defensively. “But my brothers are like rabid dogs who I didn’t want scaring you off.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, clearly amused instead of offended. “Scaring her off? What, do we bark too loud or something?”

You snorted. “The more important question is, do you bite?”

“Only when threatened,” Dick said with a wink. Then he leaned in just a fraction, pitching his voice low enough that, presumably, only you would hear. “Or when asked.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. There was a spark in his eyes, teasing and a little too pleased with himself, and you hated how easily it made heat crawl up the back of your neck.

You were cut off by Damian’s groan as he saw the look you two shared, slumping back against the bench with the kind of dramatized misery usually reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. “You see? This is why I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Aw, come on, Dami,” Dick teased, nudging his little brother with his elbow. “Don’t be like that. It’s not my fault our new friend is cute.”

Your lips parted in surprise, a soft huff of laughter escaping before you could stop it. 

“She is not our friend,” Damian muttered.

You turned toward him, brow arching with interest. “Oh?” you said, drawing the word out, clearly amused. “So what am I?”

Damian opened his mouth, paused, frowned like the question had personally offended him. “You’re… mi—my,” he settled on, vaguely flustered. “My friend. Not his.”

Dick raised his brows, then gave a low chuckle, the sound soft and unbothered. “Hey, no one said she can’t be friends with both of us.”

Then he glanced your way, that familiar glint in his eyes.

“Though I wouldn’t mind being a little more than friends.”

Your heart skipped, just once, and the way his smile deepened told you he noticed your flushed cheeks.

From beside you, Damian huffed, arms crossed tight. “I just didn’t introduce her because I didn’t want you hitting on her,” he grumbled.

Your smile softened as you leaned back against the bench. “Don’t worry, Dami. You’ll always be my favourite.”

He nodded like that settled the matter entirely, posture relaxing ever so slightly as he turned his attention back to the three dogs still tumbling across the grass.

But the moment his gaze was elsewhere, Dick leaned in again, his voice low and smooth.

“What do you say to dinner?” he murmured, the words warm against the air between you. “Give me a chance to change your mind about your favourite.”

You turned your head toward him, brow raised, a smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes flicked to Damian—still fully distracted— before looking back at Dick, biting your lip.

“It’s a date.”

Next Chapter →

[latedeparture]

Uuuuhh... can I get a fic with Damian high on meds after having a surgery.... with extra drama in the form of him having a secret relationship, and asking for her(reader) while drugged.... uhh with a side of fluff hold the angst .... that's all thank you

Love ur fics sm, have a great day/night

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓗ALF-𝓐WAKE, 𝓦HOLLY 𝓨OURS !!

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x fem!reader

꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian gets knocked out during a mission and wakes up post-surgery with enough pain meds in his system to dissolve every wall he’s ever built. you’re supposed to be secret, but he exposes your relationship, obliterated by narcotics and his complete inability to hide how deeply he’s attached to you.

WAYNE MEDICAL WING LIGHTS WERE TOO BRIGHT for someone who’d just stopped being technically unconscious, but damian surfaced like someone annoyed at being dragged from a nap he didn’t consent to, an insult so personal his eyelids twitched before they even opened. the brightness pressed through his skull like it was trying to etch itself directly into his brain. sterile white, the kind that had never once existed in a place he trusted. he cracked his eyes open anyway.

bad choice.

the ceiling came into focus in pieces: harsh tiles, vents humming cold air downward, a hairline crack near the corner he’d catalogued months ago during someone else’s medical emergency. except this time it wasn’t someone else lying flat on their back in a bed built for recovery and compliance. it was him. which meant something had already gone terribly wrong.

the sheets were tucked too tightly, pinning him with all the subtlety of a net trap. the IV line tugged whenever he moved his fingers. his throat tasted dry, surgical dryness, not dehydration, and every breath carried that over-sterile antiseptic scent that hospitals diffused like perfume. it stung in a way memory recognized before consciousness did.

he hated it. he hated it viscerally, instinctively, the way you hate an enemy you’ve fought before.

a chair creaked. dick. of course. no one else sat that way, half-slouched, half-alert, like a golden retriever trying to look responsible. “hey, baby bat,” dick welcomed softly, which was exactly the wrong volume. “back with us?”

damian squinted at him as if being spoken to was rude. his voice, when it came, sounded like someone had replaced his mouth with cement. “why,” he croaked, blinking slowly, “are you here.”

“you had surgery.”

damian paused like the word needed to be decoded. then his eyebrows knit together, slow, offended, gradually outraged. “i didn’t agree to that.”

dick huffed a tired laugh. “yeah, well… it was kind of an emergency. and you were unconscious. and also? you literally signed the consent form before the anesthesia.”

damian stared at him, long and unimpressed. “forged.”

“it wasn’t forged.”

“i do not sign things.”

“you sign things all the time.”

damian shut his eyes briefly, like acknowledging that was beneath him. then he opened them again, narrower, sharper, but the effect was ruined by how unfocused the pupils were, drifting like his thoughts kept hitting walls before reaching their destination. the air was too clean. the lights too white. the smell coiled into his chest and pulled memories he’d rather leave buried, metal tools, cold hands, the way the world looked when he was small and helpless and expected to endure instead of resist. nothing specific, just impressions. sensations. hospitals always woke old ghosts.

his jaw tightened. he wasn’t supposed to be the one in this bed. he didn’t get hurt. not enough to be downed like this. the last patrol replayed in flashes — a blade catching him off-balance, the impact hot, surprising. he remembered the pain, but not falling. not blacking out. that made his stomach twist.

failure. vulnerability. unacceptable.

dick watched him with that older-brother sensitivity that always made damian bristle, like being perceived was an attack. “before you say anything,” dick added, “you did not lose the fight. you didn’t mess up. you got blindsided by a meta with a strength boost and you still managed to take him down. you just… didn’t stay upright afterward.”

damian glared. “i don’t recall being horizontal.”

“because you passed out.”

another glare. this one personal. dick raised his hands. “don’t look at me like that. i didn’t make you lose consciousness.”

damian’s fingers twitched against the sheets. the fabric felt wrong, stiff, overwashed, hospital-issue. the kind meant for patients who stayed still. he hated being still. he shifted slightly, and something tugged sharply at the back of his hand. his gaze snapped downward.

an IV. taped in place. tubing snaked up to a bag overhead, dripping fluid into his bloodstream without permission. his entire expression went cold. “remove it.”

dick inhaled sharply. “damian—”

“remove it.”

“don’t— okay, don’t—” dick took two hurried steps forward as damian’s fingers curled around the line. “don’t you dare pull that out. i mean it. don’t.”

“i am not a lab specimen.”

“you’re not,” dick agreed. “you’re someone who needs fluids and pain meds because you were— what’s the word— oh yeah— stabbed.”

“it was minor.”

“it was internal.”

damian blinked at him, insulted. “i don’t want it.”

“too bad.”

there was tension in damian’s shoulders. that hyper-focused alertness from childhood, when beds were places you recovered because you weren’t allowed to move, not because someone cared. his muscles remembered even when he didn’t think about it. his back never fully pressed to the mattress, his hands never fully relaxed. his breath always came measured, as if steadying itself for violence. the medical wing amplified that tension. the smell. the lights. the machines. everything too reminiscent of control.

he’d been so busy cataloguing exits and shadows and the exact height of the IV stand that he hadn’t even noticed how his own body felt until—

oh.

there it was.

the meds hit him. that soft, warm fog rolling in, blurring everything he tried to focus on. his thoughts glitched, trying to line up in formation and instead tripping over themselves. “grayson,” he said, voice suspicious, “did you put something in my blood?”

dick, who’d been leaning on the side of the bed like a worried parent pretending not to be one, blinked back. “uh—no, bud. you were asleep during the operation, remember? anesthesia? pain meds?”

damian stared at him like dick had just recited a riddle in an unfamiliar dialect. “i was… asleep,” damian repeated. “you let them do that.”

“you needed them to do that.” dick corrected.

damian’s eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by how glazed they looked. “i do not need unconsciousness to survive.”

“you do when your insides are trying to become your outsides.” dick muttered.

damian ignored him entirely, still watching him with a narrowing-bandwidth intensity. “you allowed it.”

“you signed the form.”

“forged,” damian said, again, instantly, with the complete confidence of someone who barely remembered what a pen was. “i would not voluntarily be medically compromised.”

“it wasn’t forged,” dick sighed. “you filled it out. you even wrote your full name at the bottom—very neatly, might i add.”

damian frowned like he was conspiring against him. he opened his mouth to deny it… but then a wave of dizziness rolled through him, like someone had tipped the room on its axis. he went still. his eyes went a little wide. “i feel… peculiar.”

“that’s the painkillers.”

“i dislike them.”

“i can tell.”

damian shifted, which was a mistake, his brain lagged behind the movement by a full second, like his consciousness had to sprint to catch up with his body. “my head is—” he paused, searching the ceiling as if the correct vocabulary word was written there. “—float-adjacent.”

“you’re high, dami.”

“i am not—” damian began, then stopped mid-denial, staring at the wall with deep betrayal. “i am.”

“yep.”

“i dislike this.”

“we’ve got that part,” dick said gently. “but you’re safe. and you’re okay. and it’s temporary.”

damian’s eyes tracked dick’s face like it was the only stable object in a shifting landscape. his brow furrowed with an almost childlike confusion. “i… don’t remember agreeing,” he murmured. “or anything. i was… focused. then pain.” he paused, blinked. “…then nothing.”

“that’s normal.”

“…where’s—”

but the name got lost on damian’s tongue.

not forgotten, more like the conveyor belt of his brain jammed halfway through delivering it. he blinked, confused, mouth still slightly open like the word might tumble out if he waited long enough. dick straightened, alert. “where’s who, bud?”

damian stared back at him, unfocused. something flickered behind his eyes, something searching, reaching. but whatever it was refused to surface. his brows knit, annoyed at his own mind for failing him. “…i don’t—” he frowned, as if the thought had slipped between his fingers. “i knew it. i know it. i just… can’t… hold it.”

dick softened. “hey. it’s okay. you’re still coming out of anesthesia.”

“i dislike that.”

“i know.”

“it makes me stupid.”

dick smiled. “you’re not stupid.”

“i am,” damian insisted, deadly serious. “my brain is… delayed. treacherous.”

“you’re just drugged, kiddo.”

damian frowned. the door opened before dick could say anything else, tim walking in first, rubbing his eyes, followed by cass. tim raised his coffee cup. “look who’s conscious.”

cass tipped her head.

damian’s eyes snapped to them—well, halfway. they snapped, stalled, then drifted into their direction like his neurons were buffering. “you are loud,” damian announced.

tim blinked. “we… didn’t say anything.”

“your face is loud.”

tim nodded solemnly. “makes sense.”

cass stepped closer, tracking damian’s micro-movements with an ease that came from years of knowing how to read bodies better than minds. damian tried—tried—to push himself up. his arm trembled. his shoulder lifted a fraction. cass reached out with one finger and pressed it lightly to his sternum. damian went down like gravity had increased selectively on his body alone. his eyes went wide. “that is unfair.”

cass offered a tiny smile. “doctor’s orders.”

“i do not listen to orders.”

“you listened to hers.” tim added dryly.

damian glared at him. or tried to. the effect was softened by the fact his eyelids kept drooping like they were too heavy. “she cheated,” damian muttered.

cass watched the way damian’s eyes refused to work with him and smiled shyly. “you’re high.”

“i am not—” damian started, then hesitated, as if realizing halfway through the lie that he didn’t have the cognitive precision to pull it off. “i am… moderately under the influence.”

“that’s one way to put it.” tim mumbled.

damian’s head tilted back toward dick like his mind was circling back to unfinished business. “i was asking.”

“about who?” dick asked.

damian stared at him again. long, slow, pondering with the full force of a malfunctioning operating system. he opened his mouth, then closed it. frustration etched across his face. “…gone,” he said finally. “i lost it.”

“it’ll come back.”

“i hate this,” damian declared. “i hate hospitals. i hate beds. i hate drugs. i hate this room. i hate—”

“oh boy,” tim breathed. “here we go.”

damian lifted one hand. studied it. flexed his fingers—delayed, clumsy. he stared like his own hand had betrayed him. “my reaction speed is compromised. this is humiliating.”

“don’t worry,” tim said cheerfully. “we’re taking mental notes.”

damian shot him a bleary glare. “i will end you.”

“in your current state?” tim asked. “you couldn’t even end a game of tic-tac-toe.”

“i could,” damian insisted, leaning forward as if to intimidate him, except his torso only made it two inches up before cass’s finger sent him right back down again. damian let out a low, affronted noise. “stop that.” he told her.

she shook her head.

damian’s eyes narrowed, then drifted, then narrowed again as if the glare needed to be reinstalled every few seconds. he sighed, long and dramatic. “i should not be in this bed.”

“you were stabbed,” dick said gently.

“everyone gets stabbed.”

“not in the liver.” tim said, absolutely delighted to be here, absolutely delighted that damian wasn’t at full power to stop him.

damian blinked. “my liver?”

“yes.”

he frowned, deeply betrayed. “i use that.”

“not today you don’t.”

damian ignored him, attention wandering again, circling back toward the hole in his memory like a bee drawn repeatedly to the same window. tim rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, grin already sharpening. “so,” he began casually, “speaking of things you ‘use,’ want to talk about the stuff you were saying while you were unconscious?”

dick’s head snapped toward him. “tim. no.”

tim ignored him completely. “because wow. i didn’t know you had a romantic side. like—it was actually kind of sweet? a little embarrassing? honestly extremely embarrassing.”

damian’s face twisted. “what are you—”

“you kept saying,” tim continued, pitching his voice into a dreamy falsetto, “‘my beloved… come back… come here… where are you…’” he clutched his chest dramatically.

“I did not say that,” damian barked, though it came out slightly slurred, tragically soft, devastatingly unthreatening. “drake is lying.” damian announced to the ceiling, as if the ceiling could issue a rebuttal.

except —- then damian froze, not visibly, internally, like someone had pulled the emergency brake on his thoughts. the hazy warmth in his veins pulsed, rising like heat behind his ears. something in his chest tightened, memory stirring sluggishly but insistently. the drugs softened everything except that. that memory. that wanting.

the warmth in his bloodstream pulsed again, stronger, like a tide he couldn’t fight. he blinked slowly, vision blooming and fading at the edges, and in the middle of that blur, something clear rose to the surface. you.

your face. your voice. your hands brushing the hair off his forehead last week. your breath against his neck in the quiet hours. your laugh that he pretended didn’t undo him. he inhaled sharply, like the thought of you punched through the haze. tim, seeing the shift, took a step back. he knew this was no longer teasing territory, this was damian’s guard dissolving in real time. dick moved a little closer. “damian?”

damian blinked again. confusion, longing, frustration, and beneath all of it, a tenderness so raw it seemed to surprise even him. “where’s…” his voice wobbled, more breath than sound. “(y/n)?”

tim’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. cass’s head tilted, studying him. damian didn’t notice their reactions—didn’t even register that he’d slipped. the meds made the truth feel natural, inevitable, impossible to contain.

“i want her here.”

dick blinked rapidly. “her?”

“yes, her,” damian muttered like they were stupid for being confused, tone clipped but dreamy, like he was trying to be irritated through marshmallow fog. “she should be here.”

dick tried gently, “who—”

“(y/n).” damian snapped. “the one i— the one who—” he cut himself off, annoyed at how hard the words suddenly were. his tongue felt slow. his brain fuzzed.

everything except the wanting.

“i’d much rather be with her than you guys.”

damian pushed on, voice dipping into something warm and unrestrained and utterly unlike him. “she doesn’t talk so loudly,” he mumbled, glaring at tim for existing. “and she doesn’t hover.” a pointed look at dick. “and she’s gentle.” he added, a little dreamily, glancing at cass.

cass’s eyes softened. dick’s heart did a little somersault. tim opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. damian continued, because the drugs had him rambling, pouring out affection he’d buried so deep even he forgot it was there. “and she smells nice,” he said, brows furrowing like this was deeply important. “and she holds my hand when i’m hurt. why isn’t she here.”

“d,” dick said softly, “we… didn’t know she existed.”

“that’s not my problem.” damian glared at the wall. “she should be here.” he shifted, trying to sit up, but cass stopped him again. he slumped back instantly, blinking up at her like she’d just used dark magic. “i need to talk to her,” damian insisted. “she’s probably worried.”

damian’s face, already soft from the medication, creased in a way none of them had ever seen. not anger, not annoyance, something else. something gentler. unguarded. dangerously unguarded.

he frowned. a slow, heartbreakingly earnest frown. “…she should be here,” he murmured again, more wounded this time, as if the room’s failure to produce you was a insult.

tim whispered, “we’re in uncharted territory,” like a man narrating a nature documentary about a dangerous, delicate creature.

dick pulled a chair closer. “we’re not keeping her from you,” he said. “no one knew you wanted her here.”

damian scowled. “i always want her here.”

tim choked on a laugh. cass elbowed him. but damian wasn’t done—if anything the words were pouring out faster now, because every thought of you made the meds tug him deeper into that warm, floaty honesty. “she knows how to touch my hair the right way,” he admitted, cheeks flushing faintly. “you don’t just— you have to go with the grain, not against the—” he gestured vaguely at his head, missing by several inches. “she knows. why isn’t she here.”

“she doesn’t know you’re awake.”

“you should have told her,” damian argued, scandalized. “you should have— obviously you should have—” his breath stuttered, foggy frustration ripping through him. “i want her.” he repeated, smaller.

“okay,” dick said. “okay. we’ll get her. just… try to relax.”

damian tried to glare, but it melted halfway into a woozy pout. “i won’t relax until she’s here.”

dick exhaled, long-suffering but soft. “i’ll call her. just—stay in the bed. stay horizontal. stay… not ripping out your IV.”

damian made a grumpy sound that was supposed to be dignified and was absolutely not.

you arrived like someone who had run every red light between your apartment and the wayne medical wing. you hadn’t even finished tying your shoes when the call came—an unfamiliar number flashing on your screen, a clipped voice saying, “hi, uh, this is dick grayson—damian’s brother—please don’t panic, he’s okay, but he’s asking for you and we… think you should come.”

you barely remembered hanging up. or grabbing keys. or the elevator door almost closing on your shoulder. ten minutes, maybe eleven, but it felt like one long breath held in your chest. in those ten minutes, everything in your head spun: damian doesn’t get hurt. damian doesn’t call for anyone. damian doesn’t need.

so what could’ve happened for dick to sound like that? what could’ve happened for damian to ask for you?

the security staff let you through without question—dick must’ve put your name on some list, because no wayne employee is normally that chill about strangers sprinting through sterile hallways with fear in their eyes.

your boots echoed off polished floors. the medical wing always had that cold, expensive, unnecessarily white look—a place built to fix bodies, not calm nerves. you followed the signs, heart hammering, palms damp.

room 3B.

your hand hovered on the handle for half a second—half a breath—because you had no idea what version of damian you’d find on the other side of the door. injured damian? angry damian? scared damian?

you pushed the door open.

damian had not relaxed. if anything, he had stewed, curled miserably in a hospital bed that looked like it was offending his entire lineage by existing. his hair was a mess. his eyes were half-lidded and glassy. a deep, irritable crease sat between his brows.

when you stepped in, the room shifted. dick straightened in his chair, relief flooding him. tim blinked like he couldn’t believe you were a real person. cass smiled at you like she’d expected this all along. but damian—

damian’s eyes snapped open like someone had turned the sun directly toward him. the transformation was instant. his whole face softened and brightened all at once, surprise flickering into recognition, recognition melting into something warm and wreckingly tender. “beloved,” he breathed.

and it was so quiet.

then he tried—immediately, stupidly, disastrously—to sit up. “no—no, no,” dick sputtered, grabbing his shoulder, flattening him instantly.

damian blinked up at him, betrayed for the thirtieth time today.

but then his gaze dragged back to you, heavy, warm, intoxicated—not just by meds but by relief. “you’re here. finally.”

your heart dropped somewhere into your stomach. “of course i came,” you started, glancing wearily at everyone in the room but stepping closer. “you called for me.”

“i needed you,” he said, so matter-of-factly it felt like the room stopped breathing. “i told them. repeatedly. they were slow.”

“hey—”

dick shot tim a glare.

damian reached for you without hesitation, fingers outstretched, messy and uncoordinated but desperate. cass gently caught his wrist to keep him from yanking at his IV. “come here,” damian insisted, eyes locked on yours. “i hate this place. i hate all of them.” he gestured vaguely at his siblings. “i want you.”

your lungs forgot how to work. “dami,” you murmured, stepping to his bedside, taking his free hand carefully—careful because he was loopy, careful because he was fragile, careful because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of fog.

he exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief the moment your skin touched his. “yes. that. stay.”

and suddenly you’re the idiot standing in a hospital room surrounded by the waynes. you don’t look at any of them. you can’t. eye contact feels like a trapdoor.

because this is the exact scenario damian spent months avoiding. the one he insisted would “complicate matters” or “invite unnecessary scrutiny” or “destroy our operational advantage,” which was his very dramatic way of saying he didn’t want his family to know he had feelings like a human being.

and now he’s clinging to your wrist like a toddler afraid you’ll evaporate. your voice tries to work but it comes out small. “uh… okay. i’m here. not going anywhere.”

dick makes a soft, amazed sound, like he’s watching a wild animal eat out of someone’s hand for the first time. tim is frozen in place, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to run a facial-recognition scan on the situation. cass just looks deeply entertained. damian doesn’t notice any of it. he’s too busy hauling your hand into his chest like he needs the pressure to stay anchored.

he nudges closer to you on the pillow—well, he attempts to, but he’s so high that the movement is less “smooth shift” and more “gentle toppling.” you catch him before he face-plants, hands awkward around his shoulders, and he… softens. actually softens. melts into your touch like he’s never heard of pride in his life. “don’t leave,” he mutters. “they’re awful. you’re the only tolerable one.”

his siblings watch this happen with the energy of people witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. your heart does something inconvenient. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say again, softer.

he’s going to regret every single word of this when the pain meds wear off. damian relaxes immediately, head tipping toward you, completely unconcerned that half his family is witnessing this emotional striptease he’ll definitely deny later. then his hand paws clumsily at the air until it finds yours again. he drags it to his chest, then up toward his jaw, nudging, nudging, nudging like a disgruntled cat demanding to be held exactly the right way. you blink down at him. “what are you doing.”

“you know what i’m doing,” he mutters, pushing your palm against his cheek like he’s molding clay. “closer.”

“i am close.”

“not enough.” a pout forms soft lower lip pushed forward in wounded royalty. “you’re supposed to…” he gestures with his other hand, fingers fluttering like he’s trying to summon the word. “kiss me.”

your body goes rigid. “damian. your entire family is three feet away.”

tim chokes on spit. dick makes a strangled noise. cass is already covering her smile with her hand. dick, bless him, claps his hands together. “alright! great time to take a break. we’re gonna… uh… give you two some space.”

“a lot of space,” tim adds, sprinting for the door like the room is on fire.

cass pauses beside the doorway, gives you a thumbs-up, then closes the door behind them. immediately, muffled bickering erupts.

“you didn’t record that?”

“i’m not filming our brother in the hospital!”

“coward.”

“guys, shut up—”

“i can’t believe he said kiss me—”

“cass stop laughing—”

“OH my god—”

you drag a hand down your face. “this is mortifying.”

damian doesn’t care. damian cares zero percent. damian is busy guiding your hand back to his cheek and pressing into it like it’s a heat source keeping him alive. “they’re idiots,” he announces, voice thick with anesthesia and indignation. “loud. insufferable. invasive.” he blinks heavily, lashes brushing your wrist. “i’m glad they’re gone.”

“they’re right outside the door still arguing.”

“they’re always arguing,” he says, sleepy venom coating every syllable. “they argue about toast.”

you try not to smile. “and you don’t?”

“i argue with purpose.” he says this with the gravitas of a dying king. “they argue because they’re incompetent.” his fingers curl around your wrist and he tries to tug you closer again. “come here,” he murmurs, cheeks pink from more than medication. “you’re being difficult.”

“i’m being respectful.” you correct.

he frowns. actually frowns, like you’ve just informed him gravity is optional now. “disgusting.” he sighs like a martyr. “just kiss me.”

his fingers skate clumsily up your wrist, slipping twice before finally hooking behind your hand, dragging it back to his cheek with the determination of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. his pulse flutters beneath your palm, fluttery in that way that tells you the meds are hitting harder. “i need one,” he murmurs, barely audible. “just—one.”

“damian—”

“please,” he whispers. he looks at you like you’re the single point of focus in a world that’s tilting. pupils blown, cheeks flushed with medication and emotion he can’t register enough to restrain. he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open, to hold onto you, to stay with you in the haze.

the battle between logic and instinct lasts all of four seconds. maybe less. you lean in, careful, so he can pull back if he wants. he doesn’t. he meets you halfway, or at least tries to, except he misjudges the distance and bumps your chin first, blinking like the world betrayed him again. you soften. cup the side of his face, steady him, then you kiss him.

it’s gentle. warm. barely there at first, just the press of your mouth against his, letting him feel it, understand it. his breath catches, a soft inhale against your lips like he can’t believe he got what he asked for. then the tension melts out of him all at once. his shoulders sag. his hand slides up to clutch weakly at your shirt. he makes this tiny, involuntary sound—half sigh, half relief—like the kiss untied some knot inside him he didn’t know was choking him. he kisses you back clumsily, lazily, chasing the contact with unfocused devotion. the kind of kiss that says i’m not fully here, but what i feel for you is.

when you finally pull back—because he’s still recovering—his eyes remain closed for a moment, like reality hasn’t quite caught up. they open, glazed and adoring in a way he will absolutely deny to the grave. “that,” he murmurs, voice dropping like he’s drifting toward sleep. “better.”

you smooth his hair back gently. “yeah?”

he nods against your hand, eyelids lowering again. “you fixed the… everything.” his lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the energy. “kiss me again later.”

you can’t help it. you laugh. “we’ll see.”

he hums—hums, like he’s some exhausted, medicated cat settling into sun-warm sheets instead of a post-surgery assassin with a reputation to maintain. for a few minutes, everything is strangely easy. soft. he drifts in and out, eyes half-lidded, expression mellow in a way that would terrify gotham’s criminal underground. he asks you three questions in a row (“what time is it… why does the ceiling breathe… can you make the bed stop tilting?”), only for his attention to wander halfway through the third answer.

you stroke his hair and he melts like warm wax, that stiffness he always carries dissolving like you’re seeing a piece of him that only exists under anesthesia and around you. “you should rest,” you observe.

“i am resting.” he sounds offended you’d suggest otherwise. “i’m the picture of—” he yawns without warning. “—discipline.”

“sure,” you say, hand smoothing down his cheek. “very disciplined.”

he narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by how heavy his eyelids are. “mockery is unbecoming.” he drifts again, fingers twitching once like he wants to pull you even closer but can’t muster the energy. ten more seconds pass before he murmurs, barely audible, “don’t be gone long.”

your chest folds in on itself. “i won’t.”

but you still have to go. he needs his siblings updated. you need to breathe something other than recycled medical-wing air. and—let’s be honest—you need to apologize for walking in and accidentally detonating a family-secret bomb.

you pry his hand gently off your shirt, not easy, because he makes a soft, grumpy noise at the loss, and settle it over his blanket. “i’ll be right back,” you whisper.

he scowls, soft and half-asleep. “you better.”

you slip out. the door clicks shut behind you, and immediately, the hallway noise stops. immediately. like a switch. one second there’s muffled arguing, sharp whispers, annoyed sighs, something that sounds suspiciously like tim saying “that’s not fair, cass, you can’t hit people in a debate—”

and the next? dead silent.

you step fully into the corridor. three faces turn to you at once, frozen mid-conflict like you just walked in on a crime scene. dick stands with his arms out like he was physically separating people. tim looks defensive, hands half-raised, mouth half-open. cass is calmly holding what looks like tim’s hoodie string, like she’s been yanking him back into line.

they all stare. you blink. “…hi,” you say. it comes out small. painfully polite. the kind of greeting you use when you’ve just barged into the batfamily’s private meltdown because your secret boyfriend couldn’t keep quiet on morphine.

dick straightens so fast you actually hear the click of his spine. “hi! hey! um. hi. wow. okay. you—you came out.”

tim elbows him. “of course she came out, she used the door—”

cass smacks the back of his head without looking.

“ow???”

you exhale slowly. “so… um. i guess i should say—sorry? for all of that? he’s… not usually like this.”

three pairs of eyes give you the exact same expression:

oh we know.

you swallow, fingers twisting together because suddenly you’re seventeen again and meeting someone’s parents in a too-small living room where everyone is staring. “right,” you say. “um. so. i’m—” the word lodges in your throat. girlfriend.

technically true. emotionally true. secretly true. publicly, though… this was supposed to come out months from now. carefully. intentionally. maybe after damian finished having a internal breakdown about letting anyone know he had feelings at all. definitely not in a fluorescent hallway with him high on enough pain meds to take down a rhinoceros.

you clear your throat. “i’m… his—”

they all lean in a fraction. like wolves scenting vulnerability.

“—girlfriend.”

silence. not the casual kind. not the “oh okay” kind. no. this is the thick, suffocating, batfamily kind of silence, where shock ricochets between them. you want to die.

“wow,” dick finally says, voice high and bright and absolutely panicked. “so you’re—uh—wow. okay.”

tim takes a step back from you like you’re a rare cryptid. “wait, wait. damian—our damian—has a secret girlfriend and he didn’t tell anyone?”

“it wasn’t—” you rub your face. “it wasn’t my idea to keep it secret.”

every head turns toward the door behind you. the door damian is behind. three simultaneous: “of course it wasn’t.”

you sigh. “he didn’t… want the attention. or the questions. or the—” you gesture vaguely at the cluster of energy in front of you “—this.”

dick nods so hard you’re briefly concerned for him. “yeah. okay. right.”

tim crosses his arms. “he trusts none of us with his personal life. unbelievable.”

cass tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “he likes her,” she says simply.

everyone turns to her, startled by the rare verbal input. she shrugs. “i watch him.”

you’re still mortified.“i’m sorry,” you say again, because apologizing feels easier than existing in this moment.

“no, no,” dick insists. “don’t apologize. we’re just—processing.”

“poorly.” tim adds.

“yes, poorly.”

you glance at the door, then back to them. “he… didn’t mean to tell you. he’s just… really high.

tim snorts. “yeah, we noticed.”

but then—dick softens. visibly. his whole posture loosens. “we’re… glad you’re here. really.”

cass nods once. tim looks like he wants to be annoyed, but deep down, he’s already building a spreadsheet called damian’s girlfriend: things to investigate. you inhale, steadying yourself. this is fine. you’re here. damian’s safe. they’re… intimidating, but also weirdly welcoming in a way. dick takes a half-step toward the door. “he’s probably freaking out that you’re gone.”

you grimace. “…yeah. he’s not subtle right now.”

tim snorts. “understatement of the century.”

you all slip back into the room—well, you walk in, and the batfamily kind of fans in behind you like an unnecessarily dramatic procession—and immediately you’re met with a very specific sound: damian huffing.

he’s upright again, God knows how he managed it with stitches and sedation, blanket bunched around his waist, hair a complete disaster, eyes sharp but unfocused and dark with irritation. he looks like someone who’s been abandoned in a desert for hours, not eight minutes. the second he sees you, everything in him unclenches. the frown softens. the shoulders drop. the tension behind his eyes dissolves like sugar in tea. “finally.”

you take a slow breath. “i was gone for like ten minutes.”

“ten minutes,” he repeats, scandalized. “i could have died.”

dick, behind you, mouths jesus christ into his hands.

you step closer and damian instantly reaches for you, hands out, grabby, zero dignity, all instinct. he looks like he’s two seconds from climbing out of bed and onto you. “i told you,” he mutters, leaning toward you with the gravity of someone confessing state secrets, “i can’t sleep without you.”

your brain stalls. his siblings collectively short-circuit behind you. “you’ve… never said that.”

“i’m saying it now.” he tries to sit up even straighter, immediately winces, then stubbornly ignores the pain. “i hate it when you disappear. it’s—” he squints, trying to find the word in the fog of anesthetic swimming through him, “—unacceptable.”

“unacceptable,” tim echoes under his breath, shaking his head like this is the best day of his life.

damian hears it and snaps—not very effectively, because it’s slurred and soft and deeply non-threatening—“shut up, drake.” then he turns back to you, expression going gentle again so fast it’s whiplash. “come here,” he says, voice lower, sleepy, warm. “please.”

you move without thinking. “better,” he mumbles, leaning into your palm. Leaning. “i hate hospitals.”

“i know you do.”

“they smell like fear and bleach. drake smells like bleach too. it’s suspicious.”

tim throws both hands up. “what—why—what did i even do?!”

damian doesn’t answer, mostly because something else catches his attention. his gaze drifts back toward the IV taped to his hand like he’s just spotted an enemy combatant. “…it’s still there,” he mutters darkly.

you can practically hear dick’s soul leave his body. “damian—”

too late.

damian’s fingers curl, determined and clumsy, reaching for the line like he’s about to solve all his problems via self-sabotage “nope,” you say quickly, sliding your hand over his before he can yank. “don’t start with that.”

he blinks at you, startled. “but it’s in me.”

“yes,” you say calmly, “and it’s supposed to be. if you pull it out, it’s going to hurt, you’ll bleed everywhere, and dr. thompson will throw a fit.”

damian glowers at the IV like it personally betrayed him. “i do not consent to its presence.”

“tough,” you say softly. “leave it.”

and something miraculous happens.

he listens.

he actually stops. his fingers relax under yours, he gives one final deeply offended exhale, then slumps back against the pillow, letting you guide his hand away from the tubing entirely. dick stares at the exchange like he just watched a unicorn descend from the ceiling. “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

tim narrows his eyes. “yeah, no, I want that in writing. he listened? willingly?”

damian doesn’t even look at them. his attention is fully back on you, as if he’s forgotten anyone else exists. “you’re better at giving orders,” he mumbles, voice slurred and honest.

your eyebrows shoot up. “i didn’t give an order.”

“yes you did,” he insists, even poutier now. “and i liked it.”

tim chokes. you press a hand over damian’s, trying not to laugh. “okay. well. thank you for listening.”

“i listen to you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “you make sense.”

and then—inevitably—damian’s gaze drifts, catches something on the wall-mounted TV across from the bed, and brightens in a way that is actually alarming. “tch. finally,” he mutters. “something decent.” it’s… an anime. some shonen fight scene paused on a commercial break. “they always have commercials on. americans have no discipline.”

“do you—watch that one?”

“i watch everything,” he says, as if this is another well-known fact. “i have criteria.”

“criteria,” tim echoes. “oh this I gotta hear.”

damian lifts a finger dramatically, like he’s addressing a senate hearing. “strong character arcs. accurate sword technique. no filler episodes.” he narrows his eyes like the concept personally offended him. “most of them… disgraceful.”

and then—god help you—he turns his head toward you and says, in a tone so earnest it almost knocks you over: “if i recommended shows to you, you would watch them. properly.”

tim inhales sharply. “are you ASKING her to watch anime with you? publicly? in front of witnesses?”

damian blinks once. twice. “yes?” he says, baffled that this is even a question. “why wouldn’t i? she listens.”

dick puts a hand over his heart. “this is the most emotion he’s displayed since he was born.”

damian ignores him completely because a new thought has struck him, and he must share it immediately or die.

“and she likes animals,” he says. “this matters.”

you look around. “…does it?”

“yes.” he nods, solemn. “people who don’t like animals are not to be trusted. it is… foundational.”

“i mean—true,” you mumble, trying not to laugh.

“she,” he says, pointing at you again, “lets titi sleep on her jacket. on purpose.”

tim freezes. “wait. the demon cat? on their clothes? and—no blood?”

you shrug awkwardly. “she’s actually very sweet—”

“HA,” damian cuts in, triumphant. “i told you.” then, with no transition at all: “titi likes her more than she likes you.”

this is addressed to the entire batfamily.

gasps. outrage. betrayal. you pat damian’s arm, trying to settle him down. he looks up at you instantly—immediate, instinctive. “don’t go again,” he says, like you abandoned him for years instead of stepping outside to apologize to his siblings.

“i’m right here,” you soothe.

he exhales, satisfied. “good. if you leave, they talk. they always talk.” his voice drops to a whisper, conspiratorial. “they gossip.”

“WE DO NOT.”

damian waves a dismissive hand. “yes you do. you gossip like… hens.”

“hens??”

“LOUD hens,” damian corrects, settling further into your side. “and idiotic.”

you choke on a laugh as all three brothers erupt in overlapping offended noises. and you’re just sitting there thinking—

yeah. he is absolutely, utterly, painfully doomed when he sobers up.

STARTED 11.22.2025. POSTED 11.24.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

[strawberry-nugget]

— All I Want For Christmas Is... My Family Time Back?

Damian doesn’t want gifts. He wants consistency. But, he has to learn how to ask for it without fighting. You and Jason, being the cause of this problem, have to help him sort it out.

Tags/CW: Jason x ex! Wonder girl reader (estab relationship), platonic Damian, found family conflict, Damian is jealous and wants his sister back, emotional hurt/comfort, crack and funny banter, Soft Jason, fluff (4k words)

12 days to christmas with strawb | Day 2 ‘Mall Santa’

There hasn’t been an instance in your life where you thought that either Jason or Damian were insufferable.

But today? Today they’re two seconds away from getting stuffed like stockings and hung from the nearest mall directory sign.

The mall is already alive with Christmas everywhere— strings of lights wrapped around every railing, artificial pine garlands drooping over storefronts, speakers piping out a pop rendition of Jingle Bells that sounds like it was designed to test the limits of human patience. Shoppers swarm in every direction, arms full of glossy bags and half-melted drinks, children darting between legs like festive little hazards.

You were supposed to be shopping. A cute, fun, couple-y activity that Jason suggested so you could buy Christmas gifts for everyone on the only morning of the week you had off from work.

Honestly? It was supposed to be perfect.

You had the whole day planned —what you’d eat for breakfast, where you’d have brunch (the brunch-and-read bookstore café tucked just off the side of the mall), what you’d grab for lunch later, and all the other soft, silly couple activities other people, normal people, did at Christmas time. The kind both of you never really had growing up, the kind that felt indulgent now: hands linked, shared drinks, lingering glances over menus, wearing Santa hats and kissing in the Photo Booth.

But!—pig pause and self deprecatory hiss—Somewhere along the way, you invited Damian.

You’d whined in Jason’s ear about it for days. About how much you hated seeing Damian’s pouty face whenever you told him you couldn’t visit the manor on your day off, how he pretended not to care while very obviously caring. Eventually, guilt won. And affection. And the soft spot you’d always had for him.

And while Damian would murder you if he knew you told Jason he pouted, just so you could get him to agree, you found the fault of asking him to tag along, excusable at the very least.

Now, with Damian walking a step too close to you on one side and Jason bristling quietly on the other, the air between them snapping with poorly concealed jealousy and irritation, you realize something with sinking clarity.

Today, you realize, that was mistake number one.

Jason’s arm settles around your waist easily when Damian stalls behind you, familiar and warm, thumb pressing into your side and grabs onto your love handlesin that absent-minded way he does when the crowd gets too thick. He steers you around a cluster of shoppers without even looking, body angling in close, protective more than possessive— or at least that’s what he’d say if you ever called him out on it. Though, in reality, you wouldn't.

You lean into him without thinking, lips already puckering when you enter his space. 

His lips pucker right back, his head leaning down as well, his whole body shifting you closer to him so your lips can touch.

Finally! A Damian-less moment you could use to share one, singular, couple-y activity. 

You flick your eyes towards Damian’s direction, catching him studying the window of the Nike store. Unfortunately, even with how fast your eyes snap back to your boyfriend, Damian notices immediately.

He had been walking half a step behind you a second ago, quiet in the way that usually means he’s observing —cataloguing exits, counting threats, pretending he doesn’t care about anything the mall has to offer like he didn’t want to buy a present for Jon in the first place. But the moment Jason’s hand tightens at your waist after he kisses you, Damian speeds up, slips forward with surgical precision, and wedges himself neatly between the two of you.

One second you’re pressed against Jason’s side. The next, you’re abruptly separated by a very determined twelve-year-old, mourning your boyfriend’s lips.

Jason stops short, sighing.

His hand lingers in the empty air where your waist had been, fingers flexing once before he lets them drop. Slowly, he looks down at Damian, who stares straight ahead, expression calm, posture stiff, as if this new formation was simply the most logical arrangement.

“Kid,” Jason says mildly, his expression already done with whatever this is “you lost?”

Damian doesn’t look at him. “I am walking,” he replies. “You are impeding my path.”

You glance between them, caught in the middle —literally and otherwise— as Damian continues forward, forcing you to keep pace with him. His shoulder bumps your bicep on purpose, just enough to claim space, just enough to make a point.

For a fleeting moment you think, your little Damian has grown so much taller lately, but you're otherwise brought back into reality when Jason exhales through his nose.

“Wow,” he mutters, falling into step on your other side again. “Didn’t know this was an attention competition.”

Damian finally turns his head, green eyes sharp.

“It is not a competition if the outcome is already obvious.”

Jason’s jaw visibly ticks.

You scoff, opening your mouth to defuse the situation— to joke, to redirect, to remind them that you are in fact a person and not a contested piece of territory — but Damian beats you to it, reaching out and taking your wrist with surprising gentleness.

“I wish to see the bookstore,” he says, voice clipped. “You promised.”

Jason’s stare drops to Damian’s hand. Then to your wrist. Something dark and amused flickers in his eyes.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “So that’s how we’re playing this.”

Damian doesn’t release you. Instead, he steps just close enough to force Jason to either slow down or walk behind. His shoulder brushes yours again — subtle, deliberate.

“I merely reminded her of her commitments,” Damian says. “You are not required for this portion of the outing.”

Jason huffs a laugh. “Buddy, I’m pretty sure I’m required for most portions.”

“That is not what she said.”

You feel Jason’s gaze on you “You said what?” But he’s not accusing, and it’s not angry either, just sharp with that quiet question he never asks out loud and big, puppy eyes. The expression one that lets you know he already assumes he’s lost.

Before it can fester, you tug your wrist free.

“Okay,” you say, stopping short. “We’re not doing this.”

Both of them halt immediately.

You turn, pointing between them. “This is not a competition. I don’t belong to either of you. And I don’t need to be escorted like a diplomatic asset. I just want to spend my time with both of you.”

Damian bristles. “That is not—”

“And you,” you add, swiveling to Jason, brows raised. “Do not start a turf war with a preteen in the middle of a mall.”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again, because he didn’t expect you to clock him instead of giving in to his puppy eyes. “He started it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Jason,” you mutter under your breath, fingers curling into the sleeve of his jacket as you slow your steps. “You’re beefing with a twelve-year-old.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. Just keeps walking, jaw set, shoulders tight, the picture of a man who absolutely is beefing with a twelve-year-old and refuses to be ashamed of it.

“He started it,” Jason says flatly.

Damian scoffs, still half a step ahead of you now, chin lifted like he’s already won. “Correction. You escalated it.”

You stop walking.

Both of them do actually; Jason because you’ve tugged him back without realizing, Damian because he notices the sudden absence of footsteps behind him.

You turn to Jason first, brows drawn together. “This was supposed to be fun. Remember? Christmas shopping? Not… whatever this is.”

Jason finally looks at you then. There’s something tight behind his eyes, defensive and annoyed and hurt, if you squint just right.

“I’m fine,” he says, which is never true when he says it like that.

Damian watches the exchange in silence, eyes flicking between the two of you, calculating. You can practically see the thought form — sharp, mean, and poorly timed.

He opens his mouth; second mistake of the day.

“Back in the day,” Damian says coolly, “when you were with Grayson, he never took up all of your time like Todd does.”

The words land wrong. Not loud. Not explosive. Just misplaced, sharp-edged, and cruel in that very specific way only a kid with too much emotional intelligence can manage. 

The air goes still. Jason’s expression shutters instantly — the irritation wiped clean, replaced by something flat and unreadable. His shoulders loosen, like he’s bracing for impact by doing the opposite.

You stare at Damian.

“That was out of line,” you say, voice quiet but firm.

Damian’s chin lifts again, stubborn. “It was an observation.” 

But your face drops as well, eyebrows low on your forehead and Damian, he swears he didn’t mean it like a bad thing. It’s just— lately you've been spending all your time with Jason. You missed two, yes two whole, soccer games this month. You haven’t even appeared at the cave in the last week and who knows how long it’s been since you’ve been at the manor.

It’s unfair! Because he helped you with Jason, along with Tim and Dick, but now, you’ve seen to have… forgotten that you’re family. His family. And all of it just traded in to fast-forward a relationship, to skip every logical step just so Jason could move in with you.

Jason lets out a short, humorless breath. “Wow,” he says. “Didn’t know we were doing history lessons.”

You turn to him immediately. “Jason!”

“What?” he asks, too fast. “Kid brought it up.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to—”

“I didn’t say anything,” he cuts in, hands lifting in mock surrender. “I’m standing right here, being a model boyfriend.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Grayson allowed you independence. He did not hover.”

Jason laughs —a single, sharp sound. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to schedule her into my calendar? Put in a request form?”

“She needs to spend family time with everyone and she spends all her time with you!”

Jason snorts. Oh he gets it now— Damian doesn't mean to be a little shit, nor is he trying to make him insecure. He just wants to spend more time, enough time, with you. And Jason has been there, done that already.

“If it wasn’t for me, shorty, you wouldn’t even know her!” Jason teases.

“Jason.” This time, you don’t bother keeping the warning out of your voice.

He stops. Really stops. Looks at you then, searching your face like he’s trying to figure out which side of this he’s on —or if there even is a side.

“I didn’t say he was wrong,” Jason mutters finally. “Just didn’t think the kid would go for the jugular in the middle of a mall.”

Damian crosses his arms. “Truth is not an attack.”

Jason tilts his head, eyes glinting.

“No,” he says slowly. “But timing sure as hell is.”

The tension hums — not loud, not explosive, just thick enough that you can feel it pressing in on all sides. Christmas music plays cheerfully overhead. A child laughs somewhere nearby. Life keeps going, blissfully unaware that you are standing between two Robins and one very unresolved past.

You rub your temples.

This was supposed to be brunch. And books. And maybe matching scarves.

Instead, you’re fairly certain mistake number three is already forming, painted all over Jason’s face like the most brilliant idea in the world.

Damian shifts first, uneasy at the sight. He uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again, like he can’t quite figure out what to do with his hands now that the fight has lost its edge and Jason is looking at him like a cat looks at a Christmas tree before lurching. His gaze drops to the floor tiles, tracing the seams between them.

“I do not dislike Todd,” he says abruptly.

Both you and Jason look at him.

“I simply…” He falters, jaw tightening. He hates this part — the saying things out loud part. “I simply do not understand why there is no longer room for me.”

Your chest tightens, stomach dropping to your feet. “Dami, that’s not—”

Damian lifts his eyes then, green bright and unguarded in a way that feels almost intrusive, like you’re seeing something you weren’t meant to.

“Every Sunday we used to go to matches,” he continues, quieter now. “You came even when Father did not. Now it’s two Sundays a month.”

Jason’s breath catches —barely audible, but you feel it beside you.

“I thought,” Damian adds, swallowing, “that if I was patient, you would return to the manor on your own daily.”

The words hang there. Small. Unassuming. Devastating.

You take a step toward him without thinking, hand reaching out — and Jason sees it. Sees the way your entire body tilts toward Damian instinctively, like gravity.

Something inside him settles.

“Well,” Jason says suddenly, clapping his hands together with forced cheer, “this is getting way too emotionally productive for a Saturday morning.”

Damian startles. “What—”

Jason crouches slightly, level with him, grin already spreading —too wide, too smug, too Todd.

“Good news, kid,” he says. “We’re fixing this.”

“I do not require—”

“Too late,” Jason interrupts, already guiding Damian by the shoulders and steering him toward the far end of the mall, where red velvet ropes and blinking lights mark Santa’s Village. “You’ve clearly got some unresolved holiday wishes.”

“Unhand me immediately—!”

Jason glances back at you, eyes soft despite the mischief.

“Trust me.”

Oh, you love him a little more when he wants to take the weight of the world off your shoulders.

Damian digs his heels in. “This is highly inappropriate.”

Jason leans down, stage-whispering, “Buddy, if you tell Santa you want more quality time with her, I guarantee you’re getting bumped to the top of the nice list.”

“I do not believe in—”

“Shhh,” Jason says cheerfully. “You’re about to.”

You follow behind them, heart aching and warm all at once, watching as shoppers stare and kids point and Jason marches a mortified Damian toward Santa Claus (a college guy obviously dressed as such) like it’s a therapeutic intervention disguised as a prank.

Damian looks back at you once, cheeks flushed, like he wants you to do something, expression caught somewhere between betrayal and hope.

“I would like hot coffee afterward,” he says quietly.

“Youre not getting coffee!” You add giggling rushing your step behind them.

The ultimate confirmation you’re not saving him.

“Mocha then!”

Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “Done.”

And just like that, the fight dissolves —not fixed, not erased, but softened enough to breathe.

Santa waits at the end of the line, smiling benevolently, blissfully unaware that he’s about to be dragged into Gotham’s most dysfunctional family dynamic.

You sigh.

It’s worse that Gotham’s said family consists of the Waynes.

The line moves faster than you expect.

Jason keeps a hand planted firmly on Damian’s shoulder the entire time, like he’s worried the kid might bolt or stab Santa with a candy cane. Damian, for his part, stands ramrod straight, chin lifted, eyes fixed forward as if sheer willpower might make this entire situation cease to exist.

A mall elf crouches in front of him with a clipboard. “And what’s your name, sweetie?”

“I do not consent to—”

“Damian,” Jason supplies cheerfully.

Damian shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

You definitely catch the whispers of bypasses who mistake Jason for Bruce, but for his sake, you pay them no actual mind.

“You may address me as such.”

The elf blinks. “Okay, Damian—”

Jason smothers a laugh behind his fist. You bite the inside of your cheek. And eventually, it’s his turn.

Santa’s lap looks comically large compared to Damian’s stiff frame, and he hesitates — just a fraction — before sitting, back straight, hands folded in his lap like he’s about to attend a board meeting instead of a holiday ritual.

Santa booms warmly, “Ho ho ho! And what would you like for Christmas, young man?”

“I require nothing,” Damian says immediately, deadpan.

Jason mutters from behind you, “Classic Wayne.”

Santa chuckles. “Nothing at all?”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “I am adequately provided for.”

Santa studies him for a moment —longer than expected. Then, gently, “What about something you want?”

Damian hesitates. Just for a second. His gaze flicks sideways — not to Jason, not to Santa — but to you.

“I do not wish to waste your time,” he says stiffly.

Santa’s voice softens. “It’s not a waste.”

Damian swallows, ready to bite back with a comment about how he didn’t say it to him, but you.

“I would like,” he starts, stops, then squares his shoulders again. “I would like things to remain consistent.”

Jason stills.

You feel it before you understand it —the weight of the word, the care he chose instead of vulnerability.

Santa hums thoughtfully. “Consistency’s a good wish.”

Damian nods once, satisfied. “That is all.”

Santa smiles, pats his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Damian hops down immediately, pre teen dignity intact, expression locked back into something sharp and controlled. He stalks toward you, tugging his scarf up like armor.

Jason watches him go, something thoughtful and a little wrecked behind his eyes.

“Kid’s got a point,” he murmurs.

Damian stops when he reaches you.

“Mocha,” he says, still not looking at either of you. 

You smile despite yourself “On it.”

Behind you, Santa watches the three of you walk away —a family in all but name— and shakes his head, still smiling warmly.

*

The food court is loud in that comfortable, middle of the day way —trays clattering, machines humming, the smell of sugar and coffee thick in the air. Jason orders without asking, like he already knows: one black Americano, a sweet Cappuccino with extra whipped cream because he’s annoying like that and a mocha with chocolate sprinkles and whipped cream as well, for Damian.

Damian hovers at your side, posture rigid even as he clutches the paper cup like it might explode if he relaxes his grip.

You don’t say anything at first. You sit beside him instead.

Close enough that your shoulder brushes his, not enough to crowd. A deliberate choice. Damian notices but he doesn’t pull away. After a moment, you reach up and straighten his scarf where it’s come loose, fingers quick and gentle and he inches his head towards you further.

He won’t ask for a hug in the middle of the Mall, but still. You take the hint and fluff his hair in the way you know doesn’t bother him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say quietly, eyes on the crowd instead of him. “For the record. I just need you to be more considerate of your words.”

Damian stiffens. “I did not intend to cause discord.”

“I know Dami. And I know Jason is a grown up, but I want everyone to take his feelings at heart before we say something that could hurt him. Same goes for when anyone tries to hurt you with their words.”

Damian halts, glancing between you and Jason like he’s finally understanding.

“I know you love Todd. I know he was there before any one of us.”

That’s all it takes.

His shoulders drop a fraction —barely noticeable, but real. He takes a careful sip of his drink, frowns when the whipped cream clings to his lip along with some sprinkles, and wipes them away with the back of his glove like it never happened.

“You are… busy,” he says after a moment. Not accusing. Just stating a fact, the way he always does when he’s bracing for disappointment.

You nod. “Yeah. I have been.”

Damian waits. Silent. Brave.

“But I don’t stop being your family when I’m busy,” you add gently. “And I don’t stop showing up just because things change. Im sorry for making you doubt that. I’ve been trying to settle into something new, and honestly I need time.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his grip on the cup eases.

“You could have told me you missed me, though” you continue, softer now. “You didn’t have to fight about it.”

A pause.

“I am not proficient at that,” Damian admits.

“Me too,” You smile, small and fond. “Neither is Jason.”

Jason, standing a few steps away with his own cup, snorts. “Rude but fair.”

Damian huffs —the smallest sound, almost a laugh, quickly swallowed.

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. “Next time, just say the house is lonely without us.”

Damian considers this too. ‘Us,’ they two of you now come in a pair. Then he nods once. “I will consider that approach.”

He takes another sip of hot mocha, this time slower.

The mocha cools as the noise of the food court settles into a low, distant hum. Damian sits beside you, feet not quite reaching the floor, cup cradled in both hands like it’s something precious rather than just sugar and milk.

Jason leans against the table across from you, one hip hooked on the edge, pretending not to watch the two of you while absolutely doing so.

He always admired your soft side, this side right here. He worked so hard to earn it, and watching you give it so freely to Damian, makes his stomach tie in all kinds of knots. You were so careful to explain his feelings, to include him with the mention of you in every sentence, like you’re both physical extensions of each other.

“You know,” you say after a moment, casual, “the bookstore’s still on the itinerary.”

Damian glances up. “Even now?”

“Especially now. We can eat pastries and maybe brunch if they still serve it?”

His mouth presses into a thin line, considering. Then he nods once. “I would like that.”

Jason exhales, slow and quiet.

You turn to him next—not directly, not confrontational. Just… present. You hook a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, grounding, familiar. A blush creeps up his face fast.

“And you,” you add lightly. “Are not stealing me from anyone.”

Jason huffs, pecking your lips. “Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

“I know,” you say, pecking him back. Then, softer “But you’re allowed to take up space. With me. Don’t get insecure now.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then and something unknots behind his eyes. He reaches out, thumb brushing your wrist in the same place Damian grabbed earlier. This time, there’s no tension in it.

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs. “Okay.”

Later, at home, he’s going to show you exactly why he will never feel insecure again, by praising you to death. But for now, all he can do is carry that promise with his eyes batting in yours.

Damian watches the exchange, silent but alert. After a beat, he shifts closer again—hesitant, testing—and rests his shoulder against your arm.

You don’t comment on it. You just stay.

Later, in the bookstore café, Damian claims the corner table like it’s a tactical position. Jason orders pastries he absolutely pretends aren’t for sharing. You end up wedged between them, knees touching Damian’s on one side, Jason’s thigh warm and solid on the other.

Damian slides a bookmark across the table toward you—thick cardstock, embossed with a little robin.

“I saw it earlier,” he says, eyes firmly on his book. “It seemed… right.”

Your chest tightens.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Jason watches the exchange, then nudges Damian’s tea cup cup closer when he notices it’s empty. No comment. No teasing.

Just an understanding.

You sit there like that for a while—three bodies close, the world slowed down to pages turning and mugs cooling and the quiet comfort of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

Jason leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“I love you” he murmurs.

“I love you too. You too Damian”

“Yikes, mushy” Damian doesn’t look up to bother any of you when he says that, but deep down he thinks, the subtle pda is acceptable.

You smile, leaning towards Jason.

Not everything’s fixed yet, neither is the situation better with just a few simple words. 

But you will work towards that.

Steady. One step at a time.

Jason Todd Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // the second image in the banner is my own edit, do not steal!

A/N: stop! Before you kill me, I promise you ex! Wonder girl reader didnt neglect Damian or the other family members. Some Jason alone time was needed however.

Do tell me if you like seeing hits and pieces of them actually together.

Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq @cassiecasluciluce @tigerf-cker @cowboysaveme @osclerc @whosmev @mochiclouds @cicikent (if you asked to be tag and do not find yourself in this list i saw no indicator that you are over 18 anywhere in your blog! If you’re not a minor, however you can dm me and I’ll add you!

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

Dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[strawberry-nugget]

—Like Lovers Do pt.2

Patrols go wrong, you get hurt, the Outlaws come to your saving and suddenly you’re benched in the Wayne Manor with a Jason that tails you like a lost puppy. Amidst everyday batfamily chaos (ft Steph, Cass, Tim and Dick), Damian calls you and Jason out on your “totally not a thing,” which, apparently, makes you spiral so hard you end up in Jason’s bathroom getting undressed by hands that are way too gentle for ‘just friends with nothing going on.'

Tags/CW: 18+, MDNI, Jason x fem!reader, nudity, showering together, suggestive towards the end but no smut, angst, mutual pining, jealousy, mentios of injury, ex!wonder girl reader, idiots in love, Damian being a little shit, batfamily/ reader domestic and soft moments, (16k words, oops)

Part 1

Patrol has been an absolute mess– Gotham is rather lively tonight for how starry the sky is. And after taking down a bank heist, you are assigned by Tim to patrol the part of Downtown harbor where trade ships depart from, right across the boulevard that is now Penguin’s territory. On your own.

You don’t complain about being alone. You should. Hindsight’s a bitch like that.

It is supposed to be a quiet sweep —docks, warehouses, the usual assortment of Gotham’s nocturnal vermin scuttling around crates a civilian isn't supposed to touch. Nothing you can’t handle. Nothing that should leave your stomach twisted the way it is now.

You remember the first red flag of the night: a shipping container cracked open just an inch, light bleeding out where there shouldn’t be any. Soft. Yellow. Wrong. The kind of wrong that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up before your brain catches up.

You tell yourself you’ll just check it out. Quick peek. In and out and report to Bruce. Because that’s what you do —you poke the things you should probably report first. All the reason Diana would scold you during your wonder girl days.

You slip between the stacks of metal giants, metallic boots silent, breath steady, pretending that the atmosphere isn't pressing in around you the way it always does at the harbor. The scent of saltwater, diesel, and rust; familiar, grounding and just so Gotham by night, should anchor you.

But the voices inside the container don’t sound like normal smuggler chatter. They are… scared.

High pitched.

“Please— don’t—” A girl’s voice. Too close. Too close.

And that’s when the entire night tilts. That’s when the rewind button should be smashed to pieces. Because you don’t think. You don’t call it in. You don’t wait for backup.

You kick the door open.

And the universe, obviously bored at how much of a mundane life you’ve led so far, decides to reward your heroism by giving you not one, not two but twelve armed men. Broad, burly, pissed and dressed in very cheap tuxedos— the kind of men who only take orders from someone with a lot of money and even worse taste in ethics and consequently in fashion too.

You are already moving, already swinging. Your knuckles meet teeth, ribs, soft cartilage. It’s always satisfying in a way you’d never admit aloud. They swarm, and you dance through the mess of it, heart pounding, thoughts sharp.

You have no idea where their boss is. No idea whose operation you’ve just cracked open like an idiot with a crowbar trying to pick a comically big lock. No idea that you’ve just landed in the middle of something massive. Nationwide massive.

All you know is that there are girls crying behind you. And that one of the men has just pulled a gun.

You don’t quite register the gunshot. Not at first. Not the way the world should split open. Your bangled forearms form the familiar ‘x’ in front of your chest for cover and then; burning pain rips across your right side. Sharp, hot and just wrong. Your pray it’s a graze at the very least, but maybe it’s worse. It knocks the wind out of you just long enough for your footing to falter.

“Hey! Dumbasses, pick on someone who shoots back.”

You turn just in time to see something red flash across your peripheral, followed by a scream and the metallic clang of a pistol sliding across concrete.

Red Hood. Jason.

Of course it has to be him.

And then, because Gotham loves overkill like Batman loves to chase after Catwoman, two more figures emerge behind him —one glowing with auburn locks and barely restrained murder and the other the size of a small building. With a light grey skin color to match.

The Outlaws.

The newly formed at least.

Perfect. Just what every terrible night needs: commotion and reinforcements.

Not that you’d admit you need the latter.

Red Hood moves first —because of course he does— charging into the mess like he’d been waiting all night for someone to shoot at, jumping from one of the containers in order to place himself between you and armed men. Artemis follows, brutally, elegant in the way she wields her lethal axe and Bizarro lumbers after them with a confused but eager rumble, shadowing over the wailing victims to shield them from any collateral bullet.

And you?

You do the most reasonable thing a semi-feral Amazon-raised vigilante can do.

You plant a hand on Red Hood’s chestplate and shove. Hard.

“Back off,” you snap, spinning into another strike before he can get a word in. “I had this.”

Jason actually stumbles. More from shock than your strength, though you very much like to pretend it is both. “You ‘had this?’ Sweetheart, there are,” he stops, silently counting the men left standing with his fingers “eight of them.”

“Seven,” you correct, elbowing one man in the throat. “He isn’t getting up from that.”

Artemis steps into your periphery with the commanding presence that makes mortals straighten up on instinct. Her blade flashes, catching the dim light, cutting down a man who thought he could get the drop on you.

“Princess,” she says, voice low but thunderous with authority as she speaks the title. “You are injured.”

Her gaze lingers too long on your side—on the blood soaking through your suit—jaw clenches almost imperceptibly.

“I’m fine.” You pout. It’s great that Artemis respects you enough for the honorifics, but it isn’t something you need at the moment “And don’t call me that!”

“You are bleeding.”

“It’s not mine.”

Bizarro perks up at that, blinking his pale eyes. “Bleeding-yours good?” he asks, unsure.

“Not good,” you mutter, ducking under a wild swing and kicking the man’s knee out so hard it buckles.

The movement tears something in your side—fresh pain blooms under your ribs—but you swallow it down.

Jason tries again. “Look, you don’t have to—”

You shove him a second time. Harder.

“Stop helping me.”

At that, he throws his hands up, offended.

Artemis cuts through two men like she is slicing air, then steps directly between you and the next attacker. “Daughter of Hippolyta,” she intones, “your pride is admirable. Your strategy, however, is lacking, your grace.”

You catch her looking again—this time not at your wound, but at Jason, at the way he keeps drifting too close to you. And Jason, you understand; you pull closer to him as well, like instinct, but there is something taut in her expression, something sharp and territorial she tries to hide behind warrior neutrality.

So, Artemis, you don’t understand.

That one ‘your grace’ hits you like a spear to the ribs— because she isn’t wrong, and she is using the title you haven’t heard in years. The one reserved for you as Hippolyta’s adopted daughter… and by extension, kin to the Queen, after your sisters. The title you hate.

You grit your teeth, no time for such semantics at present. “I don’t need—”

A gunshot cracks the air.

Jason tackles you sideways before you even see where it comes from. You hit the concrete with a curse as the bullet whizzes past where your head was.

The impact jars your wound, white-hot lightning searing through your side. You bite back a hiss, refusing to give Jason the satisfaction.

He doesn’t get off you. Doesn’t even pretend he is planning to.

“You were saying?” he growls above you. “Because that sounds a lot like needing help.”

You glare up at him, face inches from his helmet, breath hot between you.

Artemis sees that proximity—sees Jason’s hand braced beside your head, sees the way his body hovers perfectly over yours—and her shoulders go rigid. A flicker of something old and Amazonian crosses her face. Not jealousy. Not quite. But close enough to sting.

“I said,” you hiss, “get. Off.”

Artemis looms over both of you, quirking a curious eyebrow, the corner of her lip twitching, her expression turning into something that can only resemble actual envy now. You catch it, just by a fragment. “You two may continue your quarrel after we have defeated the criminals.”

Bizarro shakes his head up and down, happily. “No! Quarrel now. Punch bad men later.”

You shove Jason off with Amazonian strength this time, roll to your feet, and launch yourself back into the fray because if there is one thing you refuse to let stand, it is being saved.

Or worse. Being treated like someone who needs saving.

Red Hood moves toward you again, clearly gearing up for another lecture you have zero intention of listening to.

You don’t even look at him.

You move.

One heartbeat you are trading blows with the last guy in your reach, the next, you pivot sharply, sweeping your leg under Jason’s wrist with pinpoint precision. His gun pops out of his hand before he can react.

“Hey—!”

You snatch the weapon midair without breaking stride, spin on your heel, and fire a single clean shot into the shoulder of the armed man who’d been aiming at Artemis from behind. He drops with a howl, gun clattering away.

Artemis tenses at the sound—your aim flawless, your awareness unwavering despite the blood steadily leaking down your torso. And she shoots Jason a look you can’t decode. Something heavy. Something protective.

Jason barely blinks before you are already flipping backward —a quick, tight arc that makes your lungs flare —and landing right in front of him.

The butt of the gun taps his palm as you press it back into his hand. Firm. Fluid. Like handing a partner a tool during a dance.

You don’t wait for a thank you, or the stunned silence that should follow after.

But you feel it.

Jason actually stares between his own gun and you, like he has to double-check it is the same one he’d been holding two seconds ago. “What the—”

Artemis smirks. Just a little. “She was trained by General Antiope,” she reminds him, tone dipped in pride, too smug “Precision is second nature to her.”

Jason looks back at you as you lunge into the next wave of attackers with that clean, lethal efficiency only Themyscira and many hours with Bruce in the cave produce.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, awe cracks through the gravel in his voice. “No kidding. Missed watching her fight.”

Bizarro, bless him, adds loudly, “She not cool at all. Do not do flip again!”

You don’t. But you could. And Jason clearly knows it.

The last of the men goes down hard, courtesy of Artemis clotheslining them into a stack of crates. Bizarro gently peels the shipping container completely open, careful with his massive hands, and the girls inside flinch before realizing the fight is over.

You step in, lowering your eyes at them, softening your voice. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

One of them grabs your wrist with trembling fingers and you pretend not to notice the way your ribs scream when you bend down to help her out.

And then, you see it, right before your vision pulses at the ashes of it, a Lexcorp Easter egg, right at the handle of the container’s door. It’s a flick of your eyes but no word spoken, you show it to Jason.

And around that time your side goes completely wet, sticky, definitely worse than you’d hoped.

Before you know it, GCPD sirens wail in the distance. Fast approaching.

Artemis guides the girls toward an officer she trusts, speaking in calm, formal tones that make grown men straighten their posture. Bizarro waves at the girls proudly, like he thinks the job is done because they aren’t crying anymore.

Jason, though, is watching you.

Too closely from the shadow he has scattered at.

You try to walk it off, ready to storm in his direction and tell him off for stepping in amidst your patrol route, pretend the sharp pain isn’t radiating down your side, pretend you aren’t gritting your teeth. But the second you straighten, the world tilts just enough to betray you.

Jason steps forward, catching your elbow before you can pull away.

“Whoa, hey— easy.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He raises an eyebrow behind the helmet. “You’re bleeding down your side.”

You glance. He isn’t wrong. Blood soaks through the fabric of your costume, warm and inconvenient. But he remains too close, too nurturing, too caring and you are still mad at him. It doesn’t really help you think he looks hot with his crime-fighting outfit.

Artemis stiffens again when Jason touches you—his grip steady, his voice softening in a way she clearly doesn’t like. That quiet flare of feminine, hidden jealousy curls around her posture, controlled but unmistakable.

Artemis approaches, her gaze sweeps over you with the same displeased concern she once reserved for battlefield injuries. “Princess, you require medical attention.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You look like hell,” Jason says, entirely unhelpful, but you know his brows are furrowed with worry underneath.

You glare at him. He doesn’t budge.

“Look,” he continues, softer this time, “I can take you home. Or to the Manor. Alfred can stitch you up before you pass out or try to fight me again. Your choice.”

You scoff. “I’m not getting on your bike.”

He gestures at your side with his helmet. “You aren’t walking far either.”

Artemis crosses her arms. “Go with him. The wound is deep.” Of course, you think, she’d take his side.

But even then her voice carries something else. Tight. Reluctant. And when Jason steps closer, guiding your arm over his, Artemis’s jaw flexes. Hard.

“Just go with him,” she says. “You require proper care.” She looks at Jason, then back at you, as if silently urging something you don’t understand. “Jason, Wonder Woman will go mental if we leave her here, take her home, please.”

And that feels weird! Because she doesn’t say it with the tone a partner would, but with a tone you recognize as silent acceptance.

What now?!

Why does she care that much?

Her voice softens in a way it never has for Gotham men. Soft enough that you blink in confusion.

Since when does Artemis speak gently to Red Hood? Since when does she speak gently to anyone?

You don’t like how the air feels suddenly coded, like you are missing the subtext of a language you should know. Still, with a defeated sigh, you let Jason know you are okay with him taking you to the Batcave.

You exhale sharply, annoyed at all of them, annoyed at the pain, annoyed at the part of you that knows they are right.

Jason extends a hand toward you —not pushy, not smug, just steady.

“That’s a yes?” he asks.

“Ughhhh.. fine,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “You’re a terrible patient.”

“You’re a terrible option.”

Jason shrugs his shoulders, "I'm the only option you’ve got.”

You swat his hand away but don’t protest when he guides you toward the bike anyway, his palm warm against your lower back to keep you steady. Artemis glances at that hand. You stare at her, thrown.

Artemis gives you a small, unreadable nod. “You will be safe with him.”

Safe with him??? What kind of endorsement is that? You frown, entirely lost.

It’s just Artemis being Artemis, you tell yourself. She’s protective. She respects you. She respects your station. That’s all.

And yet…

As Jason hands you the helmet, Artemis looks away. Not kindly, not fondly but somehow dismissively. Annoyed.

Almost sorrowful.

Your brain refuses to process that one.

Jason revs the engine once, checking you are steady behind him. You aren’t sure where to put your hands —definitely not around him, that’s still too intimate— but your ribs pulse with a reminder that stubbornness has consequences.

“Hold on anyway,” he says over his shoulder.

You don’t.

Five seconds later, the bike lurches forward and you grab his jacket because you want to live.

He doesn’t comment, but you feel him smirk.

Gotham blurs by sooner than you can process. Neon streaks, wet pavement, that sharp metallic smell the city never shakes off. Your side burns with every bump; Jason tries to avoid them, but even you can tell he is riding smoother than he usually does.

The bastard is being careful.

You try not to think about that.

You try not to think about Artemis, either. Her weird tone, her glances, the way she’d spoken to him like there is history.

No. No way.

Artemis doesn’t do mortal entanglements. And Jason doesn’t do Amazons. You had to learn this the hard way.

You are overthinking again. Clearly.

But unfortunately for him, Jason keeps too quiet.  Which gives your brain room to wander right back to Artemis.

How she looked at him. How she looked away. How her voice softened. How she stood a little too close, but not in a protective way— in a familiar way.

You hate the thought that worms its way into your mind. Is that… something?

No. No, you must be concussed, through your ribs at least.

——-

The next two weeks go by in a weird, lopsided rhythm; half recovery, half denial, and some pretending the world isn’t shifting under your feet. Bruce, in full Batdad rigidity, drops the hammer first.

“You are not patrolling at all until that wound heals.”

That’s final. No debate. No loopholes. No rooftop loopholes. Not even an alley loophole.

You try arguing with him once. Once! Bruce shuts it down with the patented Batglare #4, as Stephanie calls it: The “I’m Right and You Know It” Variant, and well, you’re ultimately benched.

But weirdly enough, he doesn’t completely bench Jason for raining into your parade. Actually, he does the opposite.

“Since you’re staying in Gotham, for a while, follow up on the harbor incident. Full report. Every angle.”

Which means for the next two weeks, Jason is everywhere. And you mean everywhere. Manor and Cave and he has been buzzing around you like a bee. 

Not in a subtle, casual way, not “I’m just passing through,” no, more like a six-foot-four heat-seeking missile programmed exclusively toward you.

Bruce told him to follow the leads, sure— the Lexcorp-branded shipping containers, the fancy-tux muscle with off-market weapons, the blood samples from the docks, the grainy surveillance that caught more shadows than faces. 

Jason keeps finding excuses to buzz around you specifically. Something about teaching him that kick and the flip you did at the cave’s fight simulator when you get better. And you say yes with no actual intention of teaching him in mind.

He probably knows that. But he still asks. Over and over. Like he loves hearing you say ‘yes, yes, sure.’

“Hey. Teach me that flip you did.”

“Show me that counter you used on that guy with the chain.”

“That kick— yeah, the fast one — how the hell did you angle it like that?”

And while you’re benched from patrol and forced locked inside the manor, so Bruce can make sure you don’t go out on your own, your days don’t pass as melancholically as you’d like to admit. 

Life at Wayne estate becomes its own kind of whirlwind. A softer one. A strangely grounding one. The kind that sneaks up on you until you realize you’ve fallen into a routine you secretly like.

It always starts in the kitchen.

Wayne Manor’s kitchen is big enough to host a wedding reception, but somehow the three of you —you, Damian, and Alfred— always end up crowded on the same little stretch of counter.

Cinnamon rolls become your shared project. Damian’s idea. Your execution. Alfred’s supervision and recipe. (Although the latter always pretends to be on some sort of break when you and the child are cooking)

Damian insists on doing the mixing himself, standing on a wooden stool he pretends he doesn’t need. He’s precise, almost militaristic, using the wooden spoon like he’s interrogating the bowl.

Today isn’t any different. 

“You’re holding it like a sword,” you say.

“Tt–I hold everything like a sword,” he replies, which is fair.

Flour ends up in his hair. You swipe at it. He huffs and swats your hand away, but he doesn’t really mean it.

Alfred watches from the head of the table, a mug of tea in hand, his expression fond in a way he pretends is just normal British neutrality.

“Miss,” he says without looking up from his book, “the dough is not meant to be kneaded as though you’re attempting to strangle it.”

You freeze mid-knead. Damian snorts like he’s been waiting all morning for Alfred to roast you. And while Alfred’s politely judging your kneading technique, Jason storms in the kitchen.

He stands there like he’s checking the perimeter, but you know that posture— stiff shoulders, jaw tight, eyes dragging over the three of you like it physically hurts him he isn’t part of it.

He doesn’t step inside. Just watches —at least he has stopped asking you to teach him a kick he should be able to do just by thinking about it—watches Damian lean subtly into your side. Watches you brush flour off the child’s cheek and laugh. He watches you shoot Damian a squinted look. 

“Help, then.” You command.

Damian climbs down from his stool and nudges you aside with all the dignity of a prince reclaiming his throne. “Move. You are bruising it.”

“It’s dough, Damian.”

“It is delicate.”

Alfred clears his throat. “As is the young Miss’ injury. Might I remind you both she is supposed to be at rest?”

You and Damian share a guilty glance, all purses lips and side eyes… and then immediately carry on kneading like two gremlins who’ve made a blood pact.

The kitchen fills with the warm smell of cinnamon and sugar. The oven clicks. The house feels small for once, like a home instead of a mansion. Jason does his own thing after a soft greeting, making a quick sandwich that he insists on not toasting and disappears into the space outside the kitchen.

He remembers a time you took the train from New York to Gotham on a Saturday morning so Alfred could make said cinnamon rolls for both of you, while you studied in one of the living rooms.

When the rolls come out unevenly shaped, slightly lopsided, a little too thick in the center, Alfred still says “Perfect.”

He sets three on a plate and joins you at the counter. Not at the table. Not in his usual spot but right beside you.

And Damian, for all his bravado, leans into your side just a fraction as he eats —carefully, politely, as if he’s trying not to show how much he likes that you’re here.

He helps you pack a roll for each and every member of the family, by attaching a sticky note pad on all of them. And while you usually store them in the fridge, he watches puzzled as you place Jason’s roll in the middle of the kitchen table.

___

After baking, the Manor usually becomes a revolving door of adolescents with highly specific needs.

Cassandra decides she must own a UV nail kit. Today. Immediately.

So she begins silently stalking Bruce through the hallways like a tiny and very polite cryptid until he finally caves and mutters, “Fine,” and goes out to buy her the damn thing.

Then, Cassandra starts looming around you too, Stephanie always tagging along. They thank you for the cinnamon rolls and very politely ask if you can do Cassandra’s nails. You say yes, because employing yourself with something that isn’t exchanging TikToks with Dick, Donna and Wally in the groupchat, sounds like sole salvation.

And that’s how you find yourself in the living room at the west wing of the manor.

You’re midway through painting tiny black bats on Cassandra’s ring fingers. Stephanie is perched beside you, recounting every rumor she heard at Gotham Academy in the last forty-eight hours, talking so fast she barely pauses for breath. Tim, who has now joined you, sits on the armrest behind you, correcting her like an overworked Wikipedia editor who’s had his article vandalized one too many times.

You’re relaxed. Cass is serene. Steph is loud. Tim is Tim. And then, there’s…Jason at the door who doesn’t come in at first.

You catch him in your peripheral —lingering just outside the doorway, pretending he’s checking something on his phone, except he’s holding it upside-down. You see the camera peeking from the flat end of his palm, like the world’s worst actor.

He’s watching the scene like it’s something delicate. Something easily shattered. You try not to stare too much. He tries not to look like he’s staring at you and fails, once again, miserably. 

When Stephanie finally notices him and waves her hand wildly, inviting him in, he finally steps inside.

“Jason! Wanna get your nails done? We can do tiny skulls—”

“I’m good,” he says quickly, stepping half inside, half out, like the threshold is made of lava.

Cassandra lifts her head toward him, blinking slowly. A greeting. An invitation. Jason nods back but doesn’t move. You paint another tiny bat. Cass smiles shyly.

“Pfffft—Why are you good at nails?” Steph asks.

“Diana taught me,” you say, like it’s obvious that Wonder Woman knows how to do nails.

And while Cassandra beams, Stephanie looks offended no one taught her, but you wield her closer, keen on teaching her some of your amateur knowledge. Tim just looks at your handiwork like you’ve unlocked a new side quest.

The room is buzzing with life even if Jason looms at a corner like a meme—Steph dramatizing with pursed lips as she watches your handiwork, Cass studying your brushwork, Tim fact-checking like his life depends on it. You’re halfway through Stephanie’s thumb when Tim finally glances up from his phone and throws a casual question over his shoulder.

“Jason—how are the Outlaws doing, anyway? Haven’t seen you on a rooftop with Artemis in a while.”

The name lands like a pebble dropped into a glass of water. Small, quiet ripple. Right across your spine, because they do what now!?

Jason straightens from where he’s leaning against the wall. Not much—just a shift. A recalibration. But you notice it. You always notice him like he notices you.

He scratches the back of his neck. “They’re… fine,” he says. Neutral. Too neutral.

Steph squints. “That sounds not fine.”

Jason shoots her a look. “It’s fine.”

Tim doesn’t buy it. “Conner mentioned Bizzaro, but is Artemis still out of the country?”

Jason shrugs, trying to look casual. “Yeah. Doing her own thing. We all take space sometimes.”

Space. The word hooks under your ribs uncomfortably.

You concentrate a little too hard on drawing a tiny bat wing. Cass’s fingers twitch once but she doesn’t look away from Jason—not with her eyes, at least. She’s reading him in that silent, surgical Cassandra way. Then, when she looks at you, you know damn right she knows what’s going on.

Jason keeps talking. “We’re still in contact. It’s not like—” He stops to clear his throat. “Just team logistics.”

You hate how something in your chest reacts. Irrational and stupid. The leftover paranoia from the harbor clinging like fog.

Steph leans forward. “So you guys aren’t fighting?”

Jason snorts. “Steph, Roy and I fought constantly. Artemis just… avoids the drama.”

“Which you create,” Tim adds dryly, cocking an eyebrow.

Jason points at him. “I will throw you out a window.”

“You won’t.”

“Try me.”

The bickering draws laughter from Steph, a tiny grin from Cass, and some of the tension evaporates. The kind of normal chaos that should settle you.

But you still feel it. Jason has been acting weird today. And Steph and Tim sound like they know something you don’t, but you assure yourself Stephanie wouldn’t have kept her mouth shut if that was the case. However, the soft little bruise you’ve been pretending isn’t there doesn’t really settle into reality.

Jason glances in your direction. Just a fleeting check-in. And you look down fast, pretending to concentrate on checking if Cassandra's nails are properly cured.

Jason goes quiet again, not the comfortable kind at least.

The kind that makes the air feel like a loaded question no one’s asking.

Once you’re done with Cass’ nails and he’s already fleeted the room, you text him that you should talk about the case, later tonight if he’s free.

–

Homework in Wayne Manor is also a group sport, apparently.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library with Damian, who is being difficult today and is absolutely refusing to accept that yes, even he has to show his work on geometry proofs. Dick, your savior to this ordeal for the evening, is sprawled on the couch upside-down like a human Labrador, tossing encouragement into the air every few seconds.

“Okay, buddy,” Dick says, pointing at the worksheet that Damian is actively glaring into submission, “you can’t just write ‘because I said so’ as a theorem.”

“That is a perfectly valid justification,” Damian snaps.

“No,” you say gently, tapping the page. “Not unless you’re running the Justice League.”

“I will one day.”

“Sure,” Dick chimes in cheerfully, “but until then, we need angle-side-angle to make an appearance.”

“This theorem is stupid.” Damian huffs. Loudly. Dramatically, as if the world’s collective incompetence has personally offended him and you get up, pulling a chair next to him.

You lean over his shoulder, guiding him through the problem—your hand brushing his as you redirect his pencil—and Dick drops off the couch entirely, doing a little flip that only he thinks is casual. He lands beside you two and pulls a chair up too, corralling Damian between the two of you like a very gentle, very loving academic intervention.

Moments like these feel easy. Natural. A rhythm the three of you have slipped into without ever formally discussing it. It’s a kind truth. When Bruce doesn’t have time for mundane normal activities like this, when he is too busy with Justice League meetings or evening galas, you and Dick take the wheel. 

Dick comes to soccer matches with you both now. He’s already floated the idea of taking Damian to a few basketball games, too, after forcing you to watch two or three on TV. The way he explains basketball rules to Damian and you —since he was a basketball player during his school days— always feels like a truce, until the kid comments on Dick’s height or lack there off and the first robin tells him off like he’s offended.

The truth is, no one has quite the bond with Damian the way you two do. And no one gets Damian’s respect the way Dick has earned it. Between the two of you, homework gets done. Sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes chaotically, but always done.

In moments like this, you’re grateful Dick never held a grudge. Not for the kiss you shared with Jason, not for the slow, inevitable drifting apart afterward. The two of you have settled into something softer. Something like family. Something stable. You are friends now. The best of friends and between a TikTok groupchat and shared patrols occasionally, it’s like you were never even together in the first place.

And despite what anyone says, you’re not treating Damian like your gentle, mutual divorce child.

Damian finishes writing out a line of the proof and then pauses. Tilts his head. He looks between you and Dick with far too much calculation for a ten-year-old.

“Actually,” he says, pencil still in hand, “I have a question.”

Dick stiffens. “Shoot away.”

Damian looks directly at you, then at his brother. “Why did you and Grayson break up?”

The air freezes, of all the days he could have asked that, he chooses to do so today.

You blink and Dick makes a noise like a dying bird.

Damian waits, perfectly content, perfectly patient, like he just asked whether the library closes at eleven.

“You were courting,” Damian adds helpfully. “And then you were not. I noticed the shift.”

“Courting—? Damian, we were— it wasn’t—” Dick sputters. “Look you can’t just ask that–”

“You once mentioned you considered adopting me when Father was… away.” Damian looks at Dick pointedly. “I shall not entertain the idea further. However, if a young couple plans to adopt a child, and then dissolves their relationship without explanation, the hypocrisy is rather despicable.”

You stare at him. Dick stares at him.

The idea of Dick telling Damian something that emotionally intimate shouldn’t surprise you at all. And yet, it still knocks you flat. Sure, when you were nineteen and with Dick it sounded like a good idea. You thought maybe, maybe, you could treat the little kid better than Bruce or Talia. No more bloodshed, just a little kid living life normally. Something almost none of you ever had.

You loathed everyone especially for what Jason had gone through and you didn’t want someone else to go through similar horrors at such a tender age.

You open your mouth to answer but you don’t know what you plan to say. And that’s when the library door clicks open.

Jason. Of course. 

What is it that they say? Speak of the devil—think of the devil and he shall appear.

You had texted him earlier ‘Swing by if you have any new leads on the harbor case,’ but homework took so much longer than expected and now he’s here in the worst possible moment, like he buzzed in from a parallel timeline just to witness your utter humiliation.

Jason does what he always does lately. He appears in the threshold like the world’s most heavily armed housefly with abandonment issues. He lingers. Watching before speaking. Taking in the entire scene with those sharp green eyes of his.

You don’t look up immediately anymore, because every time you do, he pretends like he wasn’t watching you. Like he wasn’t assessing the air you breathe, the mood you’re in, the distance between you and someone else.

“I gotta go.” You shift, ready to stand. Maybe pull him aside. Maybe get this stupid case-talk over with before Dick combusts from sheer discomfort.

You’re halfway to standing when Damian suddenly says, very plainly.

“Wait.”

Jason’s head snaps toward you so fast his neck probably cracks. His brows go up. Way up. And then his expression shifts into something darkly amused.

You exhale through your nose. “Damian, maybe now isn’t—”

“No,” Damian says, tone crisp. “You still have not answered my question. You were courting again, yes? I saw evidence.”

“E–evidence?” you stammer.

He nods, very matter-of-fact. “He brought you pastries. You sat too close on the couch. You laughed at his jokes when they were not funny.”

Dick clutches his chest. “My jokes are funny.”

Jason coughs out a laugh he absolutely does not try to hide and leans a shoulder into the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Oh, this should be good.”

You glare at him. “Don’t you have… I don’t know. Crime to fight?”

“Harbor case?” he reminds you with a shrug. “You said you wanted to talk. Privately.”

The last word lands heavier than it should. Dick definitely notices. Damian absolutely notices. You feel it hit the air like static.

“We do need to talk,” you mutter, avoiding Jason’s eyes before they can pin you in place.

Jason huffs out a low laugh, something bitter at the edges. “Yeah, sweetheart, so do they apparently.”

Damian shakes his head and continues, relentless, “And then one day you stopped. So logically I assumed one of you failed. Grayson, most likely.”

“Hey—” Dick protests.

You want the earth to open and swallow you whole.

“Damian,” you manage, rubbing your forehead, “that’s… not really… a thing we need to talk about.”

He scowls. “Why not? Adults are always saying communication is key.”

Jason folds his arms, leaning against the doorway like this is the single greatest moment of his week. “Let the kid speak.”

You shoot him a look so sharp it could impale him. It only makes him grin wider.

“Damian,” you try again, “Dick and I didn’t—we—“

“I kissed her.” Jason states, bluntly, shrugging his shoulders, his face unreadable. The words slip out without dramatics or flourish, but they carry weight anyway—an admission placed on the table with meticulous honesty, not tossed or thrown. The kind that changes the temperature of the room without raising the volume.

Dick’s breath catches, sharp and almost imperceptible. Damian’s eyes narrow the slightest bit, absorbing the new information like data in a case file, like this finally explains why Jason has been acting weird with you, or why you’re acting weird with him. 

For one suspended beat, no one moves. Not even the air.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. “And I broke up with Dick shortly after.”

The silence that settles feels older than Wayne Manor itself. It sinks into the bookshelves, the cracked leather of the armchairs and couch, the cold sweep of the hardwood beneath your knees. Somewhere down the hall, the grandfather clock ticks with pointed indifference, marking each second you wish would pass faster.

Damian, unfazed by atmospheres adults buckle under, tilts his head. “Did you love him?”

You don’t answer, simply because you don’t know who he’s referring to.

Dick straightens, eyes wide. “Hey—Damian—no, that’s not—look, that’s too personal—”

“Again! You told me once,” Damian continues, calmly, ruthlessly, “that you considered adopting me together should Father have remained indisposed. If this was merely a temporary illusion of stability, I believe it should have been disclosed.”

You feel the room lurch. This is something you didn’t want Jason to know, but you don’t expect Damian to keep silent when given family gossip. He always digs. 

This is exactly why you and Jason have never discussed what happened at his house that night. Gotham’s walls have ears and they answer to the names of the Batfamily.

Dick clears his throat, shifts on the chair, his voice suddenly delicate in a way you rarely ever hear. “It was… a moment. A possibility. And maybe not a realistic one. It doesn’t mean it was your fault. Or hers. Or even mine.”

Damian processes this without blinking, and then—inevitably—turns toward Jason, the way children turn toward open flame without fear. Except, he’s the only child that does that.

“And now you.”

Jason’s posture tightens, like someone bracing for the recoil of an unanticipated hit. His eyes flick briefly to yours, a crack of something unguarded showing beneath the practiced calm.

Dick notices the exchange silently.

“Are you courting her?” Damian asks, with all the decorum of a ten-year-old interrogating a suspect. “Yes or no?”

To your side Dick looks puzzled, he keeps looking back and forth between you and Jason as if trying to decode a cryptic message.

Jason’s answer comes low, but not harsh. “That’s not something you need to be involved in.”

“It becomes relevant,” Damian replies, steady as stone, “if she keeps returning to this household. If her presence intertwines with ours.”

“Nothing’s going on between us.” Jason hums.

Your breath catches in your chest—not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right in a way that forces you to look at everything you’ve been trying not to see. Of course it’s nothing. 

People who want each other are together. They have courage to fight for what they want. You and Jason fight for nothing. You orbit. You retreat. You pretend. Thus, yes, there’s nothing going. 

So why does your heart hurt so much when all you should do is simply accept?

“Damian,” you whisper, “this isn't what you think. I’m not—no one is—” then with quiet defeat, your words fall apart before they even reach shape “there’s nothing here..”

Jason moves then, just a fraction closer, not enough to loom again, not even enough to take up more space, just enough to make the air between you shift in density.

His voice is quiet, smooth as polished steel, but undeniably tense around the edges.

“We need to talk.” There’s a pause, long enough that Dick glances up, and Damian observes the two of you with eerie attentiveness as the room seems to tilt in anticipation.

Damian blinks once, the way cats do before pouncing. “Talk about what?”

Dick groans into the carpet. “Okay, we’re done interrogating adults tonight—”

The words aren’t a command, but they carry warning and want and worry all braided into one. The kind of request he only makes when he’s afraid you’ll run from the answer.

“Todd,” Damian is already aiming his full focus at Jason, surgical and relentless. “You have been staying here excessively. And you monitor her movements.”

Jason’s jaw clicks. A tiny break in the armor. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“You’re lying to me,” Damian says simply. “Both of you.”

Jason holds your gaze for the first time since he stepped into the doorway, his eyes bored, lips pursed. “Come on.”

Damian watches the two of you stand close, eyes flicking between your posture, your breath, the sharpness of your silhouettes in the lamplight, the way your eyelids fall underneath your eyebrows as sadness ensues. He doesn’t miss a micro-expression, not a shift of weight, not the way Jason’s hand brushes—almost accidentally, almost not—close to your spine without touching.

And because he is ten and blunt and terrifyingly observant, he says the most dangerous thing possible.

“No,” Damian says, lifting a hand like a tiny general halting troops. “You do not leave until you answer my question.”

Something inside you flares; frustration, shame, the kind of helpless anger that tastes like too much salt on a food you've been starving to taste. “Damian, enough.” 

Dick, who has settled for laying on the floor next to his chair, whips around on the carpet, wide-eyed. “Dames—buddy—hey—how about we redirect to—literally anything else?”

But Damian is already squaring his shoulders, pupils narrowing in the exact way Bruce’s do when he corners a suspect. He looks directly at Jason.

“What is your relationship with her now?”

Jason doesn’t flinch, but something in him contracts—a small, deep, invisible recoil. He flicks a glance toward you, not for answers but for alignment, like he’s making sure you’re breathing before he speaks.

“There’s literally nothing to talk about there,” Jason says finally. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled for your liking.

Damian shifts his focus to you. “And you? Do you deny there is something unresolved between you?”

Your throat tightens. Heat blooms beneath your skin in a slow, humiliating wave. “There’s nothing,” you say, aiming for steady but hitting somewhere closer to brittle. “We’re fine. We work together. That’s all.”

Every ‘nothing’ feels like an arrow straight through the heart.

Damian’s eyes narrow with surgical disappointment.

Jason exhales through his nose, a short, sharp breath that sounds too much like restraint. “Kid—drop it.”

“I will not,” Damian fires back, chin lifted in perfect Amazonian stubbornness he learned from you, not Talia. “You kissed her. She broke up with Grayson. The tension between you two today is unbearable. Something has changed. I demand an explanation.”

You open your mouth, scrambling for denial, but Damian barrels through it.

“You are walking closer and then you retreat,” he says, flicking his gaze to Jason, “you scan the room every time she enters. And you,” he turns to you with the same merciless precision, “you look at him like you expect him to vanish.”

You inhale sharply. Jason’s jaw flexes. Damian surely isn’t done.

“And the last time he visited,” he continues, “you refused to make eye contact. He refused to speak to anyone but you. You were both… unsettled.”

Dick snorts softly. “That’s one word for it.”

Jason shoots him a look that could peel paint, then turns back to Damian, voice low, strained.

“I won’t say it again. Nothing is happening.”

Damian folds his arms. Your breath stutters. Jason shifts half a step forward, like he’s about to stand between you and the interrogation and even though you don’t need protection from Damian, he does it anyway.

Damian watches that movement with eerie calm. “You are both radiating unresolved emotional conflict. It is affecting the household.”

“Oh my god,” Dick mutters under his breath, “he’s been hanging out with Raven again.”

“Enough,” Jason snaps, rubbing the heel of his palm over his brow. “This isn’t your business.”

“It becomes my business,” Damian counters, “when your unresolved feelings compromise my family time and your ability to work together. I refuse to witness another example of disastrous interpersonal dynamics in this family.”

You swear the room tilts. Jason takes one slow, anchored breath before lifting his gaze to you.

“Come with me, that’s enough” he says quietly.

Not an order. Not a plea. A boundary. A request forged from the need to end this before it spirals further into territory you’re not ready to unpack in front of an audience.

“We need to talk,” he continues. “Somewhere else.”

Damian opens his mouth again—probably to cross-examine you both within an inch of your sanity—but Jason cuts him a look that even Bruce would respect.

You nod once, barely, and Jason’s shoulders loosen by a fraction. Just enough that you know he was bracing for you to say no.

Dick lifts a hand without looking up from his seat. “Go,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep the kid from stage-managing your emotional arc.”

Damian scowls. “I don’t stage-manage—”

“Yes, you do,” all three of you say at once.

Jason gestures toward the hall. You step past Damian, past Dick, past the heaviness of the library, and into the dim corridor where only moonlight from the long windows touches the floor.

_______

Later that night, after some intense sparring and stretches, you follow Jason across the rooftops near the Iceberg Lounge. He doesn’t ask you to come with him, and you’re not exactly supposed to be on his patrol route, because well, you're benched, but neither of you knew what to do with the silence that hung between you after the library. He stepped outside expecting you to say something, and you followed expecting him to say anything, and neither attempt ever materialized.

With a case that needs your full demand to at least start unravelling though, you don’t spend much time in the manor sulking. You put on your suit solely for not following around Red Hood in civilian clothes and ignore Bruce’s plea to take a few more days off.

Now you move several paces behind Jason, close enough to track his path but far enough to maintain the thin line of distance he drew in the hallway. Both of you pretend this is about work, about leads, about the case involving Penguin, when in reality you are both avoiding the conversation you weren’t prepared to have. 

It works, for a second, better than you’d like to admit.

Jason lands on the edge of a rooftop and crouches, his silhouette cut sharply against the neon wash of the street below. For a long moment he simply looks out over the streets, keeping his face angled away from you. When he finally speaks, the words carry a quiet frustration that feels heavier than anger.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. His voice is steady through his modulator, but the tension rides beneath it like a pulse.

You settle beside him with careful distance. “I told you I’m not interfering. I just need to check on the Penguin lead myself.”

Jason exhales through his nose, a controlled breath you might have missed if you weren’t watching him so closely.

“It’s not the case I’m worried about.”

Your throat tightens. You look down at the busy street so he doesn’t see the way those words land. “Hood…”

“Don’t,” he murmurs, cutting you off. His tone isn’t dismissive. It’s protective and conflicted in a way you’re not sure he even recognizes in himself.

He shifts slightly, and the back of his glove brushes your elbow. It isn’t a touch—more the shadow of one—but it’s enough to make you aware of how warm he is at this distance, and how easy it would be to close the space between you.

“After what happened that night,” he says quietly, still scanning the street below, “you really think I’m going to let you parade out here tonight? You got shot.”

You swallow hard, unsure whether he’s scolding you, worrying about you, or trying not to admit either.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like that,” you say softly.

Jason keeps his gaze forward, but the set of his jaw shifts. “It never does. Not with us.”

The way he says “us” breaks something open inside you. He feels it too, because his eyes flick toward you beneath his helmet with an expression you can’t read—something sharp, frustrated, and vulnerable all at once. You look away first, not because you want to, but because holding that look against the cold scowl of his helmet feels dangerously close to admitting all the things you’ve managed to bury.

The atmosphere between you grows heavier, tense in a way that feels fragile and combustible. This is the beginning of the slope. The slow, inevitable drift back toward the kind of closeness that ends behind closed doors with heat and steam and apologies neither of you are ready for. You can sense it forming even here, in the cold glow of Gotham’s neon.

Before either of you can speak towards the inevitable again, a noise cracks through the alley—someone shouting, followed by the crash of something metal hitting pavement. Jason straightens immediately.

“Stay behind me.”

You don’t bother answering. You both know how that always goes.

You follow him down the fire escape, boots finding rusted rungs as the noise fades into the dark. The street is empty by the time you reach the ground. Only a tipped trash bin and the ripple of movement disappearing around a corner.

Jason scans the area, curses under his breath, then pulls out his comm for a quick check-in with Oracle. You catch the way his shoulders drop when he realizes the disturbance wasn’t connected to Penguin.

“Great,” he sighs. “Waste of time.”

You nudge him lightly. “Not totally. We still have the lead from that warehouse sweep you did. And whatever the hell that encrypted file was.”

He speaks in a tone that’s half-exasperation, half of something softer. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not. The longer that file sits unread, the more ground we lose. We need to decrypt it, instead of just waiting to beat Penguin up.”

“I’m not trying to beat him up…” Jason chuckles, the sound low and almost amused. “A bullet in the shoulder would probably make him talk.”

“Jason!” you snap, half-laughing, half-scolding. “No shooting unless we’re sure he’s behind this!”

“So you’re saying I can shoot him?”

You shove playfully at his shoulder, feeling a grin you can't contain creep up your cheeks "I'm not Batman.” You shrug.

You can’t possibly know, but underneath his helmet, he sports a grin that's just like yours.

“I know, Batman doesn’t exactly leave cinnamon rolls for me on the kitchen table.”

You stop the urge to ask him if he liked his roll and simply choose to be content with the fact that he did in fact see it.

A silent beat passes after. Jason huffs out a breath, slightly annoyed, but also giving in. “Fiiiine. Come on. My place is closer. We can sort everything out there.”

You pretend your heart doesn’t do something stupid and eruptive at that. You pretend you don’t remember exactly how many times crossing that threshold has led to something you swore you wouldn’t repeat.

The drive to his apartment is quiet, but not entirely cold. You make a stop at a safe house to change your costumes and after, that strange, dangerous hum sits between you like a live wire neither of you touches yet. But you’ve got your arms wrapped around his torso, and your face buried on the slope of his back. He even caresses your knee at a red light, and even if the touch is unsure and trembling, you don’t push him away.

You want to not panic, but your mind is a puddle of goo, baptised in the sole affirmation that going to his apartment is solely for case purposes.

When you reach his building, Jason unlocks the door and steps aside for you to go in first. 

“After you,” His voice is steady, but something in it trembles beneath the surface.

Jason’s apartment is dim when you walk in—only the kitchen light left on, humming faintly like it’s trying to apologize for existing in a not so normal tidiness. You toe off your boots, the ache in your legs finally catching up to you now that the adrenaline’s burned off.

Jason locks the door behind you with a soft click. He stands there for a moment, still facing the wood, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, uneven breath.

You take a seat at his kitchen table.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he says, finally drifting closer to you.

“Yeah”

“Just… ”

You know that stance that follows. That’s the stance of him not even trying to finish his sentence, in case he says something that sounds stupid.

You set your tech gear down on the table, pulling out your phone, with your stored notes from the night. “So,” you start, keeping your voice light, “uhm, before we start, are we gonna talk about what happened with Damian tonight orrr—”

“No.” He’s quick. Too quick.

You lift a brow. “Really? Just ‘no’? That’s the whole sentence we’re going with?”

Jason scrubs a hand down his face, like he already regrets being conscious. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Neither am I,” you counter. “I’m not looking for a fight. I just want to understand what set him off.”

He turns toward you, leaning back against the direction of the door. His eyes flicker with frustration—more at himself than at you. “He’s a kid. He gets ideas. He says things.”

“Jason,” you say, a little softer, “he wasn’t just saying things. He’s a kid that doesn’t understand why we circle each other so awkwardly.”

That cracks something. Just barely.

Jason pushes off his chair, letting it balance on two legs. “Look, Damian—he thinks he’s protecting people. Or judging people. Or whatever the hell he does when he puts himself ten feet above the rest of us.”

You fold your arms. “He implied you were hiding something from me.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. Because he runs his mouth like he’s trying to win a medal.”

“And are you?”

That hits harder than you meant it to, and you see it immediately—the flash in his eyes, the way he exhales like you struck a match in a gas-filled room.

“I’m not hiding anything,” he says, low. “I just—don’t want to dump more shit on your plate.”

You blink. For a moment, all the tension stutters. “Jason… that’s not fair.” 

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “life’s not fair. And Damian tired me out.”

“You’re not more shit on my plate. You’re not shit, at all.”

He huffs bitterly, almost a laugh “Now, you’re not gonna like my response to that”

You feel the edge of frustration rise, sharp, too hot— you hate it when he talks like that about himself– but you’re tired too. Too tired to hold onto a conversation that is going to lead to a fight. So instead of pushing, instead of digging deeper into words you’re both too frayed to handle, you let out a long breath.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it tonight.”

The room softens. Not fixed entirely, but simply deflated. Two people holding stress like wet coats, too heavy to wring out right now.

Jason’s shoulders drop a fraction. He nods once, like he appreciates you not poking the bruise, even if it is still sitting there between you. He would definitely hate to enter a conversation that unravels the fact that you and Dick wanted to adopt Damian like a papyrus.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

You both migrate toward the desk with his computer without saying anything, like two planets stuck in the same orbit frustrated and exhausted, but still pulled toward each other out of habit. 

Jason drags out a chair, drops into it like gravity doubled just for him, and starts peeling off his driving gloves. You sit next to him and spread the files he has neatly printed out on an envelope in the top drawer of his desk. For a few minutes, it’s quiet except for the rustling of paper and the soft clink of gear being set aside.

But the quiet isn’t neutral. It pulses. It’s the kind of quiet where you can feel the shape of his attention even when he’s not looking at you.

You catch him watching you once—half a second, a sideways glance as you jot down a note. His eyes flick back to the paper the instant you look up, jaw tightening like he’s annoyed at himself.

You pretend not to notice, but the back of your neck warms anyway.

“So,” you say eventually, tapping a photo, “this guy at the warehouse— You’ve written down that he bolted when heard your name? Fetch me the surveillance camera from the building across.”

Jason leans forward, forearms braced on the table. The shadow under his eye makes him look sharp as he clicks on the video you asked him for. “Penguin’s been running a new gun trafficking route. Word on the street is he’s got fresh guards, fresh cash, fresh paranoia. Anyone connected is jumpy.”

“That seems like more than regular criminal jitters, that wasn’t just jumpy,” you say, studying the video frame by frame “That was terrified.”

He considers that, lips pressing into a thin line. “If the men we encountered were Penguin’s, then he probably knows something. He’s probably been told to avoid vigilantes at all costs.”

Jason’s trying to keep it about the case. You can tell; every answer is clipped and efficient. Too professional.

But every now and then his voice softens by accident, usually when he’s talking to you. And each time it does, that crack in the armor gets just a little wider.

You reach for a file at the same moment he does, your fingers end up brushing. Just a small thing. Barely contact. It jolts you enough to make you pull back instantly, but Jason is faster than you.

He pulls his hand back first. “Sorry,” he mutters.

You don’t say ‘it’s fine’. Because, one, it’s not. Two, it wouldn't cover the actual problem anyway. Instead, you slide the file toward him. “Here. You were going for it.”

Something in his expression loosens just a millimeter. Enough to show that the almost argument still sits in the back of his mind, unspoken and unfinished, but not as sharp now. More like, raw.

The case-work eventually bleeds into that late-night haze where sentences start slurring at the edges. Your handwriting gets messier. Jason’s notes start trailing off mid-thought. Both of you push through it out of stubbornness alone.

You rub your eyes, leaning back in your chair with a groan. “My whole body hurts,” you mumble. “Why does detective work feel like I got hit by a car?”

Jason snorts. “Because we chased a guy across two rooftops.”

“That was your fault.”

“It was teamwork.”

You glare at him half-heartedly, but your eyelids are already heavy. You stifle a yawn behind your wrist and blink slowly. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not gonna die,” he says. But his voice has softened. Hearing you fading is doing something to him. His shoulders relax just a little, the worry line between his brows easing. “You just need to sleep. Or—”

He hesitates, glancing toward the hallway like the thought snuck up on him.

“—maybe a hot shower would help,” he says. “Your muscles are probably locked up after all that climbing, you haven’t even been training for two weeks.”

You let out a tired, sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, that’d be great… if I had the energy to stand to go home.”

“You can crash here,” Jason leans back in his chair, arms folded, when you ‘tch’ him, studying you the way he does when he’s already made up his mind. “Aw…You look like you’re about ten seconds from face-planting.”

“I’m fineeee,” you insist, but the sentence melts into another yawn mid-word.

He raises a brow. “Uh-huh. Totally convincing.”

You try sitting up straight and immediately sway. “Okay… maybe… not fine.”

Jason pushes to his feet with a quiet sigh, one part annoyed, one part concerned, one part something warmer he would never admit to. He comes around the table and crouches slightly so he’s eye-level with your very distracted, very sleepy face.

“Want help?” he asks.

You blink at him—slow, lazy, and just honest enough to let the truth slip through.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Help me.”

The way he breathes in at that, almost imperceptible, says everything. It’s nothing sexual. Not yet. It’s just that you are asking for help over something so mundane, just that it hits him somewhere soft inside him.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Come on.”

He slides an arm around your back, warm and steady, lifting you from the chair like you weigh nothing. You cling to his shoulder instinctively, half-asleep and trusting him without even thinking about it.

He steadies you with both hands, his voice low and a little rough in your ear.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” he says. “Then straight to bed.”

You don’t catch the way he swallows after he says it. You’re too busy letting your forehead rest against his shoulder.

You’re too tired to see that this moment—this softness, this closeness—is exactly where the slope starts to tip. You tap lightly at his shoulder—your version of I got it, even if you very much do not have it. Jason eases you down, letting your feet touch the floor, but he keeps one hand braced at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple over again.

The second you wobble, his grip tightens.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

You nod, but your brain feels like it’s wrapped in warm cotton. The room sways just slightly, or maybe that’s you swaying in his hold. Jason’s thumb presses once—barely there—at your hip, either steadying you or grounding himself. Hard to tell which.

Jason guides you down the hall with a steady arm around your waist, the soft thud of your steps echoing in the quiet apartment. You’re leaning into him more than you intended to. More than you should. Enough that it feels  familiar. Too familiar.

And that’s when the thoughts start.

Artemis.

You try not to flinch at the thought of her name, but it threads its way through your brain anyway. The image of her—confident, tall, lethal, the kind of woman who fits into Jason’s world without ever having to try.

Are they doing this too? Driving home from patrol. Trading quiet glances. Having these subtle, careful moments in hallways when no one else is around.

You swallow hard.

You and Jason both told Damian tonight that there was nothing. Nothing happening. Nothing unresolved. Nothing worth looking at twice.

So what is this now?

His hand slides just a little higher on your back as he steadies you through a patch of uneven floor. It’s harmless. It’s instinctive. But your body reacts like it remembers something you aren’t supposed to talk about.

This isn’t nothing, a small, traitorous part of you whispers.

You push the thought away immediately. You’re exhausted. Your brain is doing that fuzzy, emotional spiral thing it does when you need to sleep the tiredness away.

But still. If there’s absolutely nothing between you, then why does Jason handle you like this? Careful. Focused. Like you’re something breakable he keeps pretending isn’t in his hands. And why does your chest ache at the thought that maybe someone else gets this version of him too?

You’re frowning before you even realize it, mind spinning, steps slowing. Jason notices instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You good?”

You nod, but it’s the slow, distracted kind. The one with the pursed lips and the tightly shut eyelids; the universal code for ‘totally not good.’ He watches your face for a beat longer, concerned, but doesn’t push.

He guides you toward the bathroom, keeping close, his hand steady at the small of your back. And gosh, looking at him right now makes you want to kiss him.

Every step feels like a line you shouldn’t cross, but somehow already did when that thought creeped up on you. The hallway between his living room and bathroom has never felt this long or this quiet or this charged.

Halfway there, you dare another glance up at him. His jaw is tense, his brow drawn. Not with annoyance, but something dangerously close to longing and he’s biting his lip.

You look away before he can catch you staring.

When you reach the bathroom doorway, he pauses. You feel him hesitate before he speaks.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, quieter now. “Because if we’re doing this—if I’m helping you—you need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

Your throat tightens at the softness in his voice. “I– I’m fine,” you say again, but gentler this time. “Just tired and it aches everywhere.”

He nods once, slowly. “Okay. I’ll stick around in case you need anything. Don’t want you slipping.”

It’s reasonable. Responsible. The exact kind of helpful gesture anyone could offer. And yet, it feels like the start of something neither of you will be able to pretend away later.

He opens the bathroom door with one hand while keeping you upright with the other. The warm light spills across the tiles, and he guides you inside gently, thumb brushing your bicep in a way that feels too intentional to be accidental.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Intentional or not, this is intimacy. And you both swore there wasn’t any.

"Can you walk?"

You nod, biting back another wince. "Yeah."

You lie, because admitting the truth would open a door you are absolutely not prepared to walk through.

“Mm-hm,” He lets out a slow breath, one you feel against your cheek more than hear. “Alright. Shower first. I’ll make sure you don’t fall asleep standing up.”

“Not gonna fall asleep,” you mutter. Your eyes immediately begin to shut as a muscle on your calf pulls.

Jason snorts. “Sure you’re not.”

Jason steadies you on your feet, hands firm at your waist for a second longer than strictly necessary. You open your mouth to tell him you’ve got it, that you can stand just fine—but your balance wobbles again, and he shifts automatically to catch you.

That’s when he sees it.

His jaw tightens. Just a flicker. His eyes drop to your side, to the dark smear on your shirt where the fabric clings wrong.

“Hey—” His voice changes. Sharper. Controlled in that way he gets when something hits the wrong nerve. “You’re still bleeding from that?”

You blink, slow and confused, following his gaze. It takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Oh. I guess it pulled a little.”

“‘Pulled a little.’ My ass” Jason repeats it like you’ve just casually told him the sky fell but you think the weather’s perfectly fine. He reaches out carefully and lifts the hem of your shirt just enough to check. Not touching skin—he’s too careful for that—but close enough that you feel the disappointment seething across his face.

Your skin is stained in dried up blood. Not bad, the wound is almost closed. But it’s not nothing.

His expression darkens.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t even be running rooftops on this.”

“Honestly, It’s fine I’m full of bruises that are worse than this,” you admit. You’re too tired to lie about this too, and too worn down to pretend you’re invincible.

Jason exhales slowly, the kind of breath that’s half frustration, half relief that it’s not worse. “You can barely keep your eyes open. And you’re hurt.” His voice is low, steady, but the edges are fraying with worry. “You need to take it easy.”

You try to laugh it off. “That’s what I said.”

He looks at you like he’s debating if he should lecture you, wrap you in bubble wrap, or carry you the rest of the night.

Then, more gently, he says “Let me help. Fuck– You can barely stand.”

The softness in his tone sets off that familiar flicker of doubt deep in your chest, uninvited and unwelcome. Because you insisted nothing was happening. He insisted nothing was happening. Friends, partners, whatever the hell label you two keep pretending fits. You’re close. Comfortable. Familiar. And you’re still thinking about kissing him like it’s a crime.

You swallow. The space between you feels suddenly so much smaller. And suddenly, you're wide awake. A conscious decision you should make is to pull back now, before this gets any worse “Jason… you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t.” The words drop solid between you, stopping your protest cold. “I want to.”

And oh well, you don’t want to pull back from that.

Jason adjusts your balance with one steady hand at your elbow and reaches past you. His arm brushes your shoulder as he turns the shower knob, wrist flexing, testing the temperature with a careful pass of his fingers under the stream.

“The water’s warm,” he says quietly. His voice is low, muted. “You should get in”

You nod, but your feet don’t move. Exhaustion makes everything feel far away, like you’re watching yourself lag a few seconds behind reality.

Jason studies your face for a beat, expression unreadable but tight around the corners of his eyes. You can almost see the thoughts he won’t speak. The worry and frustration, that quiet ache he gets when he’s too protective for his own good. 

“You fading on me?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Just tired.” You repeat for the upteenth time.

His jaw flexes faintly. He believes you, but not completely. He never does when it concerns your safety.

You brace a hand on the counter, steadying yourself, and your breath stutters when another ripple of pain hits your side. Jason’s gaze drops to the movement instantly, a reflex, protective and quiet.

This is where he should step back. Leave you to it. Give you space.

He doesn’t though. He lingers instead. Not hovering, but just present. Solid. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through the fatigue pulling at your eyelids. His touch is so careful, like he’s terrified of hurting you or, worse, making you think he’s touching you for any reason other than necessity.

And that’s when the thought hits him. It comes quietly. Without drama. Without intention.

Just there. Just a thought he’s had in the past, creeping up on the worst imaginable moment.

If this were normal. If this were every night. If you came home like this, tired and sore and bruised from whatever madness the day brought. If he guided you toward the shower because that’s what partners do—because you lived in the same space, shared the same routines, the same air. If this soft, half-sleeping version of you was something he saw all the time instead of just when the universe forced your paths too close together.

His throat works around a sound he doesn’t let out. He imagines it too easily. That’s the problem.

You, dropping your bag on the floor, grumbling about your day, leaning against him on the couch out of habit instead of exhaustion. You, in his bathroom—not because you’re hurt or overtired or slipping—but because this would simply be home.

The picture is so clear it almost rattles him.

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against your back. Just half an inch. Just enough to anchor himself. Then, his own hands betray him as they slide to the wide of your back, his thumb rubbing a few circles over newly found knots of sore muscle.

He clears his throat softly. “Your back’s hard as a rock.”

“I know,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.

He exhales through his nose, slowly, almost resigned.

“Alright,” he says after a long, measured pause. “Let me see what I can do.”

You lift your gaze to him through the cabinet mirror, unfocused. “Jason…”

“Just steadying you,” he adds, though you didn’t accuse him of anything. He says it more for himself than for you. “Nothing else.”

But the truth sits between you anyway.

This isn’t nothing.

Not the way he’s touching you. Not the way you’re leaning on him. Not the way he’s looking at you—quiet, conflicted, like he’s trying very hard not to think about the version of his life where moments like this happen every night.

You swallow, voice smaller than you intended. “I… could use the help. Actually.”

He nods once, slow. The smallest shift in the world, but it feels enormous.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he says.

“You won’t.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to believe that too.

He lifts your shirt slowly. Pauses when it brushes the tender edge of your healing wound. His breath stutters, just barely, but you feel it. He adjusts the angle, coaxing the fabric over you with this impossible gentleness that makes your chest tighten.

Your arms raise. The shirt slides higher. His fingers skim your sides.

The moment should be clinical. Neutral.

It isn’t.

Your breath catches. Jason’s does too, but he keeps his eyes carefully averted, focused strictly on the fabric he’s tugging upward. When the shirt finally comes off, he steps back like he’s afraid to be too close.

You stand there in your bra, wishing the room didn’t feel so small.

He clears his throat softly. “Pants?”

You nod, and turn around to face him, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

He goes slower this time. Kneels slightly to steady the waistband, his hands warm against your hips. Your heart kicks at your ribs as he eases the fabric down, eyes pointed firmly at the tiles, his jaw tight with restraint.

There’s a moment, so brief and fragile, where his knuckles graze the bruised skin at your thigh. His breath hitches. He pulls back immediately.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice tight.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. And it is. Too okay.

The pants pool at your ankles. He lets you hold onto his shoulder as you step out of them, his hand steady on your calf so you don’t slip. Every point of contact feels charged, but silent. Both of you pretend it’s fine. Normal.

Jason starts rising slowly, but he doesn’t move far. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that his eyes flick upward—and then away just as quickly.

You’re in nothing but a bra and underwear. Hair sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat. Exhausted and sore and barely staying upright. And he’s looking at you like you’re something he shouldn’t be allowed to touch, but can’t stop wanting to.

You swallow hard, then whisper his name. “Jason…” 

Fuck—fucking hell, does he love it when you say his name so desperately.

His hands steady on your thighs and he looks up at you with that pleading, puppy-like gaze you can’t even pretend doesn’t make your stomach twist and churn.

And you think you should screw whatever the hell you told Damian, or anything that has been making your insides bleed with doubt lately.

You crouch ever so slightly, cupping the underside of his jaw into your open palm.

Jason rises slowly, like any sudden movement might startle you. When he’s fully standing, you find yourselves too close enough that the warmth from the shower behind you gathers around both your bodies like a hanging question neither of you wants to ask first.

You shift a half-step toward him. He shifts a half-step back to adjust. Matching your movement before his brain lets him admit it.

You breathe in. He breathes out.

Your chests almost brush.

Then, for just an instance, he glances at your mouth. Just a flicker, fast and wrecked, like he hates himself for knowing what gonna happen next when he has no intentions of stopping himself.

Your hand is still on his jaw, warm against the faint stubble that pierces through your delicate skin. His own hands hover at your waist—to feel, not to claim. He’s holding himself together by rotten threads.

You snap them.

“Can I?” You ask, whispering.

Jason doesn’t have to question what you’re asking to do. He knows the quiet ruin that preludes your kisses, he loves to feel it. So he nods.

He leans in first, his lips shake with a quivering breath. His forehead touches yours for one suspended second where neither of you moves, even though the decision has already been made.

Then you tilt your chin closer to his face and tug at his jaw to urge him to close the distance.

Your lips meet in the smallest possible kiss. Just a pucker and a smooch, but it’s so soft and tender, your lips engulf his own so tenderly and suck so subtly, that even the sounds of your parting is barely ever heard.

None of you make a move for a second kiss for a moment too long.

It’s Jason actually, who lacks the discipline to be patient that wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you just enough so he can set you on the top of the counter.

You let out the faintest inhale, legs brushing his hips, and Jason stands between them like he’s afraid stepping away will undo whatever fragile thing he’s just been handed.

You open your mouth, unsure where to even begin. The words you want to say have scattered, dissolved. Your breath catches in your chest instead. Neither of you moves to break the spell, and that stillness becomes its own magnetic gravity, pulling you towards each other.

“Wanna shower together, Jay?” You manage to say through a gulp.

It’s so quiet, so barely there, as if you’re scared someone’s going to hear you and steal the moment away from you.

Jason’s hand lifts, hesitant and slightly uncertain as if he’s only reacting to instinct. His fingers brush your jaw, and his nose bumps into the space above the top of your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispers and nudges your face upwards with his to steal another soothing kiss from you. “If you’ll have me…”

This one is barely a kiss—more a press of warmth, a shared breath, a soft meeting of mouths that lingers a fraction too long to be innocent. His lips brush yours again on the exhale, unhurried and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment rather than deepening it.

Jason pulls back slightly, eyes half-lidded, studying you with a tenderness he clearly didn’t mean to let slip. His hand stays on your jaw longer than it should. Your noses stay close enough to touch.

His thumb traces your cheek once, slow and unsure, as if asking a question he can’t bring himself to say out loud.

Then he breathes out, shaky and warm.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice gentled to something almost fragile. “Let’s get you in before you fall asleep on me.”

He drops his forehead to yours again, just for a heartbeat, grounding himself—or maybe grounding you. His hand slips from your jaw to the side of your neck, guiding you with a steadiness that feels like a promise he hasn’t admitted to making.

When he finally steps back, it’s gradual, like peeling himself away from gravity. His hands slide down to your waist, then lower, helping you off the counter with a slow caution that sends a pulse straight through your ribs.

You land on your feet unsteadily and Jason catches you before you can sway. Neither of you really acknowledges how close your chests press together but then again he doesn’t let go right away.

When he does, he only steps back another foot, just enough to breathe, not enough to break whatever thread has formed between your bodies.

His eyes flick again to your lips. Yours drop to his. A shared second of understanding that neither one of you is making a move to stop.

Then he reaches for your hand, not your elbow, not your back, but your hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers close around yours with gentle certainty, and he gives the softest tug.

He guides you toward the shower with careful hands, steadying your balance as the heat rolls out in waves.

You stop just at the edge of the steam. The air is hot enough to prickle against your skin, warm enough to make the room feel even smaller.

Jason stands close behind you. You can feel the hesitation rolling off him in slow, uncertain breaths. The kind of breath a man takes when he knows he’s about to cross a boundary he promised himself he wouldn’t.

His hands hover at your waist again, then fall away.

“I should… uh—” His voice drops low, almost apologetic. “Let you get in first.”

He’s completely still, a contemplating look painted on his face when you turn to him.

It hits both of you at the same time: you’re almost naked, inches from him, in a room full of heat and quiet choices.

“Can I take off your clothes?” you ask softly, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt.

His breath catches. A noticeable, undeniable pause. “You… you don’t have to.”

“I know.” You meet his gaze. “But can I?”

Jason’s answer isn’t verbal—not right away. He just nods once, definitely. A surrender wrapped in restraint.

You step closer. “I want to take care of you too.”

Your fingers slip under the fabric at his waist. He’s too warm for someone who insists his blood runs cold. His muscles tighten instinctively beneath your touch, then soften as he forces himself to breathe.

You lift the shirt inch by inch.

Jason raises his arms a beat late, dazed, like he can’t quite believe he’s letting you do this.

The shirt slides up his ribs, his chest, over the scar that cuts across his sternum. You pause there but not to touch, just to see. Jason swallows hard, eyes flicking away, embarrassed in a way he hates. You've already seen him without his shirt countless times since that night on his couch.

You tug the shirt over his head.

He stands bare chested before you, skin flushed from the heat, breath unsteady in the close air.

His eyes lower to your hands again. “You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You?”

He lets out a quiet laugh—more exhale than sound. “Not even close.”

You don’t smile, but something inside you loosens.

He reaches for his belt next, hesitantly, then looks at you. Not for permission—more like asking if you’re sure you still want to be here, in this moment, with him or if you regret wanting him in the shower with you.

You nod.

He undoes it slowly, metal clicking softly. His pants loosen on his hips. Before he can take the next step, you touch his wrist.

“Let me,” you say, voice barely above a breath.

Jason stops moving completely.

You ease the zipper down, steady, as if the motion might spook him. He exhales sharply, the sound low and warm, and steps closer without meaning to.

The pants fall to the floor.

Jason’s hands lift in a slow, hesitant motion, settling at your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Just grounding himself. His forehead rests gently against yours.

And another shared breath takes places as he hooks his thumbs under the elastic of your panties.

He whispers, barely audible, “…we don’t have to rush.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I’m not rushing.”

“‘M not either.”

You tilt your chin. He tilts his. Your lips brush once again soft, warm, searching. Then again. Deeper. Slower, still careful, but full of longing. He pulls back, only far enough to take your image in.

Underwear is soon discarded on random spots of the floor and the shower steam swallows you both the moment you step inside.

The water hits your shoulders first, hot, almost too hot actually, after the cold night and the ache threading through every muscle, it feels like your body melts from the inside out.

You brace one hand against the tile.

Jason steps in behind you, slow and careful, like he’s entering holy ground. The curtain slides closed with the whisper of fabric, sealing the two of you in a small world made of heat running water.

Then Jason exhales soundlessly and places one hand between your shoulder blades.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod, eyes closing as the water streams over your spine. “Yeah.”

His thumb drifts once across your back, tracing the line of muscle there. A gentle check-in from someone who’s watched you get hurt too many times.

He reaches for the detachable showerhead, tests the temperature on his palm, adjusting it a degree warmer— like he magically knows how hot you like your water to be. Then he lifts it above you, guiding the water along your shoulders, down your arms, careful of your healing side.

The first sweep of heat makes a breathy sound escape you half relief, half relaxation.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Feels too good, actually,” you murmur.

He swallows, the movement visible down his throat. “Alright. Just… tell me if it’s too much.”

He works methodically. Letting the water loosen each knot he felt earlier under your skin. Every time his knuckles graze your back, he draws them away quickly, like touching you too long might cross a line he’s terrified of.

You lean your forehead against your arm. “Jason?”

“Mm?”

“You can touch me. I won’t break.”

His breath stutters. His hand returns, a little more grounded this time. Less afraid.

He smooths your hair back gently, guiding the water through it. His fingers slide near your scalp, and the kind of quiet sound you make this time is different—small and honest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed.

“Don’t…” His voice comes out too rough. “Don’t apologize for that.”

The water hits the tile around your feet in rhythmic bursts. His hands keep moving, learning the shape of your muscles, the warm slope of your back, the tension in your neck.

You turn, so you face him. Jason steps back automatically—then stops himself, forcing his feet still. You can see the way he’s fighting the urge to retreat, in this new uncharted territory but something about him right now is so unapologetically beautiful.

His lashes are wet. His hair is beginning to drip. His chest rises and falls with an unsteady breath.

You step closer, with a hand reach towards his face despite him not moving an inch. Reaching up your fingers brushing the water from his jaw. The contact is featherlight, but it pulls something deep from his chest—a low exhale he doesn’t catch in time.

You want to ask him, if he really means this is still nothing, but no words come out. You also want to tell him how handsome he looks in this setting.

Instead, you reach for his bottle of shampoo.

You spent no time to lather it in your hands and work it through his hair, his eyes half-lidded under the spray as your fingers knead his scalp. He leans into your touch with this heavy sigh, his hands resting on your hips like he needs the anchor.

You let him do the same to you, with hands that engulf the entire of your head.

Occasionally, he switches —turns you gently, brushing your wet hair over one shoulder so he can run his soapy thumbs along the knots in your neck, working warmth into your muscles, slow circles that melt the tightness under your skin. He doesn’t rush the rinse. Doesn’t rush you.

When it’s your turn to massage his shoulders, he lets out whimpers of relief, like he’s finally unclenching somewhere deep. A dark part inside you thinks you’ve won a battle against imaginary foes. It is very unlikely anyone else gets to touch him like that in such vulnerable moments. At least no one has ever cradled your head and washed your hair before.

The two of you move like you’ve found a rhythm without speaking. trading touches, rinsing each other’s backs, smoothing suds down arms and over ribs. It’s domestic and intimate and a little hungry around the edges, each brush of skin a little slower than it needs to be.

At some point, he steps in closer. You feel his chest brush your back. 

You’re both slick with water, faces inches apart, breath mixing with the steam. You reach from behind to rinse the last of the soap from his jaw, and his fingers curl lightly around your wrist.

He peppers kisses along your cheek like they're one promise each. All of them, full, soft, pulled and his body fits so perfectly behind yours, like the perfect puzzle piece.

Is it just too bad to want this as your normal, day to day life? 

Is it too much to ask?

Just the two of you, holding each other without the angst?

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me.”

You try. Your vision blurs. Your chest stutters. It’s embarrassing and overwhelming and too much, too honest, too vulnerable. But Jason gathers your face in his hands anyway, thumbs brushing your cheeks, catching your tears even though the water keeps washing them away.

“Talk to me,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “Please. What’s wrong?”

You pull in a ragged, uneven breath ragged, but the words don’t come. They can’t. If you start talking, you’ll unravel, and if you unravel, you’ll say the things you’re not allowed to say.

So you shake your head, quick and helpless, hoping he takes it as ‘I’m fine’ instead of ‘I’m falling apart.’

“Nothing I’m” you start, choking on a sob “im okay”

Jason’s eyes flick over your face like he’s scanning for an explanation, for something he can fix. But you don’t give him anything.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, but the tears keep coming anyway.

His jaw flexes twice. A quiet, controlled violence of muscle under the skin—panic and guilt and something too raw to name fighting for space in his chest and in his head. You can hear it in his breathing, the way it stutters like he’s bracing for impact.

He opens his mouth—to ask again, maybe, or to say something too real—but shuts it before a sound slips out. You see the moment he decides that pressure is a risk he can’t take.

Jason Todd, actual king of bad and irrational , sentimental decisions, actually chooses silence.

Instead, he brushes a thumb over your cheek. Just once. He contemplates the thought of placing a kiss at the highest point of your cheek, but finds the motion overkill.

You don’t speak and neither does he.

Inside your head, your thoughts are screaming.

You want him. You want certainty. You want a promise he can’t give. But the minute you try to shape any of it into words, your throat closes like it’s trying to save you from yourself.

Jason watches you like he’s waiting for the real reason you’re crying, the real fear, the real plea—but he doesn’t ask. He won’t, because he is terrified of the answer.

Terrified he already knows it. It’s probable that you’re thinking about Damian’s picture of a perfect nuclear family, and even if he tried so hard to suppress it within him tonight after what he heard, he can’t help but think he ruined this for you. He should’ve stopped this before it became something he can’t control. Before it became something he wants too badly, but it’s obvious he brings destruction into anything burrowed he ever touches.

“Okay,” he murmurs finally—not an agreement, not comfort either and definitely not understanding. Just a placeholder.

He slips out of you and steadies both your feet on the shower floor. A tiny, fragile truce.

He wipes another tear from your jaw even though the water keeps replacing it. You see the way his hand hesitates, like he wants to pull you in, kiss you again, swallow whatever pain you’re drowning in—but he doesn’t. He stays right where he is, close enough to feel your shaking breath, far enough to pretend it’s not intimacy.

Your chest aches. His chest rises like it hurts him too. And this silence between you is thick, steaming, suffocating, it feels like a panic attack instead of the only thing holding the moment together.

Jason swallows hard, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second too long before he looks away like he caught himself wanting something he’s not supposed to want.

You feel it. You feel all of it, but you keep your lips sealed.

“Don’t… cry like that,” he says, finally, voice low and scraped raw. “Not because of me.”

You swallow hard. Your throat feels painful, like someone forced you to swallow sandpaper. “I’m not—” But you can’t finish. You don’t know what you’re not.

You don’t know what you are.

Jason’s jaw tics again, like he’s swallowed a piece of sandpaper himself. He shakes his head once, slowly, water dripping off his chin and his hair like punctuation.

“Let’s get out, maybe if you sleep on it you’ll be better in the morning.”

You nod in response.

Neither of you touches the other as he reaches for a towel to hand you.

His arm extends just far enough for you to take it without brushing his fingers. You match his effort, carefully, performing this delicate little choreography like you’re animals trapped in a tiny cage.

You wrap the towel around yourself with stiff fingers. Jason steps out of the shower right after you, reaching for his own towel with the same rigid precision—like every movement has to be deliberate so he doesn’t reach for you instead.

He keeps his eyes low, fixed on the tiles, on the ground, on anywhere that isn’t your face. You keep yours on your feet.

The room feels colder the moment the water stops, even though steam is still thick in the air, fogging the cabinet mirror and the small window in the corner, next to the toilet.

Jason clears his throat, quietly. Barely more than a scrape.

He drags the towel across his neck, then his chest, the muscles in his jaw working like he’s grinding down words he refuses to let escape.

You can feel the moment he looks at you, even though you don’t look back. A brief flicker—soft, charged with guilt—and then he shuts it down so hard it’s like slamming a door on his own raging heartbeat.

He turns slightly, giving you space or taking space on his own. It’s impossible to tell which.

“Use the bed,” he says finally. Not an order. Not tenderness. Not distance either. Just neutrality. Like he’s trying to erase all evidence of what happened. “I’ll take the couch.”

You nod again, because that’s all you can manage without your voice cracking around the edges.

He wraps his towel around his waist and bends to pick up the clothes he shed earlier. His movements are stiff, efficient, almost too fast as though if he slows down even a second, everything inside him will come spilling out and he’ll accuse you of what he suspects is going on.

You watch the floor so intensely that if you had laser vision, you would have already burned an enormous hole in it.

Jason hesitantly moves towards the hallway, though just for a heartbeat he pauses. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to decide whether he should apologize or ask if you’re okay, again, or tell you he didn’t mean for any of this to go so wrong. 

But how does one even say something along the lines of ‘I didn't mean to have sex with you, it just happened’ without sounding like an absolute asshole?

Jason Todd does not risk emotional honesty. Not tonight.

So he settles on silence again instead, one final look at you from the corner of his eye before he slips out of the bathroom to give you the much needed time and space to pull yourself together.

The door doesn’t slam—It just clicks shut.

Ever so tenderly.

And somehow that hurts worse.

Jason Todd Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

(The next installment will feature Roy and Lian and i promise its just going to be fluff. As always my inbox is open to discuss things regarding the fic)

Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq @cicikent @cowboysaveme @osclerc @dyanasaur (I hope im not forgetting anyone, but i'll check again)

Dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[strawberry-nugget]

— Like Lovers Do

When the steam clears, there’s no place left to hide. After a rough night, you find comfort in Jason's arms under the shower spray. But this intimacy is dangerous; every touch, every slow movement, pulls the two of you toward a line you both know you shouldn't have crossed. Again. (Part 1/2)

Tags/ CW: smut, 18+ mdni, jason x fem!reader, shower sex, bathing together, insane amounts of neck kissing, soft Jason, porn with plot/feelings, unprotected p in v sex, Jason and reader are very soft for eachother, ex wonder girl reader

Indirect continuation to this

Steaming hot water is remedy for the battered and tired body and a six foot four man holding you in his embrace as the shower head pours water down at you is remedy for the sorrowful soul. Everybody knows that.

Jason’s hands are wrapped around you like milky textured, fine silk; his chin is tucked nicely on your right trap, his thighs have completely trapped yours in a steady stance.

You lean back into his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath against your spine. It’s steady, calmer than yours, like he’s using the rhythm to anchor both of you.

Somewhere between water droplets hitting the tiles like tidal waves you can hear the muffled sound of Jason’s phone still playing the list of songs you queued before getting in the shower. It hums now, melodically in the tune of Enjoy The Silence.

Everything moves in slow motion.

Your muscles ache everywhere —ribs, shoulder, thighs—every angry bruise inflicted during the last week blooming hotter under the water. The adrenaline of today’s heated training finally burnt off, leaving nothing but the raw honesty of pain and the strange comfort of having someone there to witness it.

Jason’s arms wrap around your waist, palms flat against your stomach, thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Like touch is instinct for him —at least when it comes to you.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this wrecked,” he murmurs against the back of your neck, voice low, softened almost completely by the steam.

“Mmmhm,” you manage to hum in response. You could tell him, he hasn’t seen you naked on your worst nights, and this is truly nothing, but choose not to, scared to ruin the mood. 

Jason is cautious about scars and topics revolving around them like you have this horrible thing with the sight of fresh blood. You don’t push, simply, because you’d hate yourself if you were to make him feel worse.

His lips ghost along your shoulder —not a kiss, not quite —more like he’s checking you’re still breathing. You coo into his arms like a bird in a warm nest.

You and Jason are not made for something so prominently intimate, but, you still comply with the gentleness. For a moment, you want to make peace with the fact that he’s holding you so fondly.

You don’t know how long you stand there, wrapped in steam and him. Though, you suppose it’s long enough for the bruises to stop muttering deadly whispers of pain and destruction in between skin and broken blood vessels. It’s long enough for your heartbeat to sync, almost, with his. 

For all your thoughts about what’s going on between him and Artemis from two weeks ago to fade away. 

Not entirely— you wish you could have a chest bejewelled with bravery and not the Amazonian eagle, just so you could ask him what’s going on but albeit the foolish cowardice— it’s still in the back of your mind, though it’s mellowed down now, somewhat between steam and cocoa scented body wash. 

Jason is the one who moves first.

Not exactly away. Just enough to turn you around in the circle of his arms.

His hands stay on your waist, fingers pressing into the curves of your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip through the cracks if he doesn’t hold on just right. You brace your palms on his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heart under hot, wet skin and then with a sigh of relief, you wrap your hands entirely around his neck.

Your chests bump with the sound of wet skin slapping on equally wet skin and all breath is knocked out of both of you.

He looks down at you through droplets that cling to his fat lashes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth —soft, disarmed, unbearably human. It makes the reminiscent of the pulsing ache that settled in your chest when you found out about the letter he wrote to Barbara disappear. 

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, tenderly. “Hi.”

His thumb skims the side of your jaw, gentle in a way Jason Todd almost never is, or at least pretends not to be. You gulp with eyes glossed with worry; The gentleness doesn’t sit right with you—It’s terrifying how easy it is.

How safe it feels.

Jason notices. Of course he notices. He always notices everything about you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, 

You swallow. Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Just tired.”

His arms tighten around you and silence settles in between the slopes of your bodies. Heavy, warm, something tender blooming in the steam. His thumbs stroke the sides of your ribs like a promise he doesn’t have the words for.

Then his mouth finds your shoulderblade again —slow this time— lips brushing the bruise there with a gentleness that hurts more than the bruise itself.

“Jason…” you murmur, breath hitching.

“Yeah?”

You… you don’t have a particular reply in mind, you never thought of one when you called out his name—just his name, just the shape of it leaving your mouth because something in your chest needed it out in the air between you two.

You snort and the movement hurts your ribs which makes you flinch. It immediately wipes the boyish smirk off his face.

Jason breathes in at the sound, like it hits him right in the sternum. His hands pause on your ribs, thumbs frozen mid-stroke. For a second you think he’s going to ask again, press you, peel you open the way he always does when he’s worried.

But he doesn’t.

He just tilts his head, forehead dipping toward yours, noses nuzzling, the steam curling around the space between your mouths.

The water pounds down your back. Every droplet a boiling hot needle on your skin. Your breath tangles with his. Everything else, every bruise, every thought of Artemis, every quiet ache you tried to swallow—falls into a soft, humming silence.

His hands fly up, cupping your face. “Hey. Hey, easy.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble.

“C’mere,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to speak any louder.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your noses brush. Until his hands slide from your ribs to the small of your back, pulling you flush into him with this careful sort of insistence—like he’s still giving you time to say no even though your body’s already said yes.

Jason’s eyes flick down to your mouth.

It’s the only warning you get and yet, it still manages to steal your breath away.

Then he kisses you.

Slow at first. So slow it almost isn’t a kiss, just the warm press of his lips tasting the corner of yours. A question without words. A request without breath.

You answer before you can think, fingers curling into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him in the rest of the way.

He exhales shaky, relieved, like you just unlocked something he’s been holding shut for weeks.

The kiss deepens, not rushed, not greedy, just… full. Like he’s trying to kiss the exhaustion out of your bones, the doubt out of your lungs. Like he’s mapping your mouth with reverence he swears he’s not capable of.

One of his hands cups your jaw, thumb brushing the water from your cheek, and the other pulls you closer than the shower, the steam, the last time you were kissing on his couch.

You melt into him—because how could you not? You’ve tasted his lips before, quite a few times, but it never stops feeling like they slot perfectly against yours. You could tell him you’re somewhat addicted, always expecting the next time not even knowing if there’s gonna be any, always wanting to push the boundary and wreck the walls you’ve built around what he is to you, so you won’t give in. 

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction to tell him you’re in love with him. You’re always mad at him and every little thing he does that doesn’t involve you. But turning back to thinking of Artemis, you realise all you’ve known, or at least what you’ve best known in your life, is war. 

You’re not good with words; frankly, you’d rather actions do the talking. 

His lips move against yours with this quiet urgency one can't seem to suppress, a soft push that feels like confession and the apology of it not coming to spoken fruition and something he isn’t ready to name.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch. Barely enough to breathe.

Just like every other time the two of you kiss, the pull back feels like ripping the stitches of a fresh wound. Every single time, you're ruined.

It is unlike you to parade that ruin.

Your fingers curl into his shoulders like betrayal, dragging him closer before you even think about it. He inhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening at your waist. It’s instinct—heat, relief, want—all braided into the same motion.

Jason inhales sharply against your mouth, the sound low and guttural, punched right out of him. His grip tightens at your waist, fingertips digging into your hips like he’s trying to hold something back and failing spectacularly.

And then you feel it.

Right between your navel and his—firm, hot, unmistakably there—his erection presses against your stomach, pulsing in these slow, desperate beats that sync up a little too neatly with your own quickening pulse. Trapped between your slick, wet bodies, there’s no hiding it, no downplaying it, no pretending it isn’t happening.

Jason freezes for half a heartbeat. Not pulling away, just… stunned. Like the realization hit him at the exact same time it hit you.

His forehead drops to yours, breath shaking.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice wrecked, almost embarrassed and definitely aroused. His thumbs flex on your waist. “You feel that?”

You do. God, you do. And you don’t know where to look. You don’t know how to breathe anymore.

And the way his hips subtly, involuntarily nudge forward—barely a shift, more reflex than choice—makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Jason…” you whisper, though you don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe you’re not asking at all. Maybe you’re just reacting—like he did.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then lower, like he can’t stop himself from checking where your bodies meet.

He swallows hard.

“Say something,” he murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. 

Steam curls around you both, thick, hot, dizzying. Your heart slams so hard against your ribs you swear he can feel it through his hands.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Just a small, broken exhale that barely makes it past your lips. His thumb strokes your hip, almost apologetic, almost pleading.

“Angel,” he whispers, forehead brushing yours. “Please.”

God. You hate yourself when you make him sound so small.

You’ve heard him sound like that before. Unmasked. Unarmored. Uncertain. That night on his couch, when he didn’t want to take his shirt off—now you’re both completely naked, bruised and battered and full of scars that you can’t hide.

Your ribs ache. Your knees go weak.

You’re sure he feels you sway.

Your own core pulses. A deliciously dangerous thing.

Your knees buckle, and he catches you instantly, one hand splaying across the small of your back, the other sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It slips out thin. Trembling, too honest, too naked, too you. You hear it more than you say it, feel it leave your lips like something pulled from your aching ribs.

Jason goes completely still. Not frozen— electrified. All the hair on his body taut.

His breath stops in his throat. His hands tighten on your hips like the words hit him with physical force, like he needs to hold on to keep from unraveling right there against you.

Your forehead lifts just enough to kiss the corner of his jaw with your breath, catching the faint stubble growing there. 

Jason makes a sound—low, ragged, almost pained—and bows his head until his forehead rests against your cheek. His arms lock around your waist like he’s been waiting too long just to hear that exact sentence fall from your mouth.

“Pretty…” he whispers, the word torn out of him.

“Y’er pretty too” you mumble.

Then his hips push forward—slowly, no accident this time—his length sliding against your lower stomach, thick and hot and absolutely not something you don’t pretend to ignore anymore.

He closes his eyes and his lips brush your cheekbone. Then the hinge of your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth— Not a kiss. Not yet.

He’s waiting for something. Waiting for you to break the distance.

You lift your chin, trembling but steady enough to press your lips to his. Barely, just the faintest touch.

Jason’s restraint snaps like overstretched wire.

A sharp inhale cuts through his chest, and then his mouth is on yours fully, fiercely, hungrily—but still gentle enough that you feel the care behind every inch of it. His lips move against yours like he’s memorizing, cataloguing, burning the shape of your wanting into his bones.

His hand slides up, fingers threading into your wet hair, cradling the back of your skull as if he’s terrified you’ll flinch away. You don’t. You melt. You melt so hard you feel your legs give.

He feels it too—he growls, low and vibrating right into your mouth, and lifts you just enough to pin you securely against him, bodies aligned perfectly now, heat meeting heat and heartthrob.

The length of him presses against your lower belly one last time, thick and unmistakably hard, and he doesn’t go the mile to hide it. He presses closer. Like he wants you to feel exactly what you do to him.

Your breath leaves you in a shaky gasp against his lips.

His mouth trails down; jaw, throat, shoulder, sternum, lips hot and desperate, like he’s finally allowed to touch something he’s been dreaming about longer than he’d ever admit. He groans when he reaches a bruise, kissing it like an apology.

“Tell me to stop,” he tries again, voice strained, shaking, breaking.

He’s begging you for a boundary he should have known you’d cross the second you let him take your clothes off and get in the shower with you, because he knows he’s seconds from losing his grip.

Your lips part. Water beads on his shoulders. Your heart slams inside you so hard that it’s becoming painful. Your core pulses again—hard enough that you gasp.

Jason hears it. Feels it. Growls softly like the sound physically hits him.

“Please,” he whispers, not for himself— for you. For clarity. For presenting you the choice. For whatever this is becoming between you two.

You want him, you’re not even going to pretend you don’t. And you realize all at once that he’s not just asking for permission to keep going.

He’s asking for permission to want you.

Your fingers slide up his chest, slow and trembling in that embarrassing manner, resting right over his heart. Your pruned fingertips catch over a scar. Jason’s breath stutters.

Whatever the two of you are is clearly not friends. No, you stopped being friends when you realised that his cock stretching you out that night on his couch felt like a pain that urges underlying pleasure.

You look him in the eye, and you whisper, barely audible over the shower, “I don’t want you to stop.”

His reaction is instant, like your words hit some buried fuse inside him.

Jason surges forward, kissing you with a need so raw it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. His hands grip your waist, firmly, like he’s both desperate to claim you and terrified of breaking you at the same time. The water hammers down around you, hot and constant, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rolling off his body.

You part your lips for him—you don’t even think about it—and he groans into your mouth, a low, shivery sound that feels like it comes from somewhere deep in him, somewhere he doesn’t let sunlight touch.

His tongue brushes yours and you make a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before.

It undoes him.

He presses you back into the tiles—slowly, carefully—like he’s fighting every instinct to slam you there. His forehead drops to yours, breath shaking hard as he tries to steady himself.

“Babe,” he rasps, voice thick, ruined, “I need— I need you to tell me if I’m going too fast.”

You curl a hand around the back of his neck, thumb brushing the short wet hair there, and tug him closer until your noses touch.

“You’re not,” you breathe.

He exhales like he’s been underwater for years.

His hands slide down your sides, over your hips, gripping just enough to lift you, not fully, just enough for your bodies to align perfectly—your soaked thighs brushing his, your clit nudging against the thick, hot length straining between you.

His body fits against yours, warm and trembling, but he doesn’t thrust, doesn’t grind—even though you can feel the thick heat of him against your inner thigh.

You watch the conflict drag across his face. You feel it in your own chest.

Neither of you can pretend you’re just slipping accidentally against shower tiles anymore. Not that you ever pretended any of this was accidental. 

Another pulse hits you, sharp and sweet and humiliatingly obvious, when two of his fingers drag across the entirety of your slit, catching some sleek. Your throat tightens. Your chest feels too small. And you’re too embarrassed to admit you’re this wet from just kissing him.

Jason cuts himself some slack, so as not to make a mundane smug comment on your situation— he’s in the exact same one; erect and pulsing by only a few kisses— by kissing you again, mouth moving with a hunger that leaves your body wobbling. One of his hands slips behind your thigh, lifting it slowly, hooking your leg around his waist.

The new angle steals your breath. His hold remains a promise you can trust him not to let you fall.

His tip nudges right against your core, not inside for a moment, just there and you gasp, clutching at his shoulders.

Jason freezes. Just for a second. Just to make sure you’re okay.

The shift in the moment is immediate. Up to now, you could have pulled away. You could have told yourself it’s for the better.

But albeit, your fingers tighten on his shoulders. Your hips arch in his direction and you don’t dare say a word.

Your eyes don’t leave his for a second, save for the instance when his head drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s grounding himself, like if he loosens his grip even a little you’ll evaporate into steam.

One of his hands roams up your body, desperately, like he’s mapping bruises and curves. His thumb sweeps under your breast, not quite cupping you—like he’s asking, like he’s waiting for you to pull him closer.

You do. You arch into his palm before you even realize you’ve moved. Jason sucks in a breath through his teeth as he toys with one of your hardened nipples.

But, not even willing to wait anymore, you whine a tiny sound of impatience against him. You’d be damned if you begged. You would never actually beg Jason to fuck you. Not when all you have are stolen moments like this one.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice almost cracking, he’s had enough of his own self “okay—come here.” 

His grip tightens, one hand sliding down to hook under your thigh again, pulling you higher around his waist. The head of his cock glides inside along you, hot and swollen and smeared in your dripping slick.

It’s not even full penetration, just a lot of pressure, just friction and you shouldn’t be moaning the way you do but it nearly splits you open.

Jason presses his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, kissing you like he’s trying to make the initial pain go away with just tenderness. His lips trail lower, slow, dragging heat across every place you’ve ever been sensitive; It only makes you moan louder.

Then, he tilts your hips just a bit, just enough, and with a gentle, controlled buckle, he bottoms out inside you. The stretch is surreal for both of you. He growls—actually growls—low and vibrating against your collarbone and you clamp around him, your walls already shaping around every curve of his cock.

Both of you freeze.

Your hands slide up his chest again, slower this time, and he actually shivers like the gentleness is worse than any roughness he could brace for. When your fingertips rest just over his scar, Jason’s breath stutters again… but he doesn’t lean into you. Your fingers trace high, high, higher, until they reach his chin. You trap it between your fingertips, silently pleading he follows your lead and turns to look at you.

He resists for a second. Not physically, Jason’s body obeys you like it’s wired to, but emotionally. Like facing you in this moment, with his cock already buried to the brim inside you and your heartbeat fluttering against his cheek, means admitting something neither of you has the language for.

But he does it anyway. Slowly, his jaw tilts across the skin of your sternum into your touch. Even more slowly, his eyes lift.

And when he meets your gaze, you feel the world cinch tight around the two of you.

He looks… wrecked. Not from the sex—you haven’t even moved yet, but from the closeness. From being seen like this. From seeing you like this. Water beads down his face, mixes with the flush creeping up his throat, and he tries, he really tries to school his features into something neutral. Mask his face into something impossible. And he fails at doing so.

“You want this?” He asks, like he still has the right to remain uncertain.

Your hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, the motion slow enough it feels like a confession. Jason shudders under your touch.

“Jason,” you murmur, your voice barely a thread over the water, “you’re already inside me. I think the wanting part is obvious.”

He exhales through his nose, shaky. Your nails graze his cheekbone, light enough to be tender, intentional enough to anchor him.

When he opens his eyes again, the restraint in them is translucent.

His hand tightens where it’s hooked under your thigh, lifting you a fraction higher, fitting you impossibly deeper with a shimmy of his hips.

Your breath stutters, your body tightens around him, and Jason bites back a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a plea.

His forehead rises until it nearly touches yours, breath mingling, lips parted but not quite kissing.

Your hips shift first—instinct, not choice, not really—tightening around him in a way that forces a choked breath out of his chest. Jason’s hand spasms on your thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the tile like he needs the wall to stay upright.

His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenching, a line of tension slicing straight down his throat.

Your own breath trembles as you drag your palm up the back of his neck, threading your fingers into the short, soaked hair there. You gently tug him closer until his lips brush your pulse—light, terrified, worshipful. He lifts you higher, guiding you back and forth onto his cock with such care. His lips find your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, every land of skin he has left uncharted.

And then Jason moves too, still pulling you down into him, into the heat and the closeness and the kind of intimacy you don’t casually come back from.

You don’t know how long it lasts— but all you can hear are pathetic little whimpers coming from both of you as you fuck each other against the shower tiles.

All you know is that you’re clinging to each other like you’re trying not to drown, steam curling around you, the shower muffling the soft, broken sounds you both can’t hold back.

Your breath is nothing but trembling little gasps, your body arching into every point where you meet him. The tile is hot against your spine. Jason is inevitably hotter.

All you keep thinking is that you don’t want this to be over. You don’t want to spend another day unsure of his affections, you don't want to wake up and wonder if he’s going to text you, if he’s going to push you away. 

You want to wake up next to him tomorrow. You want to fall asleep in his arms tonight! You hate worrying, you hate that he’s away, that he can stray away from you so easily.

Your breath breaks—tiny, shaky gasps that feel too loud in the small, steaming space. Every part of you arches into every part of him like your body is trying to answer a question you’ve been too scared to ask out loud.

Through it all, the heat, the closeness, the impossible press of his body against yours, your mind is spiraling somewhere raw and terrifyingly honest.

You want him. Not just now, not just in this fevered, hungry, trembling way. You want him always. And if you can’t have that, then you shouldn’t be doing this.

A tear slips down your eye— an involuntary thing. But it’s the start of a pour you can’t come down from.

Your throat tightens. Another tear follows, then another, until they’re slipping faster—small, shaking drops mixing with the water already pouring down your face.

All you can think about is that you’re ephemeral in his life. You're convenient, right place right time, a warm body. You're the very thing he accused you of condemning him that night before you left to take Damian to that soccer match.

And that makes you sob. So hard that Jason freezes. His lips still completely against your cheek. His fingers tense on your waist.

He pulls back just enough to see you, concern contorting into panic painted all over his face.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me.”

You try. Your vision blurs. Your chest stutters. It’s embarrassing and overwhelming and too much, too honest, too vulnerable. But Jason gathers your face in his hands anyway, thumbs brushing your cheeks, catching your tears even though the water keeps washing them away.

“Talk to me,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “Please. What’s wrong?”

What the fuck!? What the actual fuck! 

How the fuck do you tell him you know about the letter to Barbara, how do you tell him you think you made up a story in your head because Artemis seemed to act with sorrow the other day when she saw you too together. How do you excuse your awfully stubborn behavior toward him without mentioning it’s just playwright jealousy.

Pause. Press rewind. Press fucking rewind.

Is this the part where you’re supposed to pinpoint how this came to happen tonight instead of answering him right away?

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this.

(And on that note THANK YOU for all the love you've given to this story so far! Life has been kicking my butt and my responses have been late but your words warm me up in ways you don't understand!)

Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq

[moonologyy]

WHEN THE SPITE DIES

𐔌 ↳ ༉‧₊˚ art by @huedmmi

pairing: CEO!damian wayne/personalassistant!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man. You decided to strut into work in stockings and a miniskirt, but he frustratingly refuses to notice. Inspired by ‘miniskirt’ - aoa

cw: no smut just fluff, no y/n mentioned (you will absolutely never catch me using y/n), bad first impressions, enemies(?) to lovers, comedy/humor, bad at feelings, slightly in denial with feelings, happy ending, reader is sick of damian, no angst, and a makeout session.

wc: 18.1k. | part 2

You don’t really remember how you ended up getting the job.

You just knew the economy is going to shit, much to your dismay. You were an adult and life as an adult isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re in a world that has heroes, vigilantes, and villains that pop a perc and run around causing havoc.

Just like many other people in the country, you’re applying to several jobs a day and receiving multiple rejection emails almost daily. However, you decided to run around Gotham with your applications after moving here. The hiring manager in front of you was skimming your resume, nodding along and telling you they were impressed, which felt like a small personal victory to you!

Yay! Pat yourself on the back!

They decided to have an interview with you, right then and there!

“That’s amazing! Could you tell me what made you interested in this position?”

Money.

“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.

A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.

“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”

“Ma’am you need to lea—”

“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”

“Alright, that’s it—”

“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.

“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.

Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.

After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.

“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.

You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.

“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.

“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”

“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.

Okay. Maybe she got you there.

“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.

“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”

You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”

Silence.

A dangerous, heavy silence.

“Are you dumb—!?”

“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.

“Which position did you apply for?”

“…personal assistant?”

She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.

You decided to turn her volume down.

“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.

Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”

You blinked.

Slowly.

Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?

“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.

“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”

Chelsea was wrong.

The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.

You stared at the screen.

You got the job.

You should reject it.

Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.

And the salary was so good—

Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.

“They all leave within the first month!”

Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.

What’s the worst that can happen?

No one warned you.

Well, Chelsea technically warned you.

But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—

Not like this.

“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”

He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.

It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.

His face was almost unfair.

They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.

There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’

And his expression didn’t help.

He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.

His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.

Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.

But the worst part?

He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.

He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.

“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”

“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”

Your first impression of Damian Wayne?

You want to absolutely kill him.

Surely you misheard him. Right?

Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?

But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.

“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”

Your eye twitched.

This aggravating piece of shit—

He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.

“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.

“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.

Venomously sweet.

“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.

“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond.

Not with words. Not with sounds.

You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.

God, you needed this job.

The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.

And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.

The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.

Or guilt.

You didn’t speak at first.

You needed a second.

Your soul needed a second.

Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.

Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.

You exhaled.

“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.

“So that happened.”

The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.

They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”

“That was him in a good mood?”

They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”

You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.

Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.

But no.

You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.

“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”

You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.

The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.

It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.

Except you.

You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.

Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.

A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.

You were going to get through this.

You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…

Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.

Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.

You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.

You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!

You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.

Except.

This is going to be really awkward.

You have been his personal assistant for three months.

Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.

“So what’s been up with you—”

Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!

“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”

Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.

“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”

Chelsea just stares.

It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.

“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.

“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.

“Not yet.”

“Hopefully not.”

Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”

“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!

Chelsea hums.

“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”

Well. Things have changed.

You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.

She could read you like a billboard on a highway.

Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

“That’s your lying voice too.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.

She sighs.

“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.

“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”

“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.

Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.

For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.

“You what.”

You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.

“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.

Was it getting hotter in this cafe?

Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”

You winced.

“I know.”

“He insulted you on sight!”

“I know.”

“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”

“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.

She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.

“And you like him.”

You nodded, defeated.

Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.

“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”

You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.

“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.

“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”

Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.

“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”

You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.

“He… holds doors sometimes.”

“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.

“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”

You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.

“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.

You wilted a little.

“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”

She wasn’t wrong.

Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

You already knew where it began.

Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.

Actually, erase that.

What the fuck are you talking about?

It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.

The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.

The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.

You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.

Damian had appeared.

He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.

His gaze found yours immediately.

“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”

Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”

You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.

It was only your second week.

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.

You cannot believe you work with this man.

Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.

Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!

But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.

“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.

“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.

Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.

A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”

You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.

Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”

Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.

“Thank you.”

She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.

“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

Damian’s expression doesn’t change.

“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.

“I do not offer those.”

“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”

“Not interested.”

“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”

“I’m busy.”

“I could jus—”

“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.

Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.

“Excuse me?”

You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,

“Who do you think you are?”

Before you can respond, Damian does.

“She’s my childhood best friend.”

You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.

Childhood best—

The hell is this coming from?

The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.

“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”

You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.

What is that supposed to mean?

“Well, she used to be.”

She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.

You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.

“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”

You lie through your teeth without hesitation.

And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.

“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.

You smile sweetly.

“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”

There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.

“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.

“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”

You shrugged.

“Thank god he’s on medication.”

Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.

A dangerous one.

“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”

Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”

The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.

Your jaw drops.

“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”

You stare at him, appalled.

You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.

“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”

You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.

“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”

“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.

What the absolute fuck.

“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”

The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.

“You’re absolutely joking.”

Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.

“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.

“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”

She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.

“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.

“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”

“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.

“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.

You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.

“Childhood friends? Seriously.”

He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.

“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”

“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”

After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.

You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.

He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.

You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.

He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.

You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).

You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.

He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”

You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.

There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.

It was honestly nice.

He started becoming too nice.

He started holding doors for you.

Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.

More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.

Then came the coffee.

Not just any coffee.

Your order.

Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.

It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:

“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”

He said it like it annoyed him.

He handed it to you like it didn’t.

And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.

Then there were the other things.

He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.

He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.

If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.

Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:

“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”

You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.

That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.

It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.

And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.

Each day it only beats a little faster.

Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.

The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.

Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.

Your eyes burned.

Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.

You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.

The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.

You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.

It had six.

Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.

You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.

You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”

Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.

You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.

When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…

Half of it was still missing.

Gone.

Deleted.

Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.

The air felt too thin.

Your throat tightened.

All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.

You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”

You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.

8:43 p.m.

The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.

You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.

You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.

Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.

Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.

The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.

Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.

You glance at the time.

10:28 p.m.

Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.

“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.

You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.

“I have one more thing to finish.”

Multiple things actually.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”

Oh.

You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.

“I’m almost done.”

Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.

Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.

You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.

But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.

“Let’s go.”

You blink in surprise.

“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.

“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”

He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.

“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.

“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.

What are you supposed to do in this situation?

“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.

He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.

He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.

Pack up. Now.

And despite yourself.

Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:

Why does he care?

Why is he doing this?

Why is he taking you home?

Is this normal? You thought.

It’s just work related, right?

Yeah. Work-related.

For a boss to take their personal assistant home?

The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.

Did he do this to his other assistants?

You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.

He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:

Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?

You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.

He doesn’t glance back once.

Of course he doesn’t.

Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.

He just expects you to.

And you do.

You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.

“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”

“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”

You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.

The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.

Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.

The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.

He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.

You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.

He unlocks the car with a soft click.

He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.

He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”

He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.

His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.

You feel more awake than ever.

You think you can drive home.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”

He gives you a look.

Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:

You’re not driving. Get in the car.

Your protests die on your tongue.

You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.

He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.

Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.

Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.

You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.

You exhale once, quietly.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You’re absolutely not fine.

“Your address.”

You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.

He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.

“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.

“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”

“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.

“That qualifies as late.”

“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.

Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.

“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”

Your shoulders stiffen.

“I was fine.”

“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.

“I was NOT—”

He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.

“You were. A small puddle. Tragic, really.”

Your jaw drops.

“A puddle—?!”

“Don’t worry,” Damian says, completely unbothered. “Nobody saw, except I did.”

Unbelievable.

This man was lying to your face.

“I didn’t drool.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.

“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”

YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?

“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.

“You’re lying.”

Damian’s lips twitch.

Not a smile.

Not quite.

But close enough that your stomach flips.

“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.

“You’re lying right now.”

Silence. A beat.

“…You were about to drool.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You—!”

“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.

You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”

You’re actually going to kill him.

“Get me out of this car now.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.

“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.

“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”

Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.

“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”

You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”

“It haunts me to this day.”

“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.

“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”

Your jaw drops.

“You liar!”

“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.

He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!

Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.

And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.

A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.

Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.

You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.

“Thank—”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”

Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.

“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.

He wants to pick you up.

He’s planning to pick you up.

Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.

“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”

Your jaw drops.

“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.

“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.

“Don’t be late.”

You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.

“I know,” he replies simply.

You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.

You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”

“Damian.”

You ignore that.

Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.

“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.

A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.

“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”

“I—”

“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.

By sincerity.

By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.

“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.

“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”

There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.

His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.

“Go inside. Get some rest.”

And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.

He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.

You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.

You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.

He’s still there, watching you get in safely.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.

Only then does he finally look away.

“And then? Did he pick you up?”

Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.

You stare at her.

She stares back, vibrating.

As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”

“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.

You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”

Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.

“There’s no way—”

“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.

“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”

“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”

“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.

But you can’t help it.

You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.

“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”

Chelsea stares at you.

“It’s dying, babe.”

“It has character.”

“It has medical issues.” You glare.

“You’re rude.”

“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.

“So… what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.

Chelsea snorts.

“No— I mean Damian.”

You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.

“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.

“What shot?” She just stares at you.

“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”

“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.

Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Chelsea—”

“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”

You blink.

She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.

“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”

You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.

“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”

Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”

“He doesn’t have feelings.”

“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”

You stare. “Gently nudge?”

She lifts her brows.

“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”

You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.

“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.

She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.

“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”

“What theory?”

“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”

Your face heats. “He is not—”

“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”

“When,” you repeat flatly.

“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”

You groan into your hands.

She pats your shoulder.

“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”

“Step one?” you muffle.

“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”

“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”

“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”

You drop your face back into your palms.

“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

Your silence betrays you.

Chelsea gasps scandalously.

Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.

“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”

You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.

“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”

“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”

You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.

“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.

The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.

You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.

After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.

It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.

You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.

Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.

You were lying to yourself and you knew it.

Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.

Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.

Today is going to be different.

It already felt different.

You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.

A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.

“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.

“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”

“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.

Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.

You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.

“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.

Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.

Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.

Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.

“You’re late.”

The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.

You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.

“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”

He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.

“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.

“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.

“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.

That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.

You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.

Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.

“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.

Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.

You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.

Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?

Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,

You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.

Hmph. Okay.

If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.

You were filled with spite.

Spite that rivaled his own.

Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.

Not that you did look.

He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.

But not today.

Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.

You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t give him a single glance.

You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.

You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.

You didn’t.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him choke on it.

You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.

He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.

You didn’t.

Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.

“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

Irritation?

Annoyance?

Confusion?

Good.

“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.

For the first time, you realized something.

He didn’t like being ignored.

Not by you.

You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.

You could almost picture his expression without looking.

Brows drawn just a touch.

Mouth pressed into a thin line.

That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.

Good.

Let him think.

You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.

Something.

But Chelsea’s voice was louder.

Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.

He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.

“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.

“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.

You did not even blink in his direction.

“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”

A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.

You could feel it.

The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.

“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.

“Preoccupied.”

You nearly smirked.

Nearly.

Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.

It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.

You could practically feel it.

He shifted his weight.

You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.

He walked toward the door.

The sound of his steps was sharper this time.

More pointed.

But right before he left, he hesitated.

Just for half a heartbeat.

As if waiting for you to turn.

You didn’t move.

The door opened.

Closed.

And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.

Okay.

So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.

And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.

You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.

If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.

It kept your eyes on the monitor.

And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.

Except.

You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.

Of course he did.

The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.

But your pulse betrays you anyway.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.

YOU

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Have them by my office an hour from now.

Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.

You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.

Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.

With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.

You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.

You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.

But something shifted in the corner of your vision.

A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.

Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.

Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”

Dramatic much? Yes.

Always. Every single time.

Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.

IT also adored him.

Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.

You slowed just slightly.

His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.

“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.

“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.

At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.

The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”

Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”

You laughed, “you don’t say?”

He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.

Not even half a second.

You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.

“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.

“Of course, anytime!”

And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—

Only for his brother to walk in instead.

You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.

“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.

By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—

A soft knock hit your door.

It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.

It wasn’t security.

You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.

His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.

His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.

“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.

“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then he started laughing.

Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.

“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.

You blinked. “Define not amused.”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”

“The… look?”

“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.

“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”

Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.

“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.

Tim shook his head, still amused.

“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”

“Oh, he said that?”

“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.

“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.

“Sounds like a him problem.”

Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Incompetence

You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.

Confirm you received this.

You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.

Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.

You called it Tuesday.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Incompetence

Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: That Was Not a Request

You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”

You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”

And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.

Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.

As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”

His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”

Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”

Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.

Almost.

Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.

“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”

He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.

“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—

“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.

Damian quirked a brow.

“Is there something else you want to say?”

Oh, this infuriating man.

“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.

“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.

You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.

Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?

How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.

You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.

You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.

“It’s—”

But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.

“Say it.”

And you’re absolutely sick of it.

You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.

“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.

Fine.

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.

“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.

“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”

Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.

“Mr. Wa—”

“Wrong.”

Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.

“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”

The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.

You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.

He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.

His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.

“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.

Your breath caught. Excuse me?

“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.

His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.

“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.

“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”

You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.

“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.

“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.

You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.

“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.

“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.

“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”

You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.

“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.

“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.

“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”

You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.

His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.

The air thickens between you.

“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.

Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.

His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.

Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.

Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.

Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.

“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.

His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.

Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.

His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.

You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.

Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.

But Damian— he looked even more undone.

Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.

Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.

His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.

“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”

You met his gaze, fierce and honest.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”

Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.

“Do not say that.”

The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.

They carried want.

“Then what do you prefer?”

You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.

His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.

He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.

And in that silence, it was so clear:

He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.

Not the title.

Not the formality.

Him.

Only him.

He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.

“You know patience was never my strong suit.”

“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.

“You look good in this color, Damian.”

His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.

Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.

“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”

━━━━┅━━━┅━━━━━━━┅━━━┅━━━

a/n: how we feel about this banger, my phone could barely handle 18k words ngl 🥹 but this was so fun to make, it was genuinely 4-5 days straight writing this out because I had so much ideas ! And miniskirt was the inspiration to write it out! And the BANTER?? I just knew I wanted A LOT OF BANTER in this oneshot, you guys have to let me know your favorite part, because I LOVE LOVEEEE the part/line when they started going back and forth with lies about each other at the company party!!!

[tacticaldiary]

Trigger Happy

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader

SYNOPSIS: "Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. "You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. ""Your hands are still clean." He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

NOTE: I'm semi happy with this I fear

MASTERLIST

It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident!

She didn't mean it, she would never, it's just...just that she was scared, and she acted on instinct, and-and Jason had told her what to do in situations like this, times when she might be in trouble on the off chance that he wasn't around to handle it.

Her knowledge of the human body is limited, but even she can tell that the bloody knife clutched in her right hand nicked something important. The man at her feet should not be bleeding that much, red trickled out in spurts and nightmarish wet gurgles.

Shaky hands fumble with her phone, fingers slick with blood trying to type in the passcode. A sob punches out of her chest as the liquid makes her thumb harder to register. The blurriness from the tears don't do anything to help her vision either.

A groan comes from somewhere to her right, the sound tightening the band across her chest. The alley walls are too close, the air is too thick and she can't breathe.

Crimson smears her cheek when she presses the phone to her ear, hyperventilating.

"Hey, what's up, baby?"

He picks up on the third ring, and she collapses against the grimy brick wall. She latches onto the voice, lets it ground her enough to find her voice.

"Jason." She sobs out. The knife clatters on the alley floor, a punch of noise in the sudden silence. "Jay..."

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His spine straightens at the noise, hands stilling with the wrench still in hand. Immediately, he's sliding himself out from under the car he's working on and wiping his hands clean, phone pressed to ear instead of on speaker.

"What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?" He demands immediately. Icy dread creeps around him when all he gets as a response is something incomprehensible, and quick, small gasps. "Breathe, angel." He says, pulling up her location. Jason's brow furrows when it shows her in some random alley. There's nothing else to think about because the next moment he's grabbing his helmet, swinging a leg over his bike and kicking off.

"I'm coming, all right? Just need you to stay on the line with me." He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, biting back the fear and the hint of green rage creeping along the edges of his vision. Someone had made her sound like that and he wasn't there. "Are you safe?" He asks, and the silence that follows nearly makes his heart stop.

"I think." A wobbly voice whispers hoarsely. "It's...it's over, Jay. I didn't..." Her voice breaks and he curses out loud, mind racing. Jason pushes his panic down and hones it into that sharp focus he only ever reaches for when he's on patrol, stepping on the accelerator.

'It's over'

The words play in his head like a broken record as he talks to her, coaxing her to breathe, reassuring her the best as possible while possibilities wreck havoc on his judgement. If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.

The bike finally swerves into the alley, and he's off of it before it even fully stops, one hand on his holster, eyes scanning the alley with a desperation he's not felt in forever. There's no active threat, none that he can make out.

Jason doesn't give the body on the ground a moment's glance, instead hones into the figure curled up into herself against the wall a few steps to the side.

"I'm here." He says lowly, immediately crouching next to her. Large, warm hands find her shoulders, prying her upright from how she's curled into herself. He cups her cheeks, frantically looking her over. His thumb wipes away the smear of blood on her face, and the caged, thrashing leash of his anger settles down marginally when he sees no wound under the gore.

The wounded noise she makes makes his throat close up, and he hates himself a little as he tightens his grip to keep her in place against the wall when she tries to lurch forward in his arms.

"I've got you, baby. One minute." He assures, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand over the rest of her body, just to be extra sure. When he doesn't find an injury, he exhales and crushes her against him, chest to chest. Fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing soothingly down her spine. "You're okay, I'm here." His voice is fierce.

A few moments pass, but instead of calming down, her breathing seems to quicken again much to his confusion. "Tell me what's wrong." He finally says, firm but gentle. "What happened? Someone attack you?" When she pulls back, he lets her, still keeping her within arms length.

"Jay." Her breath hitches, shaking her head, eyes drifting to the body close by. Her face twists up again and Jason is quick to start connecting the dots.

"Did he do something?" He keeps his eyes on her.

"He tried." She finally says. "But I...you taught me if it happened to- but he wouldn't let me run-" She gasps, and Jason lets her talk, rubs her arms up and down, brow pinched in worry. "I panicked and he had a gun- and I-..." Her eyes flicker off to the side.

Jason follows her gaze to the bloody knife.

Her initials engraved in the hilt.

Jason had scratched them himself before gifting it to her 'just in case', a couple months ago.

"Fuck." He breathes, as everything clicks. "Shit, baby, it's-"

"I killed him." The sob that heaves out of her is gut-wrenching, and Jason's pulling her to his chest immediately. "I killed him!" She gasps wetly. "I didn't mean to, I...I didn't want to!"

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky for a second. Taking a life was never easy, it didn't matter whether it was in self defence or not.

Jason still remembers his first. A hungry kid roaming the streets years ago, shivering from the cold and picking through one of the dumpsters behind a run down movie theatre. He remembers the owners coming out and yelling at him, lunging in anger when Jason lashed out. He remembers pushing. He remembers the crack of a skull against the metal lid. He remembers staring transfixed before vomiting what little he'd managed to scrounge that day.

He presses her tighter against him. She wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. His girl was no killer, not with how soft hearted she was, and Jason would never want this life for her in any world.

Exhaling slowly, he surveys the scene beside them once more...and does a double take. The artery the knife nicked looks fatal, there's no way anybody was getting that man to a hospital before he bled out, but the way his chest moved in small, marginal gasps said there was still some life in him.

There's something about the life he lives that hardens you, takes away your optimism and fragility. It's why Jason is able to make the decision he does so easily.

He stands slowly, pulling her up with him and twisting her to face the gory scene. "You didn't kill him." He says, squeezing her against his side.

"I did." She says, and Jason knows if she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pass out.

"Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun from the holster around his hip and clicks the safety off.

The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. There's a groan, and then it cuts off.

"You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. It's still, no movement, dead eyes staring up at the cloudy sky. He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

"No- that...but I-"

He interrupts. "Your hands are clean. I killed him. Not you." His voice softens as she starts shaking again, burying her face into his chest. "Understand?"

After a few moments, she nods against his chest, still unsteady, but less shaky than before.

Lips press to the crown of her head, firm and grounding. "I've got you. I'll take care of it." He mutters against her hairline, slowly guiding her away from the scene.

When her hands shake, he's there to hold them steady. When she wakes up with a cry during the night, he's there to hold her back to sleep.

And she lets him, leaning on her boyfriend and letting him mutter soothing nonsense, soft and gentle in a way he only ever is with her.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(1/11/2025)

[latedeparture]

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓣EETH 𝓑ARED !!

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x gn!reader

꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 you’re taken with a group of hostages, just another name on a list, without anyone realizing who you belong to. by the time damian finds you the villain who grabbed you has already untied you, and is practically begging for mercy. not from robin — from you, the only person who can pull him back.

HE SHOULD HAVE FOUND YOU SOONER.

the thought looped through damian’s skull, scraping sparks every time it passed, making his jaw ache from how tightly he held it. two days—forty-eight hours—and his mind had calculated every possible outcome, every statistic of survival, every pattern of torture that certain rogues favored. he’d run himself raw telling bruce, telling dick, i told you i should have gone alone, because the world felt unbearably narrow without you in it, and no one seemed to understand the urgency bleeding through his ribs.

two days.

two days too long.

rage had a way of settling into damian’s bones like blood drying on a blade he wasn’t allowed to use anymore. it clung to him, seeped into the spaces between breaths, and no amount of meditation or training or bruce’s lectures could burn it out. not this time. not when it was you. forty-eight hours of not knowing, of imagining every scenario his brain conjured against his will, every ugly possibility he’d once been trained to consider first.

and god, he had considered them. all of them.

over and over and over.

bruce had said, firmly, “we’ll find them.” dick had tried to steady him with that soft, infuriating voice. tim kept updating him on data, his tone brittle with worry. it didn’t matter. nothing mattered except the raw, animal fury crouched behind damian’s ribcage, pacing like a caged predator, snapping its jaws every time he blinked.

what’s the point of a no-kill rule, he thought, if the universe insists on testing it?

it had been years since he’d truly, sincerely reconsidered that line they weren’t supposed to cross. he’d outgrown the impulse—or he thought he had. but now the anger roared through him with the clarity of childhood training: a villain takes what is precious, you take their head. balance restored. weak eliminated. fear taught.

how simple things used to be.

the part of him raised by the league whispered: you know a hundred ways to make them scream. the part raised by batman whispered back: you promised you wouldn’t. and without you here there was no counterweight. just darkness and discipline and the thin line he was slipping on.

the others felt it. hell, the city felt it.

alfred had avoided making eye contact. tim had flinched when damian snapped at him the fourth time. even jason, who delighted in provoking him, had gone uncharacteristically quiet around him, muttering something to dick about “rabid gremlins with swords.”

he wasn’t sleeping. he wasn’t eating. he was thinking—spiraling—calculating where you could be, who could have taken you, who would be stupid enough to think they could keep you from him.

two days too long.

the warehouse sat at the edge of the old gotham docks, a rust-gutted carcass humming with generators and muffled voices. no sign of the batmobile outside, because damian had not taken it. he hadn’t told anyone he was leaving the manor. he hadn’t told anyone anything at all. he didn’t want nightwing’s diplomacy or red hood’s “tactical realism” or father’s maddening, choking insistence on patience.

patience was for people who weren’t losing their mind.

inside, the air smelled of metal filings and cold diesel. electrostatic discharge. that was the first hint. the second was the scorch mark on the rafters he perched upon, thin as a spider’s thread. livewire. of course. the arrogant, blue-haired psychopath had taken you. damian landed soundlessly on the catwalk above the floor. the first guard barely had time to look up before a boot struck the back of his skull, cracking it against the railing. another spun into the wall as damian’s elbow snapped into his jaw, teeth grinding together. he could feel it, the coiling heat in his chest, sharper than usual. rage sharpened every movement. he wanted to leave a message, a mark, a warning. he wanted to make them hurt.

his eyes flicked to every corner. the hanging chains glimmered, the concrete slick with oil, and sparks from live wires danced like tiny phantoms. he had to remind himself to breathe, to not let the storm consume him entirely before he found you. and all the while, in the back of his mind, a single thought kept repeating:

if anything happened to you, no rule in the world would save them.

the next guard lunged, stupid, telegraphed. damian caught his wrist, twisted until tendons screamed, then drove a knee into his stomach hard enough to fold him in half. he let the body fall without looking. he wasn’t fighting clean. he wasn’t fighting pretty. he was fighting like someone had stolen the sun out of his sky. he smashed another man’s face into a crate corner, not enough to kill him, but enough to make the man wish it ended there. for two days, damian had obeyed the no-kill rule by the thinnest, most fragile thread. it snapped a little more every hour you stayed gone.

the city had noticed. robin was unhinged. robin was hunting. robin wasn’t pulling punches. but damian didn’t care about reputation right now.

he stalked down a narrow hallway, boots hitting the ground harder than necessary. he wanted her to hear him coming. he wanted her to know what she’d done. the final door wasn’t locked. that was the first warning. damian pushed it open, shoulders tense, breath sharp —- and the scene inside nearly made him kill on instinct.

you were there, on the floor, wrists half-free where rope still hung loose around your skin. your clothes were rumpled, your face drawn with exhaustion, but alive. breathing. watching. and kneeling in front of you, hands up, trembling, untying you, was livewire. she wasn’t gloating. she wasn’t smirking. she wasn’t even looking at damian. she was staring at you, eyes blown wide with fear. “okay, there, please—” she stammered, scooting back on her knees like a trapped animal. “talk to him, alright? just tell him to chill out, he’s been tearing my guys apart for two days—”

damian stepped into the room, and livewire froze entirely, breath hitching. the look on his face was not robin’s. it was not the disciplined soldier raised by a vigilante. it was ra’s al ghul’s grandson, stripped down to the bone.

but his gaze went to you first. always you. your face. your expression. your breathing. you were alive.

alive.

that was the only thing keeping damian from detonating the entire warehouse.

blood speckled across his gloves and forearms, a few streaks on his cape from the guards he’d already dispatched. his boots were slick with grime and sweat. the sword in his hand was trembling with the kind of barely-contained rage that made everyone else in gotham give him wide berth. livewire could feel it. she could see the white of his knuckles, the way his jaw flexed like a steel trap. her eyes widened, pupils blown, and damian could almost hear the little frantic warning bells going off inside her skull. the way she teetered back on her heels, hands twitching at her sides. she might have peed herself right there. he wouldn’t have been surprised. he stepped forward, every movement a predator closing in. nothing in the world mattered except you, except the fact that you were trembling, exhausted, and alive.

“are you hurt?” he demanded, ice slicing through the storm of his breathing.

you swallowed, voice steady even though your fingers shook as he reached for the last tangled knot. “i’m okay… just a little shaken up,” you said. that was enough. he dropped the blade to the ground with a soft thunk, still not relaxing, and knelt next to you, working quickly to peel the remaining rope from your wrists and ankles. every second you were alive, here, in front of him, burned away two days of panic, but it didn’t soothe the fire in his chest. it barely dulled it. once the rope was gone he tugged you up by the arms, steadying you against his chest for a second, letting you lean into him.

and then he turned.

livewire, stupidly, had started to edge backward toward the door, thinking she could slip away while his attention was on you.

he didn’t hesitate. damian moved, sword in hand before she even realized it. he swept her off her feet with one brutal step and a shove, sending her crashing against a support beam. sparks flew where her hands brushed a live wire. she hissed, scrambling, her hair sticking to sweat-slicked skin. “stay.” damian growled, the sword’s tip was pressed just under her chin, almost cutting through, just enough to make her tremble uncontrollably. “do not move.”

she whimpered. “i-i wasn’t going to hurt—i swear, please, just—please—”

his eyes flicked back to you for the tiniest fraction of a second, searching for… what? a tether? an anchor? a calm in the storm? these past two days condensed into one terrifying presence.

then the fury broke. he didn’t hold back. swinging the sword, he strikes at livewire with a precision so sharp it hurt to watch. every blow carried two days of terror and panic, every twist and shove of her body into a wall, a beam, a crate, was a lesson he needed her to learn: never, ever touch what belonged to him. her blue sparks flashed against the metal floor, electrified hands jerking uselessly as he pressed forward. she screamed, begged, scrambled, and he didn’t slow.

you limped forward, knees wobbling from the rope burns, from exhaustion, from the adrenaline crash that hit the moment you realized he was finally there. “damian stop. don’t lose your progress over this. i’m fine.”

seeing you limp made it worse. his eyes snapped to you, blazing with something worse than fire. “fine?” he spat, some of his venom accidentally directed towards you. “you’re limping! you’re hurt! you—” he swung again, missing livewire as she skittered backward

you staggered closer, reaching for his arm, pressing against his forearm, trying to anchor him the same way he anchored himself to you. “dami, look at me,” you said, “i’m okay. i’m here.”

his grip on the sword faltered slightly, knuckles white, trembling with the force he was barely restraining. every muscle in his body screamed at him to finish the lesson, to make her pay, to make her remember. he couldn’t. because you were here. because your hand, your presence, your voice, the way you trusted him even when he was unhinged, pulled the storm down just enough that it didn’t consume you. the fury didn’t vanish. it just shifted, redirected, condensed into something colder.

with a single twist of his wrist, he slammed the hilt of the sword into livewire’s jaw. she dropped instantly. damian stepped over her without sparing a glance, already pulling a restraint cuff from his belt. he snapped it around her wrists with a vicious precision that made her flinch even unconscious. “i’m calling father,” he muttered, “he can deal with the… cleanup.”

cleanup.

that was what livewire had become to him. not a threat. not a villain. just debris.

he didn’t speak of mercy, didn’t promise restraint. livewire was still back there, still a problem, still something that would pay. he would come back for her. but right now—right now—his world had narrowed to you.

but she was going to pay for these two days.

it wasn’t up to damian wayne anymore.

damian al ghul was going to decide how.

POSTED 11/14/2025.

𓎢𓎟  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ 'parent'-teacher meeting ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1/2

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You and Jason get ready to head to Gotham Academy to pretend to be Damian's parents after he gets into a fight at school. word cnt. 5.3k

aka ›››› "Jason did you put us as married for tax benefits??" "..." "Hey!"

“Jason!” your voice slips out in a small, breathy squeal — the kind that starts as surprise but softens almost instantly into something warm and instinctive — as he trails slow, wandering kisses along the line of your jaw and down the curve of your neck, each kiss lingering just long enough to blur your thoughts at the edges and untie whatever tension had been sitting in your chest.

“Just ignore it,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing the flutter of your pulse as though he’s trying to memorize it, while his hand tugs the blanket down from your waist with the kind of determined impatience that feels both ridiculous and ridiculously flattering.

“I can’t—” you try to protest, though the words crumble apart the second his mouth finds that sensitive place beneath your ear, the one he likes far too much for your own self-control, “hey—wait, what if it’s actually important?”

“Important my ass,” he groans, words melting into your neck, warm and half-muffled and sounding very much like a man personally offended by the concept of responsibilities, “what could possibly be more important than—”

But before he can finish that question — a question which, knowing how confident he is in bed with you, would have turned into something shameless — the phone call cuts out abruptly, the sound dropping away so suddenly that Jason collapses forward with a low, dramatic exhale of relief, muttering a soft, satisfied, “finally,” like the universe has done him a personal favor.

You giggle, the sound tumbling out before you can stop it, light and fond and maybe a little hopeless, and you let him resume his slow path of kisses, his calloused hands warm against your hips, his smile brushing against your skin like he can’t quite hold it in.

And then — just as the moment begins to settle into something warm and dreamy and perfect — your phone rings again, slicing cleanly through the atmosphere like a cold wind sneaking into a sunlit room.

Jason goes still.

Utterly still.

The kind of stillness usually reserved for wild animals hearing a hunter’s footsteps.

You turn just enough to see the way his brows drag together, his expression darkening as he stares at the vibrating phone like it has personally wronged him in a past life.

“Is this one of your side chicks?” he mutters, low and accusatory, and the seriousness on his face would be concerning if you didn’t already know he’s talking about one of your fully committed friends — or Stephanie, or Cassandra, or possibly both of them in some chaotic combined effort.

Before you can even sit up, Jason has already snatched the phone from the nightstand, answering it with the energy of a man who has been interrupted one too many times and is fully prepared to wage war.

“I swear to the gods, Stephanie, she is not going shopping with—”

But then a noise comes through the speaker — a deep cough, rumbling and unmistakably masculine — and the shock jolting through your body is immediate and full.

Jason’s expression freezes.

Yours dies entirely.

Your soul, without hesitation, leaves your body.

You sit up so quickly that the blankets slide down your hips in a soft, defeated tumble.

Your snatching the phone out of Jason’s hand before he can make whatever catastrophe he has already begun even worse, and Jason—god bless him—immediately shrinks behind you like a delinquent schoolboy caught with a lit firecracker, his whole posture folding inward in remorse, his eyes wide and apologetic as he rubs small, guilty circles into your hip as though that alone could undo whatever chaos he has unleashed.

“Hello? Sir?” you manage, your voice thin with rapidly escalating dread, every muscle in your body coiling tight because if—IF—this is your boss, the man who never calls but absolutely could choose tonight of all nights to break his lifelong habit of respecting boundaries, then the universe is not merely cruel but personally vindictive.

“Uh—are you Mrs. Wayne?” comes the voice on the other end, deep and nasal and vaguely congested, like the speaker is either sick, bored, or allergic to your peace.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, harder.

“Uh—”

Slowly—painfully slowly—you drop the phone to your chest and turn your head toward Jason with the kind of expression you have when coming home from a eight hour shift to find Tim and Kon sleeping on your couch and eating your leftovers.

“Did you put us as married for tax benefits or something?” you whisper, each word elongated by disbelief. While he goes by Todd on almost everything, legally, on paper, Wayne could still work.

Jason stares back at you.

Not guilty.

Not defensive.

Just… blank.

Utterly blank.

Like a computer frozen on a loading screen.

You exhale sharply, a tired, disbelieving sound, and shove him off you; his big, ridiculous body falls sideways onto the mattress with an undignified thump, bouncing once like a discarded throw pillow that’s suddenly reconsidering its life choices. You're not strong enough to shove him on your own—your boyfriend did that willingly.

Then, with all the reluctant elegance of someone preparing to lie their way out of a federal investigation, you lift the phone back to your ear, clear your throat delicately, and say:

“Yes…? And this is…?” drawing the words out slowly, preparing—just in case—to pretend you misheard absolutely everything should this turn out to be the beginning of a financial or legal apocalypse.

“Ah, headmaster of Gotham Academy,” the man clarifies with a weary sort of formality, the kind that suggests he’s been rehearsing the same unfortunate script far too many times in the span of a single day, “you see, your son has had a scuffle with two other students in the courtyard, and the parents of the other children are intending to press charges unless they receive a formal apology, so I believe it would be in your family’s best interest if you arrive—with your husband—as soon as possible. The other parents will be here in about an hour.”

For several long, suspended seconds you simply sit there, the air thick around you as your brain clatters and whirs in an attempt to process the information that was just force-fed into it, and then, with a kind of slow-motion dread, you tilt your head toward Jason.

He stares back at you, wide-eyed and blinking, like a man who absolutely heard every single word but whose brain has refused, on strike, to begin handling it.

Okay.

Gotham Academy.

You can practically hear the gears inside your head grinding as you try to place which Wayne child that actually applies to, your gaze drifting around the room as if perhaps the walls might take pity on you and whisper the answer.

You mouth, very deliberately, 'Tim?'

Jason gives the quickest shake of his head, one short motion that at least rules out one catastrophe.

“Never went,” he whispers back. “Still isn’t.”

Your stomach sinks in a way that feels both immediate and inevitable.

Well. That leaves only—

Damian.

“Ma’am?” the headmaster’s voice cracks faintly through the phone, politely reminding you that you have, in fact, not spoken for far too long.

You inhale a steadying breath, the kind that fills your lungs more with resignation than air, and raise the phone again.

“One moment,” you say, injecting your voice with what you hope sounds like the composed patience of a woman who has any sort of control over her life, “I’m just speaking to my husband.”

If Jason had been a dog before, now he transforms into the canine equivalent of a champion show breed receiving a ribbon: his spine pulls straight, his shoulders shift backward as though pinned by invisible medals, and his eyes brighten with such earnest pride that you immediately regret using the word even if it was necessary.

You glare at him because it’s easier than admitting your heart stuttered a little at the way he reacted.

Then you drop your voice.

“Where is Bruce?”

“Mission,” Jason whispers back immediately, leaning closer so the headmaster won’t overhear. “India.”

You clench your jaw. “Dick?”

Jason throws a hand in the air, genuinely offended you think he might know.

“Why would I know?? Brooding in Mumbai maybe? Clinging to the Taj Mahal and being dramatic? I don’t have his itinerary!”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

For a moment, the two of you are united in the silent, mutual realization that neither of you—absolutely neither—should be the ones responsible for handling anything that begins with the phrase “your son” and ends with “pressing charges.”

But Damian is your problem right now.

And apparently, so are the furious parents headed to the Academy in under an hour.

“Would you like to speak to your son, ma’am?” the voice on the other end asks, the tone clipped but not unkind, like a man who has repeated this exact question far too many times tonight. “This will be a supervised call but—”

“Yes, put me on the phone with Damian,” you blurt, the words tumbling out in a rush that betrays just how quickly your instincts snap into place. You shift on the bed, planting yourself beside Jason, who immediately scoots as if pulled by invisible thread, lowering his head into your lap with a nonchalance so exaggerated he might as well have announced I’m definitely not eavesdropping, please ignore me.

Your fingers find his hair almost automatically, threading through the dark strands the way you always do when your nerves start buzzing under your skin. Jason melts instantly—he always does—closing his eyes like a very large, very dangerous dog settling into a warm patch of sunlight.

On the phone, there’s nothing but dead air. Long, tense dead air.

Then—

A small, sharp inhale. Rough-sounding. Like he tried to swallow a sniffle.

“…Hello? Dami, you there?” you whisper, your voice softening the way it always does around him, like your body reshapes itself into something gentler just at the thought of him.

“Yeah.”

It’s barely audible, scraped thin, as if speaking at all hurts.

Your heart twists so hard it knocks your breath sideways.

“…Should I call Mr. Wayne—”

“Mom.”

The single word lands heavier than anything you expected, clumsy on his tongue, like it’s too big, too odd, too fragile for him to know how to hold. Jason feels the way your whole body goes still beneath him, your hand freezing mid-stroke, and immediately he starts rubbing slowly, grounding circles into your thigh, his thumb warm and steady, silently telling you to breathe.

“Mom,” Damian says again, softer, like repeating it might help how foreign it feels on his tongue. “Can—can you be here in…”

He trails off, the sentence unraveling into nothing.

You share one look with Jason—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, a little wrecked—and answer for both of you, your voice steady even if your heart feels anything but.

“Forty five minutes,” you promise quietly. “Give us forty five minutes."

There’s a tiny rustle, like Damian shifting the phone closer.

Then, a whisper: “...Is he coming?”

You inhale to reassure him—yes, sweetheart, yes, of course he is—but before the words even form, Jason snatches the phone clean out of your hand, moving with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not have confidence.

“Hell yeah Daddy’s coming,” he says, his voice rich with a shameless grin you can hear, and you would smack him so hard his soul rattles if you didn’t know exactly what he was doing: trying to lift the crushing weight off Damian’s little shoulders, trying to lift it off yours too, turning a crisis into something softer, something survivable. Because to him, come on babe it's just a parent teacher meeting.

There’s a quiet exchange—Jason murmuring low reassurances, Damian answering with short snap backs that ‘I'm not crying it's the blood!’—and you sit there beside him, spiraling through every possible disaster, worry flaring and fading and flaring again like a heartbeat.

Then Jason ends the call with a single, unapologetic tap, tosses your phone onto the blanket like it’s an empty soda can, and looks up at you with a grin full of teeth and trouble—so bright, so wildly misplaced in the moment—that your heart practically short-circuits.

“Mommy,” he croons in a sing-song tone that feels like knives and affection all wrapped in one, “ready for a parent–teacher conference?”

You stare at him.

How is he this calm?

Your eye twitches. “You never got in trouble when you were in school, huh?”

“Fuck no,” Jason replies without a second of hesitation, before immediately collapsing forward and shoving his face into your stomach—like he’s burrowing there for warmth, comfort, absolution, or maybe just to hide the fact that he finds this entire situation hilarious.

His voice comes out muffled, warm, tinged with the kind of fond amusement that makes you want to both smack him and curl into him. “Hated that place, but I always kept my head down… good, he fought back. Kiddo is way better than I was.”

You let out a strangled noise, something halfway between a groan and a prayer, because your nerves are tightening like piano wires and your pulse is pounding like a drumline. “...We’re going to have to change you out of your leather jacket if we want to pass you as Mr. Wayne,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose as if you could physically massage the panic out of your bloodstream. “Gotham Academy is going to eat us alive if you walk in dressed like the ghost of juvenile delinquency.”

Jason, the absolute menace, smiles.

Not a small smile.

Not a reasonable smile.

A full, lazy, self-satisfied grin that spreads across his face as he lounges back onto your lap like he’s posing for a magazine instead of living through your shared impending doom.

“You just want to see how good I look in a suit,” he hums, voice dripping with that infuriatingly smooth smugness, clearly delighted at your spiraling because he genuinely, wholeheartedly believes everything is going to be fine.

You roll your eyes, shove him off your lap with both hands, and stand abruptly—your mind racing with worst-case scenarios, your breath hitching as you try not to imagine the cold marble halls of Gotham Academy swallowing Damian whole. Jason topples sideways with a theatrical grunt, limbs sprawling messily across the bed, looking both betrayed and ridiculously at ease.

The contrast between you is almost comical—your panic rising like a tidal wave, your hands trembling just enough to betray you, while Jason lounges there like this is a Saturday morning and not the beginning of a potential scandal involving Gotham’s elite, three lawyers, one unhinged headmaster, and a child with a sword collection.

Worst-case scenario?

Bruce comes home in a private jet, snarls at everyone, snaps a pen in half with two fingers, and throws a mountain of hush money at the issue until the entire school pretends it never happened.

But right now?

Right now none of that matters.

Right now your stomach is flipping and your throat is tight and your heart is pounding against your ribs like it desperately wants to escape this situation and leave your body behind to deal with the mess.

Because right now Damian is cornered.

Right now Damian sounded small on the phone.

Right now Damian asked for Mom.

And Jason—infuriating, steady Jason—is already pulling himself up, already planning, already stepping into a role he was never taught but somehow knows exactly how to fill, his calm a warm blanket draped over your panic.

Jason knows what that school is like.

Knows the coldness of its hallways, the sharpness of its expectations, the viciousness of people who think money gives them the right to be cruel.

Knows that being “Bruce Wayne’s kid” means nothing if Bruce Wayne isn’t physically looming over the crowd like a pissed-off bat.

And Jason Todd—your Jason—will walk into that school ready to burn it down for Damian, his calm not born of carelessness but of certainty, a certainty that everything will be fine, because if it all goes sideways, Bruce can always throw enough money at the problem to make it vanish like smoke in a lantern.

In fact—

He stretches out across the bed with an ease that feels almost storybook, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling over the edge, watching you with eyes full of warm, quiet pride that glows the way lanterns flicker in old films, a calm so steady it makes your own heart race in contrast.

And you—you are halfway to the bathroom, hands slightly trembling, stomach tight, mind racing a thousand steps ahead, imagining every possible way this could go wrong—when his voice drifts after you, soft as a breeze through an open window.

“He’s definitely getting hot chocolate after this.”

It’s said so simply, so utterly matter-of-factly, as though hot chocolate could heal the weight of the world, and as though Jason Todd—leather jacket, reckless grin, stubborn jawline, all of it—was born knowing exactly how to soothe a child’s storm.

You pause.

Just for a heartbeat, framed in the doorway, and your chest aches a little because the sight of him—this wild, chaotic man capable of soft, patient gentleness—hits you somewhere unguarded, a place that doesn’t even have words. It’s like watching a streetlamp flicker into a lighthouse, sudden and steady all at once.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, and a smile tugs at your lips despite the tension coiled in your shoulders. “Get up,” you murmur, voice small but warm, because if you don’t act, you’ll stay frozen here forever. “We’re dressing you up like a billionaire.”

And like a character in a musical who hears the first note of his cue, Jason springs upright, a bright, boyish light sparking in his eyes, something almost ridiculously heroic, as if he could stride into any world you pointed him toward and conquer it.

You point toward the closet with a glare that pretends to be stern but barely contains the frantic energy coiling through your limbs. “Move.”

You watch, arms crossed, chest tight, as he rummages deep into the shadows and produces a long-neglected suit bag, sighing with theatrical doom. He moved in all of his clothes from the manor here a few weeks ago, not wanting any more reasons to go anywhere besides your apartment and his run down one.

“You own a suit?” you demand, incredulous.

Jason snorts, rolling his eyes, voice lazy and teasing, deliberately calm. “Bruce forces one on every kid like it’s some sacred Wayne tradition. ‘For charity galas,’” he rumbles, giving an impression of Bruce so accurately it makes you blink. “Or funerals. Mostly funerals.”

The bag falls open, revealing a charcoal-gray suit cut so sharply it seems spun from moonlight and whispered promises, fabric catching the light in quiet, dangerous waves. Before he even slips it on, just seeing him knowing how to handle it, transforms him—your chaotic, foul-mouthed, impulsive partner—into someone who could stride into a boardroom and make every grown adult quake.

You blink. “That’s… actually gorgeous.”

Jason glares at it, clearly offended by your praise. “It looks stupid…think I can go without?”

“It looks perfect,” you correct, breathless and half panicked, because if you don’t make him move, you’ll never feel like your making progress on the situation. “Now put it on.”

And just like that, he’s yours again—rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath, but stepping into the role anyway, because you asked, because it matters, because family is a word he’s still learning to carry without flinching or wincing, the kind of word that feels heavier than his leather jacket but lighter when he lets it settle here, in the quiet space you both share.

He gives you a sly, sideways smile, slow and molten-warm, the kind that coils beneath your ribs and curls into the small, startled flutter of your heart that you swear he can feel if he wants.

“I’m not exactly fond of how into this new role-play you are,” he drawls, talking like a man who’s already caught you in something scandalous, the kind of careless ease that makes your pulse spike even as your brain insists you remain calm.

You roll your eyes because admitting the truth—how much this makes your heart stutter—would give him exactly the power he wants. Instead, you shove the suit jacket into his arms and steer him toward the bathroom with the kind of authority you only summon when panic threatens to spiral.

“Go,” you order, trying—and failing—to sound entirely unaffected.

He laughs—bright, unguarded, infuriatingly Jason—just before the door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet like a warm promise that somehow calms you even as your stomach twists in knots.

You stand there, breathing shallow, realizing how absurd it is that he can remain so calm in a situation that should be utterly stressful and yet still collapse completely at three in the morning if you merely hold him a little too tight, whispering tiny, frantic worries about hurting you, about not deserving softness, about being terrified of failing, as if he isn’t already the one who melts into your arms like he’s meant to be there.

It’s barely ten minutes before the door swings open again, steam curling around him like a halo, and your brain short-circuits.

Oh.

Oh, damn.

Jason steps out, tugging at the cuffs of the crisp black dress shirt in that slow, lazy way that somehow makes every line of his body more dangerous, more exquisite, the charcoal vest cinching at his waist with sinful precision, the slacks hanging low enough on his hips to make the whole room blush while his damp hair falls in dark, rumpled waves across his forehead like fate personally sculpted him just to torment you.

He looks like trouble in a boardroom.

He looks like a scandal tabloids would gnash their teeth over.

He looks—unfairly, impossibly—like your husband in some alternate universe where penthouses and champagne were mundane, and yet somehow, impossibly, it works.

Jason catches your frozen gaze and spreads a slow, dangerous grin across his mouth, knowing full well how powerfully he owns your attention even while still flinching at his reflection on bad days.

He knows you—knows that strange, unshakable taste of yours—and somehow, against all odds, it always defines him.

“What?” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice low and amused, curling around you like smoke in a candlelit room. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” you breathe, before your rational mind can intervene.

And the wicked grin that spreads across his face in response could ruin reason, could melt stars, could make time itself pause to watch.

He shrugs the suit jacket on, battling with the sleeves as if they have some personal vendetta against him, before finally letting it settle over his broad shoulders, and then he turns to you with a tie dangling carelessly around his neck, arms opening just slightly in a gesture that is equal parts invitation and vulnerability, the kind he’d never admit to the world but offers to you without hesitation.

“Alright, boss,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, eyes sparkling with mischief but carrying that deeper, careful glimmer beneath, “make me look like B.”

Standing there, chest tight, mind caught between panic and awe, you realize the mission of him looking like Bruce is already accomplished. Long before the tie touches his throat, Jason—crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored trousers, jacket molded to his frame—exudes a magnetism that feels both inevitable and breathtaking.

You step closer, closer than strictly necessary, letting the heat of your almost bare body brush against his, letting the gentle press of your chest against his arm remind you that you are still here, still breathing, still holding something sacred in your hands, and you lift the tie, settling it around the curve of his collar with fingers that linger just a heartbeat too long at the base of his throat, tracing pulse and warmth alike.

Jason inhales sharply, barely perceptible, just enough to betray the flawless, un-touchable facade he wears for the world, and you feel the subtle quickening beneath your fingertips, a reverent stillness that is all him, all attentive, all present.

He focuses on you in a way that steals the air from your lungs, and for a long, suspended moment, the world outside your apartment ceases to exist entirely; it is only you, only him, only the slow, deliberate looping of silk between your fingers as you tilt his chin upward, catching his gaze and holding it like a fragile flame in your own hands.

And there, in the soft curve of his eyes, a light softens, fragile and steady, like dawn spilling slowly across a quiet valley, gentle enough to make your chest ache in a way that is almost painful, almost holy.

Whatever teasing, rehearsed bravado he had intended quietly crumbles beneath your gaze, replaced with something soft, something almost sacred, as you tighten the knot and smooth it down the front of his chest, and he does not move, does not flinch, does not speak; he simply watches, entirely present, entirely yours, like he was meant to react to your reactions.

You are stressed.

Undoubtedly so. It is not as if you have ever walked those polished halls of Gotham Academy or navigated the unspoken currents of expectation and subtle cruelty that live there.

Jason remembers that feeling from his first day at a school too big and crowded, where everyone assumed he didn’t belong: nervous, out of place, yet oddly alive, energized by the thrill of surviving in a world that seemed set on testing him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, almost reverent, voice carrying across the taut, intimate space between you, “we’re gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay. I'm serious babe, were going in and out and your going to laugh at how easy it was.”

You nod, letting your hand linger a moment longer than necessary against the broad, steady plane of his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm as a tether to something constant, something grounding. You know that logically, together you can hold this small boy, this tiny, fierce creature of Gotham who looks at the world with suspicion and hurt and bravery, and remind him that he is not alone either.

Damian is not alone.

And you are not alone.

You have Jason.

…And, should the night take a sharp turn for chaos, you have Bruce’s money.

“Train there?” you murmur softly as you step toward the bathroom, words barely more than a whisper, your mind still spinning through what awaits you.

“Yeah, train,” Jason responds, quietly, smoothly, following your gaze as he grabs one of the dresses you keep for important occasions, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I don’t think they’re taking Bruce Wayne seriously if he shows up on a motorcycle.”

“Business class!” you snap, half-command, half-laugh, turning on the water with a practiced hand.

Jason scoffs, settling himself on the edge of the bathroom counter, “Do I look like a billionaire to—”

You glance up, still tense, still nervous enough that your smile is small and wary, and your eyes drink him in: every line, every shadow of muscle, every calculated imperfection, and Jason pauses mid-scowl, mid-rebuttal, caught by the gentle gravity of your gaze.

“Oh. Oh, okay. Well played, babe,” he murmurs softly, tapping business on his outdated phone—one probably as old as Damian himself—grinning like he has just won the most important, absurdly personal game in the world.

․ ⸝⸝𓅨⸝⸝ ․

Damian is damn near losing his mind, perched rigidly on the edge of the chair they made him sit in, too nervous to even lift his feet from the floor, fearing that any sudden movement might provoke another round of scrutiny from the teachers who sit before him with pens poised and eyes sharp.

The other kids deserved to be here.

He doesn’t regret that.

God, he regrets calling you.

Regrets the fleeting moment of bravery that led him to give them your number—the number he had spent hours insisting he didn’t need to memorize—because now, every second stretches into an eternity of longing and anxiety.

If he had called his father, Bruce would have come—without question, without hesitation.

Dropped whatever urgent mission had claimed his attention and appeared at the school in a heartbeat, ready to wield authority and wealth like a shield. But Damian will be damned if he allows that. He won’t have Bruce stepping in; he wont give him that luxury.

Dick? Everyone knows what Dick looks like—tabloids, public appearances, magazine covers. If Richard Grayson had been here, he would arrive fully adorned in the heir’s mantle, flawless, untouchable, the favorite son paraded since the day he arrived. Damian would never hear the end of it. He doesn't care if it's from other students, who might poke fun carelessly, but from teachers whom he cannot fight back without consequence? The ones who sing praises about Dick Grayson like their lives depend on it? Fuck no. That kind of scrutiny would drive him absolutely insane.

If he had access to his mother’s phone, if she had even allowed herself to be reached, Damian would have given it in a heartbeat. Every call now is strictly monitored by his father, every word supervised, every moment watched. At first, Damian suspected Bruce thought they were conspiring against him—but now, as the hours stretched since the first call, he realizes his father misses her voice as much as Damian misses her voice.

His mother would have come. She would have stormed in, fierce and precise, correcting every injustice, tossing money at the other boys’ parents as if it were nothing, and whisking him out of the room by the arm, leaving nothing but her voice and her presence to reassure him. Later, she would whisper that he had done well, that every little instinct and reaction he had in defending himself was right, justified, admirable.

He would love her for that habit, always.

Now, however, he has only the two of you.

Jason rarely appears in tabloids except for the occasional official family photograph, often mistaken for Bruce anyway, his presence muted in the public eye. And you… well, your number is the one he remembered, the one he clings to, the one he hopes will save him.

Maybe—just maybe—he wanted you to appear, to lift him gently from the edge of his panic, to let the familiar weight of your hand settle on his shoulder like an anchor, to offer that look you give him when he’s hurt: soft enough to soothe, sharp enough to command respect, a look that quietly tells him, without words, that he is seen, that he matters, that he is utterly, unconditionally worth defending.

And maybe, just maybe, he wants a hug right now, arms around him, warm and steady, as he stares at the sketchbook you bought him, left on the headmaster’s table, soaking in mud, juice, and tiny footprints that map the chaos of the morning.

Damian Wayne wants to stab himself when he watches Jason Todd stroll into the headmasters office and say, "Daddy's here Damian!"

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[latedeparture]

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓝EPO 𝓥IGILANTE !!

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x reader

꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with tim instead, sparking damian’s outrage.

GRIEF MAKES THE WORLD LOOK DIFFERENT.

the city has been loud your entire life, but ever since your parents died, it feels muted in strange places and deafening in others. the quiet parts hit hardest. the little moments where you forget for half a second and then remember all over again, the kind of remembering that isn’t a thought but a physical sensation, like a punch behind the ribs.

none of this was supposed to be yours.

their storage vault, the one bruce unlocked for you with the kind of calm that made you want to break something, smells like cold air, graphite, and steel. it’s carved deep beneath an old building that hasn’t seen sunlight in decades. the lights flicker in a way that suggests they were installed before you were born. it’s not a place designed for grief, it’s a place built for purpose. precision. continuation.

your parents’ suits hang on reinforced mounts, suspended just above eye level like they’re watching you judge whether you’re capable of this. your mother used to joke that the suits looked better in motion; standing still made everything seem too dramatic. you never understood what she meant until now, the way the armor casts double shadows, the way it mirrors shapes that are no longer there. you stare at them too long because it feels like the only thing left to do.

bruce had told you that all assets were transferred to your name. equipment, tech, safehouses, unfinished case files, half-deciphered intel. a legacy that was never meant to feel like an inheritance but does now, painfully.

you didn’t even know some of this existed.

you didn’t want to know.

they trained you, yes. they taught you how to throw a punch, how to read a situation, how to outrun consequences. but they also told you, repeatedly, that you could choose differently. that their path wasn’t meant to be hereditary. that the blood they spilled didn’t need to belong to anyone else in the family. you used to cling to that promise. now you hold their mask in your hands, and it feels like a broken version of a future someone else should’ve had.

everyone keeps telling you they died heroes, as if that’s supposed to dull anything. as if noble deaths hurt less. as if the city mourns them the way you do. the city moves on. the city always moves on. but you’re still standing here, breathing in recycled air and trying to figure out what part of your life is supposed to continue. your parents never believed in destiny. they believed in choice. in stubbornness. in doing the right thing because no one else would. and now, ironically, you are the one no one else is left to turn to.

the storage unit is colder than it should be. you’ve spent so many hours here lately you could map the room blindfolded. the crates of gear you haven’t opened yet, the leftover tech your parent never got to update, the suits displayed as if they’ll step back into it any minute. you shouldn’t still come here every morning. you know that. the batcave is bigger, safer, better equipped. but this place is theirs, and somehow staring at the suit in this cramped little box hurts less than seeing it under the manor’s bright clinical lights.

your phone vibrates. training cycle begins in 30 minutes. you don’t need the reminder; you’ve been counting the minutes anyway. the dread has been with you since you woke up, since your feet automatically carried you back to this unit, since you realized another morning means another sparring session with the demon brat incarnate.

you dread it.

you dread him.

damian.

the name alone is enough to sour your mood. you feel it immediately, your shoulders tightening, your jaw locking, your pace quickening in some futile hope that if you get there early enough you can ask bruce to pair you with literally anyone else. you know that won’t happen. damian wayne is unbearable. there’s no polite version of that. no “he has his moments” or “he means well” because he really, genuinely doesn’t. he’s a black hole of superiority, dragged around by entitlement so deeply rooted it might as well be genetic. he walks like the world is his inheritance and everyone else is trespassing.

he is arrogant in a way only someone who has never been allowed to fail can be. sharp-tongued, sharper-eyed, constantly calculating and constantly disappointed in everyone around him. including you. especially you. spoiled isn’t even the right word. damian is something harder, a prince raised in a fortress and told the world outside is beneath him. he carries himself like any deviation from his expectations is a personal insult, and he treats you like you breathe incorrectly.

and the worst part? the truly unfair part?

he’s good.

not “for his age” good. not “bruce trained me” good. he’s the kind of good that makes your blood heat because you hate giving him that win. when he fights you, it feels personal even when he swears it isn’t. there’s an intensity in him that borders on cruel, like he’s always trying to prove something, always needing to be sharper, faster, better. especially compared to you. of course bruce keeps pairing you together.

you exhale slowly, press your thumb against the message to dismiss it, and glance at your watch. if you leave now, you can get to the manor ahead of everyone else. being early gives you time to brace yourself, to shrug off grief and put on whatever version of yourself can withstand damian’s perpetual disapproval. you grab your bag, pull the metal door shut, and lock the padlock with a soft click. outside, the morning is still gray, the sky washed out and half-asleep. the city traffic hasn’t peaked yet. you keep your hood up.

you make it to the outskirts of the manor grounds with time to spare. the iron gates loom ahead, old enough to creak but still strong enough to give off that Wayne aura of we have money and secrets. the access scanner blinks once in recognition and unlatches the gate. the walkway up to the house is quiet, all manicured lawn and morning dew and the far-off rustle of wings. the manor itself looks almost peaceful from here, like nothing inside it could possibly be chaotic or loud or irritating.

a lie. obviously.

you steel yourself before stepping in. early is good. early means that hopefully you won’t walk into damian’s glare the second you arrive. early means you can stretch, breathe, maybe even convince yourself today won’t devolve into insults, scowls, and wanting to push him into a wall and also possibly strangle him.

or both. definitely both.

you swipe into the elevator, hit the sequence bruce programmed, and watch the floor drop away beneath your feet as the platform descends into shadow. the cave lights hum awake. water drips from stalactites. you step off, rolling your shoulders once, already planning the quiet you’ll get before anyone else arrives — a few minutes of peace, of solitude, of breathing room—

but no.

of course not. there he is.

damian stands in the center of the training mats like a statue carved out of irritation. already changed, already warmed up, already swinging a bo staff through the air with that crisp, too-perfect precision that makes you want to fling something heavy at his head. he doesn’t even look surprised to see you. just… mildly offended by your presence. his eyes track you the way a cat tracks a fly it isn’t sure is worth killing yet. then he speaks, voice flat, cool, the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll: “you’re late.”

you stop walking, blink once, and stare at him. “i’m early,” you say, very clearly, because you checked the time twice on the way here.

damian finally lowers his staff. not out of respect — no, never — but merely to cross his arms with maximum judgment. “early,” he repeats, like the word itself has personally insulted him. “you are precisely thirty four minutes and nineteen seconds later than the time i arrived. therefore, you are late.”

you suck in a sharp breath. “that’s not how that works.”

damian tilts his head, mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk, the kind that says he knows exactly how annoying he is and simply accepts it as part of his nature. “that is exactly how it works. punctuality is measured by standards, not feelings. if i am present, and you arrive after me, you are—”

“don’t say it.”

“—late.”

you resist the urge to throw your bag at him.

he watches you like a hawk watches prey struggling with a trap. his gaze drops briefly, to your stance, your posture, how tired you look, how stiff your shoulders are, and then flicks away again like none of it matters. like he’s already cataloged you and moved on. you hate that he’s always here early. you hate that you’ve almost never once walked in without finding him already sweating, already glowering, already working three times harder than anyone asked him to.

you hate that it makes you feel behind.

he turns away first, which infuriates you more, as if you’re not worth continued attention. “you should stretch,” he says, dismissive, arrogant as ever. “you’re sluggish in the mornings.” damian glances back just long enough to add, “try not to fall behind today.”

training hasn’t even started and you already want to strangle him. you inhale through your nose, he kind of breath meant to keep you from launching yourself at a smug, infuriating, morally superior gremlin of a boy. it doesn’t help. at all. but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you rise to it this early in the morning, so instead of snapping back, you drop your bag a little harder than necessary, kneel, and start stretching, pretending not to notice the way damian keeps glancing over in those sharp, evaluating passes, tracking you like part of his warm-up routine is assessing your weaknesses. you refuse to give him anything. not a flinch. not a sound.

you move through your stretches methodically, shoulders, arms, back, legs, and by the time you finish, your annoyance has settled into something sharp and clean. you stand. damian meets your eyes for exactly one second, nods once, the barest acknowledgment that you are, in fact, ready, and then the two of you slip wordlessly into your usual rhythm. warm-up drills. strikes. footwork. flow sequences.

the only sound between you is impact, gloves hitting pads, feet sliding across mats, the faint grunt of effort when he pushes harder than necessary (which he always does). you match him blow for blow. if he’s escalating, you escalate. if he’s testing you, you test him back. you don’t know how long you’ve been at it when you hear footsteps on the metal stairs.

damian is the first to break stance, head snapping up, expression twisting with immediate displeasure, as if the intrusion itself is personally offensive. tim appears first, holding a coffee the size of his head, hair a disaster, sweater hanging off one shoulder like he got dressed at a red light. he blinks at the two of you brawling at sunrise. “oh,” he says. “you guys are already trying to kill each other. nice. love the consistency.”

right behind him, cass moves with grace, eyes scanning the mat, giving you both a subtle nod that somehow manages to feel more respectful than anything damian’s ever given anyone. steph clomps down next, ponytail bouncing, still chewing half a granola bar. “morning! you two look like a divorce waiting to happen.”

damian glares at her like she personally offended a dozen generations of al ghuls.

duke trails last, hoodie pulled over his head, yawning. “didn’t know sparring started early.”

“it didn’t,” tim says, sipping his coffee. “they just hate each other.”

steph gestures at you. “no, they don’t. they hate everyone else. each other is foreplay.”

damian inhales sharply, scandalized, turning a lethal death-glare on her. you pretend you’re not on the verge of combusting. cass hides her smile behind her hand. before you can even decide whether to walk away or throw something at damian’s head, the temperature in the room shifts. it always does when he arrives, bruce steps out of the shadowed doorway with that unnerving, near-silent glide he’s perfected over decades. he surveys the group with an expression that barely qualifies as a nod. “morning.”

you straighten instinctively. damian does too, but with the insolent ease of someone who thinks he’s the favorite son, the heir apparent. somehow he can stand at attention while still looking like he’s tolerating everyone else’s existence.

bruce gives the usual rundown: drills first, then sparring rotations, then assessments. your muscles burn through the first round of drills, kicks, strikes, bursts of footwork across the mat, but the sting is almost grounding. easier than dealing with the person two paces ahead of you who insists on being perfect and loud about it. you’ve never understood what exactly you did to earn his contempt.

and of course, when bruce calls out the sparring pairs, he doesn’t even have to say the names. you already know you’ll get partnered up. damian doesn’t even look irritated, he just tilts his chin the slightest degree, that arrogant flicker of superiority. you swallow the spike of annoyance climbing your spine.

cass gives you a sympathetic look. tim quietly mutters “godspeed.” steph pretends to hide behind duke. bruce pretends not to see any of it. damian steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists, already in perfect form.

you follow, heart thudding, not with fear, but with frustration. sparring with damian is like sparring with a blade that resents being touched. he doesn’t go easy. he doesn’t slow down. he doesn’t adjust. he just cuts. the second bruce signals for you to begin, damian moves, slicing across the mat like the fight is already his. he doesn’t warm up, he doesn’t test distance, he just attacks.

his first kick nearly clips your ribs; you block too high, stumble back half a step. you bite down the instinct to snap at him. focus. you counter with a punch, clean, aimed for his shoulder; he avoids it without even looking, twisting out of reach and sweeping at your legs. you jump it, barely. he’s already coming in again. it’s impossible—

how the hell are you supposed to beat someone who was raised as a child assassin, who trained under people who don’t believe in rest or mercy, who has been fighting his whole life?

you’re good. you know you’re good. but damian is something else entirely.

the fight goes on like that, your lungs burning, your arms throbbing, damian not even winded. every time you get close, he pivots. every time you try something new, he shuts it down like he predicted it minutes ago. “you’re telegraphing,” he says at one point, dodging your strike. “and your footing is sloppy.”

you glare, breathless. “thanks, coach.”

he ignores the sarcasm completely and goes for your knees. you block late, and pain sparks up your leg. he sees it. he absolutely sees it, and yet he keeps coming. your frustration curdles into something hotter. the kind of anger that sits burning in your chest. unfair, you think. unfair that he gets to hate you for existing, unfair that he gets to win, unfair that bruce keeps pairing you with him like you’re supposed to just learn to survive him.

you go in again, one last strike, one last try, but damian is already there, sweeping your leg and hooking the back of your ankle with brutal, ruthless efficiency. your balance goes. you hit the mat hard. something cracks, sharp pain blooming up your arm as your elbow smashes against the ground wrong. the air sucks out of your lungs. you don’t scream, but you freeze, shock pinning you still. you only register the taste of copper a second later. blood sliding from somewhere near your eyebrow down your cheek. damian stands over you, bo staff poised at your throat, the picture of victory.

and something in you, something that has been caged inside of you for months since you’ve started training with them, finally snaps. not into grief. into rage. it rises fast, not at the pain, not even at the humiliation, but at what it represents. his contempt. his certainty you don’t belong. that you’re an inherited symbol, not a threat. that you didn’t earn this life. that you can’t live up to what your parents were, because you weren’t raised in a league, trained from childhood, sculpted into a weapon on purpose.

you think of your parents, the way they moved through the world like it could be better if someone just tried, and you think of damian, born into war, and how he looks at you as if you are soft. lesser. temporary.

your jaw clenches, and you move. you surge up off the mat so fast that damian barely has time to retract his staff. your fist meets his guard with a crack that rings through your bones. the pain in your arm screams, but anger burns hotter, drowning it out. damian’s eyes widen, barely, but enough. then you strike again, faster, heavier, not waiting for bruce’s command, not giving damian a breath, a second, an inch. you hit him like you’re trying to punch through every doubt, every comparison, every expectation. your blade flashes next, close enough that the edge slices a thread off the hem of his sleeve. he shifts back, blocking with the staff, but the rhythm he always controls isn’t his anymore. you don’t let him adjust. you won’t.

you go at him again. punch, kick, strike, blade, another punch. damian meets every attack but only just. he’s fast—always faster—but you don’t give him the one thing he usually owns: time.

he parries your sword and you’re already slamming your shoulder into his chest. he deflects your fist and your leg snaps up into a sharp kick. he twists to avoid a slash, and you’re following. relentlessly. “enough,” damian snaps once, breath clipped, rattled.

“no,” you spit back, punching harder.

a hit breaks through, your elbow to his ribs, and he grunts, doubling half a step. you don’t stop. not even then. anger drives you. your parents steady you. damian’s doubt fuels you. every expectation presses into your knuckles.

finally, one mistake, one slip of footing, and damian goes down on his back, hitting the mat with a thud. he tries to roll, already bracing to counter, but you’re faster, and you plant your foot firmly on his chest, pinning him down.

the cave goes silent.

damian is beneath you, panting hard, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls. sweat slicks across his skin, turning the warm brown tone of it into something luminescent under the cave lights. loose strands of hair fall over his forehead, messy, sticking to the curve of his cheek. his jaw is tight, furious, but his eyes… his eyes are something else entirely.

wide. startled. dark with heat and something like reluctant awe. he’s looking up at you like he can’t reconcile the version of you he’s built in his head with the one standing over him now, foot pressed to his sternum, breathing hard, blood sliding down your face like a war mark you earned.

for a second, just a second, damian actually looks flushed. not embarrassed. not humiliated. flushed.

his gaze trails the line of blood at your temple, the rise and fall of your chest, the grip you still have on your sword. and something softens, barely, but it’s there. admiration. or something even more dangerous. then, instantly, he shutters it. wipes the expression clean. molds his face back into its usual carved arrogance. but he can’t hide the way he’s still breathing too hard, or the way his pulse jumps visibly at his throat.

you stand over him, chest burning, anger still pulsing through you, hot and alive and undeniable. for the first time since you stepped into the cave, damian isn’t looking down at you.

he’s looking up.

the next few days pass like you’re moving through water that’s resisting you at every turn. you throw yourself into training. not normal training. punishing training.

you’re in the cave before sunrise, long before even damian filters in. you hit the bags until your knuckles ache deep into the bone. you run drills until your vision blurs. you practice footwork until the mat feels like it’s tilting beneath you. every hour you carve out of the day becomes a place to bleed frustration into movement. it’s easier than thinking. easier than remembering the way damian looked lying beneath you. easier than remembering the flicker of—whatever that was—in his eyes.

and you ignore him.

very deliberately.

very thoroughly.

he walks into the cave during breakfast hour? you pivot away. he enters the training mat? you tighten your jaw, focus on the target dummy, and act like he’s made of air. he stands close enough that you can feel the shift in temperature from his body heat? you move five steps to the left without acknowledging him. you don’t give him even a nod.

and damian, naturally, does not take it well.

damian wayne is infuriating. arrogant. he speaks like everything he says is an objective truth and everything you say is an inconvenience. every time you think about the way he looked at you right before he knocked you on the mat and made you bleed, something twists in your chest. you want to punch him. you want to yell at him. you want to demand why he hates you so viciously when you never asked for any of this. but mostly, what destroys you, is the frustration. the way he makes you feel like you’re always one step too slow, one swing too reckless, one mistake too obvious.

you’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes your chest gets so tight with how he gets under your skin that you have to step into the hallway and breathe through it before you start to tear up. if damian wants to act like you’re some sort of cosmic inconvenience—fine. it’s not like you want to be friends with someone like that anyway.

on the fourth morning after that day, you’re stretching, wrapping your hands, trying to focus on anything other than the tightness behind your ribs when you hear the elevator. of course it’s him.

damian’s footsteps hit the stone with their usual measured pace, irritated at the concept of existing near you. you don’t even wait for him to speak. you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head straight for the elevator.

“where are you going?” he snaps.

you keep walking.

his voice sharpens. “I am speaking to you.”

you don’t turn, not even half an inch. you hit the elevator button harder than necessary. the doors slide shut on his glare.

you head two floors up to the manor proper, heartbeat still too fast. you need a buffer, someone who is not damian, someone who won’t make you want to scream or break something or accidentally cry. tim is the most neutral option.

you knock on his door.

a muffled, exhausted: “…yeah?”

you slip in. tim is at his desk, hoodie on, hair sticking up like static, surrounded by three monitors and a half-eaten granola bar. he blinks at you like he genuinely isn’t sure if you’re a hallucination. “can i train with you today?” you ask.

tim pauses. stares. looks over his shoulder as if checking whether damian is standing behind you with a sword to your back. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, rubbing his face, “did I die in my sleep?”

you sigh. “please.”

tim leans back in his chair, rolling slowly toward you like a confused, sleep-deprived cat. “why me? i should be the last-choice option. like, I’m the ‘everyone else is busy or unconscious’ pick.”

you drop your bag on the floor and mutter, “i don’t want to train with damian.”

tim makes a soft noise, somewhere between a hum and a concerned question. “that bad?”

“he hates me,” you say, and it comes out more exhausted than intended. “he’s always… extra harsh with me. like he goes out of his way to piss me off. or embarrass me. or get under my skin. and I just—” your voice cracks despite your best effort. “—i don’t want to deal with him today.”

tim stares at you for a long moment, eyes clearer now, softening with something close to sympathy. “you know, for someone raised by assassins, he’s… weirdly terrible at hiding things.”

you frown. “hiding what?”

tim spins halfway in his chair, giving you a raised eyebrow. “he doesn’t hate you.”

you scoff immediately. “yes, he does.”

“no,” tim says with a half-laugh, “if damian hates you, you’ll know it. like, i know it seems like he hates you, but trust me, i’ve seen what it looks like when damian hates someone.” he shudders.

“tim—”

“what damian does with you,” he interrupts, pointing vaguely in your direction, “is not hate. it’s… something more irritating.”

your stomach does a stupid twist. “like what?”

tim shrugs. “i bet he likes you and doesn’t know how to show it.”

you freeze. “no. no, he doesn’t. he’s—he throws me into the floor.”

“yeah,” tim says, nodding slowly, “and he looks like he stops breathing when you ignore him.”

“he does not.”

“he does,” tim pauses. “trust me. I’ve seen the ‘why isn’t my sparring partner looking at me’ face. it’s tragic.”

“tim… i think he genuinely wants me dead.”

tim rolls his eyes. “no. please. that’s his flirting.”

“that’s NOT—”

“trust the local damian expert.” tim taps his own chest. “he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”

you sink onto the edge of his bed, head in your hands for a second. “i’m so tired, tim.”

tim’s expression softened into something you’ve only ever seen in moments where he’s too sleep-deprived to mask sincerity. “yeah, I know,” he says. “he’s… a lot.”

you let out a short, humorless exhale. “that’s one word.”

“look,” tim starts, leaning his elbows on the desk, “damian wasn’t raised with… normal emotional frameworks. or social ones. or friendship ones. or—human ones.”

you glance up at him.

tim gestures broadly. “the league isn’t exactly the place where kids learn, ‘hey, when you like someone, maybe try being gentle.’ they learn ‘if something scares you, strike first.’ ‘if you respect someone, challenge them to see if they’re worthy.’”

you frown, shoulders tight. “that’s… messed up.”

“yeah,” tim says. “and that’s damian’s baseline. that’s where he started. so when he doesn’t know what to do with someone,” he motions toward you again. “he defaults to the only tools he was ever given.”

you stare down at your hands. “you’re saying he’s being awful because he… doesn’t know better?”

“no. i’m saying he’s being awful because it’s the only way he knows how to handle caring about someone. damian’s whole life, affection was… conditional. if he liked someone, it was dangerous. if he got attached, it made him vulnerable. he trained himself to cut the feeling off before it roots. when he does the push-you-away, insult-you, out-perform-you thing? that’s him trying to keep the feeling small. and you make him feel big things. you must. i’ve never seen him get this worked up over someone.”

your pulse picks up, something complicated, uncomfortable, strangely warm and guilty all at once. “i never—” you start, voice thin. “i never thought about it like that.”

“no one does,” tim says softly. “it’s easier to just say ‘damian’s a jerk.’ and he is. he is. but the jerk part is the smoke, not the fire.”

you huff. “he makes me want to cry or commit a felony, tim.”

“yeah, that’s basically what dating him will feel like,” he deadpans.

“we’re not—!”

“uh-huh.”

you groan into your hands.

“okay,” tim says, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. if you don’t believe me, yes, you can train with me today. we’ll see how he reacts. it’ll either prove my point or at least annoy him, and he does deserve a little annoyance after sweeping your legs like you’re a training dummy.”

you hesitate… then nod. “yeah. okay. i don’t want to deal with the attitude. and… i don’t want to cry in the stupid bathroom again.”

tim’s face softens. “hey. that’s not on you. damian’s never learned how to… want things without resenting that he wants them. it’s like—” he waves a hand vaguely, “like giving a feral cat a bowl of warm milk. it hisses at you and knocks it off the counter, but eventually if you keep feeding it, it still comes back.”

you blink. “…i’m the warm milk?”

“unfortunately, yes.” he pats your knee with dramatic sympathy. “congrats.”

tim stands with a groan. “alright. give me a minute to get dressed. then we go down.”

“and you really think he’s gonna… what, throw a fit?”

“he won’t throw anything. he’ll just stand there and seethe like someone critiqued his sword grip. trust me. i’ve been annoying damian for years.”

you almost laugh. “fine. okay. we’ll do your plan. not—” you point at him, “because of the plan. because I actually want to train with someone normal.”

“mm-hm,” tim hums, already walking toward his closet. “keep telling yourself that.”

you wait for tim in the hall.

when he finally cracks his door open he jerks his chin. “c’mon. let’s go ruin someone’s morning.”

this time, you enter the training room right when the clock hits the hour. not one second earlier. heads turn when you step inside, the usual shuffle of boots on mat slowing for a beat. everyone’s already warming up: cass stretching, duke rolling out his shoulders, steph braiding her hair back. and damian. the picture of discipline. the picture of someone who expects the world to follow his timing, his pace, his order. his eyes find you the second you cross the threshold like he’s been watching the door, waiting for the exact moment you appear.

your stomach twinges—annoyance, maybe. or pride. or something else you clamp down hard on. but before he can speak or gesture or frown or do anything remotely damian-like, tim steps in beside you. casual. comfortable. like the two of you walked down together because you chose to.

damian’s expression falters. only for half a second. a millisecond, really. the narrowing of his eyes goes rigid, the line of his mouth tightens. confusion flickers across his face, the kind he never lets anyone see. you can almost hear the thought:

why are you with him?

he masks it quickly, molding his face back into something bored, unimpressed, aristocratically above caring. his chin tilts, imperious, but the damage is done. you saw the break in the armor.

you force yourself not to look at him again. instead, you move toward the mats with tim, mirroring his relaxed pace. you kneel to tie your laces, fingers steady even though you feel heat gathering at your throat. tim shoots you a sidelong glance—see?—but doesn’t say the words aloud.

damian’s attention doesn’t leave you.

you can feel it. not just watching, tracking. cataloging. analyzing the shift in your routine, your placement, your partner choice. you don’t seek his gaze, but your peripheral vision catches him anyway, expression carefully blank in a way that only highlights how not blank he is. he’s thrown off. deeply. visibly. and he hates it.

you settle into your warm-up stance, letting the distance hang like a boundary. tim rolls his neck, glancing at damian with an oh-this-is-gonna-be-fun kind of smirk.

bruce claps once, sharp. “pair up.”

tim steps forward towards you without hesitation, and damian’s whole expression fractures.

it’s subtle, if you didn’t know him, you might miss it. but you do know him, or at least you’re starting to. he looks, honest to god, like he wants to rip tim’s head off and mount it on the trophy wall. tim doesn’t notice. or he pretends not to. he just tosses you a lazy, half-smile, equal parts encouragement and chaos.

duke glances up, sees you and tim pairing off, and his eyebrows climb high. he shoots tim a look—oh, I see what’s happening—then shoots you another—damn, you’re just abandoning me like that? you can’t help the faint shrug you give him. move first, consequences later.

duke sighs dramatically, theatric betrayal dripping from every syllable when he mutters, “wow. okay. guess I’m with demonspawn today.”

damian snaps, “I heard that.”

“meant for you to hear it,” duke replies, already walking over. “don’t stab me.”

“don’t give me cause.”

steph and cass pair without a word, steph chattering, cass smiling quietly at her enthusiasm, and the room settles into its new formation. you turn to tim and it hits you how different this feels. sparring with him isn’t effortless—tim is good, annoyingly good, and precise in a way that keeps you on your toes—but it’s… kind. respectful. there’s give-and-take. room to breathe. no sharp edges meant to cut you down even when you block them. tim ducks under your swing, taps your rib with the blunt end of his staff, then backs up with a soft, “good—again.”

across the room, damian sees every second of it. he’s barely paying attention to duke—who, to his credit, is doing his absolute best to keep the session from becoming a murder attempt. damian’s strikes are clean but rushed, sharp but distracted, eyes constantly cutting back to you and tim like he’s waiting for one of you to call time-out and say the universe glitched. his stare is blistering. betrayal. irritation. confusion. something fierce lodged right behind his eyes like he hasn’t decided whether he wants to fight you or throw a tantrum or drag you back by the wrist.

he misses a parry—damian, missing a parry—and duke yelps, “bro, focus!”

“I AM FOCUSED,” damian snarls, not even looking at him.

he’s not. he’s zeroed in on you. tim taps your elbow lightly—not a “you messed up,” but a “don’t look now.” you look anyway. damian’s chest rises and falls too fast, and duke is standing there with both palms up like he’s trying to pacify a rabid, extremely judgmental raccoon. you try to go back to sparring, but your eyes keep pulling toward damian against your will, and every time you glance over, he’s already watching.

training ends with far less form than usual. steph is sweaty and laughing, cass serene, tim steady as ever. duke looks exhausted, wiping his face with his shirt like he’s survived something unspeakable.

damian? still scowling. still thundercloud-dark. still furious in that tight, brittle way that means he’s trying very, very hard not to be obvious. tim leans in as you grab your water bottle, voice pitched low. “told you so.”

you elbow him lightly, because you hate that he’s right. bruce steps forward then, silent in that way that means he’s been watching everything, and says, “damian.”

damian stiffens and he pretends he didn’t hear.

“damian.”

this time he can’t pretend. he stalks over, irritation radiating off him. bruce pulls him aside and directs him a few steps away. you can’t hear the words, but you don’t need to. bruce stands with that immovable calm only he can pull off, arms loosely crossed, expression carved from stone. the kind of look that means disappointment, not anger, far worse, at least for any of his kids.

damian’s posture goes tight. not his usual arrogant, chest-forward confidence. this is different. smaller in a way he’d never allow you to see if he could help it. chin tipped down just a fraction, arms stuck rigidly at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to cross them. his brows pull together, a deep line forming between them. bruce speaks quietly, but every line of his body says lecture. damian refuses to look directly at him. he keeps glancing off to the side, mouth pressed thin like he’s biting back words he wants to say but knows better. you can read him: annoyed. cornered. and trying very, very hard not to be disrespectful.

bruce lifts a hand and whatever he says with it makes damian’s shoulders lock up, he shakes his head, frustrated, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself together under his father’s scrutiny. you’ve never seen him so… contained. then he turns, too fast, too sharp, and storms out. not dramatically, but with that fury that means he’ll explode the second he’s alone.

you find him hours later in the kitchen just after sundown, standing stiffly at the counter like he’s been there and hasn’t moved in an hour. he’s just… standing there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. he doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in. he doesn’t speak. just the faintest tightening of his fingers on the marble, like he can hold himself together with sheer force of will. you take a breath. be patient. tim’s voice nags in the back of your mind. he’ll never make it easy.

“…hey,” you try, keeping it gentle. “long day?”

nothing.

you take a few steps in, slower, giving him space to bark at you if he wants to. “i didn’t see you the rest of the day. thought maybe you were—”

“busy.” the word is clipped, flat, and icy enough to sting. “i was busy.”

okay. that’s… something.

“i wasn’t asking for your schedule. just… checking.”

nothing. not even a twitch. you try again. “you left pretty fast earlier. bruce looked—”

“father always looks like that.” cold, immediate. “he has perfected the expression.”

“did he… say something?”

“he lectures. that is his specialty,” he answers, still not looking at you. “discipline, focus, what is expected of me, what i failed to meet. it’s nothing new.”

the tone is so deceptively calm that it almost hides the tension buried under it. almost. you can hear the shame, anger, something like hurt, compressed into a perfect, emotionless blade. “he wasn’t mad at you. he was just worried—”

“don’t.” the word is soft but sharp. “do not attempt to explain my father to me.”

you swallow that down. he’s not trying to be cruel, he just is right now. “i’m trying to understand,” you say. “you’ve been… really shut down with me. and i want to know why.”

“i am not shut down.” he says it instantly, defensively, like the idea itself is an insult. “i simply have nothing to say.”

you study him, really look at him: the rigid posture, the unreadable face, the way he’s keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. he’s angry, yes. but he’s also embarrassed. frustrated. disappointed in himself. and, if you read him correctly, hurt that you didn’t go to him today.

you take another tiny step closer. “is this about training?”

“it’s about many things,” he mutters. “none of which concern you.”

“i think they do.”

his jaw flexes. finally, finally, he looks at you, just a flicker of eye contact, before he tears his gaze away again. “father believes i allowed myself to be distracted,” he admits, voice almost too controlled. “that i let something… personal interfere with my performance.”

“was he wrong?”

damian’s nostrils flare. “i do not get ‘distracted.’ i do not falter. i do not—” he cuts himself off. “i should not have been affected.”

“but you were,” you say softly. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t confirm it. he just stands there, breathing tight, shoulders drawn toward his ears as if the world is trying to crush him inward. you try again. “you don’t have to shut me out.”

“then stop trying to read me. i didn’t ask for your concern.”

you let that roll off. “you’ve been upset all day. i’m not trying to fight—”

“you always try,” he snaps, too quickly. “you push. you demand answers. you demand space in places you haven’t earned.”

you flinch at that. “i’m trying to talk to you.”

“and I said stop.”

“whatever bruce said clearly upset—”

“it doesn’t matter what he said.”

“then why won’t you look at me?”

he freezes. and when he speaks again, his voice has changed, aimed right at the softest part of you. “you don’t belong in this life.”

you go still.

he continues. “you weren’t raised for this. you weren’t trained for it from birth, or forged by necessity. you came into this world by choice, not by blood or war. and you think a few late nights and bruises make you ready?” you stare at him. he doesn’t stop. “you’re not suited for it. you’re just some nepo vigilante. you’re not… shaped for it. you hesitate. you question. that gets people killed.”

your breath shakes, just a little. “is that really what you think of me?”

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to. you blink hard, because suddenly your vision blurs at the edges. stupid. pathetic. you promised yourself you would never let him see you unravel like this, but his words hit every fault line you’ve tried to seal. you don’t belong here. you weren’t made for this. you’re not enough. echoes of fears you’ve carried since the day you put on the suit. echoes of what you sometimes wonder your parents would think if they saw you stumbling through a legacy built on grief. would they be proud? or would they see exactly what damian sees, someone trying too hard, someone always two steps behind, someone who can’t keep up?

your throat locks. your chest tightens. one more breath and you might crack in half, so you don’t say anything. you don’t trust your voice. you just turn and head for the doorway. you need to leave before the heat in your nose becomes tears. before he sees you break. before you embarrass yourself any further. your foot hits the threshold— and a hand closes around your wrist. almost… startled.

“hang on—”

his voice is strained. you freeze, staring at the floor because you can’t look at him, not right now. damian’s grip tightens, not enough to hurt, enough to say don’t go, not yet. “i…” he starts, then stops. the words jam in his throat. he’s staring at the floor between your feet, like he can’t bear to lift his eyes. “i didn’t mean to say that.”

you don’t turn back. you can’t. your wrist is still held in his hand. he tries again, quieter this time, the words sounding dragged out of him. “why did you… partner with drake?”

you blink. that’s what he’s asking? now? his shoulders are tight, ears slightly pink like he hates the question even as it escapes him. you exhale, slow and shaky, not because of him, because you’re still stung. your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “maybe i just wanted to train with someone who can actually stand being around me.”

for a second, he looks like he’s trying to speak, like something is clawing its way up his throat, but nothing comes out. then he goes still. too still. the kind of stillness that means he’s thinking so hard it might shatter him. you tug your wrist lightly. “if that’s all, i’m gonna—” you jerk your arm, breaking his hold—

“wait.”

you barely have time to register the word before he moves. it’s fast, a clean strike of motion tied to training and desperation and something he refuses to name. he catches your waist just enough to spin you, guiding you backward until your spine meets the cold edge of the kitchen counter. your breath stops. his hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching you, one palm braced on the countertop, the other hovering close enough that you can feel the residual heat of his skin. you look up, and there he is. damian wayne, inches from your face.

and god, up this close he’s almost unreal. the overhead light is dim, warm, turning the sharp lines of his face into something sculpted. his skin, smooth, warm-toned, unblemished, catches the light like polished bronze. no shadows under his eyes, no imperfections, his lashes are stupidly dark, stupidly long, the kind of lashes people pay for. they cast shadows across his cheekbones every time he blinks.

his hair is slightly mussed from training, still perfect, somehow, but one curl brushes his forehead. he smells like soap and whatever expensive detergent alfred uses. you’ve fought beside him dozens of times, but you’ve never seen him like this, never been close enough to catalog the exact shade of green in his eyes. it’s darker up close. deeper. flecked with gold that catches in the light. he’s tense, as if he’s wrestling with himself, wrestling with you, wrestling with the space between you that feels suddenly, impossibly charged.

you swallow. “what are you doing?”

he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you, eyes too intense, too alive, like you’ve cracked something open in him without meaning to.

“you are maddening.”

your heart jumps in your throat.

“i— what?”

his eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes with ruthless discipline. “i cannot breathe when you are upset with me.” the confession is sharp, bitten-off. “i cannot think properly when you ignore me.” damian looks furious with himself for saying it. furious with you for making him say it. furious with whatever emotion is tearing through him with too much intensity for someone raised to kill, not feel. “i do not want you training with drake,” he adds, breath brushing your cheek, “i do not want you choosing anyone else.”

your fingers curl against the counter because you suddenly don’t know what your legs are doing. “damian…”

“you frustrate me,” he scoffs, eyes flickering between yours. “you infuriate me.” a beat. “and i cannot stay away from you.”

you don’t know if you want to shove him or pull him closer. your thoughts tangle, snarl, crash over one another in a way that makes your pulse jump unevenly. this—whatever this is—was never part of the equation. the two of you exist in a constant cold war: distance, irritation, bickering. you built your expectations around that. around him being the brat who can’t stand the sight of you. the one who corrects your form too sharply and watches your mistakes with thinly veiled disdain. not this. not him, inches away, admitting—something. something dangerous. something you don’t have the training or composure to identify.

is this a confession? is this what it looks like when damian wayne tries to say he cares? you don’t know. no one prepared you for the possibility that he might want something other than superiority and distance. your heart lurches, a painful, disbelieving twist. it makes you angry. it makes you burn. because if this is real—if this tension, this jealousy, this intensity is real—then why the hell has he been so cruel?

you think of tim earlier. his accuracy.

“he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”

“he never learned how to express anything.”

you didn’t want that to be true. you didn’t want to give damian that benefit of the doubt. it was easier to armor yourself with irritation, easier to convince yourself he hated you. that he saw you as an intruder, a burden, a pretender wearing a legacy he thought you hadn’t earned. but standing here, pressed between the counter and his braced arms, with his breath mixing with yours, tim’s words ring uncomfortably, painfully true. beneath the arrogance, the discipline, the superiority, he is terrified. he is inexperienced. he is trying so hard to act unaffected that he’s hurting everything in his path, including you.

resentment. confusion. longing. anger. all of it, stacked so thick you can barely breathe. you find your fingers curling against the counter, grounding yourself before you do something stupid like lean in. “you can’t— you don’t get to say things like that after the way you treat me.”

his eyes flicker, that dark, molten green sharpening. you see confusion flash first. then indignation. then something like guilt, so brief he tries to bury it immediately. you shove at his chest. not enough to move him, because he’s a literal wall, but enough to break the trance, to remind yourself you still have a spine. “you’ve been awful to me,” you snap. “you insult me, you belittle me, you… you act like i’m a mistake bruce brought home.”

his jaw tightens. “i have never—”

“you have,” you bite. “constantly. every time we train, every time i’m in the same room, every time you so much as look at me. and now you’re suddenly— what? jealous? possessive? whatever this is?”

he flinches, the smallest betrayal of emotion, and his fingers curl tighter against the countertop. “i did not mean—” he swallows. “i do not wish for you to feel—”

“hurt?” you finish for him, voice rising. “belittled? unwanted?”

there’s a pause, long, heavy, almost unbearable, and you realize he’s leaning in. not carelessly, not with arrogance, but with this strange, hesitant deliberation, like he’s testing the air, testing you, testing himself. his body shifts forward, closing the space between you until the edge of the counter presses against your thighs, and your arms feel trapped, pinned not harshly but insistently. his hands hover for a moment near your sides, the faintest brush of his fingers against your waist. his lips hover above yours, close enough that you can see the catch in his breath, you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his stare as if he’s daring you to respond. and god, he smells impossibly clean.

then, impossibly, he closes the gap. it’s slow. nervous and commanding all at once. your breath hitches in surprise, in disbelief, in the way your body reacts before your mind even catches up. his lips are infuriatingly soft, warm, and insistent, brushing against yours with the faintest pressure before pulling back. he’s almost fragile in that hesitation, like he’s afraid if he tries too much, you’ll reject him, and he can’t bear that thought.

you don’t even think. you kiss back. your lips move against his, initially uncertain, and then with a force born of every frustration, every harsh word, every moment he’s pushed you to the edge. he tilts his head, searching for the right angle, softening where he can, hardening where he must. his arms cage you against the counter, claiming this moment with a possessiveness that leaves your pulse hammering. your hands find his chest, you notice the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his messy dark hair brushes against his forehead, how impossibly perfect everything about him seems in this suspended, stolen second.

he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to let you process the fire in his eyes, and you can see it, the flush in his cheeks, the flash of vulnerability he’s desperately trying to mask behind that familiar scowl. you can’t believe, for the first time, that this—this utterly impossible, maddening, beautiful boy—is leaning into you like he wants, no, needs, you just as much as you need him.

you can’t believe what just happened. you kissed damian wayne. damian wayne. the damian wayne. the boy you’ve sparred with, argued with, wanted to strangle and run away from in equal measure. the boy who has made mornings unbearable, nights restless, your every day a calculus of irritation and fascination. and now his lips had been on yours, shy and tentative at first, almost apologetic, like he didn’t quite believe he could do it, but gentle in a way that made your chest ache. that was a good kiss. better than you imagined. infuriatingly perfect and infuriatingly shy at the same time. you pull back slightly, trying to collect yourself, and you see him do the same.

it’s almost laughable how long it took to get here. you glance up at him, and he’s staring at you too, eyes impossibly earnest, betraying every ounce of his usual composure. then, almost instinctively, you reach up, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. he catches your movement in an instant, and his hands find your waist, just enough to let you know he wants this too. your lips meet again, this time slower, hungrier. the first kiss had been tentative; this one is more insistent, deeper, exploratory, and it shocks you with how much it says without words.

he’s surprisingly capable. his technique is precise, careful, controlled, but not without feeling. he’s not the most experienced, not in the sense of someone who’s practiced this kind of intimacy, and yet every motion, every press of his lips against yours, every gentle tug of your hair, speaks to a kind of instinctive perfection that leaves you dizzy. he’s learning, adapting to you, and you feel it in the way he shifts, the way his hands move, the subtle urgency in his breath. when you finally pull back for air, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, he doesn’t let go. you can’t help a small laugh. “what was that for?” you whisper, trying to catch your breath and your thoughts at once.

he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, his lips brush yours again, soft, testing, insistent. “you… are not unwanted.” he admits.

your chest tightens with disbelief and warmth, and you almost can’t stand it. the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he is—perfect and infuriating and wholly him—leaves you breathless. he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your reaction, and you see that glint of mischief in his eyes return. “we should… probably sleep,” he says, voice more controlled, formal, but the flush in his cheeks betrays him.

“bedtime already?”

he doesn’t answer, just gives you a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and that’s enough. you let him slip away, and you retreat to your room, closing the door softly behind you. the quiet hits like a wave, and you collapse onto your bed, heart still hammering, tingling where his hands had held you. you stare at the ceiling, the way the light catches the dust motes in the air, and you replay it, every detail, the brush of lips, every infuriating way he had pressed against you. you think about his hair falling into his eyes, his lips parting slightly, the way he smelled, the way he looked so impossibly perfect, so … damian.

you bite your lip, a shiver rolling through your chest. your mind refuses to let it go, twisting it over and over: the way he had held you close and yet seemed to want to apologize with every movement. you can’t quite believe it happened, can’t quite believe that it felt so right. just as your thoughts threaten to spiral, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. you groan, too tired, too flustered, too wrapped up in your own pulse to check it immediately, but eventually, curiosity wins.

you blink. one second later, another notification. an image. your stomach twists, both mortified and amused: a photo of you and damian kissing in the kitchen, taken from just far enough to look stealthy. damian’s arm is braced against the counter, your hands tangled in his hair, and both of your faces are flushed. you throw the phone onto the bed, groaning. “tim,” you mutter, voice half-laugh, half-exasperation. “you little creep.”

even as you say it, you can’t help smiling. tim is definitely a little weirdo. but as your eyes finally drift closed, heart still fluttering, you can’t help thinking: he was right.

he told you so.

POSTED 11/16/2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

[fawnindawn]

The Only Exception.

summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluffff, pre-established relationship, tim drake uses the wrong words and ensues a chaotic week.

“You want to know what Damian hates?”

Your inquisitive nature has become a known trait to Damian's family, and if anything, it fits you right in. Damian credits your 'detective work', he terms affectionately, as a perfect fit to his own.

Tim’s busy digging through another case, but your question surprises him enough to pause, an incredulous look crossing his tired features. “You know that doesn’t apply to you at all, right?”

“You’re the only person available to ask.” You plead. “It's a little awkward to storm right up to him with a ‘Good morning! Do you secretly hate me and I should jump off the face of the Earth?’”

“Define available.” Tim mutters, before snorting softly. “And Damian hating you? That’ll be impossible.”

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <3333

dc masterlist -> other damian + dc works

[fawnindawn]

the matters of partners in crime.

summary: you had a few resolutions for your move back to gotham. fight crime, piss bruce off, and maybe try not dying in the process of avenging the memory of your best friend, jason todd. your plans get disrupted when a new vigilante, by the name of red hood, decides to make your life living hell by refusing to leave you alone and forcing you to be his partner in crime. what a jackass.

pairing: jason todd x reader

tw/content: childhood best friends to enemies?/forced partners to lovers, angst with happy ending, grief, yearning, hurt/comfort, kissing, hidden identities, past trauma references, language, mentions of violence/blood/gunshot injury/near-death.

“I don’t do partners.”

Red Hood has been finding you. Too easily. Not even a week since you’ve been back, since he cornered you in an alleyway where you had been snooping on information from a few loud-mouthed gangsters on the new tells of how crime hides its tracks, like rememorising a reconstructed street—when a stranger with a red helmet pressed a gun to your side.

“Careless.” He had remarked then, and the worst part was that he was right. You made sure to hide your footsteps since, the way Bruce used to teach you before you cut him off. Yet, that bastardly metallic helmet always found its way invading your sight, his leather-gloved hands somehow holding you in place.

Now, he’s offering to be what—partners in crime—like you’ve gone stupid just because you’ve been away for a few years? He’s been tracking you, but that didn’t mean you didn’t do your own digging on him since that first encounter.

He’s a lone wolf, a backstabber. He blackmailed Black Mask into a corner and snatched his territory like child's play, leaving the former rotting for his crimes. He spits threats as a conversation starter and isn’t afraid to use violence to back his barking teeth, and his objectives? Inconclusive.

You tell yourself there’s nothing he can get out of you, nothing that you haven’t wiped clean from your trails that he could use. For all he knows, you’re a newbie. A good for nothing.

“Even if it has to do with Jason Todd?”

Your blade is on him in an instant.

It digs into the material shielding his neck, but whether you could actually do it—turn your front into actual bloodshed, you don't know. You force your trembling fingers to stabilise the sharp edge of your blade, barely feeling anything other than your heartbeat hammering through your ribcage.

“How do you know that name?” Your voice comes out louder than intended, vulnerability pitched in all the ways you could not control.

“We all have our secrets.” He twists your old words against you, something you had uttered to him days ago, and not even his moderator can hide the mocking sneer in his voice.

“Willing to die for it?” You grit.

“Already have.” He remarks. Your brows furrow in confusion, and your lapse in focus is enough for him to twist your arm, slamming you against the wall and pinning you with your blade still clenched in your hand, but now out of reach.

“It’ll be in your best interest if we work together.” He squeezes your wrist tighter, jamming your palm from dropping the blade into your teeth. It’s like he knows your every move, and counters it before you can even think of doing it.

It should only reinforce how much of a danger he is, with his skills in combat to disarm you as quickly as he did—but there’s a familiarity in the steps that makes your head spin.

“Nothing good comes out of provoking the Bat alone.” He warns. “What you’ve been doing? You seriously think he wouldn’t notice?”

You scoff. “You don’t know him.”

“Don’t I?” He laughs coldly. “Don't make the mistake of assuming your past with Bruce guarantees you a soft spot, sweetheart."

Your entire body freezes. Nothing would have ever prepared you to hear Bruce's name. To know that he knows the old man's identity and yours—you've severely underestimated him. Jason’s name still repeats like a helpless mantra in the back of your mind, twisted into a robotic slick from the modulator.

He leans in, and even with that stupid helmet on, you can feel his pleasure thrumming at your silence. "Midnight tomorrow, Miller Harbour. I wouldn’t advise you to be late, partner.”

Miller Harbour reeks of strong salt and sewage. Your nose wrinkles, the sour smell somehow reaching your nose even from afar. The murky water barely reflects the intrusive lights that shine on the containers that surround you like a rusted maze.

He never told you how'd you find him, so clearly—your 'partnership' solely depends on his unyielding ability to find you no matter which part you were in the city.

You hear him before you see him, and that's only because he didn't bother hiding. He's on the phone, talking in low hushes, his modulator crackling as he approaches you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

His casual demeanour pisses you off, like he can't even be bothered to arm his hand because you're no threat.

He stops in front of you, phone still raised to where his ear would be. "It's either your intel is right, or your wife finds a bullet in her head tonight." He says right before he ends the call.

Your eyes widen, disgust rippling through your features. "You'd do that?"

Stuffing the phone into his pocket, he carries himself easily despite your tone. "Would it make you feel better if I said I wouldn't?" He mocks.

Your eyes narrow. "I wouldn't believe you."

"How clever." He drawls, his hand beckoning you to follow. "And isn't it hypocritical of you to ask when you had a blade pressed against my neck yesterday?"

Your lips part, conflict jamming your response. He doesn't need to know that you wouldn't have done it, that you lack the guts. It'd only give him a greater advantage over you. He paces on without bothering to hear your response, and you huff, jogging to catch up with him. "What are we doing?"

"There's leaks of Scarecrow's shipment leaving at midnight. Unless you want the entire city on his fear toxin, we're infiltrating before it even gets close to the water supply."

"Sure you don't want it for yourself?" You accuse.

"Not my style." He remarks. "Prefer to deal with my enemies without all the screaming, it gets in the way of the job."

“What is your motive then? Something to prove to yourself?” Even your doubt echoes in your question, obviously expecting him to mock you, toss another vague statement that only proves the power imbalance between the two of you—but he doesn’t.

“Just cleaning up the streets.” He answers briskly. “Permanently.”

The word lingers like a point of difference, a kick at the other caped crusader.

“Have a problem with the Bat?” You dig.

“Don’t you?” There’s a wicked accusation in his voice, and when his helmet shifts to look at you, you feel pressure. An unspoken demand to state which side you stand on.

“What I think about the Bat is none of your concern.” It’s a small win, knowing he doesn’t know everything about you—relief that the fear of him being able to read your mind dampens a little at his question.

He's silent, long enough that you begin to wonder if your answer was the one he expected, or didn’t.

"What does this even have to do with Jason Todd?" You couldn't connect Scarecrow's antics to have anything to do with Jason, much less requiring your help. You couldn't even best him in a one-on-one, much less work alongside him.

He scoffs. "Nothing about tonight has to do with a dead boy buried twelve feet under."

Your frustration ticks, even more so at his brush-off over the mention of Jason. He was the one that used Jason's name against you, and now he's acting as if it didn't matter? Before you can push further, he replaces his focus with a sudden movement—two trucks leaving through the entrance point at the lower levels of the harbour, and his entire demeanour shifts.

“You take the one on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. Stop the truck before it leaves the harbour."

He's gone before you can ask any more questions, his silhouette disappearing down the ledge onto the truck’s roof. You curse, jumping down after him and landing on the second truck. The metal skids against your palms but you steady yourself, gripping onto the raised edge.

The driver's clearly heard the sound of your weight smashing against the truck, evident from the shouting below, and not a second after—bullets ripple through the roof. You curse, one hand letting go so you could move to the side, avoiding the bullets.

Your body topples to the side, and you slam against the driver's door, making direct eye contact with a straw mask. You've got to be kidding, they even bother with the same get-up?

Gritting your teeth, you lift yourself up halfway, and your boots slam against the glass. It shatters from the impact, and you fall roughly into the driver's seat. It's a mess of elbows, and the fumbling of your blade from your holster as you use the back-end, knocking it into the driver's skull.

His head lolls to the side, but you don't have time to think—grabbing onto the wheel and turning it sharply before the truck crashes into a container. Kicking his feet off the pedal, you slam onto the brakes.

The truck's wheels skid to a halt, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut when the truck slams into the container. You heave out a breath, shaking slightly as you open your eyes to a mostly in-tact truck, aside from the dent visible in the side of the door. You did it. You actually did it.

A knock at the window makes you flinch, and you snap your neck to see Red Hood waiting outside the door, hands over his hips—impatience brimming in his form. Your fury sparks in your gut again, but you clamp your lips shut as you unbuckle the driver, unlocking the door on the other side, and shoving the driver out.

He falls onto the ground with a loud thump, still unconscious as Hood hoists him up easily, dragging him over to where the other driver was and dropping him.

By the time you managed to shimmy your way out of the truck, Hood's already got a gun pressed over the forehead of the first driver, who looks worse for wear than the other, with sweat pooled at his forehead, blood running down his nose.

"Wait!" It tears out of you, afraid.

A flash of Bruce’s eyes crystalises in your mind, a perfect vision of his morals weighing down on you. Your fingers wrap around his gun, forcing it away. "What are you doing?" You snap.

"My job, sweetheart." He mocks.

"There's no need to—" Kill them. You can barely get it out, and you switch your words. "You haven't even gotten your information, what's the use in putting a bullet through their heads when you don't know where the shipment's supposed to go? You'd just delay Scarecrow's plan, not stop it."

"Oh, and let me guess." His voice hardens. " Once we put these two in jail, they'll break out—rush back to Scarecrow and help out in murdering innocent civilians. Is that your amazing idea?"

You hesitate, and for a moment, you feel like Bruce and—this conversation only makes you ill.

“You don’t have time to hesitate.” His voice grows in impatience, frustration clear over your incompetence. “They’re dirt on the streets, and it’s either you clean it up, or you’ll find someone’s face on the news—someone’s kid murdered, because you couldn’t pull the damn trigger!”

You can’t stop the flinch at his raised voice, even as your own glare hardens. “Then what makes you different from them? Deciding who gets to live and die?”

His cold laugh echoes through the night air. “It doesn’t. I just have the guts to admit that it takes that sacrifice to make the streets safer, to save another life.”

“By deciding to kill another.” You bite back.

“Yeah, cause keeping murderers alive worked out so well before.” He scoffs.

You freeze, cold anger taking over your panic. He didn't need to say who he was taking a dig at, it was enough from the mocking tone in his voice. "Fuck you, Hood."

"Yeah, I'm terrified." He says dryly, tucking his gun back into his holster. "Cause clearly, you're a real big threat, aren't you?"

You're tempted to launch yourself at him, hit him—anything to get him to shut up.

“You should take some time off the field if you think being soft around here works.” He mocks, two hands coming down to drag the two men by their collars. Walking over to the truck he's parked, he tosses them into the back seat. “Come find me when you come around.”

You’re ready to snap, tell him you wanted nothing to do with him in the first place, that he’s deranged for thinking you’d even want to find him and let yourself be dragged into his mess—but he tosses something your way and you instinctively catch it. Opening your palm, it’s a burner phone, identical to the one you saw him use when you arrived at the harbour.

When you look up, he’s gone. Left alone in the streets with shaking adrenaline tremoring through your hands, even if you don't know whether he'll follow through with what he said, the image still makes you feel sick.

Hood disappears from your life for two weeks. Enough for you to dare to try and fall asleep without the image of the two drivers appearing when you shut your eyes. To not smell the harbour, and hear the sound of his mocking tone when he dangled your morals in front of you like life and death is so easily decided.

Tonight's not one of those nights where you think sleep will come find you easily.

Your body's conditioned to almost wait—like he's bound to appear any minute even though he's never visited you at your apartment before. The burner phone is shoved somewhere in your wardrobe so you won't have to see it, even when you instinctively check to see if he's left any messages or missed calls when the thoughts get too loud at night.

You're starting to believe he's actually given up on you, seeing you as a weakling in his eyes. It shouldn't bother you, give you any feeling other than relief that he's potentially out of your life. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the guilt pools at the thought that if it came down to it, you might do the same thing as Bruce. Not pull the trigger, and someone ends up dead.

Like Jason.

A knock rams against your window. It's loud, measured with that same familiar brute force you've come to expect from the only person who'd find you at this hour.

You shouldn't have kicked off your sheets, or rush to the window where your oddly-sized sofa was pushed against. You unlock the window, pushing it up to meet the sight of the helmet that haunts your nightmares.

For a moment, he just stays there, bent over on your fire escape like he's in intense pain. Then, he snaps. "You going to move aside?"

“I thought you said I’d be the one to come find you.” You mock. You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly pissed with a gun in his hand, but your nerves don’t trigger automatically at the sight of him. He doesn’t scare you, even though he should.

His other hand is gripping his side, blood soaking his glove when he hisses out through gritted teeth. “Toss me attitude later. Emergency kit now.”

You don’t question on how even though he’s known you for such a short time, he's desperate enough to come find your window. You don’t let yourself think about how he’s probably alone in this city, just like you, and bears that weight and who knows what other baggage that’s clearly twisted him into this displaced superiority complex.

You grab your kit, rushing back to see him laying against your brick wall, still near the window, and you hear the shifts of his delayed breathing, like he’s trying to still himself as much as possible to prevent further blood loss.

“An expert in bleeding out?” You taunt, laying the kit beside him as you automatically grab for the alcohol and cloth to clean the wound.

“Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tosses back, teeth clenched through his stubbornness.

It’s almost paradoxical, seeing the Red Hood so strangely human in the dim lighting of your apartment, bleeding out on your wooden floorboards and making jokes. Almost enough to make you forget why you’re pissed to see him, almost.

“How’d you find my apartment?” A silent question echoes your words through the tense atmosphere. How’d you find me every time?

“Tracker in the burner phone.” He answers casually as he pulls up his shirt, one hand outstretched for the alcohol—clearly expecting to do it himself. Not like anything illegal on that extent would phase him.

“And the other times?” You ignore his outstretched hand, dabbing the alcohol on the cloth. To prove that you're capable of something, you don't know. Your stubbornness had always only been rivalled by those worse than you. “Three.. two..”

Your count doesn't finish before you press the cloth onto his wound, and he hisses, a string of curses filling the room. “Every damn time.” He groans.

Your brows furrow, but maybe he’s talking about the pain. It’d be impossible for him to know you trick your counts.

“Like I said before.” He huffs as he adjusts to the sting of the alcohol. “I know your tells.”

“I hide them.” You bristle, offended as you grab for the needle, stringing the thread through.

His laugh echoes harshly against the brick walls, finding your words funny. “Not well enough.”

Your lips purse in displeasure, but he’s obviously right if he’s able to find you so easily. “Just because you can find me doesn’t mean it gives you permission to barge in.”

“Then why let me in?” He challenges.

You pause, hands losing the knot around the eye of the needle and you inhale sharply, trying again. “This is going to hurt.” You warn, one hand placed on his torso to keep him steady.

“You won’t believe how many people say that to me.” He jokes, seemingly amused. He's more talkative when he's injured.

“Given your charming personality, I can’t imagine why.” You mutter dryly.

When the needle point digs into his skin, he goes silent, fists clenching against the window sill. You don’t ask any more questions—you just get it over as quickly as you can.

He doesn’t leave immediately like you expect him to when you’re done. Instead, he lingers—a still statue near the window while you wash your blood-soaked hands. If it weren’t for the controlled breaths that prickled in frequency across the room, you would’ve thought he had passed out from exhaustion.

When you think you’ve let your hands run under the water long enough for it to be obvious you’re avoiding the elephant in the room, you force yourself back to the window and crouch to his eye level. His helmet tilts, analysing you—waiting.

You sigh. “Listen. If we’re really going to be partners, we need to set rules.”

He inhales, settling his head back on the wall, gazing at your ceiling. “Finally came to terms with it then? What crime-fighting actually is.”

“Only on the terms that you treat me as an equal. Not your lackey.” You frown, still recalling the way he tossed orders to you without asking for input.

You expect him to poke fun, mock you for your request. Yet, he doesn’t. He stares at the ceiling, before he grunts. “Alright.”

Your shoulders loosen in tension, and you settle in sitting properly across him, your elbows resting on your knees as you watch him.

"And you have to tell me why you mentioned Jason Todd." You weren't going down in this mess with him without a fight, not when Jason's name still haunts you through the echo of his moderator.

He laughs dryly. "Haven't catch on? It's not only him—don't you realise? He wasn't the Bat's only failure. The countless murders in the streets, left unpunished, forgotten without a mention in the news because it's expected that they'd have to pay the sacrifice of no one stepping up to do what's needed."

"And you're that person?" The pieces of his motive begin to click together—that he imagines himself as the one destined to wash out the rot in the city, all done by staining his hands with blood.

"Shouldn't only be me." His invitation lays there, and the understanding dawns on you on why he'd pick you. There are far more efficient fighters, cleverer than you and maybe even him. Yet, you sense a familiar bitterness in him you recognise in yourself—that same, quiet rage that drowns him, and chains him to this city.

It's a sinking ship, his mission—but maybe he thinks you'll see it too. Why it's worth trying.

“I know you’ll never tell me your full story.” You say. “But at least tell me what you’re aiming at, what we’re doing.”

He finally looks at you, and you feel it then, that same confidence of a dying man with nothing to lose that settles in his bones. “We’re rebuilding Gotham.”

Red Hood proves to be more brain than brawn, a paradox to your initial impression when he had a gun jammed to the side of your ribs. You knew he was clever, but as you worked side by side, watching first-hand how quickly his mind works is.. fascinating.

He’s been trained, to see not only a few steps ahead, but several. To have contingency plans, to have distrust built into his very veins, and to have his body move before he thinks.

Through his lens, Gotham looks worse than its ever been through your blurred memory. The corruption that simmers below every business, every front plastered on with fake smiles, and the blood that has dried on the steps to build empires.

Worse than that, you begin to see him in a different light too.

He's a brute, that lingers after every walk home from patrol, only leaving when you lock your door and windows.

He tosses you random weapons of a caliber much higher than you'd ever be able to afford, ones you highly suspect he stole or had manufactured for you, because he rarely uses blades in opt for his guns.

He grunts that you're too weak for crime-fighting, then drags you to a stall that sells food to even the most suspicious of individuals, owned by an old man that doesn't blink when Hood hands him cash and gives him plastic bags filled with boxed meals.

Sometimes, during your patrols together, he takes the longer routes from above, stopping on the rooftops of skyscrapers where Gotham shines in its rare beauty, where the lights blend together into its own sea of stars.

“So, why come back?” He asks once, crouched beside you as he eyes for any signs of crime in the Fashion District.

You pretend you don't understand. “To Gotham?”

He nods imperceptibly.

“Rent’s cheaper.” You shrug.

He huffs, amusement crackling even through his modulator. “Now that’s a load of bull.”

You snort, legs dangling over the ledge. Looking down at the city, where the bottom panes of the skyscrapers look more like specks of light than actual windows—you think back on the first day you arrived. So lost, so hungry to feel something again.

“How did you find out about Jason?” You ask instead.

His breath hitches faintly, just for the shortest second. If it had been a few weeks ago, you wouldn't have caught it. “I keep track of all the Bat’s failures.” He answers vaguely.

Your brows furrow. “Jason’s death was documented as a political incident.” Even the words sounded like a disgrace on your tongue. "There was no connections to the Bat."

He scoffs. “There’s nothing he can hide from me.”

“Bruce.” You mutter. “How do you know him?”

“That’s—” His head snaps to where sirens pass by Grant Park. His entire body language shifts, nothing phases him when he’s in work mode. “—for another time.”

He never continued that story. Bruce was a sensitive topic to him, and you could only assume he must’ve been bested by the Bat before, though the mystery of how he knows Bruce's well-hidden identity is another matter.

Instead, he tells you other stories. Of mountains up in the North, where he was trained before he crawled back to Gotham. Of how he had taken all of Black Mask’s physical cash when he took over his territory, but settled on a cheap apartment in the more dangerous parts of Crime Alley because it made it easier for him to hear the sirens.

When the occurrences of him finding himself back in your apartment start to blur into mere days in between, showing up injured from his own self-patrols that you didn’t follow, you let him stay. Small human choices, that you could only hope wouldn’t doom you—tie you to him and his downward spiral.

You begin to tell him stories too.

“Jason is—was my best friend.” You start.

His gaze flicks to you. It’s been two hours since he barged in through your window, one hour and forty-five minutes since you patched him up. He’s been on your couch since, gazing at your ceiling, watching headlights pass by your window, casting shadows of the window bars he installed for you. (“Don’t want to find my partner dead because of some shit windows.” He commented then when he showed up with boxes of equipment.)

“Is this the partner development where we start trauma dumping on each other?” He muses. “I‘m afraid it’ll have to be one-sided because I’m not sharing.”

You hit his shoulder, and he lets out a mock gasp of hurt. “You listening or not?” You scoff.

He settles, neck turned to focus on you. “I’m listening.”

You swallow, averting your gaze. “We were both stupid kids who had the misfortune of being born in Crime Alley. Typical Gotham luck.”

“He was so small then.” It was bittersweet, thinking of Jason's stunted height, how he had nothing much to eat—only inhaling cigarette smoke and finding leftovers to stall the hunger. “Stealing about anything he could so he’d have something to eat. I wasn’t much better, and it added on to his burden—trying to steal enough so we could both survive."

“Idiot went on about how he saw some fancy car, reckoned he’d earn us months worth of food just from the tires alone.” You laugh, but it sounds broken, tired. “Turns out it was the fucking Batmobile.”

“What an idiot.” He comments.

“Yeah.” Your eyes glaze over, and you blink quickly, clearing the moisture. “He was right though. When the Bat took us in—well, more the Bat wanted him and he demanded we were a package deal—we had more food than we could have ever dreamed of.”

“Then, the training started.” You recall, fists clenching. “I wasn’t as fast or strong, so he mostly taught me the ropes for self-defense, but Jason? He was good. Better than good, you’d think he was born for it. Had dreams of doing more, and the Bat saw that.”

“So—" Hood's voice drawls. "—he became the Bat’s next pawn.”

You shook your head. “They couldn’t have had more different dreams. Bruce—the Bat never lived on the streets. He knew of crime, he saw it happen. He didn’t live it.”

“He could only ever see it from the outside. He kept it that way, putting people in jail over and over again, not knowing—or refusing to see that the system was already broken from the inside.”

“He never had the guts.” He scoffs.

“Yeah, but Jason did.” You mutter. “He always did. Too much of it, and I guess you know how the rest of the story goes.”

“Went and got himself killed.” He finishes.

You hesitate, feeling your heart palpitating against your rib cage before you couldn't stand it any longer. “And I wasn’t there.”

When you turn to look at him, it feels like tearing open a healing wound. You feel the wetness pool at your lashes, threatening to fall. “What kind of shitty person lounges around in a billionaire’s mansion while their best friend was dying alone, scared? Calling for someone to save him?”

Whatever his viper tongue was made of, he gave you none of it. He watches, waits as you blink, looking away harshly when the tears start to fall.

He doesn’t speak, and you think he’s out of words when you feel his hand on your jaw. He grips it gently, forcing you to turn your head back to look at him. His gloves are off, had been since he came in, and the warmth of his fingers, the rough, scarred edges make him feel real.

“It’s not your fault.” His voice takes a stern hold over you, only reinforced by his grip.

You shake your head, but he holds you steady. His thumb comes up to wipe away a tear stain. “What could you have done?” He challenges. “You said it yourself. You barely knew self-defense, much less going against the bastard that killed him. You would’ve just gotten yourself killed.”

“Is it selfish?” You ask. “That I wanted to? That I’d prefer if I had been there? Knowing I wouldn’t be able to change his death.”

He’s silent, and you can only hear the soft cracks in his modulator from his breathing.

“When you had nothing but each other, of course you’d be selfish.” He answers. “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong just because others tell you it is.”

Somehow, he gets it. Gets you better than Bruce had when the two of you fought after it had happened. He’s a stranger, but you foolishly think he might mean more than that.

You swallow, and his head tilts slightly, watching the motion.

"Do you think he might've known?" Your voice trembles. "That I was thinking of him even in his last moments. That his memory still hasn't faded from this world because I would never let that happen?"

His hand still on your face, an anchor grounding you when it shouldn't give you that comforting weight—falters, but he doesn't let go. "You read like an open book." He says. "Your heart's easy to spot. If I could see that, then he would've known what he'd mattered to you. He would've thought of you in his last moments, and fought his best to get back to you."

In the cracks of everything that’s wrong with this, it feels oddly comforting to let him see you. To fall deeper into the unknown, to hope that laying your wounds right in the open doesn't trigger him to bite. Tears fall at the edges, and you don't blink this time—don't try to hide it.

"Why did you come back?" He asks again.

You look at him, seeing your own broken reflection reflected in his helmet. "Maybe I wanted to feel something again. To be selfish."

You feel his fingers tighten imperceptibly, a slight twitch at your words. His body leans almost instinctively, closer to you, shifting the weight of the moment—drumming a rush of blood through your veins in anticipation, and there’s a brief moment where you think he might actually take that damn helmet off, when a siren echoes from the outside. The moment shatters, and his hand freezes.

In a blink, he drops his hand as if the touch of your skin burnt him, and stands abruptly from the couch. “I have to go.” He rushes it out through his teeth, tugging at his jacket and grabbing his grappling gun.

You stare, feeling your heart go numb. Of course. You’re a fool, laying yourself vulnerable like that. Careless, just like he said when he first met you.

”Right.” You mutter weakly.

He looks back at you, hesitating. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t worth knowing because he was out of your window before you could even say goodbye.

The next visit, you feel his distance.

He doesn't toss you a lame joke, call you that dreaded, mocking 'sweetheart' you've come to expect, and maybe detest less over time. No, he's cold—professional.

"Penguin's set a trap." Straight to the point, it shouldn't gut you as much as it did. "We'll use Plan B." He continues on. "Come in from the third floor, it'll give us the advantage since he's barred the entrance and rooftop. He clearly expects us to choose the highest floor, so that's where he'll have the most of his henchman."

You nod briskly, your own guard built back up at the sight of his. "Anything else?"

He looks at you, and your question sours with every passing second of silence, like a plea for him to address the screaming issue laying underneath. "No." He breaks eye contact first, getting on his bike. "Let's not waste any more time."

You don't remember when Plan B obviously turned out to be the wrong choice. Only the adrenaline rush of actually making it out of this death trap kept your feet moving, hands fumbling for every door in the hopes that one would open and get the both of you out of gunfire range.

One finally works, and the door nearly topples with how both you and Hood's weight slams into it. He locks the door, but when you look around the room, there's no other exit. You'll have to go back out the way you came, which means running into all those henchmen.

“What the hell was that, Hood?” You snarl, barely able to see him through the dark, confined space. “I thought being partners meant giving a basic level of trust.”

He’s pacing, not even listening to a word you're saying, fury coiling his tense form as he strikes each step with a lack of precision that he always has, staggering, impulsive—angry. It was a complete shit-show, all because he didn’t let you take the shot at Penguin.

”Hood!” Finally, he stops.

“Trust.” He mutters, a deranged crack in his voice when he turns to you. “Was that what it was when you refused to listen to me when I told you to bail?”

“No, you thought I was tricking you.” A cold anger slithers its way into every accusation used against you, cornering you as he threads his heavy steps closer to you. “You thought I was making you leave so I could bargain with Penguin, force him to do my bidding, steal more territory for myself.”

“Tell me, partner.” He mocks. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You grit your teeth, looking away from him. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.” Every time you’ve given a piece of yourself to him, extended your vulnerability—he’s never given anything back.

“I saved your life.”

“Because there’s something you need from me.” You snap. “From the start, you knew who I was and my connections to the Bat. You used Jason's name to lure me into working for you. You have some twisted game you’re playing that I’m a fucking pawn in!”

“You think that’s what this is?” He growls, gripping you by your collar. Your hands come up to push his fingers off, but he only leans in closer till you can hear the heavy breathing beneath his helmet, the frustration radiating off of him.

“If I wanted you for your connections to Bruce.” He laughs coldly. “I would’ve strung you up a building from the first day to get him where I needed him.”

“I don’t need you.” He snarls, letting go of your collar, making you stumble in your step. “I have other ways of getting to the Bat that doesn’t require the trouble I get from you.”

”Then why make me your partner?”

He’s silent, even as you hear his modulator crack with every breath. He can’t answer you.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” You continue on, refusing to let him ice you out. “You don’t need me. Yet, you insist on digging your way into my life like you want to be in it. You can’t fool me.”

“You don’t linger in the home of someone you don’t need, long after the bleeding has stopped.” You accuse, stepping closer to him. “You don’t save someone you don’t need at the expense of the mission.”

Your fist comes up to dig into his chest, cementing your words with every push. “You let me in. That’s why you’re angry, and that’s why you keep me close even when you know you shouldn’t.”

Heavy breathing echoes through the abandoned room, only the slight cracks of his modulator distorting the tension stretched between. You see his fists clench, and you have half a mind to back off, realise it’s dangerous to provoke him when you still have no idea what he’s truly capable of, when you feel something shift.

His body stills, and even through the helmet, you feel his gaze pinned on you.

“Close your eyes.” He orders.

Your brows furrow.

“Just do it.” He snaps, impatient.

You close your eyes, brows clenched together—in fear, anticipation, and something you don’t dare name. Darkness envelops you and you hear the faint sound of a click. His hand comes up to cover your eyes, a safety measure.

“Still can’t trust me, huh?” You mock.

“Shut up.” His voice breaks, raw and un-filtered.

The sound of his voice breaks through all your defenses, leaving you paralysed—realisation kicking in that he’s taken off his helmet only when his lips crash into yours.

Hood's taken off his helmet.. and he’s kissing you.

You shouldn't let him, but none of your rational thoughts ever made sense when it came to him. He dug himself into your life, and somewhere through it all, you found yourself wanting him to show up. Again and again.

You kiss him back, and that only fuels him further, his lips claiming you as he grips the back your head with one hand, man-handling you in a way that empties your mind of anything but his touch.

There's a banging of doors, voices echoing louder and closer—and you hear his grunt of frustration when he pulls back, fingers still over your eyes as he grabs for his helmet. You hear a click, and when you open your eyes, your vision clears back onto his helmet.

"Did you just—" You stammer.

"And I really want to do it again." He breathes out, gaze still locked onto you. "Let's get the hell out of here. Together. We'll figure out Penguin's schemes when we're not in the center of his traps."

You nod hurriedly, almost in a daze, forcing yourself to snap out of it when he grabs for your hand, pulling you along to the exit.

When the door shoves open, all hell breaks loose.

There's firing of guns, and Hood practically uses himself as a shield as he pulls you behind him, running with one hand holding yours as fast as he can, past the firearms and henchman, towards where a window was at the end of the hallway. Plan E or F, you recall vaguely, but it definitely involved jumping out of a high window.

Your eyes flick behind—and you see it then, the new weapon Penguin's gotten a hold of, that has clearly pierced through tanks thicker than Hood's helmet, aimed at his back, right where his heart would be. The shot fires, and you don't think.

Pushing him to the side, the side of your stomach ripples in pain, and you scream. The blow sends you toppling to the ground. The pain is enough to make your vision flash white. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Before you can process how bad the injury was, Hood's already gripping your fallen body, hoisting you into his arms. You grip onto his neck, eyes fluttering as he runs, colliding your body painfully against his hard chest plate when he crashes through the window.

You hear a crack, and your vision topples to the side when your head lolls and you see his helmet, cracked in the center. He curses, voice modulator distorted as one of his hands comes up quickly to detach the helmet. He shifts you up to avoid seeing his vulnerable face, and you see his helmet topple to the pavement as he runs, lost with the shattered glass.

Your head is pressed into the crook of his neck, preventing you from seeing what he looked like. Still, you can feel the press of his tousled hair against your cheek, the texture of it against your weakening fingers.

For a moment, in your delusion, it reminds you of when you used to caress Jason’s hair on the nights where he couldn’t sleep after a bad patrol or a fight with Bruce. You mumble something, incoherent syllables but it forms itself like a comforting mantra, muttering Jason’s name in a whisper.

You doubt he’d hear it, but you feel him tense against your body, the rigid push of his muscles as he passes another obstacle, nudging you closer to him in his movement.

”Stay awake, bird.” He orders, his real voice barking harshly against your skin. It’s rough, weathered from exhaustion and pain.

“Don’t-“ Your eyelids clamp shut from exhaustion, or blood loss—you can’t differentiate the nauseous pressure enveloping your senses, but you manage to get your words out. “Don’t call me that.”

It sounds strange on his tongue, like it came to him so easily, the same way it used to for Jason. The line keeps blurring, and you don't know why Hood reminds you of him. Maybe it's because of your love for Jason, bleeding into whatever you felt for Hood—it all clicks and fades together as your thoughts grow more sparse, the feeling of the cold sweat against your temple taking your attention instead.

“Hey—” His voice breaks when he calls you by your real name, softer than you’ve ever heard it. You like it, the deep, uneven edges that was muffled by the modulator, wishing you could listen to it over and over. “Don’t you die on me. You can’t. I won’t allow it.”

“Why?” You mutter, the word falling off your tongue loosely. “You said you didn’t need me, remember? You could find a better partner. One that doesn’t-”

You cough, feeling a splutter of iron cover the back of your teeth. You feel the frantic shake of his head, and you dig closer into the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his scent.

“I don’t want another partner.” His voice begs, uncontrollably raw. “Do you seriously think I can ever consider anyone else—it's always been you. I need you—so please.”

"Tell me I'm an idiot." He demands. "Fight with me. Just—don't you dare close your eyes."

His pleas grow more desperate when your eyelids fall shut but eventually, even his voice and the sound of his boots slamming into the ground fades—till nothing from the world reaches you.

"Hey, bird."

Jason's always been a blur in your dreams, and this one is no different. The green in his eyes are hazy, your faded memory obscuring the once clear spark he used to have.

"Hey, Jay." You can't bring yourself to look at him. Not when having to face him meant seeing his youthful face, trapped in the confinements of time, distilled and frozen while your own features are sunken, age and stress wearing out your own expression.

"You really out-did yourself this time, huh?" He mutters, glancing at your blood-soaked hands.

"Thought I'd give your method an approach." You joke, smile growing wry. "Still think it's more a 'you' thing than me. This vigilante work is tiring."

"I can tell." His voice echoes. "You look tired."

Your smile fades, and you don't dare look up from your hands, folded over your knees. "I'm sorry, Jay."

"What for?"

"I don't know." Your shoulders sag, feeling like you're forgetting something important. "I just miss you. I feel like I'm dragging your memory down with me when I should let you rest."

"You know you'd never drag me down, bird." He says, one hand coming around your shoulder, pulling you into his embrace. "I'm always here for you."

"Yeah?" Your voice cracks. "I miss my partner. The one who always knew what to say when things get scary. I—I think I'm really coming to see you this time."

"You've got a long way to go." He says knowingly. "You have a partner who's looking out for you."

Your brows furrow. "Hood." You realise.

He nods, and you feel his chin brush your shoulder. "You promised me you'd do whatever it takes to survive, remember?"

Right, that silly pinky promise made over stale sandwiches near the dumpsters in Crime Alley, before Bruce—when the world seemed much smaller and the tomorrow's mattered.

You swallow. "What if I'm not ready to do that? If it means letting you go?"

He laughs, reassuring even in his faint memory. "I'm not going anywhere. Just stay on the living side, bird. I'll protect you. Anywhere you go."

When your heavy eyelids force themselves open, a hazy vision of your apartment ceiling greets you. Your side greets you second with a painful soreness and a slight itch, making you hiss through your teeth when you sober up through the pain. “Hood?” You call out, hating how desperate you sound.

There’s no sound for a moment, and you’re terrified that you won’t be able to lift yourself out from bed to assess the damage done to your own body, when you hear the sound of boots thumping against the floorboards.

The door slams open and—Jason comes through.

Not Hood. Jason.

“Holy shit. I’m dead.” You gasp, even as your wound screams for you to not raise your voice. “I’m definitely dead—Jason.”

An intense amount of relief surges through his expression at the sight of you awake, but it quickly wipes off when you try to lift yourself from the bed.

“Stay down.” He orders, pushing your shoulders back down onto the pillows.

One of your hands reach out to grab onto his fingers, staring at him unblinkingly. You’ve never dreamt of him this clearly.

“I must be dead.” You repeat. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re alive.” He reassures you, his expression growing serious. “No thanks to yourself. What kind of idiot jumps in front of a gun?”

Your brows furrow. “But why—where’s Hood?”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “I thought—you called my name. When I was carrying you.”

You stare at him. At his face that’s lost its youth, bearing more scars than you remember. You replay the deeper timbre in his voice, how it differs to the cracks he used to have.

He’s right. You are an idiot.

“You’re Hood.” You whisper, and the fact only cements itself deeper at his expression paling.

“I thought you knew.” He says, pulling away slightly. “You called out to me. I thought you saw my face—that it was over.”

“You’re alive.” Your voice raises, almost hysterical. “You’ve been beside me this entire time, and you hid.”

He flinches at your accusation, but there’s nothing he can say to defend that. His eyes grow cold, and he looks away. “You’re wrong.”

“Jason.” You should feel happy that he’s alive but the disbelief that your best friend hid himself from you, let you believe he was truly gone carried a new sense of betrayal. “I mourned. You sat beside me and watched as I cried over you, the guilt I felt—and you said nothing. You let me believe you were gone while you re-entered my life as if it didn’t matter.”

“Because it’s the truth!” He snaps. “Your Jason is gone.”

You freeze, staring at him. “What?”

“He died under the rubble, when the bomb went off.” Jason continues. “His heart stopped. When I was reborn, I was barely myself. My mind was split and re-pieced together and nothing—nothing existed except for the feeling of death in every part of my body.”

”When I finally managed to remember who I was, what happened to me—” He rasps. “I crawled back to Gotham and found Bruce got a shiny, new replacement. And the Joker? Alive.”

“I buried everything in the past where it belonged.” He spits. “I started out as I always had, with nothing. I promised myself that at the very least, if Bruce had failed me—I wouldn't repeat his mistakes. I'd make the sacrifices he never dared to do."

Realisation settles like a slow poison. “So you erased it all, including me.”

You can barely process it, the thought of him nearly letting you believe he was dead for the rest of your life, while he remained in Gotham with a new identity, leaving you clueless.

His jaw clenches, and he looks away. “I was relieved when I heard you had left Gotham. I didn’t need distractions—to see your disappointment when you realised you’d never truly get me back.”

"Then why?" You move again, but he's near you in a flash, hands pushing you back down again before you hurt yourself. It kills you that he clearly still cares. "Why did you find me in that alleyway? Why did you force yourself back into my life if you didn't want to be near me?"

His eyes flicker, and for a moment—you see that fierce, little boy you knew. The one who was afraid you'd go hungry, who refused to rip his grip away from your wrist when he had forced Bruce to take you too. "You were careless." He utters, an echo into the past where he had run into you for the first time as Red Hood. When you had wondered why a stranger, a vigilante you'd never met before sounded so pissed about your skills.

"There was no one to tell you that. Bruce wouldn't be able to save you—not when he couldn't even protect me. You decided to come back, and take on crime like you knew how it worked, and I couldn't-"

You watch, wait as he struggles with his words. "I won't be like Bruce." He answers, a hardened resolve taking over as he looks at you with a vehement expression. "Never. I'd die before I let you fall to the same fate."

There it was. His deepest fear, still selflessly putting himself in danger even though he couldn't see it. Not being able to pull away even when he should, carrying that same beating heart under the new walls he's built. He was still your Jason, but if he wanted to believe it differently, you'd play along.

"So, you're not my Jason." You agree.

There's a flicker of relief, and hurt too that pools in his gaze. As if he wanted you to say it, but wasn't prepare to hear it from you.

"You're a jerk now, who decides what's best for other people." You continue on. "That has horrible fashion taste because a faceless helmet is obviously the best way to intimidate people."

He bristles. "Worked on you just fine."

Your fingers find his across the sheets, and he falls silent.

"So whether you're the Hood, or a new Jason." You pause. "What if I say I want you either way?"

His breathing stops. It's like you found that festering wound inside of him, and tore it straight out of his chest.

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" You challenge. "That I'd be repulsed by you, and say I want nothing to do with you anymore. So you came back into my life—hiding behind a mask, thinking I would never figure it out. That you could have me without ruining my memories about you."

He swallows, averting your gaze—but you were having none of that. Not when you finally have him again.

"Look at me." You demand.

He inhales, lashes fluttering close as he prepares himself before looking at you openly. Broken. That's what you see first, your vision of him completely disheveled, with no armour, no biting remarks to protect him.

Yet, looking at him, you only saw the same boy you loved before he was torn out of your life. The same man you fell in love with all over again. Your Jason, the one you always ran back to no matter what.

"You're never allowed to leave me again." You start, your voice almost breaking. "I won't lose you, whichever version of you, I want it all. I don't care what you think, because you're mine and I'm yours so you can't leave-"

His expression hardens, and before you can think—fear that he'll pull away—he leans in and kisses you. It's rough, unsteady, but your hands wrap around him and pull him closer. You couldn't dare to let him go ever again.

"I'm not leaving." He rasps against your lips. "Not when I felt your blood on my hands, when I nearly lost you."

You shudder, a soft nod at his words as he kisses you again, softer but with a new form of desperation, and a hidden, quiet plea that you truly mean your words.

You pull away, stopping for breath when your wound starts to ache, hands coming up to lift your shirt, assessing the damage. It's heavily bandaged over a large part of your side, which should've hurt worse than it feels right now. "How—my emergency kit wouldn't fix an injury like this." You point out.

His expression darkens, and he sighs, looking at your wound with guilt swarming his pupils. "I contacted Bruce."

Your head snaps up. "You did what?"

He nods, his lips settling into a thin line. "I wasn't losing you. Not to something stupid like my pride. If I had to get down on my knees to the old man, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Jason." Your shock renders you incapable of doing anything else. Your eyes soften, and your hand lets the fabric go, letting your shirt hide the wound. "Thank you."

"You should be yelling at me." He muses, a heartbreaking expression displayed on his face. "I've been a shit partner. Put you in danger's way, and I couldn't even get you out unscathed."

"Hey." You stop him. "I told you that I—I hated myself for not being there, when the Joker killed you. I'd rather be with you in danger's way than anywhere else. I won’t go through that again. Even if it kills me.”

His expression falters, and he sighs, leaning in with his forehead pressed against yours. "Survival skills of a newborn. You're the worst partner I've ever had, bird."

Your lips quirk up. "Yeah, but you wouldn't want anybody else."

"Damn right." He shifts, placing a kiss over your nose. "Don't know what I was thinking, hiding from you like a coward. Not when I could have this instead."

"Between the two of us, I always felt you took the 'idiot' title more." You tease. “I’m still pissed you said you didn’t need me, you jerk. Tell me you regret it. Beg for my forgiveness—I might consider letting you off if you do it nicely.”

He rolls his eyes, a smile caught between his teeth before his gaze shifts again to your lips, swallowing. “You’re right. I’m the jerk, and the bastard that needs you more than air.” He murmurs, eyes flickering back up to you—and his gaze nearly consumes you whole. "I regret being a horrible liar, but I've always been your idiot, haven't I?"

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "Damn right."

At the echo of his words right back at him, his lips seal over yours again, a resolute sigh rumbling through his throat, and you think that finally—your partner has come back to you.

reblogs and comments are always appreciated! let me know your thoughts <333

[hearts-for-merlin]

something like rest

࿔.ᐟ pairing Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

࿔.ᐟ summary When Damian comes home after a difficult patrol, he finds something he does not expect: A bath that is meant to be yours alone and yet, it does not stay that way for long.

࿔.ᐟ tw non-sexual nudity, bruises/injuries, kissing of bruises/injuries, slight angst, loooots of fluff

You cannot remember the last time you allowed yourself to simply sit still.

Warm water laps gently against your skin as you sink deeper into the bathtub with a content sigh. The bathroom glows with soft candlelight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the walls. Scented bubbles gather around you while steam curls lazily through the air, fogging the mirror above the sink. It is peaceful.

You rarely have an evening to yourself, rarer still one that allows you to slow down and enjoy it, but tonight, you made it a point to do exactly that.

A book sits abandoned on a stool beside the tub, forgotten in favor of simply existing in the warmth. For the first time all day, your mind feels quiet. Then, from somewhere downstairs, comes the familiar sound of the front door opening.

Damian is home.

A small smile finds its way onto your face. You expect him to take a while when he gets into the bedroom, likely to change out of his uniform and then go to the spare bathroom, to shower away the grime of patrol before seeking you out. It was a routine the two of you had fallen into long ago.

So when the bathroom door cracks open only a few minutes later, you can't help but lift your brows in surprise.

You move to sit up in the bathtub and watch as Damian lingers in the doorway for a moment.

His domino mask is gone, leaving his dark hair slightly mussed from the night’s activities. Though he has shed some of his gear, enough remains to tell you that he hadn’t bothered stopping anywhere else before coming to find you. As your eyes rake over his figure, you noticed a bruise forming along his jaw and another disappearing beneath the collar of his suit.

“Hello, beloved,” he greets.

“Hi,” you respond, while turning your body to lean your arms against the side of the tub and rest your head on them.

His gaze sweeps over the room. The candles, the bubbles and the steam curling through the air, before setting on you. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then he steps fully into the room. You expect him to say something but instead he turns right around, disappeared from view, and returns moments later dragging one of the dining chairs behind him. The legs scraped softly against the floor.

“Damian?”

Ignoring your obvious confusion, he positions the chair beside the bathtub and sits down. You ask again, looking up at him from where you head rests, “Can I help you?”

“I was under the impression that I was allowed to sit in my own bathroom.” The slight teasing tone is evident in his voice but you can tell it was overlapped by tiredness. You sigh and playfully roll your eyes, “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“And yet I answered.” Always very smart mouthed. He is being difficult this evening but you know that only means he was trying to dodge the questions you haven’t yet asked.

You study him for a moment. Beneath the usual sharpness in his expression is something softer. More tired. His shoulders are tense beneath the remnants of his suit, and while Damian would sooner launch himself off the roof of the Manor than openly complain, you know him well enough to recognize when a patrol had been particularly rough.

“Long night?” You ask, carefully. He lets out a short sigh, more of a huff, “I’ve endured worse.”

He just always has to be so defensive, so like always you just give him the look. The one that said, “Stop being difficult with me, I know you far too well, for this.”

It is clear to you now that Damian had come here immediately, seeking out your presence. He would never barge and in and just unload his feelings but he would simply sit beside you in silence because your presence always makes him feel better.

You allow him the silence, neither of you speaking for a while. He sits with one arm draped over the back of the chair while you remain resting against the edge of the tub, examining his features. The flicker of the candlelight softens the sharp angles of his face and, little by little, some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders. You observe him as he watches the candles.

For someone who insists he preferers solitude, Damian has always been strangely fond of sharing it with you.

Eventually, your gaze drifts back to the bruise along his jaw. In the years that you have known him, you have become accustomed to seeing the occasional scrape or bruise after patrol. It never stopped bothering you, but you’d learned that fussing over the injury only earned you an exasperated look and a lecture on the realities of vigilantism. But tonight is different, he looks too tired.

Not physically tired, because Damian could push through physical exhaustion out of sheer stubbornness alone. No, this is something else. The kind of tiredness that settles behind his eyes. Difficult for anyone but you to notice. An idea comes to mind.

“You know,” you say softly, “most people take a bath when they want to relax.” You are looking downward, swishing the bath water with your hands.

One green eye cracks open, “Most people weren’t trained to function under considerably more demanding conditions.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah well you’re sitting in my perfectly crafted cozy space over here so you’re basically- well almost, in a bath filled with scented bubbles.” He shakes his head, “I’m sitting beside a bath, and it is no way the same.”

If you could roll your eyes any further back into your head you would, but he did make a fair point so you only huff in response, “Mm.”

Damian lets out a small smirk at your annoyance, “There is a difference.”

You decide to ignore his stubbornness and continue pushing, “Right.” You hum unconvinced, “And that’s why you came straight here?” This is when the smirk on his face falters, “I fail to see the connection?”

You continue, “You didn’t shower.”

Silence.

“You didn’t change.”

More silence.

Your eyes drop pointedly to the boots he still wears, “You didn’t even take your boots off.” You are looking right at him now.

He looks away and then back at you again, “Beloved.” The warning in his tone only makes you smile more.

“Damian,” You respond giving him the sweetest smile you can muster, knowing exactly what you are doing. He sighs, “You are being insufferable,” but there is no real malice in his voice. You drag your words to sound extra sweet, “Learned from the best.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up despite himself. For yet another moment, neither of you speak. The candles flicker softly around the room while the water shifts gently, as you adjust your position in the bathtub. Damian leans back in the chair, resting his head against it.

It is such a small action, most people wouldn’t think twice about it, but you do. Damian rarely ever so brazenly shows that he is tired and yet now his eyes drift shut for a few seconds. His shoulders sink and the tension that he had carried into the room seems heavier than before, as though simply sitting reminds his body of how exhausted it actually is.

When his eyes open again you are already watching him, “What?’

“You look tired.” You finally admit to what you have been thinking this entire time.

“I am not.’ The response comes far too quickly. You raise a brow and he looks away from you.

You sigh, fed up of the banter and then your mouth curves into a mischievous smile. Damian immediately notices, “Do not. Whatever it is that you’re thinking. Don’t.”

You can't help but laugh, wanting to respond that you were not thinking anything but you saw the way his brows raise already, in anticipation of your fib.

“Fine,” you relent. “I was thinking that perhaps a certain stubborn vigilante might benefit from relaxing for once.”

He glances over your figure in the bathtub, shrugging his shoulders, “I am relaxing now.”

He nearly sends you over the edge, as you dramatically flop backward into the water, causing a small splash. You frantically gesture to the steaming water around you, “No Dami, this is relaxing! Not sitting in a chair, fully dressed in you uniform.”

You watch his gaze follow your hand that gestures to the water. That is the final push for the words to casually leave your mouth, “Join me.”

At that he scoffs, and you expect an immediate refusal. Instead, the words never come. You watch as he leans forward resting his forearms on his knees, thinking. That alone is enough to tell you that he is considering it. You to fight back the smile that threatens to appear on your face.

“You are not allowed to look so pleased with yourself.” He let out a long sigh and pushes himself to his feet. A grin now spreads across your face. But you wisely choose not to comment. The last thing you need is him changing his mind out of sheer stubbornness. So instead, you just watch as he removes his gear.

His gloves are the first thing to go, tossed unceremoniously onto the counter. The cape follows shortly after, draped over the back of the chair he had occupied.

You try not to stare but fail miserably. His warm tan skin is sculpted so perfectly. You notice a fresh bruised darkened the skin near his shoulder while several smaller cuts and scrapes decorate his arms. It isn't anything serious or unusual for him, yet seeing the evidence of his nights out never gets any easier for you.

Damian senses your attention on him but continues undressing. He knows the exact way that you are looking at him, with worry. Your face adorning the same look whenever his body showcased new injuries.

The movement of the water finally pulls your attention away from the bruises scattered across his skin. You look up just in time to watch Damian step into the bath. A laugh immediately bubbles in your chest which earns you a look, the grin on your face only widening at that.

Despite all of his earlier resistance, he settles with surprising ease. The water shifting around him, gentle waves brushing against your arms as he carefully lowers himself into the space behind you. The bathtub was certainly large enough for two people and yet that did not stop your knees from bumping his.

“Move forward.” He says like it’s obvious.

“There it is.”

“There is what?” He stops his movement.

“That attitude.” You respond and his expression remains entirely unimpressed. Though, you comply anyway, shifting forward to give him more room. Only for him to immediately slide an arm around your waist once you settled again. A smile, yet again tugs at your lips. The hypocrisy is astounding.

Slowly you lean back to get more comfortable. Damian’s chest feels warm against your back despite already being in warm water. His legs barricade around yours. The arm around your waist tightens slightly, not enough to restrain you, just enough to keep you close. And for the first time that evening, you feel him relax. The tension that had clung stubbornly to his shoulders seems to melt beneath the warmth of the water, a quiet breath leaving him. Then another. His chin coming down to brush briefly against the top of your head.

You smile to yourself, closing your eyes as you lay against him, “There he is.”

Damian, whose eyes are also closed in comfort, cracks an eye open at that, “I’ve been here the entire time.”

“You know what I mean.” Your response causes his arm to tighten a fraction more around your waist. He knows exactly what you mean.

The both of you sit in a comfortable silence. But that doesn't last long because you cannot help yourself.

“So, do you want complete silence or can I tell you about what just happened in the book I’m reading,” You began, the words spilling out before you could properly organize them. “But silence is fine, if that’s what you want. If you’d prefer not silence, that can also be arranged-” You ramble on

“Beloved.” You stop mid-sentence. Damian’s hand at your waist shifts slightly, his thumb beginning to trace slow, absent circles against your skin. The motion is steady and grounding, not just for you but for him too. “You may do as you please,” he says quietly. “Your preference is mine.” The words are spoken with absolute certainty.

For a moment you forget what you were even saying, “…right,” you murmur, softer now.

Your thoughts suddenly feel too loud in contrast to the quiet warmth around you. All at once you become too aware of him. Of how close he is. Of the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you. Without really thinking about it, you shift, slowly turning in his arms. Damian’s hold loosens just enough to allow it. You adjust yourself until your cheek goes to rest lightly against his firm chest.

“Mm.” You hum absentmindedly, as if confirming something to yourself.

You listen to the steady beat of his heart. The warmth of the water, the softness of the candlelight, the arm still resting loosely around you. It all blurs together until it feels impossible to separate where you end and he begins.

And then, as your head tilts slightly, you see it. Just beside where your cheek rests sits a bruise, darker up close than it had been before. It stretches faintly along his upper chest, partially hidden by the angle of the light and the fading remnants of tension in his muscles.

Your fingers lift before you can fully decide to move them. Carefully and almost hesitant at first, you trace the edge of the bruise with the lightest touch. Not pressing, only acknowledging it.

Damian’s breath hitches, barely, “It is minor.” Your thumb pauses for only a second, at his dismissal, before you lean in. And then, gently, you press a kiss to the mark. It is soft and barely there, but the effect is immediate. Damian goes still beneath you. He doesn’t tense or pull away. Just stills as though the entire room narrowed down to only that point of contact.

You don’t move back. Instead you linger for a moment longer, your lips resting lightly against his skin as your hand remains where it is, steady against his chest. Then, just as quietly, you press another kiss on a bruise slightly higher.

Damian still does not move. You linger there for a moment, sensing how aware he is of the presence of your hands where moments ago there had only been tension and exhaustion. It makes something warm settle in your chest and slowly your fingers shift again to follow the faint line of another mark. Then, another smaller bruise nearby. Each injury receiving the same response from you. You lips meet the skin of his shoulder to press a kiss there. Then another just below it. You kisses are unhurried and careful, as though you are mapping out proof that he had come home again. That he is there. Safe. Within your reach.

Damian exhales slowly and you feel it more than you hear it, “Beloved.” The words come out softer than before. They’re not a warning at all. “Yes?” You murmur against his skin. There is a pause that is long enough you begin to think he might tell you to stop. Instead, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you in as close as you can get.

“Continue.” The single word sends a quiet warmth through you.

And you do continue. Another kiss, and then another until the action becomes something almost absentminded. As though you are simply breathing.

Damian watches you at first. His green eyes are entranced on your careful movement. Eventually, he relaxes and closes his eyes to fully bask in the tenderness of your care.

When you’ve finally kissed each and every bruise, scrape and cut , you pull away as though you are admiring a piece of art you had just created. Instead of art you admire Damian. You suppose he can could be considered art, the way the candlelight softens his features and his skin glistens from the water.

You look up at his eyes and notice just how close he is to falling asleep. A small spark of mischief returns where softness had settled. Your finger skim lightly through the water behind you and then, without warning, you flick a small splash towards his arm.

He cracks an eye open, “Did you just-”

Another splash. Slightly more water this time and aimed at his pretty face.

His scrunches his face and then brings a hand up to wipe his face. There’s a beat of silence before he gives you that look, “You are testing my patience.”

You giggle, “You were falling asleep on me.”

“I was not.”

“You were!”

His eyes narrow faintly. Then, without hesitation, he returns the splash. Except his is way sharper and precise, all things about him considered. It hits you shoulder causing you to gasp. At that he lets out a laugh. A warm laugh that comes straight from his chest. You smile wholeheartedly and send another splash his way.

Soon water scattered across the bath, rippling against the sides as the calm from earlier dissolved into something lighter and playful. The silence from earlier is also completely gone and instead filled with the rhythm of both your laughter.

Eventually, Damian lets out a long, resigned breath. “I think it’s time we get out.” You huff dramatically but make no attempt to argue, and the two of you begin getting out.

The bathroom is warm and steam clings to the mirrors, blurring the edges of the room as towels are gathered. The both of you move to the bedroom, rummaging for clothes, in quiet routine.

You turn around from where you stand by the drawers, wrapped loosely in a towel, as Damian reaches for something small on the dresser.

Your engagement ring.

He makes his way over to you, towel hung loosely around his hips. He takes your hand in his and slides the ring carefully into place.

“There.”

You smiled.

“There?”

His gaze meets yours, “Back where it belongs.”

You looked down at the ring before lifting you gaze back up to him. The ring wasn’t the only thing that was back where it belonged.

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I do not give permission for my work to be fed to ai or distributed without my consent.

©hearts-for-merlin '26

[saltyjoy]

The Gift of Truth

Jason Todd x Female Civilian Reader

Summary: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him AKA: You give Jason Red Hood merch for a Secret Santa exchange, it goes about as well as you expect.

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader wears makeup and has a purse but I don’t go into much detail, Nosy reader lol, Crack fic treated seriously, Scenes jump around a lot, Fluff, Don’t think about canon when reading this, Probably ooc, Do not take this fic seriously, Convenient plot stuff had to occur for this story to work okay

A/N: Happy holidays guys! I actually can’t believe I finished this before Christmas (at least for me) enjoy this little fic. This will probably be my last fic before New Years :)

DC Masterlist , Fatson Todd Bonus Fic (Part 2)

—

Something was off about the Wayne family, and not in the way you might’ve expected from people as rich as they are.

What’s funny is that you had come to that conclusion in the most unconventional way. You didn’t mean to start investigating the Wayne family, but somehow you did. One might think that with a public imagine as widespread as their own, somebody would eventually slip up.

That was not the case here.

About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?

The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.

Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot. 

—

You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.

“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it. 

Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.

You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.

“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.

“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”

In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.

However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.

There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."

So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss. 

It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.

“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.

“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”

Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?

“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.

There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.

Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”

You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.

Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.

Everything you thought was wrong.

At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization. 

This isn’t him talking about his shifts.

“You haven’t told the others, right?”

This isn’t about work at all.

“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”

This was about his family.

Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.

You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted. 

At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.

Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.

Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.

Bruce Wayne.

With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.

You found articles.

Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.

Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.

Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.

With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…

However, this might be worth investigating. 

At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”

You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.

—

Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations. 

You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.

Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.

You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter! 

The driver absolutely lost it. 

You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.

So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley. 

Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.

Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.

Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.

Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.

“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.

The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you. 

The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.

It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes. 

“What—” He calls out.

You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”

It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.

“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”

You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”

He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.

You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”

He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.

“Do you—”

“How did—”

You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.” 

He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”

Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.” 

You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.

However, it’s Red Hood.

While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.

“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.

“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.

You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses. 

“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.

The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.” 

Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”

“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.

You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?

A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…

You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.

—

Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.

His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same. 

Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.

Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.

“Do you want to meet my family?”

You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”

He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.

Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”

You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.

He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.

You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.

Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.

Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone. 

“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object. 

He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”

You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”

“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.

“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”

You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you. 

“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”

You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”

His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”

“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”

“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”

Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”

“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”

He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”

You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”

“Yeah?” He smirks at you.

“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.

—

“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”

“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”

Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.

You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”

Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.

At your entrance, the room goes silent. 

You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch. 

The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.

Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.

What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.

You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.

This is Batman.

Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.

The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.

Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.

You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.

“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely. 

You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.

You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.

“Does she know?”

Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support. 

“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.

Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”

The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.

Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”

Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.

Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”

Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair. 

Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.

Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”

Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”

Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”

Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”

“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.

“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.

“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.

“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”

Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”

“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take. 

“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight. 

Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.

You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.

As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason? 

“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.

“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.

Jason

Holy shit.

You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect. 

A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?

You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.

“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.

He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.

“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.

His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”

You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.

“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.

Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.” 

You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”

He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”

You smirk, “The perfect idea.”

“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.

“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.

“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”

His eyes soften, “I know.”

—

red hood merch

red hood keychain

red hood figure

You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.

You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this. 

You add it to the cart.

“You’re still up?” 

Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.

He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”

“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.

You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.

“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”

You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again. 

You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”

He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”

You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas. 

You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.

Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.

You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face. 

Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.

You buy it.

“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head. 

Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”

He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.

You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”

—

Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family. 

It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.

“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays. 

You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”

Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”

“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”

There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.

“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”

He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”

“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.

“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.

“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.

“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.

You never drove home so fast.

Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway. 

You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.

Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.

Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.

“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?

“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved. 

Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.

“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”

He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues  “… Is it for me?”

You grin, “Perhaps.” 

He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.

You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.

“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.

You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.

It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.

Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.

You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.

Perhaps he was too scared to tell you? 

It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him. 

You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.

Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.

—

“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.

A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.

So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls. 

You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.

You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.

He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.” 

You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).

He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.

You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.

“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.

You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”

“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.

“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”

He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”

“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face. 

He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”

An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”

“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”

He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?” 

“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.

His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.” 

You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.

Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.

As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.

“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”

“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.

“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”

There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.

Thankfully you aren’t first again. 

Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.

You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.

You had to be strong.

When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.

Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you. 

Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp. 

It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point. 

“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.

Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.” 

“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.

Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.

You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise. 

You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.

He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.

Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction. 

“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.

Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.

“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. 

“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!” 

“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.

“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly. 

Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him. 

He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”

“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch. 

Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”

You grin at him, not offering an answer. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.

He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.

Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.

The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.

Yeah, you know.

Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.

Everybody.

Loses.

Their.

Mind.

Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.

Then you turn to Bruce.

The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.

Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.

A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.

You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.

“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.

You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”

Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”

You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”

He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—” 

“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”

His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.

You know he is Red Hood. 

“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks. 

You nod, “I know.” You repeat.

He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”

“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.

His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”

You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.

He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”

You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”

Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”

Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”

You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”

You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”

He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”

You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand. 

He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”

You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”

He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”

You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.” 

“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.

“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.

“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.

The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did. 

“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.

You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.

“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.

“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.

You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.

He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”

Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.” 

He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.” 

-> Fatson Todd Bonus Fic

ㅤ

A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao. Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type. Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve/happy holidays to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!

Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!

Jason Todd Taglist: @reenmei @jenocity23 @nittyg @solflor33 @gab15 @vontsberg @justamarsbar @hannatnt @amoregirassol DC Taglist: @fruitmanstyles @libbi5001 @sskwul @rin-l @newangelle @sweetpeadc @meep-merp124 @noba-noba @cassiecasluciluce @duskeras @Serenelyserenex @Vetej05 @Starmylife4ever @snoopyluvrrr @melancholiccow @libbi5001 @iwachansupremacy @sydbeeri General Taglist: @thefallingvines @Irene32 @average-mitski-fan @r-4-y-v-3-n @code-ghost-cc Want to be added to one of my taglists? Fill out the form here or leave a comment asking to be added under my DC Masterlist post :)!

[iydiamartinx]

LETHAL DEVOTION

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 1.6k synopsis: To Damian Wayne, this is just marriage. To his brothers this is a one way ticket to Arkham. a/n: Damian's version to 'Til Death Do Us Apart is here! I think he's so far my favourite out of the series. I was watching The Addam's Family while writing this and he's so Gomez coded!

Damian Wayne had been stabbed twice, poisoned six times, almost lost a finger, and very nearly attacked by a Caspian cobra that had mysteriously appeared in his closet—though, in the end, he simply adopted the serpent and named it Caspian.

He wasn’t upset about any of it.

In fact, he was starting to consider it foreplay.

Most people wouldn’t interpret a tripwire on the staircase or a gas-emitting bookshelf as romantic gestures. But Damian was not most people.

You were, after all, an assassin—one of the most lethal in the world, a Black Widow. And also, his wife. Which meant that affection came with a few… complications.

Like needing to sniff his tea before every sip.

That morning, he sat in the garden beneath the soft canopy of climbing vines, a leather-bound Persian manuscript resting in one hand, a delicate china teacup in the other. You floated into view like a vision, carrying a fresh tray of biscuits, teapot and a suspiciously serene smile that usually meant something was about to happen.

You refilled his cup with practiced grace, the scent of jasmine rising between you. He brought it to his lips, took one measured sip, then paused. His nostrils flared slightly. He sniffed again.

“Belladonna?” he asked, not looking up from the page.

You set the tray down, gently brushing crumbs off your fingers. “Only a trace.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Too floral. It throws off the jasmine.” Another sip. “Next time, try aconite. It blends better.”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Noted.”

Your attempts came and went like the seasons—some subtle, some so absurdly theatrical it was almost comical. Once, you’d rigged the library’s fireplace to release a sleeping gas if the wrong book was pulled from the shelf. You knew Damian would figure it out. And he did—of course he did—though he was a little smug about it.

He crouched by the hearth with a small, curved blade in hand, dismantling the delicate mechanism with an ease that irritated and impressed you in equal measure.

“I almost admire the mechanism,” he said dryly, flicking a piece loose and catching it mid-air. “You’re improving. The trigger delay was clever.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “You’ll have to try harder next time.”

And you had.

The following week, you’d set a spring-loaded dart trap just outside the hallway near the greenhouse—timed perfectly to his morning routine, right as he turned the corner, casually eating an apple.

The dart whistled through the air.

Damian shifted to the left without so much as blinking. The dart missed him entirely—only to pierce straight through the apple and embed it into the wall with a soft thunk.

He stared at it for a moment. Then calmly walked over, plucked the dart free, and retrieved the apple.

“You’re getting lazy,” he remarked, holding the dart up to the light, examining its make. “This one’s off-balance. It veered left.”

“Maybe I just wanted to nick you,” you said breezily as you strolled past, lips twitching into a grin. “You did mention needing to work on your reflexes.”

He chuckled under his breath, biting into what remained of his apple.

“How considerate, beloved,” he muttered.

But then came that Sunday afternoon.

Damian’s brothers had come over—against his better judgment—for what they claimed would be a “simple brotherly brunch.” 

Within minutes, he regretted opening the door.

His home was louder than usual, filled with overlapping voices, the clatter of silverware, and the relentless stream of bickering that passed for affection in the Wayne family. The pancakes were drowned in ungodly amounts of syrup. Someone had opened a bottle of orange juice with their teeth. 

And worst of all? Someone—he still didn’t know who—had touched his katana display. There were smudges. Smudges. Left on the usually pristine, sparkling glass. He said nothing. But he made a mental note to run a full scan later and find out exactly which one of those imbeciles had committed the crime.

He had just excused himself to fetch something from the west wing and only made it half way across the dining room when it happened.

A soft click.

He froze mid-step. Looked down.

A pressure plate.

From his seat, Jason glanced up, a fork halfway to his mouth. “What was that?”

The ceiling above them shifted with an ominous creak.

And then—whoosh.

A pendulum blade, polished to a mirror shine, dropped from the rafters and arced through the air like something straight out of the Addam’s family. It missed Damian by less than an inch as he pivoted smoothly to the side, ducking in one seamless motion. The blade swung past with a rush of air, that ruffled his hair.

The others froze mid-bite, forks suspended in the air, expressions shifting from confusion to outright horror.

Before anyone could react, another panel hissed open—this time along the wall. A rapid click—shhhk echoed through the room as sleek, retractable knives launched from hidden compartments, hurling straight toward Damian.

He moved like water—graceful and effortless—spinning out of the way, one hand casually snatching a blade mid-air. While another knife sliced cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve, but didn’t touch skin.

He exhaled, long and put-upon. 

“Again with the ceiling blades,” he muttered.

The others, however, were not so composed.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Jason barked, nearly flipping his plate as he bolted upright.

Dick stood, wide-eyed, gaze darting to the now-settling blades embedded in the wall. “Are you okay?! What the hell just happened?!”

Tim was already pulling out a compact scanner from his pocket, frantically scanning the room. “Is the house booby-trapped?! Did someone breach the security grid?! Is there an intruder?”

Damian remained exactly where he was, unbothered, as he studied the captured blade that was held delicately between his fingers.

“No intruder,” he said annoyed at the clear overreactions. “This was my wife’s work.”

All three stared at him in horror.

Tim blinked. “Your wife just tried to impale you,” he said slowly, carefully, as if explaining a basic law of physics to someone who should’ve known better.

Damian hummed to himself, turning the blade between his fingers, letting the light catch the polished steel. “She’s improving,” he remarked. “These ones actually had decent balance.”

Jason just stared. “Why the fuck are you so calm?” he snapped. “SHE JUST TRIED TO KILL YOU.”

Damian let out a slow sigh, clearly irritated by the dramatics. “She didn’t try to kill me,” he said, as if the distinction was obvious. “If she wanted me dead, I would be.”

“Damian,” Dick said, cautiously, as if speaking to a feral animal.

“She’s just being affectionate.”

Tim blinked. “That’s not affection, that’s—”

“It’s her love language,” Damian interrupted, stepping around the still-swinging blade without a flinch. “She’s very dedicated to making sure I'm aware of her love.”

Dick looked like he was about to pass out. “You’re telling me this happens regularly?”

Damian shrugged. “You’re just upset no one’s ever loved you that much.”

Moments later, you strolled in, utterly unbothered. Silk robe tied neatly at the waist, not a single hair out of place. In one hand, a steaming cup of coffee. On your lips, a soft, pleasant smile that nearly made it hard to believe you were the architect of the carnage around the room.

“Good morning,” you greeted cheerfully, leaning in to press a kiss to Damian’s cheek before casually glancing at the embedded blades. “Did the new blade wall trigger too soon?”

Damian nodded as he tucked you to his side. “Off by two seconds. Adjust the fuse delay.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “Noted.” 

Your gaze shifted to the blade still turning slowly from the ceiling. You tilted your head. “Is that one still rotating? I meant to fix the alignment—it’s drifting too far left.”

“I told you to aim for a clean ninety-degree arc,” Damian added, glancing down at you. “You’re losing power on the backswing.”

You made a soft, thoughtful noise. “I was worried about overcompensating.”

“Next time,” he said, without missing a beat, “use a counterweight.”

Jason looked at Dick. Dick looked at Tim. Tim looked like he was ready to drag you both to Arkham and check you two in under a shared room. The three of them turned back in unison, staring at the two of you standing there—utterly calm and composed, as if you were discussing home décor and not lethal traps embedded into the manor’s infrastructure.

Jason blinked. “You’re two are joking, right?”

“Of course not,” Damian replied coolly, taking the coffee cup from your hand with ease and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We’re a team. I only wish the best for my beloved.”

“I don’t think the feeling is mutual,” Tim muttered under his breath.

Damian rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of the coffee. He paused, considered the taste, then added matter-of-factly, “This is poisoned, isn’t it?”

You tilted your head, smiling sweetly. “Just a touch of cyanide.”

He took another sip, unfazed. “The coffee was already bitter. This just makes it more obvious. Try strychnine next time—it’s cleaner.”

You giggled and kissed his cheek again. “You’re so picky, darling.”

Dick stared at the two of you, eyes wide, colour slowly draining from his face. “I—I think he’s going to die.”

“No,” Damian said simply, sliding an arm around your waist as the two of you turned and began walking away—utterly unfazed by the blades, the scorched wall, or the stunned expressions behind you. “We made vows, Grayson. I promised to love her, cherish her—and survive her.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is just the life of marriage.”

And for Damian Wayne, it was everything he could have ever asked for.

Jason Version | Bruce Version | Tim Version | Dick Version