jason todd, who is bigger than you. it doesn't matter what size you are or how tall you are, he still towers over you and can wrap his arm around your middle and pull you back into him. you can wear heels and platforms and still be shorter than him. it doesn't matter how much you weigh, he can and will toss you around. he canonically has flipped bane over with his legs, broke a talon's arm, neck and leg, and even punched through a submarine hull. every time you bring up your concerns when he lifts you up, he'll dismiss them, saying 'i bench double your weight. i can handle you.'
jason todd, who is the clingiest motherfucker after he gets really comfortable with you. he can only sleep if he has his arms wrapped around you. think of it like a really, really comfortable chokehold. every part of him needs to be touching you. it doesn't matter whether you're lying on top of him or if he's lying on top of you. he hates the feeling of being trapped, but with you, it helps him feel grounded.
jason todd, who has rough hands but always touches you gently. his hands are rough from all the work he does - grappling all over gotham, punching criminals, working on his bike. you could never tell that the same hand that has so many callouses are the same ones who guide you through the crowd, or brushing your hair away from your face, or simply tracing your figure as you lay facing each other because he likes how soft your skin feels compared to his.
jason todd, who is loud with others, but quiet with you. he doesn't feel the need to fill the silence. with others, it feels oppressive, but with you, it's serene. he is content to do his daily chores with you silently, both doing your own things but occupying the same space. he especially likes it when you talk. he loves your tone, cadence, pitch, voice, everything. he'll listen to you talk intently, his hand fixing something as he occasionally nods and lets out a soft 'mmh' so you know he's paying attention.
𖥔 ✴️ . ノ His brothers like to crash at your place . . .
with JASON TODD ◜ content ⸝⸝ short n' sweet . i didn't mention the girls :( ! ୧ head empty just batfamily ♡
It's quiet when you both turn in to sleep ― warm, comfortable ... shielded from the filth of Gotham. His heavy duty and your deep-rooted fears, far from your guys mind. Your face is turned towards his, head nestled comfortably under his chin, and ... Jason breathes softly, in n' out ... It's calm ... quiet ... Maybe even a little too quiet ? You hear the faint noise of the city below your apartment complex and all the way down the streets. Traffic, sirens ― it's all a familiar sound that would usually lull you right to sleep. Even the light rumbling of your partners' chest ― not quite snoring, but something close ― normally has you knocked out in under five minutes. But ...
The doorbell. It's a sharp tone in the otherwise silent apartment, that has your eyes wide open again, and Jason on his last nerve. You hear him sigh. Annoyed, yes, but also in a way that tells you ― he has an idea of who that might be. It's still dark, and you can barely see just what he's really doing, but you feel how he peels his side of the blanket away, muttering something like 'jus' sleep, i'll check' which is barely audible by how sleep drunken he sounds. Then, he's already out of the bedroom, lazily walking towards the door, already dreading which bat will greet him at such an hour ...
When he finally opens it, it's ... Richard Grayson, grinning. The sight has another heavy sigh escape him. "Yeah?" Jason liked to pretend that it was unusual for his brothers to show up ― which it wasn't. He also liked to pretend that he never lets them stay ― but he does. And it ― embarrassingly so ― never even takes that long to convince him. When asked, though, Jason claims it's because he rather gets right back to sleep than argue with any of his brothers.
Everyone believes him. Not.
So, Jason just steps aside and lets a much too triumphal looking Dick crash on the couch.
You hear them talk, hushed, comfortable, and soon enough, Jason is back in your bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him as he crawls back to you and underneath the sheets. "S' he okay?" You ask softly, shifting back into your previous position, flush against his chest as you breathe out, content. You're used to Richard coming over and crashing, so you're more concerned on why. Wouldn't be the first time he came over bloodied and beaten, much more eager to let you patch him up than have the batman give him a lecture. "He's fine. Will be gone in the morning."
'He doesn't want to deal with Bruce today' is what he wants to say, but he doesn't want his father to be the last thing he thinks about before going back to sleep. So he just presses a kiss against your forehead and tells you to go back to sleep.
You do, for maybe a minute, then there's a loud crash somewhere, and you're obviously wide awake again. This time, Jason doesn't even pretend to 'go check' because it's one of two people ― and he has this vague idea that it must be Tim, by how stupid his landing was. Probably came through the wrong window and fell right into that new Vase you bought.
Great.
You quietly follow behind when he leaves the bedroom again. You carry a blanket and a smaller pillow that you know is more comfortable than whatever pillows you keep in the living room, handing both to a drowsy Dick when he opens one eye ― not even bothering to check what caused such a loud noise in your guys' apartment. He just thanks you, turns around and goes right back to snoring. It's sweet, you think, how he feels more at ease here, than the large Mansion of his father...
"Go home, Tim," You hear your boyfriend mutter and follow his voice to the kitchen. His brows are furrowed as he watches the boy ― still glad in his suit ― try and puzzle the vase back together. "It's fine, we'll clean it tomorrow..." you find yourself saying, offering the kid a reassuring smile when he sheepishly lets it all fall back together. You know why he's here ― Jason knows too... and it goes without saying that he, too, is always allowed to stay. Even when Jay plays the annoyed older brother, grumbling and huffing when you show Tim the foldable sofa in your bedroom ( the one you guys bought specifically for nights like this ... )
He gets the last spare blanket, and a pillow, and he's good to go, bright smile and rosy cheeks when he thanks you so genuinely, you almost tear up a little. Your boyfriend grunts something about it being 'the last damn time' and Tim just nods. It won't be the last time. Jason acts like his brothers are intruding ― you know better.
Then everything slowly settles. It gets quiet again, there is the occasional shifting of blankets and pillows ― but, everyone seems asleep. Jason is cuddled against you, you can hear the faint snoring of Dick, and even Tim smacks his lips in deep content.
Yet, you can't help but feel like something is still not right. And like the universe agrees with you because ― of course, someone is still missing ― you hear the noise of your window being shoved open, with careful, skillful little hands... and soon enough, a smaller body wedges itself right between you and Jason as if it belongs. You don't say anything, and neither does he ― Damian Wayne fits right in the middle, barely three apples, yet he gets comfortable as if he owns the place. And you know Jason is rolling his eyes, deeply annoyed and beyond done with having so many siblings seeking him out when he just wants to spend time at his apartment with his partner. But even he is quiet and settles easy, his arm lazily thrown over his youngest brother and you, shifting the blanket so that all three of you are warm.
It's the sounds of a full apartment that finally lets you find comfortable sleep ― the warmth of two bodies right next to you ( of which the smaller keeps his hand laced with yours, as if you would ever even dare leave during the night ).
When morning comes, your sofa is empty, the vase glued back together and one demon child can't even look at you because he knows you're aware he's been clinging. He's embarrassed, you ruffle his hair, and together with Jason you bring him back to the Manor. You know it won't be the last time... and you honestly don't mind.
someone take " ... " away from me / i wrote this for myself honestly ―
ᯓ➤ "Just us two..." "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "…Three?"
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason loves your alone time. Jason also loves Damian. Jason does not want to share your alone time. Damian loves you both. Damian will make him share your alone time.
aka ›››› "You can’t force me to participate in no-nut November." word cnt. 3.4k
You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.
Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.
Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.
Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.
Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.
All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.
You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.
It didn’t.
Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.
Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.
Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.
“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”
Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.
There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.
You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.
And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.
Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.
Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.
He did not like your choice in company.
And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.
“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.
You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.
“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.
That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.
You spoke like he did.
And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.
“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.
He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.
His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.
Perfect, as always. Yours as always.
“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.
Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”
“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.
Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.
Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.
“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.
“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.
Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.
You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”
“Vegetable,” Damian added.
You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”
Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.
When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.
By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.
The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.
“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”
Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.
“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.
Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.
Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”
His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.
You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”
You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.
But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.
“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”
There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.
He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.
Especially not around Damian.
It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.
Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.
Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.
He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.
So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.
He misses you.
Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.
He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.
Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.
Apparently, you could.
Apparently, you could rival a monk.
And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.
Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.
“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.
Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”
You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”
“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.
You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”
“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”
You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”
Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.
You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.
Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”
“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”
“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”
You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”
Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”
“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”
“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”
You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”
He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”
“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”
“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”
You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.
Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”
“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”
Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”
“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”
You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.
Jason already knows.
And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:
“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”
You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.
The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.
“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”
Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.
“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.
“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”
You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.
Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.
“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.
“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”
Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.
You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”
He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.
“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”
You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”
“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”
You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.
“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”
You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”
“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.
“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.
“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.
You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”
Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”
“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.
He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.
Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.
please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
jason todd loves bulking season. so much so its basically just a year round thing for him. partly due to his nighttime job. partly because he loves the way you look at him when he bulks up.
his muscles get thicker as his figure fills out more, scarred skin slightly taught and his v-line blends into his stomach. his hands are large, splaying over the small of your back when he grabs a cup from the cabinet.
the fabric of his shirt stretches at his shoulders and biceps, lifting at the stomach to reveal the thick hairs of his happy trail.
he’s naturally warmer too.
jason sleeps in his boxers and drapes himself over you. his warmth seeps into your skin as he murmurs sleepy nonsense in your ear.
it’s distractingly attractive. he scratches his soft abs in the morning when your brushing your teeth, the subtlest smirk sitting on his lips when you eye his body in the mirror.
he comes home late one night to you still up. your working on your laptop, listening to the sound of him climbing into the apartment before locking it.
his heavy boots thud through the apartment and the bedroom door is pushed open. you glance up for the briefest moment. and he’s standing there, kevlar armor stretched over his muscles, helmet in a gloveless hand with his glove pinched between his teeth. there’s a few scrapes and bruises on his face. his black hair sticks to his forehead, the white streak almost completely hidden.
and he grins.
like he didn’t just come back from patrol in one of the most distracting ways he could. jason tosses his glove in his duffel back along with his helmet, stripping out of his armor until he’s in his boxers and crawling across the bed.
he smells like sandalwood, leather and iron, sweat clings to his skin as he moves your laptop out of the way, kissing you senseless with the night’s adrenaline still fresh on his skin.
@anotherumbranwitch for the biggest jason todd fan I know
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
⤷ summary ⋮ You and Jason are...on a 'break'. Damian makes Bruce break into your apartment with him in retaliation.
aka ›››› "Do all billionaires use the window?" "Only our family.." word cnt. 7.3k
“Come on, babe… seriously?”
Jason’s voice hits the quiet room with far more weight than he intends, dragging across the stillness like rough gravel, thick with disbelief and a frustration so reluctant it almost embarrasses itself as soon as it leaves his mouth. His brows pull together in a tight, uneasy line—an expression he would never aim at you on purpose—especially not when you’re standing there blinking too fast, your lashes wet and trembling, your throat bobbing like you’re trying to swallow something sharp that refuses to go down.
“You have like a million of them.”
He gestures vaguely toward the counter, where the remains of the china teacup—your moderate-quality, robin patterned, impulse-buy teacup—lie scattered like a small, stupid tragedy. They weren’t heirlooms or antiques, not rare pieces from some dusty backroom chase. These were cups you grabbed without thinking, without sentiment, without ceremony. Eight of them total. A casual, mismatched set.
Well… seven now.
“I’ll buy you one, I swear—”
His hand lifts halfway, caught in a helpless, uncertain arc before the words collapse in his throat and die there, because the moment he sees the tears actually slip free—heavy tears, slow tears, so silent they seem almost reverent in the way they fall—Jason goes completely still.
He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head.
Like he’s witnessing something impossible.
Teacups.
You’re crying over teacups.
Teacups you still have seven of.
“Are you—” Jason stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in a stunned, graceless pause, and the expression that flickers across his face—hesitant, baffled pity—makes your stomach twist with pure humiliation. “Are you actually upset at me right now?”
You shake your head—barely, weakly—because even you don’t understand it. The tears aren’t sharp with anger or hot with blame; they’re just happening, spilling for reasons you couldn’t name even if you tried. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, keeping your mouth clamped shut because you know the moment you speak, the words will fall out trembling and pathetic.
“Hey—” Jason tries again, exasperation threading through the tired edges of his voice, “when you broke that part of my motorcycle I didn’t say shit. When the hell did material things start mattering to either of us?”
“Why wouldn’t my things matter to me?”
Your voice shatters right down the middle, thin and fragile like porcelain under too much pressure, and before he can see the way your face twists with the effort of holding yourself together, you crouch down.
You gather the broken pieces carefully, almost ritualistically, your hands moving with a reverence that feels too gentle for something so ordinary—as though, if you’re soft enough, steady enough, patient enough, maybe the cup will knit itself back together and the part of you that cracked with it will follow.
“They shouldn’t.”
The words escape him with a force that seems to rip straight out of his ribs, unbidden and unrefined, slicing through the stillness of the room before he even fully registers he’s said them. They hit the air too hard, too sharp, reverberating like something brittle thrown against concrete, and he looks instantly, horribly aware of the damage they might cause.
Jason draws in a breath that stumbles unevenly through him, his chest rising with the kind of sincerity he has spent years learning how to smother beneath sarcasm and a bulletproof smirk. There’s something desperate in the way he inhales, something taut and aching, as if the confusion flooding his voice is so deep, so marrow-level, that it drags grief behind it like a shadow disguised as irritation.
Because in his world—one stitched together by scarcity and tight budgets and objects that were borrowed, stolen, or broken before they ever reached him—things were never allowed to matter. Not cups, not toys, not clothes, not anything you could hold in your hand.
In his world, things broke all the time.
In his world, people broke too.
And no one ever cried over either.
He grew up wanting things he wasn’t allowed to touch, told to keep his hands in his pockets and his eyes down, to pretend he didn’t see what he desperately wanted, trained to choke on desire before it had a chance to hurt him.
And the truth—the painful, embarrassing, childlike truth he would never speak aloud—is that he would’ve traded the last unbruised shard of his soul for a cheap plastic cup with a peeling racecar sticker on it, something flimsy and mass-produced, something that would never impress anyone, simply because it would have been his. Just one object that belonged to him alone. One thing no one could rip from his hands, or throw away in a rage, or pawn, or break, or use as proof that he didn’t deserve anything nice in the first place.
And he has no idea how to bridge the distance between your heartbreak and his history.
And now he’s standing here, watching you cry—cry—over a teacup he’s never once seen you cradle to your chest like something precious, never watched you display on a shelf with the kind of pride reserved for heirlooms, never heard you speak about with anything more than offhand fondness when you stumbled across a new one to add to the pile.
It hits Jason strangely, almost disorientingly, the way a dream curdles into something slightly off-kilter, because the sight of your tears over something so… replaceable presses on a part of him he doesn’t know how to unpack, a part of him that twists slowly, tightly, like a knot forming in the center of his stomach.
He’s so careful with your belongings it borders on near-religious devotion, a quiet reverence he never names out loud because naming it would make the feelings behind it too visible, too exposed. Jason never touches your jewelry trays because the clasps look delicate in a way that feels above his pay grade, like the kind of fragile luxury that should only ever be handled by someone who doesn’t have a lifetime of breaking things embedded in the muscle memory of their hands.
He avoids your vanity entirely, sidestepping it like a shrine he has no right to approach, because the shimmering bottles and soft-bristled brushes arranged in pristine rows look like artifacts—beautiful, intentional, expensive—objects that radiate the same untouchable gravity as all the things he wasn’t allowed to want when he was young.
He places his phone on your nightstand with the gentleness of someone setting down an explosive device, using both hands, terrified his weight might scratch the surface or send a lamp wobbling toward disaster.
He even—Gods, even the thought is embarrassing—hand-washes all your clothes when your not home to do the laundry with him.
Even your socks.
Because the idea of shrinking something soft and beloved of yours makes his throat go tight, because the fear of ruining a thing you love is so sharp it borders on physical pain, because he cannot stomach the possibility of leaving the wrong kind of mark on anything that belongs to you.
And yet here you are, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering in fragile hiccups, tears slipping down your cheeks in slow, devastating arcs over a teacup that has seven identical sisters waiting patiently in the cabinet.
The sight doesn’t irritate him.
It doesn’t make him scoff or roll his eyes or dismiss your grief as melodrama the way someone less careful with you might have done.
No—what it does is far worse.
It cracks something open in him, something raw and jagged and humiliating, because nothing—not the memories of his childhood or the poverty, not the violence, not the hunger—has ever dragged him back toward the aching emptiness of where he comes from quite as mercilessly as watching you mourn something he doesn’t have the blueprint to value.
And the awful part—the part that presses under his ribs like a shard of glass—is that he wants to understand.
Jason wants to know why your fingers tremble as you gather the broken porcelain, why your breath keeps catching in your throat like you’re afraid it will escape you entirely, why your tears fall faster every time his voice slips into that helpless, weary frustration he didn’t mean to let bleed through.
He wants to tell himself that maybe this cup carried some hidden meaning, some quiet memory or sentimental thread he never saw, something soft and secret that shattered along with the porcelain and left you hurting in a way he wishes he knew how to soothe.
But he knows that isn't it.
So Jason doesn’t understand.
So he stands there—lost, aching, hollowed by helplessness—staring at the broken pieces scattered between you, each shard glinting with a kind of accusation he doesn’t know how to answer. And for the briefest, sharpest moment, he feels like the fracture on the floor isn’t the worst thing he’s broken here.
And you—
God, you feel so unbearably stupid you could fold in on yourself from the embarrassment of it.
They were just tea cups.
Just cheap little china cups you never bothered to wash the “proper” way like the tiny slip of paper told you to, cups you left in the sink overnight sometimes, cups you barely thought about until one was sitting cracked and broken on your kitchen floor like the aftermath of something far more devastating.
You didn’t even care enough to treat them gently.
You chipped one last week and shrugged it off.
But now—now staring at it shattered beyond repair, splintered into fragments that look like the aftermath of a moment you weren’t equipped to handle—you feel something twist sharply inside you, something raw and humiliating and impossible to explain.
“Jason.” You breathe his name out in one long sigh, trying to smooth the wobble from your voice before it cracks into something pathetic, something you know he’ll mistake for anger. “Please… not right now. I had a long day and—”
“I just came back from an eight-hour patrol, and you’re the one crying, so how is this my—”
“I’m not blaming you!” you snap—not out of rage, but desperation—and the moment the words escape, you hate how thin and trembling they sound.
“Sure as hell sounds like it!” Jason fires back, a sharp huff of frustration leaving him as he begins pacing around the kitchen like the movement might somehow make sense of any of this.
You stare back down at the broken pieces of china, your teeth biting into your lip so hard it almost hurts, and the quiet, exhausted words slip out before you can stop them. “Well how is it my fault you’re taking it that way?”
“Can you stop talking to me like that?”
“How else am I supposed to talk to you?” you whisper, blinking fast, eyes wide and stinging. “What do you want me to do, lie and say ‘It doesn’t matter, Jason, this is exactly what I needed to come home to at ten o’clock at—’”
“If you’re stressed about something else,” he cuts in, exasperation threading through every syllable, “then why are you getting so defensive about the stupid tea cup?”
You stare at him, jaw dropping, because the word feels like a slap. “Stupid?”
“It’s a tea cup.” He groans the words, dragging a hand over his face like this entire moment is exhausting him.
“My tea cup,” you sputter, voice breaking as you gather the pieces into your hands and set them on a plate.
“What—so something you have seven other of matters more than me?” Jason finally asks, and the words aren’t mocking or cruel. They’re lost. Utterly, helplessly lost. Because you crying over something he did feels worse to him than any yelling you could throw his way. Yelling he understands. Yelling has a shape, a form he can wrestle. But crying? Tears he caused? That carves panic into his bones because tears don’t tell him what to do, tears don’t show him where to step, tears don’t give him a blueprint for repairing what broke.
He offered to buy you a new one—twice.
He tried explaining it was small, replaceable, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
But you didn’t let it go.
You couldn’t let it go.
And he doesn’t even care if his own frustration sounds ridiculous, because in his mind he’s changed so much for you already.
You coaxed him open, gently, carefully, teaching Jason piece by piece what it meant to trust someone without waiting for the ground to fall out from under him—but Jason's the one who actually did the opening.
Jason's the one who learned to speak softer when you’re overwhelmed, who forced himself to sleep through the night instead of wandering the apartment like a ghost, who makes himself step back when he feels his temper flare instead of letting it swallow him whole.
He takes care of himself now—because you asked him to.
He tolerates people he would’ve shoved aside or ignored—because you asked him to.
He has given and bent and adjusted more than he ever thought he could for another person.
And Jason's never asked you for anything in return, so the helpless, aching plea slips through his voice before he can soften it, before he can make it gentle.
“Can’t you just let this go?” Jason murmurs, exhausted, grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair like he’s already bracing himself for the distance he thinks is coming.
And you don’t care—not even a little—if your reaction looks ridiculous or dramatic or childish, because the truth is that you have adjusted so much for him, bent yourself in ways you never thought you would have to, stretched your patience and your compassion and your understanding until it felt like you were pulling threads from your own ribs just to weave Jason something safe to land in.
You’ve explained every emotion you’ve ever felt to this man, laid them out in neat, vulnerable rows so he could see them clearly, so he wouldn’t have to guess, so nothing inside you could ever blindside him the way life blindsided him growing up.
You’ve explained his emotions to him too, talking him down from the cliffs of his own mind, guiding him back toward safety again and again, never once complaining, never once hesitating, because if he was drowning, then you were already in the water with him, pulling him back toward shore.
Was there ever one night—just one—where you weren’t there after patrol, waiting with the med kit, with the soft voice, with the careful hands?
Has Jason ever once gone to sleep without you bandaging him up first, cleaning blood off knuckles that never deserved to split open, humming under your breath so he wouldn’t mistake tenderness for pity?
Have you ever blamed him for anything—any outburst, any moment of panic, any jagged edge that cut too sharp because he hadn’t learned how to sand it down yet?
Have you ever pushed him to talk before he was ready, forced anything out of him, told him that what he felt was stupid or irrational or inconvenient?
No.
Never.
You’ve given him endless grace, endless patience, endless space to unravel and re-stitch himself at his own pace.
So for this one thing—for this one small, embarrassing, fragile break down—
“Please don’t be upset with me,” you whisper, voice trembling in a way you can’t hide, because you genuinely don’t think your heart can take it right now, because even if the reason for your tears is stupid, the feeling behind them isn’t, and lying about that would hurt more than the broken porcelain ever could.
And Jason—
God.
“…so that’s a no.”
And he breathes it out like you’ve betrayed him, like you’ve taken something from him without realizing it, like your refusal to snap out of your emotion is confirmation of some deep, ugly fear Jason’s never learned how to name.
You look down again, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve, your breath shivering in your chest as you try to swallow down the ache pressing against your ribs.
“I’m…” Jason starts, voice fraying at the edges after a long, taut moment. “I’m—I’m going to go, okay?”
You stare at the floor—at the tiny fragments of the cup, pieces so small they’re hardly more than dust, pieces you couldn’t see clearly through your earlier tears—and you manage a small, hoarse “…Okay.”
Jason stands there for a second and then hes nodding stiffly even though your eyes are still glued to the floor, your shoulders tight, your hands curled helplessly against your sides.
Then he walks away, the sound of him crossing the room somehow louder than it should be, like every step is dragging something behind it.
You don’t move.
You don’t even breathe properly.
You just stand there pressed against the fridge, listening to him tie his boots, the laces whispering against each other, the radiator humming in the background like it’s trying to fill the emptiness settling between you.
Then you hear his footsteps again—approaching this time—and before you can straighten or look up or prepare yourself, he’s standing beside you.
“I love you,” Jason murmurs, low and quiet and painfully awkward, like the words are too big in his mouth. “That hasn’t changed—uh… goodnight.”
Maybe it would have hurt less if he hadn’t said anything at all, because the forced wobble in his voice lands in your chest like a bruise, and you hate that you can hear the part he’s trying to hide.
“…tie your boots,” you mumble softly, eyes still fixed on the floor, “don’t trip, Jason.”
There’s a long, aching pause.
“Yeah, babe,” Jason whispers. He stands there for another second—just breathing, just gathering himself in the silence—and then he turns and leaves.
¹ ʷᵉᵉᵏ, ¹ ᵈᵃʸ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ
Jason might genuinely be dumber than Damian ever suspected, because everyone at this damn table is staring at him—openly, mercilessly—and he’s still shoveling steak into his mouth like he’s in some kind of life-or-death speed-eating contest, jaw working with single-minded determination as if chewing is optional and survival isn’t.
Father, of course, looks absolutely delighted.
Ecstatic, even.
Jason staying at the manor for more than forty-eight hours—actually sleeping in his old room, leaving his boots by the door, existing in a way that suggests permanence—has turned Bruce into some strange, quiet version of jubilant, sipping his miso soup with the serene bliss of a man receiving endless father's day cards. Damian would not be surprised in the slightest if Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding sentinel, were kicking his feet under the table like a child too excited to sit still.
Jason finally glances up mid-chew, cheeks full, eyes flat.
“What.”
Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Chew.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Dick scoffs, though he’s grinning in that way that means he’s both disgusted and entertained, “what are you, a dog?”
“Do not compare dogs to him,” Damian snaps before Jason can even gather enough dignity to glare. “Titus eats his food like a gentleman.”
“I’m losing my appetite watching this,” Tim mutters, pushing his plate away and turning toward Bruce. “Since I’m obviously done, can I go work on—”
“No,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, still wearing that faint, impossible-to-scrape-off smile, “eat your asparagus.”
Tim groans, picks the limp vegetable up with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, and shoves it into his mouth. “Acting like your not avoiding your seaweed.”
Jason tunes them out, shoulders lifting and falling with a silent sigh as he scowls and aggressively inhales the last of his food.
Eventually it’s just him, Dick, and Damian left at the table.
The clock on the far wall blinks a clean, indifferent 2:00 a.m.
Bedtime for the bats.
Or it should be.
Patrol itself had been easy—almost offensively so. Just annoying.
A rundown gambling hall and a half-hearted drug exchange at the docks during the storm, nothing he couldn’t handle blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.
But Jason hadn’t been in it.
Not fully.
Not even halfway.
He’d moved on instinct alone, the muscle memory of nights like this doing all the work while his mind drifted somewhere far from the smoke and the grit and the snapping bones beneath his fists.
Jason had taken more hits than usual—unnecessary ones, stupid ones—including a sharp punch that split his lip and another that caught him square in the jaw. One ancient asshole had even landed a blow to his knee, of all places.
Dick had actually yelled at him mid-fight—“Get your head on straight!”—voice cracking with genuine worry.
Later, on the rooftop where Tim passed out greasy paper bags of burgers, Dick had tugged Jason aside, fingers buried in the mess of dark hair, muttering about how he needed a damn haircut because obviously that was the reason he was off his game.
And Damian—
Damian had burned holes through the back of Jason’s hood all night, silent, suspicious, eyes sharp enough to slice open whatever secret Jason wasn’t sharing.
“You going to bed here?” Dick asks now, picking up his plate, tone light but probing in that older-brother way he’ll never shake.
“Yeah,” Jason mutters, nudging a sad stalk of asparagus across his plate like the world’s most exhausted toddler.
Damian’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical.
He stares—really stares—at Jason, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth parting in something halfway between realization and disbelief. Jason, predictably oblivious, doesn’t notice a damn thing.
Dick does, though–oh, he definitely does.
He hides a snort behind his hand, mumbling something about making sure Tim is in his bedroom and not the cave before walking out.
And Damian?
Damian is still staring like Jason has just announced he’s selling his organs to fund a circus.
Now it’s just the two of them left in the dining room, the silence stretching out in a way only Jason receives as casual, and Damian watches as Jason takes a slow swig of water as if he can wash the exhaustion out of his bones before pushing himself up to stand, ready to make the quietest, least dramatic exit possible—only for a metal clatter to slice through the room when a spoon hits the middle of his back with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no intention of letting him leave.
Jason freezes mid-step, staring at a painting on the wall as though it might offer him a different reality, one where he isn’t being pelted with kitchenware by a ten-year-old assassin, and then he turns, slow enough to betray just how done he is, to face Damian.
“What did Dick say about throwing cutlery?” he grumbles, trying—God, trying—to summon that authoritative ‘dad’ tone Bruce wields like a weapon and Dick wields like a warm blanket, but it comes out thin, frayed, and completely incapable of intimidating anyone who’s ever stabbed a man before puberty.
Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just looks at Jason with those flat, unyielding eyes and says, “It’s been a week, you said on monday 'maybe friday'.” like the words are a verdict and Jason is already guilty.
Jason drags a hand down his face, worn-out in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises blooming under his skin. “Look, now is really not a good time,” he mutters, the words reaching for patience and barely grazing it. “And it’s not like I’m keeping you out, alright? I’m not going either—”
“Who said I needed to go with you?” Damian interrupts, his tone sharp enough to cut, as if the idea that he might require accompaniment is almost insulting.
Jason raises an eyebrow, too tired to even pretend he doesn’t know exactly where this is going, too tired to carry the weight of this conversation but too human not to try anyway. “She’s not going to want to see you right now,” he says, and the words come out softer than he means them to, softer than he wants them to be.
That actually hits Damian—Jason sees it, the tiny break in the armor, the shift from steel to something almost, almost vulnerable. His expression tightens, curls in on itself, and for a moment he looks less like the demon heir and more like a kid trying to fit himself into a shape the world keeps insisting on. “I… don’t recall doing anything… wrong,” he murmurs, the uncertainty so rare it practically echoes.
Jason exhales, a long, unraveling sound that’s half frustration and half something like grief, because the last thing he needs is to drag anyone else into the mess he’s made. “You didn’t,” he says, and he even tries for reassurance, though it lands crooked. “Chill. You’re fine. It’s me—it’s… her. We’re not talking right now. She’d be upset if you showed up by yourself, and you’re not coming with me because I’m not going.”
“You’ve split up?” Damian explodes, his hands slamming against the tabletop with a force that rattles the silverware, the kind of theatrical outrage only someone raised by assassins and billionaires could ever pull off without flinching.
“No,” Jason exhales, the word coming out flat, worn, so utterly unaffected that it almost sounds cruel, though it’s really just exhaustion wearing his voice like a wet coat. He knows exactly where this is headed, knows exactly how drained he’ll feel by the time he finally gets upstairs, and yet he still tries—Gods help him—to keep things level. “We’re just taking a break, okay—?”
“A break?” Damian repeats, the word hitting his tongue like it’s poison, like the very idea defies the laws of physics. He stares at Jason with something between horror and disgust. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” Jason shoots back, the frustration rising faster than he can tamp it down. “We just had an argument, alright? And frankly I don’t even feel that in the wrong here—we’re going to talk about it like adults later, but right now I don’t exactly want to see her and I seriously doubt she wants to see you—”
And the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he hears it. He hears it. The way it sounds. The way it lands. He watches Damian go still in that frightening, surgical way he has, his lips flattening into a single, rigid line and his fists curling tight enough that the knuckles pale.
Jason closes his eyes, drops his head, raises a hand in something like surrender—but not quite apology, because he hasn’t figured out how to string one together yet. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“What does what you did wrong have to do with me?” Damian fires back, each word sharpened to a point.
Jason actually stops. Actually blinks at him. And then, with a tiredness so bone-deep it feels like he’s speaking through mud, he says, “I hate to fucking tell you this, Damian, but you’re my brother first. No amount of closeness—yours or mine—or whatever the hell any of us think we are to her is going to change that.”
For a moment, the room goes very, very still. A breath held by someone who doesn’t want to acknowledge they’re holding it.
Then Jason turns—and finds Dick and Tim standing in the doorway like two busted gargoyles caught eavesdropping on a family therapy session they absolutely didn’t have the clearance for. The tension on Jason's face folds into something sharp and undeniably pissed off.
“What the hell?” he snaps. “Fuck off and go to bed.”
Dick looks at him like Jason’s a stray dog someone just threatened to kick. Tim looks like he’s trying to figure out whether this is finally the moment where a 'trouble in paradise?' joke would get him killed.
Jason pushes past both of them anyway, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He sends one last look over his shoulder toward Damian—the kind of pointed look that carries a warning far heavier than the words themselves.
“Don’t even try to sneak out,” he says, low and firm, a promise more than a threat. “You do that and I— so help me Damian I'll make sure your never allowed to step foot into that apartment again, who do you wana be shed listen to?”
And then he’s gone down the hall, leaving Damian alone with a table full of cold food and a silence sharp enough to slice clean through him.
“Hey… bud,” Dick starts, voice careful, slow, like he’s trying to thread his way through a minefield of tension he can feel but can’t quite see. “Do you want to play a video game with—”
Damian doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t even glance. His head shakes once, sharp, decisive, the motion carrying more weight than any argument ever could. Then he simply walks past them, silent, deliberate, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke, unclaimed and useless.
Dick exhales, just a little, the sound betraying a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer, something that almost feels like sadness. Tim shifts in place, uncertain, then sighs and mumbles a small, "I'll tell Bruce.”
Damian is sprawled flat beneath Titus like some unwilling, furry sarcophagus, limbs splayed and pinned, when Bruce walks into the room. Fresh out of the shower, pretending worry isn't gracing his brow because of the fact Damian has not kicked him out yet. Lucy, the monkey Damian has been itching to introduce for days, perches nearby, inspecting strands of his hair with meticulous little fingers, poking as if she’s checking for fleas or ticks.
Bruce eases onto the edge of the bed, reaching down to lift one of Damian’s feet. His hands move with that practiced, silent precision, pressing gently for bruises or tenderness from the night’s patrol—the memory of Dick shoving Damian away from a man and into that tight space between two shipping containers still clear in his mind, the only time Jason had reacted with something close to humor, snorting from his daze as if the absurdity had momentarily broken through the tension.
“I’m not hurt,” Damian huffs, the sound muffled beneath Titus’s fur, thick and immovable. Ace nudges into Bruce's back like hes telling his owner to ignore the little one.
“Humor me,” Bruce replies, voice low and roughened from Gotham’s rain, hands shifting carefully, probing not just for broken bones but for temperature changes and tension in muscle that might betray pain he refuses to admit.
“Father…” Damian’s voice finally cuts through, hesitant, thin, fragile under the weight of silence. Titus has shifted fully, blocking Bruce’s view of his youngest’s face, and maybe that is exactly what gives Damian the courage to ask the question rolling uncomfortably off his tongue.
“Mhm? Yes, Damian?”
“…Your… experienced with women.”
Bruce freezes mid-motion, fingers resting lightly on Damian’s knee. This is not the conversation he anticipated when Tim had peeked into his master bedroom, reporting that the baby needed attention.
Not in a million scenarios did he imagine navigating questions about women or experience with this son, least of all now, when he barley reaches Bruce's hip.
And yet here it is, suspended between them in the quiet room, heavier than any patrol report, any argument, any lesson on discipline—and Bruce knows that his experience isn't exactly…well one he wants to be used for teaching.
“Did you… meet a girl at school?” Bruce begins carefully, slow and measured, the words more an experiment than a question, and he watches, almost with a kind of detached fascination, as Damian immediately snaps upright, yanking his leg away from his father’s hand as if contact itself had suddenly become unbearable. His ears flare bright red, almost glowing beneath the dim light, and the flush spreads up his sharp cheekbones, raw and uncontainable.
“NOT ME!” Damian practically screams, the volume ricocheting off the walls and into Bruce’s ears, which still throb faintly from the night’s patrol.
“The other one!” Damian huffs, his anger deflating slightly as he pets Lucy, Titus, and Ace with careful, apologetic strokes, murmuring soft noises that are half reassurance, half apology, as if the animals themselves need to understand he’s not permanently dangerous.
Bruce rubs at his ears, bitterly convinced that after that scream he deserves a pet too.
“Dick?” Bruce murmurs, voice low and cautious, “I think he can figure out Koriand'r better than any of us could, Damian—”
Damian mutters a name under his breath, sharp, almost imperceptible, and Bruce pauses mid-thought.
Of course, he knows of you; he knows that most of his children are well-versed in your existence, your habits, your presence in the orbit of their lives—but the formal interactions between Bruce and you have been limited, almost clinical: a parent-teacher conference, one short exchange of cash in thanks, nothing else. Hell, the only reason he has your number is because Damian's phone and contacts is connected to his.
Bruce is not annoyed that Damian hadn’t called him immediately when the fight happened, but there had been a flicker of irritation that neither you nor Jason had tried, that the initiative had fallen elsewhere.
That irritation fades almost entirely, however, the moment he recalls the selfie Jason had sent a few days ago, one of those rare, candid things. Jason had been smiling ear to ear, face unguarded, and Bruce’s eyes had fallen on your hand brushing lightly against the whipped cream on Damian’s upper lip, gentle and unaware of the camera.
Jason was wearing one of Bruce’s suits, perfectly tailored from no use, and Bruce thinks it has been years—years—since he has seen that effortless smile from his son, never mind one sent willingly, one shared.
“Jason…” Damian spits the name like venom, forcing Bruce’s memory out of that quiet, tender snapshot he had professionally printed months ago and keeps tucked in his desk drawer. “Says the two of them are on a break.”
Damian’s voice hardens further, the word break pronounced like an accusation. He mutters under his breath, barely audible: “What does that entail?”
Ah.
Well.
Talia and Selina had taught him more than enough about what a ‘break’ meant, and Bruce could feel the weight of it pressing into the room, a tension that seemed almost physical, curling around the corners like smoke.
“Well…” Bruce begins slowly, carefully choosing each word as if it were a scalpel, “Your mother—”
“Father. Textbook definition.” Damian’s face scrunches up, sharp angles softening for the briefest fraction of a second. “Not mother's.”
Bruce exhales, long and weary, the kind of sound that carries the history of too many late nights, too many battles, too many conversations that end in nothing but exhaustion. “It’s different for everyone,” he says, hands flexing on his knees, voice low and ragged, “It could entail not seeing or speaking, just acting as friends, maybe seeing other people—”
“OTHER PEOPLE?” Damian actually yells this time, the word snapping like a whip, ricocheting against the walls of the room.
Other people.
People who could, Gods forbid, have little brothers.
Bruce presses a hand to his temple, already tasting the headache forming, the kind that comes whenever hes thinking about his children's love lives. At least it’s not Cassandra, he tells himself bitterly.
Bruce looks down at his son, defeated, the weight of parenthood settling across his shoulders like an old, heavy coat. “I doubt that’s what they did, but—” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the migraine back into nonexistence, “Look, they probably had an argument and just—”
“Have you done this ‘break’ before?” Damian interrupts, sharp, precise, a predator circling a question like it’s prey.
“Yes,” Bruce says, the word falling flat but necessary, the history of his own mistakes and missteps coiling behind it. “With your mother. All the damn time. In fact I think we never formally ended things. See? No problem. Calm down, Damian—”
Damian blinks at him like a bird caught mid-flight, feathers ruffled, heart racing. “That’s… not exactly reassuring,” he mutters, the words soft but pointed, as if every syllable carries a weight Bruce isn’t entirely ready to shoulder.
Bruce shifts, awkward, uncertain. “She’s nothing like Talia, and you can’t assume Jason will act the way I do, so… I’m sure—”
But Damian doesn’t hear him. He sees you. He recalls the way you scold Jason and him, measured but firm, precise as any lesson he’s ever had from his mother. He remembers the tea, the way you handle it, the soft pressure of your hands on the cup, as if you are instilling care into the ritual itself. He recalls the gentle pat to his head, firm yet soft, praise administered like an art form in the same cadence, the same rhythm as Talia.
He remembers Jason, the way he closes off, blocks the world, melts into something unreadable and strange the way Bruce had with Talia, the way he does with you. He remembers the switch flipping, the calm, the mush of familiarity and affection, all tangled into a strange, fragile symmetry.
Damian looks down at his lap, where Lucy has tucked herself, huffing softly, a tiny puff of air as if she’s exasperated on his behalf.
Bruce tries again, voice careful, steadying, the weight of years of lessons bleeding through: “And… it’s not like Jason can’t handle his own relationships—”
Damian looks up at Bruce and mumbles the money move.
"Father...please? I'm only talking about this with you because I trust you to keep it to yourself."
The pause stretches, dense and thick, a pressure that hovers in the space between them, before Damian watches as his father flops onto the bed, resting his head on Ace’s back as if surrendering to the sheer absurdity of parenthood.
“I’ll take you to her apartment,” Bruce sighs, voice heavy with both command and relief, “Go get the keys.”
Damian launches himself from the bed with such ferocity, such unrestrained vigor, that Bruce can’t help but feel a small, fleeting twinge of jealousy.
“CAN I DRIVE?!” Damian yells from down the hall.
“DONT MAKE ME TAKE IT BACK!” Bruce yells back from the bed, petting Ace with the same gentleness his son does all the time.
You don’t even know why you’re surprised when you glance out the window and see Bruce and Damian Wayne crawling back inside—completely unannounced, completely without costume, like some absurdly wealthy, deadly version of burglars who’ve forgotten the subtlety part of the job. Your brain freezes for a moment, caught somewhere between incredulity and the faint, reluctant amusement that it somehow never manages to suppress around this family.
Bruce moves with the quiet, deliberate precision you’d expect, though somehow even that is comically undermined by the fact that he’s wearing a loose dress shirt and slacks instead of armor, and Damian—sharp, rigid, impossibly focused—clings to the sill like a tiny, lethal spider. And somehow, somehow, this is happening in your living room.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You think about yelling, about asking, about just… doing literally anything, but the scene is already too ridiculous, too surreal, too utterly Wayne to stop watching.
“…I take it Jason doesn’t know you two are here.” Your voice is flat, calm, deadpan enough to make Damian falter at the window, caught mid-crouch like a startled cat, before he stiffens and composes himself with that rigid precision that somehow manages to look both absurd and impressive at the same time.
Bruce just stares at you, eyes flicking toward the floor for a moment, the faintest shadow of shame crossing his face. “Damian is… very convincing,” he admits quietly, almost reluctantly, like he doesn’t want to admit that his youngest has outmaneuvered him. And that the reason he isn't donning his suit and cowl that would make him feel less awkward doing this is because Damian said you…dont allow ‘costumes’ in the apartment.
You sigh, long and measured, because you know that all too well. “...Would you both like some tea?”
“Green, please.” They say it simultaneously, words colliding mid-air, and then both of them pause, blinking at the strange synchronicity of it.
Damian finally lifts his gaze to you, stepping fully into the warmth of your apartment—the one he’s been missing all week—shoulders still drawn back a little, tight with tension, cautious. There’s a flicker in his expression, a shadow of worry that you might be angry with him, and for a quiet moment, you realize that this must be why he didn’t come with Jason.
Why he felt safe enough to come with Bruce.
The thought makes you smile faintly to yourself. Unfortunately that worry was still for not, since nothing—nothing—could make you think of Jason without some measure of fondness, some involuntary warmth curling in your chest.
“…Two sugars and—”
“Honey.” You nod softly, gentle but sure. “I take it that’s for you as well, Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce notices it immediately—the same airy softness in your voice that Talia once had, long before… everything. The sound of it makes his chest tighten in a almost protective way, the kind of tightness that drives him to think about checking security systems more obsessively, running patrols along streets he shouldn’t need to think twice about, filing addresses away in the back of his mind for frequent, silent surveillance.
Mr. Wayne closes the window behind him with a slow, deliberate motion, the kind of movement that feels both commanding and almost apologetic at once, muttering under his breath with that rare, unguarded humility: “I don’t deserve honey.”
“I agree.” Your voice cuts through the quiet with that clipped precision, that same subtle authority Bruce knows all too well, and both father and son feel it—the unmistakable sting of being scolded by another woman in their life.
“This is all Jason’s fault,” Damian mutters under his breath as he stalks toward the kitchen, each step measured, deliberate, like a small storm contained in a human frame. Bruce sighs and trails behind, a quiet shadow to Damian’s tempest. “I’m putting salt in his hot chocolate.”
“That makes it taste better,” Bruce mumbles, distracted, voice low, already running through possible interventions, calculating ways to prevent this minor rebellion from turning into another justification for why your relationship with Jason is somehow compromised.
Damian turns to him with a look that could have been mistaken for disbelief or horror, eyebrows raised as if Bruce had just sprouted a third head. “You… you poor people are so weird, Can’t afford high-quality chocolate, so you add salt—”
“I’m a billionaire,” Bruce scoffs, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at how Damian seemed to relax slightly.
“Do all billionaires use the window?” You quip from in front the kettle, and only then does Bruce fully register that the two of them have already moved into your kitchen, filling the small space with the weight of their presence. In his defense, Bruce isn't used to such small living spaces.
“Just our family,” Bruce says awkwardly, voice softening, attempting to lighten the mood in a room that somehow feels smaller and larger than he can fit in all at once.
You glance over your shoulder, and the glare is familiar—sharp, incisive, the same one Jason had once leveled at him at nine years old, full of judgment that Bruce could only find adorable.
꒰ Damian decided to pay Jason a visit & notice how his body got softer after getting a girlfriend! ꒱
Damian didn’t usually visit his brothers of his own free will. Most of the time, he only stopped by the apartment to grab a quick snack or pick up some accessory that might be useful to him.
But, surprisingly, on that day—on that perfect day—he had decided to be an inconvenience to Todd, simply because he had nothing better to do.
You were in the kitchen, finishing plating the dessert that would accompany one of your movie nights with Jason.
Used to your boyfriend’s entrances and exits through the window and balcony, you didn’t startle when you heard one of them being opened, continuing to hum absentmindedly.
It was only when you turned to wash your hands that you remembered a small detail—Jason was in the shower.
The humming slowly died in your throat.
You dried your hands calmly—much calmer than you actually felt—and turned your head toward the living room, just enough to peek through the doorway.
And there he was, sitting on the couch like he owned the place, legs crossed as he ate popcorn. He chewed slowly, eyes focused on the turned-off television, as if he were waiting for something to start.
He stopped the moment he noticed you.
You stopped the moment you noticed him.
For a long second, neither of you moved.
His green eyes narrowed slightly, calculating, suspicious. “…You are not Todd.”
You blinked once.
“No…” you answered slowly. “And you are definitely not Jay either.”
Jason appeared in the hallway, hair dripping, but already wearing sweatpants. “You started it without me? I told ya I wanted to watch the opening too—”
He stopped mid-sentence, falling silent, his mouth parting in shock—maybe at the scene? At your calmness with the intruder? Or at the intruder’s sheer audacity?
“Just what I needed,” Jason growled, voice sharp with irritation. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?”
Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, chewing calmly. He simply shrugged—after all, how was he supposed to explain that he had only come to check if he was still alive? It had been a whole month since he last saw him. But he wasn’t worried!
“That’s mine—Damian, you should be at home. Your home.” Jason sighed, running a hand down his face. “Get off my couch. And stop eating my food.”
Damian ignored him completely. He leaned further back into the cushions, posture relaxed in a way that made Jason’s eye twitch. Then his gaze shifted slowly toward Jason.
“You look… fuller. Softer,” the younger one commented, his gaze drifting briefly toward you, who watched the argument in silence, before quickly returning to his brother.
Damian tilted his head to the side, as if evaluating a painting.
“Have you reduced your training frequency,” he continued, his voice strangely neutral, not teasing, just observational, “or simply increased your intake of nutritionally void food?”
“Did you just call me fat?”
“…No,” he replied, but then paused to think for a few seconds. “Did I? I merely commented on your body fat—“
Jason crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.
“…Whatever,” he continued, tone quieter now, more thoughtful than before. “You no longer smell like cheap takeout grease and smoke. That is an improvement.”
“…That would be because he finally eats real food now,” you cut in, smiling, proud of your contribution to your boyfriend’s health.
Jason shot you a look over his shoulder, a little wounded that you had indirectly agreed with the little demon.
Damian reached out to grab more popcorn, but Jason slapped his hand away.
“Stop. Eating. My. Food. Okay. Great. Family bonding moment over.” Jason clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “You’ve seen me. Now out. Door. Window. Vent. I don’t care. Pick one.”
Damian’s attention snapped back to you, still ignoring his brother. He straightened slightly where he sat, gaze narrowing with renewed interest.
“You prepare the food?” he asked.
You nodded once. “Most of it.” You smiled. “Do you want to try the dessert?”
“…Dessert?” he repeated.
“I made chocolate cake,” you added casually. “With ganache.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed again. “…Homemade?” he asked.
“Yes.”
You disappeared into the kitchen before your boyfriend could protest.
Jason took a deep breath and dropped onto the couch, far too tired to argue any further. When the younger one opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off immediately.
“Not one more question,” Jason muttered. “Eat in silence.”
the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.
i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.
you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.
stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.
cw: bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, he's described as big, back scratching, creampies, not proofread.
ⓘ Featuring how sexy Dick Grayson is for his pretty girl.
boyfriend!dick who muffles your moans with his bicep whenever you're staying over at his father's, cooing, "You need to be quiet" so his family won't find out how dirty you are, as if he isn't the one fucking into you so hard the headboard's slamming against the wall.
+ Bonus points: Whenever you finish, and he pulls back to see drool on his arm along with the teeth marks, he knows he did well.
boyfriend!dick who can spend hours teasing you before getting to work, with light brushes of his fingers up your thigh, light kisses to your lips, and rubbing the tip along your slit, but pulling back once you start begging him to just fuck you already.
Eventually, you wear each other down; you're moaning out his name & he's struggling not to finish in two minutes.
boyfriend!dick loves when you go down on him, fists clenching against the sheets as he struggles not to guide your head, biting down the sweetest moan every time you swirl your tongue around his blushing tip.
After he finishes in your mouth, he'll always wipe your lips clean & whisper how pretty you are in the shakiest, hottest tone known to man.
boyfriend!dick who tends to get a little needy & sometimes ends up dry humping you till he's creamed his boxers instead of just fucking you like he'd originally planned. Noting "it felt too good to stop" while letting out a choked laugh & burying his face in your throat.
He'll always joke about it afterwards. But it's kind of obvious at the moment how embarrassed he feels about it.
boyfriend!dick likes to finger you after a blowjob, scissoring you open on long fingers so he can stare at the wetness pooling on your skin while telling you just how sexy it looks to him & licks you clean after each orgasm.
He likes to give you at least two orgasms per one of his.
boyfriend!dick has grown used to your nails sinking into his back every time he bottoms out; he's even grown to like how every few thrusts bring the sweet sting of your nails scratching at him in sync with sharp moans.
boyfriend!dick who is well aware just how endowed he is & always takes it slow to let you adjust, making sure to whisper sweet little praises in your ear.
boyfriend!dick who has made himself well acquainted with your clit, happily goes down on you every time you're being bratty or not in a good mood, knowing his tongue can be an instant mood booster.
He always moans at the feeling of your nails scratching at his scalp, pulling & begging for more, loving the sensation of feeling your pleasure through the sharp tugs.
boyfriend!dick who has a bad pullout game & ends up accidentally filling you up more often than he'd like to admit. He's so embarrassed when he pulls out and sees his seed spilling out, but your fucked-out expression always makes him feel better about it.
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: 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
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Jason is insecure about his scars
Jason Todd is hungry and impatient
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: 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.
When The Spite Dies: 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 and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: 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.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
