🌃

-> amaqtive's masterlist -> about: twenties. chronic rewatcher of devil wears prada. analyzer about the batfamily, especially jason todd and bruce wayne.

-> requests: open guidelines for requests

-> what has been written:

-> jason todd: my heart belongs to you - one shot jason todd who loves you endlessly - blurb farce - one shot and blurb territory hands - two shot series i will always be there to catch you - blurb

-> dick grayson you matter - multi-shot series

-> choices and promises

synopsis: you are damian wayne's best friend, and your parents want you to get married. can you two best friends be more than just best friends? tags: damian wayne x fem!reader ft. batfamily A/N: i got very inspired by a kate and anthony dialogue from bridgerton. based on a request.

Damian Wayne does not do friendships.

The heir to the League and the Wayne family does not need a companion, platonic or otherwise. That is the consensus—the winning opinion that even his entire family agrees with. 

At least, that was what Dick, Jason, Duke, and Tim thought for the longest time. At least, that was what Cassandra and Stephanie theorized, sharing those thoughts with Barbara whenever she was over at Wayne Manor. At least, that was what Bruce and Alfred were worried about.

But then came you.

You, who is quiet, kind, but not lacking in self-respect and ambition. You, who Gotham Academy sees as peculiar, uptight, but quietly smart. You, who are called a paradox by her parents for your fierceness wrapped in a softness they do not understand at all. 

You, who Damian Wayne befriended.

And, Damian’s world transformed. It exploded with colour, soft-spoken conversations, late-night strolls, cherishing secrets, and shared happiness in goals, big or small.

The first indication that Damian valued you was when he willingly sought you out in class. He had never done that before, and the instructors, who are paid hefty salaries by the academy, noted it and brought it up with Bruce. Bruce, who arched an eyebrow at this development, brought it up over dinner. 

It was casual. A simple question.

“You seem to have made a friend, Damian,” Bruce shared, gauging his son’s facial expressions at the same time.

Damian did not freeze. There was no show of any weakness, as he was trained to forego. But that slight tremor in his hand that was curled around the silver spoon he used did not go unnoticed. Not by Bruce. Not by Alfred. Not by anyone else.

Jason huffed like he didn’t care, but he did keep an eye on you, both on the Gotham Academy grounds and on nights when he patrolled. It was his way of saying that he saw what you meant to Damian. He cherished your safety from afar, because his little brother had someone—a friend, a companion, a support where he could simply be—and that was important. A truly unforgettable detail.

Dick grinned at Damian, softly teasing him about finally having a friend. He did give absolutely unwanted lessons on maintaining friendships 101, as if he had meaningful connections himself.

Tim made it a point not to react badly, but he did run an extensive background check on you. He knew your great grandma’s name, your second cousin’s credit score, and your parents’ estate attorney before Damian did, even before you did.

Bruce and Alftred tried to stay out of this so as not to cause Damian any discomfort. Bruce meddled enough, so he tried to stay still about this. And Alfred… he tried not to badger Damian about inviting you to the manor or taking homemade baked and cooked goods to school for you.

They all patiently waited. They noticed, took notes, and stood on the sidelines. And then one evening, you came over—the infamous friend, the mysterious companion, the person who signified something to Damian. You, with your backpack, uniform, and perfect hair, came over to study. It was a simple study session that ended up becoming a family dinner, with nosy—absolutely nosy siblings—and laughter.

Just like that, it became an unsaid truth that you are family, too.

Now, years later, you stand on the threshold of the manor, looking at the boy who became your best friend. You look at him with comfort, trust, and also pain.

Damian knows just by the look on your face that something is wrong. His first instinct is to question you and pry an answer from you as rapidly as he can, because he wants to fix whatever perturbs you. 

But any patience that he exhibits is for you. He knows how easily you get overwhelmed, but never shows it. He also knows you trust him enough to show him how you are when you don’t pretend. It’s a privilege that he has, and the realization of it never fails to fill him with honour and a longing he refuses to give a truthful name to.

“How are you doing, Miss?” Alfred asks as you follow him into the dining room, with Damian right beside you.

You halfheartedly smile, making Alfred concerned as well. But you answer calmly, with the perfection you are taught and cling to as the perfect daughter of your parents. “I am fine, Alfred. Thank you. How are you?”

“I am delighted to have everyone under the same roof tonight,” Alfred says. “It is a rarity to have that these days.”

“Indeed.”

Damian says, “If you want Jason to grace his presence here often, you should tell him, Alfred. Why do I have to bear the brunt of your taunts?”

You laugh softly. “That was not a taunt.”

“It was,” Damian says, and you shake your head fondly. As always, when you both walk side by side, your arms are linked. The way Damian’s arm links with yours grounds him. It makes him remember he is Damian, just as much as he is an Al-Ghul and Wayne. 

He feels a different type of duty when he stands next to you, an audacious and heartwarming one. It was debilitating to ponder it too much because this duty was so very unique in its creation. It was not cold, painful, or lonely. It didn’t have ties to or expectations from a legacy.

His duty to you simply came from that day he met you, trying to decipher what exactly you penned in your sleek blue notebook with such haste. Later on, he realized it was your planner, and you kept yourself busy to the brim all week. And something in him whispered—urged—to be there for you. 

Caring for you is one of Damian’s purposes.

It makes him a better Robin selfishly. If he can selflessly devote his life to being a vigilante, because in that duty, Talia’s and Bruce’s love for him lives, then he can also selfishly devote himself to making Gotham safer for you. A safe Gotham keeps you safe. And Damian needs that with everything in him.

Sometimes, he finds himself agreeing with Jason over Gotham. Bloodshed was wrong in the life and values that Damian adopted. But retributive justice and fighting crime with blood did not sound horrid. It sounds like a consequence that would shake Gotham into discipline, but Damian also recognizes that the consequence would be short-lived. It would not protect you permanently, and with you, Damian always tries to find permanency. Always.

He looks back at you, as you sit beside him, playing with the silver fork in your hand, moving the rice around but not eating. His eyes narrow in displeasure at your quiet distress. It is noticeable not only to him but also to the entire family seated. Barbara, who is also visiting to spend some time with Dick and Cassandra, is exchanging a concerned look with Dick, perhaps wanting to do some detective work to get to the bottom of your silence.

Damian almost rolled his eyes. This family and its friends never quite communicate properly. It’s always tactics like these, and Damian understands it, because he himself is not good with words. Language is something sacred and unrelentingly difficult for him. He wants to use the same tactics with you right now, but he also does not want to resort to that. He wants you to speak to him like you always do, and Damian would wait if that is what you need.

Jason cleared his throat to speak, but Bruce beat him to it. Damian’s father looks at you, as your eyes are fixed on the plate perched before you. “Is everything alright?”

You look up at Bruce, dazed. You blink, processing his words. Then, you nod, smiling. “Everything’s alright, Bruce. Why do you ask?”

“You have not mentioned the book that Jason pestered you to read. You have not talked to Tim about work that you usually have many complaints about, and you certainly have not said anything about tonight’s menu to Alfred,” Damian speaks before Bruce can.

You look at Damian now, and you wince. 

“Is something bothering you?” Jason questions, leaning forward, ready to tackle whatever your answer may be.

You shake your head. Bruce clears his throat, trying to be calm and supportive. “You can talk to us—all of us or one of us. We are… here.”

You lean back in your chair, your face a combination of a grimace and a polite smile. That alone is an indication that something is perturbing you, and the thing is that no matter how dysfunctional your best friend’s family has been, it has been that safe space for you. So, you speak. “Father has been setting up dates for me.”

The room goes completely still. Even Alfred, for once, is dismayed. 

You sigh. “He says it is of utmost importance that I find a proper match soon.”

Jason glares at you, not at you, but at your parents. “That’s not necessary.”

Dick nods. He looks kind as he asks, “Are you unhappy with that?”

Damian feels his head pound at that question, indicating his coming out of that stillness that incinerated him moments ago. He stares at you, not knowing what to say. It is a travesty because Damian always knows what to say. But tonight, listening to what your parents’ intentions are, he does not.

Bruce says, far gentler than he is with his sons, a tone he reserves for Cassandra and Stephanie and now you. “Is there a reason for this insistence?”

“I asked, and he says it is the way of society,” You answer, and Damian scoffs.

Bruce purses his lips. It is the way of Gotham’s high society. Matches of the highest calibre are forged between families to ensure wealth and reputation stay intact or even further them. Bruce, himself, would have been persuaded into these matchmaking attempts if he had taken his social circle more seriously or if his parents were alive.

“That is a preposterous way of explaining why he wants his daughter to get married,” Damian bursts.

Dick and Jason stare at Damian, a knowing look crossing their faces. Stephanie asks, “So did you say no?”

Damian grows more distressed when you shake your head. Cassandra’s facial expression falters. You laugh nervously and then explain. “He is not wrong. I am busy with work and friends. It is perhaps time to take the next step in… life.”

Your voice is so unnatural that Damian fumes. You do not sound happy. Even enthused in the slightest. You sound resigned. That is what your parents do to you. They presented a checklist for you when you were of age to understand expectations and responsibilities, and ever since, you have abided by them. You don’t know a world outside it, and Damian doesn't know how to show that there is one. It is a bit hypocritical, but Damian does not care. Perhaps he can and is tied down by legacies, but you cannot. You are supposed to be free and do whatever you want.

“But is that what you want?” Jason asks because he regards freedom as the most important aspect of life. Jason knows death, and he knows how it is to be caged. He does not wish that on anyone, let alone you.

You stay silent. In that silence is the answer. Everyone in the room sees your struggle, and you realize that. Your cheeks pinken because you do not want to embarrass yourself by looking weak, as if you cannot even bear what your parents want for you. You put on a brave smile and nod. “Yes. I think this is good for me.”

Dick and Jason exchange looks. Tim looks down at his plate and then at you. “I will conduct checks. Whoever it is, I expect their name.”

Stephanie looks at Damian, then at you. “Be careful.”

Cassandra gauges you, but then she softly says, her eyes averting towards Stephanie. “If you can let that person see you, you have made your choice.”

See you.

Damian glares at Cassandra. For whatever reason, he hates her statement—the underlying advice. But that glare is wiped off his face as you turn your head to look at him. You look at him like his words matter the most in a roomful of people that clearly adore you. You look at him like you need him, so Damian holds back every ounce of anger he feels, and says, his hand reaching out to hold yours. “I am here.”

And you entwine your fingers with his. You sigh and whisper. “Thank you.”

For the rest of the night, after dinner, he takes you to the library and reads to you, watching you relax, as an ache fills his chest.

“Thank you, Dami,” You whisper as you slot your head into the crook of his neck, and you imagine him running his fingers through your hair, the movement cajoling you into sleep.

Your first date is with a banker. He is a few years older than you, but that is not troubling. He is a good man, or at least that is what your parents say. His parents are a part of Gotham’s most elite, just like yours. It’s a good match if decided on. That is the consensus. 

You stare at your reflection. The black dress, the matching heels, and the small clutch you are carrying suit you. Your mother walks into your room, as always disregarding your privacy. You can hear her laughter and another person’s footsteps.

Your mother says, “She is excited.”

Are you?

Are you excited? You think again, and you feel exhausted because you have no answer. You stiffen as you hear Damian’s voice instead of your father’s. You did not anticipate his presence, so you turn around to exit the vanity room, which connects to your bedroom and bathroom.

“Dami,” You breathe in relief, his name a lifeline you cling to.

The boy you met is now a tall young man with the same intense eyes and gentleness that fills your heart. He stares at you right now, with those same eyes and approaches you. He curls his fingers around your upper arm with the same gentleness. 

“You look beautiful, my dear,” Your mother gushes. Her words make you wince, and Damian moves to shield you from her line of vision. He says, his voice clear. “She still has to finish getting ready.”

Your mother laughs. “Oh, yes. And prepare her, Damian. She does not know the ins and outs of courtships. Give her a few tips, son.”

And she departs, leaving behind an unsettling silence.

Damian pulls you closer. He frowns at the Bobby pins keeping your curly hair up. He knows how much you hate bobby pins, just how much they pain. You always complain about them before a gala, but you let your mother pin them tonight.

Damian says, “You abhor bobby pins.”

“I do.”

“You put them on."

“I did.”

“Your head hurts when you put them on."

“They do.”

Damian tilts his head like he wants to yank each one off your head. He would love to make that decision for you on your behalf, but he does not allow himself to. That restraint is something you are used to, but it sometimes still surprises you, because you were always told Damian Wayne did not believe in restraint.

So he asks, “Do you want me to remove them?”

Your throat works. You do not know what to say. There is the answer, the true one: yes. But something stops you. Something always does, holding you and your voice in its tight grip.

So you sigh. You shake your head, and Damian, instead of removing those pins, gently pats your head and then rubs your nape. That action makes you come closer to him. It makes you hug him, and you sigh into his chest, covered by his button-down.

“I am nervous,” You admit to your best friend.

Damian says, rubbing your nape with one hand while the other wraps around your middle. “I know.”

“I don’t know anything about dating, courtships, love,” You say.

Damian stiffens. His hand that was on your nape comes around to cup your chin. He pulls you back with that action, his voice steady and yet again everything that matters. “You are allowed to pace yourself. Do not let anyone deny you that liberty.”

“Pace myself?” You repeat a part of his words. Pacing yourself in this seems like a loss, too. How do you pace yourself in a race that demands your heart?

His hand descends to your shoulders. Both of your shoulders were grabbed gently, while he says, “I beg of you.”

You stare at him, frowning slightly at the wrecked tone he uses. Damian Wayne does not beg. He does not use those words. He commands. He rules. He gets his way, and he wins. That is his legacy, his right even. But right now, he is proffered a young man requesting—begging—you to listen to him. “One must not indulge in any decision that is unwelcome. I am asking you to heed that.”

“I will,” You say, because you always listen to Damian.

Damian nods as if he is satisfied. He steps back, and you hate the loss of his touch on your skin. You hate that he is not crowding you, holding you, and towering over you. And that hatred of losing his touch, his nearness, floors you, redness pooling on your cheeks and neck. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be like this.

“Rooh Qalbi.” You hear Damian’s voice, looking up. You furrow your brows, not completely registering what he said. He sighs. “Your suitor is here.”

“Suitor?” You giggle, and Damian smiles just a bit.

“Yes,” He nods. His jaw tenses, looking out the bedroom door, downwards at the entryway of the large home you reside in. “In an inadequate choice of a vehicle, an ill-fitting suit, and an utterly detestable arrangement of flowers.”

“Hey,” You say, taking his arm as he leads you out of your room.

“I am being transparent, as is my intention, always with you.” Your cheeks warm again, listening to his words. Damian discreetly juts his chin towards the flower bouquet the banker holds as he talks to your mother. You cringe a little. You are not a fan of red roses, as romantic and symbolic as they are.

Damian shakes his head. “A man who does not adequately account for his potential bride’s predilection.”

You smile a little at the way Damian looks disappointed. You tilt your head and place a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dami.” You descend the spiral staircase, Damian right behind you, as he mutters under his breath about the safety in the heels you are wearing.

The banker looks at you and kisses your cheek, hugging you from the side. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” You say. When the banker gives the flowers to you, you expect to be touched, regardless of what floral arrangement you picked out. You look up at him, wanting to feel a spark of something. But you don’t. It’s too early. You tell yourself that. 

Damian and the banker shake hands. Damian nods along to whatever he says, as your mother laughs. “These two have been best friends for years, son. Don’t be fooled by how calm Damian is right now. If you want to be in my daughter’s life, you have to win his heart too.”

The banker laughs. Then, he extends his hand to take yours. 

You look at Damian.

He blinks at you, and you breathe. You can get through this.

Your date was horrible—too many numbers, money, and social events conversations. You did not gel with the banker at all. You were not what he wanted, and he was not what you wanted.

So your parents set up another date. This time, the prospect is a vice president of a conglomerate. You do not have any hopes that this date will fare better than what happened with the banker. It will be boring, tedious, and lacklustre. You know it, but you agree.

You pick out the heels that go well with the floral, flowy, red dress you chose tonight. They are block heels, and you sigh as you sit on your bed, taking them into your hands. You do not realize that you are not in the room alone until Damian pries your hand away from the heel.

“Hey,” You say, looking up at him.

“No bobby pins tonight?” He asks, his lips formed into a wry smile.

You shake your head. “I wanted to keep my hair down.”

His eyes flicker towards your hair, intensely gazing at the way your curls sit loose against your shoulders. “You look beautiful.”

“Yeah?” You bend your head, blushing.

Damian nods. “Resplendent. Divine. Beguiling. Would you like me to beseech you with more verbiage, or do you believe me?”

“Dami,” You mutter, shaking your head. Then, you gasp as he bends on one knee. Damian’s gestures often shock you, because they are far different from the reputation he holds, the way he behaves with people, family or strangers, and the weight his name holds.

As his fingers curl around your ankle, making you stifle another gasp, you watch. He makes you wear both block heels, saying. “Do not stroll at a painfully fast pace; you will fall.”

“And you won’t be there to help me up,” You laugh, thinking about the first time you wore a pair of block heels. It was at an event organized by Gotham Academy. And you almost took a tumble, if not for the way Damian caught your arm and stayed by your side firmly, present the entire time.

Damian tilts his head. He assesses you with his gaze. You almost frown at the way he looks at you. You take pride in the way “I will always be there.”

You still. You do not expect those words, and now that you have them, you don’t want to let them go. They settle in you like a well-hidden pearl in the shell of a mollusk.

He tugs at a hair strand fondly, a reverent action reserved just for you. “It is a vow I abide by. It will always be that way.”

“Why?”

“Because you—“ Damian’s eyes roam over you. “You are important. Every vow to you made is of unwavering dedication and paramount respect.”

“Dami.”

“Rooh Qalbi.”

Your eyes widen.

You are pulled out of the unexpected despair and confusion you feel when you feel Damian’s fingers trace your cheek and the line of your jaw. The action causes his other hand to tighten around your ankle. Your breath hitches, but you hide it well enough.

“Forgive me for repeating this, but you are not obligated to partake in anything that holds no appeal to you.” He says, his eyes flickering to the family portrait that was framed and placed on your nightstand.

“Your decisions should always be a matter of your discretion. No one else’s,” Damian continues.

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

Damian smiles slightly. His fingers cup your chin, while his other hand gently places your heel-clad foot on the ground. “You will. I will be there to witness it.”

His unwavering belief in you makes you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him. His arms go around you, pulling you closer, and you smile against his shoulder. For a second, you wonder what it would be like to march up to your parents and tell them that you don’t want this. You imagine Damian looking at you as you decide to put your wishes first instead of the expectations.

But you are reminded of the words uttered to you for years. Gotham society. Education. Marriage. Children. The importance of maintaining status. The importance of abiding by duties, especially a duty that is tied to the family name.

You break the hug, feeling like an imposter. You feel unworthy of Damian’s trust. You don’t look at him as you wear a beautiful sling-back purse that Damian actually bought for you a while back. When you hear your mother’s voice saying your date is here, you move.

But you feel Damian’s hand curl around your wrist, halting you.

You look back at him. Damian moves forward.

He questions, his voice slightly gruff, much like his father’s is. “You will permit me the honour of knowing when you are apprised that your heart has been taken to someone’s advances?”

You stare at Damian. He wants to know when someone has your heart. He calls gaining that knowledge an honour.

Your throat works, but you manage to nod. You whisper, “Yes, I will.”

You turn around and, yet again, descend the spiral staircase. This time, your date does not bring red roses. He brings tulips that you like. You do not know, but somehow Damian made the man aware, by word of mouth, that you are more taken with tulips than with roses.

But what you know is the thundering in your ears and the way your heart beats. You know the gnawing realization growing in your chest, making you even more dispirited. 

The realization that your heart may be someone else’s already.

You just cannot bear to think of who.

The vice president of a respected, established conglomerate also turns out to be an ill-fitting match. This time, it is not your fault. It is because of your parents that you muffled any expression of dissatisfaction after your date with him. Your parents invited the man to dinner, and they found him gauche and irritating. His table manners made your father sigh. That sigh said everything.

This time, you got ready at Wayne Manor. Your first date is to a Wayne Gala. A peculiar choice, but with how busy you and the angel investor from the West Coast are, it made sense to use the gala as a location for the date.

Stephanie and Cassandra hover over you, helping you get ready, as Barbara stares knowingly at you from her wheelchair, ready and excited. You look at her through the mirror.

“What?” You ask, a little miffed tonight. Your mother decided on a gown for you tonight that you did not approve of. It is beautiful. The olive green is not your favourite shade of green, but it is acceptable. The real issue is the material. Scratchy, irritating, and unpleasant.

“Nothing,” Barbara says, shaking her head, as Cassandra does the finishing touches to your makeup.

You could not object to your mother when she called, and now you are paying the price for your silence. You look beautiful, though, you try to tell yourself, as if the extreme discomfort is worth the beauty.

Cassandra clasps a diamond necklace around your neck, something Stephanie selected for you. That is what you think until Stephanie bends down and says, looking at you through the mirror. “Damian knows you.”

“What?” You ask, frowning.

Stephanie laughs, while Cassandra whispers, “Damian sent this jewellery piece for you two hours ago. He said you would like it.”

“He also told us only to let you wear it if you approve,” Barbara says. She moves forward, situating herself next to you, and leans back. Assessing you, she asks, “Even though Stephanie asked already, do you approve?”

It is on your tongue to viciously say: Does it matter?

But you tilt your head, not wanting to make the girls targets of your ire, directed at your mother, looking at yourself. Your hair is styled in a not-actually-messy braid. And the diamond necklace sits around your neck with an elegance that makes your breath hitch.

You do approve, and something in you twists at the thought of being asked that. That never happens, not often. Yes, within the walls of Wayne Manor. Yes, with Damian. Yes, with his family, who always welcomed you. 

But not at home.

You furrow your brows, trying to remember the last time your mother or father asked you if you approved of something. If you wanted something. If you were okay with something.

You stand up. “Yes, I look gorgeous.”

“That is true,” Stephanie says. Cassandra pats your head like you are a child. You and Damian are the babies of the family, much to the displeasure of both of you. Barbara squeezes your hand, and you smile at her. She tips her head in a knowing gesture that frazzles you, but you don’t show it.

They soon depart the room while you take one last look at yourself. You can do this. You will be okay. You think reassuringly and turn around.

Of course, Damian is standing in the entryway of the room you are in. Of course, he knocks on the ajar door, knowing you are inside. Of course, you ask him to come in.

And of course, he looks at your gown and immediately says, “You are uncomfortable.”

You stay silent.

“Are you not?” He asks, looking angry, not at you, but at himself. He looks at you like he wonders if he can no longer read you.

And you don’t want him ever to think he doesn't know you. So you nod. “Yes, I am uncomfortable.”

His jaw clenches, but he does not say anything.

You tilt your head. “Are you not going to ask me to wear something else, Dami?”

Damian moves forward and stands right in front of you. He wraps an arm around your middle and tugs you closer. “Every decision has to be yours.”

You stiffen, filled with gratitude and anger due to those words.

You hate that he reminds you that you have choices—that you can make them. You detest that he gives you the space to do so instead of simply commanding you to.

You want him to tell you what to do and how to be. But Damian never does that. He is, well, your Dami. He was the boy who listened to you and is now the man who wants you to know that your decisions should be your own.

You look away from him, and he asks, "Would you like to change?”

You already know that if you want to change into a separate gown, there will be countless comfortable options awaiting you.

But your ears reverberate with your mother’s shrill commands over the phone call that took place about the gown. You shake your head, and you feel your best friend’s fingers flex on your back. 

Damian steps back. “Alright..”

You look at him.

“Thank you,” you say. You are thanking him for everything, but you point to the necklace as an excuse.

Damian tilts his head. “You look beautiful.”

You blush and bend your head.

“You look handsome, too, Dami,” You say, and he smiles, offering you his arm for you to link with.

The serenity of this moment is something you cling to, and you hope it will get you through the night.

Damian hates your date. The angel investor is a little shit. He is utterly unworthy of you. Yet, he holds your hand and leads you to the esteemed guests of this evening.

Damian’s hand tightens around the glass tumbler he holds. His eyes have been tracking you the entire night. He sees the exhaustion that clings to you in the way you walk, in the way your hand shakes around the champagne flute you hold, and in the way your laugh sounds hollow.

That gown is causing you so much trouble with its material and seams chafing against your skin. If you were not on a date, Damian would have convinced you to ditch this social event and take you back to the manor where Alfred would be. With folded pajamas and warm tea.

But since you are on a date, Damian is relegated to being a witness to your agony, unable to do anything until you say that you would like his impudent intervention. 

Damian does not want to be one of those people in your life who talks over you, disregards your voice, and muffles your wants. He promised himself to not only keep you safe and secure from harm’s way but also to keep you happy.

Happiness is not always smiles and laughter. It is also the security of making a choice. Happiness also resides in the freedom that comes from deciding on purely your own accord.

And he won’t take that away from you.

“You know, you’re staring,” Jason says.

Damian glares at Jason, “Why are you present here, Todd?”

He shrugs. “Bruce told me to show up.”

“My father’s inability to make a sound decision does keep astounding me despite its commonness,” Damian grumbles, and Dick claps a hand on his shoulder.

The action is sympathetic, which grinds Damian’s gears. He does not need sympathy!

Damian averts his gaze from Jason to look back at you. You seem to be in a deep conversation with a Gothamite who is also in angel investing.

Damian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. That action is reserved for crass individuals. But he is so close to doing it, because he cannot believe your parents would choose this man out of all of the choices that could be made. 

Angel investing as a career is risky. He is from the West Coast, not used to Gotham. Damian could think of so many other reasons why such an alliance between you and him is a bad idea. For you—for your safety, well-being, and happiness.

He is not right for you. But Damian is not the one who has the final say on this. It has to be you.

So he watches.

And watches.

And watches.

Soon, you are exhausted from the talking, smiling, and indulging that the Gothamite elite demand of you. You excuse yourself swiftly and head towards the grand balcony that is connected to the gala’s main hall.

Damian instantly follows, and his face softens as he watches you perched against the railing, looking at the view of Gotham.

Then, he frowns. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he removes his blazer and places it on your shoulders. There are times when he cannot be bothered to wait for your choices, and this is one of them. He is not going to let you get a cold. It’s just not happening.

“Dami,” You gasp. You tug the blazer closer to your chest, putting your arms through the sleeves. 

Then, you frown. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, I am not,” Damian answers, and he means it.

You nod. Damian asks, “Are you alright?”

“I am,” You say. Damian does not believe you, but he does not call you out on it. You shift closer to him and rest your head against his bicep.

You both look at the view of Gotham.

“It’s beautiful,” You murmur, and Damian looks at you.

“I agree.”

You don’t notice that he is not talking about Gotham’s view, and he does not tell you.

“How is he?” Damian questions.

You shrug, and that is how Damian tells you that you are utterly exhausted. You don’t shrug, not often.

“I do not think he is the one.”

Good. But Damian does not say that aloud.

“I want to put an end to this,” You say. You sound a bit frustrated. “I just want them off my back.”

You mean your parents.

Damian shares, “Perhaps, acquiescing to their demands is not as suitable as you deem it is. Perhaps, a course of defiance is.”

You tilt your head to look at him. “Defiance?”

“If you must.”

“Defiance,” You repeat, looking at him.

“Defiance.” Damian repeats.

You let out a sigh and rest your head back on him. You close your eyes, and Damian just cannot help himself. He bends and grazes his lips on the top of your head, on your hairline, and then on your forehead.

It’s too much. Damian can tell from the way you tilt your head and stare up at him. You tell him, "I wanted to wear your shade of green. It’s my favourite, not this olive green.”

Damian stares at you. He is too proper to have his jaw hang in surprise, but he is close to it. That is not a statement he expected, and now that he has heard it, he cannot stop himself from imagining it. You in green. In his green, as you said. The green that makes up one of the colours of his suit. 

Damian lets out a haggard sigh and leans forward, almost resting his head against yours. 

Your noses almost brush, and you let out a small laugh, teasing. “I have the Wayne heir tongue-tied.”

“That is the effect you have on me, Rooh Qalbi,” Damian utters the words as if they were sacred truth.

His words do affect you, too, because you blink rapidly. You go on your toes, slightly unbalanced due to your heels, and rest your head against his. Noses brush. Eyelashes meet a little.

It is remarkable how, in a fraction of a minute, everything changes. One second, you were resting your head against his arm as you always did. Like a best friend. Like the girl who consumes his thoughts, meaning behind actions, and priorities every minute, but then now, you are pressed against him, your hands cupping his face, while his arms go around you.

Damian wants to have you in his arms like this for as long as he lives. He will continue living with care and caution if it means having you in his arms. You are pressed up against him, cocooned in his embrace, and he feels like he has had a taste of heaven. Does it exist? He wonders. It does. He believes now.

You make him a believer. You make him an even more worthy man. You make him question the line between right and wrong. You make him wonder what the difference is between a wound and a healer, because to him right now, he holds both in his arms.

“Dami,” You whisper.

“Noor Eini,” he whispers.

The line between being friends, as close as you both are, and something else blurs. The line erases. It is eradicated before the way Damian—your Dami—holds you and the way you—his qalbi—melts into his hold.

Damian leans forward, too, minimizing the remaining little space between both of you. It is an action that spurs from want and desperation he refuses to name, still, that he refuses to admit to.

And then a loud crash jolts you both apart.

A sound from afar. An aggrieved cry of irritation from nearby staff. The sound is plates clattering to the ground. You both realize that.

Damian reaches for you, tearing his gaze off the area where the sound loudly reverberated. You take a step back. Pain shoots up Damian’s spine. No. He panics internally. He feels you slip away. He watches you slip away.

You shake your head. “I am sorry.”

“No. Do not apologize.”

“I have to!”

“You do not have to!”

And then you run.

It has been four days since you agreed to marry the man you spent time with at the Wayne gala. Your parents were shocked. After all, you had only been on one date with him. You barely knew him. 

But you said yes, and he also agreed to the alliance. It would be beneficial. Two families, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast, are now one family thanks to this marriage. It is huge news for the country's elite.

Your parents are delighted. Your future in-laws expect an heir within the first two years of marriage. Your soon-to-be fiancé expects you to be a proper conduit in making useful Gothamite connections that would propel his influence on the East Coast, too.

Everything is perfect. 

Except for the way you carry yourself.

You are sullen, uninterested, and resigned to a fate you prepared for since your childhood.

You stare at Damian’s blazer, which you had dry-cleaned and folded. It is on your bed. Every day, you wear it for a few minutes. Every night, you get it washed, dry cleaned, and folded again.

It has been four days since you talked to him—since that gala evening. You wonder how he is, never having spent that many days apart from him, not even during your college years.

You shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. You glare at the ceiling after tilting your head back. How could you do this? How could you—

But you wanted to. That is the truth that resides low in your belly. You wanted to kiss Damian that night. You wanted to sink into his embrace and never let go. You wanted to be held by him for as long as you lived. 

But then your parents’ voices rang in your ears, on a loop, in a mashup overlapping both. It was hideous. It was scary. It frightened you, because you imagined Damian standing beside you, as not just your best friend but something more. 

You would be a burden. Your parents would eat him alive with their expectations. Your family name will be another weight he will carry. Your everything will be an ankle weight that plunges him to oceanic depths that are unbearable.

Damian does not deserve that. He deserves someone who can make choices without their parents’ voices ringing in their ears. He deserves in-laws who support him, not pressure him. He deserves kids—a family—born of choice and love, not pressure and expectation.

“Are you marrying him?” You jolt out of your thoughts at the sound of Damian’s voice.

Your head snaps in the direction of your bedroom door. Your mother appears behind Damian. “Damian is here, sweetheart.”

You try to smile. “I see that.”

“I was just telling our dearest son-in-law that he has to impress Damian now since you have complied,” She says and laughs.

You flinch, and Damian stays silent, standing sturdy like a wall.

Your mother, who does not notice the tension, says, “I will send refreshments.”

Her idea of a refreshment now is a weight loss snack and drink until you have the fairytale wedding, in a gown that fits you like a glove—utterly unbreathable.

“You are marrying him.” This time, the words do not end in a question mark. They are a statement.

You nod. “Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“It is my duty.”

“You do not love him.”

“No, I do not.”

“You love someone else.”

You flinch. You shake your head.

“Are you lying?” He asks

Damian’s question makes you teary-eyed.

Yes. “No.”

Damian flinches, but that does not stop him from approaching you. You grab the blazer from your bed and shove it into Damian’s hands. You regret the action immediately because the garment has become a source of comfort for you over the past few days. Now, you are losing it.

If Damian notices that his blazer smells like you do today or how it looks slightly wrinkled, he does not mention it. Instead, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in your hair. “Do you desire this?”

No. “Yes.”

His fingers descend to curl around your nape, making you look at him properly. You gasp as you see his eyes filled with tears. You loathe yourself. You are hurting the one person who truly matters.

I am so sorry, Dami.

Damian kisses your forehead. “Be happy, Rooh Qalbi.”

You close your eyes, and your hands curl in his shirt. 

He kisses your forehead again.

Then, he is gone.

Every decision has to be yours.

These words play in your mind as you sit at the long dining table. Your fiancé sits beside you. His parents are seated opposite you, and they look pleased. They are in deep conversation with your parents, who are just as pleased.

Your entire home is filled with congratulatory bouquets, gifts, and cards. Gotham’s high society is aware of this partnership. What is left is a front-page announcement in the newspaper, which will run next week. That will make things official. And that will commence a powerhouse of a familial alliance.

You stare at the ring that is in the jewelry box, placed between you and your fiancé. It is a pink diamond. Totally swoonworthy and beautiful. Your mother gushed over it, while your to-be mother-in-law said you are lucky that you have a partner who is not stingy. Your father and to-be father-in-law discussed how large yet classy-looking rings heighten a man's status in society. 

It is a beautiful ring. You agree.

It is just not a ring you envision for yourself.

The man sitting beside you is not even the man you envision for yourself.

You are in a yellow sundress. Your hair is tied up in a soft white bow, and your fiancé laughed, saying how your hair needs Keratin treatment to look presentable in magazine photos whenever the wedding happens. It was a misguided attempt at humour.

You close your eyes for a brief second. What you envision is clear. A diamond ring. It is large, of course, but the design is classy and a bit more sleek in appearance. You imagine your best friend beside you, murmuring Rooh Qalbi in your ear. That wry smile that makes him even more handsome graces his face. You imagine the Waynes surrounding you. Their vigilante charm peeks through the classic Wayne charm, making the dinner even more enjoyable.

You open your eyes.

Every decision has to be yours.

This is your decision. But you are unhappy. You look at your parents, who do not even realize you are unhappy. You look at your fiancé, who will make you wear that pink diamond ring soon. You see the same life that played out with your parents and with you in this man.

You both will get married. You both will have a child. That child will be just like you. Unable to say no. Unable to make a decision that does not hurt. Unable to look at their parents and not wonder why they don’t give a damn.

You flinch. You do not even dare to be improper in your thoughts, and here you are, berating your parents like this…

But it feels refreshing. It feels honest. It feels good.

You lick your lips, an iota of freedom touching your soul and making you feel unbelievably delighted.

Every decision has to be yours.

Damian Wayne.

He is your decision. He is your choice.

You will explain to him. If he still wants you, you will sink into his embrace and never let him go. The simplicity of this want takes you aback.

Damian is your choice. Not just because he is the boy you met years ago, not just because he is your best friend, but because you love him.

You stand up, hands and arms shaking.

Every decision has to be yours.

You are making your decision now.

“Sweetheart,” Your mother frowns. Her eyes show disapproval in the way you abruptly stood up. It is improper. She wants to say that, but you cannot care right now. “Do you need something?”

“I cannot proceed with this engagement,” You say. 

You look at the man who was minutes away from becoming a fiancé. “I apologize.”

And you bolt.

You run in your painful sandals, a yellow sundress that flails around when you move fast, and your diamond earrings that juggle around, bright and shiny. You are drenched from the rain that ensues the moment you exit your large residence. You are exhausted. Your parents are screaming. 

Everything is a mess, but you are, for once, just happy.

When you reach Wayne Manor, you expect to be shunned. You expect Alfred to berate you from the entrance for breaking Damian’s heart. You expect his brothers to loathe you. You expect Bruce to be disgusted by the sight of you.

But you forget they are your family, too. You forget they consider you their family. 

Alfred smiles at you warmly. “Miss, can I offer you a towel?”

“Yes, but not now.” You say. “I need to see Damian.”

Alfred looks like he wants to argue, but Jason and Tim stop him.

Bruce nods, staring at you. “He is on the balcony of one of the guest rooms.”

Again balconies? You shake your head fondly and run. When you find the room he is inside, you heave a sigh of relief.

For a second, you dread talking to him. How could you possibly fix this? But you have to do this, because you love him. So you move forward as stealthily as possible.

Damian is, as Bruce said, on the balcony, looking out at the view the manor offers. He holds an umbrella over his head, and he looks like he is seeking serenity from Gotham, which is a peculiar choice but one you understand perfectly.

You take a deep breath. “Dami.”

Damian turns around. He looks shocked. Then, his eyes roam all over you. He glares at you, and you take a small step back, wondering if he hates you. He would not be in the wrong if he did.

But then you realize that he is glaring at you for the way you are drenched. He stalks forward, covering you with the umbrella. He takes off the blazer that he definitely wore to Wayne Enterprises and puts it around your shoulders.

You want to cry from happiness. You missed being drowned in the fabric of his blazers.

“What are you doing?” Damian questions harshly. “How dare you put yourself in harm’s way like this? You will catch a cold!”

“How—“

“I defied my parents today.” You share, and Damian instantly quiets.

He processes your words and opens his mouth, but you interrupt him. “But I still don’t know how to say no. Not to them, not to many others. I just know how to say yes. Except with you, of course, but that is different.”

Damian frowns. “Diffe—“

“I was always trained that I have to study, get married to a man, and have kids,” You explain. “Study what upholds the family name. Get married to a man who furthers the family name's legacy. Have children like a proper woman would. You know all this, but I have to tell you, so you understand.”

Damian nods. “Rooh Qalbi, of course, I do under—“

“I don’t want you to be engulfed by my parents’ wants.”

“I assure you, I am not engulfed by anything other than the desire to see you happy.”

Your face scrunches in equal parts, in pain and happiness.

“I am happy with you, Dami. So happy.” You explain. “I just got scared, and I apologize for that.”

Damian shakes his head, but you continue, grabbing his hands. “I don’t know if chocolate is actually my favourite ice cream flavour. Mother always got that one for me.”

“I will bring you every ice cream flavour that exists. You will learn what you prefer, Noor Eini,” Damian promises.

You laugh softly. “I also do not know if I actually hate movies, or if it is because Father never let me watch any. He was always more keen on documentaries.”

“We will have a movie marathon, Beloved.” 

Beloved. That is new, but you loved hearing it. You want more of it.

“I do not really like pink diamonds,” You blurt, and Damian smiles at you in the soft way he only reserves for you.

“Then, I shall only buy jewellery with diamonds.”

You laugh softly again, downcasting your eyes and tilting your head downwards.

Damian boldly tips your chin upwards as his fingers go under it. “Every demand you have will be fulfilled. Every desire you hold is of utmost importance. Everything you regard as a priority is a promise that I will satisfy.”

“Damian, I don’t know myself properly.” Your chin wobbles as you share. “All I know right now is that I am yours.”

Damian’s breath hitches, and you find it easier to speak. “I have to—I want to rewrite—everything I know about myself. Well, mostly, everything. I want to disregard that checklist I have known since I was a child. And I know all of this is tiresome. I know it sounds like you are holding a fraud, and that is tedious and loathso—“

Damian kisses you, effectively shutting you up.

Your hands curl into the fabric of his button-down, as his hands slot against your hips. The kiss is magnificent. It is everything, and everything you were unable to say pours into the kiss. You realize belatedly that Damian is also doing the same. The man who uses language with softness instead of a weapon for you decides to forego language for touch, and it is the single most divine action you have been at the receiving end of.

Damian moves back a little. You smile against his lips, letting out a sigh. Damian smiles back. His hand comes up to tuck a hair strand behind your ear. He whispers, “You are mine. I am yours. That is of paramount consideration.”

“You’re mine?” You question, a little dazed.

“Yes, Hayati.” He nods. “I will humble myself before you, as I am yours. If you must, you can break me if that is what you desire. Although I must admit, your engagement did almost threaten my composure. It called my sensibilities and sanity into question.”

“I want you to be happy. I want you with me,” You say. “I am sorry, Dami.”

Damian shakes his head. “I will humble myself before you. Not you. Never offer contrition to me or anyone, Hayati.”

You smile, kissing him again.

“Whatever choice you make, I shall remain by your side. Perpetually,” Damian murmurs. 

“I love you. You have my heart, Dami.”

“I love you, too, Rooh Qalbi. You have everything that makes me.”

And those words hold a promise within them that Damian will forever honour.

-> dating talia al ghul

warnings: suggestive content and an age gap of around 10 years (you imagine to your liking)

Dating Talia al Ghul is a combination of softness and an ache that you don't anticipate.

Girlfriend!Talia loves it when you spend her money. She logs into mobile banking more than she admits to herself just to see if you used the card you gave her. When you do, something in her stirs happily. It makes her feel like you trust her, and that means a lot to her.

Girlfriend!Talia always loves coming home to you. Convincing you to move in with her took time, and Talia ended up moving closer to your campus. The offer became enticing, and you caved. She does not mind the playlist that blasts in the bedroom. She does, however, love how she finds you. In your cute lacy pajamas, reading a novel, legs outstretched, with the small silver anklet around your right ankle peeking out. She loves the way you smile when you spot her and pull her down to the bed, straddling her.

Girlfriend!Talia loves holding you. Her hands slot against your hips perfectly, and when you sigh, her hands snake up under your shirt, fingers gliding up and down your spine. The sigh that escapes your mouth maddens Talia in the best way possible. It makes her pull you closer, making you wrap your legs around her waist and nuzzle into her neck. It makes her bite you, sink her teeth into your skin and run her tongue over it, while trying to bring you closer. Of course, both of you end up sleeping tangled with each other.

Girlfriend!Talia loves watching you do your makeup, especially when you put on the lipstick. You pucker your lips with the shade of red or pink you choose for the day and giggle at her. You raise your eyebrows, teasingly, as if asking, "How do I look?" And when Talia kisses you, you whine about your smudged lipstick but pull her closer.

Girlfriend!Talia loves taking you out shopping. She loves watching every sales associate fuss over you. They bring you pretty bags, dresses, and footwear. "How does this look?" You ask when you exit one of the trial rooms. Talia, who has a flute of extravagant liquor in her hands, tilts her head and watches you in one of the many dresses picked out for you. She stands up and kisses your forehead, approaching you. "You look beautiful, Beloved." And that red hue that casts over your cheeks when you are called your nickname is Talia's utmost favourite part of the day.

Girlfriend!Talia watches you try your hand at vegetarian dishes when Damian visits. Damian, who does not like the company of many people, props himself up on one of the kitchen stools and watches you pritter around the kitchen, with the dishes. Talia, whose only sense of family was her father and, once upon a time, Bruce, finds herself touched when she sits with you and Damian at the dining table for dinner. She entwines her fingers with yours under the table, watching you fuss over Damian, whose lips tip upwards in happiness he does not allow himself to fully show.

Girlfriend!Talia nearly cries when you gift her a pendant. It's simple, classy, and absolutely to her liking. But that is not why she is brought to near tears. It is the way you come to her, in your shirt, blazer, and trousers. It is the way you kiss her and hand her the neatly-wrapped jewellery box, saying, "I got paid. I thought I would get you a little something." It is the way she realizes that you spent a chunk of your first salary on what you called your first big girl job to buy her something. It is the way you hug her and whisper into the skin of her throat, "Thank you for always being here."

Girlfriend!Talia loves kissing the back of your hand. You are satiated, panting, and curled against her, as Talia falls back on the bed, trying to bring you impossibly closer. After a night of pleasure and love, Talia grabs your hand and places a kiss on the back of your hand. The kiss sears you in the best way, and you hook a leg over her, nearly resting on top of her. But Talia does not mind. She caresses your mussed hair, your back that is adorned with red marks, and back at your nape. You tilt your head to look at her properly. "I love you."

And Talia smirks slightly, bending her head to kiss you. Raking her nails lightly down your back again, she smiles against your lips, promising to always be here for you. However you want.

A/N: I love Talia al Ghul.

-> home

synopsis: the first time you spend the morning at jason's home, and the last time you do (happy ending, i promise!). tags: jason todd x fem!reader warnings: suggestive content and pregnancy

When you wake up in the morning, you blink rapidly, initially not recognizing your surroundings. Then, you feel an ache, a welcome one, and look at the ceiling with a red face.

You are in Jason Todd's home. In his bedroom, wrapped in the daintiest white sheets he owns. You go beetroot red as you reminisce about last night—the way his hands caressed your body, the way he kissed every inch of you, and the way he whispered into your ears. You had not expected it.

Neither had he, as indicated by the way he teared up and rested his head against yours. It was a night where he made good on the promise to make you feel and simply let go, and the ache, especially between your thighs, just attributes to that.

Jason always tried not to be vulnerable with you. He talked about everything but himself, but you slowly broke down those shields. Last night felt like, for the first time in a while, Jason was himself, with you. No mask, nothing. Now, you wish that the mask would be removed forever. You don't want just his wry smiles and smirks. You want more, and you would wait until Jason trusts you to give you that.

You sit up, pulling the sheets to your chest, and look at the nightstand. There is a tray with a glass of water, a plate full of shakshuka and avocado toast, and a bowl of fruit. You lean forward and find a note tucked under the tray.

Eat up. I am just heading out. - Jason

You blush at the sight of his writing. It's pathetic, but you cannot help it. You pull the note to your chest, looking around at the bedroom that you entered in a rush last night, too busy curling your fingers in Jason's leather jacket, as he tried to unbutton your dress.

It's a simple but lovely bedroom, all white in decor. You imagine Jason coming home from a long night of work and resting. It makes you happy.

But it could use some colour. That is your thought. You stand up and find a shirt neatly folded on the armchair in the corner. You wear it and giggle to yourself as you realize it is one of Jason's tees. You find another note on the chair, at the spot where the shirt was.

It's comfortable? If it's not, just take whatever you like from the closet. - Jason

You hold that note to your chest, too. Jason trusting you enough to leave you alone in his place and to even permit you to go into his closet makes you giddy. It fills you with promises you have not gotten yet and ones you want to make to him.

Drowning in the fabric of his large cotton tee, you brush your teeth with the toothbrush he leaves for you on the bathroom counter with a note that says: Don't skip breakfast, please. - Jason

You look at your reflection in the mirror. Unkempt hair, the large tee that still does not fully hide the marks from last night, and your red lips that are still stained with remnants of the smudged red lipstick from last night. You look like you are in love, and you are. You think one day, Jason will be, too. In love with you.

Tying up your hair with a claw clip from your bag, you take the tray to the living room. The dining table is small, and you miss Jason, wishing he were here to enjoy breakfast with you. You send him a quick text, wishing him a good morning and telling him not to skip meals, assuming he is at work.

The shakshuka is delicious, and so is the avocado toast. You scribble on a Post-it note you find from the coffee table: Thank you.

The blush on your face creeps down to your neck and shoulders as you stand in the middle of his kitchen, in his shirt. There is something so intimate about being in someone else's home while they are out. The trust, the silence, and the ability to look at a person sleeping in your bed and still close the door, trusting that person to keep your home occupied, is a sacred combination.

Jason gave you that this morning. You do not want to read too much into this. There is a chance none of this will last, but you are falling for this man, who tucks books into his pant pockets, who smiles at you when you blush, who tilts his baseball cap backwards to kiss you properly, and who listens to you complain about work with endless patience. And someone who makes you see stars when he touches you with delicateness and an ardour that you did not know before.

The happiness and satiation from last night and this morning combined make you hum softly as you wash the dishes. Then those hums become faint singing. Then, you put on music in the bedroom after a long and hot shower, moving your body to the rhythm of the songs on your playlist. You are still in one of Jason's shirts. Jason had kept your dress in the dryer, and it was not dry yet.

So, to pass the time, you cook a meal you can manage as a thank you and return to the bedroom to detangle your hair, swaying your hips. You think you are the only one in the room, but then you turn, and you see Jason, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with what looks like flowers tucked in his arms.

"Uh," You stop, the travel comb from your handbag hanging from your hand.

"Uh?" Jason laughs.

"You're home," You mutter, and you close your eyes, cringing. This is not your home. You stammer. "I mean. You are back. At your home."

"I am," Jason agrees. "I thought I'd bring you flowers."

"Oh," You say. "I thought you would be at work."

"And miss this show?" Jason arches an eyebrow.

You blush, which drives Jason crazy, but you don't know that. You look down at your feet. "My dress is still drying. I will get out of your hair as soon as it is out of the dryer."

"I don't want you to leave yet," Jason says, and you look up at him, watching him as he approaches you.

"Oh," You murmur.

"Flowers," He says, passing the bouquet to you.

You smile, taking them. "I love sunflowers."

"I know."

Jason's fingers go into your hair, and he pulls you closer to him, snaking his free arm around your waist. He says, "I like you in my shirt."

"I like it, too," You admit.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jason kisses the skin over your collarbone, chin, jaw, and your lips at last. You sigh into his mouth, your nose bumping his, eliciting giggles from both of you. You break the kiss slightly, looking at him—so carefree, so happy, so loving.

You run your fingers on his face, and Jason closes his eyes, which makes you kiss his eyelids with gentleness he does not consider a part of his life anymore. His hand detangles from your hair and slithers downwards, under your—his—shirt. You gasp, as one hand caresses your back, and the other curls around the underside of your breast.

Your next gasp is muffled by the way Jason kisses you. It is senseless, beautiful, and everything you both want. One thing leads to another, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, as Jason carefully places the sunflowers on the nightstand.

"This is your home, too. Our home," Jason murmurs against your sternum as he lays you down.

And you believe him, sighing into his mouth again.

Now, years later, you look at the glass sunflowers Jason gave you on your wedding day. The glass bouquet was glassblown by him himself and was one of the many gifts from him you got that day. You look down at your wedding ring, blushing as you remember the way Jason looked at you the day he made you wear that ring and the day you walked down the aisle, towards him.

You pack away the glass sunflowers in the cardboard box and sigh as the last box is taped shut. Dick takes the box, as Damian says, crossing your arms. "You want Todd to be distressed."

Stephanie and Cassandra snicker collectively, as Duke fondly shakes his head. Dick turns around, trying to emulate the fond glare Jason reserves for you when you do something that perturbs him. You swat him away and say, "Stop that!"

"He tried," Stephanie says, approaching you and kissing your cheek. She waves bye, and Cassandra does the same, both taking their leave. Tim waves at you, murmuring something to Duke on the way out. Damian nods to himself and then looks at you. "I will take your leave. If you want Todd to be present when you deliver that spawn, I suggest you do not do what you did today."

You shake your head. "Don't call my baby a spawn."

"They are half a Todd. It is what they should be called," Damian says, and you shake your head again, watching him leave.

When the door clicks shut, you turn around to look at the empty living room. This apartment is no longer your and Jason's home. You both are moving into a bigger place, with bigger rooms and a backyard. But this place will forever be important to you and Jason. All the days and nights you both spent coming home to each other, reading on the couch or watching a movie together, kissing each other in the primary bedroom, and doing chores together around the house.

"Why do you always do this?" You hear Jason's gruff voice behind you.

You smile, and you look down at the arms that wrap around your middle, landing on the large bump. You wince slightly but smile brighter as you feel a light kick. You roll your eyes in faux miff and murmur. "Daddy's sidekick."

"What is that?" Jason teases you, pinching your nose.

"The baby always kicks when you hold me," You say.

"The baby knows how much I love you," Jason says, and you call him cheesy, to which he laughs loudly.

"Sweetheart," Jason says, slotting his neck into the space connecting your shoulder and neck. "Please, don't do that."

You play dumb. "Do what?"

"Getting up on ladders and stools," He says. "You are trying to kill me with a heart attack."

You move your hand backwards to caress his hair. "Sorry. I just wanted to remove those pictures and vases. Thought I would save you and your siblings from extra work."

"My siblings are useless most of the time," Jason huffs. "At least, now they are helping. Don't make things easier for them."

You roll your eyes. "Says the one who called them over and fed them dinner and snacks instead of getting them to move around the boxes lying around."

"How will they work without eating?" Jason says, and you slap his head softly, making him huff laughter.

"You can pretend all you want, Jason Todd, but you love immensely," You whisper. On cue, there is a harder kick this time. You wince and wheeze out a laugh. "Even our child agrees."

"Traitor," Jason murmurs, caressing your bump. His voice is so reverent and fond, it almost breaks you.

Jason says, "Now, after moving in, we have to decide on the godparent."

"Yeah, we do," You agree.

You both stand like that for a long time. In the middle of an empty living room, hands on top of each other, the child arriving soon, kicking in your womb with impatience definitely inherited from both of their parents, and a love that echoes preciously.

You murmur. "I love you, Jason."

Jason tilts his head to kiss the back of your ear. "I love you, too."

Then, he removes himself from your embrace and turns you around, holding you front to front. He brushes your nose with his and looks at you with love that you never thought could be possible. "You know, how I told you that this is your home."

You blush, remembering that day and the night previous to that, and Jason teases you, making you swat his shoulder.

"Yeah?" You manage to say.

"You are my home," Jason amends those old words. You smile and kiss him, saying that he, too, is your home. And that baby, who will arrive soon, is both of your worlds.

-> nighttime (you matter series 2/?)

synopsis: a night with little brother damian wayne and you is something dick gets unexpectedly, but he does not complain. tags: platonic!damian wayne x reader, platonic!talia al-ghul x reader, platonic!jason todd x reader, platonic!batfam x reader, dick grayson x reader

[part one]

Your space is sacred. Dick learned that in the early days of dating you. No one is allowed to enter your apartment, not even your parents, who are living in a comfortable townhouse on the West Coast, enjoying the early retirement you afforded them.

Your space is clean, uncluttered, just like the rest of your things. There is precision in the way you care for your things, your places—including your office. So Dick had always moved with the expectation that he would never be welcome in your home. 

It would sting, he thought, but he was okay with that as long as you were comfortable. But then, one night, you welcomed him inside your home. Then another. Then a few other times. Then you gave him a key and told him not to lose it. It was your way of saying that this was his home, too.

When you handed him a spare key, Dick pressed a kiss to your lips, gathering you in his arms, murmuring that he would never let you go. You smiled faintly against his lips and nodded. The nod was simply to let him know you liked the idea.

Ever since then, Dick treats the spare key—the one that opens the door to your home—as if it's sacred. It is attached to a keychain that he bought on a trip you and he took together, and he keeps it very safe. More than anything else. That key is not a mere key. It is your trust, your boundaries bending for another, and love.

And he never expects you to expand that trust, that comfort, the bending of those boundaries you have had since you were a child, and that love. But he also does not expect you to warm up to his family. Dick definitely does not expect you to be okay with his siblings entering your home like it were also a haven for them.

But he learns that you do one night.

The evening slowly drifts into the night when you return home from work. You are in your formal blouse, pants whose seams you find irritating, and an appropriately matched blazer. Your laptop bag dangles from your side, and when you open the door, you are welcomed with a scent you associate with Dick. 

You are not supposed to sigh in relief. Dick’s not supposed to notice it. But you do, and so does he. He watches with those careful eyes as you remove your heels, blazer, and the laptop bag from your shoulder. Dick approaches you with measured steps. He tugs you closer, keeping his arms around your middle. One arm slides upward to grab your hair tie, remove it, and run fingers through your long hair.

“Hi,” You whisper, as you curl against him, your hands going around his neck, brushing his nape.

“Hi,” Dick says, his voice cheerful. 

There was a time when Dick feared his enthusiasm would be a deterrent to meaningful connections, to love. But with you, someone who prefers silence to anything else, choosing his words and noise wrapped in cheer, he feels chosen, loved, and honoured. It’s hard to explain. So hard to explain what it means to have all of him be chosen by you.

“Tired?” He asks, as his arms move downwards to go around your middle and carry you to the couch.

“Hungry,” You answer. “Very hungry.” Dick laughs. “Want me to cook?”

“Aren’t you tired?” You ask, and Dick slots himself into the crook of your neck—an answer enough.

“How about takeout?”

You shake your head. You tilt your head back and kiss the curve of his jaw, suggesting, “How about the restaurant across?”

“Sure about that, babe?” Dick questions. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in?”

You blink. “You said you wanted to go there one night. I am in the mood, if you are.”

“Besides, it’s casual dress code,” You add, because, of course, you do your research beforehand. 

You are not spontaneous, and Dick loves that about you, even when you think it might be a hindrance. But others don’t see you the way he does. They don’t see the meticulousness behind your habits, the years of pressure behind your plans, and the weight behind the way you treat everything like a duty.

“Give me a second,” Dick says, nodding. “I am gonna grab our coats.”

He brings the jacket you ironed delicately and makes you wear it. He holds your hand and takes you to the restaurant across from your home, which you both end up loving. It’s a serene evening—no vigilante duties, no meetings that end up going over your usual work hours.

You giggle as Dick embraces you sideways, and Dick caresses your hair, his hold on you making you feel like you are the most precious thing in the world. Dick whispers how much he loves you in your ear, and you blush, while pecking his nose, which is an answer in its own.

Dick sometimes doesn't understand why you love him. 

Do you not wonder that he dims your brilliance?

“I love you,” He later tells you again, cupping your face, after you both return home and get ready to go to bed.

You smile at him. Resting your head against his, you whisper, “I love you, too.”

“Thanks,” You murmur afterwards, and Dick looks at you with surprise.

“Why?”

You look at the way his arms now loop around your waist, and Dick recognizes your thoughts. He always does, and he does not understand the way you see yourself. What you see as rigidness and inflexibility, Dick sees as fortitude and grit. So, Dick does what he knows best: he uses his agility to lift you gracefully. He kisses you, and he says, “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

“I do,” You say, shaking your head. Everything is a duty to you, even love. And for the longest time, that duty was not returned to and upheld towards you, too. It was not honoured. It was not considered. And Dick promises himself to never be another person in your life who does that.

So, when you rest your head against his chest, basking in the warmth he offers, he does not do what you expect him to: break your heart. Another night, he stays with you. Another night, you glance at him, wondering if tonight is the one where Dick calls it quits, that he is tired of you and who you are.

“Go to sleep, babe,” Dick says. “I am right here, and when the morning comes, I will try to find ways to convince you to stay in.”

You roll your eyes. “You can try."

“I will succeed.”

“104.”

“What?”

You kiss his jaw. “That’s how many days you have tried to get me to stay in bed and failed.”

“What can I say? I love a workaholic.”

“And I love a vigilante.” You retort, and Dick laughs, trying to tickle you, making you shriek.

It is in the middle of the night that Dick wakes up. It is due to a thud in the living room. Blinking rapidly, he first reaches for you instinctually. But then he thinks of you in the living room.

He sits up fast and alert. Dick knows you are a deep sleeper. He knows that you do not hold the habit of waking up in the middle of the night, and when you do on rare occasions, you always reach for him, trying to use him as a soundboard for whatever thought pulls you out of your sleep.

The absence of that action pushes Dick to gather an escrima stick and a batarang. He tried not to think of the worst-case scenario. You are okay. He tells himself. You are just grabbing water, and maybe the glass fell out of your hand. You are just walking back to the room and may hit the edge of the coffee table due to sleepiness.

You are okay. He tells himself again as he opens the door with urgency, and when he turns in the direction of the living room, Dick breathes a sigh of relief, seeing the open window and the two figures near the couch and armchair. He knows the intruder and knows you are safe.

He abandons the escrima stick and a batarang when he sees his little brother, Damian, perched on the armchair. You are hovering over him, watching him hold a gauze to his wound.

You ask, “Do you want me to put on a bandage?”

Damian tilts his head and assesses you while you wait. Your bond with Damian, if it is even a bond, is something Dick did not expect but does not mind. In hindsight, it makes absolute sense that you both seek each other out. You both see love as a duty, and you both are unyielding when you want to be.

Stubborn, curt, and understanding. Minds that grew up too fast, and bodies that still bear the heaviness of that burdensome brilliance and resourcefulness.

Even now, as your hands curl at your sides, you do not push yourself to do what you want. You wait for Damian's permission because you do not want to trample on his right to choose.

Somehow, you see Damian has not had many choices in his life, and Dick does not know if he should be happy that you noticed that or if he should be pained that you could recognize that tacitly.

“Yes, I would like that,” Damian says, and you get to work instantly. You still keep your space, not crowding him, but the little boy leans into you, slotting his face into your arm.

After bandaging his wound, you ask, “Is it okay if I…”

“It is alright,” Damian says, as if he knows what you would ask. He lets out a childish sigh as you caress his hair, letting him rest on you. You are an anchor that Damian cherishes. That is what Dick notices as he approaches you two.

“You are okay,” You tell Damian, and he nods.

“I believe I am,” He says, sounding like the child he is.

Dick places a hand on your shoulder and another on Damian’s, startling you for a second. You look up at him, and Dick kisses your forehead, swiping away at your teary eyes. He does the same for Damian.

“Come on,” He tells Damian. “Change your clothes, so that you can sleep.”

You look at Dick. You do not have a spare change of clothes for Damian. Nothing won’t fit him. 

“I am fine,” Damian bites out. “I shall depart now.”

But he still clings to you, shielding himself from the world, from expectations, and from duties. He does it unconsciously, without knowing, and you hold him in the same way. You do it like it is simple and not an act of protection and adoration.

“You can stay,” You tell him. You do not order him. You do not tell him that the decision to stay has been made. 

You inform him instead in your gentle voice. “You can spend the night here and take it easy, as you’re injured. You can wear one of Dick’s clean shirts, and you can leave after breakfast in the morning. Dick will drop you then.”

It went without saying that whatever Damian wanted would happen. If he wanted to go back to the manor, Dick would carry him there, letting you drive. But if he stayed, it would make for another mundane night for the boy, but a safe one.

Damian leans back, looking at you and then glaring at Dick, an expression he is used to. 

“Whatever you want, Damian,” You whisper, and Damian’s face softens, his eyes looking at Dick differently, thanks to your voice. The default wariness does not slice or linger this time. Dick and you watch Damian contemplate.

The realization that something as simple as contemplation and taking the time to do that is not something Damian is used to. Every step, every decision, every move Damian takes is instinctual, coming from years of training and preparing. A lot boils down to legacies for Damian, but here, none of that echoes. It feels like none of that matters.

So, Damian, in all of the vulnerability he does not allow himself, nods.

“What do you want?” You ask, not getting the meaning behind the nod.

“Do you want us to drop you home, or do you want to stay for the night?”

“I shall stay the night, if that is permitted by you,” Damian answers, and you smile, brushing his hair softly once again. “You are permitted. Not just for tonight but anytime you need.”

Dick stares at you in surprise. He had never assumed your home—your safe space—would open up to anyone else. But it does, and Dick loves you even more for the love you give so easily and so truly. It is like no other.

Damian nods and follows Dick into the bedroom, where he keeps clean clothes. When Dick helps Damian into the large and loose shirt, he almost cries from the way the cloth descends to Damian’s ankles. It was so easy to forget how old Damian truly was. It was so easy to consider him an heir more than a child, and even Dick, who tries not to do that, fails sometimes.

Damian scowls, “I demand another garment.”

Dick snickers and passes him another shirt, which fits similarly. Damian groans. “I object to this.”

“I know.”

“Since you know, be competent and find me a garment that fits appropriately.” Damian demands.

Dick smiles. “That would require me to drive far enough that my girlfriend would be concerned.” Damian frowns. Dick’s entire family knows about your apprehension about driving at night. It is something that you do not like Dick doing, too. It is a demand that Dick heeds to, because he knows his vigilante duties scare you enough.

“I will not let you distress her,” Damian says, and Dick holds back laughter.

“Then, you have to sleep in this tonight,” Dick says, and Damian nods tersely. He does not mind being inconvenienced if it prevents you from being so.

You come back into the room with a tray full of water and crackers, and you smile brightly, watching Damian drowning in Dick’s tee. But you don’t say anything and instead point to the bed. “Would you like to sleep here, or in the other room?”

“I will spend the remainder of the night here.” Damian answers and trots to the bed as if it were a throne. He sits down in the middle, and you place a tray before him. He assesses the crackers and looks at you. You answer his unasked question. “Do not sleep on an empty stomach. These are good for digestion.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Empty stomach?”

“It is a phrase,” You say.

“It is outlandish,” Damian says.

You ask. “Did you eat anything in the last 6 hours?”

“No,” Damian bites out.

“Empty stomach, it is. Now, if you want, eat,” You say. “If you want something else…”

You point at Dick, which makes Damian smirk, “He can make something.”

“Hey!” Dick exclaims, and Damian crosses his arms like he wants to contemplate making Dick work in the kitchen at midnight. But then he uncrosses his arms and eats the crackers.

“They are acceptable,” He says, and you look at Dick, who smiles, shaking his head.

After he is done with the snack, the bedroom lights shut down again. You and Dick expect Damian to roll to the side, fussing and irritated, but he stays in the middle. He opens his eyes and watches you both standing a little awkwardly. “Will you sleep, or is there another bedtime step to fulfill?”

“Are you comfortable?” You ask, and Damian stills. It is a question he does not expect. Even in the dark, you both can see his throat work.

“Yes, I am.”

That is all it takes for you both to settle. You, to his right, and Dick, to his left, it does not take much time for Damian to fall asleep. Dick smiles as he watches Damian roll over to you and snore on your sternum.

“He is a snorer,” You say, and Dick laughs softly. He brushes the hair out of your eyes, as he says, “He is an old soul.”

“That phrase is annoying,” You say, and Dick laughs again.

“He is also strong,” You murmur, feeling Damian curl his tiny hands on the fabric of your nightwear.

“That he is. Stronger than his body can take.”

When Damian wakes up the next morning, he swiftly realizes he is drowning in an oversized shirt that is soft and clean-smelling. When he tries to stretch his arms, he realizes he is not on top of a mattress. He is on top of you.

His legs are tucked into the back of your thigh. His arms are around you, and his head is slotted into the crook of your neck. It has been one of the most peaceful sleeps he has gotten, and while he does try to attribute it to the room, the light snack he had before sleeping, and the general tiredness from patrol, something in him attributes peace to you.

Damian sighs and separates himself from you, rolling to your side. He looks at you, sleeping, and decides to get up. As an act of gratitude, he plans breakfast, already putting together a list of ingredients in his mind.

“Hey,” Dick says, watching Damian trot into the kitchen, determined. Damian rolls his eyes, watching Dick prepare a pot of coffee for you. How have you chosen him as a boyfriend, a guy who cannot plan a decent breakfast? 

Dick asks, “Did you brush your teeth? You should do that before—”

“Richard,” Damian says. “I will brush my teeth when you provide me with the tools to do that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dick says. “Let me grab you a toothbrush and towel.”

He gets to that while Damian looks at the cupboards and shelves. He gathers an understanding of what you stock in your kitchen. That alone allows him to plan the breakfast he has in mind.

“Here,” Dick says. “There is a toothbrush, a face cloth, and a towel in the bathroom.”

“I also kept a clean shirt for you to change into, if you would like to take a shower here before I drive you to the manor.” Dick explains, and Damian nods.

He points to multiple ingredients. “I want them all to be placed on the countertop.”

“What for?”

Dick arches an eyebrow teasingly. “Why?”

“Unlike you, I know how to properly thank someone,” Damian answers and goes in the direction of the bathroom. And when he returns, he gets to work.

Pancakes. Sandwiches. All vegan, all made by Damian from scratch.

And when you wake up, you find Damian staring at you. He is still drowning in fabric, but it is a different shirt from last night.

You blink. “Good morning, Damian.” “Good morning,” He says and pushes your soft blue toothbrush into your hands, saying. “Go, brush your teeth and, perhaps, take a bath, too.”

“Why?” You ask.

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Because it is proper hygiene routine.”

You roll your eyes and open your mouth when Damian stops you by saying. “I will take no more questions until you brush your teeth.”

“Okay,” You say and obey. When you exit the vanity room, in your shirt and suit pants, you are delighted to see Dick and Damian setting up breakfast in the dining room at the dining table.

You approach them. “It smells great.”

“I have prepared this,” Damian says, and then he eyes Dick. “He was of passable assistance in some steps.” “Like reaching the top shelves,” Dick explains, and he groans in pain as Damian steps on his foot.

You laugh softly, as Dick approaches you to button your sleeves and, of course, place a chaste kiss on your lips. You look at Damian. “Thank you.”

“There is nothing for you to thank me for,” He says. That is his way of saying this is a thank you for holding him. You shake your head, and Damian’s gaze softens, because, to him, it feels like holding him is not a duty borne out of force for you.

It is a duty that is borne out of love.

And that realization is what makes him not scowl as you feed him a bite of your pancakes on your plate.

And the image of you and Damian smiling at each other, shyly and with apprehension that comes with the newness of finding comfort in a person, is forever etched in Dick's mind.

series tag list: @bloomfaery, @kittzu, @valinat, @iglb12, @arcspectorondeeznuts, @number1-luffylover, @apocal-ips, @psysgr

A/N: Thank you for reading!

-> i will always be there to catch you

synopsis: jason todd, your best friend, taught you how to ride a bicycle. now he teaches you how to ride a motorcycle. tags: jason todd x fem!reader

Growing up in Crime Alley meant surviving. It meant learning how to become an adult while you were a child. You and the boy you met when you were four always knew that and dealt with that. No matter how many systems Gotham was home to that failed you both, you both had each other.

And that realization hits you once again as the boy you met when you were four, aka your best friend, Jason Todd, presents a small bicycle with red accents to you. He stands nervously in the sweater that is entirely too big for him, and you cup your face, covering your eyes with the shirt's sleeves that Jason got you.

You are way smaller than him, but his clothes are hand-me-downs; you do not refuse. Even though he tries to convince you to let him buy you new clothes with the allowance his adoptive dad, Bruce Wayne, allots him, you stubbornly refuse, only taking his old sweaters and shirts.

Jason Todd, your best friend, and Robin, who genuinely cares about Crime Alley, came to your dingy home today with a red bicycle. You comprehend that fully now and jump into his arms.

"Jay, what is this?" You ask, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

He laughs and ruffles your hair with one hand, holding you up with his free arm. "It's a gift. And before you say no, it is not from my allowance money."

You lift your head and stare at him. "What?"

Jason's face flushes. "I worked a little. Part-time gig at Gotham Academy's drama rehearsals. It's an old bicycle. I fixed a few of the really old parts and spray painted it."

You tear up. Gotham's systems took so much from you and Jason, but it gave you each other. You both miss your families every day. You miss your family. Jason misses Willis and Catherine. But having each other softens the ache slightly.

"That's so sweet, Jay!" You exclaim and keep your arms around his neck again, pulling him into a deathly tight hug. Jason laughs, and he says. "Are you going to keep hugging me, or will you try out the bicycle?"

You remove yourself from his embrace, and Jason hates how empty it feels without you against him. You marvel at the bicycle, the red, and just how shiny and beautiful it is. You look at him with starry, wide eyes. "You'll teach me?"

"Of course, silly." He says. And he guides you to the bicycle, feeling excited on your behalf. You talk his ear off as he helps you onto the seat, saying how you are going to bike to school every day now. And how all your classmates will be jealous of your bicycle.

You are a year younger than Jason, and he loves to tease you about it every day. But right now, he is serious and determined as he holds onto your seat as you press on the pedals. You do a few laps with him right beside you. Then, he removes his hands, and you do two laps. You get a little scared, and Jason is there kindly.

"I will always catch you," He murmurs against your ear as you stop and take a deep breath. You look at him and nod.

You grin at him, innocent, hopeful, and with rough hands that should not belong to a child. Your hands are just like his, and Jason never forgets that, even when he is in Wayne Manor. You ask, "Do you think one day I can ride it without the training wheels?"

Jason grins back. "Of course, you can. You believe in me, and I believe in you."

You blush. You hug him, and Jason hugs you back, the silent promise of always holding on to each other taken again.

Years pass. You both lose each other and get each other back. Both of your hands get rougher, more calloused, and scarred. Both of you are jaded. Jason never expects to find something so soft with you, and you never expect to be able to hold him again.

But both of you have each other to trust, love, and rely on. Right now proves it.

"No," You murmur, as you shake your head. You are in your Gotham U hoodie that swallows your form, while Jason stands before you, making you wear the custom helmet he got for you. He buckles the straps and smiles at you. It is a smile only reserved for you.

"I will crash your bike," you tell him, and he shrugs. "I will repair it."

"What if you can't?"

"Then, I will get another one," He says simply.

You sigh. "Jay. What if I get hur-"

Jason shakes his head, placing a finger on your lips. He effectively shuts you up with that small action. Then, he leans forward, tilting his face to plant a hard and stamping kiss on your lips. He leans back and says, "I will always be there to catch you."

Jason plays with a treacherous hair strand that peeks out of your helmet. "I won't let anything hurt you."

Your shoulders drop from softness, gratitude, and love. You cup his face and kiss him. "I know. I trust you."

Jason stares at you like he cannot believe why you do. But he also looks like he won't ever let you go, which relieves you more than words can ever express.

"But I don't trust myself," You say, shaking your head. "It took you two years to teach me how to ride a bicycle without training wheels."

Jason flinches. The memories of your scraped knees and elbows and cries multiple times still get to him. He hates it when you are hurt. He hates even the smallest memory of the smallest cut.

He keeps an arm around your waist and brings you against him. "And you got it in the end. You will learn this, too. You said you wanted to learn."

He taps your nose, and you scrunch your face cutely in a way that he adores. He whispers, "My brave girl can do it. You can do anything."

"Sap."

"In love," Jason corrects, brushing his lips with yours again. You try to rest your forehead against his, but the helmet gets in the way, and you both giggle. Like it is easy, like you both were never hurt by Gotham and its systems and institutions. You both giggle like you have each other for a lifetime, and it is the truth.

You exhale. "Okay, let's do this. I want to learn."

"That's my girl," Jason whispers.

He breaks the embrace and leads you to his motorcycle. His hands wrap around your waist, guiding you onto the two-wheeler. He is gentle, something that is reserved for you. He is patient, a trait people overlook in him. He is loving, something the world thinks he is not capable of as a boy from Crime Alley, as a guy drenched in anger from being tortured to death, and as a young man who wished to be avenged.

He is yours.

It takes a few hours and multiple tries, but you are able to drive your boyfriend's precious, state-of-the-art motorcycle. Only barely a meter or two, but you do it, and when you feel the gust of slight air when you do, you giggle loudly. And when you hop off the motorcycle, you hug Jason, saying, "I did it! I did it, Jay!"

"You did," Jason says, just as happy for you, catching you in his arms.

"You caught me again," You murmur against his ear.

Jason tightens his arms around you, promising. "Always will, Sweetheart."

And Jason never breaks a promise made to you.

-> you matter series

synopsis: richard "dick" grayson's girlfriend is not supposed to mean much to anyone except him. but she does mean a lot to the batfamily, especially damian wayne. she gets a family in gotham, and the batfamily gets a voice of reason and a safe space.

chapter 1: books and silence

-> books and silence (you matter series 1/?)

synopsis: dick grayson's girlfriend is not supposed to mean anything but she does mean a lot to damian wayne and the rest of the batfamily. tags: platonic!damian wayne x reader, platonic!talia al-ghul x reader, platonic!jason todd x reader, platonic!batfam x reader, dick grayson x reader notes: talia al-ghul hate will not be tolerated! i love her. she loves her son. she loves jason as a son (that kiss did not happen). she respects dick. she is a complex woman and mom, and will always be treated that way in my blog.

[part two]

When Damian Wayne moved to the United States, he had not expected much from this country, its people, and most importantly, his father.

Admittedly, Damian felt lost. A part of him could not settle in Gotham.

Small things like the smell of his mother's shawl, her curt but everlasting love for him, the distinct scent of bakhoor in the interior fragrance that was used around the grand halls, and even the sound of everyday phrases that he associated with home were gone in an instant. And no matter how much he tried, he could not replicate that feeling here, in Gotham.

But Damian is good at adapting. He is sufficiently prepared to fit in without compromising his standards, integrity, or values. He will stand out in the glory of being an Al-Ghul and Wayne, but he will also blend in with the chaos of Gotham seamlessly. That makes him a good heir and a good Robin. A great Robin, actually. Saving lives. It's an honour.

In doing so, he gets closer to Talia in an unspoken way. Seas and lands apart, he gets to remember Talia in every life he saves, in every deed he fulfills with Bruce Wayne's ideologies and Talia Al-Ghul's heart, no matter how many did not understand her.

Sometimes he wishes to see her. But Damian understands what has happened. Bruce having his custody, Damian being away from the League... they are choices that occurred for reasons. Painful, but Damian survived.

He always will.

So he lives. Damian goes on as Robin. He becomes the notoriously respected heir of the Wayne family. He is beloved and feared in ways that only make sense to him.

But things change. He meets you, Dick Grayson's girlfriend. Biomedical and c-suite extraordinaire. A genius who tinkers with gadgets for fun. Someone who is calm, extremely loving, but distant with set boundaries, and silent.

Someone who sees Dick for who he is. That is what the family realized early on. Dick, who is burdened in ways that he tries not to show and succeeds, has you now. He does not pretend with you. He does not have to be the beacon of light he tries so hard to be, soft and unwavering in his cheerfulness and compassion. He is the heart of his teams, his work, and the people who look up to him and the flash of blue that Blüdhaven looks forward to, as hope, fear, and myth. But you are the center of his life, his world.

Damian tried to be agitated with you. You made Dick happier, cheerful in a different way that was frankly grating. It irritated and flustered Damian because it felt endless. So he tried his usual ways of antagonism, unintentional, something that came to him easily.

A civilian would back away. You should have, but you just calmly looked at him, smiling at an apologetic Dick. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer like he could shield you from Damian's words.

You didn't need it, though. You were hardly intimidated by the tiny Robin, and that further angered Damian.

But one day, he showed up at your home, an apartment that Damian found frankly mediocre. Dick simply wanted to spend time with him, and your place happened to be close, a haven Dick would willingly choose all the time.

Damian did not expect the bakhoor scent, the fairy lights, or the way you listened to Dick speak endlessly about everything, even patrolling. Dick's escrima sticks were next to your files. And the smell of hearty food that was vegetarian. It made Damian's eyes water slightly because Wayne Manor was home. But this... it felt like home, too.

And then Damian came back again. He stayed over and was surprised the next morning to find a cereal dispenser with different vegetarian brands. Dick sauntered into the kitchen, grinning. "Yeah, she ordered stuff that you might like. Try them out. She is gonna turn the kitchen into a buffet spread for you if that makes you happy."

Then, Dick softened and bent to look at Damian properly. "Give her a chance, Dami. She does not do words well, but she listens. She loves me—all of us. In the way she knows."

Damian stiffly nodded. Because he knows what it is like to be curt with words, to struggle with a language that was not his, and to be told that formality in words is wrong, too complex, and a disadvantage to achieving meaningful connections. So Damian does what he never expected. He softens. He softens at the anticipation of connection, drifting at the threshold of something unknown but not unwanted.

Today, he walks with you at the book fair happening at Gotham Academy. You are in your work clothes, calling Dick.

Your voice is calm, even when you bristle at the contact with the crowd. "I am here with Damian. Take your time. It's okay, Dick. I like your family, especially Damian. I love you too. Bye. Don't forget to remove your shoes before you walk inside. It's a warning. Don't call me sweetheart. Not like that."

Damian hates how he perks up at the way you say that you like him. He hates how he leans into your side, as you keep a hand on his shoulder, leading you to the many tables.

"Do you have a favourite genre?" You ask.

Damian looks up at you. "I prefer to be well-versed with all types of literature."

"Very well." You say. "Not many your age have that mindset. Good."

Damian's ears turn slightly red. You do not notice, thankfully. He clears his throat and asks, "Do you have a preferred genre in literature?"

"I like mysteries," You admit. You look a little shy as you say that.

"Mysteries?" Damian arches an eyebrow. "That is... fitting with the choice of a life partner you made."

You look at him, repeating his words. "Life partner."

Damian bristles. Panic closes his throat for a second, because he miscomprehends your mischievous tone as something far more drastic. Something where you may not want Dick as your partner for life.

You notice how Damian's throat works. You notice the way he bristles and gets lost in his thoughts. You explain calmly. "I always refer to Dick as my boyfriend. Hearing the phrase life partner makes me feel different."

"Do you take objection to that phrase?" Damian asks.

You shake your head. "No. I like it. A partner in life. Dick is exactly that."

"You are that for him, too," Damian stiffly adds, not wanting you to forget the fact that you give more than you are his partner, too. The one who takes the weight of being a girlfriend to Richard Grayson and Nightwing.

"Am I, Mr. Wayne?" You tease, and Damian jerks his chin in agreement.

He says earnestly. "You are. Grayson's..."

"authentic, observably so. More than what was seen from him before," Damian says.

Your facial expression softens. "Then I am doing my duty well."

Duty. That word means so much to Damian. He sees duty as a shackle, a vow, and a location for memories.

But for the first time in a while, he comes to see that word as synonymous with love. Right now, he sees it, because the way your voice curls around that word can only be seen and heard with love. The way the word inflects with your voice and the calmness of your face... that is love.

"Is what you have with Grayson a duty?" Damian questions as his feet take him forward to a table in the corner. Your hand shifts from his shoulder to holding his, steady and firm. Like a responsible adult who is with a child.

It hits Damian ferociously and embarrassingly that he feels like a child right now. With peers his age glancing at him curiously and teachers surprised by the way he lets you hover with fewer imposed limits, he feels like the age he is. Usually, he would loathe that, but with you, he does not. He basks in it, and he knows he will be embarrassed and angry, and he also may take that combination of feelings out on you in the coming days in the form of cutting words, something he wants to prevent desperately.

"A duty where we make each other happy and," You say. "As you say, authentic."

"Because having the space to be authentic with someone is sometimes all that you want, Damian," You add.

Damian nods, but he does not fully comprehend. The concept of that is baffling, because acceptance from another person for being authentic seems irrational. It feels laughable to be seen by someone.

You stay silent as you both stand before the table spread with literature, some of which you recognize and some of which you don't. Damian peers at the covers, the blurbs on the back, and runs his fingers through the spines.

He watches you look at some of the books with a wistful expression on your face. He does not understand why, so he questions in his proud voice. "Do you want to indulge in purchasing a novel?"

"I think I have enough for now. Do you want to?" You ask.

Damian stares at you. "Why are you gazing at the works with such longing then?"

You still. Your face contorts into something calculating but not inauthentic. You seem to weigh your options and choose your words carefully. "I was reminded of my childhood."

"I enjoy reading. The public library used to have really old books," You explain. Damian nods. He knows that you grew up near Crime Alley.

"It is always surprising to find memories in inanimate objects," You continue speaking. A tinge of sentiment hits your tone. "The courtesy of nostalgia."

Memories. Damian's mind goes to the League, his mother, his grandfather, and the many moments that hurt even bodily, even now.

"Was your childhood acceptable?" Damian questions and regrets it immediately. Growing up near Crime Alley. The answer to his question is quite clear.

"By the standards of Gotham? No. By the standards of survival? Yes. I got by," You admit. "I was the ticket out of my neighbourhood for my family."

Damian bristles as you refuse to say the phrase that haunts, something he could tell alone from the way you spoke right now. The golden child.

"I studied well. If I worked hard, I would be okay. That is what everyone said about me. I would be able to get my parents out of the neighbourhood. I could be something that saved them." You say, your eyes going back to the books.

"That is unfathomable pressure," Damian comments, but he feels, deep down, that the pressure you try not to mention is fathomable to him. Because he knows that pressure, just differently. His eyes also go back to the books.

He does not like the way his eyes wander and land on one particular work. Not a fictional novel. It is a large book buried under multiple paperbacks, but its spine is visible. The title stutters something within Damian. A medical text. Allopathic. Sharp pain fills him.

"Damian." Your voice is sharp as your hand lands back against his nape. You notice how he stares at the book, but you don't say anything. You are not here to demand answers. You are here simply to accompany him, and this little boy, who has seen so much of the world's realities at such a young age, wants to share something; you will listen. But you won't force him to do anything.

"I want to purchase that," Damian murmurs, the pride in his voice intact but the beligerent elegance gone. His voice is gravelly as if he is holding back.

"Then, we will buy it," you say, nodding at the guy behind the table. You pay, and Damian does nothing except watch. He should stop you from paying, from tapping his nape in a soothing rhythm, and from treating him the way you do. But he does not. Instead, he leans into your side and places his hand in your free one, as you take the paper bag with the wrapped book.

You do not laugh at Damian for picking such an old book. The spine is a little cracked. The papers dusty. The corners earmarked and folded. You do not say why a child of his age wants to read something so dense, something out of the science syllabus of Gotham Academy.

You just hold the bag and his hand. You lead him down the fair and make him sit down in a makeshift coffee stand with tables and chairs. You don't leave him. You sit opposite him, not asking him to eat or drink anything. You let him have choices, silently but present, and Damian feels the weight of that. He feels gratitude and relief. He feels odd, having that.

Then, in a low voice, he admits. "My mother studied medicine."

You blink.

"I was reminded of her," Damian says.

"University of Cairo," Damian adds. "She is brilliant. Much like is expected. But she outdoes the expectation of brilliance every time."

Moments pass by before you say something. Before you find the correct words to use.

"That is an expectation you have for yourself, too," You say. "And that expectation is not only about fulfilling a legacy but also about missing her."

Damian's throat closes. It feels clogged, for lack of a better word, to explain the sensation. He does not indulge in something as pathetic as flailing his arms and legs to compose himself. That is what a child without proper lessons on containment would do.

And that is not what Damian Al-Ghul Wayne would do. He composes himself. He stills. He inhales. He exhales. His being hinges on the name Al-Ghul. He thinks clearly: Damian Al-Ghul. That is still his name, a small voice murmurs within him.

He nods, as he likes the familiarity of the name Damian Al-Ghul. He nods once again as he feels the liking extend to the name Damian Wayne as well.

"I do," He murmurs afterward. His sentiments, morals, and thoughts may not fully align with either the Wayne or the Al-Ghul legacy, but he does love. As much as he is a weapon, Robin, and a boy trained to dispose of that emotion, he is a boy with a family that is founded on love as much as the rest of everything.

"It is okay to miss her," You say softly, far too gently. It springs an ache in Damian. His eyes water, and his head bends automatically to hide his eyes.

It is okay. The phrase reverberates in his ears. And silence fills the surroundings. Duty. It is okay. The words blend together almost harmoniously, making Damian feel like he is allowed to be a child. A rarity for him.

Duty. It is okay.

"I can hold onto my mother in an acceptable manner," Damian says in a soft voice. "It is a duty I cannot abandon, because... it is important to me."

Damian does not say he misses her, loves her, or that he would always love her. Those truths are far too precious to be uttered right now. But he does admit his duty. Not the duty of obligation, legacy, or spite. But because of love. Simply because of love.

Damian looks at the paper bag. He does not see duty that comes from pain, but he sees duty that comes from authenticity. From love. From something he sees in you, with the way you are with Dick, Damian, and anyone you deem dear.

So, Damian relaxes his shoulders. With his posture perfect, he lifts his head and looks at you expectantly, as if you are a life raft he can hold onto to steady and safe the next part of the conversation.

You smile at him. "Perhaps a milkshake would be a good treat before we explore the tables again?"

Damian nods, a hint of a smile peeking on his lips. "I would like that." "I will be back," you say, and your words sound like a promise that spans forever.

Damian nods again, and he notes in his mind that soon, he will buy you a book as well. A novel you will like. Mystery plot and prose that would entertain you. After all, this is a duty he wants to take on.

A/N: I am so excited to write this little series, because I love the idea of the batfamily having someone very emotionally nuanced and a civilian, who happens to Dick's girlfriend, to be there for them while also learning to love herself. And the someone happens to be the reader aka you hehe. This was very inspired by my hangout with my nephew.

-> hands (part 1/2)

synopsis: jason todd's girlfriend knows he has secrets. you just do not expect to get an inkling of them outside, one night, in an alleyway when you get hurt. you do not expect to subtly realize when red hood's hand curls around yours in desperation. tags: jason todd x fem!reader and established relationship warnings: mentions of physical assault, mentions of past suicidal ideation, and mentions of murder and violence

No one knows the feeling of Jason Todd’s hands. That is the consensus—the widely accepted truth.

Inanimate objects knew his touch more than people did. Tires. Bricks. Books. Scattered stuff—broken but beautiful in their own right—in the Crime Alley. These were branded with Jason’s touch. Not people.

But Jason Todd did have a family before he died. That family knew what it was like to hold his hand, to feel his tiny hand squeeze their hand. 

Dick knew how Jason’s fingers would wind around his when he was bouncy and excited. 

Bruce knew how Jason’s hand felt in his when he fought crime and how it felt when it was limp and dead. 

Alfred knew how Jason’s hand felt around his wrist when he wanted to convey his gratitude for a warm and tasty meal.

But they no longer know how Jason’s hands felt. They don’t know the scars that changed the texture of his hands’ touch. They do not know how it feels to have the reassuring squeeze and pat that Jason still sometimes gives like a gift—when he remembers how to dwell in softness without feeling hurt, scared, and betrayed.

But objects still do. 

Guns. Knives. Blades. Gear that was tinkered and made with engineering effort, with hands that may have belonged to an engineer if he got the chance to make it past the age of fifteen. Crime Alley’s bricks.

They are branded with his touch, something not even criminals got, because Jason’s cruelty is bestowed with his gloved hands or from a distance with weapons of the best kind.

But it is wrong to think that no one else knows Jason’s touch. His touch—soft, reverent, fragile—is reserved for you. You know it. You know how his hands feel, cupping your face, lying against your nape, moving up and down your spine, and lingering at your waist.

You know each and every scar that makes his fingers slightly rough when caressing you. You know how his palms feel flat against your skin, the calloused parts feeling differently and achingly precious.

You never thought you would date Jason Todd with the roughest but gentle hands. You were just a teenager, about to start university, when you met a silent Jason Todd. He was still recovering from something.

He visited the small bodega you worked at, part-time, just enough to earn money to help with expenses. He would say nothing, staring at you with intense eyes and a gentle expression. First, he started walking you home from the bodega. Next, he showed up at your campus, bringing you lunch. Then, he disappeared.

You cried. You felt awful. But you came from a life that taught you how to move forward, because to survive, you have to do that. So for a while, you tried to think of him, with a smile, with gentleness that you were never taught in the neighbourhood you grew up in, and went on.

Then, he showed up again. He looked calmer, but he was sadder. You hugged him, and he hugged you back. You were still the girl who studied ten hours a day, worked part-time, and dreamt of a better future, but Jason was no longer the silent boy. He was a crime boss. He was angry with Batman. He was devastated, and the only person he could hold onto was you—his friend, his lifeline.

Now, a few years passed. 

You work at a hospital while still studying. Jason owns the Iceberg Lounge. There are nights he goes out often. He keeps you away from the world that occurs within the walls of Iceberg Lounge. 

You do not have the heart to ask him anything, because you also held secrets of your own for years. He does not have the heart to tell you about that side of his life, not even the truth about being a vigilante. Not when you just gave him the chance, shyly, to be yours as something more than a friend.

Jason believes that giving you his body, his touch, his whispered secrets when you are asleep, and his promises are enough. He just does not realize that giving himself like that means you’re attuned to him in ways that remain unsaid but not unnoticed.

You are not supposed to be here. You have heard Jason say many times not to go through this area. But you have no choice. The little boy who held onto your hand at the hospital, and you went against protocol to slip your number into his ripped jacket pocket, is counting on you.

You just have to get him to the shelter Jason once told you about. The one that is vetted and good for kids who have proper support, not just bullshit talk about doing good.

“We are almost here,” You whisper to the little boy, who holds your hand tightly, scared of the narrow path ahead. But he still stood tall, brave in the way only a child growing up here could. In the way you and Jason had to.

But things go wrong often more than they go right in Gotham. A small creak. An angry voice. Something behind you, rustling. Your gut instinct tells you to push the boy somewhere safe, somewhere unnoticeable. You do exactly that. You comfort him, but rush him into a small shed, shadowed by a large tree looming.

It’s too small, broken in the way only a neighbourhood like this could be. You have to move, hide yourself away from this boy who knows better than to come out of his hiding spot, and keep yourself safe, too. You do everything right. You find a spot. You advance towards it with speed and urgency. But sometimes the timing is wrong. Sometimes, the physics is lacking.

You know that. You also know survival, but this feels precarious, like an end. You feel like there is no coming back from this. Your hair is pulled. You are dragged back. You are screamed at for multiple things—being at the wrong place at the wrong time, creating trouble by seeing something you didn’t, but your perpetrators are convinced you did, and occupying precious time by still living.

The world goes black as you feel pain. And when you wake up, you are against a brick wall. You blink. Once. Twice. Blood drips down your head and hits your right eye, making it burn. Your mind immediately goes to triage. It hurts to think, but you try to, because… Jason. You wet your lips. Everything hurts, but you are awake. You need to get to Jason.

Because he comes back to you every night. Even when everything in him screams to run, destroy, to choose pain over living. So, you have to try. You have not even had a full chance to be happy with him. You both just started.

So, you try to stand up and gasp in shock as you feel hands push down on your shoulder. You brace for a slap on your cheek, another pull on your hair, or a punch to the center of your face. But what you feel is unexpected. Warm hands, trying to assess your condition and do immediate first aid. You try to blink again, clear your vision, and watch. A cowl. A black cape. A flash of blue.

“Hey. Hey!” A masculine voice keeps you awake.

“We are going to get you to a hospital.” The flash of blue you noticed is Nightwing, trying to tell you that you'll be okay at the hospital.

The black cape you have only known as a myth and glimpsed at through blurry eyes is Batman, who is trying to patch up your arm, no, something on your side.

“Is she okay?” A feminine voice is heard, and you cannot move your head to see who it is.

“Needs to get to a hospital,” Nightwing murmurs. You avert your eyes to look at Batman. Your throat works. It takes effort, but you remember the little boy. You take his name, and Batman stares at you for a few seconds.

Something flashes in his eyes, and he says in a deep voice that reminds you a little of Jason. “He is fine. He is with…”

His voice trails off as he points somewhere you cannot see. But you trust Batman. You know he would keep that boy safe, get him to the shelter you wanted to take him to, and perhaps get him some stuff—warm and lasting—before saying goodbye to him. And you say it aloud. In your small voice, stuttering over words you never did before due to pain and sheer exhaustion, you tell him that he has to care for that boy until he reaches that shelter because you failed to fulfill that responsibility.

Batman nods, his eyes flashing with something indescribable again. But then his hands still. You realize that belatedly as you try to decide if you have a concussion. You do not know, but it hurts a lot, but that is not why Batman stills, the reason Nightwing looks at you with a confused look, and the reason for Spoiler’s confusion, murmuring something to Oracle urgently.

It is the way you murmur Jason’s name, saying you have to get to him. Saying that you will scare him by being in the hospital. You feel cold, and the only warmth you cling to is the way Jason’s name sounds on your tongue, uttered with love and bittersweetness. With the pain of not knowing if you could see him again, because it hurts everywhere in your body, to make you wonder if you will survive.

You crave his hands. You crave to have him hold you once more—one last time if that is what it is. But you also are happy that he is not here to watch you like this, bruised and bleeding. You do not want this to be the last time he looks at you.

You do not realize you are murmuring a lot of this, hiccuping over your own words. You do not hear Nightwing gasp. “Jason?”

You do not hear the way Batman exhales and inhales as he attends to you. You do not hear the chatter that ensues between Spoiler and Oracle. But you do hear the angry verbal shenanigans of a tiny Robin.

“What is she saying? Is this true? The enormity of this betrayal—this secret. It is…” His voice fades. “Father, you cannot take her to the…”

Everything almost goes black, if not for the constant soft pats on your cheek. It is Nightwing, urging you to stay awake. This time, your eyes open wider, and you notice how Spoiler checks your bag with one hand while holding onto the little boy’s hand with another.

Everything goes black once again. But this time it feels better. You feel like you are floating. The tinges of intense pain that made it hard to breath fades into something pleasant. You drift to a safe space in your mind, one that smells like oil, leather, and rain. Something else, too—that woody scent you have been familiar with for years.

You jerk awake, tilting violently as you bend to throw up. Pain shoots up your spine, and you feel revolted as you hurl uncontrollably. You are facing the dirty ground, feeling strong arms hold you up. You feel like crying, because it is not a vigilante you want holding you up. It is Jason you want.

You are delirious and in pain, trying to stand on your feet and be as proper as you can as you vomit. In that haze, you do not hear the comms line that carries the voice of a man, spiralling and worried.

You do not realize anything until a hand clasps yours, making you look up to meet the eyes of someone wearing a red helmet. Someone whose hands feel like the ones you hold every day and night, and let them hold you.

Jason knows something is wrong. He has been standing with Duke—Signal. It is supposed to be simple. This is just a neighbourhood that is used as a transfer route by a new underworld entity that is trying to make a name for itself by terror and illegal shipments. This is intel gathered from the lounge he owns now.

He tries to calm down.

And the silence from the Bat Radio annoys him. He does not like it when Bruce does this—keeps Jason in the dark. This is not that. Jason tries to believe that. It is just logistics cloaked with silence. But the more silence continues, the more it gnaws at him.

He exchanges a glance with Duke, who nods. Duke seems solemn, focused, and ready. He also realizes that something is amiss, and they both stand. Their movements are immediate, tense, and speedy. It does not take much time to speak into the Bat Radio.

“What’s going on?” Jason questions, while Duke leads the way.

“Oracle,” Duke speaks. Whatever Oracle is conveying, it is precarious. The information has to be damning, given how Duke’s posture changes. It scares Jason more than he could admit, and while a part of him wants to demand that Duke share what is happening, his resolve to reach Bruce wins.

Jason’s calm resolve, one that he has struggled to learn and contain, shatters the moment he reaches Bruce’s location. 

At first, Jason sees nothing but the crowd of vigilantes. Damian is standing ramrod straight, conveying danger and surprise. And Damian is not surprised easily!

Dick looks fragile; he seems to be containing his exhaustion and anger to be pliable for someone else. That is not good, because Dick only does that when he feels someone he loves would shatter. 

Stephanie is off to the side, consoling a little boy, and that also does not help the havoc brewing in Jason’s gut.

But Jason exhales and inhales in a loop as he sees Bruce. He is standing straight. He looks fine, but the cape might be hiding more than intended, so Jason’s moving before he even knows it. 

And those footsteps, brusque and fast, slow down as your bag comes into view in his peripheral vision. So many use that type of black leather bag. There was a brand sale last month. Jason tries to reason with himself, but he wobbles as he comes closer, as he catches sight of your hair, the long-sleeved shirt you wore under your scrubs, and your tattered shoes you love.

“No, no. No!” Jason murmurs and then shouts. He rips his gloves off, a move he makes in a fast and desperate thinking to grab you properly, not with soot and blood-stained gloved hands. 

His arm shoots out to grab yours as you breathe hard, clearly distressed and in pain.

And you look up. Your eyes drift to his. Jason forgets that he is wearing a helmet, covered in the red he never let you see. You cannot see his eyes, not behind the white lenses. But your eyes narrow. They drift to his feet and then back up to the helmet. 

Jason almost cries, but he holds himself still. He watches as your hand grips his at an awkward angle. He watches as you struggle to keep your eyes open as you lean into him. He watches your eyes drift back to your connected hands, brows furrowing as you feel confused by recognition and surprise.

You look back at him, and you look like you want to say something, licking your lips, but Jason wraps an arm around you, bringing you to the Batmobile in a few steps. 

Your eyes drift away with the movement, and you find yourself closing your eyes again. But the thought sticks. The thought that Red Hood’s hand felt like Jason’s does gnaw at you even when the world goes black again.

When you wake up, you are not greeted with the plain white ceiling you associate with hospitals. No, this is different. You are in a comfortable, spacious bed. You smell something that can only be associated with money.

You groan, and you lie there for a few minutes. 

Memories come back with a rush. The little boy. Batman. But the memory of Red Hood bothers you the most. You know of him, of course. The Red Hood, who has a different—a bloodier—approach to eliminating crime. You just never realized you would see him. You never thought you would feel his hand.

The thought jolts you: that hand made you remember Jason. You, through the pain and smell of vomit, really believed for a second you were holding onto Jason, but the sight of the red helmet shook you.

You groan again, and this time, Jason rushes to your side.

You blink, feeling the warmth of his hand entwined with your limp one. 

“Hey,” You murmur, blinking rapidly.

Jason softly smiles, teary-eyed. He leans forward, caressing your hair. “Hi, Sweetheart.”

“You are crying,” You murmur, frowning.

“Well, you got hurt, baby,” Jason murmurs back, and you try to lift your free hand to caress his hair. But the effort exhausts you, and Jason instead wraps his other hand’s fingers around your wrist.

"Don’t move,” He warns in the softest voice he could muster.

You nod. You ask despite the exhaustion. “Where are we?” “The Wayne Manor,” Jason admits.

You look at your boyfriend, surprised. “What?”

“Bruce… found out that you were hurt,” Jason says. His hand shakes as he brushes back your hair again. “He got you situated on the medical floor and then convinced me to let you stay here. It is safer.”

So, Bruce Wayne knows Batman? You try to make sense of that. But then you ask, distracted by the memories of a small boy who needs a better home. “How about–”

“He is okay. He is at the shelter,” Jason explains. “We can go see him if he wants us to meet him.”

“Yeah,” You whisper. You are still confused. Your head hurts. You feel your side burning. You do not understand how you ended up here, even with Jason’s explanations. Questions tear at you, and your eyes flicker first to your entwined hands and then Jason’s feet. Still in those scuffed boots.

You try hard to think of that night, whenever it was, even if a few hours back. Red Hood’s boots. You try to picture them, and the memory is blurry. But that touch… You felt it in your gut that it was Jason. But it was Red Hood.

Instead of sharing that turmoil with Jason, you whisper, “Your dad has a medical floor in his mansion?”

Jason laughs softly, poking at your nose. “It’s a manor.”

“What’s the difference?” You question sleepily, and Jason laughs harder.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes, mentally swatting him in the chest.

Jason stops laughing, and he caresses your head again. His touch is reverent, something you never thought you deserved until you met him. He whispers, nudging the junction of your neck with his nose. “Get some sleep, alright, Sweetheart. I am right here.”

“Jay,” you call out, as you nod and try to sleep.

“Hmm?”

You whisper, “I know you have your secrets.”

Jason stiffens. He straightens and looks at you. You continue speaking as you try to reach for his head. “Just be safe, okay.”

That is the only thing you want. You want him to be safe. You want him to live because so much has already been taken from him. He deserves it all—peace, happiness, and safety. 

You also know how he throws himself into danger, because it speaks to him. Throwing himself into danger, into anything that brings pain, is a twisted kind of life raft.

But if something happens to Jason, you think, an image of Red Hood’s helmet flashing through your head, you won’t survive. Selfishly, you need Jason to be careful. You need him to be intact, with all his secrets, bright half-smirks, and love cloaked with undying loyalty. Because his secrets do not hurt as much as the absence of him would.

“Just be safe.” You repeat, and Jason holds your hand. The image of the helmet flashes in your head again.

“You realize, Babe, that you are the one who went into that neighbourhood alone, doing everything but being safe,” Jason huffs, something deeper than his usual sardonic humour swimming in his eyes.

You flick his head, and he chuckles. He kisses your palm and tells you to sleep.

Everything goes black again.

Just be safe, okay.

The words cling to Jason with a warmth he cannot fully parse. He leans against the counter of the kitchen, watching the oven. The bread inside rises slowly, filling the room with a pleasant smell.

“Master Jason,” Alfred says gently.

Jason looks at the older man. It has been a rough few hours with you unconscious, delirious, and in pain. Jason had fought with Bruce over your staying at the manor. He kept his mouth shut, not answering any questions, said or unsaid.

It tore at him. Your wounds, your murmurs, and your unconscious form tore at him, and he could do nothing except hope. A word he is unfamiliar with now.

You were his best-kept secret. The one person to whom he came back, with the intention of living. Jason met you one night and could never let you go—not when he was aching from the Lazarus Pit, not when his hands were tainted with blood, and not when Bruce had thrown a batarang at his neck.

Now, you are exposed, a truth that everyone knows. Something much more precious than a mere variable in Red Hood's life, but will be treated that way.

For a person who had wanted to hurt to the point of dying once again, Jason tries to live for you. Because life with you is soft, quiet, yet loud when wanted, and happy. It is separate from the pain the night brings, the blood the Iceberg Lounge brings, and the emptiness the gear in his hands brings.

Now, you are face-to-face with that part of his world he kept separate with aching effort.

Just be safe, okay.

You have never outright said those words. That plea—those words—exists in the way you brush his hair away from his face, in how you hug him every night before he goes on patrol that he guises as work at the lounge, in the hearty dinners you make for him because you know there was a time when he starved, and in the way you let him have his secrets because his comfort, even if it was dipped in silence, means the world to you.

But now, you told him those words. Outright after staring at his hands as if seeing them in a new light. Jason’s chest feels tight as he wonders why you stared at his hands the way you did. You did that before you fell unconscious, too, in the middle of an alleyway.

“Master Jason,” Alfred repeats.

Jason nods stiffly, indicating that he is listening.

“Does the Miss like soup?” Alfred questions, and Jason nods. He explains your likes and dislikes as if they were the easiest thing to talk about. They are, because he knows you like an open book. And you know him in that same, familiar, intimate way, and because of that, he dreads that you know. That you would stay despite knowing.

He does not know if he loves or hates the idea of that. You knowing Red Hood and Jason Todd being one and the same and still choosing him as if it were that easy. It sounds like both a blessing and a curse.

“She is alright, Master Jason,” Alfred says. “She has you, and, if you allow, all of us. She will heal. She will be fully healthy and adept in no time.”

Jason exhales. He looks at the older man with intensity, but he does not mean it; it is genuine fear, not anger or mistrust. Jaw clenched, he says. “I did not ever want her to know.”

“Do you believe she does?”

“She stared at my hands,” Jason says, his eyes averting downwards to look at his.

“She stared at these and looked at them with recognition,” Jason murmurs again. 

You know, and you won’t ask him anything.

Jason loves you, and tears trickle down his cheeks, his face burning, as he remembers the first time he saw you years ago. The way you smiled at him.

Then he remembers the day he came back to you, with a batarang scar on his neck and the feeling of not being chosen. The way he stood before you, outside your campus, with a quiet plea for you to choose him again—despite the way he left you and hurt you with his radio silence.

Lastly, he remembers how you looked at his hands, then at his helmet.

Just be safe, okay.

He would stay safe and wait for the day you ask him for the truth, something that is your right.

Jason Todd would always come back to you, safe and intact. Heart beating so he can wrap his arms around you as you finally relent and ask for his secrets.

A/N: One more part where the reader meets Jason as Red Hood, and they both dance around the truth until one breaks while the Bat family bonds with the reader.

bruce wayne who has left you with you for your betterment—your safety.

but you get hurt regardless. memory loss. other very brutal scientific terms about your ongoing recovery. you don't remember him or the family that has come to love you.

bruce is a stranger to you now. so he tries to woo you again. you run into him at the spot you first met him. and the family integrates into your life once again without risking your health and stressing you.

dick finds you at the cafe you used to buy pastries from, for him and damian particularly. he tells the cafe staff to keep a tab on what you buy, so he can contribute. you are perplexed about the mystery money man.

jason meets you at the bookstore you used to visit him. he gives you book recommendations like you are a stranger, even though he knows you.

damian sneaks a self-defence community class flyer into your mail. it's free, something you would like. he meets you at the first lesson, giving commentary but also helping you.

tim gets new alarms and a security system installed at your apartment.

cassandra, barbara, and stephanie keep your things around the manor like they are prized possessions.

duke surveils every route you take so you are not hurt again.

alfred, who always makes sure the recipes you shared with him are safe and intact, tries to make things you like often.

and the day you remember them? trust that is the happiest day for the bat family.

-> requests

I write for Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Duke Thomas, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Talia al-Ghul primarily romantically. But I am open to writing for any of the DC characters, if you are keen on it, no problem.

What can I write:

One Shots

Headcanon Lists

Blurbs

Drabbles

Multi Shot Fics

Rules:

I write for fem!readers primarily, so please keep that in mind.

I am okay with writing NSFW content, but I won't write anything that goes into CNC territory.

I love detailed requests, so don't hesitate to be as detailed as you like in my inbox. And also do not hesitate to share your thoughts about requests and posts alike, but please be respectful. I am a student, and this is a nice pastime and safe space for me.

Thank you!