Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Summary: You're messing around with both Jason and Tim, refusing to commit. Dick corners you about it, asking you to pick him. He's sick of feeling like you love everyone but him. You're messing with his head.
TW: Cheating, fwbs, comitment issues, sex mentioned, messy relationships.
The logistics of dating a Wayne, or more accurately, circulating through the Wayne ecosystem required a spreadsheet that you simply did not have the organizational skills to maintain.
You hadnât meant to. Well, that was a lie. You had absolutely meant to, but you hadnât expected it to happen so quickly. You were sitting on the edge of his desk in the Nest, the neon green light of his monitors casting shadow across your face. Tim was staring at a line of code, his eyes bloodshot, a half-empty mug of something that smelled like burnt rubber and espresso clutched in his hand.
"Timmy," you said, reaching out to twirl a strand of his wildly overgrown hair around your finger. "You're leg's bouncing pretty hard. Literally. I can feel the desk shaking."
"I'm fine," he muttered, though he didnât pull away from your touch. In fact, he leaned into it slightly, like a plant tracking the sun. "I just need to finish this routing protocol before Bruce gets back from Berlin."
"Counter-proposal," you whispered, leaning down so your breath brushed his ear. You reached past him, your forearm pressing deliberately against his shoulder, and hit the power button on his main monitor.
The screen went black.
Tim froze. For a second, you thought he might actually code-blue right there in his chair. Then he turned his head to look at you with desperation.
"You're a demon," he argued.
"I'm a delight," you corrected, sliding off the desk and directly onto his lap. He caught you by the waist out of pure reflex, his hands digging into your hips. You reached into the collar of his shirt, your fingers tracing his collarbone, feeling his pulse leaping like a trapped bird. "And you need to sleep. Or, at least, do something that doesn't involve a keyboard..." you trailed off suggestively.
When you kissed him, it was messy. He made a ridiculously desperate sound when you pulled him closer by his belt loops. You left him twenty minutes later, all flushed, dazed, and completely incapable of remembering his own passwords. Mission accomplished.
The problem was that Jason found out by Friday.
Jason didn't do "subtle" which was ironic considering you had the worst on and off since Bruce and Selina. When Jason was pissed, the entire zip code knew about it.
You were walking back to your apartment through a particularly sketchy alley in Crime Alley (mostly because you would rather take that shortcut than get in public transport) when a heavy weight dropped from the fire escape right in front of you.
"We need to talk," Jason growled. He didn't have the helmet on, just the domino mask. He looked massive, very pissed off you wondered why, and entirely too attractive for someone who spent his nights punching people in the face.
"Jay!" you chirped, stepping right into his space. "Did you bring me those kiwi tarts from the place on 5th?" If not, you were okay with getting dicked down by Jason Todd either way.
Jason put a hand flat against your chest, stopping you in your tracks. His palm was warm, even through his glove. "Don't play cute. What the hell were you doing in Drakeâs safehouse on Wednesday?"
"Helping him with his⊠data entry," you said innocently.
Jasonâs jaw clenched so hard you heard the click. He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine hit the brick wall of the alley. he crowded you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you entirely within his shadow. He smelled like leather, and that expensive cologne Dick had clearly bought him for Christmas that he pretended to hate.
"Data entry," Jason echoed. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot. "Is that what we're calling fucking my brother now? Because last week, you were in my kitchen, wearing my t-shirt, telling me nobody else knew how to handle you."
"You do know how to handle me, Jay," you murmured, reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down that extra inch. "You're so⊠loud about it. I love it, love you" you said casually, but it meant everything to him.
He swore under his breath, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn't nearly as gentle as Tim had been with you. Jason kissed like hell. He hooked a leg behind your knee, pulling you flush against his thigh, his hands gripping your hair so tightly it pulled you liked it too much to protest. It was angry and messy which was exactly what you wanted.
You stayed with him that night in his bed, let him think heâd won.
And then, on Sunday, you texted Tim a selfie from Jasonâs bathroom, wearing nothing but one of Jason's oversized flannel shirts, with the caption 'Found your favorite coffee mug. Jay says hi.'
You knew you were pushing your luck, the Batcomputer probably had a dedicated file on your psychological warfare tactics by now. But you hadn't expected the firstborn to get involved.
You were sitting on the roof of an abandoned clock tower, eating cold Chinese food out of a cardboard container, when you felt someone behind you.
"You know, Bruce is genuinely considering putting a tracker on you," a voice said from the darkness.
You didn't even look up as Dick Grayson stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't in uniform, not completely. He had the tactical pants on, the heavy boots, but he was wearing a tight black compression shirt instead of the full Nightwing suit. His jacket was swung over one shoulder. He looked infuriatingly relaxed.
"Bruce won't put a tracker on me," you said, taking a bite of a crab rangoon. "He's too afraid I'll find a way to stick it on Clark instead."
Dick laughed a little as he walked over and stood right over you, blocking out the light from the Gotham moon. "Probably. But that doesn't mean you get a free pass for what you're doing."
"And what am I doing, Grayson?"
"You're running a demolition derby through my family," Dick said. He dropped his jacket to the gravel and knelt down in front of you, bringing himself eye-to-eye with you. Up close, the ridiculous symmetry of his face was offensive. He looked tired, but under the fatigue there was a sharp intensity that he usually kept hidden behind his golden-retriever smile. "Jason hasn't slept in three days because he's too busy pacing his floor trying to figure out if you're doing that thing with your tongue on Tim too, and Tim spent six hours yesterday trying to hack into Jason's security cameras to see if you actually enjoyed him."
"They're men, Dick. They like to compete," you said, offering him a dumpling.
Dick didn't take it. Instead, he reached out with his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle but still hard. He forced you to set the container down.
"It's not a game," Dick said, his voice dropping into a serious tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "They're falling apart over you. And you're just sitting up here watching the fireworks."
"Are you going to tell me to stop?" you challenged, tilting your chin up. "Going to give me the big hero speech about feelings and responsibility?"
"No," Dick whispered. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes darkening in the shadows of the roof. He didn't look like the nice brother anymore. He looked like the boy who grew up in a circus, comfortable with heights and completely unafraid of a fall. "I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm going to tell you to change targets."
You blinked, your brain momentarily stalling. "What?"
"You heard me," Dick said. He slid his hand up from your wrist, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner arm, his thumb pressing against the quickening pulse at your elbow. "You want to play with fire? You want someone who can actually keep up with you without crying to a therapist? Pick me."
"Dick, you're their brother," you laughed, though it sounded a little breathless. Fuck you'd bang that. "That's⊠incredibly messed up, even for me." It absolutely wasn't. You'd smash him anyday
"I don't care," he murmured. He leaned in until his lips were a mere fraction of an inch from yours, his breath hot and smelling faintly of mint. "I am so tired of hearing your name in the Cave. I am so tired of watching them lose their minds over you. If you want to break someone, come break me. I promise you, I'm a lot harder to shatter than they are."
He stayed there hovering in that excruciatingly tight space, his fingers tightening on your arm, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly suggestive weight.
"So," Dick whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, teasing little contact that made you ache. "Are you going to keep playing in the sandbox, or are you ready for the real thing?"
A/n: Guys part 2's js straight smut so idk if I'm writing it yet đ
Patrols go wrong, you get hurt, the Outlaws come to your saving and suddenly youâre benched in the Wayne Manor with a Jason that tails you like a lost puppy. Amidst everyday batfamily chaos (ft Steph, Cass, Tim and Dick), Damian calls you and Jason out on your âtotally not a thing,â which, apparently, makes you spiral so hard you end up in Jasonâs bathroom getting undressed by hands that are way too gentle for âjust friends with nothing going on.'
Tags/CW: 18+, MDNI, Jason x fem!reader, nudity, showering together, suggestive towards the end but no smut, angst, mutual pining, jealousy, mentios of injury, ex!wonder girl reader, idiots in love, Damian being a little shit, batfamily/ reader domestic and soft moments, (16k words, oops)
Part 1
Patrol has been an absolute messâ Gotham is rather lively tonight for how starry the sky is. And after taking down a bank heist, you are assigned by Tim to patrol the part of Downtown harbor where trade ships depart from, right across the boulevard that is now Penguinâs territory. On your own.
You donât complain about being alone. You should. Hindsightâs a bitch like that.
It is supposed to be a quiet sweep âdocks, warehouses, the usual assortment of Gothamâs nocturnal vermin scuttling around crates a civilian isn't supposed to touch. Nothing you canât handle. Nothing that should leave your stomach twisted the way it is now.
You remember the first red flag of the night: a shipping container cracked open just an inch, light bleeding out where there shouldnât be any. Soft. Yellow. Wrong. The kind of wrong that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up before your brain catches up.
You tell yourself youâll just check it out. Quick peek. In and out and report to Bruce. Because thatâs what you do âyou poke the things you should probably report first. All the reason Diana would scold you during your wonder girl days.
You slip between the stacks of metal giants, metallic boots silent, breath steady, pretending that the atmosphere isn't pressing in around you the way it always does at the harbor. The scent of saltwater, diesel, and rust; familiar, grounding and just so Gotham by night, should anchor you.
But the voices inside the container donât sound like normal smuggler chatter. They are⊠scared.
High pitched.
âPleaseâ donâtââ A girlâs voice. Too close. Too close.
And thatâs when the entire night tilts. Thatâs when the rewind button should be smashed to pieces. Because you donât think. You donât call it in. You donât wait for backup.
You kick the door open.
And the universe, obviously bored at how much of a mundane life youâve led so far, decides to reward your heroism by giving you not one, not two but twelve armed men. Broad, burly, pissed and dressed in very cheap tuxedosâ the kind of men who only take orders from someone with a lot of money and even worse taste in ethics and consequently in fashion too.
You are already moving, already swinging. Your knuckles meet teeth, ribs, soft cartilage. Itâs always satisfying in a way youâd never admit aloud. They swarm, and you dance through the mess of it, heart pounding, thoughts sharp.
You have no idea where their boss is. No idea whose operation youâve just cracked open like an idiot with a crowbar trying to pick a comically big lock. No idea that youâve just landed in the middle of something massive. Nationwide massive.
All you know is that there are girls crying behind you. And that one of the men has just pulled a gun.
You donât quite register the gunshot. Not at first. Not the way the world should split open. Your bangled forearms form the familiar âxâ in front of your chest for cover and then; burning pain rips across your right side. Sharp, hot and just wrong. Your pray itâs a graze at the very least, but maybe itâs worse. It knocks the wind out of you just long enough for your footing to falter.
âHey! Dumbasses, pick on someone who shoots back.â
You turn just in time to see something red flash across your peripheral, followed by a scream and the metallic clang of a pistol sliding across concrete.
Red Hood. Jason.
Of course it has to be him.
And then, because Gotham loves overkill like Batman loves to chase after Catwoman, two more figures emerge behind him âone glowing with auburn locks and barely restrained murder and the other the size of a small building. With a light grey skin color to match.
The Outlaws.
The newly formed at least.
Perfect. Just what every terrible night needs: commotion and reinforcements.
Not that youâd admit you need the latter.
Red Hood moves first âbecause of course he doesâ charging into the mess like heâd been waiting all night for someone to shoot at, jumping from one of the containers in order to place himself between you and armed men. Artemis follows, brutally, elegant in the way she wields her lethal axe and Bizarro lumbers after them with a confused but eager rumble, shadowing over the wailing victims to shield them from any collateral bullet.
And you?
You do the most reasonable thing a semi-feral Amazon-raised vigilante can do.
You plant a hand on Red Hoodâs chestplate and shove. Hard.
âBack off,â you snap, spinning into another strike before he can get a word in. âI had this.â
Jason actually stumbles. More from shock than your strength, though you very much like to pretend it is both. âYou âhad this?â Sweetheart, there are,â he stops, silently counting the men left standing with his fingers âeight of them.â
âSeven,â you correct, elbowing one man in the throat. âHe isnât getting up from that.â
Artemis steps into your periphery with the commanding presence that makes mortals straighten up on instinct. Her blade flashes, catching the dim light, cutting down a man who thought he could get the drop on you.
âPrincess,â she says, voice low but thunderous with authority as she speaks the title. âYou are injured.â
Her gaze lingers too long on your sideâon the blood soaking through your suitâjaw clenches almost imperceptibly.
âIâm fine.â You pout. Itâs great that Artemis respects you enough for the honorifics, but it isnât something you need at the moment âAnd donât call me that!â
âYou are bleeding.â
âItâs not mine.â
Bizarro perks up at that, blinking his pale eyes. âBleeding-yours good?â he asks, unsure.
âNot good,â you mutter, ducking under a wild swing and kicking the manâs knee out so hard it buckles.
The movement tears something in your sideâfresh pain blooms under your ribsâbut you swallow it down.
Jason tries again. âLook, you donât have toââ
You shove him a second time. Harder.
âStop helping me.â
At that, he throws his hands up, offended.
Artemis cuts through two men like she is slicing air, then steps directly between you and the next attacker. âDaughter of Hippolyta,â she intones, âyour pride is admirable. Your strategy, however, is lacking, your grace.â
You catch her looking againâthis time not at your wound, but at Jason, at the way he keeps drifting too close to you. And Jason, you understand; you pull closer to him as well, like instinct, but there is something taut in her expression, something sharp and territorial she tries to hide behind warrior neutrality.
So, Artemis, you donât understand.
That one âyour graceâ hits you like a spear to the ribsâ because she isnât wrong, and she is using the title you havenât heard in years. The one reserved for you as Hippolytaâs adopted daughter⊠and by extension, kin to the Queen, after your sisters. The title you hate.
You grit your teeth, no time for such semantics at present. âI donât needââ
A gunshot cracks the air.
Jason tackles you sideways before you even see where it comes from. You hit the concrete with a curse as the bullet whizzes past where your head was.
The impact jars your wound, white-hot lightning searing through your side. You bite back a hiss, refusing to give Jason the satisfaction.
He doesnât get off you. Doesnât even pretend he is planning to.
âYou were saying?â he growls above you. âBecause that sounds a lot like needing help.â
You glare up at him, face inches from his helmet, breath hot between you.
Artemis sees that proximityâsees Jasonâs hand braced beside your head, sees the way his body hovers perfectly over yoursâand her shoulders go rigid. A flicker of something old and Amazonian crosses her face. Not jealousy. Not quite. But close enough to sting.
âI said,â you hiss, âget. Off.â
Artemis looms over both of you, quirking a curious eyebrow, the corner of her lip twitching, her expression turning into something that can only resemble actual envy now. You catch it, just by a fragment. âYou two may continue your quarrel after we have defeated the criminals.â
Bizarro shakes his head up and down, happily. âNo! Quarrel now. Punch bad men later.â
You shove Jason off with Amazonian strength this time, roll to your feet, and launch yourself back into the fray because if there is one thing you refuse to let stand, it is being saved.
Or worse. Being treated like someone who needs saving.
Red Hood moves toward you again, clearly gearing up for another lecture you have zero intention of listening to.
You donât even look at him.
You move.
One heartbeat you are trading blows with the last guy in your reach, the next, you pivot sharply, sweeping your leg under Jasonâs wrist with pinpoint precision. His gun pops out of his hand before he can react.
âHeyâ!â
You snatch the weapon midair without breaking stride, spin on your heel, and fire a single clean shot into the shoulder of the armed man whoâd been aiming at Artemis from behind. He drops with a howl, gun clattering away.
Artemis tenses at the soundâyour aim flawless, your awareness unwavering despite the blood steadily leaking down your torso. And she shoots Jason a look you canât decode. Something heavy. Something protective.
Jason barely blinks before you are already flipping backward âa quick, tight arc that makes your lungs flare âand landing right in front of him.
The butt of the gun taps his palm as you press it back into his hand. Firm. Fluid. Like handing a partner a tool during a dance.
You donât wait for a thank you, or the stunned silence that should follow after.
But you feel it.
Jason actually stares between his own gun and you, like he has to double-check it is the same one heâd been holding two seconds ago. âWhat theââ
Artemis smirks. Just a little. âShe was trained by General Antiope,â she reminds him, tone dipped in pride, too smug âPrecision is second nature to her.â
Jason looks back at you as you lunge into the next wave of attackers with that clean, lethal efficiency only Themyscira and many hours with Bruce in the cave produce.
âYeah,â he mutters under his breath, awe cracks through the gravel in his voice. âNo kidding. Missed watching her fight.â
Bizarro, bless him, adds loudly, âShe not cool at all. Do not do flip again!â
You donât. But you could. And Jason clearly knows it.
The last of the men goes down hard, courtesy of Artemis clotheslining them into a stack of crates. Bizarro gently peels the shipping container completely open, careful with his massive hands, and the girls inside flinch before realizing the fight is over.
You step in, lowering your eyes at them, softening your voice. âItâs okay. Youâre safe now.â
One of them grabs your wrist with trembling fingers and you pretend not to notice the way your ribs scream when you bend down to help her out.
And then, you see it, right before your vision pulses at the ashes of it, a Lexcorp Easter egg, right at the handle of the containerâs door. Itâs a flick of your eyes but no word spoken, you show it to Jason.
And around that time your side goes completely wet, sticky, definitely worse than youâd hoped.
Before you know it, GCPD sirens wail in the distance. Fast approaching.
Artemis guides the girls toward an officer she trusts, speaking in calm, formal tones that make grown men straighten their posture. Bizarro waves at the girls proudly, like he thinks the job is done because they arenât crying anymore.
Jason, though, is watching you.
Too closely from the shadow he has scattered at.
You try to walk it off, ready to storm in his direction and tell him off for stepping in amidst your patrol route, pretend the sharp pain isnât radiating down your side, pretend you arenât gritting your teeth. But the second you straighten, the world tilts just enough to betray you.
Jason steps forward, catching your elbow before you can pull away.
âWhoa, heyâ easy.â
âIâm fine,â you lie.
He raises an eyebrow behind the helmet. âYouâre bleeding down your side.â
You glance. He isnât wrong. Blood soaks through the fabric of your costume, warm and inconvenient. But he remains too close, too nurturing, too caring and you are still mad at him. It doesnât really help you think he looks hot with his crime-fighting outfit.
Artemis stiffens again when Jason touches youâhis grip steady, his voice softening in a way she clearly doesnât like. That quiet flare of feminine, hidden jealousy curls around her posture, controlled but unmistakable.
Artemis approaches, her gaze sweeps over you with the same displeased concern she once reserved for battlefield injuries. âPrincess, you require medical attention.â
âI said Iâm fine.â
âYou look like hell,â Jason says, entirely unhelpful, but you know his brows are furrowed with worry underneath.
You glare at him. He doesnât budge.
âLook,â he continues, softer this time, âI can take you home. Or to the Manor. Alfred can stitch you up before you pass out or try to fight me again. Your choice.â
You scoff. âIâm not getting on your bike.â
He gestures at your side with his helmet. âYou arenât walking far either.â
Artemis crosses her arms. âGo with him. The wound is deep.â Of course, you think, sheâd take his side.
But even then her voice carries something else. Tight. Reluctant. And when Jason steps closer, guiding your arm over his, Artemisâs jaw flexes. Hard.
âJust go with him,â she says. âYou require proper care.â She looks at Jason, then back at you, as if silently urging something you donât understand. âJason, Wonder Woman will go mental if we leave her here, take her home, please.â
And that feels weird! Because she doesnât say it with the tone a partner would, but with a tone you recognize as silent acceptance.
What now?!
Why does she care that much?
Her voice softens in a way it never has for Gotham men. Soft enough that you blink in confusion.
Since when does Artemis speak gently to Red Hood? Since when does she speak gently to anyone?
You donât like how the air feels suddenly coded, like you are missing the subtext of a language you should know. Still, with a defeated sigh, you let Jason know you are okay with him taking you to the Batcave.
You exhale sharply, annoyed at all of them, annoyed at the pain, annoyed at the part of you that knows they are right.
Jason extends a hand toward you ânot pushy, not smug, just steady.
âThatâs a yes?â he asks.
âUghhhh.. fine,â you mutter.
He chuckles. âYouâre a terrible patient.â
âYouâre a terrible option.â
Jason shrugs his shoulders, "I'm the only option youâve got.â
You swat his hand away but donât protest when he guides you toward the bike anyway, his palm warm against your lower back to keep you steady. Artemis glances at that hand. You stare at her, thrown.
Artemis gives you a small, unreadable nod. âYou will be safe with him.â
Safe with him??? What kind of endorsement is that? You frown, entirely lost.
Itâs just Artemis being Artemis, you tell yourself. Sheâs protective. She respects you. She respects your station. Thatâs all.
And yetâŠ
As Jason hands you the helmet, Artemis looks away. Not kindly, not fondly but somehow dismissively. Annoyed.
Almost sorrowful.
Your brain refuses to process that one.
Jason revs the engine once, checking you are steady behind him. You arenât sure where to put your hands âdefinitely not around him, thatâs still too intimateâ but your ribs pulse with a reminder that stubbornness has consequences.
âHold on anyway,â he says over his shoulder.
You donât.
Five seconds later, the bike lurches forward and you grab his jacket because you want to live.
He doesnât comment, but you feel him smirk.
Gotham blurs by sooner than you can process. Neon streaks, wet pavement, that sharp metallic smell the city never shakes off. Your side burns with every bump; Jason tries to avoid them, but even you can tell he is riding smoother than he usually does.
The bastard is being careful.
You try not to think about that.
You try not to think about Artemis, either. Her weird tone, her glances, the way sheâd spoken to him like there is history.
No. No way.
Artemis doesnât do mortal entanglements. And Jason doesnât do Amazons. You had to learn this the hard way.
You are overthinking again. Clearly.
But unfortunately for him, Jason keeps too quiet. Which gives your brain room to wander right back to Artemis.
How she looked at him. How she looked away. How her voice softened. How she stood a little too close, but not in a protective wayâ in a familiar way.
You hate the thought that worms its way into your mind. Is that⊠something?
No. No, you must be concussed, through your ribs at least.
ââ-
The next two weeks go by in a weird, lopsided rhythm; half recovery, half denial, and some pretending the world isnât shifting under your feet. Bruce, in full Batdad rigidity, drops the hammer first.
âYou are not patrolling at all until that wound heals.â
Thatâs final. No debate. No loopholes. No rooftop loopholes. Not even an alley loophole.
You try arguing with him once. Once! Bruce shuts it down with the patented Batglare #4, as Stephanie calls it: The âIâm Right and You Know Itâ Variant, and well, youâre ultimately benched.
But weirdly enough, he doesnât completely bench Jason for raining into your parade. Actually, he does the opposite.
âSince youâre staying in Gotham, for a while, follow up on the harbor incident. Full report. Every angle.â
Which means for the next two weeks, Jason is everywhere. And you mean everywhere. Manor and Cave and he has been buzzing around you like a bee.Â
Not in a subtle, casual way, not âIâm just passing through,â no, more like a six-foot-four heat-seeking missile programmed exclusively toward you.
Bruce told him to follow the leads, sureâ the Lexcorp-branded shipping containers, the fancy-tux muscle with off-market weapons, the blood samples from the docks, the grainy surveillance that caught more shadows than faces.Â
Jason keeps finding excuses to buzz around you specifically. Something about teaching him that kick and the flip you did at the caveâs fight simulator when you get better. And you say yes with no actual intention of teaching him in mind.
He probably knows that. But he still asks. Over and over. Like he loves hearing you say âyes, yes, sure.â
âHey. Teach me that flip you did.â
âShow me that counter you used on that guy with the chain.â
âThat kickâ yeah, the fast one â how the hell did you angle it like that?â
And while youâre benched from patrol and forced locked inside the manor, so Bruce can make sure you donât go out on your own, your days donât pass as melancholically as youâd like to admit.Â
Life at Wayne estate becomes its own kind of whirlwind. A softer one. A strangely grounding one. The kind that sneaks up on you until you realize youâve fallen into a routine you secretly like.
It always starts in the kitchen.
Wayne Manorâs kitchen is big enough to host a wedding reception, but somehow the three of you âyou, Damian, and Alfredâ always end up crowded on the same little stretch of counter.
Cinnamon rolls become your shared project. Damianâs idea. Your execution. Alfredâs supervision and recipe. (Although the latter always pretends to be on some sort of break when you and the child are cooking)
Damian insists on doing the mixing himself, standing on a wooden stool he pretends he doesnât need. Heâs precise, almost militaristic, using the wooden spoon like heâs interrogating the bowl.
Today isnât any different.Â
âYouâre holding it like a sword,â you say.
âTtâI hold everything like a sword,â he replies, which is fair.
Flour ends up in his hair. You swipe at it. He huffs and swats your hand away, but he doesnât really mean it.
Alfred watches from the head of the table, a mug of tea in hand, his expression fond in a way he pretends is just normal British neutrality.
âMiss,â he says without looking up from his book, âthe dough is not meant to be kneaded as though youâre attempting to strangle it.â
You freeze mid-knead. Damian snorts like heâs been waiting all morning for Alfred to roast you. And while Alfredâs politely judging your kneading technique, Jason storms in the kitchen.
He stands there like heâs checking the perimeter, but you know that postureâ stiff shoulders, jaw tight, eyes dragging over the three of you like it physically hurts him he isnât part of it.
He doesnât step inside. Just watches âat least he has stopped asking you to teach him a kick he should be able to do just by thinking about itâwatches Damian lean subtly into your side. Watches you brush flour off the childâs cheek and laugh. He watches you shoot Damian a squinted look.Â
âHelp, then.â You command.
Damian climbs down from his stool and nudges you aside with all the dignity of a prince reclaiming his throne. âMove. You are bruising it.â
âItâs dough, Damian.â
âIt is delicate.â
Alfred clears his throat. âAs is the young Missâ injury. Might I remind you both she is supposed to be at rest?â
You and Damian share a guilty glance, all purses lips and side eyes⊠and then immediately carry on kneading like two gremlins whoâve made a blood pact.
The kitchen fills with the warm smell of cinnamon and sugar. The oven clicks. The house feels small for once, like a home instead of a mansion. Jason does his own thing after a soft greeting, making a quick sandwich that he insists on not toasting and disappears into the space outside the kitchen.
He remembers a time you took the train from New York to Gotham on a Saturday morning so Alfred could make said cinnamon rolls for both of you, while you studied in one of the living rooms.
When the rolls come out unevenly shaped, slightly lopsided, a little too thick in the center, Alfred still says âPerfect.â
He sets three on a plate and joins you at the counter. Not at the table. Not in his usual spot but right beside you.
And Damian, for all his bravado, leans into your side just a fraction as he eats âcarefully, politely, as if heâs trying not to show how much he likes that youâre here.
He helps you pack a roll for each and every member of the family, by attaching a sticky note pad on all of them. And while you usually store them in the fridge, he watches puzzled as you place Jasonâs roll in the middle of the kitchen table.
___
After baking, the Manor usually becomes a revolving door of adolescents with highly specific needs.
Cassandra decides she must own a UV nail kit. Today. Immediately.
So she begins silently stalking Bruce through the hallways like a tiny and very polite cryptid until he finally caves and mutters, âFine,â and goes out to buy her the damn thing.
Then, Cassandra starts looming around you too, Stephanie always tagging along. They thank you for the cinnamon rolls and very politely ask if you can do Cassandraâs nails. You say yes, because employing yourself with something that isnât exchanging TikToks with Dick, Donna and Wally in the groupchat, sounds like sole salvation.
And thatâs how you find yourself in the living room at the west wing of the manor.
Youâre midway through painting tiny black bats on Cassandraâs ring fingers. Stephanie is perched beside you, recounting every rumor she heard at Gotham Academy in the last forty-eight hours, talking so fast she barely pauses for breath. Tim, who has now joined you, sits on the armrest behind you, correcting her like an overworked Wikipedia editor whoâs had his article vandalized one too many times.
Youâre relaxed. Cass is serene. Steph is loud. Tim is Tim. And then, thereâsâŠJason at the door who doesnât come in at first.
You catch him in your peripheral âlingering just outside the doorway, pretending heâs checking something on his phone, except heâs holding it upside-down. You see the camera peeking from the flat end of his palm, like the worldâs worst actor.
Heâs watching the scene like itâs something delicate. Something easily shattered. You try not to stare too much. He tries not to look like heâs staring at you and fails, once again, miserably.Â
When Stephanie finally notices him and waves her hand wildly, inviting him in, he finally steps inside.
âJason! Wanna get your nails done? We can do tiny skullsââ
âIâm good,â he says quickly, stepping half inside, half out, like the threshold is made of lava.
Cassandra lifts her head toward him, blinking slowly. A greeting. An invitation. Jason nods back but doesnât move. You paint another tiny bat. Cass smiles shyly.
âPfffftâWhy are you good at nails?â Steph asks.
âDiana taught me,â you say, like itâs obvious that Wonder Woman knows how to do nails.
And while Cassandra beams, Stephanie looks offended no one taught her, but you wield her closer, keen on teaching her some of your amateur knowledge. Tim just looks at your handiwork like youâve unlocked a new side quest.
The room is buzzing with life even if Jason looms at a corner like a memeâSteph dramatizing with pursed lips as she watches your handiwork, Cass studying your brushwork, Tim fact-checking like his life depends on it. Youâre halfway through Stephanieâs thumb when Tim finally glances up from his phone and throws a casual question over his shoulder.
âJasonâhow are the Outlaws doing, anyway? Havenât seen you on a rooftop with Artemis in a while.â
The name lands like a pebble dropped into a glass of water. Small, quiet ripple. Right across your spine, because they do what now!?
Jason straightens from where heâs leaning against the wall. Not muchâjust a shift. A recalibration. But you notice it. You always notice him like he notices you.
He scratches the back of his neck. âTheyâre⊠fine,â he says. Neutral. Too neutral.
Steph squints. âThat sounds not fine.â
Jason shoots her a look. âItâs fine.â
Tim doesnât buy it. âConner mentioned Bizzaro, but is Artemis still out of the country?â
Jason shrugs, trying to look casual. âYeah. Doing her own thing. We all take space sometimes.â
Space. The word hooks under your ribs uncomfortably.
You concentrate a little too hard on drawing a tiny bat wing. Cassâs fingers twitch once but she doesnât look away from Jasonânot with her eyes, at least. Sheâs reading him in that silent, surgical Cassandra way. Then, when she looks at you, you know damn right she knows whatâs going on.
Jason keeps talking. âWeâre still in contact. Itâs not likeââ He stops to clear his throat. âJust team logistics.â
You hate how something in your chest reacts. Irrational and stupid. The leftover paranoia from the harbor clinging like fog.
Steph leans forward. âSo you guys arenât fighting?â
Jason snorts. âSteph, Roy and I fought constantly. Artemis just⊠avoids the drama.â
âWhich you create,â Tim adds dryly, cocking an eyebrow.
Jason points at him. âI will throw you out a window.â
âYou wonât.â
âTry me.â
The bickering draws laughter from Steph, a tiny grin from Cass, and some of the tension evaporates. The kind of normal chaos that should settle you.
But you still feel it. Jason has been acting weird today. And Steph and Tim sound like they know something you donât, but you assure yourself Stephanie wouldnât have kept her mouth shut if that was the case. However, the soft little bruise youâve been pretending isnât there doesnât really settle into reality.
Jason glances in your direction. Just a fleeting check-in. And you look down fast, pretending to concentrate on checking if Cassandra's nails are properly cured.
Jason goes quiet again, not the comfortable kind at least.
The kind that makes the air feel like a loaded question no oneâs asking.
Once youâre done with Cassâ nails and heâs already fleeted the room, you text him that you should talk about the case, later tonight if heâs free.
â
Homework in Wayne Manor is also a group sport, apparently.
Youâre sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library with Damian, who is being difficult today and is absolutely refusing to accept that yes, even he has to show his work on geometry proofs. Dick, your savior to this ordeal for the evening, is sprawled on the couch upside-down like a human Labrador, tossing encouragement into the air every few seconds.
âOkay, buddy,â Dick says, pointing at the worksheet that Damian is actively glaring into submission, âyou canât just write âbecause I said soâ as a theorem.â
âThat is a perfectly valid justification,â Damian snaps.
âNo,â you say gently, tapping the page. âNot unless youâre running the Justice League.â
âI will one day.â
âSure,â Dick chimes in cheerfully, âbut until then, we need angle-side-angle to make an appearance.â
âThis theorem is stupid.â Damian huffs. Loudly. Dramatically, as if the worldâs collective incompetence has personally offended him and you get up, pulling a chair next to him.
You lean over his shoulder, guiding him through the problemâyour hand brushing his as you redirect his pencilâand Dick drops off the couch entirely, doing a little flip that only he thinks is casual. He lands beside you two and pulls a chair up too, corralling Damian between the two of you like a very gentle, very loving academic intervention.
Moments like these feel easy. Natural. A rhythm the three of you have slipped into without ever formally discussing it. Itâs a kind truth. When Bruce doesnât have time for mundane normal activities like this, when he is too busy with Justice League meetings or evening galas, you and Dick take the wheel.Â
Dick comes to soccer matches with you both now. Heâs already floated the idea of taking Damian to a few basketball games, too, after forcing you to watch two or three on TV. The way he explains basketball rules to Damian and you âsince he was a basketball player during his school daysâ always feels like a truce, until the kid comments on Dickâs height or lack there off and the first robin tells him off like heâs offended.
The truth is, no one has quite the bond with Damian the way you two do. And no one gets Damianâs respect the way Dick has earned it. Between the two of you, homework gets done. Sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes chaotically, but always done.
In moments like this, youâre grateful Dick never held a grudge. Not for the kiss you shared with Jason, not for the slow, inevitable drifting apart afterward. The two of you have settled into something softer. Something like family. Something stable. You are friends now. The best of friends and between a TikTok groupchat and shared patrols occasionally, itâs like you were never even together in the first place.
And despite what anyone says, youâre not treating Damian like your gentle, mutual divorce child.
Damian finishes writing out a line of the proof and then pauses. Tilts his head. He looks between you and Dick with far too much calculation for a ten-year-old.
âActually,â he says, pencil still in hand, âI have a question.â
Dick stiffens. âShoot away.â
Damian looks directly at you, then at his brother. âWhy did you and Grayson break up?â
The air freezes, of all the days he could have asked that, he chooses to do so today.
You blink and Dick makes a noise like a dying bird.
Damian waits, perfectly content, perfectly patient, like he just asked whether the library closes at eleven.
âYou were courting,â Damian adds helpfully. âAnd then you were not. I noticed the shift.â
âCourtingâ? Damian, we wereâ it wasnâtââ Dick sputters. âLook you canât just ask thatââ
âYou once mentioned you considered adopting me when Father was⊠away.â Damian looks at Dick pointedly. âI shall not entertain the idea further. However, if a young couple plans to adopt a child, and then dissolves their relationship without explanation, the hypocrisy is rather despicable.â
You stare at him. Dick stares at him.
The idea of Dick telling Damian something that emotionally intimate shouldnât surprise you at all. And yet, it still knocks you flat. Sure, when you were nineteen and with Dick it sounded like a good idea. You thought maybe, maybe, you could treat the little kid better than Bruce or Talia. No more bloodshed, just a little kid living life normally. Something almost none of you ever had.
You loathed everyone especially for what Jason had gone through and you didnât want someone else to go through similar horrors at such a tender age.
You open your mouth to answer but you donât know what you plan to say. And thatâs when the library door clicks open.
Jason. Of course.Â
What is it that they say? Speak of the devilâthink of the devil and he shall appear.
You had texted him earlier âSwing by if you have any new leads on the harbor case,â but homework took so much longer than expected and now heâs here in the worst possible moment, like he buzzed in from a parallel timeline just to witness your utter humiliation.
Jason does what he always does lately. He appears in the threshold like the worldâs most heavily armed housefly with abandonment issues. He lingers. Watching before speaking. Taking in the entire scene with those sharp green eyes of his.
You donât look up immediately anymore, because every time you do, he pretends like he wasnât watching you. Like he wasnât assessing the air you breathe, the mood youâre in, the distance between you and someone else.
âI gotta go.â You shift, ready to stand. Maybe pull him aside. Maybe get this stupid case-talk over with before Dick combusts from sheer discomfort.
Youâre halfway to standing when Damian suddenly says, very plainly.
âWait.â
Jasonâs head snaps toward you so fast his neck probably cracks. His brows go up. Way up. And then his expression shifts into something darkly amused.
You exhale through your nose. âDamian, maybe now isnâtââ
âNo,â Damian says, tone crisp. âYou still have not answered my question. You were courting again, yes? I saw evidence.â
âEâevidence?â you stammer.
He nods, very matter-of-fact. âHe brought you pastries. You sat too close on the couch. You laughed at his jokes when they were not funny.â
Dick clutches his chest. âMy jokes are funny.â
Jason coughs out a laugh he absolutely does not try to hide and leans a shoulder into the doorframe, crossing his arms. âOh, this should be good.â
You glare at him. âDonât you have⊠I donât know. Crime to fight?â
âHarbor case?â he reminds you with a shrug. âYou said you wanted to talk. Privately.â
The last word lands heavier than it should. Dick definitely notices. Damian absolutely notices. You feel it hit the air like static.
âWe do need to talk,â you mutter, avoiding Jasonâs eyes before they can pin you in place.
Jason huffs out a low laugh, something bitter at the edges. âYeah, sweetheart, so do they apparently.â
Damian shakes his head and continues, relentless, âAnd then one day you stopped. So logically I assumed one of you failed. Grayson, most likely.â
âHeyââ Dick protests.
You want the earth to open and swallow you whole.
âDamian,â you manage, rubbing your forehead, âthatâs⊠not really⊠a thing we need to talk about.â
He scowls. âWhy not? Adults are always saying communication is key.â
Jason folds his arms, leaning against the doorway like this is the single greatest moment of his week. âLet the kid speak.â
You shoot him a look so sharp it could impale him. It only makes him grin wider.
âDamian,â you try again, âDick and I didnâtâweââ
âI kissed her.â Jason states, bluntly, shrugging his shoulders, his face unreadable. The words slip out without dramatics or flourish, but they carry weight anywayâan admission placed on the table with meticulous honesty, not tossed or thrown. The kind that changes the temperature of the room without raising the volume.
Dickâs breath catches, sharp and almost imperceptible. Damianâs eyes narrow the slightest bit, absorbing the new information like data in a case file, like this finally explains why Jason has been acting weird with you, or why youâre acting weird with him.Â
For one suspended beat, no one moves. Not even the air.
You swallow against the dryness in your throat. âAnd I broke up with Dick shortly after.â
The silence that settles feels older than Wayne Manor itself. It sinks into the bookshelves, the cracked leather of the armchairs and couch, the cold sweep of the hardwood beneath your knees. Somewhere down the hall, the grandfather clock ticks with pointed indifference, marking each second you wish would pass faster.
Damian, unfazed by atmospheres adults buckle under, tilts his head. âDid you love him?â
You donât answer, simply because you donât know who heâs referring to.
Dick straightens, eyes wide. âHeyâDamianâno, thatâs notâlook, thatâs too personalââ
âAgain! You told me once,â Damian continues, calmly, ruthlessly, âthat you considered adopting me together should Father have remained indisposed. If this was merely a temporary illusion of stability, I believe it should have been disclosed.â
You feel the room lurch. This is something you didnât want Jason to know, but you donât expect Damian to keep silent when given family gossip. He always digs.Â
This is exactly why you and Jason have never discussed what happened at his house that night. Gothamâs walls have ears and they answer to the names of the Batfamily.
Dick clears his throat, shifts on the chair, his voice suddenly delicate in a way you rarely ever hear. âIt was⊠a moment. A possibility. And maybe not a realistic one. It doesnât mean it was your fault. Or hers. Or even mine.â
Damian processes this without blinking, and thenâinevitablyâturns toward Jason, the way children turn toward open flame without fear. Except, heâs the only child that does that.
âAnd now you.â
Jasonâs posture tightens, like someone bracing for the recoil of an unanticipated hit. His eyes flick briefly to yours, a crack of something unguarded showing beneath the practiced calm.
Dick notices the exchange silently.
âAre you courting her?â Damian asks, with all the decorum of a ten-year-old interrogating a suspect. âYes or no?â
To your side Dick looks puzzled, he keeps looking back and forth between you and Jason as if trying to decode a cryptic message.
Jasonâs answer comes low, but not harsh. âThatâs not something you need to be involved in.â
âIt becomes relevant,â Damian replies, steady as stone, âif she keeps returning to this household. If her presence intertwines with ours.â
âNothingâs going on between us.â Jason hums.
Your breath catches in your chestânot because heâs wrong, but because heâs right in a way that forces you to look at everything youâve been trying not to see. Of course itâs nothing.Â
People who want each other are together. They have courage to fight for what they want. You and Jason fight for nothing. You orbit. You retreat. You pretend. Thus, yes, thereâs nothing going.Â
So why does your heart hurt so much when all you should do is simply accept?
âDamian,â you whisper, âthis isn't what you think. Iâm notâno one isââ then with quiet defeat, your words fall apart before they even reach shape âthereâs nothing here..â
Jason moves then, just a fraction closer, not enough to loom again, not even enough to take up more space, just enough to make the air between you shift in density.
His voice is quiet, smooth as polished steel, but undeniably tense around the edges.
âWe need to talk.â Thereâs a pause, long enough that Dick glances up, and Damian observes the two of you with eerie attentiveness as the room seems to tilt in anticipation.
Damian blinks once, the way cats do before pouncing. âTalk about what?â
Dick groans into the carpet. âOkay, weâre done interrogating adults tonightââ
The words arenât a command, but they carry warning and want and worry all braided into one. The kind of request he only makes when heâs afraid youâll run from the answer.
âTodd,â Damian is already aiming his full focus at Jason, surgical and relentless. âYou have been staying here excessively. And you monitor her movements.â
Jasonâs jaw clicks. A tiny break in the armor. âThatâs not whatâs happening.â
âYouâre lying to me,â Damian says simply. âBoth of you.â
Jason holds your gaze for the first time since he stepped into the doorway, his eyes bored, lips pursed. âCome on.â
Damian watches the two of you stand close, eyes flicking between your posture, your breath, the sharpness of your silhouettes in the lamplight, the way your eyelids fall underneath your eyebrows as sadness ensues. He doesnât miss a micro-expression, not a shift of weight, not the way Jasonâs hand brushesâalmost accidentally, almost notâclose to your spine without touching.
And because he is ten and blunt and terrifyingly observant, he says the most dangerous thing possible.
âNo,â Damian says, lifting a hand like a tiny general halting troops. âYou do not leave until you answer my question.â
Something inside you flares; frustration, shame, the kind of helpless anger that tastes like too much salt on a food you've been starving to taste. âDamian, enough.âÂ
Dick, who has settled for laying on the floor next to his chair, whips around on the carpet, wide-eyed. âDamesâbuddyâheyâhow about we redirect toâliterally anything else?â
But Damian is already squaring his shoulders, pupils narrowing in the exact way Bruceâs do when he corners a suspect. He looks directly at Jason.
âWhat is your relationship with her now?â
Jason doesnât flinch, but something in him contractsâa small, deep, invisible recoil. He flicks a glance toward you, not for answers but for alignment, like heâs making sure youâre breathing before he speaks.
âThereâs literally nothing to talk about there,â Jason says finally. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled for your liking.
Damian shifts his focus to you. âAnd you? Do you deny there is something unresolved between you?â
Your throat tightens. Heat blooms beneath your skin in a slow, humiliating wave. âThereâs nothing,â you say, aiming for steady but hitting somewhere closer to brittle. âWeâre fine. We work together. Thatâs all.â
Every ânothingâ feels like an arrow straight through the heart.
Damianâs eyes narrow with surgical disappointment.
Jason exhales through his nose, a short, sharp breath that sounds too much like restraint. âKidâdrop it.â
âI will not,â Damian fires back, chin lifted in perfect Amazonian stubbornness he learned from you, not Talia. âYou kissed her. She broke up with Grayson. The tension between you two today is unbearable. Something has changed. I demand an explanation.â
You open your mouth, scrambling for denial, but Damian barrels through it.
âYou are walking closer and then you retreat,â he says, flicking his gaze to Jason, âyou scan the room every time she enters. And you,â he turns to you with the same merciless precision, âyou look at him like you expect him to vanish.â
You inhale sharply. Jasonâs jaw flexes. Damian surely isnât done.
âAnd the last time he visited,â he continues, âyou refused to make eye contact. He refused to speak to anyone but you. You were both⊠unsettled.â
Dick snorts softly. âThatâs one word for it.â
Jason shoots him a look that could peel paint, then turns back to Damian, voice low, strained.
âI wonât say it again. Nothing is happening.â
Damian folds his arms. Your breath stutters. Jason shifts half a step forward, like heâs about to stand between you and the interrogation and even though you donât need protection from Damian, he does it anyway.
Damian watches that movement with eerie calm. âYou are both radiating unresolved emotional conflict. It is affecting the household.â
âOh my god,â Dick mutters under his breath, âheâs been hanging out with Raven again.â
âEnough,â Jason snaps, rubbing the heel of his palm over his brow. âThis isnât your business.â
âIt becomes my business,â Damian counters, âwhen your unresolved feelings compromise my family time and your ability to work together. I refuse to witness another example of disastrous interpersonal dynamics in this family.â
You swear the room tilts. Jason takes one slow, anchored breath before lifting his gaze to you.
âCome with me, thatâs enoughâ he says quietly.
Not an order. Not a plea. A boundary. A request forged from the need to end this before it spirals further into territory youâre not ready to unpack in front of an audience.
âWe need to talk,â he continues. âSomewhere else.â
Damian opens his mouth againâprobably to cross-examine you both within an inch of your sanityâbut Jason cuts him a look that even Bruce would respect.
You nod once, barely, and Jasonâs shoulders loosen by a fraction. Just enough that you know he was bracing for you to say no.
Dick lifts a hand without looking up from his seat. âGo,â he murmurs. âIâll keep the kid from stage-managing your emotional arc.â
Damian scowls. âI donât stage-manageââ
âYes, you do,â all three of you say at once.
Jason gestures toward the hall. You step past Damian, past Dick, past the heaviness of the library, and into the dim corridor where only moonlight from the long windows touches the floor.
_______
Later that night, after some intense sparring and stretches, you follow Jason across the rooftops near the Iceberg Lounge. He doesnât ask you to come with him, and youâre not exactly supposed to be on his patrol route, because well, you're benched, but neither of you knew what to do with the silence that hung between you after the library. He stepped outside expecting you to say something, and you followed expecting him to say anything, and neither attempt ever materialized.
With a case that needs your full demand to at least start unravelling though, you donât spend much time in the manor sulking. You put on your suit solely for not following around Red Hood in civilian clothes and ignore Bruceâs plea to take a few more days off.
Now you move several paces behind Jason, close enough to track his path but far enough to maintain the thin line of distance he drew in the hallway. Both of you pretend this is about work, about leads, about the case involving Penguin, when in reality you are both avoiding the conversation you werenât prepared to have.Â
It works, for a second, better than youâd like to admit.
Jason lands on the edge of a rooftop and crouches, his silhouette cut sharply against the neon wash of the street below. For a long moment he simply looks out over the streets, keeping his face angled away from you. When he finally speaks, the words carry a quiet frustration that feels heavier than anger.
âYou really shouldnât be here,â he mutters. His voice is steady through his modulator, but the tension rides beneath it like a pulse.
You settle beside him with careful distance. âI told you Iâm not interfering. I just need to check on the Penguin lead myself.â
Jason exhales through his nose, a controlled breath you might have missed if you werenât watching him so closely.
âItâs not the case Iâm worried about.â
Your throat tightens. You look down at the busy street so he doesnât see the way those words land. âHoodâŠâ
âDonât,â he murmurs, cutting you off. His tone isnât dismissive. Itâs protective and conflicted in a way youâre not sure he even recognizes in himself.
He shifts slightly, and the back of his glove brushes your elbow. It isnât a touchâmore the shadow of oneâbut itâs enough to make you aware of how warm he is at this distance, and how easy it would be to close the space between you.
âAfter what happened that night,â he says quietly, still scanning the street below, âyou really think Iâm going to let you parade out here tonight? You got shot.â
You swallow hard, unsure whether heâs scolding you, worrying about you, or trying not to admit either.
âIt wasnât supposed to go like that,â you say softly.
Jason keeps his gaze forward, but the set of his jaw shifts. âIt never does. Not with us.â
The way he says âusâ breaks something open inside you. He feels it too, because his eyes flick toward you beneath his helmet with an expression you canât readâsomething sharp, frustrated, and vulnerable all at once. You look away first, not because you want to, but because holding that look against the cold scowl of his helmet feels dangerously close to admitting all the things youâve managed to bury.
The atmosphere between you grows heavier, tense in a way that feels fragile and combustible. This is the beginning of the slope. The slow, inevitable drift back toward the kind of closeness that ends behind closed doors with heat and steam and apologies neither of you are ready for. You can sense it forming even here, in the cold glow of Gothamâs neon.
Before either of you can speak towards the inevitable again, a noise cracks through the alleyâsomeone shouting, followed by the crash of something metal hitting pavement. Jason straightens immediately.
âStay behind me.â
You donât bother answering. You both know how that always goes.
You follow him down the fire escape, boots finding rusted rungs as the noise fades into the dark. The street is empty by the time you reach the ground. Only a tipped trash bin and the ripple of movement disappearing around a corner.
Jason scans the area, curses under his breath, then pulls out his comm for a quick check-in with Oracle. You catch the way his shoulders drop when he realizes the disturbance wasnât connected to Penguin.
âGreat,â he sighs. âWaste of time.â
You nudge him lightly. âNot totally. We still have the lead from that warehouse sweep you did. And whatever the hell that encrypted file was.â
He speaks in a tone thatâs half-exasperation, half of something softer. âYouâre not letting this go, are you?â
âAbsolutely not. The longer that file sits unread, the more ground we lose. We need to decrypt it, instead of just waiting to beat Penguin up.â
âIâm not trying to beat him upâŠâ Jason chuckles, the sound low and almost amused. âA bullet in the shoulder would probably make him talk.â
You shove playfully at his shoulder, feeling a grin you can't contain creep up your cheeks "I'm not Batman.â You shrug.
You canât possibly know, but underneath his helmet, he sports a grin that's just like yours.
âI know, Batman doesnât exactly leave cinnamon rolls for me on the kitchen table.â
You stop the urge to ask him if he liked his roll and simply choose to be content with the fact that he did in fact see it.
A silent beat passes after. Jason huffs out a breath, slightly annoyed, but also giving in. âFiiiine. Come on. My place is closer. We can sort everything out there.â
You pretend your heart doesnât do something stupid and eruptive at that. You pretend you donât remember exactly how many times crossing that threshold has led to something you swore you wouldnât repeat.
The drive to his apartment is quiet, but not entirely cold. You make a stop at a safe house to change your costumes and after, that strange, dangerous hum sits between you like a live wire neither of you touches yet. But youâve got your arms wrapped around his torso, and your face buried on the slope of his back. He even caresses your knee at a red light, and even if the touch is unsure and trembling, you donât push him away.
You want to not panic, but your mind is a puddle of goo, baptised in the sole affirmation that going to his apartment is solely for case purposes.
When you reach his building, Jason unlocks the door and steps aside for you to go in first.Â
âAfter you,â His voice is steady, but something in it trembles beneath the surface.
Jasonâs apartment is dim when you walk inâonly the kitchen light left on, humming faintly like itâs trying to apologize for existing in a not so normal tidiness. You toe off your boots, the ache in your legs finally catching up to you now that the adrenalineâs burned off.
Jason locks the door behind you with a soft click. He stands there for a moment, still facing the wood, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, uneven breath.
You take a seat at his kitchen table.
âLetâs see what weâve got,â he says, finally drifting closer to you.
âYeahâ
âJust⊠â
You know that stance that follows. Thatâs the stance of him not even trying to finish his sentence, in case he says something that sounds stupid.
You set your tech gear down on the table, pulling out your phone, with your stored notes from the night. âSo,â you start, keeping your voice light, âuhm, before we start, are we gonna talk about what happened with Damian tonight orrrââ
âNo.â Heâs quick. Too quick.
You lift a brow. âReally? Just ânoâ? Thatâs the whole sentence weâre going with?â
Jason scrubs a hand down his face, like he already regrets being conscious. âIâm not doing this right now.â
âNeither am I,â you counter. âIâm not looking for a fight. I just want to understand what set him off.â
He turns toward you, leaning back against the direction of the door. His eyes flicker with frustrationâmore at himself than at you. âHeâs a kid. He gets ideas. He says things.â
âJason,â you say, a little softer, âhe wasnât just saying things. Heâs a kid that doesnât understand why we circle each other so awkwardly.â
That cracks something. Just barely.
Jason pushes off his chair, letting it balance on two legs. âLook, Damianâhe thinks heâs protecting people. Or judging people. Or whatever the hell he does when he puts himself ten feet above the rest of us.â
You fold your arms. âHe implied you were hiding something from me.â
Jasonâs jaw tightens. âYeah. Because he runs his mouth like heâs trying to win a medal.â
âAnd are you?â
That hits harder than you meant it to, and you see it immediatelyâthe flash in his eyes, the way he exhales like you struck a match in a gas-filled room.
âIâm not hiding anything,â he says, low. âI justâdonât want to dump more shit on your plate.â
You blink. For a moment, all the tension stutters. âJason⊠thatâs not fair.âÂ
âYeah, well,â he mutters, âlifeâs not fair. And Damian tired me out.â
âYouâre not more shit on my plate. Youâre not shit, at all.â
He huffs bitterly, almost a laugh âNow, youâre not gonna like my response to thatâ
You feel the edge of frustration rise, sharp, too hotâ you hate it when he talks like that about himselfâ but youâre tired too. Too tired to hold onto a conversation that is going to lead to a fight. So instead of pushing, instead of digging deeper into words youâre both too frayed to handle, you let out a long breath.
âOkay,â you say quietly. âWe donât have to talk about it tonight.â
The room softens. Not fixed entirely, but simply deflated. Two people holding stress like wet coats, too heavy to wring out right now.
Jasonâs shoulders drop a fraction. He nods once, like he appreciates you not poking the bruise, even if it is still sitting there between you. He would definitely hate to enter a conversation that unravels the fact that you and Dick wanted to adopt Damian like a papyrus.
âThanks,â he mutters.
You both migrate toward the desk with his computer without saying anything, like two planets stuck in the same orbit frustrated and exhausted, but still pulled toward each other out of habit.Â
Jason drags out a chair, drops into it like gravity doubled just for him, and starts peeling off his driving gloves. You sit next to him and spread the files he has neatly printed out on an envelope in the top drawer of his desk. For a few minutes, itâs quiet except for the rustling of paper and the soft clink of gear being set aside.
But the quiet isnât neutral. It pulses. Itâs the kind of quiet where you can feel the shape of his attention even when heâs not looking at you.
You catch him watching you onceâhalf a second, a sideways glance as you jot down a note. His eyes flick back to the paper the instant you look up, jaw tightening like heâs annoyed at himself.
You pretend not to notice, but the back of your neck warms anyway.
âSo,â you say eventually, tapping a photo, âthis guy at the warehouseâ Youâve written down that he bolted when heard your name? Fetch me the surveillance camera from the building across.â
Jason leans forward, forearms braced on the table. The shadow under his eye makes him look sharp as he clicks on the video you asked him for. âPenguinâs been running a new gun trafficking route. Word on the street is heâs got fresh guards, fresh cash, fresh paranoia. Anyone connected is jumpy.â
âThat seems like more than regular criminal jitters, that wasnât just jumpy,â you say, studying the video frame by frame âThat was terrified.â
He considers that, lips pressing into a thin line. âIf the men we encountered were Penguinâs, then he probably knows something. Heâs probably been told to avoid vigilantes at all costs.â
Jasonâs trying to keep it about the case. You can tell; every answer is clipped and efficient. Too professional.
But every now and then his voice softens by accident, usually when heâs talking to you. And each time it does, that crack in the armor gets just a little wider.
You reach for a file at the same moment he does, your fingers end up brushing. Just a small thing. Barely contact. It jolts you enough to make you pull back instantly, but Jason is faster than you.
He pulls his hand back first. âSorry,â he mutters.
You donât say âitâs fineâ. Because, one, itâs not. Two, it wouldn't cover the actual problem anyway. Instead, you slide the file toward him. âHere. You were going for it.â
Something in his expression loosens just a millimeter. Enough to show that the almost argument still sits in the back of his mind, unspoken and unfinished, but not as sharp now. More like, raw.
The case-work eventually bleeds into that late-night haze where sentences start slurring at the edges. Your handwriting gets messier. Jasonâs notes start trailing off mid-thought. Both of you push through it out of stubbornness alone.
You rub your eyes, leaning back in your chair with a groan. âMy whole body hurts,â you mumble. âWhy does detective work feel like I got hit by a car?â
Jason snorts. âBecause we chased a guy across two rooftops.â
âThat was your fault.â
âIt was teamwork.â
You glare at him half-heartedly, but your eyelids are already heavy. You stifle a yawn behind your wrist and blink slowly. âIâm gonna die.â
âYouâre not gonna die,â he says. But his voice has softened. Hearing you fading is doing something to him. His shoulders relax just a little, the worry line between his brows easing. âYou just need to sleep. Orââ
He hesitates, glancing toward the hallway like the thought snuck up on him.
ââmaybe a hot shower would help,â he says. âYour muscles are probably locked up after all that climbing, you havenât even been training for two weeks.â
You let out a tired, sarcastic laugh. âYeah, thatâd be great⊠if I had the energy to stand to go home.â
âYou can crash here,â Jason leans back in his chair, arms folded, when you âtchâ him, studying you the way he does when heâs already made up his mind. âAwâŠYou look like youâre about ten seconds from face-planting.â
âIâm fineeee,â you insist, but the sentence melts into another yawn mid-word.
He raises a brow. âUh-huh. Totally convincing.â
You try sitting up straight and immediately sway. âOkay⊠maybe⊠not fine.â
Jason pushes to his feet with a quiet sigh, one part annoyed, one part concerned, one part something warmer he would never admit to. He comes around the table and crouches slightly so heâs eye-level with your very distracted, very sleepy face.
âWant help?â he asks.
You blink at himâslow, lazy, and just honest enough to let the truth slip through.
âYeah,â you murmur. âHelp me.â
The way he breathes in at that, almost imperceptible, says everything. Itâs nothing sexual. Not yet. Itâs just that you are asking for help over something so mundane, just that it hits him somewhere soft inside him.
âAlright,â he says quietly. âCome on.â
He slides an arm around your back, warm and steady, lifting you from the chair like you weigh nothing. You cling to his shoulder instinctively, half-asleep and trusting him without even thinking about it.
He steadies you with both hands, his voice low and a little rough in your ear.
âLetâs get you in the shower,â he says. âThen straight to bed.â
You donât catch the way he swallows after he says it. Youâre too busy letting your forehead rest against his shoulder.
Youâre too tired to see that this momentâthis softness, this closenessâis exactly where the slope starts to tip. You tap lightly at his shoulderâyour version of I got it, even if you very much do not have it. Jason eases you down, letting your feet touch the floor, but he keeps one hand braced at your waist until heâs sure you wonât topple over again.
The second you wobble, his grip tightens.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
You nod, but your brain feels like itâs wrapped in warm cotton. The room sways just slightly, or maybe thatâs you swaying in his hold. Jasonâs thumb presses onceâbarely thereâat your hip, either steadying you or grounding himself. Hard to tell which.
Jason guides you down the hall with a steady arm around your waist, the soft thud of your steps echoing in the quiet apartment. Youâre leaning into him more than you intended to. More than you should. Enough that it feels familiar. Too familiar.
And thatâs when the thoughts start.
Artemis.
You try not to flinch at the thought of her name, but it threads its way through your brain anyway. The image of herâconfident, tall, lethal, the kind of woman who fits into Jasonâs world without ever having to try.
Are they doing this too? Driving home from patrol. Trading quiet glances. Having these subtle, careful moments in hallways when no one else is around.
You swallow hard.
You and Jason both told Damian tonight that there was nothing. Nothing happening. Nothing unresolved. Nothing worth looking at twice.
So what is this now?
His hand slides just a little higher on your back as he steadies you through a patch of uneven floor. Itâs harmless. Itâs instinctive. But your body reacts like it remembers something you arenât supposed to talk about.
This isnât nothing, a small, traitorous part of you whispers.
You push the thought away immediately. Youâre exhausted. Your brain is doing that fuzzy, emotional spiral thing it does when you need to sleep the tiredness away.
But still. If thereâs absolutely nothing between you, then why does Jason handle you like this? Careful. Focused. Like youâre something breakable he keeps pretending isnât in his hands. And why does your chest ache at the thought that maybe someone else gets this version of him too?
Youâre frowning before you even realize it, mind spinning, steps slowing. Jason notices instantly.
âHey,â he says softly. âYou good?â
You nod, but itâs the slow, distracted kind. The one with the pursed lips and the tightly shut eyelids; the universal code for âtotally not good.â He watches your face for a beat longer, concerned, but doesnât push.
He guides you toward the bathroom, keeping close, his hand steady at the small of your back. And gosh, looking at him right now makes you want to kiss him.
Every step feels like a line you shouldnât cross, but somehow already did when that thought creeped up on you. The hallway between his living room and bathroom has never felt this long or this quiet or this charged.
Halfway there, you dare another glance up at him. His jaw is tense, his brow drawn. Not with annoyance, but something dangerously close to longing and heâs biting his lip.
You look away before he can catch you staring.
When you reach the bathroom doorway, he pauses. You feel him hesitate before he speaks.
âYou sure youâre alright?â he asks, quieter now. âBecause if weâre doing thisâif Iâm helping youâyou need to tell me if youâre uncomfortable.â
Your throat tightens at the softness in his voice. âIâ Iâm fine,â you say again, but gentler this time. âJust tired and it aches everywhere.â
He nods once, slowly. âOkay. Iâll stick around in case you need anything. Donât want you slipping.â
Itâs reasonable. Responsible. The exact kind of helpful gesture anyone could offer. And yet, it feels like the start of something neither of you will be able to pretend away later.
He opens the bathroom door with one hand while keeping you upright with the other. The warm light spills across the tiles, and he guides you inside gently, thumb brushing your bicep in a way that feels too intentional to be accidental.
And thatâs the problem, isnât it? Intentional or not, this is intimacy. And you both swore there wasnât any.
"Can you walk?"
You nod, biting back another wince. "Yeah."
You lie, because admitting the truth would open a door you are absolutely not prepared to walk through.
âMm-hm,â He lets out a slow breath, one you feel against your cheek more than hear. âAlright. Shower first. Iâll make sure you donât fall asleep standing up.â
âNot gonna fall asleep,â you mutter. Your eyes immediately begin to shut as a muscle on your calf pulls.
Jason snorts. âSure youâre not.â
Jason steadies you on your feet, hands firm at your waist for a second longer than strictly necessary. You open your mouth to tell him youâve got it, that you can stand just fineâbut your balance wobbles again, and he shifts automatically to catch you.
Thatâs when he sees it.
His jaw tightens. Just a flicker. His eyes drop to your side, to the dark smear on your shirt where the fabric clings wrong.
âHeyââ His voice changes. Sharper. Controlled in that way he gets when something hits the wrong nerve. âYouâre still bleeding from that?â
You blink, slow and confused, following his gaze. It takes a second for your brain to catch up. âOh. I guess it pulled a little.â
ââPulled a little.â My assâ Jason repeats it like youâve just casually told him the sky fell but you think the weatherâs perfectly fine. He reaches out carefully and lifts the hem of your shirt just enough to check. Not touching skinâheâs too careful for thatâbut close enough that you feel the disappointment seething across his face.
Your skin is stained in dried up blood. Not bad, the wound is almost closed. But itâs not nothing.
His expression darkens.
âYou shouldâve said something,â he murmurs. âYou shouldnât even be running rooftops on this.â
âHonestly, Itâs fine Iâm full of bruises that are worse than this,â you admit. Youâre too tired to lie about this too, and too worn down to pretend youâre invincible.
Jason exhales slowly, the kind of breath thatâs half frustration, half relief that itâs not worse. âYou can barely keep your eyes open. And youâre hurt.â His voice is low, steady, but the edges are fraying with worry. âYou need to take it easy.â
You try to laugh it off. âThatâs what I said.â
He looks at you like heâs debating if he should lecture you, wrap you in bubble wrap, or carry you the rest of the night.
Then, more gently, he says âLet me help. Fuckâ You can barely stand.â
The softness in his tone sets off that familiar flicker of doubt deep in your chest, uninvited and unwelcome. Because you insisted nothing was happening. He insisted nothing was happening. Friends, partners, whatever the hell label you two keep pretending fits. Youâre close. Comfortable. Familiar. And youâre still thinking about kissing him like itâs a crime.
You swallow. The space between you feels suddenly so much smaller. And suddenly, you're wide awake. A conscious decision you should make is to pull back now, before this gets any worse âJason⊠you donât have toââ
âI know I donât.â The words drop solid between you, stopping your protest cold. âI want to.â
And oh well, you donât want to pull back from that.
Jason adjusts your balance with one steady hand at your elbow and reaches past you. His arm brushes your shoulder as he turns the shower knob, wrist flexing, testing the temperature with a careful pass of his fingers under the stream.
âThe waterâs warm,â he says quietly. His voice is low, muted. âYou should get inâ
You nod, but your feet donât move. Exhaustion makes everything feel far away, like youâre watching yourself lag a few seconds behind reality.
Jason studies your face for a beat, expression unreadable but tight around the corners of his eyes. You can almost see the thoughts he wonât speak. The worry and frustration, that quiet ache he gets when heâs too protective for his own good.Â
âYou fading on me?â he asks, tilting his head.
âJust tired.â You repeat for the upteenth time.
His jaw flexes faintly. He believes you, but not completely. He never does when it concerns your safety.
You brace a hand on the counter, steadying yourself, and your breath stutters when another ripple of pain hits your side. Jasonâs gaze drops to the movement instantly, a reflex, protective and quiet.
This is where he should step back. Leave you to it. Give you space.
He doesnât though. He lingers instead. Not hovering, but just present. Solid. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through the fatigue pulling at your eyelids. His touch is so careful, like heâs terrified of hurting you or, worse, making you think heâs touching you for any reason other than necessity.
And thatâs when the thought hits him. It comes quietly. Without drama. Without intention.
Just there. Just a thought heâs had in the past, creeping up on the worst imaginable moment.
If this were normal. If this were every night. If you came home like this, tired and sore and bruised from whatever madness the day brought. If he guided you toward the shower because thatâs what partners doâbecause you lived in the same space, shared the same routines, the same air. If this soft, half-sleeping version of you was something he saw all the time instead of just when the universe forced your paths too close together.
His throat works around a sound he doesnât let out. He imagines it too easily. Thatâs the problem.
You, dropping your bag on the floor, grumbling about your day, leaning against him on the couch out of habit instead of exhaustion. You, in his bathroomânot because youâre hurt or overtired or slippingâbut because this would simply be home.
The picture is so clear it almost rattles him.
His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against your back. Just half an inch. Just enough to anchor himself. Then, his own hands betray him as they slide to the wide of your back, his thumb rubbing a few circles over newly found knots of sore muscle.
He clears his throat softly. âYour backâs hard as a rock.â
âI know,â you mumble, eyes half-closed.
He exhales through his nose, slowly, almost resigned.
âAlright,â he says after a long, measured pause. âLet me see what I can do.â
You lift your gaze to him through the cabinet mirror, unfocused. âJasonâŠâ
âJust steadying you,â he adds, though you didnât accuse him of anything. He says it more for himself than for you. âNothing else.â
But the truth sits between you anyway.
This isnât nothing.
Not the way heâs touching you. Not the way youâre leaning on him. Not the way heâs looking at youâquiet, conflicted, like heâs trying very hard not to think about the version of his life where moments like this happen every night.
You swallow, voice smaller than you intended. âI⊠could use the help. Actually.â
He nods once, slow. The smallest shift in the world, but it feels enormous.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âIâve got you.â
âTell me if I hurt you,â he says.
âYou wonât.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to believe that too.
He lifts your shirt slowly. Pauses when it brushes the tender edge of your healing wound. His breath stutters, just barely, but you feel it. He adjusts the angle, coaxing the fabric over you with this impossible gentleness that makes your chest tighten.
Your arms raise. The shirt slides higher. His fingers skim your sides.
The moment should be clinical. Neutral.
It isnât.
Your breath catches. Jasonâs does too, but he keeps his eyes carefully averted, focused strictly on the fabric heâs tugging upward. When the shirt finally comes off, he steps back like heâs afraid to be too close.
You stand there in your bra, wishing the room didnât feel so small.
He clears his throat softly. âPants?â
You nod, and turn around to face him, cheeks warm. âYeah.â
He goes slower this time. Kneels slightly to steady the waistband, his hands warm against your hips. Your heart kicks at your ribs as he eases the fabric down, eyes pointed firmly at the tiles, his jaw tight with restraint.
Thereâs a moment, so brief and fragile, where his knuckles graze the bruised skin at your thigh. His breath hitches. He pulls back immediately.
âSorry,â he murmurs, voice tight.
âItâs okay,â you say quietly. And it is. Too okay.
The pants pool at your ankles. He lets you hold onto his shoulder as you step out of them, his hand steady on your calf so you donât slip. Every point of contact feels charged, but silent. Both of you pretend itâs fine. Normal.
Jason starts rising slowly, but he doesnât move far. Heâs close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that his eyes flick upwardâand then away just as quickly.
Youâre in nothing but a bra and underwear. Hair sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat. Exhausted and sore and barely staying upright. And heâs looking at you like youâre something he shouldnât be allowed to touch, but canât stop wanting to.
You swallow hard, then whisper his name. âJasonâŠâÂ
Fuckâfucking hell, does he love it when you say his name so desperately.
His hands steady on your thighs and he looks up at you with that pleading, puppy-like gaze you canât even pretend doesnât make your stomach twist and churn.
And you think you should screw whatever the hell you told Damian, or anything that has been making your insides bleed with doubt lately.
You crouch ever so slightly, cupping the underside of his jaw into your open palm.
Jason rises slowly, like any sudden movement might startle you. When heâs fully standing, you find yourselves too close enough that the warmth from the shower behind you gathers around both your bodies like a hanging question neither of you wants to ask first.
You shift a half-step toward him. He shifts a half-step back to adjust. Matching your movement before his brain lets him admit it.
You breathe in. He breathes out.
Your chests almost brush.
Then, for just an instance, he glances at your mouth. Just a flicker, fast and wrecked, like he hates himself for knowing what gonna happen next when he has no intentions of stopping himself.
Your hand is still on his jaw, warm against the faint stubble that pierces through your delicate skin. His own hands hover at your waistâto feel, not to claim. Heâs holding himself together by rotten threads.
You snap them.
âCan I?â You ask, whispering.
Jason doesnât have to question what youâre asking to do. He knows the quiet ruin that preludes your kisses, he loves to feel it. So he nods.
He leans in first, his lips shake with a quivering breath. His forehead touches yours for one suspended second where neither of you moves, even though the decision has already been made.
Then you tilt your chin closer to his face and tug at his jaw to urge him to close the distance.
Your lips meet in the smallest possible kiss. Just a pucker and a smooch, but itâs so soft and tender, your lips engulf his own so tenderly and suck so subtly, that even the sounds of your parting is barely ever heard.
None of you make a move for a second kiss for a moment too long.
Itâs Jason actually, who lacks the discipline to be patient that wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you just enough so he can set you on the top of the counter.
You let out the faintest inhale, legs brushing his hips, and Jason stands between them like heâs afraid stepping away will undo whatever fragile thing heâs just been handed.
You open your mouth, unsure where to even begin. The words you want to say have scattered, dissolved. Your breath catches in your chest instead. Neither of you moves to break the spell, and that stillness becomes its own magnetic gravity, pulling you towards each other.
âWanna shower together, Jay?â You manage to say through a gulp.
Itâs so quiet, so barely there, as if youâre scared someoneâs going to hear you and steal the moment away from you.
Jasonâs hand lifts, hesitant and slightly uncertain as if heâs only reacting to instinct. His fingers brush your jaw, and his nose bumps into the space above the top of your lips.
âYeah,â he whispers and nudges your face upwards with his to steal another soothing kiss from you. âIf youâll have meâŠâ
This one is barely a kissâmore a press of warmth, a shared breath, a soft meeting of mouths that lingers a fraction too long to be innocent. His lips brush yours again on the exhale, unhurried and reverent, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of this moment rather than deepening it.
Jason pulls back slightly, eyes half-lidded, studying you with a tenderness he clearly didnât mean to let slip. His hand stays on your jaw longer than it should. Your noses stay close enough to touch.
His thumb traces your cheek once, slow and unsure, as if asking a question he canât bring himself to say out loud.
Then he breathes out, shaky and warm.
âCâmon,â he murmurs, voice gentled to something almost fragile. âLetâs get you in before you fall asleep on me.â
He drops his forehead to yours again, just for a heartbeat, grounding himselfâor maybe grounding you. His hand slips from your jaw to the side of your neck, guiding you with a steadiness that feels like a promise he hasnât admitted to making.
When he finally steps back, itâs gradual, like peeling himself away from gravity. His hands slide down to your waist, then lower, helping you off the counter with a slow caution that sends a pulse straight through your ribs.
You land on your feet unsteadily and Jason catches you before you can sway. Neither of you really acknowledges how close your chests press together but then again he doesnât let go right away.
When he does, he only steps back another foot, just enough to breathe, not enough to break whatever thread has formed between your bodies.
His eyes flick again to your lips. Yours drop to his. A shared second of understanding that neither one of you is making a move to stop.
Then he reaches for your hand, not your elbow, not your back, but your hand, like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers close around yours with gentle certainty, and he gives the softest tug.
He guides you toward the shower with careful hands, steadying your balance as the heat rolls out in waves.
You stop just at the edge of the steam. The air is hot enough to prickle against your skin, warm enough to make the room feel even smaller.
Jason stands close behind you. You can feel the hesitation rolling off him in slow, uncertain breaths. The kind of breath a man takes when he knows heâs about to cross a boundary he promised himself he wouldnât.
His hands hover at your waist again, then fall away.
âI should⊠uhââ His voice drops low, almost apologetic. âLet you get in first.â
Heâs completely still, a contemplating look painted on his face when you turn to him.
It hits both of you at the same time: youâre almost naked, inches from him, in a room full of heat and quiet choices.
âCan I take off your clothes?â you ask softly, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt.
His breath catches. A noticeable, undeniable pause. âYou⊠you donât have to.â
âI know.â You meet his gaze. âBut can I?â
Jasonâs answer isnât verbalânot right away. He just nods once, definitely. A surrender wrapped in restraint.
You step closer. âI want to take care of you too.â
Your fingers slip under the fabric at his waist. Heâs too warm for someone who insists his blood runs cold. His muscles tighten instinctively beneath your touch, then soften as he forces himself to breathe.
You lift the shirt inch by inch.
Jason raises his arms a beat late, dazed, like he canât quite believe heâs letting you do this.
The shirt slides up his ribs, his chest, over the scar that cuts across his sternum. You pause there but not to touch, just to see. Jason swallows hard, eyes flicking away, embarrassed in a way he hates. You've already seen him without his shirt countless times since that night on his couch.
You tug the shirt over his head.
He stands bare chested before you, skin flushed from the heat, breath unsteady in the close air.
His eyes lower to your hands again. âYou good?â he murmurs.
âYeah,â you whisper. âYou?â
He lets out a quiet laughâmore exhale than sound. âNot even close.â
You donât smile, but something inside you loosens.
He reaches for his belt next, hesitantly, then looks at you. Not for permissionâmore like asking if youâre sure you still want to be here, in this moment, with him or if you regret wanting him in the shower with you.
You nod.
He undoes it slowly, metal clicking softly. His pants loosen on his hips. Before he can take the next step, you touch his wrist.
âLet me,â you say, voice barely above a breath.
Jason stops moving completely.
You ease the zipper down, steady, as if the motion might spook him. He exhales sharply, the sound low and warm, and steps closer without meaning to.
The pants fall to the floor.
Jasonâs hands lift in a slow, hesitant motion, settling at your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Just grounding himself. His forehead rests gently against yours.
And another shared breath takes places as he hooks his thumbs under the elastic of your panties.
He whispers, barely audible, ââŠwe donât have to rush.â
âI know,â you murmur. âIâm not rushing.â
ââM not either.â
You tilt your chin. He tilts his. Your lips brush once again soft, warm, searching. Then again. Deeper. Slower, still careful, but full of longing. He pulls back, only far enough to take your image in.
Underwear is soon discarded on random spots of the floor and the shower steam swallows you both the moment you step inside.
The water hits your shoulders first, hot, almost too hot actually, after the cold night and the ache threading through every muscle, it feels like your body melts from the inside out.
You brace one hand against the tile.
Jason steps in behind you, slow and careful, like heâs entering holy ground. The curtain slides closed with the whisper of fabric, sealing the two of you in a small world made of heat running water.
Then Jason exhales soundlessly and places one hand between your shoulder blades.
âStill with me?â he murmurs.
You nod, eyes closing as the water streams over your spine. âYeah.â
His thumb drifts once across your back, tracing the line of muscle there. A gentle check-in from someone whoâs watched you get hurt too many times.
He reaches for the detachable showerhead, tests the temperature on his palm, adjusting it a degree warmerâ like he magically knows how hot you like your water to be. Then he lifts it above you, guiding the water along your shoulders, down your arms, careful of your healing side.
The first sweep of heat makes a breathy sound escape you half relief, half relaxation.
âGood?â he asks, voice low.
âFeels too good, actually,â you murmur.
He swallows, the movement visible down his throat. âAlright. Just⊠tell me if itâs too much.â
He works methodically. Letting the water loosen each knot he felt earlier under your skin. Every time his knuckles graze your back, he draws them away quickly, like touching you too long might cross a line heâs terrified of.
You lean your forehead against your arm. âJason?â
âMm?â
âYou can touch me. I wonât break.â
His breath stutters. His hand returns, a little more grounded this time. Less afraid.
He smooths your hair back gently, guiding the water through it. His fingers slide near your scalp, and the kind of quiet sound you make this time is differentâsmall and honest.
âSorry,â you whisper, embarrassed.
âDonâtâŠâ His voice comes out too rough. âDonât apologize for that.â
The water hits the tile around your feet in rhythmic bursts. His hands keep moving, learning the shape of your muscles, the warm slope of your back, the tension in your neck.
You turn, so you face him. Jason steps back automaticallyâthen stops himself, forcing his feet still. You can see the way heâs fighting the urge to retreat, in this new uncharted territory but something about him right now is so unapologetically beautiful.
His lashes are wet. His hair is beginning to drip. His chest rises and falls with an unsteady breath.
You step closer, with a hand reach towards his face despite him not moving an inch. Reaching up your fingers brushing the water from his jaw. The contact is featherlight, but it pulls something deep from his chestâa low exhale he doesnât catch in time.
You want to ask him, if he really means this is still nothing, but no words come out. You also want to tell him how handsome he looks in this setting.
Instead, you reach for his bottle of shampoo.
You spent no time to lather it in your hands and work it through his hair, his eyes half-lidded under the spray as your fingers knead his scalp. He leans into your touch with this heavy sigh, his hands resting on your hips like he needs the anchor.
You let him do the same to you, with hands that engulf the entire of your head.
Occasionally, he switches âturns you gently, brushing your wet hair over one shoulder so he can run his soapy thumbs along the knots in your neck, working warmth into your muscles, slow circles that melt the tightness under your skin. He doesnât rush the rinse. Doesnât rush you.
When itâs your turn to massage his shoulders, he lets out whimpers of relief, like heâs finally unclenching somewhere deep. A dark part inside you thinks youâve won a battle against imaginary foes. It is very unlikely anyone else gets to touch him like that in such vulnerable moments. At least no one has ever cradled your head and washed your hair before.
The two of you move like youâve found a rhythm without speaking. trading touches, rinsing each otherâs backs, smoothing suds down arms and over ribs. Itâs domestic and intimate and a little hungry around the edges, each brush of skin a little slower than it needs to be.
At some point, he steps in closer. You feel his chest brush your back.Â
Youâre both slick with water, faces inches apart, breath mixing with the steam. You reach from behind to rinse the last of the soap from his jaw, and his fingers curl lightly around your wrist.
He peppers kisses along your cheek like they're one promise each. All of them, full, soft, pulled and his body fits so perfectly behind yours, like the perfect puzzle piece.
Is it just too bad to want this as your normal, day to day life?Â
Is it too much to ask?
Just the two of you, holding each other without the angst?
âHey,â he whispers, voice breaking. âHeyâlook at me.â
You try. Your vision blurs. Your chest stutters. Itâs embarrassing and overwhelming and too much, too honest, too vulnerable. But Jason gathers your face in his hands anyway, thumbs brushing your cheeks, catching your tears even though the water keeps washing them away.
âTalk to me,â he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. âPlease. Whatâs wrong?â
You pull in a ragged, uneven breath ragged, but the words donât come. They canât. If you start talking, youâll unravel, and if you unravel, youâll say the things youâre not allowed to say.
So you shake your head, quick and helpless, hoping he takes it as âIâm fineâ instead of âIâm falling apart.â
âNothing Iâmâ you start, choking on a sob âim okayâ
Jasonâs eyes flick over your face like heâs scanning for an explanation, for something he can fix. But you donât give him anything.
âDid I hurt you?â
You shake your head, but the tears keep coming anyway.
His jaw flexes twice. A quiet, controlled violence of muscle under the skinâpanic and guilt and something too raw to name fighting for space in his chest and in his head. You can hear it in his breathing, the way it stutters like heâs bracing for impact.
He opens his mouthâto ask again, maybe, or to say something too realâbut shuts it before a sound slips out. You see the moment he decides that pressure is a risk he canât take.
Jason Todd, actual king of bad and irrational , sentimental decisions, actually chooses silence.
Instead, he brushes a thumb over your cheek. Just once. He contemplates the thought of placing a kiss at the highest point of your cheek, but finds the motion overkill.
You donât speak and neither does he.
Inside your head, your thoughts are screaming.
You want him. You want certainty. You want a promise he canât give. But the minute you try to shape any of it into words, your throat closes like itâs trying to save you from yourself.
Jason watches you like heâs waiting for the real reason youâre crying, the real fear, the real pleaâbut he doesnât ask. He wonât, because he is terrified of the answer.
Terrified he already knows it. Itâs probable that youâre thinking about Damianâs picture of a perfect nuclear family, and even if he tried so hard to suppress it within him tonight after what he heard, he canât help but think he ruined this for you. He shouldâve stopped this before it became something he canât control. Before it became something he wants too badly, but itâs obvious he brings destruction into anything burrowed he ever touches.
âOkay,â he murmurs finallyânot an agreement, not comfort either and definitely not understanding. Just a placeholder.
He slips out of you and steadies both your feet on the shower floor. A tiny, fragile truce.
He wipes another tear from your jaw even though the water keeps replacing it. You see the way his hand hesitates, like he wants to pull you in, kiss you again, swallow whatever pain youâre drowning inâbut he doesnât. He stays right where he is, close enough to feel your shaking breath, far enough to pretend itâs not intimacy.
Your chest aches. His chest rises like it hurts him too. And this silence between you is thick, steaming, suffocating, it feels like a panic attack instead of the only thing holding the moment together.
Jason swallows hard, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second too long before he looks away like he caught himself wanting something heâs not supposed to want.
You feel it. You feel all of it, but you keep your lips sealed.
âDonât⊠cry like that,â he says, finally, voice low and scraped raw. âNot because of me.â
You swallow hard. Your throat feels painful, like someone forced you to swallow sandpaper. âIâm notââ But you canât finish. You donât know what youâre not.
You donât know what you are.
Jasonâs jaw tics again, like heâs swallowed a piece of sandpaper himself. He shakes his head once, slowly, water dripping off his chin and his hair like punctuation.
âLetâs get out, maybe if you sleep on it youâll be better in the morning.â
You nod in response.
Neither of you touches the other as he reaches for a towel to hand you.
His arm extends just far enough for you to take it without brushing his fingers. You match his effort, carefully, performing this delicate little choreography like youâre animals trapped in a tiny cage.
You wrap the towel around yourself with stiff fingers. Jason steps out of the shower right after you, reaching for his own towel with the same rigid precisionâlike every movement has to be deliberate so he doesnât reach for you instead.
He keeps his eyes low, fixed on the tiles, on the ground, on anywhere that isnât your face. You keep yours on your feet.
The room feels colder the moment the water stops, even though steam is still thick in the air, fogging the cabinet mirror and the small window in the corner, next to the toilet.
Jason clears his throat, quietly. Barely more than a scrape.
He drags the towel across his neck, then his chest, the muscles in his jaw working like heâs grinding down words he refuses to let escape.
You can feel the moment he looks at you, even though you donât look back. A brief flickerâsoft, charged with guiltâand then he shuts it down so hard itâs like slamming a door on his own raging heartbeat.
He turns slightly, giving you space or taking space on his own. Itâs impossible to tell which.
âUse the bed,â he says finally. Not an order. Not tenderness. Not distance either. Just neutrality. Like heâs trying to erase all evidence of what happened. âIâll take the couch.â
You nod again, because thatâs all you can manage without your voice cracking around the edges.
He wraps his towel around his waist and bends to pick up the clothes he shed earlier. His movements are stiff, efficient, almost too fast as though if he slows down even a second, everything inside him will come spilling out and heâll accuse you of what he suspects is going on.
You watch the floor so intensely that if you had laser vision, you would have already burned an enormous hole in it.
Jason hesitantly moves towards the hallway, though just for a heartbeat he pauses. Like he wants to say something. Like heâs trying to decide whether he should apologize or ask if youâre okay, again, or tell you he didnât mean for any of this to go so wrong.Â
But how does one even say something along the lines of âI didn't mean to have sex with you, it just happenedâ without sounding like an absolute asshole?
Jason Todd does not risk emotional honesty. Not tonight.
So he settles on silence again instead, one final look at you from the corner of his eye before he slips out of the bathroom to give you the much needed time and space to pull yourself together.
The door doesnât slamâIt just clicks shut.
Ever so tenderly.
And somehow that hurts worse.
Jason Todd Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
(The next installment will feature Roy and Lian and i promise its just going to be fluff. As always my inbox is open to discuss things regarding the fic)
Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq @cicikent @cowboysaveme @osclerc @dyanasaur (I hope im not forgetting anyone, but i'll check again)
âĄ đ„» when did you get hot? ââââ a jason todd, dick grayson ongoing series.
âPARING .á dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
âSUMMARY .á you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
âWARNINGS .á read on ao3. + 18 content, eventual smut. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
FIRST CHAPTER .á I THINK I WOULD REMEMBER IF YOU HAD THAT FACE.
SUMMARY .á you never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby kids. but then jason todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt something.
NEXT .á MASTERLIST .á TAGLIST.
ââââ GOTHAM ACADEMY, NEW JERSEY. YEARS AGO.
Rejection is probably the worst thing a pre-teen could feel.
It settles on your small shoulders like a heavy, tattered cape, dragging you down with every step. Your eyes stay glued to your shoes, two sizes too big, scuffed, hand-me-downs from your older sisterâs high school days. The worn soles squeak softly against the polished floors, echoing through the hallways in a way that makes you feel painfully exposed. Around you, the other kids laugh in crisp uniforms, their shoes shiny and perfectly fitted, their backpacks glossy and new. The smell of polished wood and lemon-scented cleaner fills the air and every whisper of laughter, every glance at you, feels like a spotlight shining on your differences.
Your hands hang awkwardly at your sides, fingers brushing against the oversized sleeves of your blazer. Your mom couldnât afford to buy a new uniform, but thankfully your neighborâs daughter had been a scholarship student at Gotham Academy too, and now you have a set of her old blazers, one of them swallowing your frame. The skirt is another story, your mom patched the gaps with so much care that it almost hurts to look at it, the stitching holding more love than it could ever be fashionable.
âAre you kidding me? They just accept anyone these days. Bruce Wayne must be losing it,â you hear from behind. Four boys are passing by, their voices loud and casual, but every word feels like itâs meant to land right on you. The tallest one has messy blonde hair and a smirk that doesnât reach his eyes. He glances you up and down, lingering just long enough for you to feel the weight of his judgment.
âWhoa⊠did you smell that?â he adds, laughing, and his friends snicker along with him. You shrink into your oversized uniform, tugging at the sleeves as if hiding could erase your presence. Your patched skirt and too-big shoes suddenly feel heavier, every step squeaking against the polished floor like itâs announcing your wrongness to the whole hallway. You force your gaze down, wishing the walls could swallow you up and make them forget you exist.
When the bell rang, you nearly bolted toward your classroom, slipping inside as quickly as you could. You didnât dare look at anyone, didnât pause to meet a single pair of eyes. Instead, you went straight for the last row, sliding into the corner seat like it was the only safe place left in the room.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable, far sturdier than the wobbly desks back at your old public school. Even the air here felt different, quieter, sharper, like everything at Gotham Academy had been built to remind you of how far you were from home. For the first time that morning, you let out a shaky breath, thinking maybe, just maybe, you could disappear here.
But then a shadow fell across your desk.
âThatâs my seat,â a boyâs voice drawled. He stood over you, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his face. Itâs the same blonde from the hallway. His friends lingered behind him, already laughing as if they knew how this would end. You froze, hands clutching the edge of the desk, heat rising in your cheeks.
He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose like you were some kind of disease. âEw⊠do you always smell like that? Cheap, nasty perfumeâmy maid wears better stuff than that,â he sneered. âI can smell it from here. Youâve basically ruined the whole row with⊠whatever that is.â
His friends burst into loud, cruel laughter, the sound echoing off the classroom walls like it was meant to humiliate you. A few kids glanced over, some giggling, others quickly pretending they hadnât noticed, like they didnât want to be associated with someone like you. You felt your stomach drop, shrinking further into yourself, wishing you could vanish into the floor. But before you could even move, another shadow fell over the desk.
âBack off, Jordan.â
The voice came from your left. You looked up and saw a boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes standing there. He didnât move closer, didnât shout, but the weight in his tone made the room feel heavier.
Jordan's smirk faltered. âExcuse me? Do you know who youâre talking to? My familyââ
Your saviorâs lips curled into a sharp, unreadable smirk. âYeah, I know your family. Youâre horrible with chicks just like your dad, huh? Wife-beater behavior runs in the family.â
The words hit Jordan harder than anything else could. His friends froze, unsure whether to laugh or retreat. Jordan's face went red with anger, his smugness cracking, but he opened his mouth to defend himself.
âMy dad⊠my familyââ
He cut him off, deadly serious. âI donât give a fuck about your dad. Back off before I break your nose.â
Jordanâs scowl deepened, lips pressed into a tight line, but he finally stepped back, muttering under his breath. The black haired boy dropped into the seat next to yours and gave a small, almost invisible nod.
âIâm Jason,â he said, his tone casual, but there was a sharp edge to it, the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasnât someone you messed with. On the surface, he looked like a regular rich kid, fancy shoes, hair perfectly in place. But his eyes⊠They carried weight, the kind of intensity you didnât usually see in someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. He leaned back slightly, one shoulder brushing yours, and gave a small, half-smile. âDonât worry about Jordan. He acts like heâs got a stick up his ass all the time probably because his dadâs a disgusting piece of shit.â
âHis dad?â you asked, surprised.
âUhm⊠Mayor Hamilton Hill,â Jason said with a shrug, like it was common knowledge.
You glanced toward Jordan, who sat a few rows up with his friends gathered around him, tossing out half-baked jokes to lighten his mood. But he wasnât laughing. The moment he felt your eyes on him, his head snapped back, and his gaze locked onto you, sharp, furious, like youâd trespassed into a place you didnât belong.
It was insane. He didnât even know you, yet the hatred was already there, simmering in the way his lips curled. It wasnât just about a seat. It was about the uniform you wore that didnât quite fit, the scuffed shoes on your feet, the patched skirt stitched with love instead of money. To him, you werenât just a new student, you were a reminder that not everyone at Gotham Academy came wrapped in silk and gold, and he despised you for it. But your twelve-year-old brain didnât hold onto things for long, and your attention shifted the moment class began. Physics was first, and you let out a quiet sigh as you pulled your notebooks from your bag.
The teacher started scribbling equations across the board, symbols and numbers flowing together like another language. You stared at them, eyes wide, as if youâd just been asked to solve rocket science. Back at your old public school, lessons had been slow, basic, sometimes the teacher didnât even bother showing up. Here, though, everything moved too fast, built on foundations youâd never been taught.
Your pencil hovered uselessly over the page. It wasnât just that you hated numbers, it was that youâd never been given a real chance to understand them. And now, surrounded by kids who nodded along like it was nothing, the gap between their world and yours stretched wider with every line the teacher wrote.
You felt your cheeks grow warm, shame settling heavy in your stomach. You shifted, hoping no one would notice.
But someone did.
Jason leaned back in his chair, glancing sideways at your notebook. He didnât say anything at first, just smirked faintly, like heâd already figured out what was going on. When the teacher turned back to the board, Jason muttered low enough for only you to hear, âDonât sweat it. Half these rich idiots donât actually get it eitherâthey just pay people to make âem look smart.â
He tapped his pencil once against his desk, casual. Before you could give him more than an awkward smile and a straightened, whispered âthank you,â your teacherâs voice cut through the room.
âAlright, letâs see who was paying attentionâŠâ His eyes swept the class, finger pausing before landing right on you. âYouânew girl. Can you answer this one?â
Your stomach dropped. The chalk marks on the board blurred together, numbers and symbols turning into a jumble that made your chest tighten. You gripped your pencil so hard it might snap. A couple of kids twisted in their seats to look back at you, some already smirking, waiting for you to trip.
Jason didnât give them the satisfaction.
âShe knows it,â he cut in smoothly, his tone sharp enough to snap the tension. He leaned back in his chair with a cocky grin, eyes locked on the teacher. âBut if youâre really trying to put someone on the spot, pick me. I like this crap.â
A low ripple of laughter moved through the room. The teacher frowned, hesitated, then sighed and called on another student instead. The whispers quickly faded, the eyes on you turning back to the board. Jason glanced sideways, his smirk softening into something less sharp, almost reassuring. The knot in your chest began to ease, and you found yourself giving him a small, uncertain smile in return. Maybe, just maybe, you hadnât walked into Gotham Academy completely alone.
âMom, Iâm home!â your voice echoed down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building as you kicked off your shoes by the open door. The soles were caked with grime from the Narrows, subway dust, rain-slick asphalt, and everything else Gotham liked to cling to you on the walk back from the station. No matter how polished and pristine the Academy looked, the streets you crossed to get home never let you forget where you really lived. The apartment was small and warm, and smelled faintly of onions sizzling in a pan.
Your mom stood in the kitchen, still in her diner uniform, apron strings knotted tight around her waist. Her hair was falling loose from a bun, and she looked bone-tired, but her face lit up the second she saw you.
âThereâs my smart girl,â she said, stirring the pot before wiping her hands on her apron. Her face looked worn, and the smell of cheap coffee still clung to her, but her smile was full of pride. âHow was your first day?â
âIt was nice, I guess.â
She tugged gently at your shirt and skirt, inspecting the seams with a frown, worried her stitching might not hold up through a long day. âDonât forgetâI need that uniform. Iâm washing and pressing it tonight, no excuses.â
From the living room, your brother called out over the blaring baseball game. By his grunts, it sounded like the Gotham Knights were losing again. He was stretched out on the old couch in a clean T-shirt. Rare sight âCome on, ma,â he said, a grin in his voice. âSheâll survive one day at school without you wrapping her in bubble wrap.â
Your mom just kissed your forehead, âGo get cleaned up before dinner.â
You passed your brother in the living room. His feet were kicked up on the scratched coffee table, a pile of magazines teetering nearby. The couch sagged under him, its faded fabric dotted with crumbs and the faint smell of sweat and sawdust from work.
âMomâs going to kill you for that,â you muttered, glancing at his scuffed boots by the door. Heâd been working construction since he dropped out of high school, putting in long, dusty days at sites all over the Narrows. He always smelled like concrete and sweat.
He just reached out and ruffled your hair. âGo shower, Ankle Biter. You stink.â He sniffed dramatically and recoiled, waving a hand. âWait⊠is that momâs perfume?â
You wrinkled your nose.
âYou know that stuffâs ancient,â he said, gasping as if heâd just uncovered a crime scene. âSeriously, go shower before she notices.â
Chances were, she had already noticed, not just the perfume, but that youâd tried to borrow some of her makeup. A bit of foundation under your dark circles, a touch of mascara, last night had been rough with your older sisterâs newborn crying nonstop. But your mom was too kind to say anything, letting you slip by, proud of you no matter how small the effort to look presentable for the new school.
âTony, take your dirty feet off my coffee table!â you heard your mom yell as you shut the tiny bathroom door behind you. Something thumped against the couch, probably whatever she had thrown at your brother this time. From the front door, your sisterâs arrival reached your ears, your nephew babbling nonsense only she seemed to understand. You laughed and shook your head, slipping out of your uniform. The noise and chaos of the apartment faded into the background, a comforting white noise as you stepped into the shower.
But your moment of peace was short-lived. A knock at the bathroom door sounded insistent.
âCome on! I really need to peeâthese pregnancy hormones are no joke!â your sister shouted.
The perks of having only one bathroom in the whole house.
âYouâre not pregnant anymore, Simone,â you said, opening the door, already dressed in your Superman pajamas. She barged in, practically shoving you aside.
âShe better not be!â your mom yelled from the kitchen as the baby reached up to tug at her hair.
Simone had become a teen mom last year, after six months of secretly dating the crackhead who lived down the street. You were pretty sure he was too old for her and he hadnât paid a cent in child support. Thatâs why she dropped out of high school in her final year, taking a job as a cashier at the corner bodega just to make ends meet. You still remembered the shouting matches between your mom and her.
And Tony? Well, he dropped out of high school in his junior year after your dad bailed, leaving your mom to raise three kids on her own. Since then, heâd stepped in, not just as a father figure, but as the one keeping the household afloat.
They were over the moon when you got the scholarship. You could see it in your momâs eyes, in Simoneâs beaming smile. In Tonyâs quiet praises. For the first time, someone in your family was getting a shot at a real education, a chance to step out of the struggles of the Narrows and into something bigger.
At the dinner table, you carefully recounted your first day, making it sound smooth and easy, because you didnât want to worry them. You left out the tears in the girlsâ bathroom during lunch, and the awkward encounter with the mayorâs son. This was your moment and you wanted them to share in the pride, not the doubts.
Tony pushed his plate back slightly, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He leaned back in the chair. âNice to hear your day was all sunshine and rainbows, Ankle Biter,â he said, voice teasing but gentle. âBut⊠donât you have homework? I doubt Gotham Academy goes easy on you.â
You rolled your eyes. âYeah, yeah, I know. Iâll get to it.â
Across the table, your mom was sneaking glances at you while eating, and Simone cooed at her baby, mumbling something you didnât need to understand.
That night, you helped with the dishes. It was just you and your mom in the kitchen, steam curling from the leftover food as she slid containers into the fridge and you dried the plates. The apartment was quiet except for the clink of dishes and the low hum of the radiator.
âMom,â you asked quietly, glancing up at her, âcan you help me with my homework?â
She froze for a second, the spatula hovering mid-air, before straightening her shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing. âUh⊠of course,â she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too confident. You could see it in the way she smoothed her apron and tried not to fidget, homework had never been her strong suit, but she was determined to make you feel like she had it under control.
You smiled at her, and she returned it, though just barely. The tremor in her hands betrayed the confident posture she was trying to wear. You could see it in the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip, fumbling with her apronâyour mom trying so hard to seem capable, even though you knew sheâd never finished school.
You sighed softly and headed to the bedroom. Simone and the baby were already lying across her bed, the little guy murmuring an incoherent babble, while Simone scrolled through her phone absentmindedly. You grabbed the textbook the school had handed you, opening it to the first chapter.
âI need to write an essay about Little Women by Louisa May Alcott,â you said, setting the book on your lap. You could feel your mom lingering in the doorway, hesitant, hands clasped together like she wasnât sure whether to leave or step in.
âUh⊠yeah, okay,â she said finally. âI⊠I can help. Sure. Sit down.â
You patted the spot beside you. She sat, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a little groan, the mattress dipping under her weight. Immediately, you noticed the way she scanned the page like it might explode in her hands, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. She glanced at you, clearly anxious, pretending she understood, but the way she tapped the page with her finger betrayed her.
You looked at your mom with soft eyes, taking in the tired lines on her face and the slight tremor in her hands. Youâd never seen her reading a book your entire life. Gently, you kissed her forehead.
âMom⊠I actually asked my new friendâuh, Jasonâto help me with this earlier,â you said casually. Sometimes, lying isnât wrongâitâs just protecting someoneâs feelings... âHe promised to explain the parts I didnât get, so you donât have to worry.â
Her eyes widened a little, a flicker of relief, and maybe guilt, crossing her face. She tried to hide it with a nod. âOh⊠right. A new friend,â she said, her voice just a little shaky. âThatâs⊠good. Thatâs⊠really helpful.â
She stood up from the edge of your bed and shuffled around the cramped bedroom, fumbling slightly as she grabbed your uniform from the pile of laundry on the chair. Her shoulders were hunched, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed just how little sleep sheâd had.
âIâm going to wash it and press it,â she said, trying to sound firm.
âItâs midnight, mom⊠you have work tomorrow,â you protested softly, reaching out to stop her.
She paused and turned to you, giving you a small smile. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. âJust go to sleep, pretty girl. Iâve got this,â she said, her voice gentle.
For a moment, the hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the floorboards filled the apartment. You watched your mom from the bedroom doorway, folding your uniform carefully.
Once she was done, you closed the door behind you and walked over to Simone, who was lounging on her bed with the baby beside her, the TV flickering in the background with Keeping Up with the Kardashians. âHey, have you read this book?â you asked, holding up the textbook.
You rolled your eyes and sat down next to her. âWell, one of us has to actually, you know⊠learn something.â
She snorted, tossing a blanket over your lap. You closed the book and leaned closer to her. âSure, Professor Ankle Biter.â
Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy. You drifted off with your big sister gently stroking your hair and with the soft weight of your nephew curled against you, drooling lightly on the sheets.
You didnât see Jason again until four days later. By then, youâd noticed he had this strange habit of skipping school for days at a time and then showing up with fresh, unexplained bruises. This time, it was a swollen black eye, dark and raw against his skin. At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with voices and clattering trays, every table crowded with clusters of friends, except his. He sat alone, hunched over, picking at the food he wasnât eating.
âYou should put some ice on that,â you said quietly, stepping up behind him.
Jason glanced up. âYeah, Iâll get right on that.â His voice wavered just a little.
You shifted the Little Women book in your hands, hugging it against your chest, not sure what to say next. He noticed, his gaze flicking to the cover.
âYou finish the essay yet?â
You shook your head. âNot even close.â
Something in his expression softened. âGood,â he muttered, leaning back in his chair. âMakes me feel a little better.â
You sat down, facing him, heart racing slightly. But you didnât answer right away, and the silence stretched until he let out a long sigh. âIt shouldnât take long. Little Womenâs an easy book.â
âYeah, totally easy. I can read it with my eyes closed,â you said, shifting in your seat. But Jason caught itâthe way your hands fidgeted with the spine of the book, the slight awkward twist of your shoulders. His gaze tracked every movement like he was piecing together a puzzle.
âYou never read it, did you?â
âMm⊠no.â
âYou didnât understand it?â
You shook your head, bracing yourself for a sarcastic jab, maybe even a laugh. But none came. Jason just sat there, studying you with that bruised face and tired eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table like he was debating whether to bother. Then he huffed out a breath. âAlright. Look. Little Womenâs not rocket science.â
You tilted your head, clutching the book tighter. âEasy for you to say.â
He smirked faintly, but it didnât quite reach his bruised eye. âOkay, soâyou got four sisters, right? Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Theyâre dirt poor, but theyâre trying to keep it together while their dadâs off fighting in the war.â He paused, making sure you were listening. âThe bookâs really about how they deal with growing up when everything around them kinda sucks.â
You blinked at him. âThatâs⊠actually a lot clearer than how our teacher explained it.â
Jason shrugged. âYeah, well, teachers like to make things sound fancy. Truth is, itâs just about family. Each sisterâs got her thingâMeg wants to fit in, Jo doesnât want to be told what to do, Bethâs sweet but too quiet for her own good, and Amy⊠well, Amyâs Amy.â
You bit back a laugh. âThatâs it? Thatâs your literary analysis?â
His lips twitched. âHey, I didnât say I was writing your essay for you. Iâm just giving you the cheat sheet. Point is, the storyâs not about big words or whateverâitâs about trying to do right by your family even when life kicks you in the teeth.â His voice softened at the edges, like maybe he wasnât just talking about the book anymore.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria noise buzzed around you, but at that table, it was just the two of you.
You looked down at the cover of Little Women and then back at him. âYouâre⊠actually kind of good at this.â
Jason smirked again. âDonât spread that around. Gotta keep my reputation.â
âYeah, sure but... Thank you,â you said quietly.
He leaned back, starting to wave it off. âDonât worry about it. Iâve read this book a bunch of times, so itâsââ
âNo, not just about the book,â you cut in, heat rising in your cheeks. âI mean⊠standing up for me. For not letting Jordan humiliate me. Or our teachers.â
For once, Jason didnât have a quick comeback. His smirk faded into something gentler, almost surprised, like he wasnât used to anyone noticing that side of him. He rubbed at the edge of his tray, looking everywhere but at you.
âYeah, well,â he muttered, voice low, âsomebody had to.â
Neither of you said anything after that, both of your faces heating up. Jasonâs eyes dropped to his bruised knuckles, and you found yourself fiddling with the corner of your book.
âSo, uh⊠did you start the physics homework?â he asked suddenly, like he needed to change the subject fast.
You shook your head. âNo.â
âOkay, then. Weâll do the essay together, and after class weâll tackle physics.â
Your eyes widened. âReally? I meanâI donât want to bother yoââ
âJust give me your momâs number,â Jason cut in, his words quick and clumsy. âIâll⊠Iâll ask Bruce to talk to her. You can come over to my place. Thereâs more room to study there.â
You blinked. âBruce?â
His body went rigid. He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. âUhâBruce Wayne. He, uh⊠adopted me. Iâm⊠adopted.â
You froze for a second, eyes wide, your mouth opening and closing like you were about to say something smart but failing spectacularly. âWait⊠so⊠you live with Bruce Wayne? Like⊠the billionaire guy?â
Jasonâs cheeks flushed, and he jerked his hand toward the tray in front of him. âYeah⊠but itâs not like Iâm rich or anything, okay? Donât tell anyone.â
You nodded frantically, heart racing, words tripping over themselves. âNo, no! IâI wonât! I promise!â
He gave a small, awkward smile, and the cafeteria noise faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. Awkward, a little embarrassed, but strangely⊠allies in all of this.
âNOTES .á Jordan Hill and his family aren't OC's. Fans of The Batman: The Animated Series might recognize him as the Mayorâs son. Heâs not actually a jerk in canon, but I needed someone to fill the bully role here. Canonically, Dick Grayson was a Gotham Academy student in both the Young Justice comics and the show. I read Issue #408 and the subsequent issues covering Jasonâs origin and didnât find much about the school he attended before his death, but I decided to place him in Gotham Academy for the story.
âNOTES .á As an author, and especially one who writes "reader x" fics, sometimes the absence of a nuclear family for the MC makes me relate to them less as real people and more as ornaments in someone elseâs story. Coming from a big family, being poor, and growing up in the Narrows are experiences that shape our reader and her perspective on the world.
â fem! reader, pussy eating, fingering, girls kissing, hints to a blowjob.
â 944 words.
youâre sweating, body sticking to the cool silken sheets like a fly on a paper trap. it hotâyouâre hot. and your head is so fuzzy, spinning in circles while your thighs tremble.
âmm..she is so sweet grayson..like a nectarine..â kory mumbles against your folds, a airy giggle following her words. sheâs between your legsâkeeping them open with her soft hands. youâre at her gentle mercy, taking what she hands out with shaky breaths.
âis that right baby?â dick smiles from the chair heâs seated in, hands folded over his lap as he watches. his cock throbs beneath them but he doesnât make any moves to touch himself, instead keeping his eyes trained on you both.
âahuh,â kory hums, licking up and down like you were a sweet treat. a feeling of satisfaction blossoming in her chest when your back arches and you gasp out. her green eyes twinkle with amusement, tongue lapping at your dripping entrance.
âkory..â you utter shakilyâfingers clenching and unclenching around the sheets. the woman between your legs only lifts a perfectly plucked brow, her hands shifting beneath your hips and lifting.
âjesus sweetheart youâre gonna eat her soul out if you keep it up.â dick muses quietly, fingers just barely brushing his groin. his cock is uncomfortably hard against his jeans, had been since his girlfriend laid you in their bed.
it was sexyâseeing kory being so dominant with you. even more seeing just how pliant you were for them. it was something the couple had fantasized for a long while yet had never acted on. you were a close friendâbest even. someone they had grown close to over the past two years.
hell, it was always you three. and they thought they had made it obviousâeveryone practically could tell how much they liked you. well, everyone but you. so when you had been invited over for movies and snacks you thought nothing of it. you three had a long mission that week so a relaxing movie didnât sound terrible to end your week. your agreement like music to their ears.
and now you were here. sprawled on their bed like a gift from heaven with kory eating your pussy. it was enough to make him bust in his jeans like a teenager.
the acrobat watches your face closely, watching the way your lashes flutter and your legs try to close around koryâs head. his girlfriend letting her hands roam your chest while she eats you out at a slow, drawn out pace. like her goal isnât to make you cum but to simply lavish your pussy.
and it probably is. kory was a giverâdick learned that from the first time they had sex. when she had given him the bestânastiest head of his fucking life in some dirty alley after they had just cracked some bad guys less than an hour prior. pretty green eyes flowing with nothing but pure joy. she could give and give and thatâd be exactly what she wanted.
âmhm..â kory breathes softly against your folds before sheâs pressing two fingers into you. watching the digits sink into your cunt with little to no resistance. her saliva and your natural essence providing a good bit of lubricant.
pulling off your cunt with a soft mmp! sound the redhead licks her lips, taking in your pleasure painted face as she climbs back up your body. her lips mesh against yours in a messy kiss and she tastes like nothing but pussy. a choked moan swallowed by her as she steals what little breath you could conjure, fingers still working your pussy.
the girl kisses like sheâs claiming you as hers, her tongue running over your teeth and gums sensually. youâre forced to break away from the kiss when you really canât breath. kory laughing softly although she doesnât seem much deterred, her lips meeting your neck, tongue slowly licking a bead of sweat from your skin.
then you feel the bed sink and your eyes meet his. his usual electric blue eyes a deep azure pool now, pupils blown wide. and his handâhovering over your bare chest before he gently grabs at the plush flesh. humming at the weight in his palm âsoft.â
he chuckles when you arch into his touch, biting his lip habitually. heâs so hard it hurts, his gaze flitting to your parted lips. heâs wonders what theyâd feel like wrapped around his cockâhow warm your mouth would be.
ây/n,â kory catches his gaze, smiling subtly and pulling her fingers from your cunt despite the sound that leaves you.
ây-yes.?â
the girl doesnât say anything, shifting around the bed until dick is now in your place and youâre between his muscled thighs.
âhave you ever..â kory bats her lashes, running a hand over dicks erection. the question makes your face hotâ
âo-of course i have.â you retort âiâm not a virgin kory.â
âwellâdo you wanna.â she snorts, tugging his jeans open and pulling the zipper down.
glancing at dick whoâs tanned skin is dusted pink you swallow, pressing your thighs together ââŠâ
âhe wonât bite,â kory murmurs as dick eases his jeans and boxers down in one go. and god, is he hard. his cock slaps against his lower abdomen, leaking a small puddle into the curve of his abs.
âunless you maybeâwant him to.â
glancing back to the man youâre gaze moves to his cock, watching how it twitches and leaks even more. hell it was the hottest thing youâd seen since you met superman in person.
âiâhow does he like it.?â you manage.
the question makes the two exchange looks, kory running a hand up your bare back.
âiâll show you.â
uh..yeahâthis was almost longer but .. i havenât been enjoying my writing lolz
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
pairing: red hood/jason todd x reader
genre: SMUTTTT
cw: 18+ CONTENT, MINORS STAY AWAY! also fingering, dirty talk and shi, a ruined orgasm
wc: 690 words ;]
a/n: slowly coming into my "reading and writing fanfics" era
it was one of those times when the adrenaline of the patrol got to him. so, the moment he got home, shed his gear and suit and saw you waiting up for him, scrolling through your phone; he immediately jumped on the bed and kissed you.
not the usual gentle ones when you both wake up, or the hard, rough ones when he's pounding into you. this one was fast, messyâ like he wanted you for all you are, all at the same time, but his physical body wasn't able to keep up with his wants. hands all over you, mouth latching onto your neck, sometimes your cleavage as he pulls your shirt down, back to your jaw and lips, wanting to take every part of you.
it all happened so fastâ your hands clawing onto his boxers to take them off as he quickly stripped you, pulling you under him. his hands felt how wet you were, sliding in a finger while his thumb rubbed your clit. he couldn't even believe how quickly he'd gotten this horny, breathing so heavily he was almost heaving as you squirmed and moaned his name.
you weren't any different either. jason made foreplay feel mind-numbing, and had you asking for more and more, a completely insatiable need to feel the way he made you feel. as he slipped in a second finger, the base of his palm rubbing against your clit as he thrusted them deeper, your hand left its hold on the blanket and wrapped around jason's cock, slowly pumping it the best you can.
pants turned into murmured words as jason kissed under your jaw, mumbling about all the things he wants to do to you. filthy, dirty, and indescribably hot, filling your head with scenes. you wish it were as simple as filling you up and fucking you deep and hard, but your man had a freak streak to match your own. instead, he talked about wanting to fuck you till his cock is drenched with your release, and how he'd still keep going. how he'd like to put a vibrator in you and play with its settings while he's away, just to make sure you're taken care of. he even went as far as teasing you about fucking you in his red hood disguise (it just made your heart beat faster).
you had been right there, on the tether of release when you both heard a thump, a few footsteps and dick fucking grayson's voice outside.
"hey, jason, whatâre your plans for patrol tonight?" as soon as dick's voice came from the other side of the door, jason's hand left your warmth in panic, and covered your mouth.
right when you were cumming.
pleasure flooded through your body as it thrashed under his gaze, feeling so good but needing his touch to ease you in and out of your orgasm. your hips bucked up, hands clawing onto him and the sheets, and jason could hear your desperate whines and moans even through his hand. your eyes were begging him while your body shook.
he was staring, almost gaping at you, momentarily forgetting about dick's presence outside the room. he'd feel bad that he pushed you into an orgasm without his touch staying with you through it, if it weren't for him getting harder at the sight.
he had never seen anything as hot as this.
when your orgasm subsided and moans quietened, jason whispered an apology and immediately slipped on a pair of pajamas. he wiped his hand on it and ran outside, only to rush dick out of his apartment and telling him he's already done with his patrol.
when he came back, his focus had shifted from making you both cum as fast as possible, to repeating whatever the fuck just happened.
jason todd cannot like ruined orgasms. he loves making you feel good, holding you while you cum and throw your head back. but if you're down for it, he doesn't mind making you cry and desperate for his touch as you lose count of how many times you came.
omg pls feed us more bsf dick grayson we yearnnnn for him đđđ theyâre so good btw i love ur works
đ àŁȘ Ë âĄ đ„» you and your best friend dick grayson share a lot of secrets. ê dick grayson x fem!reader .á
ââââ "truth or dare?" wally asked as soon as the spinning bottle landed between him and dick. you were all gathered in the cramped living room of your small apartment after another mission. the speedster had called you both, claiming it was time for the "best trio since the trinity" to hang out like old times. which, in practice, meant getting drunk and singing outdated pop songs.
last time, you'd gotten completely wasted with dick while dedicating my all by mariah carey to him. he'd laughed the entire night, cheeks flushed red, and you remembered thinking maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.
"truth," dick said but you could tell he immediately regretted it, especially when the redhead smirked.
"you never told me the name of the girl who took your v-card," wally said, taking a long swig of his beer. "actually, you never told me anything about this, which is pretty fucked because i'm supposed to be your best friend."
"fuck off, that title is mine," you said, tipsy, brushing past him to sit on the couch next to dick. your hand grazed his shoulder, and he shifted slightly, letting you lean closer as if it were completely natural. dick's eyes flicked to yours, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "already drunk, dove?" he muttered, his voice teasing but easy, relaxed.
"yeep," you shot back, nudging him gently, and he responded with a quiet chuckle, his arm settling comfortably near yours as if it belonged there.
wally threw an empty can of beer at you two and made a dramatic gagging sound. you easily caught it. "you two are fucking disgusting and you, richard, answer my question."
you grinned, the buzz of alcohol and adrenaline making your chest feel light. "yeah, richard, answer it," you teased, leaning closer, your body brushing against his. he smelled like him, warm, faintly of his usual scent mixed with something uniquely.
dick groaned, sinking back into the couch cushions as if the floor might swallow him whole. he was clearly buying time, trying to figure out how to dodge, or maybe delay the question. in your slightly dazed state, fragments of memory floated to the surface, the subtle scrape of his robin gear, the familiar scent of the cave, the faint but intoxicating hint of his cologne. you were fifteen, reckless and impulsive, too young to fully understand the weird tension. you remembered the first time you'd gotten close, heart hammering in your chest.
your hands had trembled as you yanked at his utility belt and mask, and he'd cornered you against the wall with calm patience, his presence overwhelming and grounding at once. you'd wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, caught in a mix of desire and adrenaline, and the memory of his wide eyes scanning your naked body, like he'd just discovered something sacred, made your cheeks flush even now. his hands had traced your body with that nervous eagerness of someone just learning, hesitant yet desperate to explore.
shit. dick noticed the way your eyes went wide, and a low, amused laugh escaped him. wally didn't need to know the type of memories you shared together. those nights, those moments, were just yours. that's why you'd never truly told anyone about them. it was your secret.
"uh, it was with kory, duh, my first girlfriend," he said with a casual shrug.
"yeah, i remember you trying to climb her one night," you said, trying not to laugh, resting your head against his shoulder. "guys, i think i'm gonna throw up."
wally nearly choked on his beer, eyes wide. "uh⊠maybe that's the tequila talking?"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
a/n: yes i kissed the brick and yes im proud of this
the light from your bedside lamp illuminates the bedroom of your dingy apartment in a sickly golden glow. there's no sound except the usual rustle of curtains and Jason's steady breathing. his arms cage your waist, face smushed against your stomach. he's putty in your arms, letting out deep, almost content sighs now and then as your fingers scratch his scalp.
he came home covered in blood again tonight. you should be used to it by now, but you aren't. your heart drops into the pit that has built inside your stomach lately every time he comes home looking like that. blood on his knuckles, a clench in his jaw, no sign of life in those eyes you love so much. you don't know who he is sometimes; the man who loves you like you're made of clouds and dreams or the one who steps over your threshold looking like death itself.
he was nursing a split on his side. it needed stitches. you could tell when Jason shrugged off his shirt and sat on the closed toilet lid, staring behind you, recalling an ugly memory or maybe thinking nothing at all. he looked distant. he felt distant. even when you were touching him and treating the wound with practised ease, he wasn't there with you. not really.
he didn't wince like he usually does when you press the gauze too hard. he didn't grimace when you pushed the needle through his skin like stitching up a ragdoll who has been broken and torn apart one too many times. it felt like he was dead again. sometimes you wonder if he truly even came back. and even if he did, he never came back whole.
it feels like a part on him is still buried six feet deep in the ground, clawing and begging to be brought back but he won't let it out. he won't let it out. he won't let it scream. he won't let it be held and loved and seen. but you see it, even under all that dirt and walls and distance, you see it as clear as day.
the world hasn't been kind to Jason Todd, but he hasn't been kind to himself either. he goes out every night and fights nail and tooth to prove something to the world, but the truth is, he's only trying to prove something to himself. to fill that aching void inside him that screams how he'll never be good enough. how he'll never truly be clean again. how he can't rinse away the dirt under his nails. how he can't wash the blood of every life he has taken and the one that was taken from him off his hands.
sometimes you wish he'd stop. just... stop. stop fighting, stop running, stop going out every night and coming back covered in blood you pray doesn't belong to him. sometimes you wish he'd stop pouring all that's left of him into a city that couldn't care less, that he'd come back home one day and tell you it's over, that he'd stop asking to be chosen by people who would never choose him, that he would turn around and see that you already have. you choose him everyday. even when it hurts. even when everything tells you that choosing someone like him could only end in blood. you choose him. and yet you can never ask him to choose.
would you stop if I ask you to? you almost say the words so many times. but never loud enough for them to reach him. never loud enough to actually make him do it.
"what are you thinkin' about?" Jason's voice is muffled against your hoodie, dragging you out of your head. you blink down at him and he's squinting at you, emerald eyes half closed as if sleep is already dancing near the edges of his brain. his hair fall over his forehead, black and white strands teasing the tiny frown between his dark brows. your breath catches.
a lot of times you imagine Jason in a different place. a place where he isn't carrying the world on his shoulders. a place where he smiles and laughs and you don't feel the need to tuck that moment in a box because its so rare. a place where he carries grocery bags instead of guns and bombs. a place where you only have to worry about him taking out the trash and not if he'll make it home tonight. a place where he isn't torn between being who he could be and who he is, where the grave doesn't pull him back and the ghost of failure has left him alone.
"oh, nothing," you reply, voice light, but you can't bring yourself to smile. his brows furrow. and then, feeling like your chest is being crushed by a lot more than just his weight on top of you, you say "just wondering how nice things could've been if you hadn't chosen this life." this time, you smile. a false, heartbroken little thing that stings Jason more than the stitches in his skin.
the light fades from his eyes like cigarette smoke in air. your fingers in his hair never stop and neither does the pain in your chest. you watch his lips part once, then close, then part again. but no words come out. Jason isn't one to make promises he can't keep and giving you the kind of life you dream of is one of them. you know its not his fault that he's the way he is. you know its not his fault he was injected with pain, rage, and fight before he ever learned to love and be loved.
you can't ask him to give up the only thing that gives him a sense of integrity. Red Hood to him isn't just a name or a hero. its his way of trying. of being more than a mistake and a failure. its his way of proving. its his way of being more than what everyone said he is. its a race he can never win.
you take Jason's hand in yours and kiss his knuckles one by one. a silent way of saying that you accept him anyway. you accept him always. you love him. you love him so much you could cry.
the light never makes its way back into Jason's eyes, but he doesn't say anything either. he doesn't try to lighten the mood with a joke, or quip with a witty remark, or promise a different future. he doesn't try to dangle hope before you and you don't try to reach out for it like a starved child would for a piece of bread. he just sighs and you just lay there in the dim glow of the apartment, brushing your lips against his temple.
tomorrow morning you'll wake up and smile like you always do. he'll kiss you senseless and then make pancakes without a shirt. you'll laugh and joke and banter like this never happened. at night, he'll go out again and you'll tell him to be careful. he'll kiss you like it could be the last time. you'll hate it but kiss him back the same.
he'll keep on fighting and you'll keep on loving, loving, loving him.
Jason Todd will keep on breaking and you'll keep on holding him together. and one day, he won't be the only one with hands covered in blood.
but it will be worth it. it will be all worth it. because you love him. you love him so much you'd rather lose yourself than ever lose him.
*hypnotizing you* oooooo you want to write more fwb with bff!dick đââïžđââïž.....ooooo you want to write more heteroerotic friendship w dick ..... oooo bff!dick....
âĄ. ‷ your best friend, dick grayson, always makes sure to thank you the right way. +18, mdni, heavy smut. dom!dick, sub!reader. p in v, p in ass. unprotected sex.
ââââ you used to love going to galas in your teenage years, sneaking sips of fancy champagne behind the marble columns while a fourteen-year-old dick grayson distracted alfred from his babysitting duties, slipping you another glass behind the butler's back. now, in your twenties, it was just boring. the tight overpriced dresses, the uncomfortable shoes, the glittering people with nothing to say. and you especially hated the attention that came with being your best friend's plus-one. being dick's arm candy meant a lot of eyes on you all night. and you were always the one beside him at official events. always the one whose hand he held in front of cameras.
you were in his childhood bedroom, squeezing yourself into a red cocktail dress, while he leaned against the dresser, shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging loose, staring like he didn't even realize he was doing it.
"problem?" you asked, sliding a ring onto your finger.
"no," he said, voice low. "just⊠looking."
"creep."
you zipped your dress. "are you not dressed yet?"
"do you want me to get dressed, dove?"
"i want to get this over with."
he smiled, slow and easy. "c'mere"
"nop."
"c'mon, i wanna see if the lipstick matches your heels."
you rolled your eyes, ignoring him as you focused on your reflection in the mirror, your back turned toward his pretty face.
"you're grumpy tonight," he said, tone soft. "more than usual."
"i hate galas. you know that."
"yeah," he murmured. "that's why i wanted to thank you."
you tensed. just slightly. but he caught it.
"dickâŠ"
"i'll be quick."
"you never are."
dick leaned in, the slow press of his warm chest molding to your back, heat radiating through the air between you. his lips skimmed over your bare shoulder while his fingers drifted up your thighs in an unhurried tease. you caught the faint trace of his new cologne, something rich, probably giorgio armani or some other overpriced shit he liked. it clung to him like sin, threading into your breath before you could stop it.
"you know you don't have to suck my clit every time i wear a dress for you, right?"
he gave a low snort against your neck, the sound warm and mocking, and you couldn't stop the quiet sigh that slipped out when his touch wandered higher. his fingers traced the final inches of bare skin before brushing the edge of your lacy panties.
"maybe i like sucking your clit."
dick's lips crushed against your shoulder again, heavy and desperate, tongue flicking slow and scorching hot, savouring your taste. his middle finger slipped under the thin, delicate, fabric, pressing hard against your folds, teasing your swollen, aching cunt until a sharp gasp tore from your throat.
he didn't even slide inside, just the tip of his finger tracing your already soaked hole, feeling it flutter and try to suck him in. you bucked your hips against his groin, earning a low, satisfied sound from him.
"see?" he murmured, licking your neck slowly, his free hand gripping the plush skin of your round ass. "i can make galas fun, dove. now bend over my desk, nice and easy."
sometimes it fucked with your head how he could switch from sweet to desperate perv in a second. but you liked both sides. so you bent over, palms flat against the wood, letting him shove your overpriced dress up around your waist and yank your soaked panties down without a fight. dick knelt behind you like he'd been starving.
"fuck, i missed this view," he growled, both hands gripping your ass and spreading you open until you gasped.
"you're perfect everywhere, but thisâ" his thumbs pushed outward, baring both holes to him, "âthis is my favorite. my best friend's wet little cunt dripping just for me⊠and this pretty assââ
your face went hot. "you're disgusting."
"you fucking love it," he said, then his tongue was there. he licked a thick, sloppy stripe right up your slit and over your puckered hole, and then stayed there, swirling, pressing, letting his spit drip until it ran down in warm, messy trails.
you whimpered, hips jerking, but his grip was iron.
"d-dickâfuckâ"
"shh, baby," he said, already going back in. "lemme eat."
and dick did. messy, filthy, mouth wide open, slobber running down your slit and over your clit as his tongue flicked everywhere at once. he sucked your clit so hard your knees buckled, then went higher, tongue-fucking your pussy until your slick and his spit were dripping down your inner thighs.
he groaned like it turned him on even more. "god, i love making a mess of you."
dick's hands spread you wider and his tongue dipped higher again â slow, filthy licks over your ass before dragging back down to your cunt, switching between sucking your clit and swirling back up, over and over, until you were shaking. you pushed back against his face without thinking, grinding into his hot, wet mouth, and he moaned into you, the vibration making your toes curl inside your heels.
"fuckâ" you sobbed, holding yourself against the desk.
his spit was everywhere now, your thighs slick, your pussy and ass dripping, his chin shiny. every sound between you was wet and obscene. his tongue pushed harder again, slipping inside the tight ring of your ass, and the moan that ripped out of you was pure filth.
"p-pleaseâdickâ"
"that's it, baby. just take my tongue," he groaned, working you open with long, slow licks, his nose pressing against your warm skin with every movement.
"you're so tight back here. godâ i could eat this ass all night."
he switched between tongue-fucking your ass and sucking your clit, over and over, until your body didn't know which way to explode.
"come for me like this," he demanded, voice wrecked. "please, dove, come for me."
you shattered, moaning so loud it echoed, legs nearly giving out, pussy clenching around his tongue, milking every twitch and shiver until you were limp. when he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny and dripping, lips swollen. he gave your ass one last filthy kiss and stood up.
"shit, that was one hell of a thank you." your hair was a fucking mess, thighs trembling, but you stayed putâhands on the desk like a good girl, still wet, dripping with his spit and your own cum. behind you, dick was palming himself through his pants, like he was about to snap.
"you saw nothing," he stepped closer again, pressing your hips back until you were flush against him, forcing you upright. his cock was hard and heavy through his pants, grinding against your soaked slit. your legs nearly gave out, but he caught you with one fucking arm.
"gonna fuck you hereâ" he pressed against your pussy, "âand hereâ" his thumb slid up, spreading spit over your ass, pushing just enough to make your knees buckle.
dick kissed your cheek, then eased you down onto his bed, your face pressing into the cool sheets. he stripped fast, no ceremony, just the sound of his zipper coming down. his cock slapped against your ass once he was on top of you, hot and thick, and he groaned at the sight of both holes glistening with spit and slick.
"fuck, my best friend is so messy," he muttered, running his tip up and down, smearing pre-cum everywhere. "exactly how i like her."
you felt his cock dragging against your soaked folds, spreading your slick even more. he was teasing you, rubbing himself up and down without giving you the push you wanted. when he finally pressed inside your pussy, it was slow, deliberate, the thick head forcing you open inch by inch until you felt him stretch every nerve raw.
"god, babyâŠ" his voice cracked, low and wrecked. "so wet i can hear it."
and he was right, the sound was obscene, slick and sloppy, his cock gliding in deeper until his hips were flush against your ass. he stayed there, grinding, letting you feel every pulse of his length inside you. you gasped, clenching around him.
"so goodâŠ" you tried to say.
"so good, dove," he smirked against your skin. while still buried in your pussy, he reached down, gathered the mess of slick and spit coating your folds and clit, and smeared it higher, over your ass. you felt the warm slide of his fingers, circling, pressing lightly, coaxing you to relax.
he spit again, hot and wet, the sound of it landing on your rim sending a shiver through you. his thumb rubbed it in slow, patient circles, not pushing too fast.
"relax for me," he murmured, leaning over to kiss the back of your shoulder. "i'm gonna make it feel so fucking good."
you let out a shaky breath as his thumb slid in the pressure intense, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl. he moved it slowly, twisting, pressing deeper with each roll of his hips in your pussy.
"that's it, atta girl" he groaned, fucking you slow while working your ass open with his thumb. "get used to it. i'm gonna fill both."
when he finally pulled his thumb out and lined his cock up with your ass, you could feel his pulse through the head. his other hand held your hip steady, fingers digging into your skin.
"you ready for me?"
before you could answer with a whine, the thick head pushed past your rim, slow, and relentless. you gasped, back arching, the stretch almost too much but somehow exactly what you needed.
"fuck, fuckâso tight here too, dove," he groaned, his voice breaking.
once he had just the tip inside your ass, he slid his cock back into your pussy, alternating, working both holes until you were panting into the pillows. then dick did it, buried himself fully in your cunt while his fingers worked you open again⊠and pushed deep into your ass until both were full, every nerve lit up, just the way you need it. his pace was slow but heavy, each thrust deliberate, grinding all the way in before pulling back, keeping the stretch constant in both places.
your nails clawed at the sheets, your moans spilling out without shame.
"dickâoh my godâdon't stopâ"
you were dripping everywhere, spit, slick, pre-cum, sliding down your thighs, coating his cock. he pressed his palm to your lower belly, feeling himself inside you.
"oh, baby, i can feel me through you," he groaned, slamming in harder now, losing control.
your orgasm hit like a punch, your muscles clenching around him in both places until he cursed, hips stuttering. dick held deep, grinding through your climax until his own broke and it was so warm, spilling inside you until you were leaking from your abused cunt. when he finally pulled out with a wet pop, the mess was obscene â slick and cum dripping down from your gaping hole.
he bent and kissed your sweaty shoulder.
"nowâŠ" dick breathed hard, his messy black hair falling in his forehead, "you're ready for the gala."
âĄ. ‷ best friends help with lingerie. dick grayson never says no to a trip to victoria's secret.
ââââ you've always been the queen of the dry spell. everyone on the team knew it, though no one ever said it out loud. while your friends and teammates juggled flings, rendezvous, and even oficial relationships, you were stuck in a cycle of half-hearted crushes and frustration. and the problem wasn't you in the field. in the suit, with the mask on, you were confident. but outside of it you felt painfully normal, just a girl with many insecurities and zero idea how to flirt without hiding behind a tactical gear. so dating apps terrified you, bars were overwhelming and the idea of anyone seeing you, really seeing you, without the armor makes you want to throw up.
until your leader, and best friend, dick grayson got involved.
what started as a throwaway comment, something about getting you back out there, turned into a operation. he sat beside you for hours, helping you build a tinder profile like it was a mission briefing. choosing the right photos, taking new ones, rewriting your bio three times. filtering through matches and vetoing the ones with bad grammar or serial killer vibes. and all that effort paid off. eventually.
you landed a date and then another. all of them with the kind of guy you'd normally assume was way out of your league: charming and surprisingly into you. you talked for two weeks, texting into the early hours, swapping music and stupid memes, truly building that connection. and before you knew it, he was asking you to come over. not in a vague, 'let's hang out' way. no, it was crystal clear. netflix and chill. the modern mating call, subtle as a brick. you weren't clueless, you knew what that meant, and so did dick.
he didn't say anything when you told him. just raised a brow and asked, deadpan, "so, is this a tactical op or a 'silk and lace' situation?"
you rolled your eyes. "victoria's secret. obviously."
he gave you that slow grin, half amusement, half something harder to place, and said, "then i'm driving."
because of course he is. you love that store. and, in some ways, dick does too, not that he'd ever say it out loud but it's not his first rodeo. being your best friend has meant monthly bra and panties shopping trips, sitting outside fitting rooms with a latte in hand, and tagging along to the salon because, in his words, 'the vibes there are way better than any barbershop.'
so you're already three bras deep, holding a few matching sets in your arms and feeling that now-familiar buzz of nervous anticipation under your skin. dick walks beside you through the store like it's nothing. like he's just here for moral support, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the mannequins like he's not mentally cataloging what each piece would look like on you.
"you're quiet," you murmur, holding up a dark wine-red set with thin satin straps and gold detailing.
he shrugs. "just focused. mission-critical."
you roll your eyes. "you say that like you're about to defuse a bomb."
"technically," dick says, "i am trying to keep you from walking into a date with questionable lace choices. that's high stakes."
you scoff, but hand him the set anyway. he inspects it carefully, running a thumb along the strap, checking the stitching, turning it over in his hands like it's part of your gear, not lingerie. "this one," he says, "you're going to kill him."
"that's the goal."
he grins. "atta girl."
the fitting rooms are plush, a little too pink, with gold hooks and full-length mirrors. you step inside the dressing area with a pile of delicate, barely-there things and poke your head back out.
"coming in?"
he raises an eyebrow. "you sure?"
"dick, come on," you deadpan. "you've seen me pee. you see me naked all the time. i think we're way past modesty, dummy."
he follows you in without another word. it's not awkward, it never is with him. you step into the first set, black, sheer, a lot of straps and turn toward the mirror. it fits perfectly, in the most slutty way possible. it makes your thighs look juicy, your waist impossibly small, your boobs lifted just enough to make breathing hard.
"okay," you call. "no laughing."
when you pull the curtain back, he doesn't laugh. he doesn't even blink. he just leans back on the plush seat in the corner of the dressing area with his legs spread. dick's eyes move over you, casual but heavy, and you swear you feel every pass of his gaze like a fingertip on bare skin.
you cross your arms, mock defensive. "too much?"
"no, baby," he stands and steps in, motioning for a turn. you roll your eyes but oblige. when you face away, his hand comes up, gently fingering the edge of a strap on your lower back. "it's perfect."
you raise a brow. "seriously?"
but dick's already in motion, adjusting the strap at your hip, fingers brushing over your bare skin with complete ease. like he's fixing your utility belt. like this doesn't feel different. except it does.
"lift your arm a little," he says. you do, and he slides one strap into place with the kind of precision that makes you shiver. "there. the symmetry matters."
you meet his blue eyes in the mirror. "you're enjoying this."
he doesn't deny it. just moves behind you, resting one hand at your waist while the other fixes a piece of lace curled under at your shoulder. then his hands move, both now, dragging down to adjust the garter strap that slid out of place on your thigh. he kneels slightly, fastening the clip, smoothing the fabric.
"you always do this with your friends?" you murmur, looking down at him. the sight of him, crouched at eye level with your panties, felt like crossing into new territory. definitely felt like a new level of intimacy in your friendship.
he looks up through his lashes, and his smile is soft, a little crooked. "nope. wally usually doesn't need my professional opinion when he buys lingerie."
"too bad," you mutter, lips tugging into a smirk. "he's missing out on an excellent professional."
dick chuckled under his breath, fingers hooking into the delicate waistband of your lace panties. he gave them a light tug before letting the elastic snap gently against your skin. not hard, just enough to make you yelp and swat at him with your knee, more reflex than resistance.
he caught it easily, one hand wrapping around your thigh with a firm, steady grip. you chuckled lightly and his thumb brushed your inner thigh before he let go.
"so?" you ask, arching a brow. "approved?"
he doesn't answer right away. he doesn't even stand. still crouched at eye level with your hips, he takes his time, gaze moving over the lace, then lower, then back up to your thighs like he's analyzing a crime scene. too quiet.
finally, he exhales and murmurs, "it's perfect, dove. you lookâ" he cuts himself off, then adds, "but all this? for some guy from tinder?"
he makes a soft tsk with his tongue and shakes his head.
"this much lace feels like overkill. all that man deserves is a basic black set."
you look down at yourself in the mirror. the lingerie does look incredible, the color, the cut, the way it sits on your skin. you love it. and dick knows you loved it. he knows everything when comes to you.
"you're right," you admit quietly. "but⊠i like this one."
dick finally stood, his hand trailing lightly over your shoulder as he rose. it was a casual touch, one you'd felt a hundred times before, but this time, it lingered. just long enough to make your stomach twist. you always liked the way his hands felt on you, scarred and callused. rough in a way that spoke of years of violence and training, even if he tried to smooth it out with creams and lotions you knew he pretended not to care about. they were working hands, and against your bare skin, they felt amazing.
"okay," he says, voice soft now. "then here's the compromise." he meets your eyes in the mirror again. "get the black one for your date⊠and let me buy this one. as a gift."
you blink. "you're buying me lingerie?"
he smirks, completely unbothered. "i already helped pick it out."
dick gave your bare ass a playful smack before stepping out of the fitting room with a grin. you grabbed the nearest hanger and chucked it at the curtain.
"fucking asshole!"
he just laughed from the other side.
"i'm heading to the register! don't take forever, some of us have places to be!"
"you love waiting on me and you know it!" you shouted back, already reaching for the next set.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
i need more heteroerotic dick grayson asap đđ
âĄ. ‷ you keep ruining your best friend's love life, but it's not your fault you're dick grayson's favorite girl.
ââââ you didn't need to be a genius to know that your best friend, dick grayson, was ridiculously attractive. the kind of guy who made people blush and stumble just by flashing a simple, polite smile. and knowing him like the back of your hand, you knew dick loved the attention; he soaked it up like a whore thirsty for the spotlight. you could practically see his whole face light up the moment a confident, curvy blonde slid her number across the counter while you two were waiting in line at starbucks. that mischievous smirk would curl on his lips whenever he caught a pretty civilian's eye after effortlessly saving her from some lowlife mugger. dick didn't just like women, he thrived on their attention. and, damn, women were helplessly drawn to him.
but beneath that effortless playboy act, you saw the real deal. the insecurities he buried deep, the quiet pressure he carried to prove himself not just to strangers, but to his family and to the entire hero community. it wasn't just a role, it was a lifelong burden he'd been carrying since his robin days. and through it all, you were there, the one constant who saw the boy behind the mask. that vulnerable kid still living inside the man who seemed so untouchable to everyone else. you knew him better than anyone, and maybe that was why, no matter how many admirers he had, it was you he always came back to.
sometimes crawling back bruised and battered, tears shimmering in his eyes, his heart trembling in his hands. you lost count of how many times you'd given him baths, gently washing his back, soothing his exhausted body, stitching up the wounds no one else noticed. to the world, he was a charming womanizer, but you saw the truth beneath, the serial dater desperate for love and real connection. he loved fiercely, and that's why he fought so hard, for the people he cared about, for the world, and for every woman who ever held a piece of his heart. and there's a lot of them, and every single one was special in some way.
but deep down, you knew most of his girlfriends and flings didn't like you. you could feel it in the way their eyes flicked to you with thinly veiled resentment, the tight smiles that never quite reached their eyes, and the way their voices grew sharper whenever you were around. it wasn't just jealousy, it was bitter, a quiet war fought in stolen glances and clipped conversations. no matter how polite they tried to be, the tension was impossible to ignore. you weren't just the 'girl best friend' to them, you were the obstacle they couldn't get past.
and that was the irony of it all, behind every fling or girl he brought home, there you were, dishing out your opinions, handing him girl tips, and cheering him on like his ultimate wingman. right now, you were sprawled across his bed, haley curled up beside you, wagging her tail happily while dick slipped on his leather jacket, clearly putting on a little show for you.
"not sure about the jacket," you teased, popcorn-and-butter-stained fingers reaching out as haley eagerly tried to lick them. "your biceps are one of your strongest assets."
"alright, fashion critic," he teased, tossing the leather jacket onto the chair. "what's the verdict? am i date-night ready or nah?"
you stretched lazily, eyes sparkling with mischief. "honestly? you could probably rock a potato sack and still make her swoon, but since i'm here, let's do it right."
dick raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "and what's 'right' according to you?"
you grabbed your phone and tapped a few things, cleaned your fingers on his bed sheets and then reached into his closet. "first, lose the biker look. navy blazer. trust me."
he feigned offense. "so my bad boy phase is officially over?"
you grinned, pulling out the crisp white shirt. "only for tonight. besides, the blazer shows off those arms better."
he rolled up his sleeves with a slow smirk. "see? now you'rs speaking my language."
as you helped button the shirt, your fingers brushed against his skin, and you caught a flicker of something, a quiet softness behind his usual confidence.
"don't get too comfortable," you warned with a playful glare. "i still have to fix your hair. you know the rules."
dick leaned into your warm hands, eyes half-lidded. "i might just let you do whatever you want tonight."
you laughed, lightly ruffling his hair before smoothing it down again. "flattery will get you everywhere."
haley wiggled her tail, nudging your hand for attention. you gave her a quick scratch behind the ears, then looked back at dick.
"shoes?" you asked, holding up a pair of clean sneakers and those brown loafers.
he tapped his chin thoughtfully. "loafers. they make me look more mysterious."
"definitely."
he smirked, slipping them on with a flourish. "you're not half bad at this, you know."
you rolled your eyes but smiled, feeling that easy warmth between you.
"alright, mr. mysterious," you said, stepping back to admire him. "go knock her socks off."
dick pulled you into a hug, voice low and sincere. "thanks for always being my wingman."
you smirked. "yeah, yeah. just don't forget who's the real catch here."
dick, still holding you close against him, pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek before pulling back.
"i'll be home before midnight," he murmured. "stay here with haley."
you'd been holed up in his apartment all weekend, long enough for him to finally come back and spill the details about his hot date in the morning.
"it was nice," he said, like he was talking about the weather. "she was hot enough to get me hard with just a few kissesâŠ" he smirked, flipping the eggs in the pan like he hadn't just dropped that detail into casual breakfast conversation. "but things almost went south when she grabbed my phone to show me something and saw my lockscreen."
you raised an eyebrow from your perch on the kitchen table, coffee in hand. "and what's so bad about your lockscreen?"
he looked over his shoulder at you, that smirk widening. "it's you and haley. she thought you were my sister or something."
you laughed, bare legs swinging idly over the kitchen table's edge. "wow. and here i thought she'd be relieved i wasn't your girlfriend."
dick's gaze lingered a little too long on your skin before he turned back to the stove, his shoulders shaking in a quiet chuckle. "yeah⊠didn't really give me that vibe."
the smell of eggs and toast filled the space, sunlight spilling across the counter. he was shirtless, of course, and the way the morning light caught on his back, every line of muscle shifting as he moved, made it hard to keep your eyes on your coffee.
he plated the eggs and slid them in front of you, close enough that his hip brushed your knee. "eat," he murmured, almost like an order, but the grin tugging at his mouth ruined the act.
you tilted your head, smirking back. "you spoil me."
he leaned in just a fraction, voice low. "you make it easy."
"sappy."
"only for you, love."
some time passed, and the "girl of the week" â a pretty thing with green eyes â proved she had some fire in her. she lasted a few months, longer than most, until your presence began to heat her temper and thin her patience. it wasn't long before she made the fatal mistake: complaining about you to dick. they all did. every single one. you'd lost count of the girlfriends and flings who'd tried to play the "i don't like her" card, as if it were some secret weapon against the unbreakable bond you shared with him.
you were used to it by now. he'd had his parade of short-lived affairs with models, actresses, socialites. a couple of longer romances with women who swore they were "different." but the pattern never changed. sooner or later, they always found out about you. eventually, they'd try to talk to him about it. and that was usually the beginning of the end. because dick wouldn't cut you off to make someone else feel secure. wouldn't stop answering your calls in the middle of dinner. wouldn't stop leaning on your shoulder during movie nights in favor of someone he'd known for a month. he'd just stop dating them.
sometimes, you had to admit, it was on purpose. and it was fun. the way you'd made yourself impossible to ignore in his life. the lip balm in the cupholder of his car. a hair clip on the visor. a half-empty travel-size hand cream in the glove compartment. the perfume bottle on the bathroom counter. an extra toothbrush in the holder. your fuzzy socks kicked under the couch. a half-empty bottle of wine in the fridge, your lipstick on the rim. mascara, concealer, and makeup wipes tucked neatly in the corner of his medicine cabinet, like they belonged there â like you belonged there. little things, casual things.
but the best is when they call him and you answer. one girlfriend rang his phone late at night. you picked up on the second ring, voice lazy with sleep.
"hello?"
"... who is this?"
you gave her your name.
"he's in the shower. want me to tell him you called?"
the silence on the other end was delicious.
another time, she called while you were out grabbing food with him. he slid the phone across the table without looking. "can you answer that for me?"
you grinned and hit accept. "hey, it's me. he's busy right now, hands full of sushi. want me to pass a message?"
by the third time it happened, that relationship was dead in the water.
"you think girls get weird about me having a girl best friend?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and lazy. he was curled around you on his bed, one arm slung over your waist, the other tangled in your hair. his fingers moved slowly, absentmindedly combing through the strands in a rhythm that made your eyelids heavier.
the room still smelled faintly of rain and sweat from patrol. your boots sat haphazardly by the door, your gloves tossed on top of his, and the floor was littered with a familiar mix of gear, your utility belt half-open, his escrima sticks glinting under the dim light, the nightwing suit draped over the back of a chair.
"mhm⊠dunno." your voice was muffled against the pillow. "maybe people just don't know how to separate platonic love from friendship, you know?"
you rolled over to face him, the mattress dipping under the shift of your weight. his blue eyes were softer now, heavy-lidded, tired after the adrenaline had burned off. you pressed your head against his chest, tucking yourself beneath his chin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. your breath warmed the skin of his collarbone, and you could feel his heartbeat under your cheek.
"maybe the next girl will understand," you murmured, almost purring the words as his hand slid in slow, deliberate strokes down your back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
"let's hope, baby," he said, voice already fading toward sleep, but his arm tightened just a little around you.
summary | time passes, but memories don't fade. you have a weird encounter with a hidden face . . . or more than one, but at the end nothing can surpass damian al ghul's presence.
pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x kent!reader
warnings / tags | this actually does not have that much hurt to batmom?????but like . . . red hood is here. so hurt/little comfort to him. fluffy family bonding with the others. bittersweet ending of chapter
word count | 5k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)
this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 15. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.
THE MORNING OF YOUR THIRTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY BEGINS WITH WARMTH.
You wake slowly, gradually surfacing from sleep to the subtle pressure of lips against your temple. Bruce has always been like thisâsoft in private, reverent in the moments he thinks you arenât fully awake. You feel him before you see him, the weight of his hand gentle against your waist, his breath warm on your cheek, then your jaw, and finally your shoulder.
âHappy birthday,â he murmurs. His voice is low, gravel-laced from sleep, still carrying the intimacy of night.
You tilt your head toward him without a word, letting him continue, soft kisses melting into your skin like candle wax. His hand spreads over your belly, thumb sweeping along your ribs with an affectionate press.
âYou donât look a day over twenty-five,â he mutters into your hair, lips curling, âbut I have irrefutable evidence of your actual age in my safe downstairs.â
You laughâquiet, but genuine. âEvidence?â
âMmhmm. License. Passport. A file labeled âKentâWayne, Y/Nâ.â
âYou keep a file on me?â
âI keep a file on everyone,â he says, smiling against your cheek. âYours just happens to be my favorite.â
âI love you,â you murmur, fingers curling around the sheet. âHappy birthday... to me.â
He smiles bigger. âMorning missions are canceled today.â
You let out a contented breath and settle back, the world soft around the edges for the first time in weeks.
As if summoned by prophecy, your bedroom door bursts open with all the force and drama only childrenâand Alfredâcan carry. Behind them bounds Ace, his claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor before leaping effortlessly onto the bed, and lastâbut not to be forgottenâMiss Whiskers the cat slinks her way across the room, tail flicking with regal entitlement.
âHappy birthday to youâ!â
ââhappy birthday to you!â
âHappy birthday, mamaâ!â
The singing is off-tune, chaotic and stumbling over itself, but you barely have time to laugh before the whole room is full. Tim enters first, balancing a massive tray of breakfast with the careful hands of a boy who probably bribed Alfred with tech work to help him. Cassandra is close behind, clutching the edge of the tray to help. Dick follows in socks that slide on the floor, his hair an overgrown mess of curls, and Alfred walks behind them with all the calm grace of a man used to waking up early for every major holiday.
You sit up slowly, sweeping the comforter up over your chest as you lean into the headboard, smiling so widely your cheeks ache.
âCareful, careful!â Alfred warns as Tim sets the tray on your lap. âMaster Timothy, do not spill the syrup on her lap again.â
âThat was once, Alfred,â Tim mutters, half-pouting. âOnce.â
âOnce too many,â Cassandra adds in deadpan, but you see the curve of a smile in her mouth as she perches herself by your side.
Bruce groans and flops onto his back beside you, one hand shielding his eyes. âYouâre lucky I love you all,â he says into the ceiling, voice gravelly.
âYouâre lucky we made pancakes,â Tim says, grinning now, clearly proud of the work. He points to the top stack. âThat one has a candle. For blowing out. Itâs the birthday one.â
Indeed, a single birthday candleâpink and a bit crookedâhas been stabbed into a tall pancake, the wick already smoking faintly from being lit downstairs.
You shake your head in disbelief. âYou all planned this?â
âOf course we did,â Dick says proudly. âCass supervised the syrup-to-pancake ratio. Tim made the coffee. I was... moral support.â
âI made the list,â Cassandra says softly.
Your gaze slides to Alfred, who bows his head and offers a fond smile. âIt was a group effort. But allow me to assure you, no one left the kitchen with unwashed hands or unsupervised fire.â
Your heart warms. Completely and without hesitation.
âMadam,â he says, formal as ever, though you see the fondness dancing in his eyes. âMany happy returns.â
You sit there, tray heavy with pancakes and steaming coffee, your family crowding around you on the bed, all warmth and chaos and love. Your children. Your animals. Your people.
Tim leans over your shoulder and nudges the plate. âBlow the candle, mom.â
You glance around the room, at the hopeful faces, at the kids trying to be casual and Bruce trying not to get smothered by a hundred-pound dog, and you close your eyes.
You blow.
Applause erupts around you. Whiskers flinches and Ace barks once, as if offended he wasnât warned. Tim beams. Cassandra claps her hands gently.
Bruce leans in to kiss your cheek again. âI love you,â he whispers. âEvery year more.â
âI love you back,â you murmur.
Dick leans in to kiss your cheek with an exaggerated smooch. âHappy birthday, mom,â he says, loud and proud. âGod, thirty-seven? Youâre so ancient.â
Bruce groans again. âYouâre still grounded.â
âIâm literally not even living here right now,â Dick replies, unbothered.
Cassandra leans in and rests her head on your shoulder. âI made the card,â she whispers.
âYou did?â you ask, touched.
She nods, and from beneath one of the pillows, she carefully pulls out a folded paper full of hand-drawn symbols and flowers. On the front is a little sketch of your garden, her signature now unmistakable in the corner. Inside, the message is simple.
Happy birthday to the best mom in the world. Love you forever, your daughter Cassandra.
You donât realize your eyes are misty until Tim tries to pass you the syrup and you blink too hard to see the bottle clearly.
For a while, itâs nothing but laughter and coffee and the kind of slow joy youâve fought for. Itâs been two years nowâtwo years since Tim started calling you âmomâ without flinching, two years since Cass came into your life and quietly wrapped herself around your soul. Two years of growing, healing, building something new.
You think of Jasonâalways. You wonder what heâd look like now, how his voice mightâve deepened. If heâd still call you âmaâ in that gruff, reluctant way that made your heart flutter. He wouldâve turned eighteen this year. You breathe in and let the grief pass gently, respectfully, like an old companion.
You all stay like thatâeating, laughing, sharing soft smiles and playfully stealing bitesâfor well over an hour. Your phone buzzes sometime between coffee refill two and three. Bruce picks it up from the nightstand and peers at it.
âSmallville.â
âPut it on speaker,â you say, mouth full of berry pancake.
He does.
âHappy birthday, baby girl!â your motherâs voice cries through the line. Behind her, you hear your dad trying to figure out speaker settings.
âI got it! No, Lois saidâoh, there we go. You hear us, sweetheart?â
You laugh. âLoud and clear.â
Lois cuts in with a sarcastic drawl. âHappy birthday, Y/N. Weâre trying to keep Jon from eating the cupcakes meant for your virtual party.â
âToo late!â Jonâs voice says proudly. âI got blue frosting!â
Conner snorts. âThat was your cupcake.â
âHappy birthday,â Clark says gently, his voice coming clearer now. âI hope theyâre spoiling you over there.â
You glance around the roomâat the tray on your lap, the kids half-fighting over whipped cream, Bruce kissing your templeâand you smile. âYeah. I think they are.â
The call lasts longer than it should, but nobody minds. Even Bruce smiles when your mother insists on telling a story about your eighth birthday and a goat from the neighborâs farm. You hang up feeling full in ways no breakfast could cause.
After that, the Justice League transmissions begin. Diana sends flowers and a beautiful poem in Themysciran. Hal sends a recorded birthday serenade that is absolutely off-key. Jâonn writes a hauntingly beautiful message about strength, resilience, and peace. Even Ollie callsâthough heâs more interested in catching up on gossip.
And the kidsâ friends all send messages. Stephanieâs is the longest, chaotic and peppered with sarcasm.
âI wouldâve baked you something but last time I set off the fire alarm. Cass tried to stop me. She tried signing at me from the couch like âSTOP. OVEN. DEATH.â Anyway, happy birthday, mom two.â
You laugh so hard Bruce makes you tea to keep you from choking.
But the truth is, despite all the brightness of the day, the back of your mind doesnât stay quiet.
Because youâve felt it again. That feeling. That slithering unease crawling up the back of your neck.
For weeks now, youâve been feeling watched. Not overtly. Not enough to raise alarms. But enough that your skin prickles at the back of your neck. Youâve told Bruce, casually. He said heâd sweep the area more thoroughly. Tim ran a few digital traces, checked the perimeter cams. Nothing. No breaches. No spikes in digital traffic. Nothing unusual.
But still.
Itâs been thereâduring your walks with Ace, when the dog pauses for a second too long, staring at something behind you before you turn and find nothing. Itâs been there at pilates, when you catch a shadow moving across a mirrored wall that no one else notices. Itâs been there at interviews, press events, even just shopping with Cassâwho once held your hand a little tighter in a department store without knowing why.
Cass leans into your other side. âBig party tonight.â
âYeah,â you sigh, pretending itâs a burden, though itâs not. âYouâre all coming, right?â
âWouldnât miss it,â Tim says.
âGotham needs to see what royalty looks like,â Dick adds from across the room. âAnd it needs to know Iâm still your favorite, mom.â
âYouâre literally not,â your third son replies back, nose wrinkling. âThereâs no ranking system.â
âThere is,â Dick says without hesitation, as though heâs been holding this argument in his pocket for years. âOne day a year. Itâs a sacred event. Momâs birthday. On this day, I, Richard John Grayson, hold the coveted title of Favorite Child.â
âIâd like to motion to have this unconstitutional system abolished,â Tim mutters, raising a hand like heâs at a city council meeting.
âOverruled,â Dick replies, cheerful as ever. âMotion denied. Appeal rejected. I am democracy.â
âYou are drama,â Tim snaps back.
âOh please,â Dick sighs. âYou say that like itâs not a birthright. Do you know how many years I spent in tights?â
Cass finally makes a sound â a little snort â before muffling her mouth with her free hand. You catch her eye, eyebrows raised. She grins wider and lifts her hands with casual ease.
âDick was favorite yesterday,â she signs. âIâll be favorite tomorrow.â
Tim groans. âYou two are seriously delusional.â
âYouâre all delusional,â you interject finally, eyes still sleepy but smile blooming warmer with each second that passes. âDo you want the truth?â
The room goes quiet. Four sets of eyes land on you at once â Dickâs wide and eager, Timâs narrowed with suspicion, Cassâs intense with anticipation, and Alfredâs politely interested, sipping tea like this is a morning soap opera.
You make a show of stretching your arms over your head, smothering a yawn, and then you reach for the fork beside your pancake with agonizing slowness. You chew a bite. Swallow. Take a sip of juice. Then:
âI donât have a favorite.â
All three groan at once.
âCome on!â
âThatâs a lie.â
âNot true,â Tim insists. âYou literally kissed me on the forehead first this morning. That counts.â
âOnly because you elbowed me in the ribs to get to her first,â Dick retorts, throwing a pillow at him with perfect aim.
Cass says, cheeky and quick: âI brought her the coffee.â
âAnd I brought the syrup,â Tim says quickly.
âI brought the charm,â Dick announces proudly.
âI brought the dog,â Alfred deadpans from the doorway, setting his tea aside.
That earns a round of chuckles.
âAlfred wins,â you declare, raising your glass in a mock toast. âFavorite forever.â
âTraitor,â Dick whispers, feigning heartbreak as he clutches at his chest like heâs been mortally wounded.
âUnfair advantage,â Tim huffs. âHe made pancakes.â
âI helped,â Cass adds. âI put the candle in.â
âLetâs be honest,â Bruceâs voice calls in from the closet doorway, low and amused. âOnly reason none of you are actually her favorite is because I got to her first.â
Dick lets out a theatrical gasp. âYou stole our mom with seduction?â
Tim blinks. âOh my God. Ew.â
Cass is already shaking with laughter, her fingers stuttering through a very expressive, chaotic sentence involving the word âbetrayalâ several times. You cover your mouth to stifle a giggle.
âSheâs my wife,â Bruce replies smoothly, resting a hand on the curve of your shoulder as he leans down to kiss your temple, slow and deliberate. âThatâs allowed.â
âThatâs favoritism,â Dick cries.
âThatâs romance,â you correct, smirking into your coffee.
âYouâre all terrible,â Tim mutters, though he doesnât seem particularly upset. âWeâre supposed to be showing her love, not launching a full-on popularity contest.â
âTimâs just mad heâs not winning,â Cass declares.
âI am not,â he snaps, looking straight at her.
She raises both brows.
âOkay, maybe a little,â he admits, sitting back with a scowl.
âI think,â you murmur slowly, resting your hand over Bruceâs wrist where it lingers on your shoulder, âthat this morning has made me feel like the luckiest woman on the planet. And I think that anyone who brings me a second pancake might secure a temporary win.â
All three jump into action.
âOn it!â
âWaitânoâI got it!â
âMove, nerds!â
The tray tips slightly, and you almost lose a fork to the floor, but miraculously everything remains intact. Cass bolts ahead, plate in hand. Dick leaps over the edge of the bed like a gymnast. Tim is practically airborne behind them.
âGood God,â Bruce mutters.
âEvery year,â Alfred sighs.
You lean back against the pillows, heart full, laughter warming your chest. Ace barks once, excited, and tries to chase after the trio. Whiskers lifts her head from the blanket, unimpressed, and jumps onto the pillow as if to remind everyone she, in fact, is the true favorite.
The gala sparkled around you.
Gold chandeliers flooded the grand hall with a honeyed glow, and the dark marble beneath your heels shimmered like liquid ink. The buildingâGothamâs refurbished Astoria Theatre, a place that had once seen opera and violence in equal measureâhad been transformed into a palace of warmth and light for you. Bruce had insisted on it.Â
Gothamâs elite had shown up in tailored tuxedos and glittering gowns, every one of them eager to smile and raise a glass to her, the woman who had made the Prince human, the heart that softened the myth.
Your birthday gala was already trending in Gotham social circles. âGothamâs beloved,â one headline had read. âThe softer heart behind Wayne.â
Youâd laughed when Vicki Vale sent you a preview of her columnâclaiming it was meant to âbalance the image.â You didnât mind. You liked being the softness, the warmth, the tether. You liked standing in the glow of the chandelier with a smile painted on your lips and your hand wrapped around a flute of champagne, watching the people around you light up like candles.
Clark had made a speech. Lois had kissed your cheek. Even Selina had flown inâdraped in velvet, her signature grin sharp as ever as she twirled you across the floor in a surprisingly graceful spin.
âYou age like a secret,â sheâd whispered against your cheek. âNo wonder Bruce still canât take his eyes off you.â
Youâd laughed, flustered, hiding your flushed face behind a crystal glass.
And now, hours in, with music still thrumming gently in the air and laughter bouncing between the pillars, the attention had started to catch up to you.
Not in a bad way. Just⊠loud. Too much all at once.
âYou look like you need a breath,â Bruce murmurs against your ear. Heâs handsome, devastating in black, one hand resting comfortably on your waist. âIâve watched you charm forty-seven different people in the last two hours. I counted.â
You smile tiredly, leaning into his touch. âYouâd think I was the one running for mayor.â
âNo, youâre just beloved,â he replies. âMore dangerous, honestly.â
You press a quick kiss to his cheek and mumble, âIâm going to get some air.â
He kisses you back, slower. âAlright. But if you donât come back in ten minutesââ
âYouâll come get me.â
âExactly,â he says, his gaze softening, jaw still tense like always. âTen minutes. Iâll time it.â
You step away with a grateful smile and disappear up the grand staircase, your heels echoing against the marble, slipping into softer silence with every floor. The upper terrace is quiet, tucked above the gala, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gothamâs skyline. You slip through the doors, out into the breeze. The chill is sweet relief. A balm.
You close your eyes. Breathe in. Let the night air undo the tension in your shoulders. Gotham glows below you. The music becomes a murmur behind thick walls. The stars are faint. But you let yourself be small beneath them, just for a second.
And then you feel it. The same sensation thatâs been haunting you for weeks.
The eyes.
A cold tickle runs down your spine, a breath on the back of your neckâexcept thereâs no breath, no breeze, just that feeling. Youâre not alone.
But this time, for the first time⊠you see him.
Across the rooftop, half-shadowed by the arched curvature of a decorative gargoyle, stands a man. Not just any manâtall, broad, easily Bruceâs height and build. His shoulders are massive, arms braced with thick leather. But itâs the helmet that stops your heart for half a second.
A red helmet. Blood red, high-gloss, molded like a skull and faceless all at once.
You donât flinch. You donât run.
Your stomach clenches like a fist, but thereâs no fear blooming in your lungs. No spike of danger. Just a tightening in your chestâforeign and familiar at once. Something instinctual. Something human.
You tilt your head slightly.
âAre you the one whoâs been following me?â you ask, your voice calm â a murmur that curls into the night.
The helmet doesnât move.
You squint through the dark, shifting your weight slightly on your heels.Â
âIâve felt you for weeks,â you continue, softly now. âWalking my dog. While going out. Even when I'm buying flower seeds. I thought I was going crazy.âÂ
Your voice doesnât waver.Â
âIâm not crazy. Yet, you never do anything. Just watch. Are you looking for something?â You pause. âOr someone?â
He tilts his head just barely â not in acknowledgment, not even confirmation. Just⊠something like listening. His fingers twitch, gloved hands tight at his sides.
You try again. âIf Iâm in danger, just say so. I can take it. Iâd rather know than be left guessing.â
Still, he doesnât move. No words. Just that helmet reflecting the lights of the city. Something about the shape of his shoulders, the stance of his legs â youâve seen something like it before. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. But you canât place it. You donât dare.
 Your heart is speaking a language your mind hasnât caught up to yet.
âWhy?â you whisper, almost to yourself now. âWhy do I feel like I know you?â
The wind shifts again, tugging strands of hair into your eyes. You donât move to fix them.
He flinches.
Itâs quick. Subtle. But unmistakable. A slight tightening in his shoulders, his chin angling down half a degree. It hits you like a wave crashing over raw skin â a surge of something too complex to name. Like grief. Like memory. Like recognition hidden under years of dust.
He takes another step â one foot on the ledge now. You think he might leap, vanish into the sky like some ghost, some myth.
And thenâ
âAuntie?â
You blink.
The rooftop door bursts open, golden light from the ballroom spilling into the night. Jonâs voice is sweet and bright and too loud against the hush.
âAunt, are you out here?â he asks, running toward you. Heâs ten now, all limbs and energy, dressed in a tux that doesnât quite sit right on his skinny frame. His red-and-blue tie is crooked.
You turn to him on instinct. âIâm here, sweetheart.â
âUncle Bruce said to look for you. The dessert tableâs out now and they have macarons, real ones, like the ones in Paris!â
You smile, grabbing his little hand warmly, turning your body with himâonly to glance back, just for a secondâ
âbut heâs gone.
The man in the red helmet.
Vanished. Like smoke, like mist. The corner of the rooftop where heâd stood is empty again, just dark stone and wind and the silence he left behind.
You frown slightly, lips parting. But thereâs no trace.
âCome on, Auntie,â Jon tugs insistently. âTheyâre gonna run out. Mom says the lavender ones are the best and I want you to try them before dad eats them all.â
You let him lead you. Your fingers grip Jonâs hand a little tighter.
But your eyes drift once more to that far ledge.
Thereâs something strange swelling in your chest. Youâre not frightened. Youâre not confused, but something in your gut refuses to let go. Like a song you used to hum in the dark. Like a name youâve forgotten how to say.
(You never see the figure slip down the fire escape, muscle and leather and silence; never see the helmet come off once he hits the shadows. Never see the streak of white hair beneath the edge. Never hear the way his voice cracks like dry paper when he mutters softly to himself, just two words.)
ââŠhi, ma.â
(But heâs gone before the wind can carry it anywhere but the night.)
You sit in front of the vanity, bathed in the soft golden hue of the bedroom lamp, fingers working the cream into your skin with practiced, gentle swipes.Â
The end of your nighttime routine is always meant to bring you some semblance of peace â the familiar scent of lavender and hyaluronic acid, the cold smoothness of glass jars, the soft bristles of the brush you use to comb your hair. All of it should feel grounding. But your mind isnât cooperating.
The memory creeps back like it has every night for the past week. That rooftop. That night air. That man. You still havenât said a word about him to anyone â not to Bruce, not to Alfred, not even to Clark, who wouldâve squinted at you with that overly concerned look he inherited from your father. But youâve kept it in.Â
Not out of fear, exactly â youâre not afraid of the man in the red helmet. If anything, the memory of him feels⊠unfinished. Like something left unsaid, unread, a name dangling on the edge of your tongue without ever quite taking shape. His presence didnât scare you. It rattled you, sure, unsettled you â but not in the way danger does. In the way familiarity does. That unbearable tug that pulls somewhere behind your ribs when something deep inside you recognizes something your conscious mind cannot.
You exhale slowly, running your fingers down the arch of your jaw as you look at yourself in the mirror. The edge of that rooftop flashes behind your eyes â the glint of moonlight off that crimson helmet, the firm weight of his silent gaze. His sheer stillness. The way your voice had filled the quiet. The way he had said nothing in return.
And the worst part â the part that lingers like a splinter under your nail â is that when Jon called for you and you turned your head, just for a second, he had vanished like smoke. Gone in an instant. And still, the feeling remained: that you had just seen someone you knew. Someone long gone. Someone youâd mourned.
The skin around your eyes tightens as you reach for the under-eye serum. You press it in with your ring finger slowly, one tap at a time, but your thoughts are elsewhere again. Youâd replayed every detail.Â
The way he stood â tall, grounded, not a single ounce of insecurity in his posture. Heâd been solid, grounded, heavy. Like heâd been trained to stand like that. And those broad shoulders, the width of his chest â heâd been built for combat.Â
Not lean like Dick or narrow like Tim. Broad like⊠like Bruce. But not Bruce. And not Clark either. Not a soldier. Not a god. Something else. Someone with pain carved into his very stance. Someone who watched you like he didnât know how to speak anymore.
You blink, pushing the bottle back into place. You donât want to dwell on it. But you do. You always do.
The subtle sound of the grandfather clock chimes downstairs. You hear the faint, nearly inaudible swoosh of the Caveâs entrance shifting, the near-silent hum of systems disengaging. Bruce is coming up. But he doesnât come to the bedroom â not immediately. That makes your brows furrow. You glance at the clock again, then the door, and wait. A few minutes pass.
Still no Bruce.
You sigh, standing up slowly and grabbing your robe. The silk glides against your arms as you wrap it around your frame and tie the belt with a quick knot. Barefoot, you step out into the hallway, the coldness of the wooden floor making you shiver slightly.Â
The manor is quiet â no flickering lights, no sounds of movement. You pass by the stairs, down the long corridor, and find Ace curled near the fireplace. His big head lifts just slightly, those warm eyes following your approach.
âHey, handsome,â you whisper, crouching to give him a gentle rub behind the ears. âYou waiting for him too?â
Ace leans into your touch, tail thudding once against the floor. You smile, kiss the top of his furry head, and keep going.
The lights are on in the living room. You pause in the archway, still in the shadows of the hall, and then you hear his voice. Bruce. Low, not that calm, careful.
ââyou donât speak of her that way. Ever. Do you understand me?â
Your brow rises slightly. You step through the doorway.
Bruce is standing tall near the hearth, part of his suit still on. His jaw is locked tight, arms crossed. But your eyes go straight to the boy standing near the center of the room.
A child.
A boy. No more than ten, maybe eleven. Shorter than Jon but standing far more rigidly, shoulders squared like a miniature soldier. Heâs dressed in black â high-collared, fitted, polished. His hair is raven-black, combed back with ruthless precision. His skin is olive-toned, his features sharp. His eyes â green. Bright green. Piercing.
You blink.
At first, you think Bruceâs picked up another stray. Another orphan. Another lonely soul from Gothamâs cracked corners. Youâve done it before. Youâve done it so many times. And your heart has always had room for one more.
But then you look closer.
And it hits you, all at once.
The shape of the boyâs nose. The set of his jaw. That slight downturn of the mouth when he frownsâjust like Bruce does when heâs pretending not to be upset. And the arrogance in his voice. The cold assessment in his eyes.
âHi,â you managed, softly. Quietly, with a politeness that felt absurd in your own living room. âIâm Y/N.â
He gives you one disinterested sweep of his gaze â head to toe â and raises a single unimpressed brow.
âSo,â he says, voice steady and cool. âYouâre the woman who warms my fatherâs bed.â
You blink.
Bruce growls. âDamian.â
You donât move.
You canât move.
Everything in you stills, like your blood has stopped pumping entirely. Like your organs have turned to stone. Your hand is still curled gently at the edge of your robe, and your nails dig in before you even notice it.
He called him father.
You glance at Bruce, sharply, not trusting your voice yet, and then look back at the boy, stunned.
âDid he justââ you swallow, your tone dangerously calm, ââdid he just refer to me as your night companion?â
The boy shrugs with infuriating nonchalance. âShould I have said concubine?â
âOh my god,â you mutter, not looking at him anymore, instead turning fully to Bruce, whose face looks like itâs been carved from granite. âDid that child just call me a whore in the most diplomatic way possible?â
Silence.
Bruce doesnât deny it. He doesnât even blink.
And thatâs when the numbers start adding up in your head, as easily as breath. Heâs ten. Or close to it. Ten years old, with that face and those eyes. And ten years ago, you and Bruceâyou were already together. You were already raising Dick. Already sharing a bed. Already deep in love. Maybe not married, maybe not as steady as now, but it wasnât casual. It wasnât new.
Your stomach twists violently.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out.
You canât breathe past the lump in your throat. You step backward, just once. Just to keep upright. Itâs not the betrayal that hits hardest. Itâs not even the secrecy. Itâs the sight of the boyâthe proofâa child that bears Bruceâs features, flesh and blood. A child someone carried for him, birthed for him.
A child that wasnât yours.
Because you tried.
You tried.
Year after year, doctors and heartbreak and hospital beds and grief. You buried one. You mourned others before they even had names. You named them, and he held you while you screamed yourself sick into his shoulder.
And now this.
Now a ten-year-old with your husbandâs face is standing in your living room, and Bruce didnât warn you. Didnât tell you. Didnât say anything.
You stare at him, stunned, trembling. âWhen were you going to tell me?â
Bruce finally speaks, but his voice is rough. Measured. âI didnât know about him until recently.â
You pursed your lips. âHow recently?â
He doesnât answer.
Thatâs answer enough.
Thereâs something ugly rising in your chest now, something bitter and furious and deeply, deeply sad.Â
You force yourself to look at the boy againâDamianâand you wonder if itâs wrong to feel what you feel. Heâs a child. And itâs not his fault. But the hole in your chest has been carved wide by every failed pregnancy, every doctorâs quiet apology, every night spent curled in Bruceâs arms as he promised you again and again that it didnât matter. That you were enough. That your familyâhis familyâwas yours, no matter what.
But now thereâs this. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood.
 âTalia never told me. Not until recently. She raised him in the League. IâI didn't know of his existence.â
You shook your head. âThat doesnât change what it means.â
âI didnât betray you,â he said, quieter now, moving closer. âHe was bornââ
âWhen we were together,â you hissed. âHe looks ten. Look at him. You do the math. We were together. Engaged, even. We had a child together by then, Bruce, for fuck's sake.â
The boy doesnât speak. He just watches you.
âHeâs yours.â
âYes.â
You flinch when Bruce answers. You expect it. You knew it from the moment the boy looked at you with those eyesâso like his fatherâs. So unlike your own.
You take a step back. Then another. And Bruce doesnât stop you.
You say, without looking at him, âI need a minute.â
He doesnât follow.
You walk to the hall. You donât run. You donât cry. Not yet. You walk, slow and steady, through the old corridors of the manor until you reach your room. Your shared room. And you close the door behind you, softly.
Then you sink to the floor.
And you cry into your hands, knees pulled to your chest, sobs silent and shaking, full of a grief that you thought you buried years ago.