⤷ glitter pens mean we are family.
jason todd x fem!reader
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ Damian doesn't think he's going to understand the care you two have for each other—or him—if its thrown in his face. Too bad for him, Jason thinks, since you will be throwing that care in his face. aka ›››› "Pets count as family, why do you think I keep Jason around?" "Hey!" word cnt. 5.1k suni's ᯓ★ navigation ⭑.ᐟ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ part two by popular demand, while you don't need to read part one to understand you might want to anyways lol so here's the link ! part one
You watch Damian from across the room, elbows propped lightly against the counter as he stares at the construction paper and glue sticks, the colored pencils, crayons, paint, and glitter pens—all laid out before him like some bewildering assortment of relics. His small brow furrows in the deepest, most theatrical confusion a ten-year-old can muster.
“Did I get the wrong stuff?” you ask softly over the running water. You’re doing dishes, sleeves rolled up as you wash the fancy china bowl he insisted on bringing from the manor—declaring solemnly that it was the only vessel worthy of his dinner.
“The assignment was to draw a family tree,” Damian says with great care, as though choosing each word from a shelf. “Not to create a scrapbook.”
“You’re ten,” you remind him gently. “You can’t draw portraits. They’ll think your mother did it for you.”
“Mother is terrible at painting,” Damian mutters.
“Then Bruce.”
“Father has no eye for anything,” he huffs. “Have you seen his past suit designs?”
“Here here!” Jason chimes from the opposite side of the counter, raising a hand in lazy solidarity while tinkering with a broken gun. He hasn’t been listening—of course—but he heard the word Father said in a tone of exasperation, and that alone is enough to summon his agreement.
It’s a rainy evening, the soft kind that taps gently on windows and makes everything feel closer, warmer. Damian has wordlessly decided to stay the night. Your apartment is only one bedroom, but after your… long sleepover, Jason seems perfectly willing to share again. He looks tired, too—though you’re not entirely sure what he’s been doing today. You’ll coax it out of him later, once Damian is tucked away and dreaming.
10:00 p.m.
Only two hours until the little warrior finally begins to droop with sleep.
He doesn’t have jet lag, exactly. But he certainly isn’t like Bruce or Tim, who can fall asleep at odd hours and rise perfectly somewhat functional, and appear fine even to people who don't know them. Damian merely believes he shares that trait—and the delusion is slowly unraveling your sanity.
Jason doesn’t mind. He never does. He simply makes the room quieter and darker as the night deepens, helping guide the boy toward drowsiness simply by being present—solid, dependable, warm in a way he pretends not to be.
Inevitably, Damian always begins to sway with exhaustion. And inevitably, Jason always scoops him up with easy familiarity. And as always, when Jason tries to lay him down, the boy’s small hands cling stubbornly to Jason’s jacket, refusing to let go.
At the moment, the young boy is seated at your kitchen counter, staring down at a pack of glittery pens as though it has personally offended him. The sparkles catch the overhead light and throw tiny flecks across the counter top, but Damian’s expression remains unimpressed, bordering on resentful.
“What do I need that for?” he asks, his tone clipped with mild disgust.
“To make Dick a princess dress,” Jason calls from his stool, not looking up from the disassembled gun parts spread before him. He sounds far too pleased with himself at the quip.
Neither you nor Damian bother to respond to that.
You keep washing dishes at the sink, sleeves rolled up as warm water runs over your hands. “I just grabbed it in case you wanted options,” you say lightly.
“And why would I want this?” Damian repeats, nudging the pack of pens with one cautious finger, as if even touching it might compromise his dignity.
You shrug, glancing back over your shoulder. “You could give Titus a shiny red collar.”
There’s a small pause.
“I… I can add Titus?” Damian asks, sounding more thoughtful than before.
“Pets count as family,” you hum, rinsing off a plate. “Why do you think I keep Jason around?”
“Hey!” Jason’s voice rises in half hearted objection, but the amused edge gives him away. Oh he's going to give you a kiss for that later, hum and ask if you want him to bark just to see how you blush.
Damian crosses his arms, considering this. “I thought pets were supposed to bring joy. I cannot determine what he contributes.”
Jason decides not to mention how Damian fell asleep on him during patrol two weeks ago, curled into his side with complete trust. Jason clearly brings something. Instead, he mutters, “Maybe she likes my personality.”
“She’s certainly not here for your looks—” Damian begins, and is promptly tapped on the side of the head with the broken gun barrel. A gentle tap, more of a nudge than anything.
Damian shoots Jason a flat, unimpressed look—the sort of look only a ten-year-old with far too much dignity can manage. He knows perfectly well that if he strikes back, even with the gentlest flick, you’ll punish the whole lot of you by placing that dreadful body pillow between everyone at bedtime. The one that divides the bed like a peace treaty. The one that exiles him from the prized middle spot.
Over his dead body.
Jason only smirks wider, leaning his elbow on the counter with the confidence of a man who believes he is the most interesting thing in the room. Anywhere else he wouldn't have the audacity. But this is your house. And he is yours. “She thinks I’m hot,” he announces, as though sharing a rare scientific truth.
You don’t have to turn from the sink to know he’s grinning. You can almost feel him turning his whole torso toward you, like one of those animated characters that swivels dramatically whenever they’re fishing for attention.
“Don’t ya, babe?” he adds, far too pleased with himself.
Before you can even open your mouth, Damian swoops in neatly with, “Maybe the Lazarus Pit damaged your vision, and she’s taking pity on you.”
You pause mid-wash, letting the bubbles slip off your hands. Well. At least he didn’t bring up a crowbar and a clown. You’re counting that as growth.
Jason sits up a little straighter, ready to launch into a speech. “Okay, listen here—”
You’re already drying your hands, sensing the storm gathering.
“Jason.”
Your voice isn’t sharp, but it’s coated in that particular tone—the one that makes both men behave for at least thirty seconds. Jason freezes almost immediately, deflating with a faint huff before turning back to his scattered assortment of gun parts. They look like a mechanical jigsaw puzzle with no instructions, but he fiddles with them like they’re beads on a bracelet.
Rain taps softly at the window, a gentle percussion that fills the kitchen’s warm glow. Damian arranges his pencils and crayons with meticulous precision, as if preparing them for a formal review. Jason mutters to himself as he sorts screws into mysterious piles. And you step away from the sink, the cozy quiet settling around you like a blanket.
You step behind Jason, your fingers brushing his shoulders before sliding beneath the warm edges of his jacket. He pauses—not out of surprise, but because he always pauses when you touch him, like he wants to savor every second. When you peel the leather back, he tilts his head, leaning into you instinctively, forehead pressing against the hollow of your neck as if drawn there by gravity.
His hair tickles your skin. His breath warms your collarbone. And when he lifts his eyes to you, the confusion there is soft and almost childlike, threaded with trust. The kind of look he gives only you. As if his body reacts first—move close, lean in, breathe easier—and his brain catches up a beat later.
“Cold,” you murmur, smiling gently.
He doesn’t say a word as you press a small kiss to his forehead, just closing his eyes for the half-second your lips linger there. And when you steal his jacket and wrap it around yourself, he lets out a low, content hum, like you’ve just done something that makes the world right again. Then he bends back over the gun parts, but his shoulders stay relaxed, looser than they were before your touch.
When you glance at Damian, he’s staring in your direction with the strangest expression—wide-eyed, cautious, almost like he’s witnessing a language he hasn’t learned to speak yet. A closeness he recognizes but hasn’t figured out how to handle.
You blink back at him. “…Tea?”
“Green,” Damian says instantly—muscle memory more than thought. “Honey and—”
“Two sugars,” you finish for him. But you pause with your hand on the kettle. “Damian, what about chamomile and lavender instead tonight?”
“I will not be put to bed by tea,” he snaps back, scandalized, as if you’ve accused him of treason.
“Then you should have no problem drinking it now,” you counter in the same patient tone, shifting aside the green tea tin for the sleepy blend.
“But—”
Jason, without even looking up, adds supportively, “No caffeine after nine.”
“This isn’t your home, Todd,” Damian hisses, tiny and fierce, though the venom doesn’t quite stick when it comes from such a small, exhausted body.
“No,” you agree gently. “But it is mine. And I don't even let Tim drink coffee at all here.”
Damian mutters something that sounds like a curse in several languages mashed together, but he falls silent again, the snip-snip of his scissors returning. Jason’s quiet tinkering fills the air next to it—the rhythm of your little kitchen: soft, domestic, alive.
You take down two china cups with tiny painted robins, the porcelain thin enough that the light shines through them, and call, “Sweetie?”
Damian huffs at the same exact moment Jason hums in acknowledgment.
And then—
Silence.
Jason freezes, a gun spring halfway in his fingers. Damian’s scissors halt in mid-air. All three of you hang in the moment like it’s fragile glass.
Jason is the first to speak. “She meant me,” he informs Damian, smug but quiet, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.
You turn, finally catching the full picture: the boy’s cheeks dusted pink, eyes lowered, jaw tight like he’s embarrassed to have reacted at all. Not angry—no, not even annoyed. Just… shy. Vulnerable in that way he only ever is when affection bumps against him by accident.
“I know…” Damian whispers. Barely audible. A confession disguised as surrender.
Your chest warms. You walk closer, gentling your voice. “He’s Sweetie.” You nod toward Jason, who grins smugly into his hands. Then you point softly toward Damian. “You’re Sweetheart.”
Damian’s flush deepens almost instantly, his ears turning a shade that could only be described as flustered strawberry. He opens his mouth—likely to argue, deny, deflect—but you don’t give him the chance.
“Jason, sweetie,” you say, smiling at the way his shoulders straighten just a little, “hot chocolate?”
“Fuck yeah.” He grins up at you all toothy and happy. He loves your hot chocolate. Adores it actually. He remembers finding one of those cheap 2 dollar hot chocolate powder packets while dumpster diving when he was little. Then, it was brought home with him and he melted a plastic bowl trying to make it. He remembers a face yelling at him for it. Jason ended up eating just the powder from the packet–but back then it tasted so nice he couldn't have cared.
And now he has you.
You who makes hot chocolate from scratch and insists on buying name-brand ingredients for him whenever you go grocery shopping.
You–who even splurges on toppings like whipped creme and tiny marshmallows.
God he loves you.
Its a around fifteen minutes later your done with all three of your drinks, you set down Jason's first, kissing his cheek before moving to pour Damian's tea.
The little boy mumbles a soft thank you, but his gaze lingers on Jason's drink topped with whipped creme and marshmallows–with that drizzle of caramel that Jason weirdly loves.
“Whats that?” He whispers to you even though he has no reason to, Jason can hear everything from where hes sitting on the same kitchen island.
“Hot chocolate.” You respond softly, taking a seat next to Damian and looking down at his work so far.
Hes drawn a small image of Rāʾs al-Ghūl and a little one of a softer lady next to him–one with olive skin and a beauty mark at the corner of her eye like Talia. Its skilled heavily for someone of that age who isn't trying–like those chibis in the mangas you catch him 'borrowing' from your shelf. There is a small line going to Talia, perfectly straight. His mothers box is framed with green and purple colored pencil.
Damian wrote, ‘أم’ mother, under her drawing.
Then he erased it, you can tell from the faint line of it. And on top, he wrote ‘Mom.’ in english.
Your heart pauses for a moment at that, not even seeing the way Damian is still eyeing Jason's hot chocolate.
You tap the construction paper under Talias name, bringing his attention back to it before you say strongly, “Keep it in Arabic.”
Damian blinks at his paper and then back up at you, taking in your gaze for a moment to make sure your anger isn't placed at him. When he realizes for sure it isn't, his gaze traces back to the words ‘Mom.’ on the sheet.
“...We have to hang it up in the classroom.” He mumbles, moving to draw a box for Bruce next to Talia. He doesn't connect their boxes. You think if Bruce saw this, he'd ask him to.
“So?” Jason says—far more gently than you yourself could have managed—from the far end of the kitchen island, watching the two of you with the quiet patience of someone who has learned slowly to tread softly around tender things.
“I’d rather not deal with that,” Damian murmurs, sketching a small rectangle in crayon for Bruce’s face. His voice has grown smaller, softer, yet still carries that guarded edge he uses whenever he feels the first shadow of threat.
You say nothing, but your shoulders fall ever so slightly. Jason notices—of course he notices.
“Write it with it,” he hums at last. “Write it in Arabic, and then put ‘Mom’ next to it.”
Both you and Damian blink at him in perfect synchrony—two startled little fireflies—and the sight nearly draws a smile across Jason’s face. Damian’s eyes sharpen with thought, studying the page before him as though weighing the choice with the precision of a jeweler.
You look down at the boy, at the careful furrow of his brow as he considers the word Mom.
“How about English first…” you suggest softly, tapping the tiny frame he drew, “and you can write it in Arabic inside the frame of the pictures?”
You don’t want to push him. Gotham Academy is hardly a gentle place for a ten-year-old; its halls are full of children raised by cold hands and sharper expectations. No matter how fierce Damian might seem, he is still a child—and he is allowed to be nervous, allowed to avoid scrutiny if he wants. You will not make demands of him, even if you somehow could.
Damian nods at last, slow and deliberate, choosing a slightly darker shade of green than the one he used for Talia’s frame. With careful, practiced strokes, he writes ‘أم’ at the bottom. It is subtle—almost hidden unless one looks closely—but if one does look, truly look—and with his skill, surely anyone with a thoughtful eye will—they will see it clearly.
A warm, fragile hush, soft as the flutter of a sparrow’s wings, settles over the kitchen once more, stretching itself across the quiet space while you finish half your tea, rise from your seat with a slow, weary grace, and drift toward the cabinet as though carried by a small and invisible breeze.
Damian’s eyes remain fixed—almost stubbornly so—upon the little world he is building on the construction paper before him, while Jason’s gaze trails after you with the keen, unwavering watchfulness of someone who has learned to see the smallest changes and read them like secret messages.
You reach up into the cabinet and draw down a small collection of pill bottles—clattering softly like glassy little bells—and as you sort through them, counting with careful fingers, Jason’s brows pull together and his eyes narrow with an expression both puzzled and protective, as though the sight unsettles something deep inside him.
“You’re sick?” he mumbles in a low, uncertain voice, staring at the single pill resting in your palm as though it were a mysterious relic he is not entirely sure he wants to understand.
“It’s nothing,” you tell him in a voice so gentle and light it almost disappears into the air as you swallow the pill with the faintest lingering warmth of your tea.
“It’s not nothing—” he insists, his protest soft but earnest, as if he cannot help himself.
“Cold,” you interrupt with a soft, chiming giggle, the kind of laugh that catches in the throat like a beam of sun through curtains. “Just a cold.”
“You should have told me—” Jason begins, sounding ready to mount a gentle, half-hearted argument, but you cut him off with an ease born from long familiarity.
“Oh, please,” you say with a fond, patient roll of your eyes, closing the pillbox with a quiet click and sliding it back onto its shelf, “because you always tell me the moment you’re hurt, don’t you?”
“That’s different,” he counters, puffing out a stubborn little breath, “I can take it,” though there is no fire behind his words—no sharpness, no spite—only that soft, gruff affection he carries like a second heartbeat.
Between you both, the conversation never swells into anything cruel or bitter; no voices rise, no barbed words are flung, and no silence grows cold and heavy in the corners, for this is not the kind of home that makes storms out of raindrops. It took trial and error to get there, sure, but Jason is a quicker learner then he ever gives himself credit for.
And yet Damian watches it all unfold—the gentleness, the ease, the strange softness of it—as though he is watching a foreign country through a window, uncertain of its customs and unsure whether he would be welcomed if he stepped inside.
He understands why you do not shout, why no accusations spill from your tongue, why there are no venomous echoes following your words, because he has lived long enough to recognize what anger is and what it does.
But what he cannot grasp, not truly, not yet, is how this gentleness is possible, how two people can simply decide to be soft with each other, how they can choose calm where others would choose fire.
He knows Jason is fully capable of sharpness—he has heard him clash loudly, bitterly, fiercely with Bruce—so this must be deliberate, intentional, a conscious choice Jason reserves for you alone, as though you were something fragile and worth protecting.
You.
An adult.
Someone he chose to be soft for.
And Damian, who is only ten and has never known softness without condition or cost, cannot quite imagine anyone choosing such gentleness for him.
“I can handle a cold,” you say again in a voice so soft it feels like a blanket being tucked around a child.
“And I can handle a few punches,” Jason huffs back, though the puff of breath sounds more like a grumble of affection than any true boast, and after a heartbeat of silence he adds a playful flourish by flexing his arm with the theatrical pride of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. “See?”
You do pause—just for a moment—studying the curve of his arm with a look that is half amused and half with coy interest, warm all the same, before remembering that you are not alone and shifting your gaze toward Damian.
The boy’s expression, a masterpiece of royal disgust and unimpressed disdain, is so astonishingly dramatic that laughter bursts out of you all at once, bright and ringing, filling the kitchen with a sudden, gentle warmth that even Damian cannot entirely escape.
It is somewhere around 11:30 at night when Jason finally sets aside the last of his tools—his work on the gun complete—and you finish the assortment of quiet, mindless kitchen chores that keep your hands busy long after your thoughts have grown soft with fatigue, leaving the two of you united in a single, noble purpose: to assist Damian in whatever creative mission he has appointed himself commander of.
“Cut that paper into strips, Todd—no, not like that!” he barks with all the authority of a tiny general, pointing at you as if you were the standard to which all must aspire. “Do it like her!”
“Can you glue that?” comes next, followed by a dramatic sigh as he inspects a watercolor set. “This paint is so cheap…”
“It was twenty-two dollars,” you huff gently, crossing your arms with the tired pride of someone who has, in fact, spent too much money on craft supplies.
Damian looks up at you with eyes wide and unblinking—like a startled deer or perhaps an owl caught mid-thought—and asks, with none of the disdain he usually reserves for his family, but instead with something dangerously close to genuine concern, “Are you… poor?”
The question hangs in the air, ridiculous and sincere all at once.
“Damian,” you say, trying not to laugh as you speak softly, “I make in four hours what Jason makes in an entire week.”
Jason snorts at that, nearly slicing the wrong direction in the paper as he does, and Damian’s attention snaps toward him instantly—because for all his cultivated discipline and assassin-bred composure, once Damian relaxes he truly possesses the attention span of a ten-year-old kitten.
“Hey! You messed it up!” he accuses, scandalized.
“You said one-inch strips!” Jason protests, sputtering a laugh. You glance at the construction-paper strips in his hands and hum—they do look a bit smaller than one inch, though certainly not enough to warrant the impending meltdown.
Damian growls under his breath, a quiet sound like an offended little alley cat, before whipping around to face you with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed into thin, strategic slits. He knows he cannot insult Jason too harshly to his face if he still wishes to retain the sacred privilege of sleeping in the middle of the bed tonight, so instead he aims his weaponized cleverness at you.
“If he’s overestimating these inches,” he says, voice dripping with calculated mischief, “you know what else he’s overestimating in inches?”
You stare down at Damian, taken utterly off guard, fighting—fighting with every ounce of restraint in your body—the overwhelming urge to reply that Jason was, if anything, underestimating rather than overestimating.
Jason immediately smacks him on the back of the head.
A little while later—after the crafts have settled into a quiet rhythm and the room feels wrapped in a soft, late-night stillness—Damian uncaps a red glitter pen with the solemnity of a knight drawing a sword, using it to sketch a small, careful box for Jason beneath Bruce and beside Dick, his tiny brows furrowed in concentration as he overlaps colored pencils to replicate every scar and every fleck in Jason’s eyes with such painstaking tenderness that you have to physically restrain yourself from cooing aloud at the sight.
Your gaze drifts upward to Jason, just for a fleeting moment, and you see him soften instantly—melting like snow on warm stone—as he watches Damian capture him with all the reverence of an artist painting a beloved hero, his eyes warm and dazzled in a way he doesn’t even attempt to hide.
And then Damian draws a box for you—placing it gently, purposefully, right next to Jason’s—and Jason swears that the second Damian isn’t looking, you begin to cry in that small, silent way of someone who feels too much at once, brushing away the delicate tears with the sleeve of Jason’s jacket as though hoping neither of them will notice.
Eventually the night winds down, the exhaustion settling over all three of you like a soft blanket, and you retreat to bed under the unspoken, universally acknowledged rule that everyone will keep their hands and legs respectfully to themselves until Damian, with a theatrical subtlety he believes is flawless, pretends to fall asleep and then “accidentally” rolls toward you—“accidentally” resting his head on your chest and “accidentally” looping those small but surprisingly strong arms around your waist.
He breathes you in with the instinctive tenderness of a child who has finally found a place soft enough to rest, and the sound of his steady, almost-steady breathing fills the space with something warm and fragile.
Jason, in turn, looks you directly in the eyes—bold as the sun, shameless as a spoiled housecat—as he hooks one leg over yours, nudges your arm until you extend it, and then promptly uses it as a pillow with the audacity of a stay-at-home trophy wife requesting a new Chanel bag on a weekday morning. Then a quick fuck.
“Is he sleeping?” you murmur, voice soft and distant, wrapped in that slurry warmth that comes when exhaustion begins tugging at your consciousness, and Jason can tell from the dreamy drift of your words that you have already surrendered half of yourself to sleep, as you always do when you try to rest early for work in the morning.
Jason always makes a point to wake with you—even if he arrived only two hours earlier from patrol—just so he can cook you breakfast and press a kiss to your cheek before you step into the cold Gotham air, a ritual he guards with quiet devotion.
“He’s asleep,” Jason whispers against your bicep, savoring the gentle brush of your hand over the raised curve of his ‘J’ scar, a mark he once despised with every fiber of his being but now finds softened by the way your touch makes it feel less like a wound and more like something that has been claimed by love.
Damian, of course, is not asleep—Jason can tell instantly from the uneven flutter of his breath—but you are far too tired to notice, and he suspects that even if you did, you wouldn’t mind in the slightest.
“He’s so cute,” you whisper, a soft breath against the dark.
Jason has to bury his smile into the crook of your arm when he sees the tips of Damian’s ears turn a deep, betraying red.
“Yeah?” Jason murmurs, sounding drowsy and lovestruck and hopelessly dopey.
“Yeah…” you murmur back, your voice thick with sleep and sweetness, your smile brushing against the night like a warm hand, “you think Mr. Wayne would ever let me keep him? Just tuck him under my arm and pretend he wandered home with me by accident?”
Jason lets out a quiet, breathy laugh—low, warm, and meant only for you—as he adjusts his head on your arm. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” he whispers, amusement curling through every syllable. “Bruce would sooner hand over the stocks to Wayne Enterprises than let you steal his kid.” He pauses, brushing his thumb lightly over your wrist in a slow, affectionate stroke. “Besides… I don’t think he’ll even make it over tomorrow. B said something about a long patrol. One of those nights.”
A small foot thumps weakly against Jason’s thigh in immediate protest—pathetic, sleepy, but undeniably opinionated. It’s most certainty not your foot.
You let out a soft, disappointed “Aw…I was hoping to take him to the art supply store tomorrow,” you whisper, almost dreamily. “One of the good ones in the city center.”
Jason inhales slowly, choosing his next words with the caution of a man defusing a bomb—because he knows the pint-sized assassin on your chest is listening with both ears wide open. “Honey… those places cost a small fortune,” he murmurs gently, brushing his knuckles against your arm as if to soften the truth.
“He deserves it. I think I can go tomorrow after work even if he can't.” you mumble, voice warm as a blanket, sure as a heartbeat.
“He can buy his own stuff,” Jason counters in a whisper that is firm but fond, knowing Damian won’t take offense. “Bruce gives him more allowance than most ever see in a years salary.”
“Well, allowance isn’t a gift,” you protest softly, and Jason can hear the smile tugging at your words. “And he’s been so good lately, hasn’t he? So thoughtful. So patient.” Your fingers stroke Damian’s hair without thinking, feather-light. You would have stroked his cheek if you weren't scared of waking him.“How about a nice sketchbook? A real one. The fancy kinds with the leather covers? If I cut out ice cream and fast food next month I think I can afford to get his name engraved on it too.”
Jason doesn’t need to look to know what happens next—he can feel it in the way Damian’s small body curls closer to your chest, in the tight little squeeze of his arms around your waist, in the shaky breath he tries and fails to make sound like sleep.
You don't even notice because of how tired you are.
But Damian holds on to you—quiet, fierce, grateful—because he doesn’t quite know how else to say thank you.
The next morning, during the drive to school, Damian reaches into his backpack and pulls out the glitter pens he stole from you—pens you watched him take while he thought you were asleep, too proud of his stealth to notice your half-lidded gaze following him.
He uncaps a dark green glitter pen, his heart pounding against his ribs as though trying to escape, and with a single decisive stroke he draws a line connecting both you and Jason to himself, using the same steadfast green to connect Dick to him as well, each line shimmering faintly in the morning light like enchanted thread binding you all together. It's not like the solid red marker lines he uses to connect himself to Bruce or Talia, but to him it's not any less important.
When the other children at school point out the strange glittery lines or ask about the Arabic word nestled in the frames, he doesn’t even bother to glare at them, because why should he explain his intent to imbeciles who couldn’t possibly understand what those names and lines mean?
The only people who deserve the privilege of witnessing his explanations at all—of earning even the smallest glimpse of his fiercely guarded contents—are the ones drawn on the paper before him.
ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ
authors note! I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
part one
suni's ᯓ★ navigation ⭑.ᐟ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
tag-list [ reply to be added ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) ] ᯓ★ @marenyearlylover444, @psysgr, @sourstrawburry, @bloomfaery, @prettysweet02, @r-4-y-v-3-n, @backtonormalthings, @milam03,
©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's or completely original plot points/scenarios are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.
