I write fanfic sometimes

JASON TODD

He doesn't get it.

He doesn't fucking get it.

You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?

"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.

You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.

His heart lurches.

He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?

So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.

Every time. Every single time.

"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"

"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."

What? No he's not. He's not— shit.

He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.

"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"

"Why are you crying, baby?"

Baby.

The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.

"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"

You kiss him.

You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.

But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?

He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."

"...Promise?"

"Promise."

He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.

And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.

"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."

You grin.

Yeah his girl's so pretty.

"Alright."

He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.

But you're here.

And you want him.

So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.

TIM DRAKE

He has a spreadsheet.

No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—

Meeting expectations.

Performing adequately.

Being a good boyfriend.

Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)

He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—

And he's updating the spreadsheet.

Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—

"What's that?"

Oh fuck him.

You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).

"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—

"It's nothing."

"Timothy Jackson Drake."

Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—

"It's— a spreadsheet."

"Of our sex life."

"...Yes."

...

Why aren't you saying anything?

You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.

Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"

"Tim."

"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"

"Tim."

He shuts up.

You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.

"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"

He nods, throat too tight to speak.

"Come here."

He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."

Best.

The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.

"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"

"Don't you dare. It's hot."

"...What?"

"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."

What the fuck?

"You— really?"

"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"

He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.

He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.

Worth it.

DAMIAN WAYNE

This is absurd.

You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—

"Damian~"

Tt.

He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.

He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—

"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"

"And?"

And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.

He emerges from the bathroom.

Big mistake.

You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—

"I missed you."

"You saw me twenty minutes ago."

"Too long."

He's already walking toward you.

Why is he walking toward you?

He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.

"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—

"Cancel it."

"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"

"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."

"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"

"Then make them."

Make them.

The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.

You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—

He has his phone out before he can stop himself.

"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."

"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."

He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.

Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.

He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.

"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of his pride, "I hope you are satisfied—"

You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.

He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—

"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"

His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.

"Beloved..."

"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"

He swallows hard.

"...Understood."

"Good boy."

His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—

One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.

But not today.

Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—

Because you are.

Tt.

He's getting hard again.

Pathetic.

But at least he's happy.

Happier than ever.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.

You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”

He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”

You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.

“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”

You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”

He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.

“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”

You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.

The next night, it happened again.

You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.

You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”

He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”

You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.

Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.

“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.

“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”

You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”

He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

It became a pattern.

Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.

During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.

One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.

“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”

He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”

You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.

In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.

But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.

Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

he’d be the least impulsive about it and the most respectful. he’s definitely the type to track your periods and the like.

if you’re down, he’s down.

which means, now the beast has been awakened. just a little.

he thought this was going to be a tender process until you’re laying bare before him.

now your legs are over his shoulders and he’s pumping his third load into you.

hoping that test turns up positive.

; dick grayson

he catches baby fever very early on.

doesn’t matter if it’s seeing you with a kid or catching a glimpse of a mother walking with her child across the street, he looks to you, tugs on your hand gently.

“think we could have one of those one day?”

aside from ridding of any protection during sex per your confirmation, he’ll start doing things like rubbing a hand over your belly while you’re cuddling.

seeing a baby on tv doesn’t help either.

then he starts picturing you waddling around the apartment with a round belly and now you can feel how hard he is against your thigh.

that alone results in you being fucked on the sofa.

it doesn’t take multiple tries with dick. the next month your test is positive.

; jason todd

jason would be the most reluctant to have babies.

he had such a poor upbringing, died, and then came back wrong, he already has the stress on his shoulders of needing to protect you, so he’s not keen on bringing children into the picture early at all.

no amount of convincing would change his mind.

it would be much later in life. much later. you could convince him to have one.

your little cousin visits and he’s never seen you in such a maternal manner before.

he starts to think if this is the life his kid is gonna have, maybe bringing in one child would be okay. maybe.

he trusts you, that’s all that matters.

it’d be later that night, in bed, he’s got an arm around you, nose to your neck.

“how d’you about having a baby?”

now you’re surprised. against it though? absolutely not. this is the thing you’ve been waiting for for years.

since jason can rarely fuck you anything other than roughly, you’re still leaving the bedroom with welts, bites, and now hopefully a positive test next month.

; tim drake

tim wouldn’t be all that crazy about the idea of having children. he’s so wrapped up in crimefighting it’s the last thing on his mind. not to mention the crime itself. how could he promise to keep a child safe in a city like gotham.

however, if you have a younger sibling or niece or nephew or cousin and tim witnessed you being motherly toward said child… he’d definitely start to second guess himself.

now he’s picturing you with a baby, yours and his baby, swaddled in your arms, feeding them a bottle. you rocking them back to sleep in the middle of the night. you playing with them on the living room floor when they start to get a little older.

and now he’s picturing you pregnant. round with his baby. it’s the most possessive mark he could ever leave on you, more than any little hickey on your neck could.

so that night he barely makes it out of his red robin suit before he’s bending you over the couch, stuffing himself in you with a shaky little moan.

“a-ah, fuck,” he snaps his hips a little harder, the sound of his hips against your ass obscene. “gonna put a baby in you.”

doesn’t matter if you’re on the pill, he’s going to pump you full over and over until he’s sure his seed takes.

; aged up! damian wayne

adult damian would eventually want children, not just because they’re future wayne heirs but because they’re half him and half you and damian loves you.

he’d be super responsible throughout your relationship, practicing safe sex and tracking your period. he did not want to accidentally become a dad too young.

but now he’s older, a little more seasoned, and watching you be soft with a child starts to plant the seed a little bit. maybe he does want children now. and picturing you round with his baby checks every possessive box he has.

that night, he lays you on his expensive sheets and fucks you in every position that guarantees pregnancy. multiple rounds.

since damian was genetically modified to be perfect, he’s fertile. and you’re definitely seeing two lines on the test next month.

; duke thomas

it happens so randomly.

duke doesn’t even think about wanting children until, like everyone else on the list, he sees you with a family member’s kid.

now his life goals are altered. now he’s picturing you pregnant. he knows you’d have the cutest babies. and you’d look gorgeous pregnant.

so he’d bring it up over dinner one night.

“how you feel about trying for a baby?”

it’s sudden, so naturally you’re a little shocked. but if you’re ready, so is he.

the sex that night is way better than it’s been in months

not because your sex life hasn’t been good in general, but the sheer passion emanating off duke that night makes it feel like your first time again.

First step? Make sure the individual who is letting their hand linger on you for far too long know that they are way out of line.

His tone gets clipped, his posture stiff, and his already intense eyes somehow narrow even further when someone else is too close to you.

He starts calling people the wrong names— as if to remind them that they are lucky to even be in front of you—… plus to just tick the person off.

“Is this your friend? Jaime, was it?”

“No, it’s actually James—”

“Right, John. You’re a little too close for comfort.”

He is direct. He isn’t hiding the fact he is jealous. Maybe during the first steps of your relationship he’d he confused about these nagging feelings and try and hide them. But, as time progresses, things change. He has no qualms proving who you chose to go home with every day and night.

He’ll stand a little closer than usual, put a hand lightly on your lower back, or subtly pull you toward him when someone is making him feel territorial.

All of this is a warning— the way he tells the person ‘I am giving you a chance to back off.’

But if someone flirts with you in front of him openly— ignoring his warning? Oh, they’ll be getting the sharpest, driest sarcasm known to man.

“Are your eyes malfunctioning or are you just unaware they’re taken?”

“Dami!”

“What? They are clearly overstepping boundaries, even if they are informed that you are in fact in a relationship.”

The self restraint he shows in this situation is only because of you. But, there are some factors that can make him even more jealous. I mentioned how people flirting with you might make him feel inadequate at first— it’s a small and nagging feelings in his heart. It worms his way into him and festers.

If the person flirting with you is smart or shares your interests, Damian gets quietly competitive.

He’ll suddenly bring up topics you two have discussed in private— just to reestablish your bond in front of the third party.

He wants it known that he knows you better.

“Yes, they enjoy postmodernism, but only in photography. Not that you asked.”

If you notice his jealousy? In the beginning of your relationship, he might deny it, but as I said with more time he opens up more.

Once he trusts you more, he’ll admit it with a low voice and clenched jaw.

“I am not accustomed to—… feeling this way. I didn’t like seeing someone else think they had the right to look at you that way.”

There are ways to cheer him up afterwards though.

Clear words and gentle touch work best. Let him know he’s chosen— that you see him.

Bonus points if you tease him lightly after he’s calmed down.

Telling him he’s cute when he’s jealous? You’ll get a grumble from him, but he loves it.

If you get jealous over him, he’s genuinely shocked at first.

Then smug. Very smug.

“Hmph. At least you’re finally being honest about how deeply attached you are.”

He stares down at the case files on his desk. All he's doing is hurting you, he reminds himself. "No. I'm busy," he replies.

Your brows lower, a frown replacing your happy grin. "I just wanted to pop in. I won't be long. You missed our date yesterday, baby."

He squeeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Right, that. The fancy dinner date he'd planned at your favorite restaurant, the one he ditched for patrol. He ended up just sitting on a building, looking into the restaurant, watching you check your watch a thousand times. 

He hated how sad you looked, how embarrassed that your date hadn't shown up. Eventually, you'd paid the bill for the wine you ordered and left, tears shimmering in your eyes.

He hates himself for leaving you alone, but he has this notion in his head that you're simply better off without him.

"I know, habibti. Again, I was busy—I still am."

Your excited face has long since crumpled into a disappointed frown, your chest aching funnily. "So you want me to go, then?"

"Please. Go away."

His hard tone makes you flinch slightly, a small bit of anger coiling in your chest. "What did I do to you?" you ask finally, still through the door. "You've been awfully shitty to me lately."

Suddenly the door swings open. "Fine," he snips. "If you're not going to go, you can come in. But you better not bother me, I've got files to look over."

Ah, yes, you think to yourself. Of course, Robin is more important.

With a sigh, you take a seat on his bed, watching as he returns to his desk and resumes his task. You hate that you still find him so pretty; the way his lips purse in focus, the way his eyes narrow when something looks suspicious. You hate it.

It's not for a few minutes that you speak up. "You never answered my question," you murmur casually, staring down at your fingers. "Why are you angry with me?"

He shrugs. "Well it's quite simple. You've been bothering me while I'm busy."

"Bullshit. You never cared before—sometimes you'd even let me help! So what is it really, Damian?"

He lets out a long, troubled sigh, snapping the case file shut and tossing it aside. "I think we should take a break."

All you can do is blink. Stare, and blink. "What?"

"We should take a break, beloved."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Damian," you say firmly. "Why?"

He looks down. "All I am doing is putting you in danger. You deserve to be with a boy who makes you safer. Not me."

You roll your eyes at his idiocy. "You're not endangering me. Nothing's happened to me yet and it's been months."

"That doesn't mean it won't happen!" he exclaims, looking you dead in the eyes. "I can't risk you getting hurt or kidnapped or killed, hayati."

"I can handle myself!" you say. "And it's not like everyone knows you're Robin. I'm not dating Robin, I'm dating Damian Wayne. I'll be fine."

He shakes his head. "Even outside of Robin, I'm still a Wayne. People know B is Batman—dangerous people, beloved. I wouldn't put it past them to come for you to get to us."

"But—"

"—I'm not doing this with you," he says finally, turning around toward the door and holding it open. "Please go."

You frown, biting back tears. "Damian—"

"—No!" he snaps. "Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. Leave. Don't come back."

You stare at him for a moment, wondering what the hell happened to your sweet boy. In a matter of weeks, you'd lost him. Over something you couldn't control.

Finally, you nod, numbly standing from his bed and brushing past him out his bedroom door. "Will I see you soon?" you ask, referring to Robin—Damian likes to watch over you, and sometimes you catch him. Hopefully that habit still sticks.

He doesn't reply, only shuts his door.

It's been sixteen days, not that you're counting.

Sixteen days of staring at your ceiling, trying to resist sending Damian a call. A text. Anything to see how he's doing.

You haven't seen or heard from him since, not even as his vigilante persona. Robin has not come to check up on you even once since you'd left, and it seems as if he's patrolling an entire different area of Gotham just to avoid you.

You frequently look through photos of you two. You and Dami, cuddling in bed. You and Dami, doing face masks together. You and Dami, skin-to-skin after making sweet love. You always end your scrolling covered in tears and snot, missing your lover so deeply.

You've picked up a routine: wake up, eat, read, nap, eat, go to sleep. It's not healthy, you know that. But what are you supposed to do when Damian used to fill every inch of your day, and now he's gone?

It wasn't always easy with Damian, don't get it wrong. There were fights, silent treatments, stubborn attitudes on both ends. But it hurts worse to be nothing with Damian Wayne than it does to be something.

On the other end of things, Damian's not doing much better.

Damian doesn't have many regrets in his life, but this is definitely one of them. He hasn't reached out to you since he sent you away. He swapped patrol with Jason so he could take a part of the city that wasn't yours. He deleted social media so he wouldn't feel inclined to see your pretty face on Instagram.

Long story short, he's living in hell—he's sure of it. 

He can't sleep at night without seeing your sad little face the night you left. Those tears in your big eyes, your pink nose, your frown… He understands why Tim loves his energy drinks so much.

Damian continues to try and convince himself that the two of you would've never worked out, that one day shit would've hit the fan regardless and you'd be gone either way. He did the right thing, he did the right thing, he did the right thing.

That doesn't stop his thumb from hovering over your contact every night. Doesn't stop him from daydreaming about you kissing his forehead. 

One day, as Damian is walking through the Gotham streets, earbuds in and eyes tired, he sees you.

Except, no. It's not you. Is he dreaming?

He gives his head a little shake and rubs his eyes, looking at the girl in the coffee shop on the corner of Melrose and Peterson. Same hair, same eyes, same focused nibble of her lip…

Well, fuck him. He misses you. He even missed your clashing ideas, your attitude, the meaningless fights. He didn't even say goodbye.

Damian would've been just fine if it weren't for the girl in the shop. He would've let go of this. He wouldn't have contacted you, wouldn't have asked to come see you, wouldn't have picked out the biggest bouquet he could find at the florist. 

Yet, here he was, standing at your door with a batch of your favorite flowers.

His heart hammers almost audibly in his chest all the way up until you swing the door open. Suddenly, he can breathe again. He stares at you, taking you in. Yep, same hair as always—same eyes, same kissable lips, same cute nose.

That's his baby, right there.

"Hi," he whispers.

"You actually came," you laugh in disbelief, smiling softly.

His head tilts. "Did you not think I would."

"I thought you were either drunk at 9 am or pranking me," you admit, opening the door wider so he could come in.

The apartment looks the same. Empty coffee mugs by the sink, unfolded blankets on the couch, messy in your own chaotic way. He sets the flowers down in the kitchen before moving to you.

His hands tentatively find your hips, his touch feather-light, waiting for you to reject it. When you don't, he lets his hands settle heavier, sighing in pure relief. "Oh, habibti," he whimpers, his face dropping into your neck. You still smell the same.

He breathes you in, arms moving from your hips to engulf you in a tight hug. One arm around your waist, the other holding your back with utter tenderness and care. "I'm so, so, so, so sorry," he whispers against your warm skin. "You're my everything, ya eazizaa. I just wanted to keep you safe, I didn't mean to—…."

You shush him soothingly, returning his hug. "Oh, Dames. I missed you," you murmur, carding your fingers through his soft hair. 

"Just wanted to protect you," he whispers. "Shouldn't have been so mean. My poor baby…"

"I know, Dami. I know," you soothe. "Look at me."

After a moment, he lifts his head from your neck, looking so sad and devastated and regretful. Your heart clenches as you cup his cheeks. He leans into your hand.

"I'm safe," you assure him. "I wouldn't stick around if I was worried about getting hurt, baby. I love you, I trust you. We're going to be okay."

A tear slides down his cheek, then another, then another. "You still love me?"

You smile softly. "Silly boy. How could I not?"

He kisses your palm against his cheek, the kisses fleeting and gentle. "Habibti, habibti, habibti," he whispers almost worshipfully against your skin. "I'll keep you safe. I'll do better."

"Don't ever shut me out like that again? Please?"

He nods, his pretty green eyes looking into yours. "I won't. It hurt too much."

You lean down, pressing a sweet kiss to his salty lips. Both of your bodies visibly relax as your lips meet, then your tongues. "I love you," he whispers into your mouth.

You hum in response before pulling away. "I love you."

He reaches for your hand and guides you to the couch. "I saw this woman earlier. She looked just like you."

"Really?" you murmur in acknowledgment, ready to cuddle your baby once again. "You sure it wasn't me?"

He shakes his head adamantly. "Oh, habibti. She could never be you."

He had never understood the quieter species of it. He had never understood that fear could bloom inside a warm apartment on an ordinary evening, with rain tapping gently against the windows and dinner cooling untouched on the kitchen counter. He had never known that terror could arrive without an enemy, without warning, and take the person he loved somewhere he could not follow.

You and Damian had not been together for long. Four months, three weeks, and two days, though he would have denied counting if you ever asked. The relationship was still new enough that some of your belongings looked foreign beside his: your shoes by the door, your preferred tea tucked beside the bitter blends he favoured, the soft jumper you had abandoned over the arm of his sofa several nights earlier. New enough that he occasionally woke with your head against his shoulder and experienced a split second of astonishment before the warmth of recognition settled through him.

You were there. You had chosen to be there.

Damian had spent much of his life learning that affection was conditional, temporary, and sharpened by expectation. Loving you had not come cautiously, despite what he told himself. He had fallen with all the subtlety of a building collapsing. The realisation had simply arrived late, standing amidst the wreckage with dust in his lungs and your name carved into every surviving wall.

He had not told you the precise depth of it yet. He worried the words might be too large for something so new. He worried they would sound like a vow spoken before an altar rather than what people were apparently supposed to say over breakfast.

He loved you with a devotion that frightened him only when he examined it too closely.

That evening, he was telling you about Titus’ refusal to surrender one of his boots when he noticed you had stopped listening. The change was small. Most people would not have recognised it. Your gaze slipped from his face and fixed somewhere beyond his shoulder, though there was nothing behind him except a bookshelf and the narrow hall leading towards the bedroom. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the kitchen counter. The knuckles blanched, then flushed as your grip shifted. Your breathing grew shallower, each inhale catching high in your chest as if something inside you had begun closing its fist around your lungs.

Damian’s voice trailed into silence.

You stared ahead without appearing to see anything.

“Beloved?”

The endearment usually drew a smile from you. Sometimes you teased him for it, claiming he spoke as though the two of you had been married for forty years and maintained a shared estate haunted by at least three ghosts.

This time, you flinched.

Damian went still.

The reaction struck him with the force of a blow. You had never flinched from him. Not even during your first weeks together, when he had still moved around you with the rigid awareness of someone terrified of making an error he could not undo. You knew what he was capable of. You knew the violence that lived in the history of his hands, and you had still reached for them.

Now your shoulders curled inwards as though protecting your ribs, and the sound of your breathing began to fracture.

“What is wrong?” Damian asked.

He moved towards you instinctively. You recoiled so quickly your hip struck the counter, sending a spoon clattering to the floor.

“Don’t.”

The word barely escaped you. It was thin and raw, dragged through a throat that seemed to have forgotten how speech worked.

Damian stopped as though an invisible command had locked every joint in place.

His first thought was poison.

His eyes swept over the kitchen in a rapid assessment: the vegetables he had prepared, the pan still hissing quietly on the stove, the mug from which you had taken several sips. His mind dissected possibilities at a speed that had saved lives before. Toxins, allergic reactions, neurological events, respiratory distress. He catalogued the symptoms and found too many possibilities, none of them fitting cleanly enough to offer certainty.

Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your lips trembled. The pupils of your eyes had widened until the colour around them seemed almost consumed.

“Are you injured?” he demanded, then immediately hated how harsh the question sounded.

You shook your head. The motion was frantic, almost imperceptible.

“I can’t—” You swallowed, pressing a palm against your sternum as if you might force your heart into a slower rhythm. “I can’t breathe.”

Damian’s own heart lurched.

He had seen people suffocate. He had watched lungs collapse beneath broken ribs, had held pressure over wounds while blood bubbled between gloved fingers. There had always been a procedure. Secure the airway. Control the bleeding. Call for extraction. Act quickly and decisively.

He reached for you again.

You made a strangled noise and stumbled sideways. “No touching. Please, please don’t touch me.”

His hand dropped at once.

Fear entered Damian without permission. It was unlike anything he knew. There was no assassin concealed in the apartment, no gas leaking beneath the door, no weapon he could wrench from an attacker’s hand. There was only you, shaking so violently the counter rattled beneath your grip, and the unbearable understanding that he did not know how to help.

For the first time in his life, Damian Wayne was afraid because there was nothing he could fight.

He turned off the stove because it was the only sensible action his body could remember. The hiss of the burner died, leaving the apartment oppressively quiet except for the rain and the ragged drag of air through your throat.

“I will call Leslie,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

“No.” You squeezed your eyes shut. Tears gathered beneath your lashes and escaped down your cheeks. “No hospital. It’s— It’s a panic attack.”

The phrase slowed his hand.

Damian knew what panic attacks were. He understood them clinically. He had read medical definitions, encountered them in case files, and witnessed the aftermath of fear in civilians pulled from collapsing buildings. None of that knowledge resembled seeing you trapped inside one.

“Have you experienced this before?”

You nodded, then shook your head as though even the movement had become too difficult to control. “Yes. Not— Not in a while.”

“What do you require?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer terrified him more than anything else had.

Damian forced his hands to unclench. His fingernails had carved crescents into his palms. He made himself breathe slowly, though every instinct urged him to close the distance between you, to lift you from the floor when your knees finally buckled and you slid against the cabinets.

He did not touch you. Instead, he lowered himself several feet away.

He sat on the kitchen tiles in trousers that probably cost more than the monthly rent of your apartment, folding his legs beneath him with deliberate care. He kept his palms visible against his knees. He remembered training frightened animals, remembered how sudden movement could transform concern into threat. The comparison felt insulting until he understood it was not about reducing you to something skittish. It was about accepting that love did not entitle him to your body, especially when your body had become a place of terror.

“I am here,” he said.

Your breathing hitched again.

Damian searched desperately through everything he knew about you. You disliked being crowded when overwhelmed. You preferred dim lighting when you had headaches. You counted stairs beneath your breath when climbing them, always ending on the wrong number because you became distracted halfway through. You slept better when there was some kind of sound in the room, usually rainfall or his voice reading aloud.

His voice. Damian softened it.

“I will not touch you,” he said. “I will not leave unless you ask me to. You are in my apartment. The kitchen light is on. It is raining outside, but the windows are closed. There is no one here except us.”

Your gaze flickered towards him, unfocused but no longer fixed upon nothing.

He continued. “Titus is at the Manor because Father claimed he missed him, though we both know Pennyworth bribed him with steak. The meal on the stove is likely ruined, but that is of no significance. I can prepare another.”

A fractured sound left you. It might have been a sob. It might have been the ghost of a laugh.

Damian clung to it. “You are wearing the jumper you insist is green, though it is objectively closer to grey. Your left sock has begun sliding down your ankle. You complained about it earlier and refused to change it because, according to you, that would mean the sock had won.”

Your eyes found him again. They did not remain, slipping away almost immediately, but they found him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, though he had no idea whether praising you was the correct thing to do. “You need not look at me. Listen only.”

The air continued to scrape in and out of your lungs. Damian counted the seconds between each breath, silently assessing whether you were beginning to hyperventilate severely enough to lose consciousness. The thought turned his stomach cold.

“Do not attempt to force a deep breath,” he said, recalling something he had once read. “Simply allow the next one to be slightly slower. Nothing more. You are not failing if you cannot.”

Your fingers flexed against the floor.

Damian began describing the room. He told you about the tiny crack in the tile beside your knee, one he had intended to repair for two months. He listed every plant on the kitchen windowsill and informed you that the basil had survived only through your intervention, since apparently his method of watering it had been “aggressively inconsistent.” He recited the ingredients he had used for dinner, then translated each one into Arabic when English became repetitive.

His voice filled the kitchen in an unbroken current. He did not stop when his throat began to ache.

Slowly, painfully, the terrible speed of your breathing began to ease. The pauses between your inhales lengthened. Your hands still shook, but they no longer clawed helplessly at your chest. Colour returned unevenly to your face, blooming beneath your skin in blotches.

Damian did not permit himself relief. Not yet.

Your eyes settled on his hands. He noticed because he noticed everything about you.

“Would you like me closer?” he asked.

Several seconds passed before you nodded.

Damian moved only one knee across the tile. He waited.

When you did not recoil, he moved again, narrowing the distance in increments until he sat within reach. He could see the damp tracks of tears over your cheeks, the pulse beating frantically in your throat. Every part of him ached to gather you against his chest, but he kept his hands where you could see them. “May I hold your hand?”

Your lower lip trembled. “Just my hand,” you whispered.

Damian turned one palm upwards and placed it on the floor between you.

He did not reach.

You stared at it for several breaths before extending your own. Your fingers touched the centre of his palm tentatively, so lightly that the contact might have been accidental. Damian remained perfectly still. Gradually, your hand settled into his, cold and damp with sweat.

Only then did he close his fingers.

The pressure was gentle. Barely there. You latched onto him with sudden force.

Damian’s chest tightened. He anchored his arm so you could grip as hard as you needed without pulling him off balance. Your nails pressed into his skin, and he welcomed the pain because it was tangible, because it was something he understood.

“You are here,” he said. “The floor is beneath you. My hand is in yours. Nothing is required of you except to remain.”

Your eyes closed again, but this time you did not disappear behind them.

The attack receded reluctantly. It did not end in a clean break; it loosened piece by piece, leaving exhaustion behind like debris after a storm. Your body sagged against the cabinets. Your breathing remained uneven, interrupted by shudders that travelled through your shoulders and down your spine.

Damian stayed exactly where he was.

Minutes passed. Perhaps twenty. Perhaps forty. He lost count, which disturbed him almost as much as anything else that evening.

Eventually, you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

His brows drew together. “For what?”

“For that.”

The shame in your voice was immediate and ugly, a bruise forming beneath every word.

Damian shifted closer before stopping himself. “You have nothing for which to apologise.”

“You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I was unaware relationships came with contracts.”

Your mouth twisted, but the expression vanished quickly. You looked down at your joined hands. His skin bore small red crescents where your nails had pressed.

“You were scared,” you said.

Damian considered lying. He had been trained to disguise fear before he had been old enough to name it. Confessing it still tasted like vulnerability offered to an enemy. Yet you were not an enemy, and devotion without honesty was merely another performance.

“Yes,” he said.

Your hand began to withdraw. Damian held on—not tightly enough to trap you, only enough that you would feel the request in it.

Your eyes lifted to his. He had never seen you look so fragile. Not weak. Damian despised the way others confused the two. Fragility was not an absence of strength. It was the condition of being breakable and continuing to exist anyway.

“You’re going to leave,” you whispered.

The words struck somewhere beneath his ribs. “What?”

“Maybe not tonight.” Your gaze slipped away from him. “But after. When you’ve had time to think about it. We haven’t been together that long, and this is a lot, and you’ve already got enough to deal with without me falling apart in your kitchen.”

Damian stared at you. It was incomprehensible at first. You had just endured something that had left your body shaking and your lungs aching, and your greatest concern was not that it might happen again. It was that he had witnessed it. That he might love you less now that he knew.

He released your hand only so he could shift fully in front of you. He remained careful not to touch anywhere you had not permitted, but he made himself impossible to ignore.

“Look at me,” he said. You did, reluctantly. “I was afraid because you were suffering and I did not know how to help you. I was not afraid of you.”

Your eyes filled again. “I don’t know when it’ll happen again.”

“Neither do I.”

“I might not be able to tell you what I need.”

“Then we will determine it together.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“No,” Damian said, the word edged with sudden fierceness. “Do not decide what I should endure on my behalf. I am capable of making my own choices.”

You flinched, not from fear this time, but from the force of him. Damian exhaled and gentled his voice again.

“I am not leaving because loving you requires knowledge I do not yet possess. I have lacked knowledge before. I rectify the deficiency.”

Despite everything, a damp laugh escaped you. “You’re going to research my panic attacks?”

“Extensively.”

“Damian.”

“I will consult reputable medical sources. I will speak with Leslie if you permit it. Tomorrow, when you are rested, you can tell me what has helped before and what has made matters worse. We can create a plan.”

Your expression crumpled slightly.

He lifted his hand, then waited with it suspended between you. “May I?”

You nodded.

Damian touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The contact was feather-light, a question even after permission had been given. When you leaned into it, something inside him finally loosened. His palm settled against your skin, warm and steady, his thumb brushing beneath your eye to gather the last wet trace of tears.

“I do not love only the portions of you that are convenient,” he said.

The confession emerged before he could contain it.

Your breath caught, and for one horrible second Damian worried he had frightened you again. “You love me?”

He had imagined telling you under better circumstances. Perhaps after dinner at the Manor, when the night was calm and the gardens smelled of summer roses. Perhaps in bed, your limbs tangled with his beneath clean sheets, when the darkness made honesty easier. He had not imagined sitting on a cold kitchen floor while a ruined meal congealed behind him.

It was not elegant. It was, however, true.

“Of course I do,” Damian said. “I thought that was evident.”

A sound broke from you, half laugh and half sob. You leaned forward slowly enough that he understood what you were asking. Damian opened his arms, and you folded into them.

He held you as if the world had narrowed to the exact shape of your body. One arm curved around your back. The other cradled the base of your skull, careful and protective without forcing your face against him. You pressed your ear to his chest, directly over the heartbeat that had not yet fully settled.

Damian lowered his mouth to your hair.

“I will not always know what to do,” he admitted. “There may be moments when I respond poorly. You must tell me when I do.”

“I’ll try.”

“And I will learn.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t stop talking yet.”

Damian’s hold tightened by a fraction.

He told you about the rain. He told you about Titus stealing his boot and Alfred pretending not to find it amusing. He described the painting in the hall, the one you insisted looked like Bruce being haunted by the concept of emotional availability. He recited poetry in Arabic when ordinary words ran thin, translating each line quietly against your hair.

His voice vibrated through his chest and into your cheek, something deeper than sound. Something solid. A path laid one stone at a time through the dark.

Hours later, after you had managed water and half a piece of toast, Damian helped you into bed. He asked permission before every touch, even after you began reaching for him first. He lay beside you without crowding, one hand resting palm-up on the mattress between you.

You slipped your fingers through his.

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” you asked, your voice softened by exhaustion.

Damian brought your joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

“Yes,” he said.

It was not merely an answer. From Damian, it was an oath.

When your eyes closed, he continued speaking until your breathing deepened into sleep. He told you quiet, inconsequential things, his voice becoming a thread you could follow even in dreams. Only when he was certain you were resting did he allow the fear he had held at bay to move through him.

It left him shaken. It also left him certain.

Damian had once thought love was proven by the battles one was willing to fight. He understood now that sometimes love was measured by restraint: by hands kept open instead of grasping, by questions asked before contact, by remaining on a cold floor when every instinct demanded action.

Arguing with Damian Wayne would include:

Not much yelling but more sharp, hurtful, condescending words. Damian is prideful and believes he is better and smarter than everyone else due to his upbringing (ahem, Bruce). He will rarely yell because it is "childish" but he will certainly make you feel stupid. Of course he doesn't mean it, but sometimes his emotions would get the best of him. Causing Damian to act and speak irrationally. "TT, I do not expect you to understand the situation. Afterall, how can you? But I do expect you to listen. Unfortunately, you don't do that well either"

You both go to bed simmering with frustration. No cuddles, no talking, and goodnight's. Just turned backs and the darkness of the room guiding you both to an unpeaceful slumber.

The next morning, guilt would eat Damian alive, but his pride, still holding strong, refuses to apologize. The morning is silent and filled with tension so heavy, Superman himself could not push it away. Translation: Hardcore silent treatment from both parties.

Still, you two coexist in your shared apartment. Damian staying attentive to your needs and you to his, even without verbal communication. Can't grab a mug from a particularly high shelf? Damian grabs it for you without hesitation. A fitted sheet needs folding and Damian can't for the life of him figure it out? You do it for him. Frustrated with a certain task? Damian will help always. Even without saying a word.

It is the same in public. Sure Damian won't hold your hand, but he will still stay close, keeping to the sidewalk rule, and ready to protect you at any given moment. He pulls up a chair for you, offers you the extra hair tie on his wrist when the winds happen to be stubborn that day, he helps you with your bags, and overall keeps an eye on you. Because in your relationship, regardless of the status, partners never abandon each other.

Jealousy. Oh so much jealousy. The possessiveness in the relationship gets cranked up to 100%. While you both aren't on speaking terms, the two of you still very much love each other. When stranger comes up to you for directions in the street, it's instant glaring from Damian. And the jealousy isn't just from him, but from you as well. When a woman comes up to your boyfriend for a photo, inquiries, or worse, his number, you instantly take his hand in yours. Strangely, that becomes the first stage in rebuilding the gap your argument has created.

You both walk around the streets hand in hand in this spiky bubble where nobody dares to come near. The hostile energy around you both practically radiates a big red sign that says, "DO NOT BOTHER." You are grumpy, he is grumpy, but at least you are grumpy together.

When the day ends, Damian and you forget what the fight was about. Tragically, all the energy was spent on getting irritated and keeping quiet that none was left to apologize properly. Instead, you both eat, shower, and settle in the covers and doze off. However this time, Damian's arms find your waist, spooning you to sleep. He will apologize in the morning once he regains energy. Maybe even make breakfast for you if he wakes up early enough. For now, your body against his is enough. He stares at the ceiling thinking, "What were we so upset about again?" Before finally dozing off.

"I have a class project," Alfie announced dramatically as he dropped his backpack onto the kitchen table. Damian looked up from his coffee and you looked up from helping Juliet color. Neither of you were prepared for the expression on Alfie's face.

"What's wrong?" You asked.

Alfie pulled out a crumpled worksheet "Teacher wants us to make a family tree."

You blinked and Damian slowly set down his mug and said "...I see."

The silence immediately made Alfie suspicious. "Why are you both looking at it like it's a bomb?"

Because, you thought, for most families a family tree was easy, but for Damians side of the family? Not so much.

An hour later, Alfie sat at the dining room table with a giant poster board while you and Damian attempted to help.

Juliet sat beside him, innocently coloring her own paper, she mostly was eavesdropping.

"Okay," you said “Let's start simple, put yourself in the middle."

Alfie carefully wrote his name, then he drew another branch "Mum."

You smiled as he wrote her name "Dad."

Damian nodded approvingly "So far, so good."

Alfie continued drawing "Then Grandpa Bruce."

"Correct."

He drew another branch "Then..." his pencil stopped "...how many uncles do I have?"

You immediately laughed  and Damian pinched the bridge of his nose "Too many."

Three hours later, the project had somehow become worse. Alfie stared at the increasingly complicated diagram.

"So Grandpa Bruce didn’t Dad."

"Yes."

"But did adopt Uncle Dick."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Jason."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Tim."

"Yes."

"And Aunt Cass."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Duke."

"Yes."

Alfie groaned "That's so confusing."

"You have no idea," Damian muttered.

Juliet suddenly looked up. "You forgot Titus, and Alfred the Cat, and Batcow.”

"They’re animals." Damian shook his head at her

"He lives here."

"That is not how family trees work."

Juliet crossed her arms "Titus is family."

Alfie considered this "She has a point."

"No."

"Bat-Cow?"

"No."

"Alfred the cat?"

"No."

Juliet looked deeply offended.

By dinner time the project had spread across half the table and even worse, other members of the family had started wandering in.

Dick had arrived first "What are we doing?"

"Family tree," Alfie said.

Dick took one look at the poster "Oh."

That was never a good sign.

Ten minutes later Jason appeared. Then Tim. Then Cass.

The project instantly became complete chaos. Jason leaned over Alfie's shoulder.

"You're making me look old."

"You are old."

"I'm in my late thirties"

"Exactly."

Jason looked personally attacked.

Meanwhile Tim was examining the diagram "You forgot half the connections."

"There are more?"

"There are always more."

Alfie looked horrified.

Cass sat beside him "This is why normal people use smaller families."

"Can we do that?" Alfie asked hopefully.

"No."

The final straw came when Alfie reached Damian's mothers side of the family. His pencil hovered uncertainly.

"So..."

You immediately knew where this was going "Oh no."

Damian knew too "Oh no."

Alfie looked between them "What about your Grandpa Ra's?"

The entire room froze. Jason burst out laughing first, Dick followed and Tim had to leave the room entirely. Damian looked seconds away from a migraine.

"Technically," Alfie continued, "he's part of the family."

"He is dead, and hes the former head of the League of Assassins."

"That's not what the project says."

"Alfie."

"He exists."

You bit her lip to stop smiling and Juliet tilted her head. "Who's Grandpa Ra's?"

"No one."

"He sounds fun."

"He is not."

Despite Damian's objections, Ra's ended up on the poster in a very small in a corner with several arrow, and a note reading:

Dad doesn't like talking about him.

When the project was finally finished, everyone gathered around the table. The poster was enormous and somehow, Juliet had managed to sneak Titus onto it anyway.

Damian was pretending not to notice as Alfie looked over the finished tree proudly.

At the center were four names connected together:

Alfie.

Juliet.

Mum.

Dad.

Everything else branched outward from there. The Batfamily, older relatives, some alfie didn't even know about, etc.

You watched Alfie's eyes scan the poster "You happy with it?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

Alfie smiled "Most kids in class have like... four people."

You laughed "And?"

"I have loads."

Juliet puffed out her chest "We're special."

"We're definitely something," Damian said.

The next day Alfie proudly carried the project into school. When he returned that afternoon, Reader met him at the door "How'd it go?"

Alfie's grin was immediate "The teacher thought I made some of it up."

You laughed "I can see why."

"She didn't believe I had that many relatives."

"What happened?"

"I showed her pictures."

You could only imagine how that conversation had went.

That evening the poster ended up hanging in the Manor hallway. Bruce stopped to examine it, for a long moment he simply stared at the family that had somehow grown larger than he ever could have imagined with all his children and grandchildren.

Then his gaze settled on Alfie and Juliet's names in the center and a small smile appeared as he realised who had made it "Nice tree."

Alfie beamed "Thanks, Grandpa."

So, instinctively, you tighten your grip on Dick's hand and bring your other to the crook of his elbow, holding him there. Finally, he glances down at you, smiling softly. "You good?" he murmurs, voice low in your ear so only you can hear it over the bustle of Gotham.

You nod, squeezing his bicep. Your heart slows, head clearing. You're suddenly able to get more air into your lungs now that you're close to him. Surely, with big, tall Dick Grayson this close to you, nobody will hurt you—he'll protect you, you're certain of it.

"I'm good," you reply finally, lengthening your strides to keep up with his long legs. "Let's just get home, please."

Wordlessly, he guides you through the crowd. Once things are less crowded and he can slow his pace, he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, petting your hair in a soothing motion. "You're okay," he assures you. "I've got you, baby."

jason todd:

"Jay…?" Your voice is small and shaky. You know he's probably sick of you—you've been glued to his side all throughout Bruce's gala, too afraid to go talk alone with a bunch of rich socialites that you don't know.

He glances over at you, pulling away from his conversation with Dick. "Hi, doll. What do ya need?" he asks gently, one large hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face.

"I need to go to the bathroom, but it's all the way across the room and—"

"—you want me to walk you," he concludes, knowing you far too well. "Sure, ma. Let's go."

He sets his drink down, trusting his brother to watch it, and begins the walk to the restrooms. You follow, reaching out to curl your fingers around his bicep. He slows his steps, letting you hold on comfortably before continuing. "They're not as mean as your pretty head has made them out to be, y'know," he murmurs softly, looking at you sweetly. He brushes that same strand of hair from your eyes, smiling gently in a way nobody would expect from Jason.

"I don't believe you," you huff. "I think you're just trying to placate me, Jay."

He chuckles softly, weaving you both through women in gowns and men in suits, shielding you from all the nosy riches with his body. Your hands never leave his arm, and the fact that he makes you feel so safe makes him smile to himself. "I know you're nervous," he tells you, flashing you an understanding look. "I feel like I can hear your heart pounding."

When you don't reply after a bit, he stops your walk at a pair of armchairs and sits you down in one. "Tell me I'm wrong, babygirl," he murmurs, kneeling in front of you. He clasps his hands in yours, thumbs circling soothingly over your palms.

"…You're right," you concede, sighing. "I just— there's so much going on, and I'm uncomfortable. I feel like a child."

He stands, kissing your hairline softly as you rise from the chair. "C'mon. You go to the bathroom, take your time, then we'll head out of here."

"Bruce won't be mad?"

"If he is, he'll have to take it up with me. Let's get ice cream at the gas station on the way back, then we'll lay on the couch and watch a show. K?"

"…Okay, Jay."

bruce wayne:

"Isn't this pretty, darling?" Bruce croons, holding a delicate, intricate diamond necklace in his large hand. His arm is draped comfortingly around your waist as you browse an expensive jewelry store. It's stunning, but all you can think about is how it's too stuffy in here and the workers are definitely giving you dirty looks.

You hate it, how restricted you feel. 

You hum, nodding absentmindedly. "Pretty, Bruce," is all you say, continuing to look around. Subconsciously, your eyes track down each and every exit—y'know, just in case.

Bruce clocks it almost immediately. He sets the beautiful necklace back onto its holder, frowning at you. His thumb strokes over your hip, grounding you in a way. "What's wrong?" he queries, gentle eyes falling on yours.

You give him your best everything-is-okay smile, meeting his concerned gaze. "Nothing."

"Honey, we've been married for god knows how long. I know you and all your tells. You're tracking the exits, you're all skittish, and I can feel your body shaking under my hand."

Damn him and his attentiveness.

You sigh, finally letting up. "Okay, fine. I don't know, I just feel trapped. It's too small in here, there's too much going on, people are looking at me funny—"

"—Nobody's looking at you funny, sweetheart."

Your brows furrow. "Yes they are, Brucey! Look at that security guard—he's totally mad at me."

His eyes flick up to the man in black standing at the door whose eyes are perusing the room, not lingering on anybody for too long. He's clearly just watching over things, but Bruce knows how your brain operates.

"Sweet girl," he coos, cupping your cheeks in his palms so as to keep your eyes locked on his. "I promise, he's got nothing against you. He's just doing his job. Besides, how could anyone be mad at his face, hm?"

He pats your cheek, coaxing a smile out of you. "Can we go?" you ask, your hands finding his arms and just resting there, assuring your mind that Bruce is here, in the flesh.

"I promised I'd buy you some jewelry."

"I don't need anything, baby. I just really wanna get out of here and get some air," you urge, pleading with your eyes for him to—for once—not feed his undying desire to spend money on you.

He nods, smoothing your hair down. "Very well. If that's what my wife wants, we can head out. How would you feel about getting dinner at that Italian place, my love?"

Your hands remain clasped around his elbow as he guides you out of the shop, offering a nod to the guard as he holds the door for you both. "Dinner sounds good."

He pats your hand, letting you keep holding him as he sits down on a street bench, guiding you to his side. He doesn't say anything, doesn't make a teasing comment about your clinging. He just lets you do what you need to do, his hand warm on your thigh. "So, reservation for 8:00?"

damian wayne:

You could probably count on one hand how many times Damian has willingly eaten fast food. Yet somehow, you managed to him to a Raising Canes for a sit-down meal of chicken, chicken, and more chicken. Damian only agreed when he found out that they had toast—that'll be all he's having for lunch today, he's accepted the fact.

However, you're unfortunately beginning to regret your own plan. It's absolutely packed, and of course you and Damian are tucked into a booth in the very back of the restaurant. 

"Dami," you try to gain his attention over the noise of people conversing. He's too busy scowling at two teenagers eating chicken tenders to hear you.

You try again, nudging his shoulder. "Baby!"

Alas, he turns your way, frowning at the look of distress pooling in those beautiful eyes he loves so much. "Yes, beloved? What do you need? Are you okay?"

"My— my heart's beating really fast," you murmur, leaning close so he can hear you. "I feel so claustrophobic."

His frowns deepens, and he presses a hand to your chest. There, he can feel the rapid pounding of your heart. "Do you wish to leave?"

"Yes, I'm not done my chicken yet."

He rolls his eyes. "Forget the chicken, habibti. You are unwell. If you want to leave, we should leave," he replies. "I love you dearly, but you're so ridiculous sometimes."

His teasing makes you crack a smile despite the odd feeling of impending doom pooling in your gut. The despair in your gaze only breaks his heart more, so he stands up, taking your hand. "Let's go, beloved. Throw that out."

One of your hands holds your chicken basket, the other is held tight in Damian's as you walk to the trash can, tossing its contents in and leaving the basket on top.

Your free hand makes its way to the crook of Damian's elbow, literally holding on for dear life. Damian isn't afraid to bump shoulders with people who don't part for his lovely woman, so he consequently makes some people mad. But he doesn't care—when you need something, it's like Damian's brain zeroes in on it, eager to fulfill your needs and keep you content.

"Would you like to go home? I can have Alfred come pick us up."

You squeeze his arm, breathing in the fresh air and Damian's woodsy cologne. "You're not mad, are you?"

He shakes his head vehemently, knuckles tenderly stroking your cheek. "Never at you, hayati. I just want you to be okay and comfortable, always. I wasn't a fan of it in there, either. I'm not fond of the smell of cooking animals."

And just like that, his scowl is back. "You planning to go rescue a chicken now, Dames?"

He glances at you. "I just might. C'mon, let's go sit—I'll tell Alfred to come get us. As long as you're safe, beloved."

Bruce Wayne ᯓ

Bruce leads with elegance.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to have a sugar daddy?

He's a man of few words, but thousands of actions. It's never easy to tell what he's thinking or feeling, but he never hides it from you.

And while not relying on his speech a lot, when he does, he's bold. The way he speaks to you is beyond any kind of other conversations you've had in your life. He explains slow without yelling and repeats himself when needed without making you feel stupid for not knowing or understanding.

At the start of your relationship he didn't dare touch you without your permission and to a certain extent, he still doesn't. Instead of words though, now he uses gestures like waiting for half a second or looking up at you before you nod for permission.

"I love you" is the strongest and most meaningful thing for him to say. Because Bruce is always truthful, and when he says it, he means it fully.

You were also shown off. Regardless of Bruce being a very protective man of you, he couldn't help himself but show you to the world. Galas, events, work. Anywhere he could keep you by his side, you'd be asked to accompany him.

And do I need to mention the black amex card being 24/7 in your use? Sometimes you won't even need to ask, because he knows you rarely do. You're just gonna find it next to your coffee the next morning.

────୨ৎ────

Dick Grayson ᯓ

Dick leads with empathy.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be with the golden retriever guy?

He's a born leader who possesses high emotional intelligence. And that makes him great not only at noticing your problems, but solving them before you even know.

He doesn't need you to tell him when something is wrong or when you're upset, he knows. And you can be sure that that is never ignored.

Unlike Bruce, Dick is a man of both actions and words. He compliments you without a second thought and knows exactly what and how to say it.

No one can deny how social and loved he is. He's the kindest man you've ever known and others could see it too. And Dick is aware he's liked, but he never oversteps. He might be kind to others, but that could never compare to the princess treatment he gives you.

PDA also falls into that category. In public everyone can see you're with him. And he isn't usually a very jealous or possessive man. Neither is he the type to threaten someone, but it's because he doesn't need to. The moment another man spots the gentle, yet firm hand sitting on top of your hips or around your waist, he knows it's time to back off.

Sidewalk rule. It's sacred to him, he swears. The thought of you being in danger even in those small ways terrifies him to the core and he cannot stand it. Call him paranoid, but he will stay like that.

────୨ৎ────

Jason Todd ᯓ

Jason leads with impulsivity.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be dating a criminal?

While Jason might have that 'bad boy' look with the clothes, motorcycle, muscles and hair, he is certainly far from the confident one in your relationship.

Jason doesn't know how to love 'properly' or at least he thought so. Because he thought there was a right way to do things, until you told them love doesn't have any rules.

That's when he started to show how he is in the relationship. He doesn't wait nor think about what he says or does after he's gotten comfortable. But that's what you can always count on - truthfulness. Because the words come out so immediately he couldn't have possibly even thought of lying to you about something.

Assurance comes along with it. Jason knows what it's like to be troubled with so much and he would never want the person who he loves so dearly to ever feel like he did. So despite it being hard for him, he makes sure you never doubt yourself at what you do.

And last, but not least - the calmness that lays in him under all those feelings. Because when you ask to stay with him, he will never tell you no. And for Jason to allow someone to see him in all kinds of states is enough to prove how much he cares.

────୨ৎ────

Tim Drake ᯓ

Tim leads with intelligence.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to date a nerd?

Tim has always relied on his intellect. Before and while being Robin. It is one of his traits that has been most useful to him his whole life. And that's why he puts it in his relationship too.

Most of the time it doesn't even happen on purpose. But in his head he just does it without realizing. The amount of time you've spent doing certain things, whether you're being repetitive or simply checking where you are sometimes.

...Honestly kind of creepy if you ask someone else about it. But he doesn't do it with that intent. Most of the time, he doesn't even have an intent on doing it. It just happens. He loves you, he wants to know you better - sue him.

Because those things later turn into him understanding you better. In certain situations, on what to get you as a gift, on how you feel during certain situations based on your expression and in what mood you are in.

He's happy when you are, so just lay there with him and sleep for a day and a half and the marriage proposal will be right there, believe me.

────୨ৎ────

Damian Al-Ghul Wayne ᯓ

Damian leads with independence.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to date the black cat?

Damian has been raised in a...certain way that may not always align with everyone's way of seeing things and he has already accepted that. But he also can't deny how much he has picked up from it.

He possesses a caring nature under all the negative emotions and the only time you could see this is when he's with his animals and you. And he shows it in a quite specific way, because growing up without a father and a mother (to an extent) figure certainly has created a mindset in him.

If you want something, you go and get it yourself.

And that's how he does everything when it comes to your relationship with him too. If he wants to say something, he will. And you best believe he'd do everything for you.

Because while Damian may seem rough outside, he treats his partner with the most respect that he doesn't even hold towards himself. He makes sure you're always taken care of, not because of gender roles or traditions, but because that's the best way he has to express exactly how much he feels.

── BRUCE WAYNE

── DICK GRAYSON

── JASON TODD

── TIM DRAKE

── DAMIAN WAYNE

── CONNER KENT

Now, everyone on the planet knew that Bruce Wayne was an attractive man; he had insane chemistry with nearly everyone he came across and managed to have his name and picture splashed across the front page of all newspapers due to his power and prestige. But what the papers neglected to inform its readers was that he was an absolute babe.

While Damian had inherited his emerald eyes, tan skin, and lean frame from his mother, he still bore an uncanny resemblance to his father with their raven hair, regal features, and the fullness of their mouths. He had been rather blessed in the genes department, much to your envy and elation.

The first time you met Mr. Wayne, was during the family dinner Damian brought you to after your fifth date. He had been absolutely charming and had your cheeks pink with schoolgirl shyness. It had been embarrassing.

Fortunately, you had gradually become used to his charisma after spending so much time with the family and it was easier to ignore the harmless crush you harbored towards him. Until now...

"Who's up for a round of sand volleyball?" Dick offered after having polished off his eighth slice of watermelon

"Only if I don't have to team up with you again," Jason grumbled, standing from his chair to stretch his limbs.

Damian had brought you along to his family vacation on their private island off the coast of Hawaii, feeding you all kinds of exotic foods, ravishing you in your private cabana, and relaxing with you on the beach where worries and stress held no power.

Currently, he was laying beside you, stretched out on his stomach on his beach towel, cheek resting on his forearm as he napped. You were sitting under an umbrella with a book open on your lap and a half-eaten plate of fruits beside you.

Tim had offered to grab the net and then came back, helping his two brothers to set it up as they all fought over who would pair up with who.

Mr. Wayne stood from his own chair and looked at you. "Would you like to join us? I'll make the boys promise to control their rough-housing."

You shook your head good-naturedly. "I should probably stay and watch over Damian so he doesn't burn."

Mr. Wayne chuckled, working his shirt off and-

Wowza!

You didn't know forty-year-old men could have abs like that!

A blush spread across your cheeks as he lathered sunscreen all over his toned torso and muscled arms, the display making you feel light-headed despite it's basic purpose.

You were so focused on keeping your thoughts PG that you didn't realize he had asked you another question until you saw the furrow in his brow and heard the distant call of your names.

You shook your head and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I think I'm thirsty-" Your eyes winded at the unintended innuendo. "I-it's just so hot out here!" Oh brother. You were just digging yourself further into a hole.

Oblivious to your mental chastising, Mr. Wayne grabbed a water bottle from a cooler nearby and handed it to you. "Drink up some. Damian would have our heads if we let his little girlfriend get heat stroke."

And with that, he was off to join his other sons on the makeshift court.

You stared after him, oh so confused and guilty for having ogled at your boyfriend's dad. You were the worst person alive.

You attempted to busy yourself by massaging sunscreen into Damian's sun-warmed skin as he slumbered, not wanting him to burn. This was the only man you were supposed to ogle. And you did. Frequently.

While he was more slender than his father, Damian had what people liked to call 'sleeper build'. You couldn't tell so much when he wore clothing but as soon as it all came off, you could make out the distinct definition of his muscles. Even now you could see a whisper of his strength as he rolled his shoulder blades back as he started waking up.

He blinked his eyes open and smiled softly at you. "Beloved,"

You finished rubbing sunscreen into the nape of his neck and kiss his forehead. "How'd you sleep, Dami?"

He shrugged. "One can hardly sleep well with three obnoxious idiots nearby."

He referred to his brothers, obviously.

"They're all playing sand volleyball if you wanted to join them?"

"Not at all." He sat up and stretched his arms above his head, biceps bulging and causing you to bite your bottom lip. "How much water have you had?"

You held up your half-full bottle. "Your dad gave me one a few minutes ago. Said you would beat them all if they let me dry up."

He put a hand on your knee, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. "I would."

You looked down at his skin on yours and found yourself wishing you were locked away in your cabana where he could take apart your bikini and kiss all of the skin that had been hidden from the sun and...

"That is disturbing," your boyfriend muttered under his breath, attention fixed on his family who were conferring with their prospective teammates as they started another round.

"What?"

"My father believes he still has the virility of a younger man. He shouldn't be taking his shirt off in front of my girlfriend." He shook his head in disgust.

You chuckled. "He's at the beach on vacation."

"Still." He looked at you and searched your features. "It doesn't unsettle you, does it? Seeing old men in a state of undress? I can make him-"

"No, no! He's fine." You were quick to say.

Maybe too quick.

Damian's eyes narrowed at your rejection and he slowly asked, "You're hiding something from me."

Yeah, the fact that you find his dad insanely attractive and can hardly look at the man without your face bursting into flames.

"I'm not." You lied.

"You are." His hand trailed up your thigh and the side of your stomach until he held your rib-cage. Your heart stuttered at his possessive touch. "Beloved...I could never be mad at you. You know this."

You shook your head adamantly. Perhaps he wouldn't be mad but most definitely grossed out. "It's nothing, Dami. Seriously. Do you want some fruit?"

Your attempt at throwing him off your trail was futile. Damian was nothing if not persistent. In fact, it was one of the most admirable traits about him.

"Talk to me." He urged and, for a man who disliked any form of public displays of affection, he pressed kisses to your neck. "Please, beloved."

Curse him. Your hands flew to his strong shoulders, unable to resist his intimate ministrations as he flicked his tongue at your sensitive pulse. "It's so silly, you'll think me foolish."

His hair tickled under your chin. "My girl is anything but foolish. She is the smartest, kindest, most beautiful-"

"I think your dad is a hottie."

He paused with his lips on your collarbone and you felt yourself stop breathing in fear of his reaction.

"Y-you know how people have crushes on their history teachers or firefighters?" you reasoned nervously. "It's like that! I don't think he's hotter than you, of course. No one could ever compare to you, believe me. But he is your father so that should compensate for something and-and you probably hate me and-"

Damian pressed his finger to your lips to shut you up and you swallowed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before saying quietly, "You think Bruce is hot?"

You nod dumbly.

He shook his head in disappointment. "He's an old man. How would he inspire any sort of interest in a sensible girl such as you?"

Oh Damian, your sweet summer child. He was obviously ignorant to the sexual appeal his father held over nearly everyone. Hell, even men liked the billionaire. The past rumors of his 'affair' with Metropolis' Clark Kent could only attest to that.

You scrubbed a hand over your face. "Do you know how many men are that fit over the age of thirty?"

"No."

"That's because there are only like five in the entire world and your dad is one of them. Not to mention he could bewitch a cockroach with just one look."

He scoffed.

You pulled him to you and hugged him tightly. "You'll always be my number one though, baby. You know that, right?"

He grunted against your shoulder but didn't pull away, a good sign.

He let you shower his face with kisses then pulled back and sighed. "I should probably defeat them all, shouldn't I?"

You rolled your eyes in amusement. "If that would make you feel better, then go ahead."

He stood to his full height, casting a shadow over you and then headed off to his family where Tim had just spiked the ball onto the opposite side of the net. Damian spoke to them for a while, no doubt negotiating terms and inserting himself.

They all jeered and mocked him but came to an agreement and then a new match began. Surprise, surprise, with Damian choosing the team opposing Mr. Wayne.

You watched as Damian would shove in front Dick and Tim and, more than once, strike the ball off his father's head.

"Y/n!" Jason called, a hand held to his forehead to block the sun. "Tell Damian he needs to play nice!"

The volleyball smacked into his shoulder in response and you chuckled.

By Damian's fifth win, everyone cried off, complaining about needing to cool off in the water or getting hungry. Damian came back to you with a touch of a smug smile on his lips, a sure sign that he was proud of himself.

"You are such a jerk." You chastised.

"I do not share, beloved. Not even your attention." He put out a hand to you and you took it, letting his long fingers intertwine with yours.

"I never knew you could be so jealous," you replied dryly, letting him lead you away from his family and towards the cabanas.

"Will you two be joining us for dinner?" Mr. Wayne called behind you.

Damian's lip curled in annoyance. He was still brooding over your earlier declaration, it would seem. So you looked over your shoulder and smiled politely. "Not tonight, but thanks!"

You figured you would be spending the rest of the day tucked away in the bedroom with your boyfriend in order to...apologize.

"In my defense," you said once you were out of earshot, "most men his age have pot bellies and flabby skin and-"

You squealed as Damian hoisted you up over is shoulder, effectively shutting you up.

It was going to be a long night indeed.