slayer

And you’re someone who was always halfway to sleep. During the day, even after a full night of slumber, it’s even worse when your job gets in the way of your rest. It’s not laziness, more of an exhaustion already set deep inside your bones after the long shifts and the late nights, and not to mention, well, life.

Jason always noticed, though. When your eyes would droop slower, or when your hums became softer—he’d be there to guide you to bed in an instant. arms wrapping your frame, fingers absentmindedly running along your back as your breath settled and deepened.

Again, Jason Todd is the infamous anti-hero, Red Hood. known to fight brutally, have no mercy, always so sharp and savage. But to you, he’s just… Jason.

Soft and gentle Jason.

just like tonight, where you came into his flat soaked—your hood, tired and soaked from Gotham’s rain, and dripping onto his welcome mat. body shivering to no end ever since you realized how you forgot to pack your pocket umbrella into your bag.

He was already there. Sharp features highlighted by the only warm lamp lighting the whole living room, his scars—proof of his years of vigilante work—gleaming under it. He looked up at the sound of the lock turning, his face immediately etched in worry as he saw your state.

He stood up, went to his bathroom to get a towel, and began taking care of you as if it were routine. He helped you out of your soaked jacket, untied your shoes, and undressed you before leading you onto the couch, where he’d gently pat your hair dry.

His presence was warm as he carefully slipped you into fresh clothes, kissing your cheeks and your forehead wordlessly—but you could feel how much he was saying through the things he did.

He sits close beside you after. thumb finding the back of your hand, brushing your knuckles like he was remembering each bump as he recalled his day. You’d nod off, body leaning towards his—chasing his comfort. He would make sure to adjust himself so you won’t feel uncomfortable too.

And then he sees it the moment your eyes flicker towards him for just a beat. Though hidden underneath the exhaustion, it was there—the desire, burning lowly in your eyes, just enough for it to make his stomach clench.

So he asked gently, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “wanna sleep or do you want me?”

You felt the knot in your heart unravel. relieved that Jason understood you so much to read you so precisely, and also asked the questions before you both started something. And you know that you can be honest with him. no matter the answer, he won’t be disappointed. If you say sleep, he would tuck you in and stay—but if you say him, he would make it his life goal to make you feel satisfied.

You answered with a soft “yes”, reaching out to him.

He took it as an invitation, slowly leading you into the bedroom—not rushing you once. He matched every movement, every rhythm of your breath, so attentive.

When he softly laid you down on the bed, he lowered himself over you. His fingers brushed along your cheeks once more, thumb mapping out your lips, before he kissed you, so softly it almost made all the worry—tiredness in you all disappear.

The thing is, sex with Jason when you’re sleepy is never loud, never rough, and performative. It would start quietly, with kisses that let you know he was there fully. The way his fingers moved would make you feel safe to just to let everything go.

He would carefully strip you out of your fresh pajamas, kissing every inch of your newly exposed skin. When you’re both naked, he’d watch you—study you as if it was the first time you shared this kind of intimacy.

the way your face flushed, your chest rising more than normal, lips parted in anticipation—yet your eyes were still half-lidded, both from the sleepiness and need.

You look vulnerable and trusting.

But he wasn’t the type to take advantage in that. With each motion, he’d uttered the words.

“Is this okay?”

“Tell me if you want me to slow down.”

“Squeeze my hand if it’s too much.”

His voice stays constant with tenderness because he knows that when you’re sleepy, your consent often comes in tiny gestures: nods, soft sighs, and words breathed out, a subtle but visible clench of your thighs—he has learned all of it.

So when you spread wide and prop your legs up on his hips, he knows that you’re fully ready.

He’d stroke his thick and hard cock gently to spread the precum from his tip—already there the moment he saw how much you needed him—before kissing you once more. His fingers skimming your ribs, down to your hipbones.

You let out a soft gasp as his swollen tip finally grazes your sensitive clit. walls fluttering immediately from the tiny sensation he gave.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, and he finally served. The moan you let out was the loudest one tonight as he began stretching you open inch by inch. His lips stayed close against your face, where they would kiss the furrow in your brows when you feel the delicious burn simmering in your guts.

He also let out the most unraveling sound as his own body shuddered. a deep guttural groan against your neck when his cock was buried to the hilt. “You always feel so good, sweetheart…”

He settled his pace. deep and slow, not once rushing. He’d learn when to pull and push in again from the way your lips let out soft breaths and your walls clenching.

And again, he’d make sure you’re still in it. If your eyelids fall, he’d murmurs soft words until you lift your eyes to look at him again. If you drift mid-kiss, he’d brush his thumb along the slow pulse of your neck, grazing it to make you more alert.

“Feel me, okay? look at me…”

He said before kissing you. Your arms would wrap around him, chasing his peacefulness as if you can’t get enough of the feeling of his body on yours. moans grew louder as the coil inside you was pulled more and more with each gentle thrust of his hips against yours.

He felt it. the way your cunt would flutter around him more frequently, how your eyes would roll back, your back arching—closing the gap between you more and more.

You finally came with a soft surrender rather than an explosive passion. a soft yet echoing exhale that made your body tremble. a small, unguarded sound as your body jolts in pleasure. The arms around him tightened with every clamping flutter of your walls, clinging onto him like he was a lifeline.

And he followed closely. The way your cunt gripped his cock, making him lose his composure—ending in him spilling his milky seed inside you with a louder moan. His own body trembled with the overwhelming pressure—no matter how subtle it is compared to the more detonating sex you’ve had before.

He kissed you again softly, muttering even softer words of gratitude and affection. When he pulled out, he was on his feet instantly. running a washcloth under the sink in his bathroom, making sure it’s the perfect temperature. When he came back, he saw how you were practically half asleep.

He’d carefully clean the sticky mess between your thighs, the sweat that made your hair stick on your forehead, before planting a lingering kiss there as well.

Pulling a stray shirt he threw earlier, he’d gently straighten you up to pull it over your head. then a fresh pair of panties from the dresser, and also boxers for himself. No shirt though, he knew how much you enjoyed the feeling of his bare skin as you slept.

His hand carefully tucked you under the sheets afterward, making sure you felt no cold throughout the night, before following you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, cocooning you into the safety that is Jason.

You could only smile as you watched him, too exhausted to do anything else. but god, does he make you feel like you were the most cherished person in this world.

He’d murmured words like a lullaby. silly stories, gentle promises, I love yous. If you finally talk half-asleep about your worries or what happened throughout the day, he would listen—answering at the right times and without ever rushing you.

And with each day with him, you learn his roughness is an armor he wears for everyone else but you.

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.

He hums softly in agreement to your previous statement, continuing to get lost in the scene that is playing.

Both of you are ripped out of your cozy atmosphere by the ringing of your doorbell.

“I’ll get it.” you exclaim energetically, wiggling out from under his arm as you get up. Him and you both know that it must be the food you ordered almost an hour ago. Burgers. Jason’s choice, of course.

As you make your way to the door, you can feel Jason’s gaze following your steps. You know that he’s always as careful as he can be, especially when it comes to you. You never know what kind of people may be showing up at your doorstep, even if it’s just to deliver food.

“Jaylove? Do you have cash for a tip?” you question, turning to face where he’s now sitting facing the door, his shoulders squared broad and his legs spread. You know he would look menacing to whoever would stand at the door and see him behind you, glaring.

“My wallet‘s in my jacket pocket.” he answers, his voice soft in comparison to the way he holds his body.

You huff quietly, rolling your eyes at his antics while your turn to where his jacket is hung up next to the door, reaching into his pocket. Even if you think he’s being dramatic, you love him for it. That’s why you can’t help the smile creeping across your face as you turn back around, now with his wallet clutched in your hand.

Before you can make a teasing remark, the whole interaction is cut off with a knock at the door, and you quickly open it to find your delivery driver holding out the bag of food to you.

You exchange a quick greeting as you take the bag and press a five dollar bill in his hand, and he thank you quietly before he’s already on his way again.

With the bag of food in one hand, and Jason’s wallet in the other, you gently nudge the door closed with your hip, turning to make your way into the kitchen, when a small piece of paper catches your eyes.

Maneuvering his wallet into the same hand holding the bag, you quickly bend down and pick it up.

Now that you can see it up close, you recognize that it’s a receipt. Specificity, the receipt of the first time the two of you went out together.

You still remember how nervous you were, finally crossing the line from friends to something more.

You still remember how nervous Jason was, trying not to let it show but failing miserably as he stumbled over his words and almost knocked over his drink.

You still remember insisting that you could split the bill, but he insisted on paying for you the both of you.

And you still remember how the two of you doodled together on the back of the receipt while waiting for the waiter to come back.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Jason is now getting plates out of the both of you. When he notices you not moving, he looks up, softly calling out to you. “Baby? You coming?”

You’re snapped out of your memories by his voice, and you look up to find him watching you already. Then his eyes drift down to what you’re holding.

He raises a brow. “What‘d you got there?”

Eyes crinkling, a cheesy smile lights up your face as your mouth forms a subtle pout.

Moving towards him, you set the bag and his wallet down on the counter across from him.

“You kept the receipt from our first date?” you question softly, even though you know the answer already. In a split second, you see his face going from confusion, to embarrassment, finally ending up in a sheepish expression.

“That’s so fucking cute, Jason.” you tell him straight up, already knowing he’s searching for the right way to explain himself. But you don’t need him to.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “It is? I thought you’d think it would be… weird.” He confesses.

“What?” you exclaim. “No way! Why would that be weird?”

He just shrugs, shyly avoiding your gaze. You round the counter, now taking his face inbetween the palms of your hands, tilting his head so he’s forced to meet your eyes.

Your smile brightens when you notice the flush on his cheeks. God, he looks so cute you just want to squeeze him.

“That’s really sweet of you, baby. I mean it.“ you express.

Jason mirrors your smile, if somewhat smaller. “I‘m glad.” he admits. “I’ve kept it in my wallet since that night. Right next to the picture of you.”

He swallows before he continues. “Sometimes I take it out and just look at it, and I’m reminded of our first date. That was arguably the best day of my life back then, and it always reminds me what I’m coming home to.” he shrugs sheepishly, like he didn’t just made your eyes well up only with words.

You could melt right there and then at his confession. Instead, you move your hands away from his face and place them around his waist, pressing yourself against him in a hug. You squeeze your eyes shut as you nuzzle your face into his chest.

Jason is a little taken aback, but when he realized what you’re doing, he sees no other option but to wrap his arms around you, too.

The two of you stay like this for a while, before Jason hears a small sniff coming from you. He pulls his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. “Are you crying?”

The only response he gets is silence, that’s then interrupted by another small sniff and a quiet “No.” from you.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he presses a long kiss on top of your head. “Come on, let’s eat.”

You pull back, quickly wiping under your eyes. Then you place on hand in the side of his face as you lean up, placing a quick peck on the opposite cheek. “I love you, Jason.” you smile, before turning to finally unbox the food from the bag.

vampire!jason who comes into your home while you’re sleeping. he hasn’t seen you in over two years and when you wake up with him crowding over you, you scream at the top of your lungs. eyes wide in a panic as you thrash and he places a firm palm over your lips. his eyes shone a bright green and his lips were stained an unnatural red, still dripping down his chin. his eyes sunken in as he pleads with you despite having the upper hand.

“please help me,” he practically cries before inching closer. when you don’t move, he collapses onto your chest, letting his weigh rest on you and burying his face there for comfort.

still reeling from your bestfriend coming back to life, you hold him there against you. hand smoothing back his tangled hair and a new tuft of white that took home on his bangs. you keep him close like he could leave you again.

vampire!jason who explains what happened vaguely because even he didn’t understand. he tells you he just woke up like this. that he’s sorry to scare you and clenches his fists like he’s afraid to see what he’d do if he touched you. despite touching you he seems afraid to use his hands.

vampire!jason who tries to fight the urge to sink his teeth into your plush neck, but he fails. his head moves from your chest to your shoulders, then his lips kiss your neck. you jolt in his grip and gasp his name, your body betraying you with how much you’d wanted this. never imagining that you’d get a chance with him since you never got to tell him you loved him. he takes a deep breath from the crook of your neck and moans.

“you smell exactly how i remember.” breath ghosting over your skin, “even better now.”

you gulp as his fingers curl around your neck and apologies begin to slip past his perfect lips.

“i’m so sorry. i need to. i have to do this.”

before you could question what he meant, the veins around his eyes suddenly become darker and your eyes widened again. he leaned further into you and breaks your skin with his teeth. the scream quickly dies in your throat as a stinging pleasure takes form. you gasp his name but hold him closer. thankful to have him back in any way.

vampire!jason who moans egregiously while he sucks your blood. the sound echoes from your throat, dancing by his ears while he continues cursing himself for feeling this way about you. you don’t miss how he inches himself closer to you, hands at either side of your head digging in and ripping the sheets. he mewls as he pulls from your neck, his mouth relentless against your skin. his eyes roll to the back of his head as he stuffed himself further ontop of you.

vampire!jason who begs you for forgiveness afterwards. on the verge of tears, he stares down at you and whimpers your name. he pulls your limp body upright in his lap and cradles your head close.

“fuck— i didn’t mean to take so much. i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

but you’re smiling in a blissful state because of felt like your were staring at yourself, outside of your body.

vampire!jason who feeds you his blood while your half conscious. something told him this was the cure to his losing control. in the back of his mind he knew he was teetering with life and death and that you were the only person he needed and thought of when he awoke. not bruce, not joker, but you. all he wanted was you and nothing could stand in his way now or ever.

vampire!jason who doesn’t sleep until you gasp awake hours later. he holds a damp towel to your forehead and still has your dried blood on his face, not caring for it but only you. he sighs as you grab at him in confusion, pulling himself closer to smell the tasteful nectar that no longer ran through your veins. you breathe his name back and ask him for some. without a second thought, he bites at his wrist and holds it to your mouth.

vampire!jason who thinks he could’ve came from the sight of you like this. his lips part and moan, watching your eyes glow a low red as you wrapped tight fingers around his wrist. a breathless gasp escapes him and a growing heat emerges.

“don’t do this with anyone else okay?” he suddenly says. “just with me.”

you’re too far gone to have register anything but the sweet warmth on your tongue.

vampire!jason who quickly understands the intimacy of this moment. he immediately sees how much of you he wanted and badly he needed you just like this. he held your head close, cradles you in his arms as he leaned against the headboard. his hips mindlessly bucking and stilling like he were holding back. he doesn’t stop you from taking what you wanted and he smiles throughout it all.

his gear softly thuds on the ground before he traipses over to you.

"well, hello to you, too, sweetheart."

"oh," you gasp, straightening up.

you'd been so immersed, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch. you hadn't even heard the door opening.

"hi, baby," your features soften as you stretch, standing to throw your arms around his neck.

a warm kiss is pressed to his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. he hums, getting a whiff of the cookies you'd just popped into the oven.

"whatcha been up to?" you watch as his eyes trail over to the couch, eyeing the floppy comic that was abandoned in your spot.

"just reading something," you bite back another smile. "oh, and i wanted to make some cookies for dessert."

he ignores your second comment. his arms fall around your waist, tightening almost possessively.

"reading what?"

"a comic."

his eyes narrow. "a comic? you read comics?"

"why's that so hard to believe?" your head tilts, trying to understand his expression.

"just never pegged you as the type," he shrugs.

a few quiet seconds pass. you're still just standing in each other's arms, but you feel him itching to ask more. he breaks the silence with a deep breath, dragging you to the couch.

"so, what's this comic about?" he flips through the pages haphazardly, not without folding the corner of the page you'd left off on before doing so.

you give him the rundown, explaining the 2012 edition of the winter soldier.

he reads quietly to himself, flipping back to the cover page. "mar-vel?"

"no, marvel. like marble with a 'v' instead," you giggle, kicking your feet up and into his lap.

he rolls his eyes, disregarding your correction.

"okay, and what about these dumb superheroes? what's so entertaining about this winter soldier guy?" he says it like it personally offends him.

"his name's bucky, and he's got this tragic complex that just sweeps you off your feet." you dramatically press a hand over your heart. "oh, and not to mention, he's incredibly hot."

jason stills at that, his eyes slowly trailing over to your face.

"what?"

"look at him, babe!" you point to the page he's about to rip out. "you can't tell me that he isn't one good-looking man."

you're pushing his buttons far beyond you ever have, and you're honestly terrified to see how it'll play out. he's still quiet and he's giving you this look that challenges you to push it even further. your skin crawls, yet you don't cave.

just then, the oven dings. you swing your legs off his lap, quietly chuckling to yourself. his eyes are practically burning holes into your backside.

you can faintly hear him murmuring to himself from the sofa.

"dumb superpowers."

"i don't need a stupid metal arm or superpowers to save the damn city."

"if he's so hot, then go be with him."

and your heart aches, instantly regretting your ploy to upset him. you stroll back over with a plate of warm cookies in hand, plopping into his lap instead.

"i'm sorry, baby," you pout, squishing his cheeks. "i just wanted to see how you'd react."

"oh, shut up," he groans, head falling onto the back of the sofa. "you know you actually think he's hot."

you shrug, eyeing him playfully.

"maybe," you grin. "but not any hotter than my strong man right here."

he still won't give in, folding his arms behind his head. just then, you grab a cookie holding it up to his lips.

"you can't win me over with cookies," he scoffs.

"they're snickerdoodles with extra cinnamon sugar, just how you like it." you quirk an eyebrow.

he contemplates, watching you accept defeat.

"fine, suit yourself," you huff.

as you go to take a bite, his hand is on your wrist, pulling it back to his mouth. he takes a generous bite, staring blankly at you. he doesn't let go of your wrist. the feeling of your pulse spiking beneath his fingertips is enough for his own amusement.

"mm," he shakes his head. "they're alright. but i dunno, maybe bucky'll like them better."

"jason!"

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Wally:

You’re dead. Or on fire. Or Dead and on fire. Okay, well, not actually, but Wally can’t help but think you are when his call goes to voicemail for the umpteenth time. His texts, a sporadic barrage of messages, have yet to go through on your end.

He takes a deep breath, combing his hands through his hair. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine. You’re probably just busy, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. It’s fine.

It’s not fine, is all Wally thinks when he’s ditching his job at Terrifitech and running to your apartment. He can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, very wrong, and he’s not sure he could live with himself if something happened to you.

The apartment is eerily quiet and dark, the usual warmth you carry nowhere to be found. Wally frowns, brows knitting together as he slowly creeps through your apartment.

Your bag is on the counter, shoes on the mat, phone ditched on the coffee table along with your keys. Well, that explains that. All of your things are here, but where are you?

He finds his answer in the bedroom, cocooned under every blanket in the house and curled in a ball drooling. The ball of anxiety that had been turning supersonic in the pit of his stomach screeches to a halt, dissipating as quickly as it built.

He leans on the doorway, grinning. You look peaceful like this, untouched and entirely unbothered by the world around you.

Wally creeps towards you on the balls of his feet, nestling himself next to your mountain of blankets. He taps your cheek gently.

“Baby?” He hums, “you alive?”

You offer a noise that sounds more alien than human, shifting uncomfortably under the covers.

He leans in close, brushing his lips over your forehead. “You been sleeping all day, doll?”

You nod, the movement sluggish with your exhaustion.

He laughs, the sound like bottled sunshine. “Are you feeling okay?”

You roll over, blinking your eyes open slowly. Wally’s hovering above you, the early evening light coming through your window casting a halo around his head. You reach and twine a strand around your finger.

“Wasn’t feeling good,” You frown. “I had a headache so I was trying to sleep it off.”

“A headache?” He puffs out his chest, “this guy bothering you?” You dissolve into a fit of giggles, hitting his arm playfully. “You’re silly.”

He rubs a hand over your forehead. “I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too.”

“You really did have me worried sick, baby.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, “a heart attack a day is good for the soul.”

You tangle your fingers on the back of his neck and tug him into you, bringing his lips to yours.

Roy:

Roy checks his phone for the dozenth time, his lock screen coming up blank. All of his phone calls—six to be exact—went entirely unanswered, your voicemail greeting him every time.

He tries to keep himself calm, to focus on the armored truck he’s been tracking through the city, but he can’t. All he can think about is you, more specifically, why you’ve gone radio silent.

One more call. Surely you’ll pick up now. 

He holds his breath while the line rings. Once, twice. Four times. Voicemail. Your voice greets him but it does nothing to soothe the ache in Roy’s chest. Something’s not right.

He’s quick to abandon the target, ducking away from his duties to hunt you down instead. Lucky for him, your place isn’t too far of a trip from where he was to begin with, and you always forget to leave your window locked, much to his dismay.

Today, though, he’s grateful for your unlocked window.

The room is dark when he steps inside, the only light being the slivers that sneak in through your curtains. Through the dim lights, he can just barely make out your form buried under the covers. Roy leases a sigh of relief at the sight, the pounding in his chest fading.

He’s quiet sneaking around your room, discarding his gear and  crawling into the bed next to you. He’s careful not to wake you, burying his head into the nape of your neck and breathing in your scent. Of course, he’s not as discreet as he’d hoped.

You blink yourself awake, cupping your hand over his. “Roy?”

“Shh, sorry baby, you can go back to sleep.” “What’re you doing here?”

“Was worried about you, y’weren’t answering my calls.”

“Oh, what time is it?”

“A little after seven.”

You gasp. “I’ve been asleep for four hours, I-I wasn’t feeling good and then I went to lay down and—I’m sorry.”

You can feel him smile against your skin. “You’re fine, baby. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Roy?”

“Hm?”

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

dc masterlist | navigation

“Do you realize it’s 9:45?” He asks, his voice laced with the faint concern that he reserves for few people.

You immediately turn your head to your clock and sure enough, you watch the 45 change to a 46. Shit. Somehow that alone makes your headache start to pulse. “No, I didn’t realize that actually.” I sigh quietly. “I still gotta finish this up though, I don’t feel confident on the material.”

“If you don’t know it now you won’t know it in the next hour. You’ve been there since noon. You need sleep and real food, which I know you haven’t had either.” 

“I gotta try Jay, if I don’t and I fail, then I’ll know there was something else I could’ve done—“

He cuts me off, “I know you wanna keep going, but you’ve been working for the past week and barely taking care of yourself. Just—just come home,” He pauses, “Please.”

“I can’t. I don’t know this stuff and my test is at eight in the morning, so I cant study before and I need to keep going.”

“Baby—“

This time you cut him off not even realizing your voice has pulled a harsher tone you almost never use, “No Jason. Don’t act like you understand what this is like. You don’t understand this feeling and you never will, so just stop.” You’re in such a haze, you don’t realize how harsh your words are until the beeping of the ended call breaks the silence. 

“Fuck,” You cover your face with your hands and take a breath, “Fuck, why did you say that?” You don’t even think as you start packing everything back into your bag, guilt pushing you through the actions. Jason and you never fight. Even through your frustrations, it’s easy to bridge the gap because he’s scared to snap at you and lose you and you’re scared to say something that hurts him—but you just did. 

You try to call him again, but it goes to voicemail, so you try your hopes with that. “Im sorry, Jay. I—I’m stressed and didn’t realize what I was saying I just—please just call me back.” Deep down you know he won’t listen to it, but you still gave it a shot. 

With a newfound motivation you didn’t have while studying, and two peach Alani’s running in your body, you get into the car and drive home as fast as you can. It doesn’t take long before you’re hauling your backpack with you to your shared apartment with Jason. You know he doesn’t have patrol right now because he intentionally switched shifts with Dick so he could stay with you tonight. You didn’t even ask him, he just did it because he knew you’d be anxious and you always slept better when he was in bed with you. As you walk through the apartment though, you quickly realize he’s not there. 

You swing open the closet, expecting to see the familiar gear, but it’s gone. The realization is like a punch to the gut. I upset him so much, he’d rather fight crime instead of be with me. 

What if I ruined everything?

Am I supposed to just wait till he comes back? 

What if he doesn’t come back?

No. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. You can fix this, you just have to find him first. You walk back to the kitchen where you threw your phone on the counter and go through your contacts till you find who you were looking for, putting your phone on speaker as you put on your coat. 

“Hello?” Barbara’s familiar voice cuts through the static. 

“Hey, Babs. I have a favor I need to ask,” you say feeling very thankful for the fact Wayne family dinners include non-family members and you got to connect with everyone—including the one and only Barbara Gordon. 

“Like civilian help, or ‘I just killed someone and need to hide the body help’?

Silence crosses the phone for a second until you speak again, “Just wanted to know if you could track Jay’s suit, but thats mildly concerning thats your first assumption about me calling.”

“You’re dating into the Wayne family. It’s not a concerning assumption.” She says bluntly before quickly changing the subject, “Anyways, Jason isn’t on patrol, he switched with Dick.”

“No, I know, but I think he went back onto patrol. Could you check just incase? Please?” 

You hear faint typing on the other end as you step outside, looking the door. “Uh, yeah okay he is on patrol. He’s currently in Crime Alley.”

Just my fucking luck. You have to try though, because you won’t let this anger fester between you and him. “Okay thanks Babs, I owe you one.” You say as you start the direction to crime alley with just your phone on you. You think maybe you should’ve grabbed your pepper spray, but you’re on a mission and can’t get distracted. You’ll deal with Jasons lecture about that later. 

Babs calls your name through the phone just as you’re about to hang up, making you pause. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna go to crime alley.”

“…Im not gonna go to Crime Alley.” You mutter into the phone, but you roll your eyes at how obvious the lie sounds.

“Im serious. Its not saf—“

“Gotta go Babs, bad connection,” You make a fake static noise, “Bye!” Pressing the end call button quickly because you cant be talked out of this. You have a relationship to fix.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The walk there is cold and quiet considering it’s now 10:30 at night and prime time for crime in Gotham. You shove your hands in your pockets to protect them from the harsh winds before remembering all the times Jason would reprimand you on not doing that when you’re walking alone because it can make you a more susceptible target. You keep scanning the rooftops waiting to see the familiar red, but still nothing.

Maybe he moved and went to another area to patrol? Or maybe Barbara told him you were coming and he left so he wouldn’t have to see you? No. Jason wouldn’t do that to you. He loves you even if you snapped at him. You keep walking around the area for 10 minutes and with every breath you watch rise into the night air, you lose more and more hope you’re gonna find him. 

Just as you’re about to make the loop to leave and go back home dejected and filled with guilt, a hand wraps around your bicep pulling you into a darkened alleyway, hidden from possible onlookers. Your brain stalls for a second as you try to process the reality of what’s happening: you’re gonna get robbed, except the only thing you have on you is your phone and the two nickels in your jacket pocket you’ve been fidgeting with on the walk here. Your back is pressed into the alley wall, and before you get the change to try the minimal self defense Jason taught you, his mask comes into view. 

“What on earth are you doing here? Do you even have any weapon on you? You’re lucky Babs warned me you were coming or you would’ve gotten yourself killed.” You can’t see his face, but his tone eludes to his anger—whether from the phone call or you coming here, you’re not sure yet. 

“You weren’t home.” His grip on your arm isn’t harsh, never with you, but it’s firm enough to keep you from moving from the wall. 

“So what? You walk into the most dangerous part of Gotham to check on me?” He gives you a once over looking from you face to your shoes of choice for this walk. “And did so completely defenseless.”

“Im not defenseless—“ you start, but quickly stop when he tilts his head and cuts you off.

“You barely have the proper coat on, so don’t even start.” 

You huff quietly and drop your head to stare at your shoes, but decide not to push. You’re here to apologize not make things worse between y’all. Neither of you say anything because now that you’re here, everything you practiced to say leaves your head and now you drowning in shame. “You weren’t answering my calls.” You whisper before finally looking back up at him. You wish you could see his face—the familiar furrow of his brow or the scar on his cheek. Anything to know what he’s feeling right now. But he’s keeping his mask on. 

“I was busy.” His voice is low, almost like it’s painful to talk. 

“You weren’t supposed to be though. You were supposed to be home and you weren’t and I wanted to talk to you—apologize to you but I couldn’t because you left.”

“Thought you’d be studying all night. Didn’t want interrupt what I don’t understand.” He throws your words right back in your face, but he might as well taken his knife and shoved it into your side. 

You lift your hand slowly, like you’re reaching for a skittish animal, for where you’ve learned the mechanic is to take it off. When he doesn’t pull away, you carefully click the button so you can see his face. He’s staring down at you with a small frown on his lips that you wish to kiss away. His eyes shine with agony and you want to worship him till he forgets the concept of pain. “I’m sorry,” You whisper as you cover the jagged J scar on his cheek with your palm. “I’m so unbelievably sorry Jay.”

He doesn’t say anything, but instead grabs your wrist gently. You worry he’s gonna push it away, but he holds on and presses your hand closer, so you continue. “I—I was just so stressed and scared. I’m so scared of failing, but it was wrong to say you wouldn’t understand when you’re the person who understands best. You choose to protect the city—the people—and I know you’re scared to fail—To fail the city, the people, …your family.” You bring your other hand to run through his curls and watch as his eyes fall shut in this moment of whispered apologies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you or taken my anger out on you Jay. I’m sorry.”

He drops his forehead against yours and pulls you flush against him. “You, too.” He whispers against your lips, so closely you feel his breath fan across your face.

“What?”

“I’m scared of failing you, too.”

“Jay…” 

“I don’t want to just sit there and watch while you run yourself dry for a stupid exam you’re gonna pass if I can do something about it. I just can’t let it happen, I cant.” He pulls back to look at you, but it feels as if he staring into your soul. 

You nod carefully, “I’m sorry.” You mutter again and bite your lip with the unconscious intent of picking at the chapped skin, but he quickly runs his thumb across your bottom lip and the pulls it back from your teeth to stop your habit. 

“Stop apologizing. Just don’t snap at me like that again when I’m only looking out for you.”

“But I am sor—“ 

He mutters your name, stopping your repeated apology. “I know you are. Just promise me you won’t.”

Your eyes fill with tears but you blink rapidly trying to get them to disappear, because you shouldn’t be the one upset right now, he should. However, you can’t stop the singular hot tear that slips down your cheek because how did you have get so lucky to have someone who truly cares about you and understands that you truly didn’t mean what you said in the heat of the moment. “Pinky promise,” you whisper not fully trusting your voice to stay steady. You lift your pinky for him to take, something you’ve slowly acclimated him to over the course of the relationship. His gloved finger links with yours and you kiss your thumb, him following suit, and then press them together to lock it. 

He leans down and kisses away the tear that lingers on your cheek before gently kissing your lips. You immediately turn into putty in his hold not even realizing how tense you were from the idea he wasn’t going to want to hear you out. You wrap both your arms around his neck, and shove every lingering apology into the kiss, hoping he understands how deeply sorry you are. He almost reluctantly pulls away, and murmurs quietly against your lips, “And don’t walk around at night defenseless again, baby.” 

You laugh before pulling him impossibly closer, now trying to steal some of his warmth. “I’m never defenseless because I know you’ll always be there to save me,” you whisper before kissing the corner of his mouth gently, “Now let’s go get some Bat Burger and go home.”