✩𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐫𝐨-𝐊𝐮𝐧✩

☼ if there's one thing august isn't ashamed of, it's your relationship. it doesn't take long for the other cleaners to figure out you're together, given that august won't leave your side. pda isn't something he's shy about. he's either holding your hand, has an arm wrapped around your waist, or arm interlocked with yours.

☼august hates when you talk down about yourself. if he catches you doing it, he'll stop whatever he's doing, take your face in his hands and shower you with compliments. he tells you you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. to show you how truthful he's being, he'll kiss you delicately - like a butterfly landing on a precious flower.

☼he's the type of guy who wants your opinion on everything he creates. he won't show anyone what he's come up with until he's got your opinion. "babe, be honest, what do you think of this?" he trusts you to tell him the truth —hence why he values your opinion so much.

☼august prefers quality time with you more than anything. he's the type to call you every night just to hear your voice if he hasn't seen you all day. if he knows he's going to have a busy day, he'll send you scheduled text messages throughout the day to let you know he's thinking of you.

☼it's no secret that august is loud. it takes you a while to get used to it. if he sees you in public, he'll shout out your name and rush through the crowd, not caring about the eyes that follow. his laughter rings throughout the space your in like earthquake aftershocks, but it's infectious, so you can't help but join in. and don't even think about telling the guy a secret. he can't hold water, especially if he's planning a surprise for you.

♦zanka values your relationship in a way that is subtle. he's not big on pda, but he'll stand close next to you, his arm brushing up against you. when you're sitting, he'll hold your hand under the table so no one can see. he isn't ashamed of your relationship, but rather he cherishes it in his own way. he'll do anything he can to protect you—be it verbally or physically, if it comes to that.

♦zanka will do anything to make you smile. even if it's making a fool of himself. he hates to see you upset and will sit and listen while holding your hand if that makes you feel better. he's more a comforter when it comes to hard conversations and will add his input if warranted. his physical comfort is his strong suit. whether it be stroking the back of your hand, kissing your forehead, or rubbing your back until you finished crying it out.

♦sparring is one of zanka's favorite thing to do with you. he likes to practice his craft and get direct feedback. he enjoys being competitive and prefers to be challenged while doing so. he likes when you don't go easy on him, because he thinks it makes him stronger. "don't take it easy on me just because i'm your boyfriend." he likes throwing playful jabs. and in the cases where he loses, he's a bit of a sore loser. but it's nothing a quick kiss can't fix.

it isn't some special occasion.

he simply wants to make love to every part of you, your soul. the sacred devotion this early in the morning genuinely rewires your brain.

he's got you wrapped around his finger, and you equally as much. you're both absolutely smitten with each other. but that's right where you want to be. wrapped up in the mess of your limbs, breaths intermingling as your hips lazily rut into one another.

his length prods through the thin fabric of his boxers, catching your clit just right through the flimsy lace of your panties. your hands are firm on his arms, flexing at the feeling of your nails gently sinking into his skin. both of your eyes remain hooded, a particular roll of his hips eliciting a wrecked moan from you.

"jay," his name falls from your lips like a sinful prayer.

it only eggs him on. it makes him want to pursue your pleasure even further, to pull the breathiest of moans from your plush lips, to have you melt into complete putty and quiver beneath him.

so he does just that.

"just relax, honey," he rolls you flat onto your stomach, already pressing hot kisses to the curve of your neck, down your shoulder. "i got you. let me make you feel good, mama."

the graze of his fingers along your backside has your hips recklessly pushing back into him, eager for more. he moves even slower, dragging your panties down your legs at a pace that indicates no urgency.

his breath catches when a string of your arousal follows the crotch of your panties, your folds glistening before his eyes. already so wet, completely prepared to take all of him.

his fingers are heavy between your legs, parting your lips to spread your slick before sinking home. there's no gradual stretch ― just two fingers prying you open like they belong there.

"mm, fuck, baby."

your words are muffled by the fluff of your pillow, hips moving in tandem with each push of his fingers. your thighs briefly squeeze around his wrist, slightly halting his ministrations.

"gotta open up for me, sweet girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss right beneath your ear. "gonna let me make you feel good, right, sweetheart?"

he lives for this shit. absolutely fiends for the way your walls drip for him, the way they try to swallow up everything that he gives you. you try to nod, hips still wriggling for him to stop talking and just give you more.

he simply laughs at your weak attempt, firmly pressing one hand to the small of your back.

"patience, mama," he hums, fingers slowly starting to massage your gummy walls again. "patience."

quiet whimpers and low whines rip from your throat with each push of his hand. then his digits curl beautifully against that spot that drives you mad.

"oh, fuck― jay," you gasp, one hand reaching back to tug at his wrist.

he tuts, hissing when your nails press dull crescents into his flesh. he doesn't stop his movements.

"damn, ma," a dark chuckle vibrates through his chest. "that good?"

you can hear the smirk in his voice. if this man wasn't so hot, built to perfection, you'd be pissed. instead, it goes straight to your core, walls clenching around his two thick fingers.

drool pools beneath your pouted lips, coating them in that glossy sheen that makes jason's brain short circuit.

"want more, jay," you attempt to catch his eyes through your hooded ones, moaning softly. "please gimme more."

a grumble resounds from deep within. the sight of you so worked up does nothing to quell the ache in his boxers.

he doesn't even pretend to consider it, pulling his fingers out of you with an earnest "sorry, baby."

his boxers are flung across the room in seconds. his cock rests heavy in his palm, head red and leaking. a few quick pumps are all that he can spare before he's pressing himself to your heat, sloppily running his tip through your folds.

the sounds that leave both of your mouths are lewd. you're sure that you're dripping all over the sheets, but you can't bring yourself to care at all. he continues like that for a bit, whimpering when he barely nudges at your entrance.

you prop yourself onto your elbows, head falling between your shoulders as his hips finally push forward. cacophonic moans spill from your mouth, already coming undone. his free hand finds your hip, deliberately feeding every girthy inch to your greedy cunt.

he shushes you, pressing his lips to the flexed muscles of your back and shoulders.

"'m right here, baby," he stills for a moment before filling you to the hilt, ripping the breathiest moan from your chest. "right fuckin' here, mama."

he sets a harrowing pace ― one that makes you feel every inch and every vein, yet has you damn near bawling out for more.

your fingers clutch a pillow against your chest, the fluff collecting your pathetic moans and stray tears. your thighs are quivering already, fighting the urge to just push back and use him however you please.

"so fuckin' big," you weep when his hips smack the plush of your ass.

his hands abandon your hips, slipping his forearms under your frame instead. he's impossibly deep. you swear you can feel him in your lungs at this point.

another desperate cry urges his hips to move faster, eager for more of those pretty sounds to ring in his ear.

"this pussy was made for me," he muses. "you were fuckin' made for me, sweetheart."

your thighs press closer together, heightening the sensation of his cock nestled deep between your walls.

"baby, fuck, i c― i can't take it," you mewl, fingers curling deeper into the fluff beneath your chest.

his hips pick up their pace, slapping your ass with obscene whack, whack, whacks.

"hell, you can't," he spits, chest shoving down on your back. "you were made for this shit, baby, c'mon. take it."

he bites on your shoulder with enough pressure to get you out of your head. a surprised yelp strings into a moan when his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles to the sensitive nub.

"c'mon, honey," he pushes. "let go. come for me. make a mess all over me."

he kisses the blunt bite mark forming on your pretty skin.

"lemme see how good daddy makes you feel."

and that does it.

with one high-pitched gasp, you're falling apart, legs violently trembling as his hips continue to snap forward, drawing out the intensity of your orgasm. your arms give out and the side of your face lands on the pillow as though it'll save you.

"gonna let me fill you up like a good girl, right, baby?"

he has the audacity to whimper as if he's the one being fucked to oblivion. nonetheless, you're nodding wildly.

"fill me up, jay," you blubber with closed eyes. "wan' you to come in me."

he grunts at the feeling of your walls pulsing around him, driving him over the edge shortly afterwards. warm spurts of white paint your insides, shamelessly claiming you as his and his only.

he settles against the warmth of your back, your breaths evening out.

"good fuckin' morning," he croons.

he doesn't pull out, just stays sheathed comfortably. you stir softly when his lips flutter across your back again.

"so," his voice comes out completely wrecked. "me calling myself daddy does it for you, huh?"

you half-heartedly swat a hand at him.

"shut up."

he nips at your shoulder playfully, right where he'd bitten you earlier, and a quiet whimper echoes from the plush of your lips.

"yeah, that's what i thought," he grins to himself, entirely too smug.

gotta give the guy some credit.

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.

til date you two were unsure about how the dining table’s legs collapsed last year, while jason’s fat cock was being greedily sucked into your mindmelting cunt, with your back flat against the table-surface and your legs hanging off of his beefy shoulders. jason remembered fairly even less of the ordeal than you did. your pussy was so torturously good, those couple minutes for him had started and ended at the color of your oh-so-expressive overwhelmed eyes and how sweetly you had cried his name.

you didn't mind that jason was so strict about his nook. it only made you melt for him more. he was extremely impersonal towards all spaces. he didn't even have a personalized apartment before you two had decided to move in together. it used to be just, red hood and his hundreds of sterile safe houses. so you loved that jason was so deeply protective of the space you had built for him. oh, yes, it was a birthday gift from you.

you had had dick take jason out on a faux-mission and spent 10 frustrating hours trying to put the place together into something he'd come to find comfort and familiarity in. bookshelves surrounded a large circular reading chair with fluffy cushioning. that had been a difficult find. you had had the chair custom made, ordered weeks before, because you wanted for your boyfriend to feel comfortable in his own skin and have enough space to relax and just enjoy his favorite hobby ever, besides eating you out for the love of game. what the fuck was even up with all the cute furniture being so small and dainty. jason’s reading chair was a pretty pastel green thing.

that was where jason was right now. his huge fluffy frog printed blanket was wrapped up around his shoulders and his right hand held a novella. you smiled into your tea-glass. because you didn't feel like doing the dishes yet, you'd served yourself tea in a wine glass. your boyfriend was so fucking adorable with that serious-reading-frown over his brows. his lips curved into the cutest little pout and you just wanted to climb up his lap and kiss him all over his gorgeous face. oh my gosh. you loved his reading face, you loved him.

you slowly neared jason and put your empty tea-glass down by the window, “hey,” you said, “do you mind company right now?”

jason blinked, taken out of his immersion as his ethereal aquamarine eyes found you. his lips pulled into a soft smile, as he bookmarked the novella and put it down on his lap, hand reaching for your elbow into a gentle hold, “i could never mind your company, doll.” he shook his head, sort of unsettled, “why would you even feel the need to ask? is everything okay?” his eyes grew concerned, “what do you need, honey?”

you grinned, and leaned down to kiss his forehead as you climbed up his lap, carefully sliding the novella off of him so that you wouldn't accidentally cease the paperback.

“i didn't mean it like that, jay.” you mumbled and dropped your cheek against his shoulder, “just wanted to make sure you weren't halfway through some action-heavy scene right now.”

“no, you're alright.” he reassured you, taken by your thoughtfulness, ”it's a pretty slow book.”

“you're enjoying it?”

he nodded his head, one of his hands settling across your thighs and the other lovingly stroked up and down your spine. you shivered, smiling big, and snuggled closer.

“missed you today, sweetheart.” jason murmured, tilting his head as you left lazy kisses all over his neck.

“i had been gone for, like, 9 hours, jay.” you said, hand running through his thick dark hair.

“all the more 9 meaningless hours of my life.” he grinned, eyes meeting yours and you bit his skin hard for his dramatic sappy-ness, “owwww, if shakespeare had said this shit people would be studying it in the universities right now, y’know. jeezus, no one appreciates romantics these days.”

“well i don't particularly like hearing about even a moment of your life being meaningless, my love.” you defensively said, sitting up bossily, angry on his behalf, “i think your life is full of meaning and i love that about you. i love that despite everything you aren't a shell. god, ” you breathed, taking his face in, “i love your rage and i fucking love your—love.”

jason brushed his lips against yours, kissing you so so softly, “yeah, you'd give the kids more depression.”

“sorry?” you blinked, confused.

“the university assignments?” jason supplied.

“what?” you were still so very confused.

“cus’ like if shakespeare had written whatever you just said they'd have to do lots papers on it. and it's bad out there, doll. like real bad. ” jason’s eyes were wide with disbelief, “the kids in school are more sleep deprived than vigilantes.”

“you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?” you cheekily giggled.

jason had been sneaking into random classes at gotham university. he'd always loved learning and he'd curiously taken a seat in the back of a classroom to kill time months ago. the professor had been so brilliant, he got their entire schedule out and attended all of their lectures now. he didn't care for a degree. he treated it like a side quest. jason todd was like a cat. miserable when his owner, aka you, left for work. and attending university classes illegally seemed like the perfect daytime thing to do.

he had even ended up in a group of 3 last week to do some project. apparently, all of his peers were severely suicidal from workload. he had wisely advised them to not pursue death, speaking from experience of course, it wasn't more pleasant than being alive.

jason laughed and asked, “how was work?”

“i missed my really sexy, really loving, awesome to cuddle with boyfriend.” you poked his chest.

“you've been talking to other boys?” jason gasped, smiling, and you rolled your eyes.

“you infuriate me.”

“doesn't look like you're mad,” he mumbled, tilting your chin up with his fingers, “looks like my pretty girl is blushing. do i make you blush, baby?” he teased, "still?"

you groaned, “not fair. not fair at all. why the fuck would you say that when you're not even going to fuck me here?!” you gave him a flabbergasted look, “you're cruel to me, my love.”

“aw,” jason nosed along your cheek, teeth gazing your skin, “now you do seem mad. you gonna spank me, sweetheart?”

“well, you are being a brat.” you pointed out and he grinned, tugging on the skin of your cheek with his teeth lightly, “wanna know something cool about shakespeare?” you suddenly said, distracted by the thought.

jason pulled back, thumb making soothing circles at your hip as he gave you his full attention.

“shakespeare was one of the few philosophers who believed in revenge.” you said, running your index finger down the bump of jason’s perfect nose.

“it cus’ he was a romantic.” he chimed in.

“know a lot about romance, hm?” you smiled, meeting his gaze.

“you still haven't gotten sick of me.” he proudly pointed out.

“i could never get sick of you, jay.” you urgently said, “you're it for me.”

jason’s eyes went misty for a second, and he kissed your forehead, “silly girl, of course i know that.”

you were certain he folded so fast because he didn't want you to run yourself into a panic attack trying to prove your point.

“you know, i’m a romantic, too.” you said, picking on his hoodie with your nails.

“are you saying you want revenge?” jason raised his eyebrow, “who the fuck wronged you? please, don't kill roy for the cheerios, sweetheart, he's my only friend.”

“i’d kill the joker for you.” you promised catching him off guard, “you need only ever ask.”

jason laughed in utter disbelief, not liking what you were saying, “you don't kill, remember? that's against–”

“there's very little i wouldn't do for you, jaylove.” you said with a soft sad smile, “i would bend my morals for you without a second thought.”

jason’s hands came up to hold yours, lacing the fingers of your hands together. he was quiet for a moment, then he spoke, “then can i ask you to do something for me, baby?”

“hm?” you gave him a quizzed look, patiently waiting.

“i need you to hold onto your morals for me, okay?” jason said with a soft smile, blinking several times to get rid off how wet his eyes were becoming, “i think you're brilliant. i think this world sucks and it's cruel and people are getting worse and worse everyday. i don't understand how you still remain empathetic and kind and so so good despite it all. you're the strongest person i know. and i love you exactly as you are. please never change anything about yourself for anyone but you.” a single tear drop escaped jason’s eye.

you threw your arms around his shoulders and jason held you against himself tightly, “okay.” you quietly said, unable to form any other response when your heart literally felt like giving out.

so instead you adjust yourself in his arms until you could comfortably lay sideways on his lap with your head on his shoulder, “why don't you tell me all about the book you've been reading?”

PRESENT TIME

the apartment was dimly lit, like the horror movie houses you used to watch as a kid and wonder why the main characters never turned the big white lights on. what fucking morons.

though your and jason’s home was anything but haunted. it was lived in and there was a story of love and mischief and devotion in every corner. no one ever yelled at each other. but your boyfriend sure did celebrate all your small and big accomplishments loudly. like the time when you had survived your first serious job interview ever without cussing and jason had ordered enough of your comfort food to feed a small village (he'd even gotten a party hat for you).

mistakes here were never met with glaring disappointment. instead you always held each other, kissing reassurances into your lover's lungs. jason was the most understanding and sincere person you had ever known. though he got really upset sometimes, it was only because he cared too much about everything. and even when deeply hurt, his solution was to always lower himself to where you were ready to meet him and talk it out with you.

the man was far too much of an overthinker to ever let any resentment build. he had 100% daydreamt about everything that could ever go wrong between the two of you, five million times, already. jason todd was the kind of person to fantasize about your hypothetical breakups, in 17 different scenarios with 34 different outcomes, and cry in the shower.

the kitchen had a collection of whimsical clay mugs jason had found in thrift stores for you, over the years, because you had an obsession for them. you loved pretty mugs and your sweet boyfriend loved seeing your pretty smile.

one of the living room walls was slightly indented from your elbow, almost unnoticeable, because jason had held you up on his shoulders this once and love-drunkenly worshipped your dripping cunt with his greedy mouth. you two had ended up on the hardwood floor afterwards, grinning and laughing over the state of the wall and how fucking reckless it had been. jason was a messy eater.

it was a mutual choice to not fix the wall after that. you two didn't really care for having a presentable apartment. no one except for roy, damian or dick ever visited anyway.

your bedside drawer treasured all the love letters you'd received from your extremely obsessed boyfriend over the years. he still wrote those to you occasionally. jason did not give a fuck that you two literally live together. he'd write you love letters, pouring his heart out, til his bones gave out.

and in that very drawer resided your small handgun that you quietly took out after hearing footsteps in the living room. jason usually used the bedroom window to get inside. you made sure the gun was loaded and stalked out in the dark.

the silhouette of the person was shorter and leaner than your boyfriend.

“it's oka–” he was saying in the dark and you brought the back of your handgun to his head and slammed it, hard, knocking him clean out on the floor.

“tt, what have you done.” said another voice from the window, “this is going to cost us significant time.”

you gasped to see damian and then looked down at the other vigilante alarmingly to realize you had just made dick grayson pass out. they were both in their vigilante clothes. you knelt down beside dick’s body and gently slapped his cheek, “oi, dick, wake up, holyshit–” you glared back at damian, “we have a front door, y’know. ever thought of taking an elevator?”

“no,” damian unironically answered and you let out an irritated groan.

dick stirred, frowning “what just happened–?”

“ric darling, is that you?” you freaked out, “awh, shucks, kory is going to murder me.”

“what–” dick sat up on the floor, rubbing the side of his head, “no, no, i remember who i am. nobody's gonna murder you. but what the fuck, dude, ouch-!” he dramatically complained, “i’ve a history of dying from head injuries in the multiverses y’know.”

“are you fucking serious?” you frowned, horrified.

“nah,” he shrugged, “i dunno shit. your horrified face is funny though.” he pointed at your face, clarifying that he was only joking, and you annoyedly slapped his hand away.

“grayson we're not here to chit chat.” damian reminded his older brother, “we're here to steal todd’s laptop.”

you pointed the gun at dick’s thigh, “yeah, good luck going through me. i’m not giving you anything unless you've jason’s explicit permission and proof of that.”

“the joker's escaped arkham again.” dick sighed, explaining to you, “jason went after him alone. apparently he has friends in the asylum?” he made a face.

“hey, hey, daddy bats does, too.” you threw your hands up theatrically, “don't you dare judge my boyfriend.”

“yeah, well, he found out before any of us and went after the pennywise-wannabe alone. and his comms went silent half an hour ago. neither oracle or red robin can track him or the joker down.” he paused, “i know you freaks track each other, so get me his fucking laptop.” dick ordered, “right. now.”

you were already scrambling and going into your bedroom, opening the vault and taking jason’s laptop out. dick and damian followed you inside. you threw the laptop at dick’s face and he caught it without breaking a sweat.

you went inside your closet and locked the door behind. stripping out of your clothes and pulling on your vigilante suit.

“what's the password?” dick asked from the bedroom.

“it's my birthday.” you answered.

“what year were you born in?”

you shouted him the year and zipped up your suit, before unlocking the door and marching outside. damian had a bunch of codes loading on the laptop.

“got it. he's in an abandoned hospital near the old tunnels.” he said.

“oh, this guy,” you groaned, but anxiety was written all over your face.

you were not going to be late. you couldn't be late. he was pretty reckless for a man so clever. oh, fucking fuck. you were going to torture and kill the joker if something happened to your jason again. you weren't sixteen and a whole ocean away this time.

you stalked through the burning building. nightwing, batman and robin had agreed on splitting up into groups of two. bruce had given you a mask to survive through the smoke. nightwing was your partner.

you could hear them fighting. you could hear mad cackles and furious movements, but they were coming from all directions.

suddenly it all stopped and your heart dropped to your stomach. but then a door burst open and the joker bolted out, “run!!! dearie!! run!!! hood is a mad man!! hood is crazy!!” he cried, hurried on his feet and you kicked him across the chest, slamming him into the opposite wall hard.

joker wheezed and slumped to the ground. and you stepped onto his good hand breaking it. his other arm’s bone had slid out through the elbow, jason’s doing, no doubt, “you better not have laid a finger on him or else the funniest joke in this city is going to be your closed casket funeral.” you ground out, foot on his throat now, putting just enough pressure on his windpipe.

“holy fucking–” nightwing came to a stop behind you, “hey, i’m loving the show and all that, but the building is kinda burning down. get hood, please.”

you released the joker, “get this parasite out of my sight.” you ordered and ran towards the room he'd just escaped.

smoke and fire clouded the room, but you were quick to spot jason on his hands and knees trying to take something out of the wall. then you heard the meowings.

“there's a cat?” you asked, urgently reaching behind him.

jason startled and looked back at you, “what the fuck are you doing here—?”

“i came to get you, of course.” you said, snapping at him, “and we're going to discuss why i wasn't informed of this first. nightwing’s got the joker. don't worry. now the cat-”

he sighed, surrendering, “there's a family of strays.” he said, as you knelt beside him, “get the kittens out, yeah?” he instructed you, “i’ve got the mama.”

you nodded, squeezing past his body. the mother cat was huge and terrifying looking. she kept clawing at jason’s gloved hands and hissing, baring her fangs. jason crowded her, so that she couldn't hurt you while you got her three fragile babies out and into your arms. once the kittens were safely secured, jason grabbed the cat and you two ran for it. not wanting for the kittens and the cat to inhale any more of the smoke or tolerate any more of the heat.

as you ran, the mother cat bit onto jason’s wrist.

“jay–”

“‘s alright. she's just scared and hurt. ‘m alright.” he reassured you, holding the cat against his chest better, and kicked a door down to make a shortcut for you two.

soon the two of you were outside. a firefighters truck was already there, alongside with gcpd vehicles. batman was talking to commissioner gordon, he shot jason a relieved look. and then he noticed the bunch of furchildren in your arms and looked at robin, who was busy talking to nightwing, cautiously.

you looked at your boyfriend and sniffled. he was okay. you hadn't been useless again. he was okay. not that he needed you this time. but it was still a relief to make it to him in time. the cat was purring in jason's arms now, settled. and you handed the kittens to an approaching officer before wrapping your arms around jason’s side.

“you're okay.” you mumbled against his shoulder, “you're really okay.”

his helmet pressed against the top of your head, as he gently petted the cat, “i’m so fucking sorry for worrying you, sweetheart. i just had to–”

“had to make sure he was locked up again before he could leave a trail of bodies behind first?” you said, “yes, i know, my love. i’m really proud of you. i just wish you'd told me. you know i would have never stopped you. i would've helped–”

“i know. i know.” jason murmured, “you did help.” he gestured at the joker on a stretcher with his free hand.

you rolled your glassy eyes, and kissed his shoulder, “you never have to face your assailant alone. i’ve your back, jay. please know that.”