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glorified-red · 1 year

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Locks & Cake Pops (Damian Wayne x Reader x Jon Kent)

summary: Gotham was a scary place when the sun went down. One terrifying encounter with a stranger left you completely worn thin. Thankfully, your boys were more than prepared to come find you.

word count: 4,800~

warnings: panic attack, paranoia, vague & very short description of encountering a scary stranger (none explicit to what happened, by whom, or by any gender. Only specification is that it's a conversation and Reader is hesitant around touch), paranoia to violence or potential violence, constant paranoia of not being safe

Y'all called me a main character and I think the people writing my story took that as a CHALLENGE. The amount of plot I went through today??? I swear, fics really do write themselves, huh?

Shout out to @quillsareswords for planting the Poly Fic seed in my head with her fics until I couldn't NOT write one. And shout out to @unmotivatedwrit3r for being my Jon today and @uni-magi-nation for being my Damian because guess what lads, this fic is based on a true story!! As are most of my fics anyway, so please, enjoy the events that happened less than 12 hours ago ;P

You could pinpoint the exact moment your day had derailed.

It wasn’t until the sun had just barely started to slip beneath the horizon. Nearly ten hours of joy all crashed in one single moment. It was one decision. A single foot placement was the difference between coming home safe and the disaster that befell you currently.

One foot placement was all it took and your entire world crumbled from above you.

You almost wondered if your foot pivoted slightly to the east, if you took the path to your right instead of your left, would you still be in this position? Would you be here, clinging to your next breath as if it was your last?

But alas, you traveled west to your car. The path you took was slightly dimmer than the other in the middle of dusk. Less people, less crowds . . . less witnesses.

That one decision landed you in an inescapable exchange of words. Whether you made it home was a decision you no longer had control of, it was now placed in the hands of a stranger—a person who thrived on the rush of feeling a life beat in the palm of their hands.

Your feet were placed on a track alongside them, desperately trying to find a way out. But each pivot was either too late or too suspicious, all you could do was play along like some kind of puppet. Eventually the rush simmered and the paths diverged, they split off into two distinct directions, and you were free.

You didn’t bother to care when your feet pounded against the ground one after another. They did their job, they took you to where your brain had decided you needed to go despite you not truly being a part of that conversation. You let your instincts take over, the adrenaline high of blazing through empty sidewalks and burning passed streetlamps flickering on for the first time that night.

Your breath faded into the air with each step, a resounding huff of forced exhales as your legs ached from the pace. Before you knew it, your world tilted on its axis as your brain and body fully disconnected. Tunnel vision took over your view, the only thing in sight was the faraway gleam of steel and vinyl.

You slammed the car door behind you, fully encasing you in a carbon cage. It felt like a cage in all senses of the word. You were suffocated inside the doors of your own safety, hating how your only semblance of security was in a man-made product that could fail within a moment—that could be broken into with just the thought of doing so.

You heard the satisfying click of the doors locking, never realizing your fingers jumped to the button the second they could. That sound meant safety, that sound meant you would be okay.

Electrons slipped past connections and you couldn't properly process anything aside from the steering wheel in front of you and the sharp polyester strap cutting across your chest. Your next exhale was steady and long, a pitiful attempt at self-soothing. Even with the length of the breath, the shakiness behind it was so easy to hear in the silence of the cage.

You gripped the steering wheel with both hands, twisting your grip along the rim until you could feel the bite in your palms. You brought yourself back one cell at a time. It started with the pads of your fingers tapping against the polyurethane, then your palms rubbing against the grooves and curves of the wheel, then your hands were gripping at your arms until feeling returned to them slowly. You thawed out your own body seconds at a time.

You breathed again.

Then the car had started and you drove away.

You could remember the exact moment you realized this was much deeper than mere disassociation. Your eyes were filled with red lights and your ears buzzed with the sound of passing cars. It started in your chest, a small hum of warning deep in the confines of your ribcage.

The death rattle had started inside you and only got louder the longer your hands stayed connected to the prison bars. The hum turned into a storm of pyrocumulonimbus as your foot pressed into the gas, each breath of oxygen only fueled the fire burning at the edges of your lungs.

You fought so hard against the impending doom of it all. You just wanted to go home. You wanted to come home and beeline straight for—not safety—comfort; you wanted to remind yourself that touch wasn’t something to be scared of; you wanted to remind yourself that you were safe—that everything was going to be okay.

But instead your breath quickened into a terrifying speed and you had no choice but to pull over into the nearest complex with well-lit parking spaces and bustling activity at its front doors. Your car clicked off and your fingers immediately reached for the lock icon at your side.

You pressed it once to hear the simultaneous click of four doors locking in tandem.

Leaning against the plush seat, you tried to breathe properly. Your hands gripped at the seatbelt across your chest, both hating and adoring the pressure it forced against your body.

You pressed it twice to remind yourself the doors were locked.

Gripping the strap, you didn’t mind the way the edges dug into your palms as you bent it in on itself. It was tight against you, just enough to keep you present. The hands of sharply woven polyester forced you to stay conscious in reality, they didn’t dare let you slip between the cracks and fall into dissociation.

You pressed it a third time, the same click resounding in your ears.

Suddenly you felt too suffocated. You could feel the bottom of the wheel on your knees and the lanyard of your keys against your thigh.

The clicks reversed as you tumbled out of the car.

Fresh air hit your entire body and the fire raging in your chest worsened tenfold. You were exposed—you were vulnerable. You slammed yourself back into the car. A blink and you were in the backseat this time.

The carved metal of a key dug into your fingers while you clutched it like a lifeline. Your hand reached for your phone before you could process anything else. Your other clicked the lock icon once more and the entire car fell into darkness.

⋘⋙

Damian didn’t remember falling asleep but when a human sized heater was laying across his chest, it never took long for his exhaustion to get tired of being ignored.

He was slightly annoyed, arguably moreso, when the heater in question jerked upright. Damian’s eyes snapped open. “Watch it,” he groaned, sleep still affecting the timbre in his voice. Hands dug uncomfortably into his stomach and he pushed them away.

“Sorry, sorry,” the kryptonian apologized from above him. “I just . . .” he trailed off.

That got his attention.

His eyes focused on the alert expression on his lover’s face. Jon shifted upright completely, still straddling Damian’s thighs. His eyes were distant, looking off into the window at the other side of the room.

“What’s wrong?” Damian asked, finding himself slightly propped up onto his elbows.

“Y/n,” Jon replied, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. The way he said your voice was just as distant as his gaze, almost like his voice was nothing but an exhale. He blinked, looking down and glaring so hard at Damian’s upper body that Damian almost took offense.

“Their heartbeat,” he said, confusion lacing his voice as he tried to focus on the thum of your beat, “it’s . . . different.”

“Different,” Damian echoed. He would’ve been annoyed at the vague answer if he wasn’t aware both him and Jon were currently barely awake and therefore, barely functioning (Damian more so than Jon, of course). “What do you mean different?”

Kryptonian powers were always so finicky. He always thought so, but meeting Jon? This man was evidence in itself that powers were annoying at best. Damian watched as Jon developed each new power slowly at the most inconvenient times, mind you. And now, years after being the Man Of Steel, Jon’s powers still went berserk.

Damian couldn’t even count on his fingers how many sensory overloads he’s guided Jon through—and he’d do it all over again if he had to.

Jon shook his head. “It’s just different.” He shrugged.

“You woke me up because it’s just different?” Damian deadpanned.

Jon glared down at him. “This isn’t exactly an exact science, you know.”

Damian sighed and slid back down until his upper back hit the mattress once more. “Is it going faster? Skipping a beat?” he prompted, trying his best to shake the grogginess from his body without letting paranoia fester in its place.

Heartbeats always worried Damian. He ended up assuming the worst. But with a Kryptonian tracing them so often, he realized that different didn’t necessarily mean bad. You could have raised your hand in class, forgot your keys, or missed a step down the stairs and your heart lurched. That was enough to perk Jon’s ears. You could have been stressed so your heart rate was elevated. Maybe even tired which made it drag.

Despite his own fears, Damian kept reminding himself that there's more of a chance that you were fine than not, especially when he was currently talking to a sleep deprived kryptonian who announced heartbeat changes all the time. The idea of getting away with any kind of anxiety while around that golden retriever was stupid and incredibly naive—Damian gave up after a year of Jon’s super-hearing kicking in.

“You’re anxious.”

“Shut up.”

“You should probably—”

“I said shut up.”

Jon spoke up: “It definitely jumped and it’s been slightly faster than normal ever since.” His head tilted slightly to the side to listen better—Damian couldn't help but picture a tiny puppy doing the same and its ear flopping over. “It’s getting steadily faster. I think . . . I think they’re driving?”

Damian’s eyes furrowed. He reached for his phone as Jon continued. “Definitely driving,” he settled on. “I can hear their car.”

“Maybe they almost got into an accident,” Damian mumbled in thought, setting a personal reminder in his brain to berate you for speeding later. His phone clicked on and his eyes saw his blurry home screen. He blinked the image into focus. When his eyes could properly trace over the smiles on you and Jon’s faces, he looked at the time.

It was earlier than he thought.

Jon’s hands fiddled with the hem of Damian’s sleep shirt, the compression material stretching slightly to accommodate the movement. “Maybe,” Jon gnawed at his bottom lip. “I didn’t hear anything like that though, just normal traffic.”

Damian hummed. “They were at the library today. I didn’t expect them to head home so soon.” His fingers opened your contact. “Did they text you that they were heading home?”

Jon leaned across the bed to reach for his phone on the nightstand. Damian resisted a snark at how uncomfortable the shift was with the unnecessary knee to the side.

Jon fiddled with his phone for a moment. “Nope, nothing.”

Damian opened his mouth to supply another sentence of rationale when two things happened simultaneously: In an instant, Jon’s phone slipped from his hands and ricocheted right off of his stomach. (“Ow!”) Then Damian’s ringtone sounded throughout the entire bedroom, bouncing off the walls and reverberating into their tired brains.

The fear written on Jon’s face was enough for Damian to pick up on the first ring.

“Y/n?” he asked. Jon’s fingers clutched at his shirt.

“Hey,” you responded. There was a crackle over the line but Damian couldn’t tell if it was your voice or the shitty internet.

“Are you okay?” Damian was blunt, cutting straight through any attempt at small talk. How could he not when Jon was currently mouthing “panic attack” at him and poking his ribcage.

You hesitated enough for Damian to shoo Jon off of him. Both boys tumbled out of the massive bed in varying degrees of grace.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re dodging the question,” Damian slid on a pair of pants and made his way down the stairs. “What’s wrong? And don’t say it’s nothing because I have a human sized Holter monitor that would beg to disagree.”

Jon tumbled behind, no doubt using some kind of kryptonian flare to gather all the necessary items to drive to you.

“Can you both meet me here, I—” you cut off, if Damian strained, he could hear your rampant breathing. “I need you.” You choked, “No—No capes.”

Damian breathed in slowly and exhaled through his mouth. The keys and wallets were already floating into his pockets as he opened the front door.

No capes.

It was a valid request. It was a request both Jon and Damian had come to appreciate overtime. No need for heroics, no need for perfection, no need for theatrics—you just needed your partners, as they were.

That was a level of normalcy that was so rare in this lifestyle. As much as it would be miles quicker with Jon’s flight or even his grapple gun, he respected the thought process behind the decision. You just wanted your boys, that was all.

Car doors slammed shut and Damian was already behind the wheel making his way to you. “We’re on our way.” He felt a poke to his bicep. Jon motioned towards the phone, opening and closing his hand in request. “I’m going to pass the phone to Jon. He’s going to stay on the line until we reach you, okay?”

Damian barely waited for your small “ok” before handing the phone off. He didn’t bother to fill Jon in on the conversation, it was obvious he was already listening intently.

“Hey, sunshine.” Jon pointed directions out and Damian followed. No need for maps when you have a super-hearing alien who knows exactly where you are just by the sounds of traffic and the volume of your heartbeat. “We’re coming as fast as we can. Just give us ten minutes and we’ll be there with you.”

Damian focused on driving, the one thing he could do at this moment. He was tactical, he was useful. Jon was the comforting one; Jon was the one who could navigate emotionally tense situations with ease. So he gripped the steering wheel tighter and made sure he got to you safely.

Strengths. All three of you had them just as you all had weaknesses. But the beauty of your triad came from how perfectly your strengths filled each others’ weaknesses. You lifted each other up, and when you couldn’t, it was easy to lean on one another.

So Jon handled the comfort, Damian handled the logistics.

Words of affirmations flew out of Jon’s mouth in a way that Damian used to envy. Now, he found it endearing. He has his own strengths and that’s okay.

“Just ten minutes, baby. Ten minutes and everything will be okay, I promise.”

Red lights glared down at Damian.

“Breath with me. In and out, just like that. Keep doing that.”

Stop signs seemed taller than usual, more demeaning.

“You’re gonna be alright. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now but you’ll be okay soon, you just gotta hang in there for us.”

Brakes screeched against the pavement.

“I'm so proud of you, you’re so brave right now. No, don’t be like that. You’re so strong, you’ll get through this, I swear.”

His fingers tapped against the gear shift impatiently.

“Are the doors locked? Yea? That’s good. You did good—so good.”

He heard you sob into the receiver and his heart twisted painfully.

“You’re safe. No one can get to you right now without your consent. Just keep telling yourself that: no one can get in, no one can reach you, you’re safe.”

His foot finally hit the gas.

“You’re alright, sweetheart. You're okay. You did everything right—yes you did. Yes, Y/n. You got to safety, you pulled over, you locked the doors, and you called us. You did everything right.”

He made a right and then a left.

“Five more minutes, bub. Just five more minutes. Keep breathing. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be right there with you.”

He was trapped behind a slow Jeep—he switched lanes.

“Yea? Grab the jacket and hold it tight. I’d rather you hold that. Just a few more minutes and that jacket will be replaced with us, alright?”

Yellow lights always annoyed him the most.

“We’re coming, I promise. We’re coming.”

He swerved into the complex, not caring if he cut someone off in the process.

“We’re pulling in right beside you. That car is us so don’t be scared. It’s just us, baby.”

Damian clicked off the car and tumbled out with Jon quick to follow suit. He always forgot how much Jon used pet names as he rambled through words of reassurance. He was sure it was some kind of nervous tick Jon had, a way for him to soothe both himself and the other person. It could also just be a habit of his mouth speaking far faster than his brain, but the nicknames flowed out of him so fast either way.

“You gotta let us in, love. We can’t help from out here.” Jon’s hand gently rested on the glass window to the backseat. Damian motioned towards the building in front of the car, Jon nodded in response, already knowing his thought process far before Damian’s feet started moving backwards.

Focus on his strengths. Focus on what he can do. Focus on that.

The car doors unlocked and the boys split up.

⋘⋙

You were huddled in the backseat for what felt like hours and milliseconds all at once. Every time your breaths evened, your brain fizzled out with it until you couldn’t feel anything aside from the car key scraping against your palm and the plastic door digging into your spine.

Legs pulled into your chest, phone to your ear, and arms wrapped around a hoodie long since stolen for your backseat, you waited. You tried to bury your nose in the scent of pine and peppermint, a tanglement of your home—your boys—but it never fully sunk into your comprehension.

Your empty hand grasped at the plush cotton in a sour attempt at bringing yourself back up. Unfortunately, the second you were brought back to awareness, your breathing spiked. Every distant voice, every shifting shadow, even the cars passing by in the nearby road—it all screamed danger into your head until you struggled to breathe.

Even in this locked prison, you still felt too exposed. You were miles from home and miles from safety, how could you not?

The doors are locked.

You’re safe.

No one can come in without your permission.

They’re coming.

When a car pulled beside yours, a familiar tint of windows and gleam of dark steel, you fought all of your instincts to run, to hide, to scream.

The doors are locked.

You’re safe.

No one can come in without your permission.

They’re here.

It took every ounce of your willpower to allow your finger to press the open lock icon after pressing the locked one over and over again for what felt like an eternity.

“Y/n,” Jon sighed out in relief. The call ended and what once was a distant voice was now a full fledged being.

“Please close the door,” you sobbed out, feeling nothing but claws of terror scratch up your chest the longer the door stayed open. Jon instantly complied, shutting the door as gently as he could without slamming it.

The doors instantly locked again.

“Can I touch you?” he started with. He didn’t bother asking if you were okay or asking what you needed, it would be pointless. You weren’t okay and asking what you needed when you were so clearly in peril would just put unnecessary weight onto your shoulders when he should be taking it off.

Your hands fisted into the fabric, fingers swimming amongst the mountain of cotton. “I-I,” you choked on an inhale, “I don’t know.”

And how could you? Sometimes touch was a blessing, a craving nothing else could satiate. Sometimes touch was the only way to bring you back all the way: it was grounded as was it weighted, it was nice.

But sometimes touch was terrifying, a pressure of what if tangled in previous experiences. Sometimes touch was the only thing that terrified you the most: after such a night, how could you possibly feel safe with an ounce of contact?

“Okay,” Jon said quickly, not wanting to make you feel worse about your own indecision. “What if we try? I’ll pull away the second you tell me to, pinky swear.”

He even raised his pinky to solidify the statement. If you weren’t miles deep into a panic attack and hundreds of tears worn, you probably would have laughed. Instead, you nodded, a jerky movement that shifted the fabric around your face.

“I’m gonna place my hand on top of your knee, real slow. You tell me if you don’t want it there anymore.” He looked into your eyes with his vibrant blue bells. His face was so sure, so confident, but the edges of his face were hardened with worry. He really couldn’t hide his emotions around you.

You nodded once more. You saw your own quickened breaths more than you felt them, the shadows off to your right reflecting the rise and fall of your chest.

Jon’s hand was raised slightly above your knee and he hesitated just enough for you to track his movements. Then it was nothing but a light touch of fingertips, then fingers, then a palm, and then an entire hand.

Despite his slow, deliberate movements, you still flinched. It was a whole-body jerk that started with pulling your legs closer to you and ended with your shoulders hitching upwards. Jon bit the inside of his cheek at the reaction, ignoring the way it dug into his heart a little too deep for his own sanity.

He kept his hand there even when your body’s instinctual reaction screamed for him to pull back. Jon waited for your words, but more importantly, he waited for you to settle into the touch or comprehend that you didn’t want it anymore—whichever ended up happening.

Luckily, it was the former. Your shoulders pressed back into the door behind you and your head leaned against the car seat. Your feet unhooked at the ankles and relaxed.

“Do you want more touch or is this enough for now?”

You felt the heat radiate from his palm, it fought against the storm of fire boiling in every fiber of your being. It also fought against the sheet of ice that threatened to separate you from the rest of the world. It was enough.

“ ‘s good for now,” you breathed in shakily. Trying to match the rise and fall of the chest in front of you.

Jon looked off to the side and squinted into the darkness. “Damian’s on his way back.” His thumb absent-mindedly rubbed against your knee slowly and in a small movement. It was so small you barely would’ve realized it if your knee wasn’t at eye level. “You’ll have to let him in soon.”

Your eyes flickered over to just beyond your car and into the entrance to the building—the cafe—where Damian had started walking out of. You had a moment or two to emotionally prepare yourself to unlock those doors.

You struggled on your next breath and Jon heard it. He returned his gaze to you. “Breathe, baby. It’s just Dami. You can lock the doors immediately afterwards.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded, hating the way your breathing sped up slightly as you clicked the open lock. Gears shifted and the reversal of the click was impossibly loud against your muddled brain.

The door in front of you swung open and Jon pulled Damian inside before closing the door as soon as possible. You found your thumb pressing the lock button the second you heard the car door close. You never once felt the hand on your knee leave and you silently thanked Jon’s perceptiveness.

Opening your eyes, you were met with Damian’s emerald eyes looking at you with as much concern as those eyes could ever truly show. Jon had somehow found his way squished in between the seats and middle console, half debating if he should just sit on the floor or on the console. Damian sat across from you with his hands full of drinks and food.

He offered you the blend of sugar and ice to which you took without much hesitation. Your head was pounding. You could hear your heartbeat in your ear and you could feel it in your temples. It was unbearably hot with pain.

“I got your usual,” Damian said, “just the way you like it.”

You sniffled, already feeling the fire inside swirl into dissipation. “No inclusions?” you asked in a small voice.

“No inclusions,” he reassured you.

“The base?”

“Lemonade, not water.”

You opened your mouth to ask another question but Damian was quick to read your mind. He lifted up a straw still wrapped in its plastic casing. “Yes, I got you a straw.”

For the first time that night, you smiled. It was small, twitchy, and faded just as quick as it came, but it was still better than the choked off sobs from earlier over the phone.

Damian opened the top of the straw for you and you held out your drink for him to place it inside. Your hands were so shaky it was difficult to even hold the large drink (because of course he got you the biggest size), let alone have enough dexterity to open a straw.

“I also bought cake pops,” he lifted up the three brown bags of parchment that held your sugary treat. He knew you so well you swore he was a mind reader. Your hands were shaking from panic but also from how low your energy levels were from using every ounce of it to breathe.

Damian lifted the first bag after peering inside. “Birthday cake.”

You snatched the bag.

“Chocolate.”

Jon did the same for his.

“And mine.” Damian set his bag in his lap and handed Jon his drink full of sugar.

Jon propped open the cup holders attached to the center console and set his drink inside, Damian was quick to set his water beside it.

You clutched your drink with both hands, enjoying the feeling of the cold condensation against your aching fingers. “Thank you.”

Damian hummed in response. It didn’t take long for his hand to find its way onto your other knee and this time, you didn’t end up flinching. You swore the presence of your two lovers was more than enough to calm any attack that found its way up to you. Tonight was proof of that.

“Your breathing is still too fast for my liking,” Damian spoke up. “Do you want to go through some breathing exercises?”

Both of the boys looked at you expectantly. You shrunk back slightly at the pressure before you shook your head. “Can . . .” you breathed in to reassure yourself—your request was okay, you’re voicing your needs, you’re valid—“Can you guys just distract me?”

They shared a look between each other and Jon ended up speaking up first: “Go ahead, Dami. Distract them.”

“Why do I have to?” Damian demanded, “You’re obviously better at running your mouth than I am.”

“Because I said so?”

“Because you said so,” Damian mocked, “Really? Do you honestly believe that holds any true merit in this household?”

Jon scoffed. “It does when you say it so why doesn’t it when I say it?”

“Because I’m better than you, obviously.”

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“Boys,” you giggled through the word. Your grip on your drink was loose and your legs uncurled slowly until they pressed into Damian’s shin. “While this is adorable, I just want to listen to you two talk, not bicker.”

One of them huffed from their nose and you genuinely couldn’t tell who—you’re half convinced they both did.

“Fine.” Damian’s free hand fell around the top of your shoe, his pinky brushing against your ankle. “Go ahead, genius. Tell our beloved what you did to the kitchen while making dinner tonight.”

Jon’s eyes widened slowly. “We agreed not to tell them,” he whisper-shouted.

Damian shrugged.

You turned to Jon with a fire behind your eyes.

“What did you do to my freshly cleaned kitchen?”

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

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