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unmotivatedwrit3r · 1 year

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Red Sparks

damian wayne x reader x jon kent

(A/N): my apologies for being pretty MIA the last few months. My brain has been bouncing around hyperfixations, which is not helpful for when I want to write something to post. This is primarily a gift for @glorified-red, who will not know this fic exists until whenever they see this post, and who has been an amazing human overall and also helped me do a lot of brainstorming for fics yet to see completion. Since it’s a gift for the person who sometimes reads my stuff before I post, I’m the only one to have edited this. So apologies in advance for awful grammar and/or sentence structure. But I’m actually pretty happy with this one so I hope you all enjoy.

warnings: depiction of a sensory overload

wc: ~1500

Problems originating from sensory issues were not uncommon in your household, not when all three people living in it had different sensory needs. When you moved in together, there had been a very large amount of time spent cultivating the space that is your apartment. It was a safe haven. And soundproof. And safe even to a vigilante standard.

So, while problems originating from sensory issues weren’t uncommon, they tended to be less home-focused. Instead, the apartment was where the decompression from said sensory issues came in. And you knew that voice, even when it was pushed to the brink of overload.

“Jon?” You kept your voice quiet and shut the front door with as much delicacy as you could. It didn’t matter too much—he’d hear it as if you slammed it even so—but you did it anyway.

You typed out a message to Damian before sliding your phone back into your pocket. It was a heads up message rather than an SOS. You knew what to do. Damian was in the middle of a WE meeting about the animal shelter system he’d been trying to set up for years. If you needed him, you’d call.

Your shoes and bag hit the ground beside you quietly and you ventured further into the apartment. As you’d anticipated, Jon was in the bedroom. Even through closed eyes, red sparked through his eyelashes and pulsed at his temples. You stopped to grab a set of headphones before kneeling down in front of him. They didn’t cancel out everything—that was nearly impossible for someone with Jon’s hearing capacity—but they did take out a lot of higher and lower frequencies that neither you nor Damian could hear. Those frequencies were often a majority of Jon’s problem.

You lightly nudged Jon’s hands away from his ears with the headphones and he reacted quickly enough to startle you, yanking the headphones over his head and squishing his hands back to where they were, over the headphones this time. For the first time since you’d seen him, Jon took in a deep breath. You let yourself relax, lowering as quietly as you could to the floor beside him. Slowly, the red veins around Jon’s eyes receded.

You didn’t say anything even as you watched him, tracing the rise and fall of his chest and the ebb and flow of the tension in his jaw and shoulders. There were systems you all had now, practiced responses to handle the fallout of one of you pushed to overload. Depending on the reason for it, touch was either welcomed or the worst thing imaginable. Jon tended to want someone close by, but the choice of physical touch was always his.

Jon’s eyebrows scrunched together, head tilted to the side. You smiled. He’d figured out that it was you. Sure, he’d recognized a place of safety before, but the joy on Jon’s face when he spotted you or Damian was something that made your chest squeeze (pleasantly) every time.

“Hey,” he murmured, tensing as he spoke. There was a slight pause before he relaxed. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” you reassured. “Ten/fifteen minutes maybe? I wasn’t counting.”

Crystal-blue eyes opened under long, dark eyelashes. Between Jon’s Kryptonian genes and Damian’s Arab ones, your boys had some of the prettiest genuine eyelashes you’d ever seen.

“Hi,” you whispered, face cracking into a grin. Jon was squinting in the light.

“Hi,” he whispered back.

You opened your arms, asking a silent question. Jon shuffled over the few feet between you to instead sit in between your legs, winding his arms around you. Leaning back, you took his weight. Your back protested as it was pressed against the bed frame, but you ignored it. If it had gotten to the point of pain instead of discomfort, you’d move. Until then, you wanted to be the steadfast pillar of support Jon had always been for both you and Damian.

Jon’s head came to rest against your shoulder and you spent a few minutes just breathing with him as you ran your fingers through his hair, avoiding the bulky headphones still fixed firmly over his ears.

Your ribs protested as Jon tightened his grip and you tensed instinctively. He immediately let go, eyes flying open.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to-I-”

You grabbed his hands from where they were hovering awkwardly in the air between the two of you and pulled them close.

“It’s okay. I’m not hurt.”

“But you could-”

“But I’m not.”

Jon’s reluctance to look higher than your shoulders belied his unwillingness to believe you. You could almost feel the self-flagellation running through his head. It needed to be stopped before it could take root.

“Okay, I have an idea. You trust me?” Jon’s head snapped up at that.

“Always.”

You ignored the urge to pull him into a hug at that and tell him how much you love him. That wasn't what he needed. Instead, you stood up, tugging at your still connected hands. Your joints protested as you got up—too much time on the floor would do that to you—and you took a moment to stretch them out, Jon’s concerned gaze fixed on you the entire time.

“I’m alright, sweetheart, okay? You said you trust me.”

“I do,” Jon insisted.

“Okay then, trust that I’m telling you the truth. I just get stiff sometimes. Part of being human.”

You let go of one of his hands to instead cup his chin, pressing a kiss right underneath each of his eyes. They still shined a concerned clear blue. You loved his eyes—loved the eyes of both your boys.

Once you’d directed Jon to the living room couch, you grabbed a blue weighted blanket from the chair close by. “Grabbed” was generous; it was more like lugged. The blanket was 50lbs, the heaviest weight mass-produced. Most people bought it for a large bed, for couples. You and Damian had bought it for Jon.

It wasn’t until you’d gone for the blanket that Jon realized what you were doing. He reached for the blanket and wrapped it over his shoulders with ease.

“Be right back,” you murmured, and he nodded. In just a few moments, you returned in clothes more suited to couch lounging than the outside clothes you’d been wearing before. The weight difference as you sunk into the couch nearly tipped you into Jon. Kryptonians were heavy. They could also float.

Science was weird.

Jon righted the balance as he leaned into you, his head nudging into your stomach and pillowing on your thigh. You resumed stroking his hair with one hand and pulled out your phone with the other. Damian was on his way home. You were almost certain that Jon would be asleep by the time he arrived.

Twenty minutes later, the front door opened and shut quietly. Jon’s soft snores filled the living room as your eyes met Damian’s green-blues.

“My laptop?” You requested quietly, pointing to the bag you’d left by the door when you walked in. Damian retrieved it and walked over to hand it to you, then pulled his own out of his messenger bag and placed it on the coffee table. He bent down to press a kiss to the corner of your lips and to Jon’s forehead. The little bit of stubble across his jaw was rough under your palms as you stopped him before he pulled away, tipping his forehead to rest against yours.

“How’d the meeting go?” You asked, voice pitched low. You didn’t expect Jon to wake up for a few hours—sensory overloads always took a lot out of him—but you still didn’t want to be loud.

“Good. I’ll tell you both about it later.”

“Alright.” You ran your hand over his hair before going back to cup his jaw. Damian’s lips quirked up in a smile before he dipped down to press a kiss to your temple.

“Be right back,” he whispered. You nodded and Damian headed into the bedroom, returning quickly in black sweatpants—there was a Nightwing logo high up on one of the pant legs. They were Dami’s favorite sweatpants, a gift from Dick years ago—and with his laptop for casework. It was a somewhat bulky machine, though much improved from the first one years ago. You had one too, technically, but it was easier to get most of the detective-style work done on just one device most of the time.

“The docks case?” You wondered as Damian sat down on the couch next to you. His hand brushed over Jon’s cheek. A smile crossed his sleeping face and you melted. Damian’s eyes were bright with adoration.

“Timothy mentioned a new warehouse earlier today,” Dami said as he settled next to you. He propped the laptop open on his knee, thigh pressed fully against yours. “I think it might be the building we’ve been tracking for the last week.”

You hummed pensively, eyes searching the screen. On your other side, Jon slept on.