"Jason." Bruce sighs, for maybe the fifteenth time — and it's certainly not the insult, and more directed at his second oldest son.

And maybe a little bit at the oldest. He's guilty here, too.

The man gets a growl in response.

Jason has practically taken the den hostage, at this point. It's not the main den, but still. There's at least three dens in Wayne Manor anyway.

Blankets and pillows are arranged neatly into a nest — and Bruce ignores, for the moment, how proud he is of it — on the floor, various clothing items that were definitely either stolen or demanded woven within the fluff. Jason sits in the center, Dick plastered at his side with a grin as he preens at being allowed to sit so close.

Tim is all but passed out on Jason's other side. Completely. Damian, surely, would be stuffed into the nest— if he wasn't in Metropolis with Jon.

The reason this started at all is sitting innocently in Jason's lap; Bruce's newest ward.

{{user}} is younger than any of the other kids he's taken on, and with the added bonus of being an unpresented puppy has seemingly sparked something in Jason's omega instincts.

And now he won't let anyone touch the pup.

It's going to be a long night. And Bruce can't even call Alfred — the older gentleman would just tell him to figure it out.

He sighs, softens his voice as he crouches near the edge of the nest. "Jason, you can't keep the puppy all—"

Another growl.

The joys of his adoption problem.