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𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁. ❛ [ ... ] then the 𝓼𝓮ℴ—太陽.———arrives, bringing light to a world where people had forgotten about what it felt like the warmth of natural light and its beauté, 光．❜
❛ＬＯＴＴＩＥ 行・の ˳༄ she/her ᯓ INFJ-T ᯓ 18 ᯓ Capricorn ᯓ Christian ᯓ Nightwing’s Dove, Red Hood’s bby girl, Dean Winchester’s wife ᥫ᭡ ❜
This is primarily somewhere where I like to write about one shots or little stories that contain Characters x readers (or maybe even OCs x readers too)! I want to build up my confidence in my writing skills and build my characters so that I feel more… well, happy, fulfilled before adulthood finally decides to hit me like a bullet train.
I would like to make some headcanons as well for my favorite characters (which I will make as soon as possible), so I can possibly use them for whenever I start up writing lovely things about characters that I’m hyper-fixating on!!
I also do have Autism and MRELD (Mixed receptive-expressive Language Disorder), but will that ever affect me? Hell no!!
Tysm for reading this!!
Rules
BYI
Because I’m trying to find my writing style, I will be revising A LOT… It will take me forever for me to make a one-shot, or just… writing in general. I lack energy and motivation a lot of times. So… if you wanna motivate me, please do!! <3
DNI
ABOUT SPAM-LIKING
ASK INBOX
Please don’t be shy… I love answering questions about anything, especially the fandoms I’m in! Requests are totally welcome too. I can’t always promise I’ll get to them right away since I struggle with motivation sometimes, but you’re always welcome to ask! The only thing I ask is, please, don’t send chain mail messages.
IMPORTANT LINKS
AO3
DISCORD
TOYHOUSE
NON-IMPORTANT LINKS
FANDOMS
DC (Mainly the Batfamily, but I wanna learn more about the other characters—especially Roy Harper!! <3)
TADC
Supernaturals ~ I’m only gonna watch season 1-5 bc that’s when it was originally supposed to end there, and I ain’t gonna watch a fever dream ngl
Call of Duty ~ I don’t know it very well, but I wanna learn
RESIDENT EVIL/BIOHAZARD ~ I LOVE CARLOS AND LEON <3
Lacey’s Flash Games ~ hehe… spooky :3
Dead Plate ~ I DON’T LIKE TOXIC RELATIONSHIPS… enough said
Cold Front ~ OMLLL MY TWO FAVORITE BBYS 😭
Marvel ~ Natasha and Wade… I LOVE THEM BOTH SM
ALNST ~ I HEARD THERE WAS MANGA… SHOW ME RN ☺️🫵
MHA ~ I just like Bakugo… that’s it 😭
FNAF ~ Enough said, I like the original game, and I like Sister Location
Stardew Valley ~ I JUST GOT THE GAME ON 2025 CHRISTMAS AND I’M SO EXCITED TO PLAY IT OML
TMNT ~ ALR, it’s a stupid pleasure of mine that I watched when I was ten and stupid, especially the 2012 one, but I’m curious about the newest show
Spider-Verse ~ I LOVE EVERYONE’S SPIDERSONAS AND THE MOVIES OML
Mouthwashing ~ bro… DAISUKE IS MY FAV—ALSO… FUCK JIMMY
Welcome Home ~ I stopped it for a bit… but now I’m lost in the lore because I wasn’t there for the updates for… months 😭
Coryxkenshin ~ that’s right… I’M A SAMURAI—IDC IF IT IS OR ISN’T A FANDOM, BUT I LOVE THIS MAN SM
The Amazing World of Gumball
Httyd
Caroline
Undertale
Marcus the Warm… THE ROCK IS PISSING ME OFF
Smiling Friends
Poppy Playtime ~ I really hate Poppy NOTHING CAN CHANGE MY MIND OTHERWISE
OMLLLL HOW DID I NOT SEE THIS?? I LOVE THESE KINDS OF THINGS HEHEH
…Idk the blonde girl and the black hair dude that looks like a wanna be version of a gamer, but…. HEH, I GUESS IF IT’S THE FIRST 6 IMAGES, I 100% BET IT’S ACCURATE BC I LOVE RODRICK, JINX, AND HERMESSS >:D
tagging (no pressure OFCC!!) @spacegvtz, @gglouise, @starheavenly2000, @spacegvtz, @zayluvz
Y’ALL I’M SO SCREWED ‘CAUSE NOW I HAVE A NEW HYPERFIXATIONNNNNN 😭
I JUST MET THIS MOTHERFUCKER AN HOUR AGO AND I WOULD KILL EVERYONE IN THE ROOM AND THEN MYSELF FOR HIM (I’M JOKING I’M JOKING ISTG I AM)
BUT I SWEARRRRRRR HE HAS TO BE LIKE MY MOST TOXIC HYPERFIXATION I HAVE EVER HAD SINCE… WALLY DARLING (and no, I am not gonna talk about that stupid phase cause I was 14 and… idk ☺️✨)
BUT EVEN THEN… HE’S A SWEETHEART THAT MIGHT HAVE A LOVE OBSESSION DISORDER OR SMTH AND NOT AN ASSHOLE
AND SO… IF Y’ALL EVER COME ACROSS A FANFIC… MIGHT BE MADE BY ME
☻ ⁀➴ SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS : After a strange mishap during a case, Max finds himself stranded in the real world—alone, disoriented, and stuck in a different dimension. Meanwhile, a withdrawn teenage girl struggles through her everyday life, burdened by severe depression, isolation, and the crushing expectations of her overachieving parents. After an especially unbearable day at school, she stumbles across the “toy” rabbit—only for it to spring to life, leading to a chaotic and unsettling first encounter. Who knows how this will end.
꥟ ⁀➴ WORD COUNT/DURATION : 20,819 Characters ~ 3,325 Words
ᥫ᭡ ⁀➴ WARNINGS/CAUTIONS : Depression, Emotional Distress, Themes of Isolation, Parental Pressure, Bullying/Ostracization, Hurt/Comfort Dynamics, Reversed-Isekaied!Max, HINTS OF Freelance Husbands (I love them sm)!!
ඞ ⁀➴ NOTES : WOOO THE BEGINNING AND I AM REALLY GONNA ENJOY MAKING THIS SERIES!!
♱ ⁀➴ TAGS : Max the Lagomorph, Teen Reader, Platonic Relationship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Fluff, Father Figure Max, Depression Themes, Supernatural AU, Slow Burn Friendship
The sniffle that escaped your nose was soft, exhausted—the kind that comes after hours of stifling frustration, when your body betrays you just to remind you how worn down you really are. God, you wanted nothing more than to be home, to collapse into the quiet sanctuary of your room where the world couldn’t claw at you anymore.
The rain fell in a fine mist, clinging to the city like a second skin, turning the streets into slick ribbons of reflected neon and streetlamp glow. It wasn’t a downpour—just enough to dampen sound, swallowing the chatter of passersby into a muffled hum. Conversations bled together—snatches of phone calls, laughter, the rhythmic tap of hurried footsteps against wet pavement—all dissolving into white noise against the backdrop of your exhaustion.
You had good news and bad news, a duality that felt almost cruel in its predictability.
The good news: it was Friday. Spring Break stretched ahead, a brief reprieve from the grind, and your parents—brilliant, distant, perpetually occupied—would barely be home. The apartment would be yours, silent and sprawling, a rare pocket of freedom.
The bad news: that freedom was an illusion. Your weekend was already a graveyard of obligations—chores piling up like unmarked headstones, homework assignments looming like overdue epitaphs. Fail a class? Not an option. Not with parents who wore their academic laurels like armor, who studied the fabric of the universe while you struggled to stitch together a passing grade.
You tugged your jacket tighter, the material damp beneath your fingers, as a gust of wind sliced through the gaps in your clothing, needling your skin. The voices around you sharpened suddenly—too loud, too close—and you gritted your teeth against the sensory overload. Too much. Always too much.
Sometimes you wished the ground would just open up and take you. Not permanently—just long enough to forget, to sink into the quiet dark where no one expected anything from you.
Your parents weren’t cruel. They weren’t. But their disappointment was a language you’d learned to translate early—the way their arms stayed crossed instead of opening, the way their sighs carried the weight of a question you could never answer: Why aren’t you better?
Scientists, both of them. Matter. Multiverses. Hypothetical dimensions where the laws of physics might bend. You’d wondered, more than once, if somewhere out there was a version of you who didn’t feel like a failed experiment. Someone brilliant, beloved. Someone who made their parents and peers proud.
Or maybe you didn’t exist in those other worlds at all. Maybe this was the only one where you got to be—this. Average. Isolated. A ghost in your own life, haunting the halls of a school that felt less like an education center and more like purgatory. The kids there carved their cruelty into you with precision—nicknames that stung worse than a slap, laughter that followed you like a shadow.
You exhaled, fogging the air in front of you, and adjusted your bag on your shoulder. The bus would’ve been faster, but you’d chosen to walk. The rain was worth it if it meant avoiding the sneers, the whispered jabs, the way the seats always seemed to empty around you. Hypothermia was preferable than heated glares.
As you walked, you inventoried the weekend ahead—laundry, vacuuming, the mountain of assignments you’d been avoiding. The apartment would be empty. Quiet. Your parents would check in, of course, but it would be late, perfunctory. A text. A creak of the door past midnight, long after you’d pretended to be asleep.
You missed them, sometimes. Even when they were home, they weren’t there, always half-lost in equations and theories. When was the last time they’d really seen you?
The thought curled like smoke in your chest, bitter and familiar, and you barely noticed as the crowd thinned around you, footsteps fading until yours were the only ones left echoing against the wet concrete.
Time dragged, as it always did when you were alone with your thoughts. Spring Break. Freedom. A joke, really.
Then—sound.
Not the usual city noise, but something wrong—a warping, resonant hum that vibrated in your teeth before it even registered in your ears. You clapped your hands over them instinctively, wincing as the sound crescendoed, sharp enough to border on pain.
From the mouth of a nearby alley, a glow pulsed—unnatural, electric—casting jagged shadows against the brick walls. Your body screamed to run, but your feet stayed rooted, curiosity a hook in your ribs.
The hum cut off abruptly, leaving a silence that rang louder than the noise.
Then—impact. A thud, heavy and wet, like something hitting a dumpster at speed. A curse, sharp and startled, before—
Silence again.
You blinked.
"...What the hell?"
The street was empty. No heads turned. No shouts of alarm. Just you, the rain, and the lingering sense that something had happened, something that no one else had noticed.
A sigh shuddered out of you, frustration warring with dread. You didn’t want to investigate. You didn’t. But the alternative—walking away, pretending you hadn’t seen—felt worse.
Your feet moved before you could second-guess them, carrying you toward the alley’s mouth. Curiosity killed the cat, sure—but maybe, just this once, it wouldn’t kill you.
Or maybe it would.
You stepped into the dark.
The alley exhaled its stale breath against your cheeks as you hesitated at the threshold—a thick, metallic exhalation that carried the iron tang of rusted pipes and the stagnant musk of rainwater left to fester in forgotten crevices.
The ambient hum of the city didn't fade behind you so much as snap like a taut wire, severed by some invisible demarcation where sound went to die. Even the rain lost its rhythm here, its patter against the skeletal fire escapes above sounding muffled, warped, as if filtered through layers of wet gauze.
Your pulse fluttered against your throat like a trapped moth.
"Hello?"
The word dissolved into the quiet air almost immediately, swallowed whole by the oppressive stillness that clung to the alley's walls like grime. No echo. No response. Just the slow drip of water from a broken gutter somewhere overhead.
A breath escaped you—part nervous laughter, part resigned sigh. Investigating strange occurrences in shadowed alleys ranked somewhere between "spectacularly bad life choices" and "how urban legends got started." Yet here you were, soles scraping against pavement slick with decades of accumulated filth, stepping deeper into the gloom despite every survival instinct screaming at you to turn back.
The air thickened with each step, growing warmer—not the comforting warmth of shelter, but the cloying, oppressive heat of a fever dream. Your skin prickled beneath it, damp with something that wasn't entirely sweat.
Then something white and odd caught your eye.
A crumpled form near the alley's far wall, half-concealed behind a toppled crate. Your stomach lurched before your brain could fully process the shape.
"—Shit."
You were moving before conscious thought could intervene, sneakers splashing through shallow puddles, heart hammering against your ribs. Your mind conjured horrors—broken limbs, wet gasps, the coppery stench of blood—but as the distance closed, the silhouette resolved into something smaller.
A rabbit.
Not flesh and blood, but plush fabric, its once-white fur darkened by rainwater, one ear bent at a grotesque angle where it had struck the pavement. The sight should've been reassuring. It wasn't.
You crouched slowly, knees protesting the damp concrete. Up close, the rabbit was all wrong. As far as you could see, there wasn’t any stitching or lining to show where each limb has been sewn. Its face lacked the vacant sweetness of childhood companions; instead, its expression held a quiet, unsettling intensity, like it had been frozen mid-snarl.
"...What the hell?"
Your fingers hovered above it, trembling slightly. The rabbit's fur was damp beneath your touch, but beneath that…
….The white pile had the springy resilience of real animal fur, dense and slightly oily beneath your fingertips. Your stomach lurched—had someone skinned a—?
Heat.
Faint, flickering, but unmistakably alive. You recoiled as if burned.
"Nope. Absolutely not."
You turned on your heel, ready to sprint away, pretend that you never stumbled across this, and you could try and enjoy the one week break without worrying you stole someone’s stuffed animal.
But your body betrayed you, unsurprisingly. You went still and reluctantly turned your head to stare at the short—albeit, its still a huge, and it reminds you of one of those prizes you never win, but you want to just because of the size—white stuffed creature.
You heaved a sigh, and walked back to it.
Lifting the rabbit, despite your better judgment, it weighed more than it should have—not by much, but enough to make your muscles tense with unease. Water dripped from its ears as you turned it over, revealing a patch of darker fabric on its chest. Not dirt. Not a stain.
A badge. Tiny, fraying at the edges, but unmistakable: a star-and-shield emblem, the kind worn by officers.
Police Freelance.
A laugh bubbled up your throat—high, unsteady, bordering on hysterical. "Okay. Sure. Why the fuck not."
The rabbit hung limp in your grip, its glass-bead eyes catching the distant glow of a streetlight, reflecting nothing. You told yourself it was just a discarded toy. That the warmth had been a trick of the damp air. That the badge meant less than nothing.
But when you shoved it into your backpack, the weight settled against your spine like a promise—or a threat.
~~~
The apartment swallowed you whole the moment you crossed the threshold. Not with warmth or familiarity, but with a silence so thick it pressed against your eardrums like cotton stuffed too deep. This wasn't the comfortable hush of well-worn solitude—it was the hollow vacuum of a space that had forgotten how to hold life. Even your breath sounded obscenely loud as you kicked the door shut behind you with more force than necessary.
"Home sweet home," you muttered to no one, tasting the bitter tang of irony on your tongue. Your backpack slid down your arm like a dead weight, hitting the hardwood with a dull thud that reverberated through the empty space. The sound lingered oddly, as if the apartment itself was reluctant to let it fade.
You stared at the bag like it might grow teeth and explain itself. When it didn't—because of course it didn't—you dragged a calloused palm down your face hard enough to leave temporary grooves in your skin. "Get your shit together," you told the empty room, your voice scratching against the silence like sandpaper.
The ritual was automatic—toes hooking under sneakers, nudging them off without breaking stride, the habitual kick toward the shoe pile that never stayed tidy. You crouched slowly, fingers hesitating on the backpack's zipper like a bomb tech disarming an explosive. The metal teeth parted with theatrical slowness, revealing...
Nothing unusual. Just clothes. Notebooks. The rabbit.
It lay exactly where you'd stuffed it hours ago, its limp form somehow both too heavy and too light in your hands. The fur—real fur, your brain supplied unhelpfully—was damp with something you refused to think about too hard. The police badge pinned to its chest caught the fading daylight through the blinds, casting jagged reflections across your palms.
"Yeah," you told it, because talking to inanimate objects was definitely normal behavior now. "Still fucked up."
The mattress springs protested as you deposited the rabbit near your pillow, the dip in the bedding disproportionately deep for something that should weigh ounces. Your fingers lingered near its ear—the left one bent at that unnatural angle—before compulsively smoothing it into something approximating normalcy.
"People fix things," you announced to the ceiling, as if daring some invisible observer to contradict you. "That's a thing normal people do." The ceiling didn't answer. The rabbit didn't either, which was somehow worse.
The chair groaned as you threw yourself into it, the computer's startup chime cutting through the silence like a scalpel. Blue light washed over your face, highlighting the bags under your eyes that no amount of concealer could hide these days. Your fingers danced over the keyboard in aborted movements, the search bar blinking expectantly.
weird fucking rabbit doll with badge what the hell
are real fur plush toy legal??
can stuffed animals be evidence
The results were depressingly mundane—endless eBay listings for vintage Steiff rabbits, forum debates about ethical taxidermy, Pinterest boards of cursed-looking handmade dolls. Nothing even adjacent to the unsettling thing currently occupying your bed.
The cursor blinked mockingly as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, twitching with restless energy. You clicked through search results with increasing desperation, each tap of the mouse sharper than the last—like punctuation marks to your growing frustration. The glow of the monitor painted hollows beneath your eyes in ghostly blue, turning your reflection into something gaunt and unfamiliar in the darkened screen.
"That's not—" You hissed through clenched teeth, scrolling faster. "Why would—ew, no—"
Nothing useful. Nothing real. Just endless digital detritus that slid through your fingers like water. Your jaw tightened until the muscle twitched, molars grinding against each other with quiet violence.
"Of course." The words dripped with bitter amusement. Because when had anything in your life ever lined up neatly? When had the universe ever handed you answers wrapped in pretty paper?
A soft thud from behind made your shoulders lock. The sound was barely audible—just fabric shifting against fabric—but in the apartment's hungry silence, it might as well have been a gunshot. You turned your head by degrees, neck protesting the slow motion.
The rabbit sat exactly where you'd left it.
On the rumpled bedsheet.
Motionless.
"...Okay." You exhaled through your nose, the breath whistling slightly in your nostrils.
You stared for three heartbeats longer than necessary before wrenching your attention back to the screen. "Apartment noises," you muttered, mostly to hear your own voice drown out the pounding in your ears. "Old building. Pipes. Gravity." A pause. "Whatever."
Totally normal.
Your fingers twitched toward the rabbit before you'd consciously decided to move them. The fur was still faintly damp when you lifted it—not with water, your traitorous brain supplied—and the badge clinked softly against your keyboard when you set it down.
"...Okay," you whispered this time, as if volume might break some fragile equilibrium. "Research round two."
Your fingertips hovered over the keys, hesitating. Then, with deliberate slowness, you typed:
white rabbit detective badge cartoon
The enter key echoed like a judge's gavel.
Images exploded across the screen in a riot of color—cartoons and comics and pixel art tumbling over each other in chaotic succession. Anthropomorphic rabbits in trench coats, rabbits with magnifying glasses, rabbits holding guns that looked both comically oversized and disturbingly real.
You leaned forward until your nose nearly touched the screen, squinting at one particular illustration.
"...No way."
Two rabbits—one tall and lanky, the other compact and scowling. Their designs sparked something like recognition, the kind of half-memory you get from Saturday morning cartoons watched through a sleep-fogged haze.
Your gaze darted between the screen and the... thing sitting beside your mouse.
Then away.
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "Not even close."
Next tab. Another rabbit detective—sleeker lines, smoother animation. Wrong. Too polished. Too safe. Too much like something that belonged safely behind a television screen.
Tab after tab opened and closed beneath your fingers, each click a little more desperate than the last. Every image was wrong in its own special way—too cute, too clean, proportions off just enough to make your stomach tighten with frustrated recognition.
"Not him," you muttered, clicking through another gallery of fan art. "Not him either."
Your cursor hovered over an image that made your pulse stutter—something in the hunch of the shoulders, the slant of the ears. The loading icon spun, and for one breathless moment you thought—
The page resolved.
"Nope."
You slumped back in your chair, the springs creaking ominously. The rabbit on your desk stared blankly ahead, its badge catching the light at an angle that made the engraving illegible.
"...What even are you?"
Behind you, the sheets rustled again.
You didn't turn around.
Instead, you typed slowly now, each keypress deliberate:
rabbit detective duo 90s animation
anthropomorphic rabbit detective short
indie comic rabbit detective violent humor
The results came faster this time, flooding your vision with more almost-rights and not-quites. Your eyes burned from the screen's glare, but you kept scrolling until the images blurred at the edges.
A thought crystallized in the back of your mind—not fear yet, just the cold prickling of wrongness. This wasn't like searching for a forgotten toy or obscure cartoon. This felt like chasing something that wasn't supposed to be caught.
You clicked one last image—a rabbit detective smirking at the viewer, one paw resting cockily on a holstered gun. Closer. Definitely closer.
"...Wait."
You studied the digital rendering, then the physical rabbit beside you. Same species. Same aesthetic. Same general idea.
But this one didn’t have the sharp teeth. Dammit.
The rabbit on your desk looked like it had been pulled mid-stride from something real and violent and messy. A cartoon, definitely.
You swallowed thickly.
"...You're not any of these."
The cursor blinked patiently. You added one last word:
rabbit detective violent cartoon with sharp teeth
You really couldn’t believe you forgotten to add the last two words.
Enter.
The screen refreshed—and there they were.
Two figures—one rabbit, one canine—caught mid-action in various panels. The rabbit was all sharp edges and sharper expressions, his partner towering beside him with weary amusement. The art varied wildly between pages—sometimes clean and polished, sometimes rough and frantic—but the energy remained constant: chaotic, snarky, unpredictably alive.
Your breath caught.
"...Oh."
The realization settled somewhere behind your ribs, heavy and undeniable.
Click.
More images. Different angles. Different expressions. Same unmistakable presence.
Your gaze flicked between screen and desk, desk and screen.
"...You're from this."
Because while the essence matched, the details didn't. Every digital version was simplified—stylized for mass consumption. None of them carried the weight of the thing currently occupying your desk space.
The rabbit didn't feel like fiction.
It felt like an interruption—something paused mid-motion and waiting to continue.
Slowly, so slowly, you turned your head.
The rabbit—Max, you finally figured it out—hadn't moved.
But his left ear—the one you'd straightened earlier—was bent again at that unnatural angle.
You turned back to the monitor with a sharp inhale.
"Sleep deprivation," you announced to the empty room. "That's what this is. Fantastic."
The search results remained stubbornly open on your screen, their glow casting elongated shadows across the desk like silent spectators. A faint electrical hum emanated from the monitor, barely audible beneath the oppressive quiet of the apartment.
Then, your phone’s screen flickered—just once—as a notification materialized in the lower right corner.
Mom.
Your fingers froze mid-air, hovering above the keyboard. Something in your chest tightened preemptively, a familiar knot forming behind your ribs before you’d even clicked the message.
Running late. Something’s come up at the lab.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Typing. Stopping. Typing again.
Actually—we won’t be home tonight. Or tomorrow. Don’t wait up.
Another pause. Just long enough for the silence to settle heavier around your shoulders.
There’s food in the fridge. Finish your assignments. We’ll check in when we can.
No Are you okay?
No How was your day?
No Enjoy Spring Break!
Just instructions. Like always.
The knot in your chest twisted tighter. A dull ache radiated outward, settling somewhere behind your sternum.
“…Yeah. Okay.” The words tasted bitter—automatic and hollow.
Your fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard, typing out a response you’d sent a hundred times before:
ok
Sent.
You stared at the screen, watching the message status change to Delivered. The read receipt never appeared. Of course it didn’t.
Two nights.
Alone.
Again.
Your hands fell away from the keyboard, limp in your lap. The apartment absorbed the movement without comment, the silence thickening until it pressed against your eardrums.
OH MY GOSH PLS UR RECENT POST WAS SO FUNNY 😭😭 but like that fear is so real oh my gosh, I remember when I was TWELVE I was convinced I got pregnant (somehow, idk) but was in fact JUST CRAZZYY BLOATED 😭😭😭
anyway bae im glad ur ok omg 😭🫶
also THERE'S A WORM THAT GETS PPL PREGNANT?
AHSUDYDHDUD TYSMMMM IKRRR I HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS
ALSO NO THERE IS NOT A WORM THAT DIES GET PPL PREGNANT, BUT THERE WAS A POST ABOUT IT, BUT IT WAS JUST A HORRIBLE JOKE THAT WAS LIKE… IDK 2021? IDK WHY I STILL REMEMBER IT UNTIL NOW
CAUSE LIKE I DIDN’T REMEMBER IT UNTIL LIKE 16 MAYBE 18 DAYS AFTER I MISSED MY FIRST PERIOD AND IT JUST POPPED INTO MY HEAD… I HATE IT SMMMMM
ANYWAYS TYSMMMM QUEENNNN AND I AM SO SORRY THAT YOU HAD TO GO THROUGH THAT AT 12 😭
Personal Life update: WHERE THE HELL I WAS FOR A WHILE?
tw: Missing periods mentions of pregnancy (BUT I’M NOT PROMISE) and worries about my three months of missing it
OKAY SO… I JUST WANNA BEGIN WITH AN APOLOGY ABOUT FOR MY FELLOW FRIENDS AND LOVELY FOLLOWERS THAT HAVE BEEN PROBABLY WONDERING… WHERE THE HELL HAVE I BEEN?
HERE’S THE START: THIS SHIT HAPPENED JUST BEFORE MY BEFORE MY 18th, RIGHT? I GOT MY PERIOD ON THE JANUARY 11th, AND IT FINISHED JUST BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY
AND AFTER THAT? BOOM, it was gone; no signs of it coming or happening it anytime soon. So, when the first period of it being missing, which never happened to me before UNTIL NOW, I was like “okay, I guess I’m dealing with more hormone changes or sum shit bc my mom has been telling me that my shade has been becoming more feminine and my hips keep swaying or some shit”
And you know when your mind goes and wonders of to think about the most WILDEST SHIT IT CAN COME UP WITH (pls tell me I’m not the only one who thinks like this) like “AM I PREGNANT? NAH, I CANT BE. I’MMA VIRGIN”
THEN MY MIND GOES AND DOES THAT WEIRD SHIT LIKE “IDK MAN YOU REMEMBER READING THAT POST ABOUT THAT WORM THAT IMPREGNATES PPL?”
AND MY ME, THANKFULLY NOT STUPID WAS LIKE “NAH, GOING TO THE GYM AND SUDDENLY CHANGING UP MY SCHEDULE AND STARTING UP CALISTHENICS WITHOUT A GRADUAL PART GOTTA BE THE REASON. OR THE FACT THAT I’M LEARNING HOW TO DRAW, OR THE FACT THAT I’M DOING MULTIPLE ESSAYS AT ONCE I’M JUGGLING WITH SATISFYING MY SWEETHEARTS OF MY READERS BY DOING MULTIPLE WRITINGS AT ONCE”
AND MY MIND GOES TO THE MOST LOUDEST VOICE OF OMNI MAN I HAVE EVER HEARD MY BRAIN COME WITH: “are you sure?”
THEN… THAT’S WHEN MY STUPID ASS BEGINS TO PANIC
SO, DID WHAT EVER NORMAL 18-YEAR-OLD GIRL DOES… GET THEIR MOM CAUSE SHE’S THE ONLY ONE THAT KNOWS HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS SHIT
MY MOM, OF COURSE, REASSURES ME AND SAYS THAT WE’LL PROBABLY HAVE TO SCHEDULE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE DOCTORS WHEN I MISS MY THIRD PERIOD
And I, oh so calmly, just agrees with this statement since like “heh, can’t be THAT long, right? It’ll be here next month.”
Next month passes… NOTHING
AND THIS WAS WHEN I WAS STARTING TO PANIC, AND SO… THIS WAS WHEN I BEGAN FOCUSING ON DRAWING INSTEAD OF WRITING BC I REALIZED THAT THOSE PROJECTS WERE GONNA HAVE TO WAIT BC MY MIND WAS ON FLIGHT AND FIGHT MODE
SO… AND THAT WAS WHEN MY THIRB PERIOD WAS SUPPOSED TO COME AROUND.
AND INITIALLY? DIDN’T LOOK LIKE IT WAS COMING, SO MY MOM MADE THE APPOINTMENT, WHICH WAS BOOKED SHOCKINGLY 😭
SO, MY SUPPOSED APPOINTMENT IS SUPPOSED TO BE APRIL 30th
AND THEN, TWO DAYS LATER AFTER THAT (AKA TODAY?)… IT’S HERE, THE DAMN PERIOD CAME JUST AFTER THE STUPID ASS CALL
SO NOW, HERE I AM, WISHING I COULD JUST HAVE GONE BACK, AND ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS I’M SO SORRY, I WISHED I HADN’T DISAPPEARED LIKE THAT WITHOUT ANY NOTICE, ESPECIALLY I HAD MADE A PROMISE TO MYSELF THAT I WILL GET EVERYTHING DONE AND MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY
Item: The Clay Personality Mold
Rarity: ✸ Legendary
What video game do you think shaped your personality and are you okay with that?
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
Honestly? It either had to be Resident Evil 4 or Batman: Arkham Knight!
Yeah, I am very much okay with either choices since it, not only helped me with my creativity and a bit of my overstimulated brain, but gave me something to hyperfixate on, to enjoy and share with others! <3
I CAN’T BELIEVE IT ISTG I THOUGHT I WOULD NEVER BE ABLE TO MAKE JASON TODD ‘CAUSE LIKE MEN ARE SO HARD TO DRAW SOMETIMESS
ANYWAYS, I FINALLY GOT A TOYHOUSE ACCOUNT, THANKFULLY, SO IF ANYONE WANT TO FAVORITE MAH CHILD, THEN THANK YOUUU <3
Here’s Yuzuki’s Toyhouse page or smth (Also, yes, this Toyhouse account is new since yesterday in the afternoon, so that means her profile is pretty much incomplete and my user profile sucks ass).
ANYWAYS, I’M GONNA NOW CONTINUE WRITING SORRY FOR THIS MINOR INTERRUPTION CAUSE I MADE A PROMISE TO MYSELF THAT I GOTTA KEEO WRITING FOR Y’ALL 😭
☻ ⁀➴ SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS : After a strange mishap during a case, Max finds himself stranded in the real world—alone, disoriented, and stuck in the form of what appears to be a simple stuffed rabbit. Meanwhile, a withdrawn teenage girl struggles through her everyday life, burdened by severe depression, isolation, and the crushing expectations of her overachieving parents. After an especially unbearable day at school, she stumbles across the “toy” rabbit—only for it to spring to life, leading to a chaotic and unsettling first encounter. Who knows how this will end.
꥟ ⁀➴ WORD COUNT/DURATION : None (yet)!!
ᥫ᭡ ⁀➴ WARNINGS/CAUTIONS : Depression, Emotional Distress, Themes of Isolation, Parental Pressure, Bullying/Ostracization, Hurt/Comfort Dynamics, Reversed-Isekaied!Max, HINTS OF Freelance Husbands (I love them sm)!!
ඞ ⁀➴ NOTES : HEHEHE I LOVE THIS SMMMM, AND I AM SO SORRY FOR HOW IT HAS BEEN TAKING!!! </3
♱ ⁀➴ TAGS : Max the Lagomorph, Teen Reader, Platonic Relationship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Fluff, Father Figure Max, Depression Themes, Supernatural AU, Slow Burn Friendship
☻ ⁀➴ SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS : Dick Grayson was not supposed to find his birthday gift early—but old habits die hard, and curiosity has always been his fatal flaw. What he does find, however, isn’t just another cleverly hidden present. It’s something much bigger. Something life-changing.
꥟ ⁀➴ WORD COUNT/DURATION : 25506 (Characters), 4312 (Words)
ඞ ⁀➴ NOTES : Yes, I did in fact make the banner, if any of you readers were wondering… ALSO I KNOW I’M A FEE DAYS LATE FOR DICK’S BIRTHDAY BUT IDC I DID IT FINALLY
♱ ⁀➴ TAGS : Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Surprise Pregnancy, Emotional Dick Grayson, Crying Dick Grayson, Protective Dick Grayson, Dad!Dick Grayson, Soft Batfamily, Batfamily Shenanigans, Established Relationship, Reader Insert, Hurt/Comfort (light), Found Family, Pregnancy Reveal, Humor, Haley the Dog Supremacy, Jason Todd Being Problematic (Affectionate), Dick Grayson Loves His Family, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slight Angst, Comfort Fic
The city breathed of early spring through its concrete lungs as Dick moved through it, his body carving arcs between buildings with the same effortless grace that had carried him across circus tents and Gotham rooftops since childhood.
Snowflakes dissolved against his overheated skin—half from exertion, half from the adrenaline still thrumming in his veins after chasing down a purse snatcher two blocks over. Not patrol. Of course not! Just instincts too deeply ingrained to ignore, even when he was technically off-duty for a few days.
But his antsy, big, impatient ass of his couldn’t stay home; not when you’d gone out for groceries and “a few things.” Maybe ingredients. Maybe last-minute gifts. Maybe both.
Sure, it was weird that you went out so suddenly, but he knew you could handle yourself. Plus, you told him that you were going to be with Bruce, and Jason—somehow, despite saying he didn’t want to have much contact with anyone in the family unless it was an emergency—and the others, maybe making plans for the “surprise” (not that he didn’t snoop into the private conversation you had with Bruce when you thought he wasn’t listening in) birthday party for him!
His gloves caught the fire escape railing with a metallic groan, the sound swallowed by the thick, cold March air. Inside, warmth rushed to meet him; the vanilla-sweet aftermath of your morning baking still clung to the dark walls.
Like home.
A happy yip! came from the side of the couch, the three-legged pit-bull of a pup wagging her tail excitedly, happy to see one of her two masters coming home after—what? Maybe an hour? Or two?
“Hey, Haley,” Dick cooed with a grin as he knelt down, watching as his dog sprinted over and began licking at his face, covering him in slobber before he lightly pushed her back with a laugh.
He slowly stood up from the floor, eyes flickering between the door—still locked, unsurprisingly—then the rest of the space that he shared with you. Some birthday cards lay on the table, untouched since he brought them up so he could read them on his birthday.
And yet… he couldn’t see any sign of you anywhere.
With a huff and a mischievous expression crossing his face, he turned to Haley once more, watching her sit there and wag her tail happily, staring up at him like he was about to give her a treat or something.
“She’s still not home yet, huh?” Dick quipped lightly, bending slightly to give the puppy a rough pat on the head.
He exhaled slowly, grinning up at the reflection as the familiar itch settled between his shoulder blades, noticing his ruffled-up figure in the turned-off TV.
The annual game was on.
Dick was nosy—not always, but most of the time. His nosiness was always high around holidays—especially his birthdays. Bruce and Alfred had always made holidays a game for him, hiding presents specifically for Dick to find and sneak peeks at.
Of course, when you caught a whiff of it, it became a tradition between the two of you too. In fact, at this point, hiding presents to find was practically a family tradition for everyone in the family.
Dick always did it for his brothers, and as much as Damian complained, he still competed with Jason and Tim on Christmas over who could find their first present before the others. Same as their birthdays, sometimes, as well.
Now that he was alone in the apartment, he decided to… well, take advantage of his own personal time to figure out where the hell you hid his gifts from him.
Dick toed off his boots with practiced precision, not bothering to glance at the neat row of birthday cards lining the entryway table, most of them were from his friends. His gaze swept instead to the telltale scuff marks on the hardwood where you’d dragged the coffee table aside yesterday. Again. He swallowed a grin.
The game had evolved since Bruce first tucked a pocket watch behind a loose brick in the east wing—part training exercise, part holiday tradition. These days, Jason hid bourbon in the HVAC vents. Tim booby-trapped fake presents with tasers (Dick still had the singed eyebrow to prove it). And Damian… Christ. Damian’s idea of “festive” involved C4 and a countdown timer.
But you? You played dirtier than all of them combined.
Lately, you’d been jumpy all week—the way you’d been chewing your cuticles raw since Tuesday. How you’d startled when he kissed your shoulder yesterday, as if his lips were made of acid and had burn your skin. There was also Barbara’s loaded silence at the ice rink, her eyes darting between you two like she was calculating fallout trajectories.
The tells were subtle unless you’d spent years learning someone’s nervous habits. Dick had spent many years with you.
So, whatever other presents you had been hiding from him… it must be something amazing.
First, he bent down to the couch, his hand blindly reaching for anything that felt like a rectangular object with a hint of plastic rustling, but all he found was one of Haley’s missing balls and a few, minor dust bunnies.
Then the top of the kitchen cabinets, next the bookshelf shoved into the corner with all of your favorite books there, and so on, and so forth.
With a huff, his sharp, intelligent blue eyes of his flickered around, thinking about where else you would’ve hidden those little presents of his.
Then, he glanced up at the ceiling fan, his eyes growing wide with shock and excitement.
The ceiling fan blade glinted when he passed beneath it for the third time. Something about the angle—or maybe just the way dust motes swirled differently around one particular blade. Chair dragged to the couch, bare feet planted on cushions, fingers stretching until—
—there! The faint crinkle of wrapping paper. A flat, rectangular box taped where no sane person would think to look. His laugh bounced off the walls as he peeled it free, already calculating how to reattach it perfectly. Tradition demanded at least pretending he hadn’t found it yet.
“Damn,” he murmured to himself, flashing a big grin from pride. “You’re getting good at this, Dove.”
Settling cross-legged on the couch, he gave the box a small shake. Light. Soft.
His eyebrows pinched together. Not what he expected.
“…okay, now I’m curious.”
Maybe he could take a small peek inside it. It wasn’t like he couldn’t figure out a way to redo the wrapping paper to look as close as it possibly could to before he tore it open and after you placed the present on top of the ceiling fan blade.
He worked the tape loose with surgical precision. The box gave way to tissue paper, which gave way to…
He blinked, eyes wide in surprise and confusion.
Well, this isn’t what he was expecting in the least.
Yellow cotton. Tiny sleeves. A duckling embroidered above the words, “Daddy’s Little Duckling.” A pacifier nestled atop the folds as if the clothing weren’t already as big of a hint as they were.
And yet, Dick still struggled. His head cocked to one side as if he was trying to find an answer to something so, so simple.
He blinked. Once.
Then twice.
His brain still stalled, not computing at all, the dumbass he is.
…Baby clothes?
A binky?
…
Oh.
OH.
OH.
OH GOD.
His lungs forgot how air worked.
Haley whined when a shocked sob rattled his throat. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groaned. The refrigerator hummed. A passing car honking angrily outside. Normal sounds. Mundane sounds. The world kept turning while Dick Grayson sat motionless on the couch, staring at a onesie that rewrote his entire future in eight-point cotton.
You were pregnant… holy shit, you were PREGNANT!
You were going to be a mother—he was going to be a father! He was going to have a family, one of his own!
The realization detonated in his chest, sending tremors through his shoulders. The laugh tore out of him, wet and mangled, his thumbs skating over the tiny seams as if memorizing their topography.
His ribs ached with the pressure of it, this thing expanding behind his sternum too fast, too much—he crushed the fabric to his face, inhaling the scent of unstained cotton and impossible futures.
A family. His family.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice rough and heavy with unshed tears.
He was so stupid. He saw the clues—all of the clues—how nervous you’d been lately, but he thought it was because of having to keep that so-called surprise party of his a secret, or… something. He didn’t know.
And now he felt so, so stupid.
Dick had always wanted to be a father, and he was so excited. Just imagining getting to tell Bruce, and Alfred, and Jason, and Tim, and Damian, and—
He let out a wet, shaky gasp.
Oh, shit… He wasn’t supposed to know.
Unfortunately, while he sat there curled up and sobbing on the couch like a little kid, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, breath hitching messily, the front door clicked open, the hinges whining and complaining as loudly as possible.
Dick’s head jerked up.
You stood halted in the doorway, plastic grocery bags almost slipping from your grip, frozen mid-step like a deer in headlights. Your gaze darted from his ruined face to the evidence spread across his lap.
Well… now the truth was out.
You could feel your heart thrumming through your chest as you watched your husband’s body tremble. With what, though? Sadness? Anger? Hope?
God, you hoped it was the last part.
“…uh,” you said intelligently, swallowing down a small lump in your throat. “Surprise?”
Haley sneezed, sitting there on the couch right next to him as his emotional support pet in this side of crisis.
The moment stretched taut between you, thin as the black and blue suit that he was adorning, still smelling faintly of Gotham's alleyways and late-night deli coffee. Dick's fingers curled tighter around the tiny garment, the onesie's cartoon duck suddenly looked absurdly significant under the yellowed glow of your apartment's overhead light. His breath hitched wetly, catching on whatever words were trying to claw their way up his throat.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't the smooth baritone that charmed Gotham's socialites or the practiced calm that talked hostages down from ledges. It cracked like a teenager's voice, rough and uneven, the syllables tumbling out before he could shape them properly. “You’re—“ He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. “You’re pregnant?”
You nodded with a wobbling, bottom lip. “Six weeks.”
The words hung between you, thick and disbelieving. A droplet escaped, tracing a slow path down his stubbled cheek, cutting through the sheen of sweat from his earlier panic. His lips parted again, but all that came out was a choked, half-laughing sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
“Why didn't—why didn't you say anything?” His free hand flailed uselessly at his side before clamping over his mouth, muffling the next words. “Oh my God. Oh my God! We’re—” He ripped his hand away, voice ricocheting off the tiles. “We’re gonna have a baby!”
Your laughter bubbled up, light and effortless, cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. You wanted to swipe your thumb across his damp cheek with affectionate disregard. However, your legs were shaking enough to keep you from moving where you stood at the front door.
"It was supposed to be a surprise, you dummy," you murmured, grinning as his face crumpled all over again.
And another sob-laugh punched out of him. Dick couldn’t keep still, his body trembling with joy and excitement.
He was moving before he’d fully processed the motion.
His knees hit hardwood as he surged forward—groceries be damned—arms locking around your waist, his face pressing into the softness of your stomach where, Christ, where his child was growing. He wanted to pick you up, but he was too terrified of hurting you.
“You asshole,” he choked out, voice thick with tears and laughter. “You’re—God—you’re so terrible—”
His grip tightened, like he was afraid you might disappear.
“And perfect,” his voice warbled against your sweater. “Sneaky—and—and unfair—”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as his shoulders shook, both of you trembling on the precipice of something terrifying and beautiful.
The grip on your waist didn’t falter—if anything, his fingers pressed harder into the thick fabric of your sweater, anchoring you in place against the tidal wave of his panic. Dick’s face remained buried against your stomach, his uneven breaths dampening the wool where he’d practically fused himself to you. The grocery bags dangled precariously from your stiffening fingers, plastic handles cutting off circulation as you stood frozen in the doorway.
“Dick,” you managed, your voice strained from both amusement and the growing numbness in your fingertips and your torso.
He jerked back like you’d burned him, eyes wide and frantic as they flicked to the bags digging into your skin. “Shit—right—” The words tumbled out in a rush as stood up, snatched them from you, the cheap plastic nearly tearing under his rough handling, before he dumped them unceremoniously onto the floor.
The sound of a carton of eggs hitting hardwood didn’t even register—his entire focus had narrowed to you, to the space between you, to the way his hands fluttered uselessly in the air before settling on your shoulders like he needed physical confirmation that you weren’t about to vanish.
“Okay,” he exhaled, nodding too fast. “Okay. We’re good. You’re—” A pause. His brow furrowed. Then—“Wait.”
The shift was immediate—his palms slid down to your arms, squeezing as if testing for something. “You’re freezing,” he accused, his voice pitching higher. “Why didn’t you say anything? It’s like twelve degrees out there—what were you even—”
“Dick,” you sighed, catching his wrist before he could spiral further. “I was gone a few hours.”
“A few hours is—” He gestured wildly, as if the concept alone was offensive. “That’s—no. That’s objectively too long.”
You blinked. “Since when?”
“Since now,” he shot back, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His fingers flexed against yours, restless energy radiating off him in waves. “We need rules. Actual, structured rules. First—doctor. Do you have one? Of course you have one, but do they specialize in—” His free hand waved vaguely toward your midsection. “—this? Because if not, we should—no, we are finding someone who—”
“Dick.”
“—vitamins. And diet. Oh God, caffeine—can you still—”
“Dick.” you watched as he begin to try and turn in small circles with your hand still in his, knowing where this was going next.
“—Bruce is going to lose it. Actually, no, Alfred’s going to lose it. Bruce is just going to—”
“Richard.”
The name sliced through the chaos.
He froze mid-step, halfway into what was clearly shaping up to be another frantic lap around the living room. When he turned, his expression was raw—all wide-eyed disbelief and barely contained awe.
You stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the toes of your boots bumped his. His pulse jumped under your fingertips where they still circled his wrist. “Breathe,” you murmured.
The air left him in a shuddering rush, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled like he’d forgotten how. “…okay,” he managed, quieter now. “Okay. I’m—” Another breath. “I’m breathing.”
Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable, just full. Heavy.
Then his gaze dropped.
Slowly, hesitantly, his hand lifted, hovering just above the still-flat-and-no-curve-yet of your stomach. His fingers trembled. “…can I?”
You nodded.
The contact was feather-light at first—just the faintest press of his palm through fabric, like he expected you to dissolve under his touch. Then, all at once, the reality of it seemed to hit him. His breath caught. A laugh bubbled up—soft, disbelieving, bordering on hysterical.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Haley’s tail thumped against the couch cushions in agreement.
Dick didn’t seem to notice. His focus had narrowed to the space beneath his hand, to the impossible truth of it. When he spoke again, his voice was wrecked. “…I get to do that.”
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
His thumb traced an absent circle over your sweater. “Be a dad.”
The words hung between you—delicate, monumental.
You reached for him, fingers gentle against the sharp line of his jaw. “I know.”
Something in his expression fractured once more. He surged forward, arms locking around you with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His face found its place against the curve of your neck where it met your shoulder, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter—or maybe tears. You couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.
Haley barked once, padding over to be near the two of you.
Dick’s voice was muffled against your skin. “…I’m never recovering from this.”
You couldn’t help but exhale a quiet laugh, the sound barely more than a breath, your fingers tightening reflexively where they were woven into the soft, dark strands of his hair. The scent of his shampoo—something faintly citrusy, something unmistakably him—lingered in the air between you.
“You found the present early,” you teased, your voice laced with amusement, though there was no real reproach in it. Not when his reaction had been this good. Not when the weight of him against you felt so right. “So, it’s on you, Boy Wonder.”
His arms tightened around you instantly—possessive, almost reflexive—and you felt the shift in his posture before you saw it: the way his chest puffed out slightly, the familiar tilt of his chin that spoke of playful defiance rather than actual regret.
“I regret nothing,” he declared with a sniffle, and the words carried the weight of a man who would happily burn down every bridge in his path if it meant keeping this—keeping you—exactly as it was.
His nose pressed against your temple as he inhaled deeply, committing this moment to memory with the same intensity he approached everything else in life—wholeheartedly, without hesitation, without fear.
And when he finally pulled back—just far enough to meet your gaze—his expression was one of absolute certainty.
“Best birthday ever.”
Haley barked again, wagging her tail happily.
Dick’s grin widened, impossibly brighter, before he leaned in again. His lips met yours in a kiss so soft it barely qualified as pressure—just the ghost of warmth, the faintest press of salt from the ocean air still clinging to his skin, the lingering sweetness of shared laughter. It tasted like joy. Like home.
And when he pulled away this time, it was only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the scant space between you. His eyes—blue as the sea under midday sun—held yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.
“Best family ever,” he whispered, and the weight behind those words settled into your bones like a promise.
~~~
[Idk why I added this part, but I think it’s adorable <3]
By the time the city quiets, the two of you were in bed, finally.
The bedside lamp cast a honeyed glow across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the faint dust motes drifting lazily between them. Dick's bare chest rose and fell in a rhythm you'd memorized years ago—except tonight, each exhale carried the weight of unspoken panic. His fingers twitched against the duvet, betraying the carefully curated calm in his voice when he suddenly propped himself up on one elbow.
"Hold up a second." His eyebrows knitted together, forming that particular furrow reserved for when his protective instincts overrode basic logic. "Why on earth did you go out at seven PM? You're pregnant! That's—" His free hand gestured wildly toward the window where Gotham's perpetual twilight shimmered beyond the glass. "—that's nighttime."
You let the silence stretch, watching as realization dawned in his widening blue eyes.
"...It's seven PM," you said dryly, tracing idle circles on his forearm where the tendons had gone taut.
"Exactly," he countered, as if that settled anything. The duvet rustled as he shifted, knee bumping yours beneath the sheets.
A laugh escaped you before you could swallow it. "I'm having a baby, not turning into a pumpkin."
"That's not reassuring," he grumbled, but you saw the way his lips twitched despite himself.
"And like I told you before," you continued, rolling onto your side to face him fully, "I had Bruce and Jason with me the whole time."
The name hit like a defibrillator jolt. Dick went utterly still—then bolted upright so fast the headboard rattled against the wall. "Wait." His voice climbed an octave. "Wait—did everyone else know before me??"
The delighted smirk you'd been biting back broke free. "Define 'everyone.'"
"No. No, don't do that—don't lawyer me right now." He scrambled across the mattress, looming over you with the intensity of a man who'd just discovered betrayal in his own home. "HOW DID YOU EVEN GET JASON TO GO??"
You shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the pillows. "He felt a bit sorry for me."
Dick's jaw dropped. "For you??"
"Yeah."
"I'm the victim here," he declared, flopping backward with enough force to send a pillow tumbling to the floor.
"Mm." You nudged his thigh with your knee. "Debatable."
"I WAS EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED!" he insisted, throwing an arm over his face in theatrical despair.
The memory surfaced—Dick sitting frozen on the couch earlier that evening, tiny yellow onesie clutched in white-knuckled hands, looking for all the world like someone had rewired his nervous system. "You cried into a onesie for ten minutes," you reminded him.
"It was a really small onesie," he muttered defensively, peeking out from beneath his elbow.
The pause that followed was thick with unsaid things—until Dick suddenly narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did he say?"
You schooled your features into innocence. "He said—and I quote—'my condolences that you have to carry his kids.'"
The ensuing silence could've powered Gotham's grid for a week.
Dick inhaled sharply through his nose. "Wow." A beat. "Okay." Another. "First of all, rude." He sat up again, finger pointed accusingly toward the ceiling. "Second of all, I am a delight."
Your snort earned you a wounded look.
"He also said he's teaching the baby how to commit tax fraud," you added cheerfully.
Not really, you just wanted to rile him up for the hell of it.
"I'm banning him," Dick announced, already scrambling for the notebook he kept on the nightstand.
"From the baby?"
"From... influence." His pen scratched violently against paper.
You sighed. "That's not how family works."
"It is now." Dick's handwriting grew increasingly frenetic. "I'm rewriting the rules. I told you—we need structure."
"Oh no."
"I'm making a list."
"Please don't laminate it."
Dick paused mid-scribble to glare. "I am laminating it."
"Of course you are," you sighed, watching as he collapsed back against the pillows, notebook clutched to his chest like a shield. The quiet that followed was different now—softer at the edges, despite the lingering chaos.
Dick stared at the ceiling, his breathing gradually syncing with yours. "...we're having a baby," he whispered, as if testing the shape of it.
You turned your head against the pillow to watch his profile—the way his eyelashes fluttered, the faint tremor in his lower lip was there once again. "Yeah," you murmured back.
Another beat. Then—
"Okay but seriously—no more going out at night."
"I went to the store."
"Danger store," he declared, as if this were an irrefutable fact.
You rolled your eyes. "That's not a thing."
Dick's grin was sudden and brilliant. "It is now."
"You're exhausting."
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Rude.” He bumped your shoulder. “I’m giving you a child.”
You arched an eyebrow. “I’m the one doing the hard part.”
“I’m emotionally supporting,” he countered, hand splaying dramatically across his heart.
“You yelled at me about the weather.”
Dick nodded gravely. “It was cold.”
“It’s March.”
“Exactly.” His nose wrinkled. “Suspicious.”
The banter dissolved into quiet again, the kind that settled warm and heavy between ribs. You felt rather than saw Dick's expression shift—the way his breathing hitched just once before steadying.
“…I’m still not over the onesie,” he admitted softly.
You reached for his hand without looking. “I noticed.”
“I’m never getting over it.”
“Good.”
Dick's fingers tightened around yours. “I’m framing it.”
“Please don’t frame baby clothes.”
“I’m framing the moment,” he corrected, as if this made perfect sense.
You snorted. “That's not how frames work.”
“I’ll figure it out.” His thumb traced your knuckles. “I’m resourceful.”
“You duct-taped a smoke detector once.”
Dick's resulting huff stirred the hair at your temple. “It was beeping aggressively.”
“It was low battery.”
“It was hostile,” he insisted, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched.
The space between words grew smaller, until they barely had room to breathe. When Dick finally spoke again, his voice had gone rough at the edges—the way it always did when he was trying not to feel too much.
“...best, early birthday gift ever.”
You smiled against his collarbone, nudging him with your foot. “Like I said earlier, babe, found the present early. That's on you.”
Dick didn't hesitate. “And I still regret nothing.”
A beat. Then—
“Actually—no, I regret not finding it sooner.”
Your laughter tangled with his exhale, dissolving into the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. His hand found yours beneath the blankets—warm, steady, and just a little tighter than before.
“I'm still making the list,” he murmured into your hair.
“I know.”
Dick’s grin was audible. “It’s gonna have sections.”
“I hate that.”
“You're gonna love it.”
“I won't.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“...I'm color-coding it.”
You groaned. “I’m leaving you.”
Dick's laughter vibrated through your ribs. “You can’t, I re-laminated it.”
A few months before he passed away in 2003, a 74 year old children’s television host sat down in the same studio where he had filmed 895 episodes over 33 years and recorded one last message. It wasn’t for children. It was for the adults who had grown up watching him.
Fred Rogers hosted Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood on American public television from 1968 to 2001. For over three decades he walked into the same set, changed into a cardigan and sneakers, looked directly into the camera, and spoke to children as if each one of them was the only person in the room. He never raised his voice, never talked down to his audience, and never rushed a single moment.
In that final recording, he looked into the camera one last time and said “I’m just so proud of all of you who have grown up with us. And I know how tough it is some days to look with hope and confidence on the months and years ahead. But I would like to tell you what I often told you when you were much younger. I like you just the way you are.”
He passed away from stomach cancer on February 27, 2003. He was 74.
☻ ⁀➴ SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS : Dick Grayson was not supposed to find his birthday gift early—but old habits die hard, and curiosity has always been his fatal flaw. What he does find, however, isn’t just another cleverly hidden present. It’s something much bigger. Something life-changing.
꥟ ⁀➴ WORD COUNT/DURATION : 25506 (Characters), 4312 (Words)
ඞ ⁀➴ NOTES : Yes, I did in fact make the banner, if any of you readers were wondering… ALSO I KNOW I’M A FEE DAYS LATE FOR DICK’S BIRTHDAY BUT IDC I DID IT FINALLY
♱ ⁀➴ TAGS : Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Surprise Pregnancy, Emotional Dick Grayson, Crying Dick Grayson, Protective Dick Grayson, Dad!Dick Grayson, Soft Batfamily, Batfamily Shenanigans, Established Relationship, Reader Insert, Hurt/Comfort (light), Found Family, Pregnancy Reveal, Humor, Haley the Dog Supremacy, Jason Todd Being Problematic (Affectionate), Dick Grayson Loves His Family, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slight Angst, Comfort Fic
The city breathed of early spring through its concrete lungs as Dick moved through it, his body carving arcs between buildings with the same effortless grace that had carried him across circus tents and Gotham rooftops since childhood.
Snowflakes dissolved against his overheated skin—half from exertion, half from the adrenaline still thrumming in his veins after chasing down a purse snatcher two blocks over. Not patrol. Of course not! Just instincts too deeply ingrained to ignore, even when he was technically off-duty for a few days.
But his antsy, big, impatient ass of his couldn’t stay home; not when you’d gone out for groceries and “a few things.” Maybe ingredients. Maybe last-minute gifts. Maybe both.
Sure, it was weird that you went out so suddenly, but he knew you could handle yourself. Plus, you told him that you were going to be with Bruce, and Jason—somehow, despite saying he didn’t want to have much contact with anyone in the family unless it was an emergency—and the others, maybe making plans for the “surprise” (not that he didn’t snoop into the private conversation you had with Bruce when you thought he wasn’t listening in) birthday party for him!
His gloves caught the fire escape railing with a metallic groan, the sound swallowed by the thick, cold March air. Inside, warmth rushed to meet him; the vanilla-sweet aftermath of your morning baking still clung to the dark walls.
Like home.
A happy yip! came from the side of the couch, the three-legged pit-bull of a pup wagging her tail excitedly, happy to see one of her two masters coming home after—what? Maybe an hour? Or two?
“Hey, Haley,” Dick cooed with a grin as he knelt down, watching as his dog sprinted over and began licking at his face, covering him in slobber before he lightly pushed her back with a laugh.
He slowly stood up from the floor, eyes flickering between the door—still locked, unsurprisingly—then the rest of the space that he shared with you. Some birthday cards lay on the table, untouched since he brought them up so he could read them on his birthday.
And yet… he couldn’t see any sign of you anywhere.
With a huff and a mischievous expression crossing his face, he turned to Haley once more, watching her sit there and wag her tail happily, staring up at him like he was about to give her a treat or something.
“She’s still not home yet, huh?” Dick quipped lightly, bending slightly to give the puppy a rough pat on the head.
He exhaled slowly, grinning up at the reflection as the familiar itch settled between his shoulder blades, noticing his ruffled-up figure in the turned-off TV.
The annual game was on.
Dick was nosy—not always, but most of the time. His nosiness was always high around holidays—especially his birthdays. Bruce and Alfred had always made holidays a game for him, hiding presents specifically for Dick to find and sneak peeks at.
Of course, when you caught a whiff of it, it became a tradition between the two of you too. In fact, at this point, hiding presents to find was practically a family tradition for everyone in the family.
Dick always did it for his brothers, and as much as Damian complained, he still competed with Jason and Tim on Christmas over who could find their first present before the others. Same as their birthdays, sometimes, as well.
Now that he was alone in the apartment, he decided to… well, take advantage of his own personal time to figure out where the hell you hid his gifts from him.
Dick toed off his boots with practiced precision, not bothering to glance at the neat row of birthday cards lining the entryway table, most of them were from his friends. His gaze swept instead to the telltale scuff marks on the hardwood where you’d dragged the coffee table aside yesterday. Again. He swallowed a grin.
The game had evolved since Bruce first tucked a pocket watch behind a loose brick in the east wing—part training exercise, part holiday tradition. These days, Jason hid bourbon in the HVAC vents. Tim booby-trapped fake presents with tasers (Dick still had the singed eyebrow to prove it). And Damian… Christ. Damian’s idea of “festive” involved C4 and a countdown timer.
But you? You played dirtier than all of them combined.
Lately, you’d been jumpy all week—the way you’d been chewing your cuticles raw since Tuesday. How you’d startled when he kissed your shoulder yesterday, as if his lips were made of acid and had burn your skin. There was also Barbara’s loaded silence at the ice rink, her eyes darting between you two like she was calculating fallout trajectories.
The tells were subtle unless you’d spent years learning someone’s nervous habits. Dick had spent many years with you.
So, whatever other presents you had been hiding from him… it must be something amazing.
First, he bent down to the couch, his hand blindly reaching for anything that felt like a rectangular object with a hint of plastic rustling, but all he found was one of Haley’s missing balls and a few, minor dust bunnies.
Then the top of the kitchen cabinets, next the bookshelf shoved into the corner with all of your favorite books there, and so on, and so forth.
With a huff, his sharp, intelligent blue eyes of his flickered around, thinking about where else you would’ve hidden those little presents of his.
Then, he glanced up at the ceiling fan, his eyes growing wide with shock and excitement.
The ceiling fan blade glinted when he passed beneath it for the third time. Something about the angle—or maybe just the way dust motes swirled differently around one particular blade. Chair dragged to the couch, bare feet planted on cushions, fingers stretching until—
—there! The faint crinkle of wrapping paper. A flat, rectangular box taped where no sane person would think to look. His laugh bounced off the walls as he peeled it free, already calculating how to reattach it perfectly. Tradition demanded at least pretending he hadn’t found it yet.
“Damn,” he murmured to himself, flashing a big grin from pride. “You’re getting good at this, Dove.”
Settling cross-legged on the couch, he gave the box a small shake. Light. Soft.
His eyebrows pinched together. Not what he expected.
“…okay, now I’m curious.”
Maybe he could take a small peek inside it. It wasn’t like he couldn’t figure out a way to redo the wrapping paper to look as close as it possibly could to before he tore it open and after you placed the present on top of the ceiling fan blade.
He worked the tape loose with surgical precision. The box gave way to tissue paper, which gave way to…
He blinked, eyes wide in surprise and confusion.
Well, this isn’t what he was expecting in the least.
Yellow cotton. Tiny sleeves. A duckling embroidered above the words, “Daddy’s Little Duckling.” A pacifier nestled atop the folds as if the clothing weren’t already as big of a hint as they were.
And yet, Dick still struggled. His head cocked to one side as if he was trying to find an answer to something so, so simple.
He blinked. Once.
Then twice.
His brain still stalled, not computing at all, the dumbass he is.
…Baby clothes?
A binky?
…
Oh.
OH.
OH.
OH GOD.
His lungs forgot how air worked.
Haley whined when a shocked sob rattled his throat. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groaned. The refrigerator hummed. A passing car honking angrily outside. Normal sounds. Mundane sounds. The world kept turning while Dick Grayson sat motionless on the couch, staring at a onesie that rewrote his entire future in eight-point cotton.
You were pregnant… holy shit, you were PREGNANT!
You were going to be a mother—he was going to be a father! He was going to have a family, one of his own!
The realization detonated in his chest, sending tremors through his shoulders. The laugh tore out of him, wet and mangled, his thumbs skating over the tiny seams as if memorizing their topography.
His ribs ached with the pressure of it, this thing expanding behind his sternum too fast, too much—he crushed the fabric to his face, inhaling the scent of unstained cotton and impossible futures.
A family. His family.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice rough and heavy with unshed tears.
He was so stupid. He saw the clues—all of the clues—how nervous you’d been lately, but he thought it was because of having to keep that so-called surprise party of his a secret, or… something. He didn’t know.
And now he felt so, so stupid.
Dick had always wanted to be a father, and he was so excited. Just imagining getting to tell Bruce, and Alfred, and Jason, and Tim, and Damian, and—
He let out a wet, shaky gasp.
Oh, shit… He wasn’t supposed to know.
Unfortunately, while he sat there curled up and sobbing on the couch like a little kid, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, breath hitching messily, the front door clicked open, the hinges whining and complaining as loudly as possible.
Dick’s head jerked up.
You stood halted in the doorway, plastic grocery bags almost slipping from your grip, frozen mid-step like a deer in headlights. Your gaze darted from his ruined face to the evidence spread across his lap.
Well… now the truth was out.
You could feel your heart thrumming through your chest as you watched your husband’s body tremble. With what, though? Sadness? Anger? Hope?
God, you hoped it was the last part.
“…uh,” you said intelligently, swallowing down a small lump in your throat. “Surprise?”
Haley sneezed, sitting there on the couch right next to him as his emotional support pet in this side of crisis.
The moment stretched taut between you, thin as the black and blue suit that he was adorning, still smelling faintly of Gotham's alleyways and late-night deli coffee. Dick's fingers curled tighter around the tiny garment, the onesie's cartoon duck suddenly looked absurdly significant under the yellowed glow of your apartment's overhead light. His breath hitched wetly, catching on whatever words were trying to claw their way up his throat.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't the smooth baritone that charmed Gotham's socialites or the practiced calm that talked hostages down from ledges. It cracked like a teenager's voice, rough and uneven, the syllables tumbling out before he could shape them properly. “You’re—“ He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. “You’re pregnant?”
You nodded with a wobbling, bottom lip. “Six weeks.”
The words hung between you, thick and disbelieving. A droplet escaped, tracing a slow path down his stubbled cheek, cutting through the sheen of sweat from his earlier panic. His lips parted again, but all that came out was a choked, half-laughing sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
“Why didn't—why didn't you say anything?” His free hand flailed uselessly at his side before clamping over his mouth, muffling the next words. “Oh my God. Oh my God! We’re—” He ripped his hand away, voice ricocheting off the tiles. “We’re gonna have a baby!”
Your laughter bubbled up, light and effortless, cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. You wanted to swipe your thumb across his damp cheek with affectionate disregard. However, your legs were shaking enough to keep you from moving where you stood at the front door.
"It was supposed to be a surprise, you dummy," you murmured, grinning as his face crumpled all over again.
And another sob-laugh punched out of him. Dick couldn’t keep still, his body trembling with joy and excitement.
He was moving before he’d fully processed the motion.
His knees hit hardwood as he surged forward—groceries be damned—arms locking around your waist, his face pressing into the softness of your stomach where, Christ, where his child was growing. He wanted to pick you up, but he was too terrified of hurting you.
“You asshole,” he choked out, voice thick with tears and laughter. “You’re—God—you’re so terrible—”
His grip tightened, like he was afraid you might disappear.
“And perfect,” his voice warbled against your sweater. “Sneaky—and—and unfair—”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as his shoulders shook, both of you trembling on the precipice of something terrifying and beautiful.
The grip on your waist didn’t falter—if anything, his fingers pressed harder into the thick fabric of your sweater, anchoring you in place against the tidal wave of his panic. Dick’s face remained buried against your stomach, his uneven breaths dampening the wool where he’d practically fused himself to you. The grocery bags dangled precariously from your stiffening fingers, plastic handles cutting off circulation as you stood frozen in the doorway.
“Dick,” you managed, your voice strained from both amusement and the growing numbness in your fingertips and your torso.
He jerked back like you’d burned him, eyes wide and frantic as they flicked to the bags digging into your skin. “Shit—right—” The words tumbled out in a rush as stood up, snatched them from you, the cheap plastic nearly tearing under his rough handling, before he dumped them unceremoniously onto the floor.
The sound of a carton of eggs hitting hardwood didn’t even register—his entire focus had narrowed to you, to the space between you, to the way his hands fluttered uselessly in the air before settling on your shoulders like he needed physical confirmation that you weren’t about to vanish.
“Okay,” he exhaled, nodding too fast. “Okay. We’re good. You’re—” A pause. His brow furrowed. Then—“Wait.”
The shift was immediate—his palms slid down to your arms, squeezing as if testing for something. “You’re freezing,” he accused, his voice pitching higher. “Why didn’t you say anything? It’s like twelve degrees out there—what were you even—”
“Dick,” you sighed, catching his wrist before he could spiral further. “I was gone a few hours.”
“A few hours is—” He gestured wildly, as if the concept alone was offensive. “That’s—no. That’s objectively too long.”
You blinked. “Since when?”
“Since now,” he shot back, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His fingers flexed against yours, restless energy radiating off him in waves. “We need rules. Actual, structured rules. First—doctor. Do you have one? Of course you have one, but do they specialize in—” His free hand waved vaguely toward your midsection. “—this? Because if not, we should—no, we are finding someone who—”
“Dick.”
“—vitamins. And diet. Oh God, caffeine—can you still—”
“Dick.” you watched as he begin to try and turn in small circles with your hand still in his, knowing where this was going next.
“—Bruce is going to lose it. Actually, no, Alfred’s going to lose it. Bruce is just going to—”
“Richard.”
The name sliced through the chaos.
He froze mid-step, halfway into what was clearly shaping up to be another frantic lap around the living room. When he turned, his expression was raw—all wide-eyed disbelief and barely contained awe.
You stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the toes of your boots bumped his. His pulse jumped under your fingertips where they still circled his wrist. “Breathe,” you murmured.
The air left him in a shuddering rush, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled like he’d forgotten how. “…okay,” he managed, quieter now. “Okay. I’m—” Another breath. “I’m breathing.”
Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable, just full. Heavy.
Then his gaze dropped.
Slowly, hesitantly, his hand lifted, hovering just above the still-flat-and-no-curve-yet of your stomach. His fingers trembled. “…can I?”
You nodded.
The contact was feather-light at first—just the faintest press of his palm through fabric, like he expected you to dissolve under his touch. Then, all at once, the reality of it seemed to hit him. His breath caught. A laugh bubbled up—soft, disbelieving, bordering on hysterical.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Haley’s tail thumped against the couch cushions in agreement.
Dick didn’t seem to notice. His focus had narrowed to the space beneath his hand, to the impossible truth of it. When he spoke again, his voice was wrecked. “…I get to do that.”
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
His thumb traced an absent circle over your sweater. “Be a dad.”
The words hung between you—delicate, monumental.
You reached for him, fingers gentle against the sharp line of his jaw. “I know.”
Something in his expression fractured once more. He surged forward, arms locking around you with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His face found its place against the curve of your neck where it met your shoulder, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter—or maybe tears. You couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.
Haley barked once, padding over to be near the two of you.
Dick’s voice was muffled against your skin. “…I’m never recovering from this.”
You couldn’t help but exhale a quiet laugh, the sound barely more than a breath, your fingers tightening reflexively where they were woven into the soft, dark strands of his hair. The scent of his shampoo—something faintly citrusy, something unmistakably him—lingered in the air between you.
“You found the present early,” you teased, your voice laced with amusement, though there was no real reproach in it. Not when his reaction had been this good. Not when the weight of him against you felt so right. “So, it’s on you, Boy Wonder.”
His arms tightened around you instantly—possessive, almost reflexive—and you felt the shift in his posture before you saw it: the way his chest puffed out slightly, the familiar tilt of his chin that spoke of playful defiance rather than actual regret.
“I regret nothing,” he declared with a sniffle, and the words carried the weight of a man who would happily burn down every bridge in his path if it meant keeping this—keeping you—exactly as it was.
His nose pressed against your temple as he inhaled deeply, committing this moment to memory with the same intensity he approached everything else in life—wholeheartedly, without hesitation, without fear.
And when he finally pulled back—just far enough to meet your gaze—his expression was one of absolute certainty.
“Best birthday ever.”
Haley barked again, wagging her tail happily.
Dick’s grin widened, impossibly brighter, before he leaned in again. His lips met yours in a kiss so soft it barely qualified as pressure—just the ghost of warmth, the faintest press of salt from the ocean air still clinging to his skin, the lingering sweetness of shared laughter. It tasted like joy. Like home.
And when he pulled away this time, it was only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the scant space between you. His eyes—blue as the sea under midday sun—held yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.
“Best family ever,” he whispered, and the weight behind those words settled into your bones like a promise.
~~~
[Idk why I added this part, but I think it’s adorable <3]
By the time the city quiets, the two of you were in bed, finally.
The bedside lamp cast a honeyed glow across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the faint dust motes drifting lazily between them. Dick's bare chest rose and fell in a rhythm you'd memorized years ago—except tonight, each exhale carried the weight of unspoken panic. His fingers twitched against the duvet, betraying the carefully curated calm in his voice when he suddenly propped himself up on one elbow.
"Hold up a second." His eyebrows knitted together, forming that particular furrow reserved for when his protective instincts overrode basic logic. "Why on earth did you go out at seven PM? You're pregnant! That's—" His free hand gestured wildly toward the window where Gotham's perpetual twilight shimmered beyond the glass. "—that's nighttime."
You let the silence stretch, watching as realization dawned in his widening blue eyes.
"...It's seven PM," you said dryly, tracing idle circles on his forearm where the tendons had gone taut.
"Exactly," he countered, as if that settled anything. The duvet rustled as he shifted, knee bumping yours beneath the sheets.
A laugh escaped you before you could swallow it. "I'm having a baby, not turning into a pumpkin."
"That's not reassuring," he grumbled, but you saw the way his lips twitched despite himself.
"And like I told you before," you continued, rolling onto your side to face him fully, "I had Bruce and Jason with me the whole time."
The name hit like a defibrillator jolt. Dick went utterly still—then bolted upright so fast the headboard rattled against the wall. "Wait." His voice climbed an octave. "Wait—did everyone else know before me??"
The delighted smirk you'd been biting back broke free. "Define 'everyone.'"
"No. No, don't do that—don't lawyer me right now." He scrambled across the mattress, looming over you with the intensity of a man who'd just discovered betrayal in his own home. "HOW DID YOU EVEN GET JASON TO GO??"
You shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the pillows. "He felt a bit sorry for me."
Dick's jaw dropped. "For you??"
"Yeah."
"I'm the victim here," he declared, flopping backward with enough force to send a pillow tumbling to the floor.
"Mm." You nudged his thigh with your knee. "Debatable."
"I WAS EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED!" he insisted, throwing an arm over his face in theatrical despair.
The memory surfaced—Dick sitting frozen on the couch earlier that evening, tiny yellow onesie clutched in white-knuckled hands, looking for all the world like someone had rewired his nervous system. "You cried into a onesie for ten minutes," you reminded him.
"It was a really small onesie," he muttered defensively, peeking out from beneath his elbow.
The pause that followed was thick with unsaid things—until Dick suddenly narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did he say?"
You schooled your features into innocence. "He said—and I quote—'my condolences that you have to carry his kids.'"
The ensuing silence could've powered Gotham's grid for a week.
Dick inhaled sharply through his nose. "Wow." A beat. "Okay." Another. "First of all, rude." He sat up again, finger pointed accusingly toward the ceiling. "Second of all, I am a delight."
Your snort earned you a wounded look.
"He also said he's teaching the baby how to commit tax fraud," you added cheerfully.
Not really, you just wanted to rile him up for the hell of it.
"I'm banning him," Dick announced, already scrambling for the notebook he kept on the nightstand.
"From the baby?"
"From... influence." His pen scratched violently against paper.
You sighed. "That's not how family works."
"It is now." Dick's handwriting grew increasingly frenetic. "I'm rewriting the rules. I told you—we need structure."
"Oh no."
"I'm making a list."
"Please don't laminate it."
Dick paused mid-scribble to glare. "I am laminating it."
"Of course you are," you sighed, watching as he collapsed back against the pillows, notebook clutched to his chest like a shield. The quiet that followed was different now—softer at the edges, despite the lingering chaos.
Dick stared at the ceiling, his breathing gradually syncing with yours. "...we're having a baby," he whispered, as if testing the shape of it.
You turned your head against the pillow to watch his profile—the way his eyelashes fluttered, the faint tremor in his lower lip was there once again. "Yeah," you murmured back.
Another beat. Then—
"Okay but seriously—no more going out at night."
"I went to the store."
"Danger store," he declared, as if this were an irrefutable fact.
You rolled your eyes. "That's not a thing."
Dick's grin was sudden and brilliant. "It is now."
"You're exhausting."
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Rude.” He bumped your shoulder. “I’m giving you a child.”
You arched an eyebrow. “I’m the one doing the hard part.”
“I’m emotionally supporting,” he countered, hand splaying dramatically across his heart.
“You yelled at me about the weather.”
Dick nodded gravely. “It was cold.”
“It’s March.”
“Exactly.” His nose wrinkled. “Suspicious.”
The banter dissolved into quiet again, the kind that settled warm and heavy between ribs. You felt rather than saw Dick's expression shift—the way his breathing hitched just once before steadying.
“…I’m still not over the onesie,” he admitted softly.
You reached for his hand without looking. “I noticed.”
“I’m never getting over it.”
“Good.”
Dick's fingers tightened around yours. “I’m framing it.”
“Please don’t frame baby clothes.”
“I’m framing the moment,” he corrected, as if this made perfect sense.
You snorted. “That's not how frames work.”
“I’ll figure it out.” His thumb traced your knuckles. “I’m resourceful.”
“You duct-taped a smoke detector once.”
Dick's resulting huff stirred the hair at your temple. “It was beeping aggressively.”
“It was low battery.”
“It was hostile,” he insisted, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched.
The space between words grew smaller, until they barely had room to breathe. When Dick finally spoke again, his voice had gone rough at the edges—the way it always did when he was trying not to feel too much.
“...best, early birthday gift ever.”
You smiled against his collarbone, nudging him with your foot. “Like I said earlier, babe, found the present early. That's on you.”
Dick didn't hesitate. “And I still regret nothing.”
A beat. Then—
“Actually—no, I regret not finding it sooner.”
Your laughter tangled with his exhale, dissolving into the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. His hand found yours beneath the blankets—warm, steady, and just a little tighter than before.
“I'm still making the list,” he murmured into your hair.
“I know.”
Dick’s grin was audible. “It’s gonna have sections.”
“I hate that.”
“You're gonna love it.”
“I won't.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“...I'm color-coding it.”
You groaned. “I’m leaving you.”
Dick's laughter vibrated through your ribs. “You can’t, I re-laminated it.”
