Moon

23 Request Closed

[passionsmoon]

｡ .⠐✿ hey, welcome to my blog! you can call me Moon.

# about me! 23. She/Her. Mexican. many different interests. multifandom.

18+ blogs only!!! I may not write smut but I will reblog something that is 18+.

Top music artists:

• Ariana Grande ~ Tyla ~ Olivia Rodrigo ~ Meg Thee Stallion

• Michael Jackson ~Bts ~ Bad Bunny ~ The Weeknd

I actually listen to many different genres but I always go back to them mainly.

watch many different shows and movies.

I always prioritize my education over writing, I may write here and there but it comes second.

𐔌❤︎ ͡꒱ I hope you enjoy my writing, as I am slowly getting back into writing fanfics after not writing for a long while.

[daydreamfiles]

Hi, hope you're doing good 🥰 Since requests are open, could I ask for a Garrett x reader one where she's behind the school's hockey social media account and has to do fun interviews with the guys during practice/before games etc and both have been pining after the other for ages and everyone can tell in the comments until finally he does something about it! Have a lovely day!!

Admin's Favorite - Garrett Graham

Blurb: Running Briar hockey’s social media account was supposed to keep you behind the camera, but Garrett Graham keeps finding ways to make himself impossible to ignore. The comments notice, the team makes it worse, and somewhere between cut clips and postgame interviews, you start to wonder if being admin’s favorite goes both ways.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

Garrett Graham had a talent for ruining perfectly good content, though technically, every video he appeared in performed better than anything else you posted. The views climbed faster, the comments doubled, and the Briar hockey account gained followers every time he leaned into frame with that easy grin like he knew exactly what to do with a camera in his face.

The problem was not that Garrett was bad on camera. The problem was that he rarely looked at it.

He looked at you.

You had noticed it weeks ago and blamed it on the angle at first. You were the one holding the phone, so obviously his attention drifted toward you when he answered questions. That was normal. It did not mean anything. Then the comments started noticing too, which made it a lot harder to pretend you were imagining it.

Your job was to make the team look good online, not accidentally become half of Briar hockey’s favorite ongoing subplot.

You were standing near the boards during practice with your phone in one hand and your notes app open in the other, scrolling through the list of short-form videos you needed to film before Saturday’s game. Rapid fire. Guess the teammate. Pregame rituals. A few behind-the-scenes clips. Maybe one clean transition if the guys could behave long enough for you to record something usable.

That last part was already looking unlikely.

A puck hit the glass in front of you hard enough to make you jolt, and when you looked up, Garrett was skating by with an apology that did not look very apologetic. He circled back with his stick loose in one hand, face flushed from practice and hair damp under his helmet, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly shaved five years off your life.

“Sorry,” he called through the glass. “Didn’t see you there.”

“You absolutely saw me there.”

His grin widened, which was answer enough.

Since he was already hovering, you lifted your phone and started recording. “Rapid fire, Graham. Favorite pregame song?”

Garrett stopped on the other side of the glass and seemed to consider it for half a second before giving you the least helpful answer possible. “Depends on the game.”

You gave him a look over the top of your phone. “Boring answer. Favorite snack?”

“Also depends.”

“Try harder.”

His laugh carried through the glass, warm and easy, and he finally gave in. “Fine. That granola bar thing you had last week.”

You lowered the phone a little without meaning to. “You made fun of me for eating that.”

“I noticed it, didn’t I?”

That was the problem with Garrett. He could say something simple and make it feel like there was more tucked underneath it, especially when he was watching your reaction like he cared more about making you smile than getting through the question.

Behind him, Logan skated past and let out a dramatic cough that sounded suspiciously fake. Garrett did not even turn around. He only lifted one gloved hand in Logan’s direction, dismissing him without taking his attention off you.

You raised the phone again and tried to get back on track. “Favorite part of game day?”

This time, Garrett actually answered. He said something about the crowd, the energy, and the way the locker room felt right before the team stepped out onto the ice. It was a good answer, the kind you could actually use, and you were already thinking about where to cut the clip when his gaze slipped from the phone to your face.

“And the account’s gotten better this year,” he added.

You kept the phone up, though your thumb twitched near the stop button. “That wasn’t the question.”

Garrett’s mouth curved. “Still true.”

You stopped recording before your expression could betray you too clearly. He must have known exactly what he had done, because his smile softened, but instead of pushing it, he tapped his stick against the boards and skated backward.

“Make sure you get my good side, admin.”

By the time you posted the clip that afternoon, you had cut it down to the safest version. Garrett talking about game day, Garrett laughing when Logan nearly crashed into him in the background, Garrett saying the account had gotten better in a tone you convinced yourself sounded normal enough to leave in.

It took exactly eight minutes for the comments to become insufferable.

@ briarhockeyfan: he looked at admin more than the camera btw @ campuscrushwatch: no because why did his voice get softer at the end @ grahamcracker88: this account is now a slow burn and i support it @ briarupdates: admin please blink twice if garrett graham is flirting with you @ briarstudentsection: he said “still true” and i folded from my dorm room

You stared at the screen with your thumb hovering over the comment section, your face warm enough that you turned the brightness down as if that would somehow make it less obvious.

People online exaggerated everything. You knew that. They could turn a five-second clip into a full conspiracy board if they were bored enough between classes. Garrett was charming with everyone. He smiled at professors, dining hall workers, fans in the stands, and random students who stopped him on campus. He could probably get a vending machine to apologize after stealing his dollar.

That was just Garrett, you told yourself.

You repeated it later in the week when he showed up beside you before an early practice with two coffees in his hands.

The rink was still half-empty, the air cold enough that your fingers ached around your phone. You had arrived before most of the team to film quiet shots of the arena, the kind of soft, cinematic clips that made game day posts feel more polished. You were crouched near the bench, trying to get a clean shot of the logo at center ice, when a coffee appeared in front of you.

Garrett stood there in sweats and a Briar hoodie, one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still messy like he had barely made it out of bed.

“You said the café line was crazy before eight,” he said.

You took the cup and stared at the label, realizing he had somehow gotten your order right. “I said that two weeks ago.”

“I have a decent memory.”

“You remembered my coffee order?”

“I did.” A sly smile spread across his face.

“Thank you,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

He nodded toward your phone. “You filming this morning?”

“B-roll.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It’s literally just empty rink footage.”

“Still fancy when you say it.”

Dean’s voice carried from down the hall before he could say anything else, loud enough to make Garrett glance over his shoulder. Before he left, he nodded toward the far end of the rink where the doors always let in a brutal draft.

“You should film from this side today. Better lighting.”

You knew very well that lighting had nothing to do with it, but you looked toward the warmer side of the rink anyway. “Better lighting?”

“Definitely.”

He left you with the coffee and a smile you thought about for the rest of practice, which was embarrassing because the coffee was good, the lighting was not noticeably better, and Garrett had still somehow gotten exactly what he wanted.

The worst part was that it did not stop there.

When the rink air left your fingers stiff around your phone, Garrett started steering interviews closer to the tunnel instead of making you chase the guys along the boards, and he acted like it was only because the sound was better there. When you stayed late after a game to pack away the small tripod and mic equipment, he always seemed to come out of the locker room slowly enough to walk toward the exit at the same time. When you asked the team who was most likely to survive on a deserted island, Garrett gave your name because you “looked like you could organize everybody into staying alive,” and Dean immediately yelled from off camera that Garrett was not on the island, he was just trying to get invited.

That clip performed disgustingly well.

The comments were worse than ever.

@ briarbluecrew: dean is us and we are dean @ rinksidebabe: garrett saying admin’s name like that. okay. okay!!!! @ briarhockeyofficialfan: can someone make a compilation of him forgetting this is a team account @ hockeyhousegossip: he is down horrendous @ deansburner: admin cutting the camera every time she laughs is my favorite genre

You should have ignored it, and you really tried, but the more people commented, the more aware you became of every little thing. Garrett leaned closer when you asked him a question. Garrett found you before you found him. Garrett smiled at your laugh like he had been waiting for it. The guys snickered whenever he volunteered for segments he used to pretend were beneath him.

At first, it was funny. Sweet, even. Then one night, while editing a mic’d up practice video in the media office, you found a clip that made your chest go tight.

Garrett had been standing near Logan at the bench, helmet pushed back, mic still live on his shoulder. You were in the background of the shot, reviewing footage on your phone, unaware the camera had caught any of it.

Logan’s voice came through the audio first, amused and far too pleased with himself as he pointed out that Garrett was not exactly subtle. Garrett shoved him without looking away from where you stood, and Logan kept going, saying he could always ask you out like a normal person. Garrett told him to mind his business, but there was a laugh under it, quieter than the one he used for the camera. Then he looked down, tapped his stick once against the floor, and admitted he was working on it.

You sat very still in the glow of the computer screen.

The clip was only seven seconds long, but it would have made the internet lose its mind. You could already picture the comments, the edits, the captions, the flood of people acting like your almost-something with Garrett was public property just because it had happened near a camera. After watching it one more time, you cut it from the video and posted the final version without it, keeping that small, private moment out of everyone else’s hands.

No one knew the difference, except maybe Garrett.

The next day, he watched the edited version while sitting on the boards after practice, phone in his hand and brows lifted just enough for you to notice. You were filming a few players taking shots at an empty net when he came over, quieter than usual.

“You left out Logan being annoying.”

“Logan is annoying in every video. I have to ration it.”

Garrett studied you for a moment, and something in his expression changed into something warmer than humor. “Thanks.”

You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “It wasn’t really hockey content.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice softer around the edges. “It wasn’t.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip.

After that, you started filming him less. Not obviously, at least you hoped it was not obvious, because you still included him in team videos. Leaving Garrett Graham out of Briar hockey content would have been ridiculous, and everyone would have noticed immediately. Still, you stopped seeking him out first. You asked Tucker for more answers. You filmed Logan goofing off with Dean. You captured wide shots, team huddles, game day skates, and anything that made the account feel like the account again, not a weekly episode of everyone waiting for Garrett to finally do something.

He noticed by Thursday.

Practice had just ended, and you were packing your bag near the tunnel when his skates stopped beside you. You did not look up right away, mostly because you already knew it was him. Garrett had a way of taking up space even when he was silent.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

That made you look at him. He had changed out of his gear but not into his usual post-practice ease. His hair was still damp, his hoodie half-zipped, and there was a slight crease between his brows that made your chest squeeze.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

He nodded once, but he did not look convinced. “You’ve barely pointed the camera at me all week.”

“I’ve pointed it at you.”

“For work, yeah.” He paused, glancing toward the rink, then back at you. “You stopped teasing me.”

You tightened your hand around the strap of your bag and looked past him, where a few of the guys were still lingering near the bench. They were far enough not to hear, but close enough to remind you why you had been trying to be smart about this.

“The comments were getting weird,” you admitted, and when his expression shifted, you hurried to explain before he could take it the wrong way. “Not bad weird. Just a lot. People notice everything, and I don’t want it to look like I’m making the account about you, or like I’m unprofessional, or like I’m using the team account to flirt with you.”

Saying it out loud felt worse than thinking it.

Garrett was quiet long enough that you had to look back at him.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that his voice could stay between the two of you. “You’re good at what you do. Everybody knows that. The account is better because of you, not because I occasionally make an idiot out of myself on camera.”

You tried not to smile. “Occasionally?”

His mouth curved, but he did not take the bait. “If I made you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

That softened something in you immediately.

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” He looked relieved for half a second before he added, “I like making you laugh. The camera just happens to be there half the time.”

Your breath caught a little, and Garrett noticed. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped for one brief, devastating second before he looked away like he was trying not to push too much at once.

From down the hall, Dean shouted something about Garrett moving before the bus left without him. Garrett ignored him for another moment, his attention still on you.

“Film me tomorrow,” he said. “For real. I’ll answer the questions properly and everything.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds fake.”

“It probably is,” he admitted, and there he was again, warm and teasing and Garrett. “But I’ll try.”

You smiled despite yourself, and his face did something unfair in response, something bright and pleased that made you want to hide behind your phone even though you were not recording.

“See?” he said. “Worth it.”

Friday night was the big game, and the arena felt alive long before warmups started.

You moved through the familiar chaos with your phone in hand, capturing laces being tied, sticks being taped, jerseys pulled over pads, and the blur of the student section filling in beyond the glass. The team was loud in the way they always were before a game, all restless energy and shouted jokes and rituals they pretended not to take seriously.

Your segment for the night was simple. Good luck charms.

Tucker showed you the same tape job he swore he did not care about but recreated exactly every game. Logan claimed he did not need luck because he had talent, which immediately got him shoved by two teammates. Dean gave a deeply dramatic explanation about his lucky socks that you knew you would have to cut down before posting.

Then you found Garrett near the tunnel.

He was leaning against the wall with his stick in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm, looking calmer than he had any right to be. When he saw you coming, his face changed in that familiar way that made the comments feel a little less ridiculous every time.

You lifted the phone. “Good luck charm?”

Garrett glanced at the camera, then at you. “Are you posting this?”

“That depends on whether you say something usable.”

A few weeks ago, he would have made a joke immediately, something big and easy for everyone around him to hear. Instead, he took a second, and the pause felt different enough that your grip tightened around the phone.

His eyes stayed on you.

Then his mouth curved softly, like he had decided against whatever answer had first come to mind.

“Routine,” he said. “Same tape, same warmup, same playlist. Nothing exciting.”

You knew there was more. He knew you knew.

Still, you nodded and kept your voice steady. “Very inspiring.”

“I do what I can.”

You stopped recording, and the noise of the hallway rushed back in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Garrett shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned a little closer, his voice dropping beneath the sounds of the team behind him.

“Ask me again after the game.”

Your heart stumbled. Before you could answer, someone called his name from the locker room, and Garrett backed away with one last look at you before disappearing through the door.

You posted the pregame clip a few minutes later, and the comments started before puck drop.

@briarhockeyfan: he almost said admin. i know he almost said admin.

@studentsectionbabe: “are you posting this?” SIR WHAT WERE YOU ABOUT TO SAY

@grahamcracker88: the tension has escaped containment

@campuscrushwatch: this is my stanley cup

@briarupdates: admin cutting the clip there is criminal behavior

You did not check them again until after the game.

Briar won by two.

The last five minutes were loud enough to rattle the glass. You filmed the student section losing their minds, the team spilling over the boards, the flash of helmets and gloves, and Garrett getting tackled into a hug by Logan hard enough that both of them nearly went down.

By the time the players made it back toward the tunnel, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You caught Garrett just outside the locker room, still breathless from the game, hair damp and face flushed, looking like he belonged to every bright, roaring part of the night.

You lifted your phone. “Three words for the win?”

For once, Garrett looked directly at the camera.

“Worth the work,” he said.

It was a good answer. Clean, simple, easy to post.

You lowered the phone with a laugh. “Who are you and what have you done with Garrett Graham?”

He smiled, softer than usual. “Told you I’d try.”

Around you, the hallway was crowded for another minute, players pushing past, coaches talking, someone yelling about food from inside the locker room. Garrett waited until the noise shifted away from you, until no one was close enough to turn the moment into a performance.

Then he nodded at your phone. “Still recording?”

You checked the screen even though you knew you had stopped it. “No.”

“Good.”

Your pulse jumped.

Garrett took one step closer, just enough to make the rest of the hallway fade into something distant. “Then I’m asking without the account, without the comments, and without Logan making faces behind me,” he said. “Let me take you out.”

For all the time you had spent wondering, all the comments you had pretended not to reread, all the coffee cups and little looks you had tried to explain away, the words still managed to knock the air from your lungs.

Garrett Graham, who could handle pressure in front of a packed arena without blinking, looked nervous. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice from down the hall, but you could see it because you had spent too much time watching him through a lens and not enough time admitting you knew his face by now.

“You want to take me out?” you asked, softer than you meant to.

His smile tugged at one corner. “I’ve wanted to take you out for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Long enough that Logan has become emotionally invested.”

You laughed, and the relief that crossed Garrett’s face made your chest feel too full.

“Yes,” you said. “You can take me out.”

Garrett’s grin broke wide, bright and boyish in a way that made him look less like the captain everyone yelled for from the stands and more like the guy who remembered your coffee order because you had complained once before eight in the morning.

“I had a better speech planned,” he admitted, looking down for a second with a smile he could not quite hide.

You smiled too, because the idea of Garrett Graham planning anything to say to you felt almost too sweet to handle. He had spent weeks turning every camera pointed at him into an excuse to look at you, and now that he finally had your full attention with no phone between you, he seemed a little less sure of what to do with it.

“I don’t think you needed one,” you said.

Garrett looked back at you then, his expression softening in a way that made the noise from the locker room fade behind him. The win was still happening all around you, in the shouts from down the hall and the dull thud of doors opening and closing, but he was standing close enough that the rest of it felt distant.

“Good,” he said, voice quieter now. “Because I’m pretty sure I forgot half of it.”

You laughed, and that seemed to settle whatever nerves he had left. His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away if you wanted to, but you stayed exactly where you were as his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek.

When he leaned in, the kiss was soft. Sweet enough that it caught you off guard, even though you had spent weeks pretending you had not thought about it. His hand settled at your waist, gentle and warm, and you smiled against him before you could help it.

Garrett pulled back just enough to see your face, but not enough to let go.

“That was better than the speech,” he murmured.

You felt your smile grow. “Definitely better than the speech.”

He laughed under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was quicker, lighter, like he could not quite resist doing it once more now that he knew he was allowed.

A shout came from inside the locker room, followed by Logan’s voice calling Garrett’s name, but Garrett only closed his eyes for a second like he was trying to convince himself not to ignore all of them completely.

[passionsmoon]

how I felt seeing Ariana live

[passionsmoon]

Amor Eterno ~ Eternal Love

Warnings: death, mentions of June 25th, sadness overall just grief, possible grammar errors and just messy (?), children mentioned but kind of excluded because it focuses on the readers grief.

Authors note: I wrote my grief out, it’s just been so hard. The lyrics are the ones in quotation marks. One more thing is, I translated the song from spanish to english and tweaked it to fit with the reader’s feelings.

June 25, 2009 was the day the world stopped, and you couldn’t wrap your head around it. You had just seen him, talked to him, kissed him, and had left to attend your youngest child because of a nightmare and stayed with them. You were going through the motions of everyday life, it wasn’t until you had the visceral proof right in front of you.

How could he be gone.

“You’d so much rather be asleep than awake, because of how much it hurts you that he’s not here.”

People come up to you and tell you that they understand your pain, how sorry they felt, and they’re there if you ever need them. Oh how you loathed the phrases, “I’m so sorry for your loss” or “It was in God’s plan”. You wanted to scream and punch them in the face for saying that to you.

They didn’t know your pain, how much it kills you to see him in a box. when he should be walking, talking, breathing, running around with your kids. Instead, your whole family is surrounding the coffin, tears running down your faces, and staring off into space.

“Oh, how you’d wish that he still lived, for his loving eyes to never ever have closed.”

The months became a blur and suddenly, it was August 29th, his birthday. He should’ve been here, celebrating with your kids, yourself and the rest of the family, blowing out the his birthday candles. Now you have to light the candles and hope to feel his presence when they get blown out by the wind.

“You’ve suffered so much from his absence, even though your conscience is calm, you know you could have done more for him.”

“You’re living in the darkness of loneliness. The same loneliness of his tomb. He is the love such that you have.”

Oh how you’d never love another like you loved Michael, he was your soulmate. You both understood each other when no one else had.

“Sooner or later, You’ll be with him to continue loving each other.”

[passionsmoon]

okay so months ago, something personal happened and i’ve been harboring my grief. It’s almost MJ’s anniversary coming up and i used that as an excuse to write out my grief. Should i post it?

Yes

idkkk

Voting ended onJun 20

Used as an excuse sounds wrong and i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean it to come off as rude or inappropriate.

I also based it on a Mexican song “Amor Eterno”, it’s a beautiful song that reminds me of my loss and also brings me comfort. Also the reader has no specific race nor ethnicity, I just used the song.

plus IF the answer is yes, i would need my friend to kind of proof read it.

and IF the answer is no (idk means no to me), it would just stay in my drafts.

AND i know it’s annoying to post under the fanfic and x reader tags but i genuinely need y’all’s opinions and i have very little mutuals…

Majority voted yes, so i wrote it out and posted it.

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

[passionsmoon]

i had someone request to do a Michael Jackson angst fic but MY DRAFT DIDNT SAVE, now i gotta rewrite it.

pls don’t send another one, this one already stressing me because it didn’t save😔!

AND i based it off The Cure by Olivia Rodrigo…

Also i have not written anything since i was like 14, have mercy on me.

[maryscinema]

me if reading x reader fanfics was illegal

[passionsmoon]

turns out, I need to read the whole fanfic instead of liking it aka saving it for later…

i swear if yall saw my like on that fanfic, PLEASE I DIDNT KNOW. i thought it was a normal fic😔😔

[korogie]

So do I look like him?

[khazafi-deactivated20260131]

there is violence against ethnic groups happening all across the world, and while it is so important to focus on the palestinian genocide because awareness and liberation for one group opens avenues for other groups, it is also inexcusable, in an era of endless information accessible at our fingertips, in machines that we hold 8+ hours a day to be silent or uneducated on oppression simply because it is not covered in mainstream media, bottom line. that said, every day is an opportunity to learn and to do better, so i have compiled this information for those wishing to widen their lens outside of what is being widely covered, and for those wishing to help. sudan:

what is happening in sudan?

the hunger crisis in al fashir

the uae’s complicity in darfuri genocide

how can i stay updated on the situation in sudan? sudan war monitor, radio dabanga, ayin weekly news bulletin, msf sudan, darfur human rights monitor

how to help individual sudanis

donate towards a community kitchen in al fashir

help sudani women receive menstrual products

darfur women group: action steps

underfunded sudani fundraisers

donate to help disabled sudanis in the nuba region

yemen:

what is happening in yemen?

the malaria crisis in yemen | the cholera outbreak in yemen

the flooding crisis in yemen

how can i stay updated on the situation in yemen? yemen online, live event coverage, yemen news agency

how to help individual yemenis

donate towards food, healthcare and education in yemen

dr congo:

what is happening in dr congo?

the congolese rape crisis

coltan mining in the drc / ethically sourcing electronics

the 2025 ebola outbreak in dr congo

how can i stay updated on the situation in drc? all africa, al jazeera, team congo

donate towards humanitarian aid in the drc

donate to support women in the drc

donate to build a school in doma, drc

tigray:

what is happening in tigray?

the displacement crisis in tigray

the ongoing tigray famine

how can i stay updated on the situation in tigray? omna tigray, tghat media, weghata facts

donate towards displaced people in tigray

haiti:

what is happening in haiti?

the displacement crisis in haiti

how can i stay updated on the situation in haiti? the haiti times, haiti libre, le facteur haiti, ayibopost

donate towards individual haitians

donate towards education for haitian children

gaza:

what is happening in gaza?

1948 nakba-now

the famine crisis in gaza

how can i stay updated on the situation in gaza? eye on palestine, quds news network, al jazeera

donate to help individual gazans

donate towards soup kitchens in gaza city

donate towards menstrual kits for gazan women

general resources:

decolonizemyself

so informed

guttmacher institute

middle east matters

code pink

bds movement

this is a non exhaustive resource. violence, oppression and genocide towards minority groups is widespread and ongoing, and not limited to these groups or resources. remaining uneducated is a choice, and an inexcusable one to make. the same systems used to oppress and kill ethnic groups across the world can be used on you, too.

if i have misspoken or added something that should not be here or is problematic, please let me know in the notes. please also feel free to make your own additions to this post.

nobody is free until we all are.

[kitkatscabinet]

HEAR ME OUT

requested | by anon summary | You manage to wrangle your boyfriend into filming a tiktok with you pairing | jason todd x fem! reader

It had taken days of begging, bribery and outright falling to your knees in public before Jason had agreed to do 'the damn video', with you. It may have been a little embarrassing, but what was your dignity in the face of virality?

"Lady Dimitrescu? That's so weak! She's like the milfiest milf to ever milf. You ask anybody on the street and they'll tell you the same thing I'm about to, smash!" You exclaim, motioning to the little print out of said character now decorating the cake, courtesy of your boyfriend.

"Alright then, let's see yours!" Jason scoffs, crossing his arms, practically daring you to do something unhinged.

"I'm just saying, that's a conventially attractive woman." You mumbled to the camera before a cheeky grin crossed your face. "Now, this, is a hear me out." Brandishing your print out, you carefully slot it beside Jason's choice, desperately trying not to laugh as you await his outburst.

"Seriously? Ivy? Harley?" A little underwhelming but you remain undettered.

"Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time."

"What was it you said about not including conventially attractive people?" It's your turn to glare at Jason then, a warning glint in your eye. After all, unlike Lady Dimitrescu, Harley and Ivy were technically attainable in real life.

"Don't give me that look, you picked them!"

"Moving on!" You shoved him to the side a little, ignoring that it was his turn as you placed your next pick.

"Ok now I know you're taking the piss. Killer croc?!"

"Hey! Don't yuck my yums! That's a perfectly sexy man and I bet you $100 the comments will agree with me!"

The look of absolute judgement and disgust Jason shoots your way is nearly enough to send you over the edge, giggles wracking your frame that only get heavier when you announce your next pick, "R-Roy Harper."

Jason stills, tilting his head to look at you with a small smile and what you could only describe as crazy eyes. "Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is? Do you want me to spend the rest of my life behind bars? cause I'll kill that redheaded bitch, you know I will."

You can't help it, the laughter bursts forth until you're wheezing and holding the table for support.

"You're mocking me. Here I am, having to murder my best friend and you're mocking me. Laughing at my pain."

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, baby, that was a joke." You manage to wheeze, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.

"Yeah, well, you should probably give up on your dreams of being a comedian, stick to your day job."

Ok, that was it.

"Wait, hold on, I've got one more left." There's a serene smile covering your face now, the picture of zen as you await the inevitable meltdown over your final choice.

"THAT'S MY DAD! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PUT MY DAD IN! WHAT THE FUCK! TAKE IT BACK, TAKE IT BACK RIGHT NOW!" He screeched, reaching for the picture and throwing it across the room like it was a bomb.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? LOOK AT THE PHOTO I PICKED, HE'S SEXY AS SHIT!" Your words do nothing but throw gasoline on the dumpster fire as Jason lets out another war like shriek.

"NO! THAT'S IT, YOU'RE DONE! YOU'RE DONE!"

[The camera picks up the indistingusiahble mix of your combined screams, the video cutting as Jason tackles you to the ground]

[iydiamartinx]

GOTHAM'S FREAKY FRIDAY

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 5.6k synopsis: All it took was a shove and one of Strange’s machines—and now you and Jason Todd are living each other’s lives. Call it Gotham’s Freaky Friday. a/n: Another one of my 3 am crack fic ideas. I didn't have time to properly edit so I hope it reads okay and isn’t as rushed as I’m worried it is. Oddly, this idea didn't come to me because I was watching Freaky Friday but because I was watching Wednesday.

The two of you really shouldn’t have touched it.

The Bats had just wrapped up another one of Strange’s lunatic schemes, and the Cave was crowded with confiscated devices—half-finished weapons, machines that looked more like torture machines than projects of science but you supposed when it came to a mad scientist like Hugo Strange they were one and the same.

There was one particular hulking contraption covered in wires and blinking green lights that caught your eye. Against your better judgment, curiosity tugged you closer. You found yourself stepping closer to study it, wondering what exactly it was designed to do.

Bruce’s order was clear: don’t touch anything until it’s catalogued.

Which would’ve been fine if Jason hadn't suddenly stormed towards you crowding your personal space.

“You don’t take this seriously,” Jason snapped, tossing his helmet onto a table beside you with a clang. “You almost got yourself killed back in that lab! Not everything is sunshines and rainbows, Princess!”

“Well, I wouldn’t have had to jump in if you weren’t so damn reckless, Mr. Doom and gloom!” You hissed back. 

Your words only made him scowl harder, jaw tight. The two of you were nose to nose, his towering frame shadowing your smaller one. The tension built and built until, without thinking, you shoved him in the chest.

It wasn’t much—just enough to get him out of your space. You realized your mistake the second your hands left his chest and reached forward to pull him back, but it was already too late.

Jason staggered, boots skidding against the Cave floor before he collided hard with Strange’s newest contraption. Sparks leapt across the wires the instant his back hit metal. Your palm was still pressed against his chest when the machine roared to life—green lights flaring, and the next thing you both knew the world went white.

Electricity crackled through the Cave, static raising the hair on your arms. Jason shouted something you couldn’t hear, and then—nothing. The lights dimmed and the machine went dark.

Both of you staggered, breathing hard. When it became clear no one was fried or bleeding, you glanced at each other.

“…see?” Jason grumbled, much calmer as he rubbed his shoulder. “This is why you don’t touch things.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to argue as you tried to steady the thundering in your chest. “Whatever. Let’s just call it a night.”

Jason grunted in agreement, grabbing his helmet off the table as the two of you turned your backs on the mess.

Neither of you noticed the faint hum that lingered in the air.

You woke with a groan, the heaviness in your limbs immediately noticeable and strange. When you rolled out of bed, the floor creaked beneath a weight you didn’t remember having. Your hand brushed across your face, rougher, larger than it should’ve been.

...that wasn’t your hand.

Blinking hard, you stumbled toward the mirror.

The breath caught in your throat. Jason Todd’s reflection stared back at you—it was his strong jaw, his broad frame and messy black hair. The usual hard expression you tended to see on him was morphed into one of wide-eyed shock as you stared your borrowed face.

For a moment you couldn’t move. Then the panic hit. You grabbed your hair—feeling the short strands that definitely were not yours—and your voice came out low, gravelly, like you’d swallowed smoke. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

The door burst open.

You spun around just as your body stormed in. Jason froze in the doorway, glaring with your wide eyes, wearing your silk pyjamas that you went to bed in.

“What the fuck,” Jason snarled—in your higher much more feminine voice. “What the actual fuck is this?”

You shrieked. He cursed. You shrieked louder, pointing at him. “You’re me!”

“No shit, sunshine! Which means you’re—” He jabbed a finger at you. “—me.”

Your—well his hands balled into fists, but they looked absurdly small as you stared at well... you. Seeing your own body across from you, animated with Jason’s scowl, was more disorienting than the mirror.

Right now, you were Jason. You had his size, his bulk, the weight of muscle and height that came with him. And compared to that, compared to the way he now filled out your much smaller frame, you were only just beginning to realize how tiny you actually were. The difference was staggering, and the longer you stared down at yourself, the more wrong it all felt.

He continued, “This has to be Strange. That damn machine last night—”

The two of you locked eyes, realization dawning at the same time.

“…we switched,” you whispered.

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “We’re screwed. I cant believe you would push me into it!”

“You wouldn’t back off!” you shouted back. “And now I’m—you! And you’re—me!”

For a long beat you just stared at each other. Then, at the same time, you both screamed. “FUCK!”

The panic didn’t ease. Twenty minutes later, you were pacing Jason’s apartment, clutching your stomach and muttering to yourself. Finally, you froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Jason—Jason, I have to pee.”

He looked up from the couch, utterly unimpressed. “Congratulations.”

You flailed your arms, voice pitching higher. “No, you don’t get it! I don’t—I don’t know how to do this in your body. I don’t know how to use—” You waved vaguely downward, cheeks burning. “The equipment!”

Jason groaned, dragging your—his—delicate hands down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not! What if I do it wrong? What if I break it?!”

He stared at you flatly. “You’re not going to break my dick.” Then, as if the thought had just hit him, his eyes narrowed. “You better not break my damn dick.”

You let out a pitiful whine. “Can’t you—I don’t know—hold it?”

His jaw dropped. “What the fuck? No!”

“It’s your dick!” you cried, throwing your arms in the air.

“For god’s sake, Y/N, just go to the fucking bathroom!” he shouted, exasperated.

“Jason!” you begged, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

That did it. He let out a vicious string of curses, storming past you toward the bathroom. Which was how the two of you ended up in the most humiliating situation imaginable: Jason—wearing your body—standing behind you, holding his own equipment in your smaller hands, while you buried Jason’s scarred face in his palms so you didn’t have to watch.

Relief finally hit, and you sagged against the counter with a groan.

“This is the only time I’m doing this,” Jason muttered darkly.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were still rattled. To make matters worse, it was Sunday—which meant mandatory brunch at the manor. 

You sat stiffly at the table, coffee clutched between Jason’s rough hands, trying your best to imitate his usual brooding silence. The problem was that instead of looking cool and detached, you looked like you were one bad word away from crying into your mug.

“Jay?” Dick frowned from across the table, fork halfway to his mouth. “You okay? You look… off.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered too quickly. The word cracked at the end, betraying you immediately.

Across from you, Jason was already floundering. Alfred approached with his usual steady grace, offering a warm “Good morning.” Jason—stuck in your body—panicked and tried to slap on your trademark smile, which definitely looked more unhinged than intended.

“Morning, Alfred!” he chirped.

The cheerful tone was so loud and jarring it made a half asleep Tim choke on his coffee. Damian, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes, suspicion already flickering in his sharp gaze.

You ducked your head and started chugging your coffee. The mug trembled faintly in Jason’s hands as you avoided everyone’s stares, praying the caffeine would drown the panic clawing up your throat.

Under the table, Jason’s foot shot out, catching your shin in warning. You didn’t hesitate to retaliate, shoving your leg out with more force than intended. The kick landed harder than you’d meant, and Jason winced—clearly not expecting the strength you had and weren’t yet used to in his body.

“Will you act normal,” He hissed, teeth clenched but still plastering your too-bright grin across your face.

“I am acting normal,” you whispered back fiercely, forcing the mug down and squaring your shoulders as if you were ready to fight the entire table.

“Not like that,” he snapped.

By now the whole family was watching, forks and cups paused midair as the two of you not-so-subtly bickered in you mismatched bodies. Something was very clearly wrong—and everyone knew it.

By the time Bruce finally walked in, both of you were sweating bullets. You sat hunched over your plate, chewing toast with a stiff scowl that was supposed to look like Jason’s usual brood. Instead, it just made you look constipated and miserable.

Across the table, Jason—trapped in your body—was still smiling so hard that it looked more psychotic than friendly.

Bruce’s eyes swept over the two of you once, then again. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. With a weary sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t have the patience for this,” he said flatly. “Which one of Strange’s experiments did you touch?”

Silence fell over the table. You froze, toast halfway to your mouth. Jason’s grin slipped clean off your face.

Neither of you answered. Not that you had to. The jig was up. Now that Bruce had called you out, the strange behavior suddenly clicked into place for the rest of the family. Detectives, every one of them—they didn’t need much more than a pointed look to piece the situation together.

Within minutes, you and Jason were marched down to the Cave, the entire family circling like vultures as you tried to explain.

“So let me get this straight,” Tim deadpanned, already scribbling on his tablet. “You two idiots got into an argument, you shoved Jason into Strange’s new machine, it zapped you both, and now you’re… body-swapped?”

You shifted uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s stares, rubbing the back of your neck. The short, prickly hair there still felt alien against your fingers. “Well… when you put it like that… it sounds pretty irresponsible.”

“Because it was irresponsible!” Tim shot back, throwing his hands up.

“Oh, stop being dramatic, Wonder Nerd,” Jason huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Can you fix us or not?”

Tim blinked at him a few times, clearly fighting the urge to strangle him—your body—on the spot. Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh. “The second I figure out how the machine works, I can maybe start on a reversal. In the meantime…” His eyes flicked between the two of you, exasperated. “You’re stuck like this.”

Jason groaned. You, meanwhile, wanted to sink through the floor.

“Tim’s right,” Bruce said, his voice low with disapproval. “What you two did was extremely irresponsible. Until Tim can find a way to change you back, you are both banned from patrol.”

“What?!” you and Jason shouted at the same time, voices echoing off the stone walls.

“You can’t be serious,” Jason snapped—though it came out of your mouth, making the effect far less intimidating. “I can still fight. It doesn’t matter what body I’m in.”

“So can I!” you argued, your voice rough with Jason’s growl. “This isn’t fair!”

But Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest with a look saying he wouldn’t budge. The decision was final before the words even left his mouth.

“Enough. You’re both a liability like this. You’ll sit out until Tim finds a solution.”

Your protests filled the Cave, bouncing around the stone and metal, but they fell on deaf ears. With a single gesture, he dismissed you both, sending you back to your apartments like unruly children grounded for the weekend.

The two of you trudged back to Jason’s apartment in silence, the walk heavy with frustration. The second the door shut behind you, Jason didn’t bother with words as he collapsed onto the couch, sprawling across it without care.

You, however, lingered in the middle of the room, shifting from foot to foot.

Jason cracked one eye open and groaned. “What the fuck is wrong with you now?”

“…I have to pee again,” you admitted, cheeks burning.

He let out a long, suffering sigh. “Then go.”

“But—it’s weird if I touch your dick.”

Jason sat up just to glare at you. “It’s weirder if I hold it.”

You wrung your hands, squirming. “I feel like I’m violating you!”

“Jesus, Y/N,” he huffed, dragging a hand down your—his—face. “You have full permission to touch my dick. Go fucking pee.”

Mumbling under your breath, you trudged toward the bathroom. The jeans felt heavy on your hips, the zipper stiff beneath your fingers. You tugged them down with the underwear, heart hammering in your chest. For a second, habit almost had you turning to sit—then you realized you could just… stand and aim.

You glanced down to grab the package and nearly squeaked out loud. Jason was… well. Jason was huge. For a dick it was pretty nice. Heat flooded your face as you fumbled, nervously wrapping your hand around the foreign weight.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, focusing like it was a mission. “Just aim. Just… aim.”

It was awkward, clumsy, but you managed. By the time you zipped up again, your blush had reached your ears.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Jason looked up from the couch, one eyebrow arched in silent question.

Without thinking, you blurted, “You have an objectively very nice dick.”

Jason blinked, stunned. Then his mouth twitched, somewhere between confusion and amusement. “…Thanks?”

Before you could embarrass yourself further, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Jason grabbed it before you could stop him, squinting at the screen.

“Uh… someone named Jess is asking if you’re still coming over?”

You cursed, smacking your forehead. “I forgot about that! Jason, you have to go!”

“What? No!” His protest was immediate, his—your—arms folding across his chest.

“Bruce said we need to act completely normal,” you reminded him, words tumbling out fast. “Jess just broke up with her boyfriend and me and the girls promised we’d hang out in support tonight. I can't bail! You need to go.”

Jason groaned like you’d asked him to walk into a hail of bullets. Still, he got to his feet. “Fine.”

But the second he made for the door, you shot out a hand to stop him. “Wait! What are you doing? You can’t go out like that!”

Jason looked down at himself—yourself—and frowned. “What’s wrong with this?” he asked, gesturing at the silk pyjamas he was currently wearing. Then he gave your chest a pointed look, muttering, “Aside from the bounce. How do you girls even live with these? Sure, they’re soft and squishy, but they’re a total pain in the—”

“Jason, have you been touching my boobs?” you gasped, horrified.

He shrugged, deadpan. “I had to keep them from bouncing around somehow.”

“You do that by wearing a bra!” you snapped, throwing your arms up.

“I couldn’t figure out how to put it on!” Jason shot back, defensive.

You groaned, dragging both hands down Jason’s scarred face. “Oh my god, you’re going to ruin my life.” With a huff, you grabbed his much smaller hand—your hand, technically—and tugged him down the hall toward your apartment and into your room.

“Clothes off,” you ordered, already rummaging through your dresser for something passable.

He shrugged and did as you ordered, but the second he looked down, mischief lit his expression. “Heh, these are kind of fun to play with,” Jason chuckled, lifting one breast experimentally and watching it bounce.

“Jason!” you snapped, scandalized.

“Hey,” he shot back with a grin, “you checked out my dick. Fair’s fair.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes so hard they nearly stuck that way. Grabbing the bra from your hands, you wrangled him into it, which earned you the deepest scowl you’d ever seen on your own face. “This is uncomfortable.”

“Welcome to being a woman,” you said dryly. You thrust a dress at him. “Now get changed into this.”

Jason grumbled but obeyed, shimmying into the clothes with all the grace of a drunk elephant before standing there stiff and uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot with his arms crossed.

“I’m feeling oddly objectified right now,” he muttered.

“You pass,” you said with a sigh, giving him a once-over. “Now for the love of god, please don’t embarrass me.”

Jason rolled your eyes, then nearly tripped as he stomped toward the door in the heels you’d forced him into.

“Stay at my place, in case someone comes looking for me,” he ordered, tugging your door open. His muttered curses echoed down the hall as he disappeared, each click of the heels punctuating his irritation.

Meanwhile, you trudged back to his apartment, your shoulders sagging in relief the second the door closed behind you. You finally felt as if you were able to breathe again now that you were alone. But the moment you thought you could relax, there was a knock on the door.

“Jason,” you groaned, already rolling your eyes. “You’ve been gone for thirty seconds!” You yanked the door open—only to freeze when you found Roy Harper standing there, grinning wide.

“Jaybird!”

Roy’s voice was loud enough to make you wince hoping the neighbors weren't home as he pulled you into some kind of chest-bump, shoulder-pat combo. You stumbled through the motions, hitting a beat too late, but Roy didn’t seem to notice. He grinned, clapping your shoulder hard enough to make you sway.

“Man, you would not believe the shit show in Qurac,” he said as he tossed his duffle bag onto the floor. “I haven’t had a hot shower in days, I swear I’m sweating gunpowder.”

You laughed weakly. “Yeah, uh… sounds rough.”

Roy kicked off his boots and headed straight for the living room, talking the whole way. “Some idiot on the ground thought they could take me out in one on one combat, Jay! Please. Took him down in under two minutes. You should’ve been there, you would’ve had a blast literally!”

“Sounds fun,” you said, trying to deepen Jason’s voice but only succeeding in sounding like you were faking a sore throat.

Roy dropped his duffle onto the couch, and was already tugging his shirt over his head. “I’m using your shower. I smell like death.”

Your eyes went wide. “Wait, right now—?”

But it was too late. His shirt hit the floor, followed by the thud of his cargo pants. You nearly squeaked, slapping a hand over your mouth to keep the sound in.

Roy stood there in nothing but boxers, stretching lazily like it was the most normal thing in the world. Say what you wanted, but Roy Harper was very nice to look at. The long lines of his arms were carved in muscle, every ridge of his abdomen defined, every part of his body was honed from years of vigilantism. He was strong without looking bulky, balanced, built for speed as much as power.

Heat rushed to your face as your gaze darted over him—then just as quickly shot upward, fixing on the ceiling as if it might erase what you’d already seen. But the damage was done. The sight of Roy Harper, nearly naked was burned into your brain.

“Yep,” you said, your voice too high, too fast. “Sure. Shower’s all yours. Totally fine.”

Roy didn’t notice a thing. He just wandered down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Gonna grab something from your closet after, cool?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever!” you croaked, voice cracking like a teenager’s.

The moment he disappeared into the bathroom, you noticed that your pants were suddenly tighter and looked down—and froze.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

The front of Jason’s jeans was tented, unmistakable and undeniable. You’d just got a boner from staring at Roy Harper’s damned abs. 

“Shit,” you whispered, fumbling for your phone. You dialled Jason’s number with shaking hands. He answered on the third ring.

“What now? It's been barely ten minutes,” His voice was tired, annoyed, and very much not prepared for whatever problem you had now.

“I—I’ve got a situation,” you hissed. “Like a serious situation.”

“Define serious. Are you bleeding out?”

“No! Worse!” You were whispering so loudly your throat hurt. “Roy decided to drop by, and he wanted to take a shower and... and just stripped in front of me and now your—your dick won’t go down!”

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. For a heartbeat, you thought the call had dropped.

Then Jason burst out laughing so hard you had to yank the phone away from your ear.

“Oh my god,” Jason snorted.

“Jason!” you begged. “This isn’t funny! What if he sees?! What do I do?!”

Jason was full-on breathless and wheezing. “You’re pitching a tent over Harper? That’s rich. God, I wish I could see your face right now.”

“Stop laughing!” you snapped, clutching the phone tighter. “Tell me how to make it go away!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jason drawled on the other end of the line, far too entertained, “if I knew the secret to that, my teenage years would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.”

“This isn’t helping!” you wailed, pacing a tight circle in the middle of the apartment. “Remember, I’m in your body! I’m you! He’s gonna think you’re the one perving after him!”

He sighed, but the amusement that was in his tone made it clear he still wasn't taking you seriously, “Try cold water. Or math. Think about, I don’t know—Bruce’s disappointed face. That’ll kill it real quick.”

You groaned, dragging Jason’s hands down his borrowed face. “You are the worst person alive.”

Jason was still chuckling when the sharp click of a door opening froze you in place. Panic shot through you.

“Shit, he’s coming back!” you hissed into the phone. “Jason, I swear to god, if this doesn’t go down—”

The line went dead. Jason had hung up on you.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Roy poking his head out of the bedroom, hair already messy from pulling off his clothes. “I almost forgot, do you mind ordering something to eat? I’m starving.”

“Mhm,” you managed, nodding so fast your neck ached.

Roy grinned at your easy agreement and vanished back into the room. A moment later, the sound of the shower roared to life.

You let out a long, ragged sigh of relief, sagging back against the wall. At least you had ten minutes—ten minutes to deal with your problem, calm yourself down, and order some damn pizza before Roy came out and caught you red-handed.

You’d managed it. Barely. After ten minutes of pacing, breathing, and following Jason’s deeply unhelpful advice, you finally calmed his mini him down. Thank God.

Pizza was ordered—extra-large, just to buy yourself time and hoping the fact it wasn't early delivery would have Roy take his time and not rush. You were sat stiffly on the couch when Roy finally padded out of the bedroom. He was wearing a pair of Jason’s sweats, towel draped over his shoulders, a t-shirt dangling from his hand.

He dropped onto the far end of the couch with a satisfied groan, stretching until his spine popped.

“Damn, your water pressure puts mine to shame,” Roy said, running a towel through his damp hair. “I swear, I could live in that shower.”

“Uh. Yeah,” you muttered, clutching one of Jason’s novel’s in both hands like a lifeline.

Your eyes were fixed firmly on the pages in front of you even though you hadn’t read a single word. Every nerve screamed not to look, but your gaze still flicked up at the worst possible time—just as Roy tugged the t-shirt over his head, covering the ridges of his defined abs.

Don't pop a boner. Don't pop a boner. Don't—

Roy glanced at you, brow furrowing. “You’re kinda quiet tonight, Jaybird.”

“I’m fine,” you answered too quickly, wincing at how stiff it sounded as you slowly lowered the book.

Roy leaned back, studying you with those sharp, green eyes that had probably seen through more lies than you wanted to know. “You sure? You’re usually the one giving me shit the second I walk through the door.”

You forced what you hoped was Jason’s trademark smirk. “What, you want me to tell you that you look like shit?”

Roy barked a laugh. “There he is.” But his gaze lingered a second too long, like he wasn’t fully convinced. “You sure you’re okay? Is it about that chick that’s been twisting you up?”

Your head nearly snapped up. “What chick?”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Seriously? The one across the hall. Cute little thing, she is. I just don’t get why you don’t go for her already. You like her—just ask her out.”

Your stomach dropped. You fought the urge to blush, your pulse spiking with hope as Roy casually spoke Jason’s secret out loud. Was it possible that Jason likes me?

This—this was definitely something you weren’t supposed to be hearing. Ever since you’d known Jason, the two of you had fought like cats and dogs. Sure, he was hot and you’ve had the biggest crush on him since you’ve met him, but the second he opened his mouth, you wanted to punch his teeth in. He was infuriating, stubborn, impossible. And yet…

Before you could scramble for a response, the doorbell rang. 

“Pizza is here!” you blurted, bolting upright. You muttered something about paying the delivery guy and all but fled the room, grateful for the excuse to escape before Roy could press you further.

Meanwhile, Jason wasn’t doing much better. In fact, Jason was dying. Slowly and painfully. Scratch that. He’d already died once, and he’d rather go through that again than sit here surrounded by wine-fuelled women.

He was currently lounging on a plush rug in Jess’s apartment, surrounded by three very drunk women, with more wine bottles than he cared to count and they were getting progressively more louder and vocal by the minute. 

Jess slammed her glass down, face flushed and eyes glossy. “I can’t believe he cheated on me with her! Like—like what does she even have?!”

The others didn’t hesitate as they began to comfort her and trash her ex-boyfriend in equal measure. From the sounds of it, the asshole deserved every word. But Jason was not the comforting type. He was the kick a door down, put a fist through the guy’s jaw type— something he wouldn’t mind doing as the Red Hood when he got his body back.

Rubbing at your temples, fighting off the pounding headache, he muttered, “Sounds like a dick.”

“Yes!” Jess cried, pointing at him. “That’s exactly what he is—a dick! I should’ve listened to you when you told me.”

The other two nodded in agreement, one of them nudging Jason with a wine bottle. “Y/N always knows when a guy’s a dick. You’re like a bloodhound. But seriously, how come you haven’t found someone for yourself yet?”

“Probably because most men are dicks,” another one of them slurred, and they all collapsed into laughter.

Jason smirked faintly—finally, something I agree with.

“Actually, that’s not true,” Jess chimed in suddenly. She turned, eyes bright with mischief. “What about that hunk you were telling me about?”

Jason froze, every muscle in your body going stiff. “Uh… what?”

Jess laughed, leaning closer. “Oh, come on. You know exactly who I’m talking about. The six-foot giant you live across from. Jared? Jack?—”

“—Jason?” he blurted out, voice strangled.

Jess snapped her fingers. “Yes! That’s it! Jason.” She grinned, “I know you said you don’t think he feels the same way, but I think you just need to go for it! Guys are horrible at understanding signals, sometimes you just need to be direct.”

Jason stared at her, his brain stuttering. You liked him.

You—who constantly argued with him, who could barely stand being in the same room without bickering—had a crush on him.

For the first time all night, Jason didn’t know what the hell to say.

After hours of silently praying Roy wouldn’t catch onto the fact you weren’t actually Jason, you finally managed to get him out of Jason’s apartment. Across the city, Jason had endured his own private hell and only barely escaped Jess and her wine-drunk friends without putting a bullet in his own skull.

By the time he stumbled back into his apartment, you were sprawled on his couch in his body, watching some mindless action flick with the volume turned up too loud.

“How was Jess’s?” you asked casually, pressing mute and straightening up.

Jason dropped onto the other end of the couch with a groan. “I don’t understand how you girls can drink that much wine and talk that much.”

You smirked. “Occupational hazard.”

But the smirk slid right off your face when Jason mirrored it with one of his own. “So,” he drawled, “how was dealing with the boner for Harper?”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

Jason’s grin widened.

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Naked grandmas did the trick. But I must say, you men pop that shit way too easily, and you know what?”

Jason leaned back, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Oh, this should be good.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “It’s not fair. You vigilante guys strut around with your perfect muscles and broad shoulders and… and abs, and then expect people not to ogle.”

His lips twitched before pulling into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Wait. Does this mean you find me hot too?”

Your whole body stiffened. “What? I didn’t say that!”

“You kinda did,” he countered easily, leaning back against the cushions. His grin widened. “You said vigilante men. Plural. Plus…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “You already admitted I have an objectively nice dick.”

Your cheeks heated. “Okay, yes, I did say that—but stop fishing for compliments!” You huffed, crossing your arms. “You know you’re… infuriatingly good looking.”

The words left you in a rush, so unfiltered they startled even you. Silence pressed in and before Jason could say anything, you shot to your feet.

“I—uh, water,” you muttered, escaping toward the kitchen. You grabbed a glass from the cupboard with trembling hands, filling it to the brim just to keep yourself busy. The sound of rushing water was the only thing keeping you from thinking too hard about what you’d just blurted out.

Infuriatingly good looking.

God, you wanted to crawl under the floor. Maybe if you drank fast enough, you could drown yourself. Probably not, but you did pray that he would let it go or brush it off.

Meanwhile, Jason blinked in shock, still processing your admission. The cocky comeback he had, dying on his tongue. For once, he had nothing to say as he got the last bit of confirmation he needed that Jess was saying the truth. He’d spent months worrying you couldn’t stand him, convinced you’d never return the same feelings he’d buried under sarcasm and arguments. Something, he chose to keep it hidden rather than risk losing the fragile bond you already shared.

But now? You’d admitted you found him attractive. Jess had all but shouted your crush to his face. It was the confidence boost he needed.

From behind you, Jason rose from the couch, moving to lean against the counter with arms crossed as he watched nearly chug the entire glass of water, he waited until you lowered the glass and set it down.

“You know,” he said casually, tone deceptively light, “I heard something interesting from Jess today.”

Your—his—expression pinched in confusion, then morphed into unease. “What?”

“She was asking when you’d finally give in and ask out the guy you were crushing on.” His lips curved as your eyes widened in shock.

“Y-yeah? Well…” you stammered, scrambling, “I heard something similar from Roy.”

Jason pushed off the counter, prowling closer. “Yeah?” he hummed, voice low. “And what exactly did he say, princess?”

You swallowed hard, trying for bravado that didn’t quite stick. “T-that you liked me.”

Jason’s grin only deepened. You’d been hoping he’d fluster, maybe retreat—but he didn’t. If girls’ night had taught him anything, it was that men were absolute garbage at understanding signals and looking back he’d been missing an entire billboard of them. And right now? He wasn’t about to waste another second pretending.

“Well,” he said, voice certain, “he was right about that. I do like you, princess. You like me. And I think it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”

He closed the distance between you before you could answer. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Your breath hitched, words caught in your throat. All you could do was nod, slack-jawed and stunned by the sudden shift and confidence.

Jason’s arms slid up around your neck, tugging you down until his mouth pressed firmly against yours. For a heartbeat, the world fell away. Instinct took over—your hands curved around his waist, pulling him closer as you kissed him back without hesitation. 

Just as quick, you both seemed to freeze. Lips still pressed together, both of your eyes snapped open in unison.

You jerked back, staring at the face across from you—your face, flushed and breathless. “This is weird as fuck,” you blurted, chest heaving. “I feel like I’m kissing myself.”

Technically you were…but you weren’t.

Jason only nodded as he stared back at his face. “So fucking weird.”

A beat of silence passed, both of you standing there, caught between laughter and horror.

“So…” you began slowly, swallowing hard, “try this again when we switch back to our original bodies?”

“Oh yeah.”

[mostly-imagines]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes.

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[kitkatscabinet]

HEAR ME OUT

requested | by anon summary | You manage to wrangle your boyfriend into filming a tiktok with you pairing | jason todd x fem! reader

It had taken days of begging, bribery and outright falling to your knees in public before Jason had agreed to do 'the damn video', with you. It may have been a little embarrassing, but what was your dignity in the face of virality?

"Lady Dimitrescu? That's so weak! She's like the milfiest milf to ever milf. You ask anybody on the street and they'll tell you the same thing I'm about to, smash!" You exclaim, motioning to the little print out of said character now decorating the cake, courtesy of your boyfriend.

"Alright then, let's see yours!" Jason scoffs, crossing his arms, practically daring you to do something unhinged.

"I'm just saying, that's a conventially attractive woman." You mumbled to the camera before a cheeky grin crossed your face. "Now, this, is a hear me out." Brandishing your print out, you carefully slot it beside Jason's choice, desperately trying not to laugh as you await his outburst.

"Seriously? Ivy? Harley?" A little underwhelming but you remain undettered.

"Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time."

"What was it you said about not including conventially attractive people?" It's your turn to glare at Jason then, a warning glint in your eye. After all, unlike Lady Dimitrescu, Harley and Ivy were technically attainable in real life.

"Don't give me that look, you picked them!"

"Moving on!" You shoved him to the side a little, ignoring that it was his turn as you placed your next pick.

"Ok now I know you're taking the piss. Killer croc?!"

"Hey! Don't yuck my yums! That's a perfectly sexy man and I bet you $100 the comments will agree with me!"

The look of absolute judgement and disgust Jason shoots your way is nearly enough to send you over the edge, giggles wracking your frame that only get heavier when you announce your next pick, "R-Roy Harper."

Jason stills, tilting his head to look at you with a small smile and what you could only describe as crazy eyes. "Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is? Do you want me to spend the rest of my life behind bars? cause I'll kill that redheaded bitch, you know I will."

You can't help it, the laughter bursts forth until you're wheezing and holding the table for support.

"You're mocking me. Here I am, having to murder my best friend and you're mocking me. Laughing at my pain."

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, baby, that was a joke." You manage to wheeze, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.

"Yeah, well, you should probably give up on your dreams of being a comedian, stick to your day job."

Ok, that was it.

"Wait, hold on, I've got one more left." There's a serene smile covering your face now, the picture of zen as you await the inevitable meltdown over your final choice.

"THAT'S MY DAD! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PUT MY DAD IN! WHAT THE FUCK! TAKE IT BACK, TAKE IT BACK RIGHT NOW!" He screeched, reaching for the picture and throwing it across the room like it was a bomb.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? LOOK AT THE PHOTO I PICKED, HE'S SEXY AS SHIT!" Your words do nothing but throw gasoline on the dumpster fire as Jason lets out another war like shriek.

"NO! THAT'S IT, YOU'RE DONE! YOU'RE DONE!"

[The camera picks up the indistingusiahble mix of your combined screams, the video cutting as Jason tackles you to the ground]

[robs-your-robins]

I think while yes Bruce is a competent father figure he just forgets certain things about kids because he didn’t really grow up around them or have younger siblings. And like Dick is very much the guinea pig for turning Bruce into the competent (semi competent) father figure. Dick losing his first tooth and getting all excited because his mom told him about the tooth fairy and Bruce is like “But there’s no-” and Alfred appears in his eye line where a happy gummy smiling Dick can’t see him with the scariest expression on his face that Bruce fucking chokes on his breakfast. because if Bruce wants to take in a kid, he’s going to put him first and provide. Dick gets a hundred dollar bill for his first tooth (Bruce tried to write a cheque and apparently it wouldnt do?). Dick sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter to Santa and of course having learned from the Tooth Fairy incident, checks with Alfred whether - oh, yes, that’s his job as well but Alfred volunteers to do the actual buying and wrapping. Bruce never wanted to Manor decorated for Christmas after his parents died and sometimes Alfred didn’t out of respect for Bruce’s feelings but that first Christmas? Bruce is up a ladder hanging tinsel while Dick holds the ladder, babbling about how his dad always hung the lights for everybody at Haley’s. Dick wanting to go Trick or Treating and Bruce is like, “but it’s the busiest night of the year for-” and Alfred is in the back clearing his throat, so cue Bruce Wayne taking his new ward around the neighbourhood dressed as a sunflower while Dick is dressed like a little bee (Bruce drew the line at the Superman costume).

[lucylockets]

She Was Bat’s Wife? The Whole Time?!

summary: when identities get revealed, of course everyone wants to meet up. bruce is forced to host the weirdest brunch he’s ever been to.

pairings: husband!bruce wayne x wife!reader. members of the batfamily, and other members of the justice league.

warnings: brief mention of bondage. probably ooc (especially at the end lmao. but we all know that canon batfamily rarely ever actually TALK to each other so we deal with it through fanon). also i think it’s sorta rushed but i need to be free from these demons.

dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

a/n: YALL IM SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG. writers block is my biggest opp. thank you sm for 400+ followers!!

taglist (i feel so professional now lmao): @koreluvsspring @theoraekenslover @my-loved-figure-skates @iluvoaldmen @himikoquack @moongirl27 @justheretoreadmydear and @kiki4554 but for some reason i can’t tag you (?)

- MASTERLIST

- part 1, part 2:

Bruce likes to keep the main two aspects of his life very seperate.

At home, he has his family. You, dick, jason, tim, cass, damian, duke, and alfred. Stephanie and barbara too. It can be loud and chaotic, but it’s what he looks forward to when he’s at the office.

And yes, his family and the vigilante life overlap sometimes. he doesn’t mind that.

However, the justice league and his civilian life have been very far apart. And now, as he looks at each different person sitting at the garden table outside, he wonders how he was convinced to do all this.

Bruce didn’t want to, and had no plan of revealing identities anytime soon. It was months before anything happened.

And during those months, he noticed everything.

He noticed how there always seemed to be at least one pair of League eyes on him. It was quite irritating, actually. He got through his nightly patrols through Gotham fine, but whenever there was a special mission there was always at least three hands shooting up to join him.

He stopped attending those missions as Batman all together, instead giving instructions to whoever had taken the mission as their own. Instead, he observed as Bruce Wayne.

For instance, there was one time where Green Lantern and Wonder Woman volunteered for something to do with Gotham Racing (pretend that gotham has something similar to F1 pls guys), and you and Bruce were in the audience.

You had your arm linked with Bruce’s when you encountered the pair.

Diana first checked that you were both okay, before she remembered. She gave Hal a side glance, a silent question. Hal’s mind was already working, but his mouth just didn’t match.

“Batman isn’t here,” He had to work Batman into the conversation somehow! “He’s, uh . . . he has other business. That he’s taking care of.”

They both look at your face to see if your expression changes in any way at all. It doesn’t. You just nod a little, seemingly unconcerned. Bruce says, “yes, I can imagine that he works quite hard.”

“You like him, then?” Diana asks. “The Batman?”

Neither Diana nor Hal knows what exactly they’re trying to get out of this conversation. More information, maybe? Or perhaps just some gossip for later.

“Well, he works hard,” Bruce replies. He adds on, “I have great respect for heroes.”

They inwardly groan. It’d be easier if Bruce hated Batman. Instead he has respect for him. Hal wonders how much respect he’d have if he knew how Batman looked at his wife.

Diana looks at you, trying not to make it too obvious.

“Yes, I agree.” You say. “Batman makes an effort to keep Gotham safe. It’s admirable.”

They glance at each other, before saying their goodbyes and departing. Neither of them notice the way that Bruce’s fingers curled around your dress a little tighter.

They don’t hear Bruce murmur, “admirable, hm?”. They don’t see you smile before saying, “well, he can brood a little too intensely at times, but I don’t mind.”

The next meeting Bruce stared particularly hard at Wonder Woman and Green Lantern, as they avoided his eye.

Yes, Bruce noticed those. What he didn’t notice, or didn’t piece together, was Oliver Queen. Bruce doesn’t know Oliver has anything to do with Green Arrow, so he doesn’t know that Oliver knew anything about the little situation.

So, while he found it slightly odd that Oliver started talking about Batman during the charity event, he didn’t link it with anything to do with the League.

“Have you two ever met him?” Oliver asks. “Personally?”

Bruce nods. “I’ve met him a few times. Very brief, though. He likes to keep to himself.”

You add on, “yes, me too. Most times after a crime scene. Oliver, you remember when he fought Scarecrow?”

Oliver nods, “Yeah, I do.” He swallows his pride for the sake of gossip investigating. “Batman’s a good fighter. Very . . . stealthy.”

He looks to Bruce from you. Neither of you provide anything reaction that would cause suspicion. Oliver continues.

“He seems to sneak around at night, have you noticed?”

Bruce chuckles. “Gotham Gazette does tend to call him ‘The Dark Knight’.”

You laugh too, “I think he just likes the dark.”

Oliver hums. He’s trying to gauge something out of this. He doesn’t expect a full blown confession in public, but he wants something to report back to the common room. “I suppose he’s a very private person.”

“Perhaps he’s just smart.” Bruce quips, a tad too quickly. He takes a drink. Oliver sees you give Bruce a small grin before you looked at him.

“I imagine he doesn’t want to give out information about himself.” You say smoothly. “With villains like Gotham, it wouldn’t be smart to show vulnerability.”

Oliver nods. “Of course.” He drops the topic.

One time, Flash was called to save Bruce Wayne from his latest kidnapping. It isn’t exactly a rare occurrence, given his status. So, Flash takes the mission without a second thought.

It’s only when he actually returns Bruce to his manor that he’s reminded of his teammates crush on the man’s wife. But it’s too late now because you’re at the door, and now you’re getting closer-

Flash watched as you practically grabbed Bruce. Your fingers dug into his shirt, your eyes anxiously scanning him for injuries. Bruce getting kidnapped is a happens-more-often-than-any-of-us-would-prefer, but it doesn’t mean that you get less worried each time.

Bruce calms you with words of assurance, showing you that he’s alright. You still don’t let go of him, even when you thank Flash multiple times.

Flash sees first hand how much you both care about another, and chews the inside of his cheek when he thinks about Batman.

And then Nightwing was questioned. He was with Superman, helping with surveillance. The older man was sitting next to Dick, pausing for a second before speaking.

“So, you and Batman are quite close.”

Dick grinned a little. “He trained me for seven years, so I guess.” Dick gave Clark a questioning look. “Are you trying to figure out what to get him for his birthday again, even though you don’t actually know when it is?”

“No, not that.” Clark shook his head. “I’m just wondering if he has any . . .” he cleared his throat, trying to push down the incredible awkwardness he felt. “. . . infatuations with anybody.”

Dick blinked and was silent for a second before his face softened. “Oh, Supes, that’s really sweet but I don’t think Batmans into guys-“

“No!” Clark exclaimed, flushing. “That’s not why I’m asking! I’m not- I don’t-“

“I mean, I can ask him-“

“No!” Clark groans. He racks his brain for an excuse. “Im just wondering if any other heroes know anything about, you know, being in a relationship. Just . . . it can be hard when you’re a hero.”

“Oh.” Dick thinks. He thinks of Bruce and you, and the challenges of a hero being married to a civilian. The inevitable arguments it sparks up. He really does have empathy for Superman, especially if he’s trying to navigate the same thing. But then he shakes his head. “Batman doesn’t really do relationships.”

Clark nodded. “I see.” Batman isn’t with anybody, and Clark thinks it’s because he’s seemingly loyal to Bruce Wayne’s wife. A woman he has no chance with.

Dick gives him a nudge. “But I can tell you all about me and-“

“That’s quite alright, Nightwing.”

And so that goes on for a while. Bruce learns to live with the unspoken suspicion and subtle questioning. He doesn’t find himself complaining about it, as it’s more entertaining than anything. And he gets to come home to you every evening anyway, so why should he care?

Every night he slides into bed with you, making sure that you both have your arms wrapped around each other. If you’re already asleep, he takes extra care to not wake you, but he will slowly lift your arms to fall around his shoulders.

Every morning he pushes his face into your shoulder, mumbling “five more minutes.” Even if he has to be in a meeting in half an hour, or if there’s already a kid at the door, demanding something or another.

But so far, the League thinks there’s absolutely no chance of anything really happening. Batman is doomed to have a pining for a married woman who simply cares too much about her husband to do that to him. They think there’s no chance that Batman and you could ever be a thing, because, well, you’re much better than that.

That’s until a night in winter.

A message came in through the watchtower. The Riddler had you in his clutches, wanting to play another sick game. When their eyes landed on your name, each pair of eyes landed on Batman, where they noticed he had his fists clenched.

Before anyone could say anything, Batman had already stood and began moving quickly out of the Watchtower.

Under normal, nobody-has-a-crush-on-anyone’s-wife circumstances, the other members would’ve let Batman go. He’s handled the Riddler plenty of times before, and could probably take him down with a simple plan.

But now it was different. Green Arrow and Flash also stood, following him. Oliver had slipped into the Batmobile with a smirk sent towards Batmans grumblings about how it’s “getting ridiculous now,” while Barry ran alongside them.

Batman tracked down where Riddler was keeping you, and they found a dim room where a sound of … shuffling could be heard?

Oliver grabbed a flashlight out of Batmans utility belt, shining on the room before Batman could say anything. They found you, tied to a chair. You had been moving yourself across the room to get closer to the door slowly. With every shuffle of the chair, you had been trying to move your wrists out of the ropes, your skin rubbed raw.

Barry moved towards you before Batman could even take a step. He untied you, already speaking assuring words.

“Yes, yes,” you said, nodding. “Thank you three.”

The two blondes beamed at you, but Batman stayed stoic. However, as Barry swiftly offered to bring you outside, they missed the tiny smile you sent Bruce’s way after catching his eye.

And they missed the way his eyes relaxed under the mask, changing from their narrowed shape to something softer.

After the whole fight with Riddler, the jokes from Barry, the remarks from Oliver, and the steely silence from Batman, the three man began working outside again.

“Huh,” Barry said to Oliver, while Batman walked ahead, he had already rounded the corner while the other two men were at the end of the street. “He didn’t react to her once.”

“Maybe he’s gotten over her.” Oliver said calmly. “I definitely hope so, because it’d be better for all of us.”

“Yeah.” Barry agreed. “I’m actually quite proud of him. It can be really hard to move-“

And that’s when they heard it. Your voice from around the corner, speaking to someone. Someone who they prayed it wasn’t who they thought was.

“You think so?” You said with a grin they could practically hear. “I tried using the self defence you taught me when he grabbed me, but he bound me almost straight away.”

“But you still kept trying, I saw it.” Dammit. The familiar deep voice of their batty coworker met their ears, making the two of them exchange glances of horror.

“Maybe Alfred can give you something for your wrists.” Alfred? The Wayne butler? I’m sorry, is Batman seriously speaking about this woman’s husband’s butler while having an affair with her? Is he officially gone mad?

“Not the first time my wrists have been hurt from bondage.” You replied in a flirty manner, making Oliver almost hurl up his dinner. But it isn’t as bad as the next thing that assaults their ears.

“Quiet.” He mumbles, before the unmistakable sound of lips meeting makes the two other men scramble to actually need to see it with their own eyes.

And lo and behold, against every single odd, there you two are. Mrs Wayne and Batman kissing in a dark Gotham corner. The other two rip back around, practically tripping over each other to return to the Watchtower without being seen.

“So,” Oliver mutters. “Not completely over her.”

Barry groans. “Why can’t he use that stupid self-restraint he’s always going on about? Where is that now when we would it like it most?”

And when Batman returns to his Batmobile a while later, he briefly wonders where his two teammates disappeared to, but decides they probably made their own way home.

Besides, why would he spend his night looking for two perfectly capable men when the promise of you waits at the Manor?

And now he’s confused again when the previously worried and pitying looks he was receiving from his teammates have changed into looks of disappointment, disapproval, and sometimes disgust.

The whole identities ordeal had been gradual. There was no dramatic scene where everyone ripped off their masks. People found out at different times.

Barry and Hal knew each others before anyone else. Bruce, Clark, and Diana knew each others. Oliver and Arthur found out each others. J’onn knew everyone’s the whole time.

but eventually, everyone knew everyone.

When Clark had discovered Batmans identity, his mind went back to the certain meeting about Bruce Wayne’s- er, Batmans wife, he offered an apology to his friend. Diana smirked, focusing on the amusement from the whole situation.

But nobody went as red as Hal did when identities were revealed. The man froze for a second, before stammering an apology out in the most unlike-Hal way. Bruce just hummed, raising a brow.

Oliver just laughed when he realised that Batman, the man that spiked fear in hearts of criminals, and could stare down the whole Justice League, was the same man who always had a hand on his wife’s waist and the other on the scruff of one of his children.

and then Bruce made the horrible mistake of telling you. He told you about how the League knew identities, and you immediately suggested a get-together. Bruce made a few excuses like “we’re really more work colleagues than friends,” but you were already buying ingredients for finger sandwiches.

Oh yeah, he reminded himself. That’s how you got here. She asked you.

It had been bit of an awkward proposal. Bruce had decided to mention it at the end of another meeting.

“I would like you all to attend a lunch at my house.” He had said, as relaxed as he could. Diana raised a brow.

“You?”

“My wife.” Bruce corrected. “She would like to meet you all . . . properly.”

Barry turned to Hal with a look of amusement, silently reminding him about their last joint encounter with Bruce Wayne’s wife. Hal gave him a look that told him to shut up before he said anything.

Bruce continued. “She also invited you all to bring your own families.”

There was a small pause before Clark clapped his hands together. “Brilliant idea!” He exclaimed.

J’onn arrived first. He expressed the value of bring early to events to not be rude, and you simply nodded. He seemed to be similar to Bruce in a way that he had a very stoic demeanour about him, but held empathy underneath. You also noticed he was very intelligent. He also had a fond for Choco cookies, discovered when Alfred offered him some.

Clark and his family arrived second. Jon practically burst through the door, with Conner after him. The two boys quickly went to their respective bat after saying a polite greeting to you and Bruce. Lois came in with a lasagne dish. You took it from her, thanking her, but she said “thank Clark. I’m a hopeless cook.”

You and her got on pretty quickly. She’s sharp-minded, and not much escapes her eyes. Conversation with her is so genuine, but she always has a look that she’s storing the pieces of information that she collects.

Diana and Steve were third. Diana had greeted you with a strong hug before beaming at you. You smiled back, it’s impossible not to. She pressed a bouquet of flowers into your hands, thanking you for your hospitality. Alfred put them in a vase to set on the table.

Steve seemed to linger behind Diana a little, a little awkward while taking in the grand manor. He held his hand out for Bruce to shake, and it seemed like a gesture he had put a great deal of thought into. However, after you all talked, he seemed to become a lot more comfortable. He pulled out a chair for Diana, making you and her exchange a look of simple understanding.

Arthur and his wife arrived precisely on time. He greeted you with a small bow, and offered a “heartfelt greeting”, which you returned. Mera, who once thought that humans were nothing more than barbaric, seemed to relax a little when surrounded by luxury. She entertained you by making small whirlpool in the water in your glass. Nobody can deny the royal presence of the two.

Hal arrived on his own, his entrance quite loud. He grinned at Bruce, exclaiming “nice place, Spooky!”. Bruce didn’t return the enthusiasm, but that didn’t seem to deter him. Now that Hal had gotten over the previous mortification of accusing Batman of being in love with another man’s wife, he was back to his usual self around him.

Hal greeted you by pressing his lips to your knuckles, saying “well, I wasn’t aware anyone as beautiful as you would fall for someone like Bats,” before joining the others outside.

Bruce grumbled beside you about “tactless humour.” You turned to him, a look of slight confusion on your face, “but you always kiss my hand on date nights.”

He knows that you knew what he actually meant, but he still says, “and only I’m allowed to do it,” making you smile before rubbing his arm soothingly.

Oliver, Dinah, and Roy were next. Bruce was positive that they were a little late on purpose. “Oliver’s idea of being ‘fashionably late’,” he murmurs to you. Roy gives you a nod and a “Hiya, mrs (name),” before hurrying off to find Jason.

Dinah shakes her head a little at him before grinning at you. You’ve met before, at more formal events than this. However, Dinah remains unapologetically herself, although that could just be because she’s too stubborn to change.

Barry, and Iris are last. Wally had decided to come along too. He is as jittery as usual, pushing past his aunts legs to say hello to you and Bruce, before walking off in his search of his best friend. Iris apologises for being late.

“Honestly,” she says, “I’m surrounded by the fastest people on the planet and yet we’re late everywhere.”

And now Bruce is sitting outside, watching his civilian life and vigilante life mix. Duke was beside him, talking with Clark about the sun or light. Ace was resting his head on Bruce’s knee, because Bruce kept slipping him little pieces of ham that was spread on the table.

At first, the League members had made their own circle while their partners made another.

You, Lois, Dinah, Mera, and Iris had shared similar experiences with having husbands that like to put themselves in danger, and then talked about your own lives. Steve had drifted from Diana’s side, to the women talking. He stayed by the side for a minute or two, before being invited into the conversation. He had related to being worried about partners, and felt glad that he now had a group to talk about it with.

The children were either running around the garden, or simply talking.

Dick was trying to show Wally a new trick that involved a backflip, but Wally was busy stacking bread rolls in his arms.

Jason was attempting to bring a ladybug closer to him by spreading little crumbs around while Roy talked in his ear.

Cass, Tim, and Conner were sitting at the table, likely complaining about protective parents and the usual teenage problems.

Damian and Jon were crafting their own games, although Damian often claimed that imaginative games were too “simple” for him. Alfred The Cat stayed by the two boys’ ankles. Every so often, Damian would come over beside you to eat a bite or take a drink while Jon did the same beside Lois.

After a while, people mixed a little more and Bruce had drifted away from the League to sit next to you.

Bruce is introverted, but has years of practise to hide it. He’s good at putting on a face for hours. But when he’s around those few select people he’s comfortable with, he’s able to be quiet.

So, he doesn’t notice how he doesn’t feel the need to be the life and soul of this event. His presence is noted, of course. Clark is one of his closest friends, along with other members. There’s also seven kids here that appear at his side every so often to sit and eat before running off again.

He doesn’t feel the need to make any exaggerated statements. Everyone here has seen him as Batman, stoic and untouchable. He can comfortably listen and talk when he wants to. He decided not to confront the fact that he feels comfortable enough around these people to do so.

With Bruce being a few feet away, Hal leaned forward.

“So, when are we all going to address the fact that Bats managed to get married?”

Barry gave Hal a look. “Can you stop calling him that? You know his name now.”

“Never.” Hal said shortly before continuing. “I need information. How did he get her to stay with him?”

Iris raised her eyebrows. “He’s Bruce Wayne, Hal. That’s how.”

Barry turned his head to her. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, Bar.”

Hal spoke again before Barry could open his mouth. “Yeah, I get that he’s Bruce Wayne, but eventually she found out about Batman. What could he have possibly said so she didn’t turn and run? I mean, it’s Spooky. I didn’t know he could feel positive emotions.”

Iris shrugged. “You’d be surprised what women are into.”

Barry looked alarmed for the second time in the short conversation. “What women are-“ He spluttered, giving Iris a questioning look. “Are you into- . . . is this a general thing?”

“Barry, listen to me.” Hal pressed, “are we sure she isn’t under some voodoo magic?”

Iris sighed. “Why are you confused by their marriage?”

“It’s Batman, Iris.” Hal said, as if that was answer enough. “I know it’s Bruce Wayne too, but it’s Batman. Who has the patience?”

“Her, obviously.”

“How do you think their wedding went?” Barry grinned, before putting two of his fingers behind his head to mimic Batmans ears. He continued in a much deeper voice than his own, “I, Batman, promise to love you in sickness and in health, in justice and in vengeance.”

Instead of laughing, the three sitting with Barry went silent. Hal was looking over Barry’s head at something behind him, and Iris just smirked at Barry as if she knew something he didn’t.

Barry blinked and lowered his hand. “At least give me a pity chuckle.”

Hal shook his head a little. Barry paused for a second before realising.

“Who was that meant to be? I only caught the last words.” A familiar deep voice came from behind him. Barry turned, mustering up the best expression of relaxation that he could manage. His eyes followed Bruce as he sat down beside him.

“Um. You know . . . I was doing an impression of Megatron getting married.” Barry got out, while Iris tried not to laugh beside him. “ . . . From Transformers. Because he has a deep voice.”

“I know who Megatron is.” Bruce said with classy ease. “Jason used to love the series. Tim enjoys the films.”

“Ah.” Barry leaned back a little, scratching his neck. He avoided Hal’s eye. “Well. There you go.”

Across the table, Lois was talking to you about a similar thing.

“I knew about you and Bruce since it was announced years ago, but I always thought it was you and Bruce.” She said. “Not Batman.”

You grin. “That is what most people think.”

Lois leaned forward, her hand underneath her chin. “You know what I’m going to ask, right?”

“How is Bruce and Batman so different?” You guessed. But Lois shook her head.

“I’m well aware that most famous people have different personalities. Although Bruce’s is quite a step further.” She slightly teased. “I’m sorta wondering how the dating thing went. I mean, Batman is very . . . distant from practically everything. But you obviously changed something in him.”

You smile.

Bruce was sitting across from you, dressed in a very fancy suit that you probably couldn’t afford if you worked for ten years straight. The low lights from the fancy restaurant lit up his face in a way that made him look almost angelic.

He was doing his best to look at ease, but inside his head he was wondering what he should do. ‘Should I hold her hand? Or is that too forward? Would she like that? Is she expecting it? You’ve been on enough dates to know this, Bruce, how don’t you know this???’

You cleared your throat, making Bruce’s eyes flicker to yours and his racing mind stops. He isn’t panicking over how his hair looks or what his next move should be, and instead he waits for your next words.

“I’ve never been here before,” you say, glancing around.

Bruce responds, “I’ve only been here once. A dinner party a year or two ago.”

“Ah.”

Bruce analyses everything about you. Your fingers are playing with a loose thread ok your clothes, as if you’re trying to half-hide it. Your posture is more fixed than usual. Your eyes dart around every so often to other people in the restaurant. Men in suits and ties, women in designer clothes and real gold jewellery. Your feet shuffle every few seconds underneath the table, as if you are far too conscious of them and you aren’t sure where they should be. You haven’t made much conversation with him as usual, and when you do speak, your voice isn’t as strong.

He comes to a conclusion. You aren’t comfortable.

He reassures himself that you aren’t uncomfortable because of him. He knows you, you wouldn’t have accepted a date with him if you didn’t like him. He knows you aren’t comfortable because this is uncharted territory for you.

Bruce gives you a smile and leans forward. “You don’t like it here.”

Your eyes widen a little at his words, looking at him with surprise. “No!” You claim quickly, before lowering your voice. “No, that isn’t- I mean, I haven’t even tried the food yet.”

“The food isn’t the reason you don’t like it.” He raises his eyebrows a little. He isn’t accusing you of anything, or making you out to be ungrateful. He’s just stating a fact.

“I do like it here.” You say, as if that finalised the matter. Your eyes scan the menu, and you catch sight of some dishes you’ve never heard of before. “It’s very nice. A . . . um, great selection of food.”

Bruce made a small humming noise, pretending to look over the menu.

When the waiter came over to take your orders, he noticed how you ordered one of the cheapest things on the menu. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional, since all the choices were quite lavish so it wasn’t like you were depriving yourself of anything. But it made him wonder. Everything you do always does.

You two ate your appetisers while making conversation. Stories from childhood was exchanged (although Bruce was a little more cagey with his), and embarrassing incidents from teenage years were laughed over.

But when the plates were clear and taken away, you were silent again. Nervous, judging by the small tapping of your fingers against each other. You grew conscious of yourself.

“I don’t really like it here.”

You look up, giving Bruce a puzzled look. “You finished your plate.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I didn’t enjoy it much.” He looked around, leaning back and sighing a little. “Do you know any place better?”

You raised your eyebrows. “Any place better than . . . this? No Bruce, I don’t know a place better than a restaurant with a chandelier in every room.”

Bruce’s face fell, expressing great disappointment. “That’s a shame. I sort of want to go somewhere else.”

And whatever Bruce Wayne wants, he gets.

So, after claiming that it was “far too stuffy”, he paid the bill and took your hand outside the restaurant.

He didn’t call a driver, or a cab, which would’ve been the safe option in Gotham. Yes, Bruce wanted to keep you safe, but he also really wanted to walk with you. He purposely slowed down when walking past food sellers to see if your eyes lingered on anything. A few minutes later, you were telling him a story that happened in one of the small diners in the quieter part of Gotham. Bruce immediately suggested going there.

“You don’t want to go there,” you shook your head a little. “You’re wearing a suit and-“

“And I want to go there.” He can get a bit cheeky with you sometimes.

And now you watched him slowly eat a slice of pizza, his chewing careful as ever. One would say that you both look a little ridiculous, sitting in a rundown diner with a suit and dress. You look at Bruce.

“Why did you want to leave to come to this place?” You ask.

Bruce stayed calm. “I already told you, I didn’t like the food at the other place.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You know I don’t believe that.”

Bruce paused for a second before setting his pizza down. He’s able to put on a mask for hundreds of people. He can lie easily through his teeth to people he cares about. He’s able to track down the most hidden secretive of Gotham. But he can’t figure out how you see through him everytime.

“I just thought that it was a bit awkward there.” He said slowly. “I was a bit too conscious of myself, I think. Just because of the . . . atmosphere there.”

You think for a moment before nodding. “I think I felt the same.” You smile a little.

Bruce grins back at you.

“That’s actually quite sweet.” Lois said, quickly bringing you back to the present. “Very thoughtful.”

“Surprised?” You said.

“He’s a man, (Name),” she said without missing a beat. “You get surprised when any one of them is thoughtful.”

You laughed, looking down.

A minute later, Clark slid into a chair beside Bruce. “She’s lovely.” He said, his head giving a small nod towards you. “Lois always managed to get interviews with her before I had the chance, and I can see why she was so eager to meet again.”

Bruce nodded. It doesn’t matter who spoke praise for you, Bruce would agree. The Joker himself could compliment you and Bruce would be compelled to take a moment to agree and bask in you.

“I remember the first time you two appeared at a gala together.” Clark smiled. “And now married with six kids!”

Bruce had an easy expression in his face that only comes when he thinks about his family. His memory brings him back to the first gala Clark mentioned.

“Bruce!” You called from your en-suite bathroom on your shared bedroom. “Do these earrings look nice? I don’t know if they go with my makeup or not.”

Bruce appeared in the doorway, taking a look at you before moving to put his arm around your waist.

“You look beautiful, darling.” He said quietly, pressing a kiss to your neck. He’d prefer to kiss your cheek or lips, but he knew you’d fuss if he smudged your makeup. “You always do.”

“Thank you,” you said, grinning for a moment before your face was serious again. “But seriously, do the earrings look okay?”

“Yes,” He replied. “They look as gorgeous as the woman wearing them.”

You bit back a laugh as you tutted. “Always with the flirting.”

“Not flirting if I’m simply telling the truth.”

It was safe to say you were nervous. It was the first time you would be surrounded by people in a completely different class to you. You don’t want to seem like the clueless girl who didn’t know her way around a room, and hoped that Bruce would at least give you some advice on how to act. But when you asked him, he just replied with, “I usually just pretend to listen and then I smile and nod. Sometimes you can sneak a few minutes of sleep if they’re particularly too wrapped up in themselves.”

But you didn’t want to fall asleep while talking to someone. You wanted to be refined, and, well . . . fit in.

So when you arrived at the gala, you smiled for the cameras beside Bruce, while he walked with you with a hand around your waist. Bruce never lingered too long outside these events, instead preferring to get inside as soon as he could. But you decided to turn at the last second to blow a kiss to the reporters, making the flashes of light increase significantly.

Bruce tugged you in with the tired grin, as if he already half-expected you to make a little show.

“First night in public with me and you’re already sucking up to the cameras.” He said.

“Have to make an impression.” You shrugged.

And after, when you two walked out of the event back to the car, reporters were already scribbling down different article titles about the lipstick marks on Bruce Wayne’s neck.

You and Bruce went through all the different phases of marriage. The newlywed stage (which makes your cheeks heat up whenever you recall the honeymoon), the familiarisation stage, the adopting-every-child-you-find-on-the-street stage (which you’re almost sure that not every couple goes through), and now here.

It’s not a traditional family, in a sense. It’s certainly not normal or average. But nobody’s life in this family has been even close to normal. And yes, arguments happen. Ranging from teasing bickering to real shouting matches, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that you get past it. You work on it. Together.

And Bruce Wayne is further in his life than he ever thought he would be.

[pr1nceofg0tham]

penny dreadful -`✮´- j. todd

⊹ summary barbara gordon has had countless good ideas in her life, as the smartest person she knows it's not too difficult to figure out exactly what people need and how to get them there. So, without much planning, she decides the thing her pregnant roommate needs is somebody to walk her home--and thankfully she has somebody in desperate need of a friend. OR how barbara gordon gives jason todd a family.

⊹ pairing jason todd x reader

⊹ genre/tw fluff fluff and more fluff!! a little angst probably loll, afab!reader, reader is pregnant (the baby isn’t jasons) jason isn’t just the stepdad, he’s the dad who stepped up!! bsf!barbara, barb being the best wing woman around, canon gotham violence, slowburn (kinda but also not really at all) like it takes a sec but once they’re in love they’re in love i cant help myself, kisses and petnames, loser!jason >>>, insecurites, references to a changing body, references to a lame ass ex bf, my undying love for alfred, misinformation about pregnancy probably imsosorry. dick and tim cameo!! mostly unedited

⊹ w/c 19k words and some change (i am so sorry)

⊹ a/n okay so this came from the depths of my soul and took me so freaking long. i love this story and reader and jason and i hope you do too!! they’re a bit messier than my other stories but i love them dearly. also this is for all my babies who’ve been requesting girl!dad jason. i hope you like it xoxox

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The thing about Gotham is that the fear never really goes away; it grows and grows until the parasite is big enough to feed, large enough to bite at your bones and feast on your amygdala. The city is a tapeworm, a carnivorous infection that will keep going as long as there are people to be afraid, and there will always be fear.

It grows in the darkness, vines suffocating the sunlight and roots locking you in place— the roads aren’t a safe space to be walking around by yourself, there is no welcome mat, no comforting smile or hands to hold. You’ve heard stories of girls walking home alone in Gotham, how they’d been snatched off the street or pricked by the pain of never Neverland.

It was an unfortunate truth to the city, that women and children would never truly be safe, a truth proved by the too many friends broken and mangled. Yet, you find yourself alone again, walking under buzzing streetlights and listening to the melodies of moaning and heckling and frightened girls. Even after all this time, you’re still not used to it—the inherent violence of your hometown… maybe it’s because it happens with your eyes open, it’s not a secret or a rumor whispered on the street. It’s all true, a dazzling insectile truth that feasts on it staying in the dark—thus, you’ve tried not to give it enough of yourself to do anything to you.

Instead of cowering in shadows and waiting with your blanket over your head, you brave the storm, stepping out into the shivering city with a smile on your face. It’s just passed seven, your shift at Pamela’s ending in a heap of fry grease and spilled coffee, eating you up and spitting you out into the dangerous night. The sun has just now passed the tower of Wayne Enterprises, taking away the one thing that could potentially keep you safe on the hefty walk home. Your apartment in Chinatown isn’t too far from the financial district, yet the moon settling itself content and hefty in the sky, makes it feel miles and miles away.

You wish you took Barbara up on her offer to get her dad to take you home, wish you didn’t have a complex that forced you to be so independent all the time. She asked every day without fail, a text accompanied by countless happy faces and a promise that she would keep asking, but you always said no; you wouldn’t let your issues give Jim another job to do, you respected him to much for that. Though, the way the night is going you really wish you didn’t—everything would be so much better if you had somebody to take you home.

The Diner had been busy—hot and sweaty due to the people and the new weight pulling you down, an obnoxious phenomenon you’re still not used to. You’d been there all day, covering for one of the other girls so she could take her sick kid to the free clinic—You’d been happy to do it, happy to be asked, and for the opportunity to make some extra cash, yet the creeping exhaustion urges you to never pick up another shift. It’d been long and strenuous, hours and hours of unsolicited advice and advances from greedy businessmen and dirty cops.

Three months ago, that kind of shift wouldn’t have caused anything than an eyeroll, but a lot changes in three months.

The summer night is just chilly enough that you feel goosebumps growing beneath your work dress, it’s probably just the breeze, but a treacherous voice inside your head tells you that you’re just scared. It’s different now, it says, the city is vicious to women and children, a traitor to all the lovely innocent things in the world.

The streetlights flicker above you and you think you can hear glass breaking… somebody breaking into some poor bastard’s storefront to be sure. Downtown is full of dangerous lullabies: break-ins, chaos, violent barking – the sound of Gotham tangled into one awful song. You feel a little afraid, a healthy dose of paranoia working its way up your throat, panic forcing your steps to grow faster and faster.

You know if you run, someone will be there to chase, so you force your shoes to stay grounded on the concrete; wait a couple seconds before your left heel follows your right.

You’re halfway home when the bravery leaves you, courage leaking out of you like a watering can. Gotham is never pitch black--always neon and incandescent under the starlight-- but it does nothing to make you feel better: the city at night will eat you alive if you let it.

Fear is familiar in a place like this, your oldest childhood friend and the lover that will never leave you; it’s as much a part of you as the skin that wraps around your bones. You really wish you had somebody to walk you home, a warm hand to fit itself around your waist and help carry some of the weight… strong eyes to look into when the alley grows too quiet. It’s a dangerous wish in a place like this, but one you make anyway, a quiet hope that he’ll come to you again.

You only take a couple more steps before you hear him, whistling a jaunty tune and making his steps heavier and louder so you wouldn’t be scared. You will never forget the first time you heard that sound: the thunderous stomping of combat boots on cement, the top 40’s hit listlessly falling away in a whistle, the clicking sound of violence being strapped away in a holster. It was a melody that’s grown quite familiar, the sound of nighttime and dreams, wishes and bad decisions—a melody that is ever contrasting the sound of his voice,

“Now, what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ all alone?” The voice says, modulated under the muzzle like mask you’re sure he’s wearing. It’s robotic and angry, yet there’s a piece of Gotham hiding away in the vowels—living in the consonants and the space between words.

“I’m not alone now am I?” you respond, sweet and saccharine.

“Why don’t you turn around and see for yourself,” the voice whispers. “If you’re brave enough.” You feel your head turn before you really urge it to, falling into his dare like a little kid at a sleep over. Your neck almost snaps in the speed of it, yet when you find yourself looking behind you there’s no one there: just the empty air you’d left behind. “Made you look.” He laughs.

“That’s not nice!” You say as you turn around, jumping a little at the image in front of you. It’s obvious it’s been a long day for him too, his armored form slouching a little… his chest moving up and down in a heave. You wonder what he left to meet you here, you wonder how he knew where you’d be… you wonder a lot of things.

“I’m not nice, darlin’” He responds, scrambling up to follow you as you regain your earlier speed.

“Okay, then stop following me.”

“Maybe you’re following me, have you thought about that?”

“Hood, either walk me home or shut up.” You tell him, your tired workworn voice cutting like glass. When you first met him, you would never have dreamed of talking to him this way, yet time and time again he rewards you for being mean. It seems like he likes you better when you’re tough and angry, rather than the sickly-sweet version he first met.

It’d been on a night just like this, sleepy and battle-worn, and you’re sure he could see just how scared you were, but he had brought you home without a word. All he did was follow, a silent soldier in the chilly night, he’d said nothing until you reached your door—even then it hadn’t been much, just a reminder not to go home alone (a lecture you surely could never listen to).

Your friendship, (f you could even call it that), was built under streetlights and in between fragments of conversation. He was nice to talk to, funny in a way that reminded you of boys you went to school with, and kind like a street cat. It was odd, how sometimes you felt like he was your closest friend, yet you didn’t really even know him—you had no idea what his name was or what he looked like, but you felt like you could share anything with him and he wouldn’t judge you, not really.

“Man, you just get meaner and meaner,” he huffs, but even through the modulation you can tell he’s happy.

“It’s from all the times I have to see you.”

“Oh my, why are you so feisty tonight?”

“My shift was terrible,” you sigh. “It was full of gangster wannabes and shitheads who work at the WE.”

“That sucks. Want me to go and rough ‘em up for ya?” He laughs.

It sounds like a joke, like something you just say to impress a girl, but you know with every part of you that he would go and hurt those men if you’d asked him to. You can see it in his body, how his muscles tense under all the Teflon and leather, how his masked eyes fall onto your still shivering form.

“Nah, they’ll get what’s coming to them one day.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He sighs, the distaste seeping out of his lips.

His steps are heavy and slow, but there’s something in his posture that tells you he’s holding himself back, like he’s forcing himself to slow to your pace. From the news, you’ve seen what he’s capable of: headless bodies and gunshots and mangled corpses… you know he is a loosely contained weapon, yet there’s something about him that makes you feel unduly safe rather than scared.

You’re almost home, just a block away and some change, and finally you feel just a little lighter. You’re not sure if it’s his elusive company or the knowledge than in just a few minutes you’ll be surrounded by the dim lights of Barbara’s countless lamps and the shower heating your skin, but some of the fatigue seems to be easing its way off your shoulders.

It's when you’re a few paces from your apartment steps when the Red Hood speaks again, interrupting his silence for another lecture. “Y’know I thought I told you to stop walking home all alone.”

“You did tell me that, and I ignored it.” You huff.

“C’mon, beautiful, it’s not just you anymore.” He says, pointing his masked stare down at your belly. The reminder of your baby is an unwanted one, as is the way his gloved hand sweeps its way atop the slightly swollen flesh. The sight of the grisly fabric around your tummy provides silken butterflies to make their way to your chest, a feeling of both tenderness and panic. You remind yourself that you don’t know this man, that he is an unknown weapon built for war and murder, yet the view of him—armored and masked and unknowable—tender and soft at the sight of your growing child, warms you from your head to your toes.

“Trust me, I’m glaringly aware of the little monster.” You smile, the tender shape of it giving away your true feelings.

“Just,” he sighs. “If you’re gonna walk home, keep going the same way okay? I almost didn’t find you, when you turned left at Pearce and Hyacinth instead of the next block over.”

“Yeah, okay Hood.” You laugh, turning away from him to climb up the steps to your home. You know he’s still breathing behind you, you know he won’t go finish his patrol until he’s sure you’re safely inside, so you stall for a minute—holding your hand on the handle without turning it and allowing yourself a few more minutes with your white knight. “Thanks again, Hood.” You whisper before letting yourself in.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

At 7 AM you are awoken to the urge to throw up, your stomach contents rushing upwards in a cascade of acid and bile. Having passed your first trimester a few weeks ago, this certain friend has become fortunately more sporadic, yet it stills decides to sneak attack you like this. You make it to the bathroom in time, but the retching leaves you desolate and once again frustrated at past you’s decision to be a mother.

Since that fateful day you’ve been through nothing but body pains and nausea, headaches and hormones. The first few weeks had been awful, the changes in your body corresponding with the steps you were taking to change your future—you’d left your apartment in midtown and the shitty boyfriend who came with it and started taking more and more shifts at Pamela’s Café to fill your rainy-day fund.

It was all awful, but you do what you gotta do, so within a fortnight of realizing your body was housing another you were moved into Barbara’s place in Chinatown and taking prenatal vitamins that were pathetically expensive.

As your head falls back to hit the tile, you ruminate on all these horrid symptoms and remind yourself that at fifteen weeks your baby is starting to grow eyelashes. A silly, miraculous thought that brings a smile to your clammy face, it’s the size of an apple—a fruit full of goodness that will be entirely you.

It’s the one thought that keeps you trekking through every vile day of pregnancy and Gotham living; you’re sure the women of Metropolis have a better time having babies, what with Superman there to kiss their foreheads… all you have is Batman, and you’re not convinced he’d even like babies.

“Are you okay in there?” you hear from outside the door, Barbara’s sweet voice full of concern. She’d been so worried about you lately, anxiety creasing her eyes and compassion coating her voice every time she saw you. She loves you; you know that better than you knew anything, yet you’d rather her get back to the blunt and humorous way she used to interact with you.

You’d been friends since your brother started work at the station, an alliance made in defiance of male dominated barbeques and the senseless worry of your male family members. She’s your best friend, your older sister and closest companion… there is no one else you’d rather be worried about you, but you really wish she didn’t have to be.

“Yeah, B.” you sigh, letting out a heavy huff of breath. “Just throwing up again.”

She knocks one more time against the door before it opens, jostling a little as her chair wheels into the little bathroom. She’s bright eyed and beautiful, her red hair glinting a little from the window above the tub and smiling even as the concern worries its way at her brown eyes.

“Teeny still giving you trouble?” she asks, pointing her gaze at the little bump peeking out of your nightshirt.

‘You know it.” You groan. “I’m starting to think this mom thing isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yeah well… at least you’re glowing!” Barbara exclaims, her freckled arms coming out to wave around your silhouette. You’re still slouched on the ground, your skin itchy and sweaty, muscles aching and eyes rolling—you can see yourself in the mirror, pathetic and gasping still… glowing your ass.

She leaves you with a laugh and a promise to bring you a glass of water, and you feel so lucky to be someone somehow deserving of Barbara Gordon’s friendship. She is unfairly good, a woman full of nothing but hope and well wishes, and she’s been here for you more than anyone else you know. Over and over again, she has been here to hold your hair and take you to appointments—she was there when you first heard the baby’s heartbeat, starry eyed and smiling like you just hung the moon.

She was your best friend; you really hope one day you’ll make it up to her.

Once the water is consumed and a shower is graced upon your skin, you feel almost brave enough to live another day. It might be the smell of your shampoo or the sound of Barbara watching reality TV in the living room, either way you have more confidence in yourself than you did before.

Maybe your shift tonight will be better than yesterday’s, maybe it will be quiet and easy--hopefully you’ll get out of there before the sun goes down and Barb goes to bed, and everything will be perfect.

Your contraband coffee sits steaming on the kitchen counter, a gift from the girl grinning at you from in front of the TV. Her show is yapping off a petty argument between two women, (something about wanting the same pair of Louboutin’s), and the hazy glow from the TV ignites her smile into something wicked.

“So how was your date with destiny?” She asks, her fair eyebrows raising and a silly wink blinking from her right eye.

“I have no idea what that could even mean, Barbara.” You laugh, one of your hands lifting to brace your back as the other brings the sweet caffeine to your lips.

“You know,” she giggles before lowering her voice into a whisper, “Red Hood.”

Oh, so that’s what she’s on about. You love her, really you do., but since you let it slip that Red Hood walks you home sometimes, she’d been giddied and annoying, like a school child singing about sitting in trees.

You set a dull look upon her, rolling your eyes with a smile as she chants a refrain of “tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“I’m telling you it’s not like that, Barb.”

“What? you don’t get hot under the collar for your caped crusader?” Barbara giggles, the sweet sound filling you with fondness for the older girl.

Her question rings in your mind—it’s true that you find yourself enjoying the vigilante’s company more and more, and yes: when he calls you sweet names and dares to touch you with his leather gloves you get a little warm and dizzy… but that doesn’t matter. A crush on the Red Hood will bring nothing but pain, and you’re supposed to be toughening up for your little monster’s arrival.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel, B.” you say, “The only thing that matters now is keeping us all safe and happy, okay?” your hands come to wave around the three of you, encasing your bodies in imaginary fairy dust.

“Okay,” she says, drawing out the last syllable. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” You tell her before laughing out, “And Red Hood doesn’t even have a cape.”

“Okay, okay!” she laughs before coughing and sweeping an awkward hand through her unbound hair. “Hey, listen, I know I told you I’d come with you to your next appointment, but something came up.”

“Oh, okay…” you tell her, your voice a little quiet. “Don’t worry about it, Babe. I’ll just go by myself it’s fine.”

“But you were supposed to find out the sex!”

“I can wait if you want to find out with me?” You really mean it, if she wanted to find out with you you’d wait, no matter how badly you wanted to know. In truth it wouldn’t really matter, at the end of the day all you wanted was a healthy baby, but you can’t deny wanting to know more about the little person you’re growing.

“No, no, no,” she huffs. “You shouldn’t go alone; I can get someone else to take you?”

“Yeah? Like who?!” You exclaim. “Your dad? I love Jim, but no thanks to having Commissioner Gordo at my OB/GYN.” You can see it now, Jim—awkward and lovely—and doing his due diligence as a father. He’d be sweet of course, but the thought of showing up with the city’s police commissioner sends anxiety down your spine.

“No, babe! I can get Dick or one of his brothers to go.” There’s something about the way Barb says it that makes you suspicious, the glinting look in her eye and the slightest shrug of her shoulders on the word “brother.”

The inclusion of Dick in this conversation isn’t too strange, he was one of her closest friends and regular intruder on all things girl talk and gossip. What was odd was the way she brought him and his family up, like she’d been waiting to talk about them all morning.

Her relationship with the elusive and famous Wayne family was one you didn’t really understand, there was a closeness between them that seemed way more than being at the same bougie Gotham government parties with their fathers. Yet, she kept the mentions of them to a minimum, a reality that seems to be in direct contrast to the way she’s offering them up as her understudy now.

‘What are you planning, Gordon?” you ask her, your eyes squinting and your left index finger rising to point at her chest.

“Nothing! I just thought it would be nice to have some company.” She sighs, her eyes rising to meet yours as she settles her features into a pout.

“Don’t look at me like that! You know what it does to me.”

“Please, let me get one of the boys to take you! I worry about you! please, please, please!”

God, that pout—you could really never deny her anything, since meeting you’d wanted to do anything to make her happy: to impress her like she really was your cool older sister, and she knew it. She really was feeling wicked this morning, if she was this ready to use your love for her against you.

You guess it wouldn’t be too bad to have one of them there, you don’t really know any of them as well as Dick, but B. obviously trusts them and you’re sure it would turn out okay eventually. God, you must love Barbara a lot for even considering this.

You can’t even imagine the way the nurses at your clinic would look at you with one of the Wayne boys trailing after you, a sight almost to good to be passed up. This thought paired with the ever-growing pout on your best friend’s face is what cracks you, so finally you tell her:

“Okay, fine.”  Sighing out the last word with a big huff of breath.

“Oh my god! Yay! You must love me!” Barbara giggles.

“Yeah, Barb. I must,” you tell her, smiling as she gets her phone out—surely, to text Dick. “Just make sure, they’re not late okay?”

“I promise, scouts honor.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You’re going to murder Barbara.

After two weeks of heinous shifts, migraines, and relentless promises, you’ve officially lost any semblance of patience for some guy being late to pick you up. After agreeing to have one of her boys take you to your appointment, Barbara swore up and down that it would be just like if she was there with you, but this was proving more and more untrue as the clock ticked farther away from the time she told him to arrive.

When she told you which boy was free to come with, you were unconvinced and a little weary of seeing him. Barbara rarely spoke of him, and when she did it was with a soft sadness that reminded you of how your older brother looked at you when you were disappointing him. When his name came up in conversation with Dick it was hushed like a secret, like a rumor passed in high school hallways or a ship in a bottle. You didn’t really know anything about him other than his name, and even that was a tiny thing in the sea of unknowable things.

You’d only met Jason Todd once, a year ago on a hot summer night—dreams were at the touch of your fingertips and the tequila buzzed through your veins like gas thrown in the ocean; everywhere it touched the waves burned. He was massive and looming, yet his baggy sweater and the wired headphones dangling from his collar made him look more like a schoolboy than a soldier. He had come to take Barbara home, smiling a little at the sight of the two of you spinning in spirals and giggling through Miley Cyrus lyrics. His grin was loose and noncommittal, as if it could be taken away far faster than it would be given.

You can remember thinking he was handsome, the sleepy look of him—curly hair a mess and under eyes purple—he had a shiner over his left eye and his lip was split, a look that brought a sweet little warmth to your drunk tummy.

He hadn’t really said anything to you that night, just nodded and asked if you needed a ride home too, swiveling the car keys around his index finger. You’d said no then, the creeping presence of your boyfriend lurking back at your apartment convincing you it would be a better idea just to walk or get a taxi. You can’t remember much more, just that he’d given you an unconvinced stare and a promise that if you called Barbara she could get him to come back for you.

You wish you could go back in time and take him back up on the offer, the rest of the night was awful: like when a dream suddenly becomes a nightmare, or the feeling that comes after waking up and remembering that real life was still going on.

That night was all you had of Jason, a daydream that kept you up sometimes as you thought about the mystery of him. You’d liked him then, but as your body grows hotter and hotter in parking lot of Pamela’s, all that fondness turns to distaste as he gets later and later.

The August sun is unforgiving, humid and gross from all the smog, and the black pavement sends waves of heat to wrap around you. You’re already hot all the time, sweaty and uncomfortable; knowledge that Barbara has, and one of the reasons she promised you she would make sure whoever she got would be there on time. You’re really going to kill her when you see her… you love her to death but whatever plan she has cooked up is causing you more grief than anything else.

It’s half past twelve when he finally arrives, his car sweeping into the parking lot in a rush of smoke and noises an engine really shouldn’t make. If you didn’t see it driving you might think it was nice, a rich boy’s bright orange Camaro with two black stripes running up the hood. You know intuitively that it was expensive, yet the smoking and the clacking and the way he looks a little frustrated behind the wheel tells you that the price might not have been worth it.

Jason looks a little shocked to see you waiting outside for him, a surprise that he hides faster than it stayed on his face for—he looks handsome again, messy in a way you’re beginning to think is native to him, baggy clothes nestling him in too many layers for this summer heat; you’re getting hot just looking at him.

He looks happy to see you though, eyes bright and mouth upturned, his hand rising to flick a little wave at you—moving his index and middle fingers back and forth, beckoning you closer like a king at his throne. This, paired with the already growing annoyance from the heat and his lateness, aggravates you into a fully formed bad mood.

Barbara Gordon is really lucky she’s your best friend—she should feel loved without measure for you going along with her stupid plans, because this has already graduated to awful, and you’re not even in the car yet.

“Hey, C’mon in!” Jason yells, his voice less gruff than you remember it being.

You make your way to the car, fanning yourself with one hand as the other reaches out to open the door. The handle is hot to the touch, and upon opening the smell of cigarettes and stale bat burger assaults your nose—you know he’s doing you and Barb a favor, but surely the boy knows that pregnant women could throw up at any moment.

“Hey,” you say, a little colder than you intended.

“Hey.” He smiles, a warm living thing that wakes up the rest of his face. In pictures he always looks angry or bored—countless newspaper headlines featuring the world’s most annoyed stare—but here and now he looks alive and joyous, like a dog after a long walk. “Sorry I’m late, Barbie told me your appointment was at one and for some reason I thought that meant I was supposed to pick you up at one.” He says this in a rush, like it was imperative to get all the words out, so you’d understand faster.

“It’s fine, Jason,” you sigh. “let’s just go okay, the clinic is uptown, and the lunch traffic is gonna be crazy.” His eyes widen a little at the sound of his name, but it’s probably just because you sound so dejected; you’re sure it’s not often that Jason Todd has to placate sweaty pregnant women. He starts driving once you get your seatbelt on—staring wide and weary as you pull harder and harder to get it to wrap around your still growing belly—speeding off the same way he arrived: in a cloud of smoke and noise that can’t be good for the environment.

He looks handsome driving, his right hand holding onto the gearshift with all the lax of someone practiced and precise, and his left beating out the rhythm to a 90s RnB song. He keeps looking over at you and apologizing again—for being late, for the mess, for the lack of AC—He seems unpracticed in the art of apologies, the “sorrys” foreign on his tongue and weak compared to the rest of him, yet he continues, nonetheless.

The drive uptown is hot and full of music you haven’t heard since childhood bus rides; Jason isn’t full of conversation, but he is in constant movement. His fingers tap on the steering wheel, and his left knee bounces up and down; when his hand isn’t on the gearshift its in his hair—pulling at the mess of curls.

“Is that real?” you ask him the next time you see his slender fingers make their way into the inky ringlets.

“Uh, is what real?” He responds.

“The white in your hair, is it real?” you ask again, eyes pointing up at the impossibly white streak falling into his eyes. You remember seeing it that night outside the club, how the curliquecurlicue cascaded over his forehead in tufts of ice white. It looked so soft that night, fluffy and mussed about, now it’s inky and coiled: a little wet looking from the gel tangled into the curls.

“Oh, um. Yeah, I started going grey a little early I guess.” He laughs, but there’s something pained about it… some secret story buried beneath deep giggles.

“I’ll say… what are you like twenty-four?”

“Twenty-two.” He answers, smiling at you for a second before his eyes turn back to the busy Gotham streets. “How old are you? Barbie said you around my age.”

“Yeah twenty-two,” you tell him. “y’know you seem like you could be any age… like you could tell me you were thirty or eighteen and I’d believe you.”

Your words seem to make him a little sad, the repetitive tapping stalling for a few seconds before he speaks again.

“I get that a lot actually, Bruce—my dad,” He says, scrunching his nose a little as he does. “Used to tell me I was an old soul, and Alfred would tell him that that couldn’t be true—he said I had to be on my first life, I was so young.” He’s smiling as he says this, but his spine is still stuck in that tense form that betrays how relaxed he really is.

It’s interesting how he reacts the same way about his family as they do about him—that quiet separation that is more telling than you think any of them realize.

You make casual conversation after that, filling up space until you make it to the clinic. The way he took you was full of impossible shortcuts and illegal turns, he drove like an asshole—fast and selfish as he cut people off and sped up to not let anyone in. You’re not sure if this was just because he wanted to get you there on time, or if he always drove like this, but there was something sort of appealing about it. Your mom did always tell you to be careful of the bad boys… and you get the feeling that it doesn’t get much worse than Jason Todd.

You arrive at your doctor’s office nine minutes before your appointment was supposed to start, something that causes anxiety to seep into your belly. You only have a few minutes, but you find yourself clutching at your bump and sighing into the hot leather of the Camaro’s seats.  You’ve been able to hide behind the easy conversation and the hot irritation running over your skin, but now with the doctor’s office looming in front of you the familiar worry creeps back into your veins.

It’s like this every time, the massive paranoia reaching into your skull and telling you that there’s something wrong with your baby—that you messed something up with them without even trying to. This is the main reason why Barbara comes with you to these things, so that somebody will hold your hand and tell you you’re doing everything you can to make sure the little guy is happy and healthy as it grows. You miss her, you really do, and the thought brings tears to begin welling at your eyes. You don’t really have time for this, but you can’t help it, you’ve been wanting to cry since last night when you felt the baby press a little foot against your bladder.

“Hey, you okay?” Jason asks, his neck bringing his head down so he can see your eyes better. He’s so big, it’s almost comical seeing him lower himself to your level, but he does it anyway no matter how uncomfortable it looks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You sniffle, wiping  your nose with the back of your hand.

“Hey, don’t do that…” He whispers before stretching out the sleeve of his sweater and offering it to you like it was some sort of hankie. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine, I’m sure everything is really stressful for you right now.” Jason’s eyes are piercing you, green as a lake and beautiful in their concern. There’s no part of his current worry that seems inauthentic—he’s so earnest, sincere in his worry and his panic, he looks sort of funny: this version of him, obviously stressed and not used to dealing with sobbing women.

The thought makes you laugh, sending you into quick giggles that break off into periodic weeping.

“Look at your face!” you laugh, wiping more tears with his still extended arm. “You’re so freaked.”

“Well, I’m not really good with tears or emotions, or girls.” He sounds a little embarrassed at the last part, like this wasn’t something he wanted to admit to you though it was more obvious than anything he’s got going on.

“Why did Barbara send you and not Dick then?” you ask, “he’s good with tears and girls from what I’ve heard.” Jason looks a little put out at the mention of his brother but doesn’t do more than let out a little frustrated breath.

“he’s too busy in BlÜdhaven.”

“Well, what about Tim?” you ask, just to see if it would annoy him more—it does.

“They were all too busy! Okay?” He exclaims, his voice dull and exacerbated. “You got me, sorry if that’s not what you wanted.” He whispers, but it has no heat—just little and wistful.

“No, I’m glad you’re here, Jason.” You tell him, finally coming down from all the laughter and crying, though you still have slow tear tracks trailing down your cheeks.

Your words graze over him like the world’s best present, bringing a charming and childish smile to his handsome face. “I gotta go in now, though, you gonna come? Or are you staying out here?” you ask as you unbuckle your seat belt and begin lifting yourself unsuccessfully out of his car.

“Do you want me to come?!” He asks, wide eyed before he scrambles to help you out of the passenger seat: leaping out of the car with more grace than you thought a guy his size could have and jogging towards your side of the car.

“If you want…” You mumble, unconfident in your response. In truth, you’d like nothing more than for him to come with you—it was scary being back there all alone, with no one but a doctor and the quiet beating of your baby’s heartbeat. “I mean you can leave and come back or whatever, you don’t have to come back with me if you don’t want too.”

Jason looks unconvinced from his place above you, lowering his eyes down to yours as his spine brings his body down to reach your hands. His skin is cold to the touch, a sensation that seems impossible in the 100º heat, it’s nice and cool and welcoming to your sweating skin—so nice you almost want to snuggle against him and burrow like an animal on a sunny day.

He lifts you fast and easy, like your weight is nothing too him, and it probably was… what with how big he seemed to be. Once he has your feet on the ground and your hands back to your sides, he looks at you again—evergreen eyes squinting like two winking moons.

“I’ll come with you,” He says, “I’ll do anything you want—just don’t cry again.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course, you couldn’t really keep your promise of not crying again, not when the Doctor squeezed cold gel on your swollen belly and proclaimed…

“It’s a girl, Jason!” you cried happily, bringing your hand out to playfully slap at his bicep. He’d been great, albeit a little panicky: standing by your side and averting his eyes when it seemed like you needed some privacy. He had smiled the whole time, a lazy happy thing that only got bigger as he stayed in the little room—he whispered to you through it all, telling you how cool everything was and how cute the “little monster” was cradled in the sonogram.

He'd been a little embarrassed when the Nurses Assistant thought he was the father, but he rallied fast—his smile returning, soft and lovely, before he told her: “oh no, ma’am, just a friend.”  

When the doctor told you the baby was a girl, he brought his hand to your shoulder and squeezed, grinning down at you as you beamed. It was obvious how excited he was, but nothing could beat the joy you felt; you’d been saying for months that all you wanted was a healthy baby, but secretly you wanted a little girl so badly.

Maybe it was all the Gilmore Girls you watched or the non-relationship you had with your own mother, but the idea of having a daughter was a dream you couldn’t stop having. From that very first day you saw those two little lines confirming every suspicion you had, all you wanted was to be able to think about pink floral onesies and princess dresses.

You’re just so happy, and you can’t stop crying even though you promised Jason you wouldn’t.

The appointment didn’t take very long, but the afternoon sun has only gotten hotter and you’ve only gotten hungrier: two aspects that cause you to dread getting back into Jason’s treacherous Camaro. This makes you cry harder, clutching at Jason’s arm harder, before you say again:

“It’s a girl!”

“I know!” Jason laughs, grinning big and happy, his hand coming up to cup yours where it squeezes his muscle. “That was all so exciting, I get why Barbie is always talking about the baby… she really is just tiny in there.”

“Barb talks about me and the baby?” you ask, a little surprised though you guess you shouldn’t be… Barbara talks about him and his brothers to you, so why wouldn’t she talk about you to them? Still, the knowledge brings a sweet shiny smile to take over your pouting face (as well as his use of “she”, it’s a girl!)—you take back all the things you were thinking about her earlier, you love her so much.

“All the time,” He smiles. “She’s really excited for you, y’know? She talks about it every time I see her… it’s almost like she’s the one having a baby.”

“Yeah, well, she’s kinda been the little thing’s dad since I moved in—I wake her up to order me pizza in the middle of the night, and she has to rub my shoulders while I cry or I’m a nightmare to live with.” You laugh, giggling at the truth of it.

He laughs louder than you’ve ever heard from him, a massive laugh that moves his whole body: his head falling back and his Adams Apple jumping. He’s really, really pretty, you think; so handsome its almost crazy… boys really shouldn’t be this pretty, it’s not good for poor girls like you who really need to stay away from them.

You can feel his hand still clutching yours from your hold on his arm, cold and rough against your own. It seems impossible that he could be this cold, he’s swathed in layers and standing under the steaming August sun… so how is he still so chilly?

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” you ask him, moving your hand from his arm and moving it up to his forehead—his hand still holding yours, moving up, up, up until it reaches his face. The skin there is cold too, chilly like a Gotham winter. Is he sick? You ask yourself, trying to think back to how he acted when you first got in his car… did he do anything that seemed unwell, or does he just run at this impossible level of chill.

His eyes find yours, intense green shining down at you with a wide gaze. You realize how close  you’ve been standing, chest to chest—your belly being the only thing to cause some sort of separation between the two of you. Your hand is settled on his forehead, centimeters away from the white curls waterfalling down—you want to touch it, pull at it and make it fluffy like it was that night last summer.

You feel crazy, a little dazed and breathless, but that was probably just because of the sun and the ever-flowing hormones running through your veins. Jason’s still staring at you, his other hand sweeping down your form and finding a place on the middle of your back, his touch electric and freezing.

“I’m just fine,” He whispers , saying your name softly as his green eyes rush out blinks, like he’s clearing his eyes over and over again to make sure this is really happening. His voice wakes you up, bringing your sight down from the shock of white down to his green gaze, you really are so close to him.

You jump away as if you’ve been stung, stumbling back and holding your belly to protect it from invisible dangers. He looks as shocked as you feel, like he never thought he’d get that close to you. “You hungry?” he whispers, his tummy moving up and down rapidly--the only thing other than his eyes that give anything away.

“Sure,” you breathe, your voice so soft it almost gets lost among all the cars parked in front of the clinic.

“Okay,” he nods, finally giving you back that beautiful little smile. “I know a place.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

He’d taken you to some diner outside the city, it was dim and smelled like pancake batter and stale coffee, but it was perfect. He let you talk to him about the baby, about Barb and Pamela’s, about anything and everything that came into your head. He didn’t say much, you were learning that about him—he was still water, a crystalline lake with endless depth beneath sunlit ripples—though, every now and then his husky Gotham voice would rise over the timeless soundtrack of the restaurant to ask you something.

Jason was constantly turning the conversation back onto you, to names you like and where you work, what you did the day before and what did you wanted to be when you grew up. He rarely talked about himself, but you were finding hidden truths in his pauses and phrases, truths that you could bet he didn’t want you to find.

That was weeks ago now, and you really couldn’t get him out of your head. You tried, albeit not hard enough, to rewrite the day into something else… Yet, the truth of the strange intimacy and the way it felt like you’d known him, (or some piece of him) before filled you with warm, loose feeling in your bones.

You remember how Barbara looked at you when you’d come back home that afternoon, starstruck and suspicious, like she knew something you didn’t. When you told her the baby would be a girl, she cried and giggled and clutched you to her chest as tight as she could with your belly in the way. She kept telling you how happy she was that Jason could be there for you, so so happy… the way she said it gave way to deeper feelings that you aren’t sure you fully understood, but you were beginning to; it seemed like Jason was that unknowable force to everyone in his life, even to Barbara who usually could sniff out truth like cadaver dog.

After that day Jason orbited your life like a second sun: showing up in the morning to drive you to work, bringing you little treats in the form of nasty cravings you happened to mention to him, smiling when you let him feel the baby kick.

It seemed to you a little odd how closely he was tying himself to you, but you comforted yourself with the knowledge that he didn’t have many friends—maybe he was just lonely, and your particular brand of irritation had done something for him. It didn’t really matter though, you liked him, oddities included; he was truer than most people you’d known, earnest in ways you hadn’t really knew existed.

For all the chattering about the black sheep-troubled Wayne boy, Jason Todd was sweet and helpful—a few weeks ago he helped you buy a crib and when you wouldn’t let him splurge for an expensive stroller, he showed up with one a couple days later under the guise of someone “leaving on the street.” He offered himself up as a helpful hand: filling in for Barbara when she couldn’t be there for you, taking you to the grocery store in his abominable car, or helping you baby proof the apartment.

He’d done so much for you, and you aren’t quite sure why… Everything you’ve ever heard of him paints these actions in a strange light, knowing that the boy is perceived to be uncaring and cruel, yet in the moments you’ve shared with him all he’s ever been is kind.

Last week you had been sitting in his garage, covered by a light sweater and baggy maternity overalls, as you listened to him huff about how you shouldn’t be working so much. All you could see were his legs, grease covered cargos inching out from under his car, and all you could hear was the sharp metallic sounds of metal on metal mixing in to his dissent. You’d been surprised by how much he sounded like he cared, how frustrated he was when you told him you’d be working another twelve hour shift the next day—his eyes turned into little crescents and his mouth became impossibly pouty before asking you, “what about the baby?”

You’d been so struck by him, this sweet man who had no reason to care but did. You remember wanting to see his face, how you yearned to seen the sweat trickling down his forehead and trace the grease covered lines of his hands.

Currently, you were replaying what he said to you this morning as you refilled coffees and dodged wandering hands. He’d driven you to work, pretty and sunlit—miles and miles of tan skin splayed out under his T-shirt—it was almost hard to pay attention to him, he was so radiant, like a statue being built right in front of your eyes. He’d gotten warmer over the weeks you’d spent with him, more and more teeth shining on display as he smiled… more stories lifted from his lips.

His voice even got warmer, sweeter and happier as he replied to your questions and asked his own. This morning he’d been so lovely, a hundred-watt smile burning your retinas and that one stubborn curl teasing you from where it fell over his eyebrow. You can’t erase it from your head, the way he’d asked if you’d thought of any names yet. His fingers tap-tapping against the steering wheel as he waited for your answer.

“I’m not sure,” you’d told him, “I feel like maybe I need to wait for her to be born so I can read it in her eyes… do you get what I mean?”

You were sure he wouldn’t, not even Barb understood and she knew everything. It seemed so important to you, this idea that your baby would tell you herself, yet you can’t stop thinking that maybe it was some sort of denial. Like maybe you were refusing to think of a name because then it would all be real,) (as if it wasn’t now what with her limbs stabbing all your internal organs).

“No that makes total sense,” He surprised you. “Like what if you pick out a name and she comes out looking completely different than you thought she would—a Brooke doesn’t look like a Peyton.”

“Is that a One Tree Hill reference?”

“It doesn’t matter,” He laughed, taking his hand off the gearshift to wave his hand around. “I just mean, you shouldn’t feel like you have to defend yourself to me—or anyone—she’s your kid, you could wait until she’s like six and have her name herself if you really wanted to.”

You were so surprised; this boy continued to shock you with his endless waves of understanding and empathy, this boy who was becoming someone quite special to you.

“What would you name her?” You asked him without really thinking of the consequences. “If she was your baby?”

He looked so  shocked by this question, a little embarrassed it seemed by the rising pink on the plains of his face and the way his rapid tapping became impossibly faster. Yet, he answered honestly anyway, like you knew he would… You couldn’t really count on Jason Todd for anything other than being honest.

“I don’t know if I’ve really thought of it,” he told you. “I don’t think I ever really imagined myself with kids, but if she was my baby—” he coughs, “ well if she was my baby I’d name her after someone I really loved, someone who I knew would look after her if I couldn’t.”

“Do you have someone like that?”

“Yeah, um. My kind of grandpa Alfred… he’s really the only person I trust completely.”  This stuck you as something painful, this boy with tons of brothers… with his sister Cass and his friend Roy he sometimes talks about. Theres’s so many people who love him, who can’t help but be wrapped up in his elusive energy, yet there is only one who he feels it from. What a lonely boy, he is, lonely and beautiful and something daring.

“You’d name her after Alfred?” You had asked softly, “How would that work?”

“Well, his last name is Pennyworth,” he smiled a little, like there was some joke you were missing. “So, I guess Penny.”

The way he said it, soft and electric, had circled your head all day. He had looked so incredibly fond, so happy to be asked and to have an answer, the image of it wouldn’t leave you, and you’re not so sure you wanted it to. Not when you got out of his car, not when you waved goodbye and got that last quicksilver smile… even now as you mopped the floor for the umpteenth time today could you really think of something else.

In truth, you had a little crush on him—the way you liked strangers or characters on TV, like he was imaginary… unknowable. How couldn’t you, with his straight teeth and his loser boy charm. He seemed like something out of a teen drama, like he would only emerge if The Fray started playing—a boy made for mood lighting and cigarettes, night and truth.

It was all a little teenage and silly, more than a wish and less of a dream, a reality that you were sure wouldn’t come true but wanted it too all the same.

The word “crush” seemed apt to you, a violent word for the dangerous way you feel about him… like he could squeeze your heart between his cold hands and you’d still give him a starry eyed smile.

It really must be the hormones, or the wish to have a family to bring your baby home to. Sure, you have Barb and your little apartment, yet there was a large piece of you that still wanted her to have a father. It seemed like an important thing to have, a pillar to hold you both up when the world was falling apart… you hadn’t chose the right person to create her with, but you want so badly for her to have someone to grow with—someone other than you and your constant neurosis, someone strong and resilient; kind and miraculous.

You couldn’t get it out of your head that Jason could be this person, what with his soft smiles and comforting eyes. He would be a great father, you just knew it, strict sure but oh so amazing. The kind of dad that sneaks her ice cream and have dance parties to Selena Gomez and Hannah Montana; he’d surely let her paint his nails and play with littlest pet shops and barbies, perfect and sweet and everything you wish you had as a little girl.

It was just a little crush, a blooming want that took seed last summer and has only grown since seeing him again. A little crush that kept you up at night and buried stars in your belly, tremors in your fingertips and knives in your heart. It was just a little crush, yet you couldn’t stop thinking of your baby being his—of your little girl being Penny, this miracle grown from the two of you, shiny and darling and lovely like him.

But you can’t change the past, and there was no way Jason would have you. Not with your stretch marks or the way you were agitated all the time… there could be no way he’d desire someone who was always crying, who wanted to eat celery and raspberry jam for breakfast and was always sweating. He was young and handsome, and more alive than anyone you’d ever met before—there could be no part of him that wanted you, no piece that yearned for a baby in a couple months, or a commitment that was longer than your lease.

You wanted him, it was true—a terrible truth that you’d deny if/when Barbara asked—but it wouldn’t do, he deserved a life much more than you could give him, even if all you wanted was the opportunity to give him one.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

 The night was a looming ghost.

It was quieter than usual, summer heat cooling into a slight autumnal chill; the sounds of the city were dimming with the season, all signs of life disappearing with the warmth. Gone were the block parties and high schoolers giggling up and down the street, contraband fireworks and friends smoking on their stoops… It was quiet, hushed like a dying person’s last breath; It was terrifying.

 A Gotham that is silent is a city lying in wait.

You had just left your brother’s house; you had made your way there after work instead of going straight home—a split second decision that had invaded your thoughts after getting off early. You had taken three steps out of Pamela’s and remembered the last time you called him, how he had seemed a little sad and nervous.

It was a little bittersweet seeing him; sure, it was always nice to sip on sweet tea and chat with his wife, but your brother wasn’t the happiest about your decision to have a baby by yourself. He was even less happy about your indignant dismissal of any kind of help he could offer, which he reminded you of every time you made your way into his home.

You’d left a little after seven, the sun only a sliver in the sky, making way for the indigo of blue hour to cascade over your skin. The quiet scared you more than the darkness, Gotham was always dark (whether it be smog or stars, or some villainous plot), but it wasn’t always hushed.

You weren’t too far, just a couple blocks farther than your usual walk home but coming from the opposite direction threw off your bravery. As well as the lack of your midnight companion… you’d gotten so used to having Hood be your shadow, it felt odd being without him. It’d been so long since you walked alone, since you felt true fear creep up your back and eat at your heart. It was different now, being scared, having your child’s heart beating with your own and knowing that if something happened to you they’d be hurt too. It was this thought that brought you to your apartment faster, your steps thunderous on the concrete in their urge to be home.

The fear was scratching at your skin, every sound making you jump and clutch at your belly tighter and tighter. Maybe you could call Jason, maybe he’d come get you like he came for Barbara last summer, curls fluffy and sweater donned—his smile electric and painful. But you were almost home, so close there would be no point…

You were walking so fast it felt like you were flying through the neighborhood, your footsteps taking you closer and closer to your front door—you’re moving quicker than you’ve been able to since your pregnancy reached around the fourth month mark, faster than you’ve ever moved maybe. You were just so scared, but your apartment was so close all you had to do was run and you’d be there.

Crossing the threshold felt like arriving on a different planet—for every dead zone there’d been outside, your home was alive and vibrant. Sure, it was still quiet—Barbara was probably still at work—but the color and mingling smells of the two of you brought you out of your stupor. You willed your heart to slow down, every exhale felt like a blessing; you’re home, you’re safe, you’re home…

Yet, you still couldn’t turn from your place at the front door, your forehead heavy on the wood, and your fingers still clutching the deadbolt. There was something a little amiss in the apartment, a slight change in the oxygen, but maybe that’s just the residual fear still eating at your brain matter.

You stay there for what feels like forever, willing tears not to fall and murmuring comforts to yourself and your baby. Nothing had even happened, it was childish and irrational, like a little kid asking their father to check the closet for monsters. Yet, you can’t get it out of your head that something could have happened to you, to your daughter—and no one would have known.

You find yourself going through the motions for the rest of the night, cleaning up and listening to happy music just in hopes that the fear will ease from your bones.The apartment was warm and cozy, still sweet smelling from the candles lit earlier in the day. The heavy curtains were drawn tight and the deadbolt latched, and your corny show was static on the television. It was a perfect night, warm and breezy, you’d walked home by yourself—without the familiar company of the imposing vigilante—it’d been so long since you walked alone, in a way it’d been sort of nice.

You still haven’t checked your phone since you left your brother’s, the residual fear forcing you to glue yourself to the couch; it’s been buzzing like crazy—message after message that you just can’t seem to motivate yourself into looking at. You’re sure whoever it is will forgive you tomorrow, but tonight you have to be alone—it’s the only thing you think will disintegrate the anxiety still sitting in your stomach.

An anxiety that seems to only worsen as the night goes on and Barbara doesn’t come home, and your baby seems awfully still. Anxiety that grows and grows until the imaginary monsters don’t seem too imaginary anymore…

You found yourself humming a little to your baby, caressing the skin around your swollen belly just to feel her tiny foot pressing back. It was everything, a feeling you would never get tired of—even when the day was horrible, when all your wants were miles and miles away from you and  you just can’t catch a break, this feeling is all you really needed.

It’s this comfort that draws you into sleep’s sweet embrace, drowsiness invading all your senses and clouding your thoughts with dreams instead of desires. You never go to bed this early, but lately you’ve been needing more rest like your baby is a body snatcher corrupting you and stealing your energy.

It is these thoughts that you dream about, alien parasites and children who siphon energy from their mothers—not so much nightmares… it’s more like old cartoons; the voices a little sinister from being out of time.

You wake to a dull pain in your back: a symptom of falling asleep sitting up, it moves up and down your shoulders and into your spine. At this point, aches and pains and general comfortability was becoming a closer friend to you than you thought was possible. Yet, you could never get used to the burning feeling of waking up in pain.

The living room hadn’t become any darker than it was before, but that couldn’t really tell you anything… Gotham had only two light settings: sunstroke and city lights. The only thing that really told you how long you’d slept for was the next episode playing and the crick in your neck.

Also, you really had to pee—but that was your factory setting these days so.

It took you thirty minutes to become comfortable again: going to the bathroom and finding a little snack in the refrigerator and rewinding your show to see what you missed.

It starts with a quiet clang on one of the windows, the only one that faces the street and not the alleyway next to the complex. A sound like a rock hitting a windshield, fast and shocking amongst the fearful evening, a sound that would be meaningless if it didn’t happen again.

You had just lit the candles and found the perfect lumpy corner of the couch when the glass clinked again; It was incessant and obnoxious, a clacking on the southernmost window that became louder and louder the longer it went unanswered. In the rest of the world, somebody throwing rocks at your window might be romantic—Romeo and Juliet and the like— here in Gotham it could only mean pain and horror,. There was no way you’d be opening up that window—not for anything or anyone. Your show was just starting to get good, and there was no future that would have you missing petty revenge and corny romance to see to whatever Gotham nonsense decided to make itself your problem tonight.

The problem was the tapping was moving, shifting to other windows before finally becoming a knock at your door. It was booming and worrisome, a knock someone gives when there’s danger on the other side. This had you creeping to the door, your hand on your belly and a bat being grabbed by the other one—you were trying your hardest to be quiet, but your heavier stature transfigured your easy steps into hard and heavy ones. It took almost all the bravery in your bones to look through the peep hole, inching closer and closer as you held your breath— it was becoming painful now, how quiet and courageous you were trying to be.

But what you saw at the door wasn’t some scary murderer like you were expecting… rather it was the one scary murderer you were sure wouldn’t hurt you.

“What are you thinking?!” He asked you when you finally opened the door. He was lightning clashing in your living room, walking around you in circles like a predator closing in on his prey. You’ve become so used to his presence, so sure of the fact that he was safe that you truly forgot this man killed people—maybe it wasn’t a good idea to invite him up to your home. “Huh? Do you have an answer or are you just gonna stand there?”

“I’m confused,” You say. “What is it that you want me to say?”

“Where were you?” He huffed. “I waited but you never showed up,”

“I was at my brother’s house,” you whisper, feeling the anxiety filled night ease it’s way back up your throat. He wasn’t helping, his voice modulating into a tough robotic sound and every inch of skin covered up. What you needed tonight was human comforts, not this predatory creature. “I just got home, I… what do you want me to say?”

“What do I want you to say? How about sorry, how about you say you won’t do it again,”

“I’m sorry?! Why do you even care so much?”

It was strange to be arguing with someone when you couldn’t see their face or hear the true timbre of their voice. Stranger still when that person didn’t have any right to argue with you anyway, you don’t owe Red Hood anything, you don’t even know him.

Sure, sometimes he spoke to you when he walked you home, but usually it was just you twaddling on about nothing for forty minutes. This seemed so odd, him showing up here in the middle of the night and yelling at you.

“Why do I care?! Why don’t you care? You’re pregnant, you’re alone, and this is Gotham.” He sneered, his shoulders stooped low and his hips swaggering as he moves closer to you.

“I don’t see how any of this is your business.” Your voice is sharp now, growing more and more irritated as the night goes on.

“It’s my business to care about civilians who continue to endanger themselves.”

“Really? So you go to every pregnant woman’s door and yell at them for walking home alone.”

“Maybe I should,” He says, still huffing closer and closer to you. “But I don’t know why anyone would walk home alone when Scarecrow’s sent a letter to the Gotham Times saying he’s gonna fear gas the whole city.”

“What? What are you talking about?” you ask, feeling that familiar fear settle over all your internal organs. Your hands shoot to your tummy, cradling the little baby residing under all the muscle and skin. Is that why the city was so quiet? Were you the only person in the city who didn’t know not to be on the street?

“Scarecrow. Fear Gas.” He sighed, his gloved hands moving to sweep over his steel helmet.

Tears start welling again, stinging your eyes in their urge to fall. The nights just been too much for you, too much fear and anxiety and now you’re hearing that all you were feeling wasn’t just in your head—something terrible really could have happened, and you would have been all alone.

“Hey, don’t—don’t cry.” Red Hood whispers, the words coming out scary from his mask. It just makes you cry more, the gruff tone and the attempted comfort. Its much more natural for this creature to be yelling and huffing and lecturing, the sight of him making himself small and quiet and comforting is just too much to bear.

It isn’t long until real tears are falling faster and faster, all your nightmares coming alive in your head. You turn yourself around, facing the kitchen rather than the leatherbound man, you can’t stand to look at him and see all the alternate tragedies that might’ve happened.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, please just don’t cry.” He says again, finally closing the distance between you. His heavy leather jacket breezes your arms as his hands come out to clutch at you, his tactical gloves rough against your skin. He’s turning you around to face him, gentle despite how rough his exterior seems to be. It’s almost like all the heat has run off of him, gone is the anger in his voice and all that remains is a nervous rustle.

You allow him to turn you around, your face falling into his armor as more tears fall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” you cry.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He whispers. “Really, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, are you okay? Is the baby okay?” He asks, moving is hands from your shoulders to slide off one of his gloves. He brings his ungloved hand to your face, using his thumb to sweep away the tears off your cheek.

It shocks you, feeling his skin on yours—his hands are so cold, rough and freezing, and he is so tan. It surprises you so terribly that you feel the tears drying up on their own, your eyes locked on the little scars twining their way across his wrist and palm.

“I’m alright,” you whisper.

“And the baby?” He asks again, his hands are still cradling your face, and he uses them to angle your face to look up at him. He’s so cold, unknowable and unreachable, but you could almost imagine how he might be looking at you through his mask—with concern and compassion.

“She’s okay, I think—she’s been really quiet tonight, she hasn’t been kicking as much, but I think its okay.”

“Okay.” He says, moving away from you and stepping back closer to the window. He doesn’t look at you again until he’s about to step back into the night, turning his head to look through you one last time. “Check your phone,” he tells you. “and don’t ever walk home alone again—I’ll know if you do.”

As he falls into the darkness all you can think about are his hands, the scars and the cold, how pretty the honeyed skin was.

He was freezing, colder than the night and lovely, and as you find yourself tucking into the covers for the night, you can’t stop thinking about another boy with cold skin.  

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“Babe, you have to come! I can’t be liable for what I will do if I’m there all alone.”

“Barb! Please don’t make me go, I’m gonna have to pee a million times and there is no way I’ll get my swollen feet into any of my heels.”

“Please, please, please!” Barbara whines, “if you really loved me you would come with me!”

“Barb!”

“Dick is gonna be there! And Timmy! And Jason will come if you go…”

“Barbara, I don’t want to go,” you tell her, laughing at the way she circles you in her wheelchair. You don’t know how she does it, you’re getting dizzy just watching her.

“We don’t have to stay the whole time! Just long enough for my dad not to give me any lectures, okay? Please?”

Maybe it’s the way her big eyes ogle you or her continuous pleading, or maybe you just love her—but you feel yourself slipping farther and farther into agreement. It would be nice, you think, to dress up and make yourself pretty: painted nails and sparkly eyeshadow.

It’s this thought, (and Barbara’s owlish eyes) that lead you to saying yes. However, you really weren’t thinking of the consequences, nor the true reality of finding a dress that would fit you, or shoes that could be both pretty and fit over your swollen ankles.

You’re sure Barbara will look beautiful, (she always does) you’ve seen her all dressed up for gala’s and governor’s parties—last time she looked like Thumbelina, beautiful and wispy as she left with Dick. You’re not sure if you could measure up… you didn’t have any beautiful clothes or any secret charm you could conjure up. Yet, no part of you wanted to disappoint Barbara, so when she dragged you to department stores and insisted on using her “only for emergencies” credit card on a new dress and shoes and grossly expensive makeup, you let her.

She was so excited, she kept yapping on and on about how excited her dad was to see you again and how happy Mr. Wayne was happy you finally said yes to an invitation—Like seriously, Bruce Wayne!—and as much as you didn’t want to ruin her vibe, you couldn’t help but feel as though you were harboring a secret.

Your crush on Jason was surely too obvious to hide, but you wished to keep it away from the eyes of your friend for as long as possible… It could never work, especially now with all the suspicion you’ve built up since last Saturday; When Red Hood took his glove off and you felt his skin, the delicious icy feeling of it, you couldn’t stop feeling as though it was achingly familiar.

The revelation felt heavy in your bones, and denial was creeping along your skin like goosebumps—if Jason Todd was Red Hood, there was no way that Barbara didn’t know (she knew everything), and that reality hurt worse than you thought it would.

You share everything with Barb, every little nagging thought that eases its way into your psyche, and you thought that she did too. But if your masked vigilante was your friend, it would surely mean that she had a whole other life that you knew nothing about… you’re not angry, (you could never be mad at her for real), just sad; emotional at the thought of being excluded—like a little girl being skipped over in volleyball.

So instead of thinking about this—about all the coincidences and similarities you’ve been discovering about the two boys in your life—you let your best friend dress you up and paint your eyes with sparkly eyeshadow. The dress she chose is a pretty light blue, a shimmery fabric that made your skin shine when you stood in front of the dressing room mirror, and left a trail of glitter through the mall.

You’re helping her with her hair now, braiding the fiery strands with practiced precision as she sings along to the speaker. She’s so lovely, milk soft skin and eyes like emeralds, and she’s smiling at you through the bathroom mirror; it breaks your heart, thinking of her keeping secrets from you… maybe you’ll just never bring it up, keep your suspicions safely locked up in your head till one of you is on your death bed and it won’t matter.

Though you can’t stop yourself from worrying about her, when she had her accident you were still in high school—moony eyed and ridiculous fifteen—you remember Jim calling your brother, how you wept until your sinuses burned and your skin itched from the salt. You’d been worrying about her until last year when you had to start worrying about yourself, now you’re thinking maybe you should’ve been paying more attention.

“What’s on your mind, goose?” Barbara asks you, looking a little more concerned than she did a few minutes ago. Your childhood nickname shocks you, unused to hearing anyone but your brother refer to you with it—its full of childlike memories, dreams of fudgesicles and the smell of fireworks in the city, your brother tucking you into bed and Barbara taking you to get your nails done for the homecoming dance…

It’s warm and comforting, but among all the worried thoughts and disguised anger, all it does is make you more upset.

“Nothing, B… just thinking about how pretty you’ll look, like a princess.”

“Me?! I’m amazed by your beauty every day, you’ll be like-glowing around the dance floor.”

“I won’t be dancing, Barb.” You laugh, “I’m so pregnant I can barely walk without waddling and you want me to dance… In front of photographers and journalists? You’re insane.”

“Hey, I’m gonna get you on the dance floor!” Barbara giggles, the sound twinkling into the music. “I’ll get Jason to sweep you off your feet in no time.”

You laugh, but the reminder of the boy makes it a little weak. You haven’t spoken to him since that night the Red Hood came knocking on your window, leaving his hundreds of worried text messages unanswered—you’re not upset with him, how could you be? Jason doesn’t owe you anything; if he is the Red Hood, all it means is he’s been taking care of you longer than you’ve known…

“Have you met him?! Jason is not gonna wanna dance with me.”

“I actually have met him, my love, and I know he’ll dance with you if I scheme it right.”

“Save your breath, Barb.” You giggle, “I’m just going for the finger food, I gotta see what Bruce Wayne’s money can do.”

She laughs and starts humming along to the speaker again, sitting still for you as you tie off her braid. You trade places, her sweeping in front of you so you can sit on the toilet as she does your makeup. It’s nice, reminiscent of weekends long past and facetime calls as she taught you how to put on eyeliner; You find it funny how she has to adjust for your tummy, settling her elbow on the swell of it as she sweeps blush along your cheek.

“I love you, you know.” She whispers as she passes a mirror to let you see her creation, sparkly and bright like a firefly or a disco ball, her pretty smile all teeth. “I’m so happy you’re coming with me tonight—I know it’s not your scene, and that you’d rather just stay here and watch Real Housewives of Coast City, but I’m really so excited about dancing with you.”

“I love you too, Barb.” You tell her, setting the mirror down so you can cage her in your arms. She’s so slight, familiar and comforting, maybe you can let everything go; live in ignorance and allow her to make her own mistakes without worrying about her, but you know you won’t be…

You’d never been good at letting things go; ignorance might be bliss, but paranoia is a parasite.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The Gala is in full force when you arrive: City Hall lit up and encased by black cars and women in fur coats. You recognize Jason’s Camaro instantly, parked somewhere definitely illegal and out of place amongst the shiny sedans and silver sports cars. From this vantage you finally understood why Jason deigns to drive it around—why he’s spent so many afternoons laying underneath it and fiddling with gears and pipes that you can’t begin to understand… You come to realize the silent protest the orange car represents, how obviously he tells the world he’s not what you think he is.

The thought makes you smile as Barbara leads you into the party, jostling her way through men in expensive black suits and ladies covered in diamonds and pearls. Her neck is craning up to look for one of the boys, you’re sure, her orange braid glinting shards of fire as it jostles back and forth.

You try to keep up with her, but the smell of Chanel No. 5 and arrogance floods your head and makes it difficult. Everywhere you look there is someone you only know from the news, people who’ve controlled your city one bad decision at a time, and your best friend—sweet silly Barbara who you once saw snort soda pop up her nose—looks right at home amongst them.

It’s all extremely overwhelming; this must be how Cinderella felt, you think, to step out of her rags and into the limelight knowing she could never truly be drawn to it.

The room is lit up by bright crystal chandeliers and the music is something out of a Keira Knightly movie, timeless and slow. Theres’s people dancing to it, twisting and turning around stately men’s arms as the viola sways and laughing to themselves when their feet stutter.

You feel very much out of place, you’re one of the youngest people here (a sight that feels a little shameful paired with your swollen belly), and seemingly one of the most underdressed as well. You left the apartment feeling whimsical and pretty, yet now the familiar insecurity seems to bubbling its way back up to the surface.

The silk of your dress doesn’t seem to stand toe to toe with all the tulle and chiffon, and you are blatantly aware of your necklaces inauthenticity next to the politicians and billionaires young wives. Suddenly you feel like an imposter, like a little girl playing in her mother’s closest, or Carrie at the prom—just waiting for the blood to pour.

“Oh, thank god, you’re here!” You hear, before feeling a warm hand settle on your shoulder. You turn to see Dick Grayson, warm and brilliant in blue suede and silver cufflinks. His smile is full of straight teeth and his eyes are huge lakes of cerulean; on first glance he looks every part the prodigal son, yet there’s something debauched and mischievous in his glance. “You ladies, look gorgeous,” he tells you both, looking side to side to take in your and Barbara’s outfits.

He moves his hand off your shoulder to lean down and hug Barbara, tugging on her braid a little as he says something in her ear—you’re always a bit struck by their closeness; the way they move like littermates seem to have telepathic conversations. After all these years you’ve learned not to be jealous of him, but the sight of it now (when you’re full of insecurity and concern) ignites some of that old pain you used to feel when she was too busy with her older friends to hang out with you.

You can remember old school days when she’d have to turn down your offers of slumber parties and Chad Michael Murry movies because she was spending the day with Dick. You think she had a little crush on him then, always pink cheeked and giddy when she’d tell you: “I’m sorry, babe! I’m gonna be with birdy tonight.” The way she said it, like he was Elvis or something, used to bring your prepubescent self to disgust. Some of that old feeling rises now, seeing him handsome and obviously wealthy—a socialite from another time.

You shake the thoughts off as you allow Dick to lead you somewhere less crowded, he walks in-between the two of you: his hands hovering along Barbara’s chair and your back as he continues complimenting you both. “Really I am so jazzed you guys are here. I was going to have to start planning my brother’s downfall if I had to spend another minute of him whining.”

“Jason?” you ask.

“No, Tim—but I love that he’s the first one to come to your mind.”

“Her and Jason are gonna get married,” Barbara says, singing out the words in a taunting jaunt. The tone of it brings back sullied memories of days past, of homecoming dates and first boyfriends. You hadn’t realized she felt so strongly about you and Jason, maybe it was foolish of you to not see it (what with all the teasing and knowing glances), but you truly thought she wouldn’t want you to date one of the boys she grew up with.

“Barbara Joan Gordon!” You yelp, laughing out a scoff as your ears are clouded by the Dick’s booming laughter. You can feel a heat blooming on your face, and you hope to god that the piles of makeup Barbara forced unto your skin hides it well.

“What?! Dick knows all about your crush on his little brother.”

“I can’t believe this,” Dick says, still laughing. “You’ve been here for five minutes and you’re already betraying each other. I must be a bad influence.”

“One of these days, I’m gonna kill you both.” You sigh. You’re already exhausted, emotionally and physically—you really do wish you stayed home to watch real housewives.

“Who are we killing?” You hear, the cozy timbre of the voice lighting your skin on fire.

You look up to see a suit covered Jason Todd, the black blazer snug on his shoulders and his tie loose around his neck. You feel yourself  looking him up and down, your eyes flickering down to his boot covered feet and up to his fluffy curls—this makes you smile, imagining Jason getting dressed for his father’s gala in the laziest way… hell he looked more put together the day he drove you to the clinic. He’s smiling back at you, but you can’t seem to miss the slight twinge in his green eyes: it turns them into watery kaleidoscopes.

“Dick and Barbara.” You tell him, watching as his hand rises to tug at his white strands. The movement brings your attention to his ears, noticing the cigarette tucked at the top of one and the other shining with gold hoops.

He truly embraced his role as the black sheep tonight, it seems—a look that brings a warmth to sit over your skin and a shy smile to play at your lips.

“Hmm, well I’ve been trying to get rid of this guy since I was fourteen, but Barbie seems innocent,” He jokes. “So you might have to convince me.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do anything she asked you too, Jay.” Barbara giggles, her eyes growing more devious as a little blush rises to Jason’s cheek.

You take a minute to drink him in; you rarely get to see him embarrassed… you’re so used to seeing a careful confidence stitched around his skin like the seams on his suit, that seeing the red bloom on his skin fills you with a sweet adoration.

“Mind your own business, Barbie.” He huffs, yet his warm gaze betrays his true fondness. His eyes turn to look at you again, never leaving your face. “You look beautiful.” He tells you, and you can tell he means it—there’s something about his gaze that is just so sincere, it brings a shiver to whisper over your skin. “Are you hungry?” He asks you, his hand pointing somewhere in the distance.

You can’t trust your voice not to betray you, so you nod and try to ignore the wolf whistles and mocking from dumb and dumber, as you follow him back into the fray.

The hors d'oeuvres were placed lovingly on an old banquet table, tiny sandwiches and macarons stacked in pretty pyramids urging on your appetite. Jason pours you some punch as you make up a little plate, looking on fondly as you sip at the ruby liquid.

“So, I didn’t think you really liked these things.” You say, leaning back onto the wall in a mirror of his body language.

“I don’t”

“Oh, well then why did you come?”

“Barbie said you were gonna be here,” He starts, his voice a little nervous and unsure. “and I thought you could use a friend.”

The smile he gives you is a thousand fallen meteors; it’s every sunrise and the first rain of autumn. He’s so handsome, unfairly so, with his blushed pink cheeks and lazy glance—it’s getting harder and harder to deny yourself truths. Not when he sits with you through the gala and creates funny stories and ridiculous accents to go along with all of his father’s guests. He speaks more now than he usually does, oddly more comfortable in his family’s world than any of them will let you believe; he plays the part of the billionaire’s son with expertise, armed with a smirk and a thousand-dollar watch.

Still, you can hear the dissent rise up in his diction: how he looks at the men and women in their fancy clothes, and the way he sneers when one of them look at you a certain way. You’ve become disappointingly comfortable with these sort of looks since your belly began growing and your hair became shinier and your smile dimmer: it has become almost impossible to miss the way people decide they know everything about you just from the missing ring and swollen stomach donning your figure. It wasn’t something you really thought of anymore, but the sight of Jason coming to your rescue one glare at a time makes you feel a little hot under the collar.

He'd been sitting with you for some time now, giggling with you as you watched Barbara roll her eyes at journalists and stuff her face with crab rolls. He brought you plate after plate of food and seemed happier the more you filled your tummy—tugging at stray piece of hair and calling you a “good girl” as you bit into another cucumber sandwich. He’d been so wonderful, handsome and good natured in way you never thought you’d see with his father hiding somewhere in the room. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you to dance… How could you say no to that glint in his eye? How could you say no when he asked you so sweetly, under his breath like he just knew you’d say no, but had to ask anyway…

He took your hand shyly, freezing you with the touch of his fingers—a dangerous reminder of current revelations—and led you to the dance floor with a quiet surprise.

You’re not sure how to dance to this kind of music; you’re much more accustomed to thumping club classics and mid 2010s glitter pen hits, the kind of melodies made for jumping and screaming along, rather than this lilting symphony. Raising your left hand to sit on Jason’s shoulder is a little bit more than awkward… you feel watched and messy, full of insecurity about where to put your feet and the weird space allotted between you to fit your leave room for your belly. Yet, when you look up at his wide green eyes, all you can feel is safety emanating from the evergreen hue.

“Do you know how to dance to this?” you ask him, your voice hushed into a whisper.

“Yes.” He whispers back. “Alfred made me take cotillion lessons when I was a kid, can you imagine it? little boy straight off the street and into polite society? It was awesome.” He says, drawing out the last word.

The image makes you laugh, a big huff that makes more than a few people to stare at you, but all you can see is Jason’s smile. He’s beaming from ear to ear, laughing at you or with you it doesn’t matter—you’d do anything to see this smile, warm and hungry and all him.

He proves the authenticity of his story quite quickly, sweeping you around the waxed floors with an elegance that always shocks you. His hands are only warm from holding your own, and his eyes never leave yours—not once—he spins you around and grazes a hand onto your belly when you turn a little fast. Jason is gentle and lovely and he doesn’t even grimace when you step on his toes, just smiles and uses the arm on your back to lift you gently back into step. You’re out of rhythm and ridiculous, giggling as he tells you more about the rich boy lessons of his youth, and time moves faster and faster around the dance floor.

When the song shifts into a slower waltz, Jason moves you closer to his chest, pushing you as far into him as you can be with your tummy in the way. He smiles down at you like you hung the moon, and you would if it would get him to look at you like that.

You bite your lip and lean into him, promising yourself that you’ll tell him what you know—let him in on the secrets you discovered. You know you should, if you had a secret identity and my friend found out you’d want to know… but the feel of his arms around you and the sight of his fluffy curls breaks your heart too much to find the words. Maybe later, you think, you’ll let yourself open up the chasm after the dance; it’s too wonderful now, the knowledge that you’ve heated him up and made him smile and blush, you’ll let yourself ruin it later.

“You’re so pretty,” He whispers into your hair.

“You too,” you giggle.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, I mean it.” He says, pushing away from you a bit so he can see your face. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, really sweetheart—I can’t believe someone as beautiful as you is dancing with a prick like me.”

His accent is harsh and thick as he says it, inundating the words with home and late nights in the City—its might be your favorite sound, his voice… the sound of it calling you his “sweetheart.”

“I..” you start, “I mean it too, I’ve thought you were cute since the first time I saw you.”

You’re barely dancing now, just swaying along in place as he looks at you—awe-full and irreverent.

You feel like you should tell him now, break the illusion before it gets too far. You’re not sure how he’ll take the news of your knowledge, whether he’ll be angry at your discovery or proud of your detective work, either way you know he deserves to hear it from you. You’re about to confess when he pulls away, shattering the intimate moment with one glance over your shoulder.

“Jason, what?—” you begin to ask, turning around to see Bruce Wayne looking right at you. He looks different in person, scarier and larger than the Gotham Times makes him look. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was more than Jason’s adoptive father: they looked alike… same judging stare/same intimidating stance.

“Hey,” Jason whispers, turning your body back around so you’re looking at him rather than the harsh glance of his dad. “How about you say goodnight to Barbie and Dick, and I’ll take you home, huh? I just gotta talk to the old man.” He sounds more at ease than he looks, an old panic glazing over his eyes.

“Okay,” you nod, smiling at him before stepping away; shivering a little as your manufactured warmth leaves your skin.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Barbara was very excited when you told her Jason would be taking you home, eyes fiery and devilish as she wished you luck and bid you to be careful. You worried as you waited for Jason to remerge, barely listening to Barbara and the Wayne Boys as they giggled bits out at you—teasing their missing brother in his absence. If you weren’t so nervous you’re sure you’d be laughing along… Tim’s impression of his older brother was a brooding mockery of a 90’s love interest, a caricature of a heavy Gotham accent heavy on his tongue. You found yourself nervously smiling along, breathing out a tiny giggle at Dick’s booming laughter, the boy positively beaming at his brother’s expense.

The gala had barely waned, and you were a little shocked at how much energy everyone still seemed to have. You’re exhausted, bone tired and ready to rest in your regular people comfy clothes. You can feel your little girl stirring under your dress, bouncing around in the way she always does before you close your eyes to go to bed—it hurts a little, but the feeling of her alive inside of you brings a little peace to your ailing heart.

“Oh, I hate everything ‘cept batburger and my beautiful car! I’m gonna marry the orange monstrosity!” Tim groans, dropping to his knees in a mock confession.

“How will I survive without the loving touch of my camaro?! I have to marry it so we will never be separated!!” Dick cries.

“I can never live without the sound of her engine screaming and breaking down!” Barbara pouts.

Their performances are well crafted, good impressions only because of the undercurrent of fondness underneath the teasing. A sight that brings little giggles to escape you, laughter that only grows as the man of the hour shows himself again. He’s walking up behind his brothers, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply they’re almost touching, there’s a smile propped up on his face but it’s one that’s unfamiliar to you—devious and affronted at the same time.

He sees you looking at him and winks, his eyes alight with mischief as he brings his index finger to sit over his smile. Quietly, with surefooted steps and a battle stance to rival Ares, he sneaks up on his brothers and grabs them both by the neck: clutching at them like their two scruffy dogs.

“What are you two morons doing now?” He asks, looking into their shocked faces with a suspicious one of his own.

“Just giving your friend some entertainment before you whisk her away.” Dick smiles, grinning at his brother like a mad scientist.

“Uh huh… Let’s go, hon.” Jason says, directing the last part to you.

“OOOO! Hon!” The three stooges coo at him, giggling at his annoyed glance and whistling at the sight of Jason placing his hand on your back.

“Alright, alright… enough with the peanut gallery!” He shouts back at them. “You okay?” He asks you, leaning down to hear your answer better.

“Just fine, Jason.” You smile, “You?”

“I’m perfect, are you kiddin’ me?” He smiles, “I got a pretty girl on my arm and I’m leaving my idiotic brothers in the dust.”

“I like your brothers,” You say, just to see his eyes get all squinty again.

“You don’t like ‘em better than me though, do ya?”

“Course not, Jason…” You tell him, smiling as he leads you out of City Hall and back onto the Gotham streets.

You’re much more used to the rain ridden concrete and humming danger of the city than the illustrious top shelf of the city’s elite. Familiar with what it means to be out here with Jason, even if this time he’s himself rather than the leather coated version of him you met first. The rain makes his curls all frizzy and his smile more at ease, falling back into the daydream image you have from last summer, except this time you know him: you can recognize his exhaustion and the slight shyness he tries so hard to hide.

You like him more than anyone you’ve ever met, not just because of your infatuation, but because of the friendship you’ve built on Fridays at the diner and walks home; created in the spaces between a squelching engine and the struggle of putting together a crib.

He leads you to his Camaro, the black stripes looking more dangerous than usual under the dim streetlight. His hands only leave you to open the passenger door, waiting for you to sit yourself down before his cold body comes to lean over yours; pulling the safety belt as far as it can go before locking it in place and tightening it around your belly.

“Good?” He asks, his face close enough to feel his breath fan over your lips, close enough all you can do is nod.

The drive home is quiet, an environment that would be peaceful if not for the rumbling thoughts circling your mind. You know you’ll have to tell him before you say goodnight, you have to let him know you discovered his secret—you’ll make him understand that you’re not afraid, keep him as your friend forever and deal with the fact that your best friend might be up to no good. Nothing has to change, yet you feel as it will… there’s a part of you that knows without a shadow of a doubt your life will not look the same tomorrow morning, and you’re not sure if you want it too.

He takes you back the long way—almost like he’s stalling too—leading his car through neighborhoods you’ve never seen and up hills where the old Gotham mansions sit growing ghosts. Halfway home he inches his hand away from the gear shift to clutch at yours, grasping it until he had to move it back. You’re sure he can tell you’re a nervous wreck, anxious with his skin on yours and anxious without it—you really like him so much, and you’re not sure you can stand if tonight ruins it all.

It takes an hour to get back home, but eventually his orange monster is sidling up next to the curb in front of your apartment. It takes all your strength to ask him to come inside, and even more prayers when you see him amongst all your things. He looks like he could be one of them, another thing you could put up on your shelf and keep safe and sound.

“I’ll never get tired of you ladies little girly apartment,” He giggles, picking up Barbara’s prized High School Musical throw blanket and analyzing it like a piece of evidence at a crime scene. The lamp light bathes him in a pretty angelic glow, painting him into the princely figure you’re not sure anyone but you really sees—handsome and magnetic and entirely yours… if he wanted to be.

“Don’t make fun, Jason.” You advise, “The house is perfectly cultivated to show the young woman’s experience.”

“Sure, hon, don’t mind me.” He says, grazing his hand on the counters and smiling at you from your place in your bedroom’s doorway. “There was something you wanted to talk to me about right? That’s why I’ve been allowed in the inner sanctum?”

“Yeah, just… why are your hands always cold?” Your question obviously surprises him, the words causing his eyes to grow wide and his lips to separate.

“I don’t know, I run chilly—you know that.”

“And the Scars?”

“I had cats as a kid,”

“Cats with five-inch claws?” You ask, your voice raising just a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sweetheart.” He whispers. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Hmm… Well, did you know you tug at your hair when you’re nervous?” You ask him, catching him with his fingers entwined in the inky black locks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He scoffs.

“The other night you kept grazing your helmet, like you wanted to grab at your hair.” At your words all the frustration falls from his face, replaced with a sadness you didn’t expect. He looks crestfallen, a man awaiting the gallows with a quiet submission you didn’t know he contained.

“Huh, I knew you were a smart girl…”

“You’re not gonna deny it?” You ask, confused at how easy he accepted defeat. All you’ve ever heard of Red Hood is that he never backs down, how he’s inescapable and unknowable, but the man in front of you now has fallen into your hand easier than you would’ve expected from him.

“What’s the point? I like ya cause you’re smart.” His words bring a heat to your stomach, your blood rushing through your body and encasing you in a warm fluttery feeling. Though, you can’t let yourself step away from the line of questioning that’s been assaulting you since you saw him last.

He walks closer to you, his head angling down and his eyes searching yours—he’s trying to figure you out, or he already has and he’s searching for something deep inside your irises, either way his face comes closer and closer until you can feel his words touch you. “Ask me anything and I’ll answer you, I just hope you’ll listen.”

“Are you the Red Hood?”

“Yes.”

“Does Barbara Know?”

“Yes.” He whispers, “She knows everything—she could see the future if she wanted to.” He smiles a little, his grin moving closer to your lips.

You’re gonna kill Barbara, you think, after Jason kisses you you’re gonna go back to city hall and kill her. You already knew, but the confirmation turns all the poison into vitriol—she can’t help herself from getting in trouble, can’t step away from it even when all it does is cause her pain.

“I’m gonna kill her.” You whisper to him, “And you… for keeping it from me.”

He’s getting closer to you, his body encasing you in a cool chill and his sultry sweet smell. He’s smiling, a little grin that looks a little too happy for the threat you just gave.

“Tomorrow.” He breathes. “Don’t be mad at Barbie, she keeps herself and everyone else safe.”

“How safe?” You ask him, your words coming out so quiet you almost can’t hear them. He’s moving impossibly closer now, his hands wrapping themselves around your back/his nose caressing yours/ his breath releasing right into your lungs.

“Safe as life,” He sighs, his words whispered against your lips. His kiss is gentle, like him, and he tastes like eclairs and champagne and he holds you like a glass vase. His lips are so cold, icy like a slurpee on a hot day—you want so badly to warm him, to consume the sugary sweet taste of him and get brain freeze. It brings a rush to your gut, the knowledge that all his heat his stolen from you, the idea of your kiss bringing him back to life like he’s Aurora.

He pushes you farther into your room, lifting you up to hover over the ground and reach his lips better. His hold is stable and strong and his kiss is still so gentle, only getting headier as he lays you on the plush of your mattress—his body hovering over yours and smiling as he moves away to breath. Still, he is only a kiss away, smiling above you as he moves to kiss you again. His tongue moves along the seam of your lips, slipping into your mouth and drinking you in like you’re another glass of starry champagne.

“You’re so pretty,” He sighs, bringing his hands to hold onto your cheeks as you break away.

“Don’t lie to me, Jason.” You whisper.

“I never lie, sweetheart, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen—I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Even with… y’know?” You ask, wiggling from underneath him to bring your hands to sit on your belly. His eyes soften, and his hands slip from your face to rest against yours. He looks so soft, lovely and warm like you’ve never seen from him before.

“I’ve had a crush on you since last summer you know?” He huffs.

“What?”

“Last summer, when I picked Barbie up from that club and you were spinnin’ outside—I thought you were so pretty, like a little nymph or something. It broke my heart to hear you had a boyfriend, even though I wasn’t sure I would even do anything about it if you didn’t… I asked Barbara about you over and over again, hopin that one day she’d say you’d broken up with him; she told me how he sucked, how he didn’t deserve one ounce of your time, and you just looked so free that night—a little bird flyin’ around,” He laughs. “I actually jumped up and down like a little kid when she told me you were free again… my free girl.” He smiles, his eyes looking down where your hands lay, and moving to rub his fingers around the stretching silk.

“I thought you were cute that night too,” You smile, sinking into the feeling of his hands caressing your tummy.

“I know.” He laughs, “Barbara told me that too.”

“That witch!” You squeal, smiling bigger when you hear his booming laugh.

“I don’t care that you’re pregnant, sweetheart.” He says when he’s done laughing, raising his eyes until they’re looking into yours—in this light his irises seem like vials of poison, glowing and dangerous as they seep into you. “I never really thought about babies, whether I wanted them or not, but I know I love ya and I would do anything to share this with you… if you’d let me.”

“You love me?” You ask, searching his bright eyes for some kind of trick.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He giggles, “I don’t baby proof just any girl’s apartment.”

“You love me?!” You laugh, giddy and insatiable.

“I love you, sweetheart.” He whispers, kissing you again and again as you giggle. “And I’ll love your baby, however you want me to—I just want to help you.”

“I love you… I love you.” You say against his kisses, gasping and giggling as it becomes heavier and headier and more lush.

You never thought this would happen; were sure all your daydreams would stay hidden under the cover of desire and want. But Jason is kissing you like he’ll make all your dreams come true, like you’re clay awaiting his hands to be formed into a masterpiece.

You can’t think when he’s touching you like this, when his hands are squeezing sighs out of you and his lips are stealing your breath. You’ll remember to be angry tomorrow, you’ll prick and prod questions at him and beg to know everything there is to know. You’ll pick a fit with Barbara and hug her until you’re sure she’s safe and sound. You’ll take Jason to get a car seat for the Camaro, and make him throw away all his cigarettes.

Tomorrow life begins, but here in this moment you’ve never felt more alive—this moment with Jason Todd and creation in your bones.

Life is just beginning.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

EPILOGUE… one year later.

The night surrounds you for miles around, and all Jason can hear is the screaming whine of your little baby. She sounds so angry, screaming pitiful little cries that clutch his heart in paternal misery. It woke him up out of a deep sleep, shocking his body to move in closer to your side—your arm holding him tight and keeping you locked against him. His rustling wakes you up, forcing your sleep ridden eyes to open—looking at him like he’s betrayed you in the worst way.

“I’ll get her,” He mumbles, sleep coating his voice in a brilliant heavy nectar. He presses a kiss to your forehead and smiles at the way you shiver, scrunching your nose and sinking back farther into the comforter before he can leave.

He approaches the nursey with the quiet steps he usually only uses for stakeouts and ambushes, pushing the door open and greeting his baby with a pout. She’s so angry, her little hands tight against the bars of her crib and  her big eyes squeezed closed. She whines more at the sight of him, sobbing out loud gasps as he moves closer.

“Now, Now honey—Daddy’s here.” He coos, shushing her as she weeps. “Oh, you’re so sad, my love. What’s got my little monster so upset, huh?” He reaches for her with his scarred hands, reaching under her bottom and around her neck to keep her safe until she’s in his arms.

At the touch of his cold skin she quiets, her screaming whines becoming less and less until her wide green eyes meet his own. Every time he looks at her he’s shocked at her beauty, your smile placed on her tiny lips and your attitude living in her voice box. He loves the both of you so much, he’d kill or be killed for you.

“There she is, my little girl huh. You’ll go back to bed now, won’t ya?” He whispers, giggling at her sleepy eyelids. “Give mama a break, okay? Even heroes need to rest. I would know.”

He holds her to his chest and sways back and forth, just like he did that night you danced with him for the first time. He waits until she’s in the sandman’s cradle before he puts her back in her crib, kissing her goodnight and watching her rest for a few minutes.

“My baby.” he whispers, sweeter than he would’ve thought possible from himself. “My little Penny.”

He steps away from his daughter quietly, shuffling back into your arms with all the reverence of a worshipper—kissing your skin until you fit yourself back into his side. You’re always so warm, lush and beautiful and everything he’s ever wanted. He’ll never stop thanking you for loving him, for giving him his whole world.

Tomorrow he’ll have to tell you… write it into your skin and around your heart so you never forget.

He’ll have to thank Barbara, thank her again and again until she knows how grateful he is, but of course… Barbara Gordon knows everything.