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@piecksbitch16
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big day for daeron fans (me)
I‘m not sure if you’ve seen Bridgerton or the Queen Charlotte spin off but theres this scene I really like where Queen Charlotte finds her husband under the bed hiding from the heavens (https://youtu.be/LoEpi5q3kX4?si=4dsX19dbQpTVib-W)
I kind of see Baelor hiding with his dragon dreamer!wife when she had a vision.
your dreams, are not just dreams
summary: your dreams are proving worse by the day, something that your chambermaids and maesters once foresaw would happen. but you are lucky enough to have someone by your side who thinks it more than ‘madness’.
pairing: baelor targaryen x dragon dreamerwife!reader
warning(s): slight misogyny, violent visions, borderline psychotic state (momentarily), comfort and baelor being the best husband
a/n: i have seen quite a bit of bridgerton actually but i did have to go and take a look at this scene to jog my memory.. and charlotte and george are beautiful together, this would very much be baelor and dragon dreamer!wife.. he’s so soft 🥹💗
The chamber was still all except for the crackle of the hearth. Moonlight spilled across stone, silvering the carved posts of the bed, the curtains barely stirring. You’d been plagued for far too long, night after night you’re awoken again, heart thumping in your chest like being struck by lightning. He wakes to the sound first — soft, uneven breaths, a scrape across the floor and a curse. And then nothing.
Baelor knows that silence.
He rises from the bed without amour, without crown, just bare feet on cold floor, rubbing his dry and tired eyes from the day’s burdens. Sighing as he stalks around the room, tucking in the fallen chair beside the table in the quiet, an aching in his search, yet he already knows where you are.
He crouches at once without another thought, and there you are.
Curled beneath the bed like a frightened child, your knees pulled to your chest, hair loose and wild, your eyes too bright for this hour.
Your dreams always do this.
Not visions like stories make them, they’re not pretty, or poetic.
Instead they come like storms, like a fire burning in your skull, the future clawing its way through you before you can understand it.
“My love,” Baelor kneels softly against the stone floor, pressed onto his fours as he calls out to you, his voice gentle.
You flinch though you recognise the sound.
“It’s me,” he says quickly. “It’s Baelor, your husband. I’am here.”
Your voice trembles as you trace the wooden slats underneath the bed, shaky hands reaching up just in front of your face.
“I saw it again.”
He doesn’t dismiss it, doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t try to claim it to be something it isn’t. And he never has. Not like the rest of them do. They call you mad, odd, worrisome.. some opting to send you away since you were a girl all until you birthed the first child. Yet Baelor refused any of it, from the moment of betrothal he was yours, and he meant his vows through sickness, health and what haunted you in the night.
He reaches slowly, palms flat on the stone so you can see every movement as you looked up at him, tears pricking your vision, unmoving. He hooked himself next to you, the gap tight between him and the bed but he relaxed comfortably next to you.
“Tell me.”
Your breath shudders, leaning into the present you can’t escape any way. The man beside you grounding as you recalled it.
“There was smoke over the river. Dragons screaming, and a crown falling into blood. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it kept happening — like it already has.”
The tears slide down your cheeks, warm and frantic shaking your head at yourself in shame.
“I’m mad,” you whisper. “They all say dreamers go mad.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens at that, not in anger, but in pain for you. The words you’ve had to endure for far long enough, that even he does not believe.
“No,” he says firmly. “My heart, you see.”
He inches closer, sliding further beside you until he can brush your fingers with his own.
“Just like you saw the storm before it came. Just like you saw my brother’s fall before the maester’s raven arrived.”
You swallow at the mention, you were both only young when his younger brother Rhaegal was said to have gone mad. Plagued by perhaps something like you, or something else, they wouldn’t say. But you’d told them all it was going to fall apart, that brothers would be distanced and crowns would pass to the unlikely.
“It feels so real.”
“Because it is real,” he answers gently. “Or real enough to matter.”
He ignored the cold stone beneath you both, brushing the dust away as he brings his eyes level with yours.
“Breathe with me.”
Slowly, he inhales and exhales, eyes never once leaving you as he does it. Those multicoloured hues you’d remembered, you’d known..
And you mirror him.
Again.
And again.
Every breath until your shaking eases.
“Tell me where it was,” he says softly. “The river. Was it wide? Narrow?”
You blink at him, tracing the line in your memory, grounding yourself.
“Wide… with reeds along the banks.”
He nods thoughtfully, fingers curling around yours gently.
“And the crown — gold or silver?”
“Gold.”
Baelor hums low in his chest, not doubting, but considering.
“Then it wasn’t of today. My father wore silver at council.”
You sniff softly, a fragile laugh escaping at the answer.
“You always do that.”
He smiles back at you, quirking a brow.
“Do what?”
“Make it feel like it can be understood.”
He reaches out to you then, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your tears away, face angling towards yours.
“Dreams aren’t madness,” he says. “They are messages. Even the cruel ones.”
You finally crawl forward, shuffling on your side until you collide with him, pressing into his chest like you’ve done since you were young. And he wraps you up instantly, strong arms a shield around your trembling body. The way he told you it was alright.
“I’m scared one day it’ll be something I can’t stop,” you whisper.
His lips press into your hair, firm and steady, never wavering.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
A pause. Your vows.
“Did you see yourself?”
You nod slowly against him, “I was standing beside you.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I know I’ll never face it alone either.” He rocks you gently, back and forth, calming the storm that was.
Outside, kin and servant alike are fast asleep, but here you are together, and he rests his forehead against yours like he’s never known differently.
“You’re not broken,” he says quietly. “You’re chosen, and you’re mine. And I will always believe you.”
Your breathing steadies as the fear ebbs. The world feeling real again, with every steady thrum of this heart.
And when he finally lifts you, tugging you both off out from under the bed and carrying you back into the silk sheets, he tucks you in like something precious — staying awake long after you drift off, watching over the dreamer who holds tomorrow in her mind.
Because, you are more than just that. You are his love, his wife.. his heart.
Little fawn (Lyonel Baratheon x Reader)
Summary: Lyonel discovers he's a girl dad. That's it. I wanted to write a Maekar fic for my debut as a writer for this fandom but i can't sleep until i get this out my chest. I wanted to write a longer fic but i'm a little sleepy i can make a part two later.
Tags: Pregnancy, Mentions of labor, Fluffy fluff fluff, Misogyny happenings towards you and your baby cuz firstborn daughter (not by Lyonel), speaking of Lyonel he might be ooc but idk, not proofread so some things might make no sense. I proofread after posting and it pissed me off so i edited them right. Sleep deprived ESL writer type shi.
WC: 940~
When he got the news of your labor, it was during a hunt. Lyonel promised you with soft kisses that he'd never leave the castle when you'd enter the final month of your pregnancy—as you'd expressed to him your anxieties and fears at the thought of doing it surrounded by unfamiliar faces, watching you at your most vulnerable and exposed state.
"If i ever try, or hells – think about leaving you in that room. I permit you to imprison me and inherit Storm's End." He joked, then stood up "Matter of fact, allow me to put this into writing, with both our signatures and all that."
You giggled as you pulled him back into his knees and nuzzled your face into his temple, breathing in his scent. Where many women grew to dislike their lord-husbands scent, you seemed to think he smelled better than the catalogue of flowers he had tailored personally to your tastes—roses of all colors and lillies of all kinds—decorated the span of the godswood in your home. It was your favorite place to escape when it all got too loud, when wine and parties didn't do it for you, and your husband wasn't there to soothe you. You'd read your books, letters sent by your family, or just take in the fresh air without your duties weighing you down—Lyonel, eager to please you, made sure to turn that godswood into a work of art.
Lyonel broke no promise. It was nowhere near the expected time.
A lord had the audacity to tell him to stay and that he shouldn't meddle in women's affairs, and to let the maester and midwives take care of it. Lyonel merely gave him an uncharacteristic, cold look, silencing the company in the Baratheon's tent, and he told him to go fuck himself - placing his antlered crown down firmly onto the table and making several lords, ladies and servants flinch from the sound.
"Enjoy your hunt, my lady needs me by her side." Then he left without further discussion.
Fear stricken, he rode hard back to you. Chest heaving and sweat trickling down his forehead, he opened the door to your chambers. Finding you laying back, eyes closed with a smile spanning ear to ear. And he sighed in relief with his hands on his knees head lowered to the ground, catching his breath.
Lyonel apologized repeatedly as he sped walked to your side. kissing your hands, he said again. "I'm so sorry, my love."
"For what, beloved? How could you have known our daughter would come earlier than expected?"
"Daughter?" it was not a tone of disappointment, yet the maester seemed to deem it disappointing.
"Yes, my lord. It is not uncommon to have a daughter for a firstborn with my lady's family history having many—"
"Did i fucking ask you to explain why my daughter was born a girl?" Lyonel rose fixing the maester with a glare. The man didn't dare respond.
"You said," Your husband began, then he changed his voice to imitate the man's, "'the moon charts estimate that my lady won't labor for another month.'"
"Premature births this far along are not uncommon, my lord."
When your husband went to retort with another curse, the cries of a child—your child, reached your ears. You sat up, excitedly, albeit with a little discomfort. Despite the fear that struck you during your pregnancy, which was mostly about the labor itself, you were excited to have a child of your own. Especially one who had your husband's beautiful brown eyes and warm air. You had no doubts about your daughter growing up into a beautiful, humorous and kind person. Wasn't it sign enough that she made your first labor easier than what most mothers had? You heard stories of the ladies around you who spoke of labors lasting as long as thirty hours.
You dismissed the rest of the servants except for the sweet, older midwife named Elayne, who came closer with your daughter, "The little one's hungry, milady." she lowered her into your arms slowly and carefully as she shushed her with you imitating her pacifying sounds. With Elayne's guidance you fed your daughter for the first time, it was extremely uncomfortable – but you weren't handing your baby girl to anyone so soon, rest be damned.
Lyonel sat by your side staring at your daughter with wonder, "Are newborns supposed to be this small? She's so tiny, a breeze could steal her away!"
"She did come earlier than she was expected to." You reminded him, gathering her in your arms. "Would you like to hold her?"
His eyes widened at your offer, she's so frail he's scared he'd break her little bones.
"You're not going to hurt her, love. You only need to mind her head and neck, they're very weak as of this moment."
He nodded and reminded himself of the fact over and over until he had her in his arms. You giggled as he sat stiffer than you thought was possible of him.
"Relax." He's trying his best!
After half a minute or so, his muscles lost their rigidity.
"Come on, give me your hand." You instructed and he followed, you folded his fingers in except for his thumb.
"Look at this," Pressing his thumb into her little hand, he watched, as it closed tightly around it. "Strong isn't she? just like you."
Her hands were half the size of his thumb. He scanned her features, entranced—her hair had the coloring of a Baratheon's, the exact shade of your skin, and her eyes opened to reveal gems reminiscent of your own.
"No, I believe she's the perfect blend of the both of us."
Unexpected Desire
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader
Rating: Mature (Minors DNI)
WC: 2.8k
Tags/Warnings: Targcest, age gap, kissing, spicy times, a little porn with the plot, teasing, Baelor has heterochromia, canon divergence, pregnancy
A/n: I love me a dark haired Targ. New episode tonight, folks, I’m so excited
Summary: Love blossoms between you and your Uncle Baelor
The Gods had blessed Prince Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dane with a plethora of children. You were born between your brothers, Daeron and Aerion, and had a fiery spirit. You would chase your brothers and cousins around the training yard, wacking whoever you could catch first with your wooden sword, much to your father’s exasperation and your Uncle Baelor’s amusement. However, you preferred a bow and arrow between your fingers, taking a great shine to archery, and none could outshine you apart from Ser Roland Crakehall of your grandfather’s Kingsguard. He is the one who helped you hone your skills.
There had been discussions to wed you to your cousin, Valaar, but the beautiful Kiera of Tyrosh caught his eye, and none could separate them. There had also been discussions to wed you to your eldest brother, Daeron, but you terrified him. So your bethroal discussions were placed on hold, allowing you to enjoy your freedom as you grew. For your twentieth name day, enabled with a honeyed tongue, you convinced your grandfather, King Daeron II, to hold a hastilude in celebration. He had never been blessed with daughters and doted upon you a great deal.
“Mayhaps you will find a suitor who catches your eye,” he told you.
“Mayhaps,” you smiled, yet you had no desire, simply wished to have the attention on you. Your grandfather had agreed to allow you to demonstrate your archery skills at the start of the tourney, and your father had gifted you a beautiful white palfrey to ride. Despite his prickly nature, he had his own way of showing his love.
You kissed your grandfather’s cheek, making your way toward the courtyard. It was a beautiful day, and you meant to enjoy a ride on your new horse.
“And where are you off to, niece?” you heard Baelor’s voice behind you as he descended the staircase from the Tower of the Hand.
“For a ride, Uncle,” you smiled.
“Might I join you? I could do with some fresh air.”
“Of course, I would enjoy your company.”
He offered you his arm, escorting you into the open courtyard.
“My uncle will be joining me, Ser Donnel. Please have his horse fetched,” you informed the guard, and Baelor let out a chuckle. “Do you find something amusing, Uncle?”
“'Tis a shame Valaar’s heart lay with another; you would have made a fine queen. You are assured, and well spoken,” Baelor offered.
His praise brought heat to your cheeks. “My good father would disagree with you.”
“Hmm, I may be of a differing opinion if I were overrun with seven children. You must take it easy on him; he does his best.”
“You are ever magnanimous, Uncle. Do you even wish to scream for the hell of it?”
Baelor laughed, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. “I save that for the privacy of my quarters, dear niece.”
Your face felt on fire as a smile cracked over your face. “I knew you had the Taragaryen fire buried inside you,” you teased, playfully swatting his shoulder.
The horses were readied, and once mounted, you and your uncle headed toward the Kingswood with two Kingsguard riding dutifully behind. You glanced behind you, sighing, and wishing you could shake them. What a ruckus that would cause. But you itched for rebellion. You dug your heels into your horse’s belly, and she broke into a gallop. Wind whipped at your cheeks. You heard the loud shouts of the guards, but you urged your horse to move faster. She was young and sleek, not weighed down by any armor, and outmaneuvered them.
You did not stop until you reached a lush area by a brook, bubbling with crystal water. You dismounted, leaves crunching under your feet as you tied your horse’s reins around a low reaching branch.
“What game are you playing?” Baelor hissed, having caught up with you and appearing quite cross as his dismounted.
“Just having a bit of fun, Uncle,” you defended.
He stood before you, his gloved hand sliding under your chin and holding your gaze firmly to his. “I should put you across my knee for pulling such a stunt.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you challenged, his thumb pressing against your chin. However, you found the thought most thrilling. This was a different side to your Uncle. One that excited you, and you had never thought of him in such a manner before.
“My dear niece, if you keep playing with fire, you will end up burned,” he cautioned, his eyes holding a sternness in them. The brown one seemed darker, while the blue one blazed with fire.
You weren’t certain what had possessed you, unaware of your movements until you felt his lips against yours. His hand fell from your face, settling on your hip as you backed you against a tree. His bonny wife, Jena Dondarrion, had been dead for almost eight years now, and he had never thought to be interested in another, until now. But the sparks in the air were undeniable. The attraction was thick and mutual.
“It seems we will be dancing into the flames together, dear niece,” he whispered against your swollen lips. Mayhaps he was the one you had been waiting for all along.
You had no doubt your uncle would navigate this in the proper, gentlemanly manner. He would never sully himself or disgrace your reputation.
“Allow me to be your champion at the hastilude,” he said.
“It was to be Valaar. I do not think Grandfather would put you at such a risk. You are heir to the throne,” you whispered. You did not mind putting yourself in harm’s way, but you would not allow Baelor to risk himself.
“A melee hardly puts me in harm's way, and do you think the other knights would truly batter the heir? Do you doubt my skills so, dear niece?”
“No, you and my father are skilled knights. Champions in the Blackfyre Rebellion. I would be honored to have the Hammer fight for me,” you smiled.
“So I shall. Then, when I am victorious, I will declare you the queen of love and beauty and ask for your hand in marriage, should that be your desire.”
“You do not think me to have a silly girl’s crush?”
“You are no longer a silly girl, but a woman.”
“It is rather funny, dear Uncle, you’ve been in front of me the entire time, and I never realized…”
“Until now,” he murmured, finishing your sentence.
The two members of the guard finally caught up, both red in the face beneath their helms. Baelor pulled away from you.
“She is safe, good sers, rest assured I gave her a stern talking to, and I see no reason to mention this particular event to other members of the family,” he stated.
“As you instruct, my prince,” they agreed, nodding their heads. It would spare all parties involved a lecture.
In the days leading to the celebrations, noble lords and ladies arrived from their regions, bestowing well-wishes and gifts upon you. You were in a daze as you thanked them, your mind constantly on Baelor. In the swell of the excitement, you still found time to sneak in secret kisses with him in the dark corners of the Red Keep. He left your lips heated and bruised, his hands leaving lingering touches on your waist, hips, and cheeks. You would have let him devour you if he so wished, but you knew he was an honorable man and would wait until you were wed to him.
The day of the hastilude arrived, and your mother and younger sisters helped to weave crowns of silk and flowers to bless the knights with favor.
“One day I will be a great champion,” your youngest brother, Aegon, declared as he swung his wooden sword around.
“I have no doubt,” you smiled as your ladies braided your silver hair, draping a netting of glittering rubies over their finished work. You wore a crimson and black gown, designed for riding comfort but dazzling enough to ensure you were the center of attention.
“You have a rather dreamy look in your eyes,” your mother smiled.
“It is my nameday, I’m rather excited,” you grinned.
“She always did like all the attention on her,” Aerion huffed as he entered your quarters to present you with a ruby ring as his gift, which he slipped onto your finger.
“I remember you both fighting for it all the time,” Dyanna chuckled as your younger siblings ran amok around the room with Daella and Rhae chasing after Aegon. At least Aemon found peace at the Citadel.
“You’re planning something, I just know it,” Aerion whispered in your ear.
You gave him a playful shove away. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
The hastilude was held just outside the King’s Gate, the black and red banners of the Targaryen House billowing in the breeze. You mounted your plafrey, a sling of arrows around your back, and your bow tucked under one arm. Your grandfather made the formal announcement, and you trotted your horse into the open field, waving at the crowd who cheered you on. Your target was set, and you heard the gasps fill the air as Ser Roland stepped forward with a torch to assist you in lighting your arrows. One by one, they fell expertly onto the target in bursts of bright orange flame.
Applause followed you off the field as you went to join your family in their seats as the jousts began. Your heart thrummed as your uncle came forth on his black horse and shimmering armor to face off against Lord Medric Manderly. It was an easy defeat as your uncle sent Lord Medric toppling from his horse. Lord Lyonel Baratheon made a spectacle, declaring that if he won, he would have your hand in marriage.
“You can have mine, Ser!” Daella shouted, making your father groan.
You sipped on sweet wine, nibbling on strawberries and lemon cakes, enjoying the games, and to the surprise of none, your Uncle Baelor was declared victor. He placed a wreath of white and red roses upon your head, declaring you the queen of love and beauty.
“I would offer up my hand in marriage to the fair princess with the king’s permission and hopefully her father’s as well,” Baelor announced.
Your father scooted forward in his chair, an astonished look on his face. It was not often that he was rendered speechless.
“What say you, Maekar?” King Daeron asked.
“Gods by good, brother, if you think you can handle her, then my blessing you have,” Maekar replied, a relief flooding over him that you not be providing him with any more headaches. You would be his brother’s concern now.
“And you, my dear granddaughter, is this what you desire?” your grandfather whispered, drawing your hand into his.
“More than anything,” you smiled. He patted your hand lovingly.
“A most wondrous and joyous day indeed,” King Daeron laughed.
You were married to Baelor in the warmth of summer in a celebration that put your nameday to shame. Wine flowed, musicians chimed through the Great Hall, and the night never seemed to end.
“It is strange how once you were to be my bride, yet now you are my stepmother,” Valaar teased as he danced with you.
“Do not even think of calling me such,” you laughed.
“In truth, I have not seen my father in such high spirits since my mother’s passing. He is a good man who deserves happiness, and I am glad you bring him such.”
“I promise I will make him happy until the end of days, cousin,” you assured him.
That evening, you trembled beneath Baelor’s hands as he undressed you. He would not allow anyone else to touch you, so the bedding ceremony was denied. You are mine alone to enjoy and unwrap, he had whispered in your ear. It had sent a deep need thrumming through your body.
“I have never seen you quite so shy before, niece,” he teased gently, sliding your smallclothes from your frame and leaving you bare before him.
“I am willful, but not as wild as others might think. You were the first ever to kiss me,” you admitted.
“Then I am truly a lucky man,” he grinned, bending down to kiss you passionately. It drew the breath from your lungs. He lifted you into his arms, gently placing you on the bed. He started at your feet, kissing up your ankles and legs, lighting your body on fire with precise placement of his lips.
He made your body sing, suckling on your nipples and stroking you with his fingers until your arousal coated them. Your mouth claimed his warm flesh, sinking your teeth into his shoulder while his cock swelled beneath you as you writhed in his lap. Desire flooded you, and all you wanted was him. There was a brief moment of pain as he filled you, gently easing his way inside, and the pain quickly dulled. All you felt was pleasure as he fucked you, consummating you as his wife.
Each thrust was fluid, driving the pleasure deeper within your belly. He let your teeth and nails lay claim to any area of his flesh that you wished, wanting your mark upon him. You whimpered when a deep band snapped through your belly as your release washed forth and made you feel dizzy in the aftermath. It was unlike any feeling you had experienced before, and you yearned for more. He took you three more times that night until you both grew sore. He was feeling like a young man with you as his bride.
He held you against his chest after, his fingers twirling around your silver curls while his other hand rested on the swell of your naked arse.
“I love you,” he whispered against your forehead.
“And I love you,” you purred, nuzzling into his chest.
Twelve moons later, you were in labour, feeling terrified. The memory of how many Targaryen women were lost to the birthing bed weighed heavily on your mind.
“You must promise me not to let them gut me like a fish,” you begged Baelor, sweat glistening on your forehead.
He cupped your face with his hands. “Never, my love. I promise.”
The Maester and midwives escorted him from the room as your sister, Daella, tended to you. Tragedy had claimed your mother’s life a few months prior, and you missed her most dearly in this moment. The birth was strenuous, making your body scream with pain as every part of you ached and you were drenched in sweat. Finally, you brought forth a healthy babe. A red-cheeked, screaming daughter with her father’s hair, along with one violet eye and one of chestnut brown. The kingdom rejoiced at her birth.
Joy and tragedy oft go hand in hand, and the following spring claimed the lives of your beloved grandfather and your cousin, Matarys. Valaar had joined Aerion in Lys, the Gods sparing their lives, while you and Baelor had been entertained at Summerhall at your father’s invitation. You grew round with a second child, the last you would bear your husband, as childbirth did not agree with you.
“I wished to give you as many as my mother gave my father,” you whispered into his ear as his hand caressed your belly.
“I would much rather have you by my side than ten motherless children running around,” Baelor replied, gently rolling your swollen nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You sighed at the relief his touch provided.
“You always know just what to say,” you grinned, nuzzling his neck.
“I merely speak the truth, dear wife,” he smiled, fondly patting the curve of your arse.
Your fire had never died; you rode your horse freely and remained dedicated to archery. Baelor had even gifted you a falcon so you could enjoy small hunts. There were times when you tested his patience, which proved to be most enjoyable in the bedroom as he did follow through on his threat to put you over his knee. You especially loved kneeling between his legs on the days he was tied to his desk in the Tower as he answered correspondence, drawing his cock into your mouth and providing him sweet relief.
A silver-haired son followed shortly after Baelor’s ascension to the Iron Throne. You served as his queen consort and named your newborn son, Daeron, in honor of your grandfather. Daena and Daeron brought your father unexpected joy, and he was often seen carrying them on his shoulders. Valaar was now the heir, and a new era dawned on Westeros. You did not doubt that Baelor would be as beloved a king as your grandfather. It was a role he had trained for all his life.
At the celebration tourney, your dear husband requested a show of your archery skills. The flaming arrows blazed through the night sky before landing upon the targets, your beloved white palfrey between your legs. As you gazed over at your uncle, you saw the fire dancing in his mismatched eyes. You made him wear the crown when he took you that evening.
A Prince Among Men
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x female reader
Tags: p*rn without plot, wedding night, first time, loss of virginity, oral sex (female receiving), p. in v. sex, Valarr is a caring lover
Wordcount: 2,835
Having heard the terrible rumors surrounding Prince Aerion, you are frightened that his cousin, your intended Prince Valarr, will be much the same. However, your wedding night proves you wrong.
Upon your birth the Gods had smiled down on you and blessed your future union, your family had said when you had been betrothed to Prince Valarr, the son and heir to Prince Baelor. Such a union was an honor, despite the tense political climate in the realm—marrying a Targaryen prince, the heir’s son no less, and providing him with an heir who would one day be king as well, was a greater fate than you had ever imagined for yourself.
One day, you would be the queen, standing alongside King Valarr and hopefully, ruling at his side if he was inclined to allow his wife her own opinions and agenda. That, you were less sure of.
Prince Valarr had seemed perfectly charming and princely during your short courtship, even though it had been too short to truly get to know and understand his character. Soon enough, the day of your union had come, and he had behaved in a proper way throughout the wedding feast as well—he had gladly danced with you, looking upon you with pride, however you knew men could be knights in the public eye, and beasts in their private chambers.
Rumors were not kind to his cousins, some of them vicious, and you feared that there was truth to them, as soon as your eyes had met Prince Aerion’s upon meeting the royal family. Never before had you seen such darkness in one’s gaze, and it made you fear what awaited you once you would be wed to Valarr.
“Some men like to do the beating behind closed doors. They give praise in public and hell in private,” a lady friend of yours had warned, and those words had lived in you ever since.
Despite your extensive education on ladylike comportment, you could not seem to soothe your nerves as the evening of your wedding went on, your fright taking over your body like a fever.
Valarr had seen you grow more and more preoccupied as the evening had progressed, and even the coming darkness and the forgiving lights of the torches and candles had not been enough to hide your sunken eyes and downturned mouth. It perplexed him rather, as he had believed the match to be a happy one.
You were a lady of noble birth and proper education, and upon setting eyes on you for the first time, he had been perfectly satisfied with your appearance. His father had made it clear that in his duty, marriage was of the utmost importance, and that the quality of a man could be found in the way he treated those gentler than him, and ladies were among those who necessitated more delicate treatment.
He was not the most gentle of young men—he did not fear to joust with his cousin Aerion, and never backed down from a challenge in the courtyard. He stood his ground and knew how to navigate difficult arguments much like his father. At times when it was needed, he knew how to be firm and asserting, but in his marriage, he aspired to be attentive and soft, if a softer touch was what his wife required.
Walking from the hall of Dragonstone towards Valarr’s chambers after the feast felt like walking to the gallows, your throat growing tighter until you knew you would not be able to speak a word to your husband. The door was barely closed behind you and Valarr before he cleared his throat and it startled you into action.
Valarr watched, increasingly worried, as you immediately stepped towards the bed, reaching for the laces of your gown—gone were the glimpses of your true character that he had seen during your courtship or earlier in the night. Instead you had become cold and silent, and dread settled in his stomach.
Taking a deep breath in, he attempted to remember what his father had told him of the wedding night. While he was no stranger to the touch of a woman, his bride certainly was pure and untouched, and it was his role as husband to guide her unto those new territories. If he played his cards well, this night could be the start of a most satisfying harmony in the marriage bed.
“I am aware we do not know each other, and it must not be a comfort to you to welcome a stranger into your chambers,” he tried, wincing at his own hesitance. “But I would not have you afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of you, my prince,” you were quick to reply, unwilling to look at him over your shoulder, keeping your hands busy with your intricate gown.
“What of, then, if not of me?” he inquired, taking a few steps towards you.
When you did not answer, he decided upon offering patience instead of placating words. Instead, he came up behind you and assisted you in pulling the laces. You were shaking, your breathing growing even shallower under his hands, and his distress grew with it—he would take no pleasure in consummating with an unwilling bride, and yet it had to be done for security.
“Does the prospect of consummation frighten you so?” he asked softly, perhaps too bluntly.
Still, you did not look at him. He heard you swallow and take a shaky breath through your mouth. If his words could not appease you, then perhaps his touch would, he thought. As your gown loosened around your frame, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss at the back of your neck gently. He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders, hoping to ground you, but his endeavor failed, and your trembles turned into shudders.
“I will not mistreat you,” he assured, and to his horror, a silent sob wracked your trembling frame.
Valarr came to face you, his gentle hands settling on your waist, but you could not meet his eye nor acknowledge his kind words—every second that passed, you feared to unleash his frustration by your tears, but your instincts had taken over, and you could not calm yourself.
“You have nothing to fear from me. It might be uncomfortable, at first, but only for a moment,” he promised, carefully taking the hand that had been hiding your mouth in his grasp. “What have you been taught, to frighten you so?”
At that, you finally shook your head and your eyes rose to meet his worried gaze—his eyes were different colors, you had noticed upon your first meeting, one a dark brown and the other a striking blue, and there was warmth in them both. “Not so much what I was taught, my prince, but what I was told, about…” you started, but stopped yourself. “I do not wish to cause offense.”
Valarr pressed a firm kiss to the back of your hand, and it loosened some of the tension in the pit of your belly. “You may be honest with me. What sort of marriage would this be if we could not speak our mind to one another?”
His thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, settling your nerves long enough for the words to come out. “My cousin met your own cousin, Prince Aerion, at a tourney and—” but in the end, you could not bring yourself to say it.
Still, understanding spread over Valarr’s handsome face, along with a sad smile. “His reputation is a grim one indeed,” Valarr said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I vow to you, I am nothing like my cousin.”
Relieved that he had not taken offense, you gave your husband a small smile, and his answer nearly took your breath away—he dipped forward slowly but resolvedly, letting his nose slide alongside yours until his mouth was pressed to yours, firm and confident.
“Allow me to prove myself,” he said against your lips. “To show you the sort of husband I intend to be.”
Without a word, he hooked his fingers at the shoulders of your gown and brought it down, smoothly sliding to his knees to catch the fabric before it could pool at your feet. This time, your breathlessness was not due to nerves, but the caring and honorable gesture—for a second he remained there, a knee to the cold floor and his piercing eyes looking up at you with confidence.
Once you had stepped out of your gown and he had placed it on the back of a chair, he guided you, gently but firmly, with the sort of touch a husband should use while leading, to lay down on the bed. His eyes remained on you, warm and trusting, and he undressed. Warmth pooled in the pit of your stomach, shy and tentative, but present nonetheless.
Valarr cleared his throat, licking his lips before asking. “Do I please you?” he asked—and pleasing was perhaps not strong enough a word, in truth. Freed from his usual calf-length doublet, miles of creamy skin stretching over firm muscle were open for you to gaze at. Moles dotted his complexion here and there, from his broad shoulders down to his slimmer waist.
A breathless chuckle left your mouth. “Am I allowed to say?” you inquired. “Or to even think it?”
“I would like my wife to find me handsome, yes,” he replied, his hands finally reaching for the laces of his breeches, but after a second of hesitation, he decided on leaving them on for now. “Later,” he informed you, sounding rather embarrassed. “This moment is for you, first.”
The white strand fell into his face as he crawled up the bed, as gracefully as he had sunk to his knees before you, and it amazed you how a man could look so regal while doing it.
Eyes fluttering close, your hands curled into fists at your hips, you awaited the weight of your husband’s body atop yours, but it did not come. Instead, Valarr’s lips found the inside of your ankle, pressing a reverent kiss to it.
You looked down and watched, breathless, as he made his way between your parted legs, his mouth tracing a path from your ankle bone to the inside of your knee, making you shiver. His mouth lingered there, his hands paving the way—his palms were warm and a bit rough, confident as they pressed your thighs further apart.
The white strand of hair at the front of Valarr’s head fell into his eyes and he smiled, wide and honest. Your lingering fears melted away, replaced by a warm wave of trust and excitement.
“Lay back,” he said, a suggestion more than an order, a ripple of heat coursing through him when you complied. There were not many things headier in this world than the trust of a beautiful woman, and it filled him with determination.
Valarr pushed your cotton shift out of the way, pressing a grounding kiss to your hipbone. His smile grew when his lips grazed your most intimate place and you gasped, then arched your back under the gentle press of his mouth. One of your hands uncurled from your side only to tentatively find the crown of his hair, and a sigh that could have been his name left your mouth.
Slowly, he traced the seam between your folds with his tongue, trying a soft, then firmer pressure, curling the tip of it at your core. Your moans were shy at first, then breathier and loudier, and it got to his head faster than any strong wine. With each pass of his tongue your hips rocked back against his touch, and when he kissed your pearl you gasped aloud, the sound breaking whenever he followed it with a gentle suckle.
His jaw ached after a while, but he pushed through the discomfort for your sake, enjoying the reward that were your moans of pleasure, and your arching body under his hands.
Eventually, his tongue wandered lower, in search of the entrance into your body, and his thumb took over, drawing circles at your numb, spreading your wetness. He kissed the inside of your thighs again, gently nudging them apart so he could fit his shoulders more comfortably between them. He groaned when you hook your heel at his back, and he guided you to hook your knee over his shoulder.
Inside of his breeches, his own arousal was pulsing, hot and impatient, and he ground his hips into the mattress, hoping for some relief, but it only served to incense him further.
His tongue prodded past your wet folds, and finally found what he was most wanting for—the dip leading inside your body. The tip of his tongue pressed into it and you arched your back higher than before, his answering moan vibrating against your sensitive skin.
“Gods be good—” you cursed, your voice broken, and it spurred him on.
Your hand tightened in his hair, the sharp ache a necessary distraction from his restless hips. The friction of his cock on the hard bed through his breeches and the sheets was torture and ecstacy at the same time, and he yearned to get a hand around himself.
However he was determined to see through the task at hand—to have you find your please before he did.
Ignoring his own pulsing need, he pushed his tongue harder into the dip of your body, bringing it up between your folds until it met his thumb, still tracing regular, tight circles. Like he would practice the flit of a sword in the yard, he repeated the movement at the same pace, even when your back did not come back from its arch and your hips quivered in his grasp.
“Valarr, please keep—” came your ragged plea, and for a moment he feared you would bring him over the edge alongside you.
A pleasure, sharp and hot like you had never known, pierced through you—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, from your core to your toes, shivering up your back, with the force of a mast cracking under the pressure of the wind. After the intense peak had abated, a simmering satisfaction spread along your skin, and you wanted to laugh at the beauty of it, especially when you glanced down again and saw your husband looking up at you.
Between your parted thighs, he looked more alive than you had seen him so far, his eyes blown wide and dark. He made quick work of his breeches, but as he uncovered his length, wrapping a hand around it, you were not so afraid of it.
His eyes did not leave your face as he gave himself a few slow strokes, his hips quivering, before pushing to his knees and crawling over you, his mouth dipping into your neck to press a comforting kiss. “Trust me,” he murmured. “It will be over in a moment.”
There was no time for you to fear the pain, and your limbs felt so loose you even doubted it would come. Valarr guided the head of his cock between your folds, the sensation unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You felt him take a steadying breath, and curled a hand at the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair gently. The strands were thick between your fingers, cropped shorter at the back but long enough for you to enjoy.
Forehead to forehead, he pushed into you in one, smooth stroke, taking your breath away with it—the burn was intense, and the stretch rather uncomfortable, and yet you felt safe, caged in by his strong arms. Your quiet moan of pain was quickly swallowed by a kiss, deep and slow. In time, you would come to enjoy it, you thought. For now, holding him and resting easy in the pleasure he had already given you was enough.
Valarr took you, slow but firm—a hint of a claim, if he was honest with himself—and it was the sweetest release he could have imagined. Still riding the high of your peak, it did not take long for his own pleasure to crest. You held him as he started shaking and he found refuge in the crook of your neck, biting back his moans, his cock pulsing inside of you.
You welcomed his kiss again, lips warm on yours, when the shuddering stopped and he was instead left with a gentle quiver. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, breathless.
“No, you were lovely,” you replied, your heart thundering in your chest, but he knew the full truth of it.
Valarr rose again on his elbows, his eyes seeking yours. “We shall have many more nights, and I will make sure you find your pleasure in this as well,” he vowed, making heat erupt in your cheeks.
None of the fears that had plagued your day were to be found—instead, there was only trust mirrored in your husband’s eyes and in his warm smile, and you knew yourself to be lucky, to have been given to a man who would treat you as a prince should.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requests are open for this character.
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Valarr taglist: @thenameswinter99 @targaryen-dynasty @aneurins-barnard @multyfangirl @phia004
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Baelor Targaryen x Niece!Reader
I had this little idea and wanted to share it…maybe I'll write more about it later
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Feedback always motivates me to keep writing 🥰💖💖
My commissions are open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
akotsk masterlist
Warnings: obviously incest and age difference
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Baelor never thought he would marry again after Jena's death; he thought he would spend the rest of his life a widower.
But then you made him change his plans.
You went to Baelor's chambers hours after the last family reunion, where they announced your engagement to Aerion. You begged him for help because you knew he was the only one who could save you from that horrible fate. Your father couldn't help you; he was considered crazy after walking around naked in the Red Keep. And your uncle Maekar wasn't an option either, because he was the one who arranged the engagement, hoping Aerion would straighten up once he married you. But you didn't believe your cousin would change.
Baelor tried to reassure you, but then no words seemed to help.
"You know what Aerion is, you know what he's capable of. He's a monster," you said over him, your voice trembling and your eyes glassy, but still without shedding a tear.
And at that moment, Baelor knew he couldn't leave you to your fate. He couldn't stand idly by when he could prevent Aerion from harming his sweet niece. Because he knows you're right; he's not blind to his nephew's actions. Aerion would find a way to destroy you simply because he's bored. He would steal your light, and Baelor couldn't allow his sweet niece to end up ruined and miserable.
“Uncle, please, I can’t marry him,” you pleaded again, and you seemed about to get down on your knees when he took your hands.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he assured you, and kissed your forehead.
For the first time since your engagement was announced, you felt like you could breathe easily. You felt safe. You trusted Baelor; he wouldn’t lie to you. He had always been the one you turned to when things went wrong. You trusted him more than your own father. Baelor had never let you down before, and you were sure he wouldn’t now.
“Thank you, Uncle,” you said, and you clasped his hands in yours before bringing them to your lips, leaving a soft kiss. “Thank you.”
That day, you returned to your chambers peacefully, knowing you wouldn't spend the rest of your life bound to your monstrous cousin. But you never imagined that a moon later you would end up in the Great Sept of Baelor, dressed in white and becoming your uncle's second wife.
When the moment came to kiss, you gave him a shy, brief kiss. You felt guilty, as if you had tied your uncle to you, forced him to marry you out of pity.
Valarr was already frustrated by his loss in the joust. He knew he wasn't as skilled as his father, but he was still upset about losing, especially to Aerion.
But his annoyance and frustration turned to anger the moment he saw Aerion begin riding toward him with the flower crown. How dare his cousin want to crown his wife the queen of love and beauty?
“My lady,” Aerion said, offering you the crown with a smug smile. Valarr clenched his fists tightly, feeling powerless.
Suddenly, everyone fell silent. Clearly, they were all waiting for your reaction.
“No,” you said simply, not bothering to smile or soften your voice.
“No?” Aerion repeated, his smile had disappeared, and he seemed incredulous.
“I do not desire gifts from men who are not my husband,” Valarr heard you say and couldn't help but laugh. Gods, he loved you so much; he had the best wife in the Seven Kingdoms.
Aerion seemed about to give his indignant reply when Maekar intervened, simply calling him by name.
Aerion reluctantly began to ride again to give the crown to another lady. But you didn't look at him; in fact, your eyes were on Valarr. You smiled at him and affectionately stroked the necklace he had given you at your wedding. Yes, he had nothing to worry about. You only had eyes for him.
Later, when you were alone in his chambers, and you were helping him bathe, he took your hand after you finished washing his back.
"Next time, I will crown you Queen of Love and Beauty," he promised, kissing your knuckles.
You set the soap aside and used your free hand to stroke his cheek.
"There's no need, my love," you assured him. "As long as you return to me safely, I am happy," you smiled.
Gods, you are so sweet and so perfect that he wants to kiss you. And that's exactly what he does. He captures your lips in a sweet kiss.
Hi, I hope you enjoyed this drabble!
Please don't hesitate to like, comment, or reblog. Interactions make me happy and always motivate me to keep writing 🥰🥰💖💖
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akotsk masterlist
# CEO, Wayne Enterprises
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE is used to being the ceo of all ceos when it comes to Gotham's industries, and then he sends you an email that starts a chain reaction.
!! smau. fluff. fem!reader. rivals to lovers. slow paced. no real warnings. this has been in my drafts because i got annoyed with formatting and also it ended up feeling like i was actually working because i had to keep it feeling professional LMAO. i have so many email and socials based stories in my drafts doc that i want to upload. ENJOY.
Subject: Wayne Enterprises Partnership Inquiry
Good Morning,
I hope this message finds you well.
I am reaching out regarding your company’s recent bid submission concerning the Gotham Renewable Infrastructure Initiative. While Wayne Enterprises respects your firm’s growth and innovation in the sector, there are several areas within your proposal that appear to overlap with proprietary development projects currently underway within our Applied Sciences Division.
I would appreciate the opportunity to arrange a meeting to discuss potential redundancies and avoid unnecessary complications as the city moves forward with its selection process.
Please let me know your availability later this week.
Regards, Bruce Wayne CEO, Wayne Enterprises
Subject: RE: Wayne Enterprises Partnership Inquiry
Mr. Wayne,
Thank you for your concern.
However, I can assure you that every aspect of our proposal is entirely original and legally vetted. If there are similarities between our work and Wayne Enterprises’ projects, it likely speaks to the inevitability of industry-wide progression rather than overlap.
That said, I am always open to conversations that protect my company’s interests just as fiercely as you protect yours.
Thursday afternoon works for me.
Best, Executive Director Kord Industries
Subject: RE: RE: Wayne Enterprises Partnership Inquiry
Miss,
Thursday afternoon is acceptable. My assistant will forward you the conference details.
For clarity’s sake, my concern is not industry progression. It is the speed at which your firm has managed to replicate technology that required Wayne Enterprises years to refine.
I admit I’m impressed.
I’m also very curious.
Until Thursday, Bruce Wayne
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Wayne Enterprises Partnership Inquiry
Mr. Wayne,
Curiosity is a dangerous trait for a man in your position. It often leads to uncomfortable discoveries.
Still, I’m flattered you’ve been paying such close attention to our progress. I would hate to think Gotham’s most influential company only noticed us once we became legitimate competition.
Looking forward to satisfying your curiosity.
Warm regards
Subject: Follow-Up – Post Meeting Notes
Good Afternoon,
Thank you for your time earlier today.
Your presentation was… thorough. I rarely encounter executives who remain composed while disagreeing with me in front of an entire boardroom. You handled yourself exceptionally well.
You also left your portfolio behind in Conference Room B. I have instructed security to hold it at reception should you wish to retrieve it.
Unless, of course, you intentionally left it as a negotiation tactic. I would not put that past you.
Bruce Wayne
Subject: RE: Follow-Up – Post Meeting Notes
Mr. Wayne,
I appreciate you safeguarding my portfolio. I assure you, if I were attempting psychological warfare, it would be significantly less subtle.
Though, for transparency’s sake, I did notice you watching me more than you were watching the slides.
I will stop by tomorrow morning to retrieve it.
Try not to dismantle my business model overnight.
Thank you
Subject: RE: RE: Follow-Up – Post Meeting Notes
I make no promises regarding your business model.
As for the meeting, I watch people who interest me. You should consider it a compliment, though I suspect you already have.
If you are coming by tomorrow, allow me to extend an invitation to lunch. Strictly professional, of course. I would like to continue discussing how our companies might avoid stepping on each other’s toes.
And perhaps how you manage to make opposition sound so compelling.
Bruce
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Follow-Up – Post Meeting Notes
Bruce,
If this lunch is strictly professional, you should probably stop signing your emails with just your first name. Still, I accept.
But for fairness, I’ll warn you now, I don’t lose negotiations easily, and I certainly don’t get charmed out of them.
Tomorrow at noon works.
And Bruce?
You watch people who interest you. I compete with people who intrigue me.
See you then
Subject: Scheduling Lunch – Wayne Enterprises & Kord Industries Collaboration
Miss,
Per Mr. Wayne’s request, I am coordinating tomorrow’s lunch meeting. Please find attached reservation details.
Location: Bristol & Crown, Private Dining Room Time: 12:00 PM
Mr. Wayne has also asked that Mr. Fox join for technical consultation.
Please confirm your attendance.
Regards, Alfred Pennyworth Executive Assistant to Mr. Wayne
Subject: RE: Scheduling Lunch – Wayne Enterprises & Kord Industries Collaboration CC: Bruce Wayne, Lucius Fox
Mr. Pennyworth,
Attendance confirmed. Please extend my thanks to Mr. Wayne for the invitation.
And thank you for including Mr. Fox. It will be refreshing to speak with someone who focuses on engineering solutions instead of intimidation tactics disguised as philanthropy.
Warm regards
Subject: RE: RE: Scheduling Lunch – Wayne Enterprises & Kord Industries Collaboration CC: Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox
For the record, I do not employ intimidation tactics.
I simply prefer to be thorough.
Looking forward to lunch.
Bruce Wayne
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Scheduling Lunch – Wayne Enterprises & Kord Industries Collaboration CC: Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox
Mr. Wayne,
Of course. Thoroughness. My mistake.
I assume that same thoroughness explains the twelve-page comparative analysis your team sent overnight outlining theoretical weaknesses in our solar grid model.
Impressive work.
Also unnecessary.
Subject: Solar Grid Comparative Analysis CC: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Ma'am,
For what it’s worth, your model holds up better than most competitors we review.
And between us — you were correct to challenge Bruce during the energy storage projection discussion. We had not considered one of your scalability variables.
He won’t say it directly, but he respects competence. He also rarely invites competitors to private lunches.
Just an observation.
Lucius Fox Chief Technology Officer Wayne Enterprises
Subject: RE: Solar Grid Comparative Analysis CC: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Mr. Fox,
I appreciate the insight.
For transparency, Mr. Wayne is far less subtle in person than he appears in written correspondence. He stared at me for nearly the entirety of dessert as if attempting to calculate my next five business decisions.
It was either strategic analysis or deeply unsettling eye contact.
I have not decided which.
Best wishes
Subject: RE: RE: Solar Grid Comparative Analysis CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth
It was strategic analysis.
And possibly dessert appreciation.
Bruce
Subject: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth, WayneExecutiveTeam
Miss
Attached is a preliminary outline suggesting a joint infrastructure model between Wayne Enterprises and your firm. The city council has expressed interest in collaborative bids.
Before formal submission, I would value your input personally. Your approach to decentralized energy access is… innovative.
Also, your revision notes from lunch were correct. I have incorporated them.
Bruce Wayne
Subject: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth, WayneExecutiveTeam
Bruce,
I reviewed the draft.
You adjusted the distribution hierarchy to reflect my accessibility model. That is either a strategic compromise or you are beginning to trust my judgment.
Both are concerning developments.
I have attached my revisions. You will notice I allowed Wayne Enterprises primary infrastructure credit. Consider it a professional courtesy.
Or a peace offering.
Subject: RE: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Bruce Wayne, WayneExecutiveTeam
Mr. Wayne asked me to confirm that he has reviewed your revisions three times this evening and has not left his office since receiving them.
He also asked me to cancel his 8:00 PM charity gala appearance citing “urgent partnership negotiations.”
Make of that what you will.
Alfred Pennyworth
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth, WayneExecutiveTeam
Alfred,
Please inform Mr. Wayne that working through dinner is unnecessary. Negotiations can continue tomorrow.
Though I admit I am curious what aspect of the proposal requires three separate reviews.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth
It’s not the proposal.
It’s you.
You think differently than anyone I’ve worked with in years. You argue without ego, and you listen without conceding. I find that… rare.
Dinner tomorrow. Not negotiation related.
You can decline if maintaining rivalry feels safer.
Bruce
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth
You CC’d your assistant and CTO on what is very clearly not a business invitation.
Bold strategy.
Dinner is acceptable. But if this ruins our competitive leverage, I will absolutely hold it against you during the next contract review.
7:00 PM works.
And for record-keeping purposes, I do not choose safer options.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Joint Proposal Draft - Renewable Initiative CC: Lucius Fox, Bruce Wayne
Miss,
Reservation confirmed.
Also, for record-keeping purposes, Mr. Fox and I have begun an internal wager regarding how long it will take before the two of you stop pretending this is strictly professional.
Do enjoy your evening tomorrow.
Alfred Pennyworth
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Baelor Targaryen x Niece!Reader
I had this little idea and wanted to share it…maybe I'll write more about it later
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Feedback always motivates me to keep writing 🥰💖💖
My commissions are open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
Warnings: obviously incest and age difference
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Baelor never thought he would marry again after Jena's death; he thought he would spend the rest of his life a widower.
But then you made him change his plans.
You went to Baelor's chambers hours after the last family reunion, where they announced your engagement to Aerion. You begged him for help because you knew he was the only one who could save you from that horrible fate. Your father couldn't help you; he was considered crazy after walking around naked in the Red Keep. And your uncle Maekar wasn't an option either, because he was the one who arranged the engagement, hoping Aerion would straighten up once he married you. But you didn't believe your cousin would change.
Baelor tried to reassure you, but then no words seemed to help.
"You know what Aerion is, you know what he's capable of. He's a monster," you said over him, your voice trembling and your eyes glassy, but still without shedding a tear.
And at that moment, Baelor knew he couldn't leave you to your fate. He couldn't stand idly by when he could prevent Aerion from harming his sweet niece. Because he knows you're right; he's not blind to his nephew's actions. Aerion would find a way to destroy you simply because he's bored. He would steal your light, and Baelor couldn't allow his sweet niece to end up ruined and miserable.
“Uncle, please, I can’t marry him,” you pleaded again, and you seemed about to get down on your knees when he took your hands.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he assured you, and kissed your forehead.
For the first time since your engagement was announced, you felt like you could breathe easily. You felt safe. You trusted Baelor; he wouldn’t lie to you. He had always been the one you turned to when things went wrong. You trusted him more than your own father. Baelor had never let you down before, and you were sure he wouldn’t now.
“Thank you, Uncle,” you said, and you clasped his hands in yours before bringing them to your lips, leaving a soft kiss. “Thank you.”
That day, you returned to your chambers peacefully, knowing you wouldn't spend the rest of your life bound to your monstrous cousin. But you never imagined that a moon later you would end up in the Great Sept of Baelor, dressed in white and becoming your uncle's second wife.
When the moment came to kiss, you gave him a shy, brief kiss. You felt guilty, as if you had tied your uncle to you, forced him to marry you out of pity.
I think you should find another wife
Valarr Targaryen x Wife!Reader
Summary: After another miscarriage, Valarr and you speak.
Warning: Mentions of miscarriages, of course, angst but hurt/comfort
My apologies to the anons users who asked me to write about Duncan (I hope to do so at some point), but I was inspired to write about Valarr instead 🤭
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Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Valarr is worried about you. He notices you're moody and irritable, and he's noticed that since arriving in Ashford, you haven't stopped drinking wine, drinking as much as Daeron normally does. But Valarr doesn't blame you. If it were up to him, you two would have returned to King's Landing to mourn in your chambers for another child you'll never meet. But since the royal entourage was closer to Ashford, his father and your ladies thought it best for the maester there to see you, and Valarr, concerned for your health, agreed.
The maester told you what they always told you after every miscarriage: to rest and not push yourself. He also told you that many women suffer losses before they even have children. The maester was only trying to comfort you, but this wasn't your first miscarriage, and you were tired, hurting, and angry. Angry at the gods, at the world for not letting you meet any of your babies. Angry at the royal family for forcing you to come to this tournament in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” Valarr whispers, hugging you from behind as you remove the clips holding your hair. You do it carelessly, so he steps in and takes over, because he doesn’t want you to hurt yourself. Normally, your ladies would do this, but you had angrily dismissed them after they refused to bring you more wine. “Darling, I’m sorry,” he says, looking at you through the mirror, and kisses your neck.
“Why?” Your voice sounds annoyed, and before Valarr can answer, you continue. “It’s not your fault I can’t give you a son.”
“Hey, don’t say that,” the prince says, turning you around. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he declares firmly, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“But—”
“But nothing,” Valarr interrupts, but you can’t ignore your worries, the thoughts that have been consuming you for so long.
“What if I can never give you a son?” you say over his voice. “You need one. Your father will soon be king, and you will be his heir. You need a son.” The desperation in your voice is evident. You feel overwhelmed after trying so many times, after so many losses.
“We have time. We are young, my love,” Valarr tries to reassure you with his gentle voice, as he strokes your waist. He was certain that sooner or later, you two would have children.
“Valarr, I can’t keep doing this,” you confess, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill my duty, but I can’t keep losing babies,” you hesitate before continuing. “I think you should find another wife,” Your voice breaks because, of course, you don’t want to see the man you love with another woman, but you see no other solution.
Valarr’s expression changes instantly; he frowns, his gaze hardens, and his jaw clenches.
“No,” he says firmly and clearly, angry. You’ve never seen him so angry. And how could he not be? How could you even think he would accept another woman but you? Disrespect you like that?
“Listen to me, child or no child, you are my wife, I am yours, and you are mine until my last day.” His voice leaves no room for argument, and he rests his forehead against yours. “And if we have no children, then I will make my brother our heir. But I will never take another woman but you. Is that clear?”
You nod, speechless, completely taken aback. Any other man wouldn’t have hesitated to take another wife, but Valarr seemed furious at the thought. You feel lucky to have married him.
“Good,” Valarr says, satisfied, and he takes your chin in his hand to kiss you. “I love you.”
And for the first time all day, you smile. It’s not your usual bright smile, but it’s progress. “I love you.”
when a gossipy tabloid called you a princess in a very condescending way, sakusa kiyoomi, your devoted boyfriend was pissed to say the least.
you find him scowling and scoffing at his phone. you get naturally curious and sit next to him on the couch, immediately snuggling in his side and peeking at his phone. then you see it.
Volleyball star, Sakusa Kiyoomi, was caught out on a casual coffee date with his longtime girlfriend. However insiders say the lovey-dovey atmosphere shifted entirely the moment her drink hit the table. After a single sip, the so-called “low-maintenance” girlfriend reportedly pulled one grimace, sparking whispers of yet another princess moment. According to those nearby, our poor Sakusa appeared visibly tensed while she gestured toward the cup. As if expecting something to be fixed. Her classic princess behavior, some say.
“so what? you can’t have fucking preferences now!? that milk they used literally gives you a stomachache” you frown too, ignoring the weird feeling growing in your chest and keep reading.
“He looked exhausted,” another source claimed. “Like this wasn’t the first time.” Is Sakusa Kiyoomi still enchanted? Or is our prince finally growing tired of his princess?
your boyfriend let’s out a sharp bitter laugh and locks his phone, tossing it aside. “omi, don’t… give that much importance” you say, trying to convince him as much as yourself “it’s nonsense”
“it’s bullshit” he adds, running a hand through his face, clearly done. after that, you try to be more careful about your reactions to any particularities you had about anything at all. not because you cared so much what they said about you. but mostly, to give kiyoomi a peace of mind, since you know he doesn’t particularly like attention.
the wince made when the msby arena was too loud? shut down. your coffee was too bitter? you barely react. you felt like freezing? nonchalance was the answer so sakusa wouldn’t give you his coat. and you were mostly getting the hold of it. but the last straw came when the restaurant added scallions to your rice.
you despise scallions.
your eye twitches before you take a deep breath, and brace yourself to start eating your food. but when your chopsticks grab the first bunch of food, sakusa literally stops you. you try to hide the slight panic in your eyes, as if saying 'we really don't need another tabloid now' to him.
but kiyoomi? unbothered. he doesn't call the waiter, he doesn't even suggest you simply switch plates at all.
he simply picks up his own chopsticks and begins removing each piece of scallion from your rice.
one by one.
a look of pure shock schools your features, frantically looking around the restaurant to see a couple of eyes already staring at your boyfriend.
"let them" he simply says, not stopping his task "maybe this time they'll now i’m your royal subject by choice"
you swear you see a tiny smirk forming on his face, and amusement is now all over your face. and of course, the next morning the moment hits the internet. and your social media floods with comments about how kiyoomi chose a princess, someone who doesn't even have to say a word to make him make things happen. the way you want them, whenever you want them.
it's safe to say, maybe you were a spoiled princess after all.
not that sakusa cared, anyway.
oatmilk makes me sick, u guys are under spells
౨ৎ˚⊹ why would sakusa kiyoomi pick cosmic energy over you?
it was just another stupid interview SAKUSA was trying to get done with. honestly, he had been dissociating (kind of) and letting his extroverted teammates take care of answering the questions that were being drawn out of the massive fishbowl in front of them. vogue japan know how to take advantage of anyone's popularity. and right now, after coming back from the olympics, kiyoomi knew the media would be relentless. at least for a little while. was it so bad he just wanted to rest and snuggle with you on your shared bed while you ramble about your day while you caressed his curls?
"ooh this is a good one" hinata cooed as he read "if you could guarantee one aspect of your game was always perfect, but you had to trade something else in return would you accept it?"
sakusa and some other frowned.
"aspect of my game?" atsumu wondered, spinning in his stool "like have a super stamina or something like that?"
"yeah! and like i guess they are asking for something like a sacrifice" komori intervened "like... you always land your serves but i don't know, you never get to eat your favorite food ever again"
it would be a lie if kiyoomi said he didn't think the question was a great one. or at least one that had him considering his answer. hoshiumi noticed "omi-kun? you have something you'd trade?"
"well, i suppose that since that super skill you'd be getting would put you in advantage, the sacrifice has to be something... huge, right?" sakusa asked, which led his teammates considering this new input.
"oooh! like never having a girlfriend or that?" bokuto chimed in "that'd be heavy!" atsumu grinned wickedly "oooh, omi. would ya take that? like super stamina but you say bye-bye to [name]? like breaking u—"
"no. not a chance."
the finality in his words was... comical. the rest of the olympic team let out startled laughs, seeing how sakusa's mouth twisted into a pout as if the mere thought of you, his pretty girlfriend and entire world, disappearing from his life was completely unacceptable and a huge impossibility.
"he's so serious about it!" sakusa didn't understand the mockery. he scoffed, though his ears were starting to get real pink.
"why would i ever pick a stupid skill over her?"
atla brainrot thx 2 @undertheblanketwithyuu
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.
bed chem ━━━ iwaizumi hajime
pairing. iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader
summary. when an unfortunate incident kicks you out of your university and risks your reputation as one of the top figures skater in the country, you find your place in sendai. but when you discover they only have one rink, designated to their a-league hockey team, your chance at a comeback slips from your grasp. your only in is with the captain of the hockey team. the issue with that? he couldn’t care less who you are.
tags & warnings. blended smau, forced proximity, hockey player x figure skater, enemies to lovers kind of, strong language, kms/kys jokes, alcohol use, implied sex, sexual jokes and discussions, innuendos, mental health issues and discussions, ooc.
taglist. closed! (50/50)
status. ongoing
part i. short n’ sweet
additional. any images i use for the character of y/n is only intended as a reference and not to imply that is what you look like. i am going to try my best to use diverse images for these references, however it may not always be possible. that being said, i do not own any reference images other than the general social media images.
pinterest board || playlist
profiles i || profiles ii
♡ = contains written portion
CONTENTS!
01. who the hell is iwaizumi
02. rip pedro ♡
03. she’s an attention whore
04. rise and grind
05. new coach?
06. don’t blame me
07. lifts ♡
08. bruised ego
09. to compete or not compete ♡
10. how to earn someone’s trust
11. a REAL invite
12. guessing game ♡
13. first impressions ♡
14. perverted spidey-sense
15. whipped?
16. halloween?
17. time flies
18. fire ♡
19. trust ♡
20. what happened last night?
21. problems
22. good night, tokyo!
23. shots fired
24. freak accident ♡
25. manifestation queen
26. get ready…
27. day one
28. i trust you
29. day two ♡
30. day three
31. 5 YEARS LATER ♡
…more coming soon!
✩BF!Aemond Targaryen Texts ✩
✩Aemond Targaryen x Reader ✩ College/Grad School AU ✩
Back with the text posts. Aemond has a weird hold on my brain that has not occurred previously. Idfk what is happening but here we are. Going to start editing the daring soon !!!
✩HOTD Masterlist ✩
Ending this the same way I ended the Aegon ones 💪
