summary: my personal miscellaneous hc's for the bat boys and their physical attributes (listed in height order) <3
note: possible cw's for body dysmorphia in jason's btw. A/N at the end <3
jason:
the tallest and bulkiest of the bunch. I see him as just a bit taller than 6'4, but not quite 6'5. he's probably 6'5 when he's wearing his big patrol boots though.
his height and muscle mass are all results of the lazarus pit. if he hadn't died and been thrown into the pit, he likely wouldn't have gotten any taller than 5'9. childhood malnutrition will do that to you.
he was ridiculously shredded when he first came out of the pit and was training with the league, mostly because he didn't have the diet or nutrition to keep up with his new mass. he looked shrink wrapped. his abs were always incredibly defined because of dehydration. once he starts taking better care of himself and starts actually eating enough calories to keep up with his size, he gets a nice layer of healthy fat over his torso. someone play big boy by SZA.
it took him a long time to learn how to feel comfortable in his new body after the pit, and but the body dysmorphia still creeps in every now and then. there are times when he still feels like a gangly, awkward 15 year old boy living in a grown bodybuilder's body. he ends up standing with a slouch most of the time until he gets more comfortable with his new stature. I will say that the first time jason realized he could look bruce directly in the eye without craning his neck like he needed to when he was younger, it gave him a panic attack so badly he wanted crawl out of his skin. he had a similar reaction when he realized how small his old robin suit used to be.
his hair was much curlier as a kid, but now as an adult it's more wavy. however, his hair does get significantly curlier when it's wet/humid/sweaty/etc. every time he takes his helmet off after patrol he needs to shake his hair out like a wet dog or else the helmet hair is out of control.
biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks. even if a shirt fits his torso with room to spare, the sleeves will still be tight around his biceps. for that reason, most of his workout shirts are either muscle tanks or just old shirts that he cut the sleeves off of.
his hands get very sweaty and clammy when he's nervous. he hates it because he thinks of it as one of his most obvious tells.
very prominent arm and hand veins. I don't see him as the type to wear a lot of jewelry, but he would look incredible with a few chunky signet rings.
I can see him with a maybe a couple cartilage piercings in his ears that he either did himself, lindsay lohan parent trap style, or he got them done in some sketchy 24 hour gotham piercing and tattoo shop.
speaking of tattoos, I don't think he'd realistically have any because any visible tattoos would make him too identifiable, but the idea of a tatted jason makes me bark like a rabid dog. jason with sleeves and hand tattoos... jason with back tattoos... jason with neck tattoos. I gotta stop myself here before I start foaming at the mouth.
bruce:
the second tallest and second bulkiest. just a hair shorter than jason at 6'3, but appears closer to 6'5 in the suit because of the reinforcements in the cowl and in his boots.
he has incredible posture. alfred wouldn't accept anything less from his young charge, but it was really cemented into him by the Tibetan monks. his posture makes him seem even taller than he actually is.
I imagine the wayne men as all being tall, but bruce had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 14-19. by the time he started training with the league, he'd stopped growing in height, but continued to gain significant muscle mass throughout his training.
bruce's muscle is more dense and compact, where jason's is more visibly bulky. bruce has the kind of muscle that can be easily hidden if he's wearing a heavy coat or a suit jacket, but as soon as he sheds the extra layers of clothing, you can tell he's jacked.
Shoulders For Days. shoulders and broad chests are the defining feature of the wayne men. all of his suit jackets and coats have to be custom tailored to fit his shoulders without ripping through the seams. his traps and deltoids are crazy. a pull-up bar hates to see bruce wayne coming.
his hair doesn't have much wave to it, but a few loose strands will always fall forward into his face no matter how much gel or pomade he puts in it.
his knuckles are almost always bruised or cracked. when paparazzi catch photos of it, bruce tells them that he's picked up boxing as a hobby. in reality he's just out punching goons straight into the ICU every night. alfred has to nag him about putting some fancy hand cream on every night to keep his knuckles from splitting.
his hair started going grey at the temples in his late twenties. dick and jason used to make fun of him for it, so every 6 weeks or so he would dye it to match the rest of his hair. he gave up on that once he got into his mid thirties, though. then the public happily embraced bruce wayne's new silver fox status.
there are a lot of gossip articles or those “plastic surgeon reacts” type of videos discussing whether or not he’s had plastic surgery done. botox, fillers, face lifts, rhinoplasty, etc. photos comparing and analyzing his face from when he was 20 to his face at 40. what the public is sure was at least a $50,000 nose job and face lift is actually just several broken noses, a few skin grafts, and various dental procedures that have occurred during his time as the bat. the cowl has continued to be more and more reinforced over the years, but it doesn’t protect him from everything.
dick:
right in the middle in terms of height and muscle. he's 6'1 and change, but probably says he's 6'2 on his driver's license.
he's definitely leaner than bruce and jason, but his entire body is equally muscular (whereas I imagine bruce and jason having the most of their muscle around their torso/arms). his calves are just as impressive as his biceps. the control he has over his entire body is olympic gymnast-level. (look up pictures of male olympic gymnasts if you want dick grayson body references).
dick has the quintessential Pretty Boy Hair. his hair isn't nearly as curly as jason's is, but it has the perfect amount of wave and length to frame his face perfectly. he's constantly running his fingers through it to push his hair out of his face, but it always falls right back.
dick has the kind of facial features that make everyone jealous. the most beautiful lashes you've ever seen, brilliant gigawatt smile, perfectly placed dimples, naturally full lips, jawline carved from marble. his eyebrows are somehow always perfectly shaped and groomed, despite the fact that he does nothing to them.
his hands are surprisingly calloused and roughed up for a boy as pretty as he is. people shake his hand at a gala and expect to feel a hand that has never worked a day in its life, but they're met with the callouses of a blue collar worker. he had callouses on his hands at age 8 that adult men in their 40s didn't even have.
he was a very small child, but then he had a ridiculous growth spurt in his teens. he basically went from 5'7 to 5'11 in the span of a few months when he was 15. alfred was having to tailor all of his clothes every few weeks.
he tans very, very easily, but he rarely ever burns. when he was a kid he would spend hours and hours in the wayne manor pool during the summer and never once got a sunburn. trying to put sunscreen on a young dick grayson was like trying to bathe a feral cat. on the rare chance that he does burn, it always turns into the most natural flush across his nose and cheeks.
dick gives the best hugs in the world. a very enthusiastic hugger. he's always unnaturally warm (there's a reason bruce would never get dick to add pants to the robin uniform) and he always smells good. i imagine his signature cologne is some mix of citrus, woods, and sea salt that shouldn't really make sense together, but fits him so well.
he's the type of person that needs to physically exercise nerves or jitters out of his body. jumping up and down, shaking out his wrists/hands, rolling his shoulders, lunges, cracking his neck, etc. jumps and leaps and flips that he could do with his eyes closed, sometimes he still needs to hype himself up before his feet leave the ground.
damian:
damian doesn't ever end up as tall as bruce (something he is secretly very upset about), but he does end up at 6'0 on the dot.
he had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 13-16, just like bruce did, but he was still only about 5'8 by the time he was entering his senior year of high school. it got to the point that his brothers joked that he'd probably stopped growing and was destined to forever be the littlest brother. much to their intense chagrin, damian grew nearly 4 inches between 12th grade and when he started his med school undergrad.
damian has the trademark pending Wayne Men Shoulders. I'm team "damian is practically the spitting image of talia," but you get one look at damian's shoulders and know he is a wayne. I see him developing more more of a swimmer's build once he gets older; broad shoulders, muscular back, but with a narrower waist and leaner muscles.
the craziest bedhead you've ever seen in your life. his hair has very little wave to it, but it is crazy dense and crazy thick (you will never see him with a receeding hairline). that's part of the reason he's gotta keep his hair upright and spiky with gel; otherwise he looks like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
he gets freckles across his nose and cheekbones that only come out when he's been in the sun for a while, something he gets from talia. they will almost completely disappear from his face during the gotham winter, but one weekend spent on the kent farm with jon during the summer and damian comes back to the manor with a full face of freckles.
I can see damian having very expressive features when he's not trying to mask them. he has a really deep furrow in between his brows (something I imagine bruce having as well) that comes out when he's focusing really intently, or when he's brooding. speaking of brooding, damian has a very distinct pouty/grumpy face that he insists he does not have. the batbrows come out in full force, along with the eyebrow furrow, and his lips form a little pouty frown. it's amplified 10x when stands with his arms crossed. it's an expression that is somehow a mix of "grumpy little kid who was told they can't have ice cream for breakfast" and "crotchety old man sitting in a park waiting to feed birds."
with the exception of bruce's fancy watches, damian is the only one of the boys that I can actually see wearing jewelry on a regular basis. I imagine that a lot of the jewelry he wears are pieces that were once talia's, some of the few things of sentimental value he was allowed to have in the league. things like simple chain necklaces or beaded bracelets that he can hide with a long sleeve or a higher collar. maybe a few jeweled or signet rings. maybe he gets his earlobes or his helix pierced when he's older. the only piece of jewelry he has from bruce is one of thomas' old watches that bruce gives damian when he gets accepted into medical school.
very, very nice hands. the kind of hands that practically scream "i use a $100 hand cream and take care of my cuticles." talia was very strict with teaching him good grooming habits, and it definitely paid off. you'll never see damian with hang nails or chewed fingernails. once he gets into his med school residency program and is washing/sanitizing his hands 100 times a day, he experiences his first bout of chapped hands. he calls talia for advice and sure enough, a package appears at his doorstep within 24 hours with 6 different hand creams (shea butter, goats milk, glycerin, jojoba oil, etc) and multiple vials of homemade cuticle oil, along with a pair of cotton gloves to wear at night.
tim:
last, but certainly not least, tim is the smallest of all of the batboys. at 5'10, he's not short by any means, but he's the only one out of his brothers to not break 6'0.
I am sick and tired of the twinkified!tim agenda. tim was always going to be more lanky and thinner than the other bats, just genetically speaking, but he's doing the same training regimen and fighting the same goons the rest of the bats are fighting. by no means is he unfit or not muscular. in my head, tim's got the sleeper build locked down. if he's wearing baggy clothes or long sleeves, you'd think he's just a pretty typical skinny white dude, but the second he wears shorter sleeves or the bottom of his shirt rides up when he pulls a sweatshirt off, people around him are doing double takes.
tim is a really, really terrible knuckle cracker. and yes I am projecting this from myself. it's one of his little "brain break habits" that he does when he's pouring over a case and needs to reset his brain. and it doesn't just stop at his knuckles. he'll crack his spine, his neck, his elbows, his wrists. basically any joint that he's capable of cracking? sounds like a glow stick. he has been yelled at multiple times during stakeouts because they can hear him cracking his fingers over the coms.
I can see him having very, very faint freckles across his nose. they were probably more prominent when he was little, but have now faded to the point where you can really only see them if you're up close and personal. if he actually pulled himself away from a computer screen and spent more time outside in the sun, they might darken a bit.
tim very rarely smiles with his teeth. he used to when he was a kid, but then he got braces, and jack and janet didn't like the way family photos looked with timmy's mouthful of metal. even after he got his braces off, he still doesn't smile with his teeth. instead, he has two different closed mouth smiles. there's the "fancy gala press photo" smile that doesn't really reach his eyes, but was perfected by his parents before he reached double digits. then there's his actual smile, the one that his friends and family catch in candid pictures, where the force of his grin makes his eyes scrunch together and his long-hidden dimples emerge from hiding. look at this picture if u want to see what i'm talking about.
some of the worst posture you've ever witnessed in your life. no amount of ergonomic desk chairs or posture correcting braces can fix it. it's also his casual resting position. if he's sitting in a chair or on the couch, he's curled his legs up in front of him. if he's actually fallen asleep in his bed and not hunched over his desk, he's tucked himself into a ball, roly poly style. someone unshrimp him please, i'm begging you.
you may think olivia rodrigo wrote the line "i think that you're killer, with your floppy hair" about louis partridge. you'd be wrong. she actually wrote it about timothy jackson drake. my source? shhhh dude just trust me. bruce and alfred are always nagging him to get a haircut, because surely his hair is getting into his eyes? what they don't know is that his floppy hair is responsible for 70% of his rizz. (except for that fuckass bowl cut. baby timmy was in the trenches with that one).
his lips are always busted and cracked. it's partially because he chews on his lips when he's really focused or when he's stressed, and partially because of just plain ol' dehydration. it's gotten so bad that sometimes he doesn't even register how cracked and bloody his lips are until he drinks or eats something acidic or salty, and then he's Very Aware of it. get this man a glass of water and a burts bees please and thank you.
his hands and feet are Always cold. tim drake, anemia king. fuzzy socks are always a much appreciated gift for him, even if he usually ends up losing one and wearing them mismatched. if he's feeling particularly annoying he'll walk up behind his friends or his siblings and stick his freezing cold iceberg hands down the back collar of their shirt. this habit has gotten him dangerously close to impalement multiple times.
✦ content. . . scent headcanons for modern au, part one, ft. corvus, enjin, semiu, bro, tamsy, gris, follo, tomme, august, zodyl, jabber, and bundus
corvus ; comforting, expensive, rich, mysterious, just like the man himself.
he smells like staying in a cute little café, the lingering scent of fresh coffee mixing with the soft, silky blend of vanilla ice cream and hot espresso. the scent of rum adds richness that's only enhanced by warm spices like cardamom, cinnamon, and clove, but it's not too overpowering.
enjin ; balance of smoky and creamy sweetness and a hint of citrus.
he smells like he just came back from having a cigarette after attending a nice dinner, and the smoky scent isn't too much. coconut and nutmeg adds a touch of milky sweetness and warm spice, while bergamot and benzoin bring in that citrus-y orange smell and soft vanilla touch that makes him smell mouthwateringly good.
semiu ; romantic, sweet night after a long walk through a garden.
she smells so inviting, yet also out of everyone's league. the scent of sweet cherries melts into the cacao buttery richness, adding a juicy, fruitiness. the floral notes of jasmine and rose bring out a lush, honeyed sweetness together, and the cedarwood gives that extra woody depth.
bro ; sweet, a bit rugged, comforting, and clearly loved by dear.
he smells like he's been in a warm kitchen all day, thanks to how often he's picking up and giving a big hug to dear. fresh cookies blend with the smell of cinnamon and salted caramel, cozy and warm. sandalwood is smooth and creamy as well, his natural musk just making him smell manly and strong. and with how often he's working on his beloved car, he's always gonna have that lingering scent of motor oil stuck on his hands.
tamsy ; sitting next to an open window on a nice, breezy day with a cup of mint tea.
literally, he smells like simple, quiet luxury. the mint is cooling and only makes the scent of green tea feel fresh and earthy in the best ways. orange blossom adds an extra touch of citrus, blending with the high quality fabrics of the sweaters and blankets he uses. and of course, the incense he lights always sticks to him, a relaxing, tranquil smell.
gris ; refined and cool, definitely smells like a craftsman with a soft and gentle side.
he smells like an old, yet cared for workshop, honestly. the smell of leather works well with the scent of oak, sturdy, earth, and rich. toasted coconut smells nice and warm, balancing well with the eucalyptus that adds that cool, sharp scent. and the rose softens him overall, sweet and floral. just like bro, his hands and sometimes his hair get stuck with that scent of motor oil until he gets in the shower.
follo ; energetic mixing with cheerfulness, smells like what hanging with him feels like.
dorky sweetheart incarnate if it could be turned into a smell. fresh ginger paired with the cream soda give him a spicy and vanilla sweetness that you can taste. raspberry adds some juicy tartness while lime enhances the tartness with that bitter, sour scent. hibiscus adds a nice sweet, floral scent that balances out the tartness, almost like a sweet hibiscus tea.
tomme ; sweet and cute, like specially made strawberry desserts.
she literally smells like the prettiest pastry shop, the sugary scent matching her sweet, compassionate personality. she smells like vanilla and strawberry treats, creamy and warm with a fruity, syrupy accent. the marshmallow adds onto the vanilla, fluffy and comforting. freesia adds that fresh, airy fragrance that keeps it from being too warm, and the tart, sweetness of raspberry adds the perfect balance.
august ; odd yet good mix of scents from bouncing from the kitchen to his workshop.
with the amount of sweets he has, it's no wonder he manages to smell more than just fabric and glue. he always carries the scent of apple pie, baked apples, cinnamon, and pastry, he smells so yummy. the butterscotch and roasted pecans add a rich sugary smell and warm, smoky nuttiness. the scent of leather and suede still linger from how often he's in his workshop, but it still manages to smell good.
zodyl ; bold and seductive scent with an underlying feeling of danger...be careful.
he smells unbelievably good, smelling like pomegranate, all sweet and tart while the red currants that add an extra wine-like fruitiness. the amber warms his scent and that muskiness gives him a manly undertone. the grapefruit is refreshing, mixing with the faint scent of smoke, the citrus smell bitter but attractive.
jabber ; chaotic yet comforting? like the moments after a thunderstorm.
imagine being in front of a fire place while the window is open and its storming out. that's jabber, the smoky, warm smell of moroccan incense (woody, floral, and rich.) the toasted marshmallow-y scent smells like heaven, tonka bean adding to the sweet, vanilla scent with a touch of toasted almond. the vetiver adds an earthy scent that's just so him, mixing with the scent of ozone that brings in that sharp electric scent.
bundus ; sophisticated, but inviting, like an expensive lounge only VIPs can access.
smells like what he looks like, old yet refined. the smell of the dried tobacco leaves and cedar from his custom made cubans always lingers wherever he goes, the smoked rum blending with it perfectly. suede and light amber wraps the scent together, velvet, smooth, and warm. then the scent of fresh cake adds a bit of sweetness, the sugary smell of frosting softening his heavier scent.
really thinking about sleezy harvey who harasses you at your diner job…you agree to play nice so he won’t trap you in his penthouse and he’s just loving the cat and mouse going on between you two. the back and forth, the bartering for your freedom; it’s foreplay to him. he regularly pulls you into the back of his town car in the back alley of the diner after a long shift for a steamy makeout session while his goons stand guard. you’re kissed breathless and stumble out positively bitten from your lips down to your ankles. harvey’s a gentleman, so he always gives a ride home after.
but he starts to get bold, too bold. his hand worms its way into your pants, his knee pins you in place between your legs, he’s ripping the buttons off your shirt. there’s no pretense to it anymore, he’s a man starved. you’re propped on the hood of his car while he eats you out, already having made his goons turn around so they wouldn’t get a good look at you like this. you’re putty in his hands after he unwillingly gives you the hardest orgasm of your life and allow yourself to be tucked in the crook of his neck on the drive back. you’re too ashamed to even face his men, but really it’s better if you don’t acknowledge them at all. they blow past your apartment and you peak up from under harvey’s coat, asking him where he’s taking you. it’s time the game is over, isn’t it?
jason’s highest form of trust and intimacy is sleeping in the same bed as him…feeling safe enough to be unconscious around you is better than sex to him
thinking ab being in an on and off relationship with jason todd . . . . . smut . he cums quick cs he’s a loser in love .
the unspoken boundaries are pretty clear, he’s not yours and you’re not technically his but every time you two cross paths it always begins again the same way with a nasty makeout next to his bike while the darkness of east river rushes on and his hands are palming your ass, then a shabby little date and hours spent catching up on nothing at all. it always ends the same way, with plans that he doesn’t show for, excuses that don’t quite add up and arguing over the phone like this is highschool.
but the thing about jason is he just doesn’t quit. he can’t quit you. so when he confesses to dick that he hasn’t slept with anyone in months, he literally laughs in jason’s face. because there’s no way?
that admission comes back to bite him in the ass when he finally gets you alone again. when it starts all over and it’s hot and heavy and he’s got you under him, cock pushing into your slick gummy walls with twitching pulses. he’s begging himself not to cum because he swears to god his cock has never been this fucking swollen or sensitive before, and if he even were to actually admit it, he just couldn’t fathom the idea of fucking anyone else.
“missed you... fuck—” he stutters out, sweat dripping off his chest and onto yours where he has you folded beneath him, scarred arms flexing with the effort of rearing his hips into yours. “missed this pussy, doll.”
“yeah, i don’t doubt that.” you let out a guttural moan over his confession. all attitude dies in your throat when his head falls to your stomach, a hot pink tongue slipping out to lick the sweat from your body, and up, up, up, it goes, latching onto one of your aching nipples.
“i swear, you’re gonna make me cum already...” he moans like he’s been shot. “what... what the fuck are you doin’ to me?”
your thighs shake and you tense up tight, toes curling and legs locking as he yanks you open onto him, burying himself impossibly deeper in missionary. “fuck, fuck, fuck— jay!” you squeal, hurdling towards ecstasy. “fuck me harder.”
not even five minutes in and he has you stupid. the benefits of getting back together, sorta.
jason grins wickedly. “uh huh, you want that? wanna make a fuckin’ mess, doll?” you can’t even speak. “show me how you look when your man’s fucking you... yeah?” your abdomen is coiled tight and the sound of your pussy squelching open and molding to him is obscene.
his name leaves your mouth in a scream and his weight presses you down immediately. “so good, baby, keep squeezing it like that... fuuuuck!”
you expect him to maybe change positions again, to be mean and pull out, maybe toy with your swollen pussy untile you’re begging like he always does, but no, in the middle of a drawn out moan singing from your lips you feel a splash of heat.
then, jason heaves like a wounded animal, hugging your body impossibly tight to his.
neither of you speak for several seconds.
“did you just fucking cum—” “not a word about it.” comes simultaneously.
“oh my god,” you howl with laughter. “a minute man.”
“hey!” he eases off you a little bit to argue. “that was several minutes. several good minutes—”
he huffs when you kiss his jaw, his fingers finding your hair in soft strokes. “weren’t joking when you said you missed me, then?”
“laugh it up, peanut gallery.” jason grumbles. but he smiles, you see it. he feels throughly humiliated, of course, but he can’t really find it in him to care. “i missed you, yeah, happy now? might as well put a lock and key on it, only does this shit for you anyway.”
you graciously bite back any sliver of tease you have left in you. well, barely. “it’s mine?” you whisper.
his eyes nearly glaze over when he nods, and you can feel the twitch in his muscles, hear the way his voice goes a little higher. “always been. always yours.” your arms wrap around him and he kisses you slow and sweet, then sloppy, but unhurried, just needy. “m’ yours.”
“do you wanna...” you grin, with a playful shrug and he scoffs right in your face.
“yeah, way to ruin the moment, sexcrates,” he lifts himself off you and you giggle helplessly. in your fit of amusement, he takes you by the ankles and hauls you down the bed, prying your legs open and wasting no time.
“jay! what are you...” but he only looks up and you and clicks his tongue.
“what? i’ve gotta even the score,” he says, licking a fat stripe over the length of your used pussy. immediately, you shudder and he laughs, the fucker laughs. “cause we both know none of those scrubs you’ve been with take care of her like me.”
you weep as he eats you, if you can even call it that because hes suckling at your clit, parting your folds with his fingers and fucking his tongue into your hole. “say it,” he coos.
“jay, please!” you writhe against his mouth and he groans, easing a finger in and then a second, stretching you open and pushing you higher, so high you’re scared of how fast you’re about to cum. he’s the devil, you think.
“c’mon, say it,” his lips are swollen pink and starving. “you can do it, tell me.”
your back arches harshly as you cry, “it’s yours— fuck, it’s yours, only yours!”
jason todd, the guy you’re not with but are so with, lets out a shrill moan, his hips bucking into the mattress where his cock weeps pre at the slit. when you sieze and cum for him, all the breath in your body leaving you, he doesn’t even let you rest.
instead, he kisses your sensitive bud while you shiver from the overuse, the heel of his palm grinding down and smearing your slick.
DESK PET . cockwarming your gf barbara (kinda) pairing ! barbara gordon x fem!reader cw ! porn without plot, strap usage, dom!babs, slight degradation, orgasm denial, babs is a total meanie (hot) nicknames used : baby, honey, stupid girl, slut, pet, brat, sweet girl . 📓 sorry if u can tell this is so self indulgent, she’s lit my gf 🤷🏾♀️
It’s too hot today. The Clock Tower was a sauna.
The jacket you wore was thrown lazily over one of the many desks swarmed with piles of folders, the straps of your top nearly sticking to your skin and the fabric at the underside of your breasts already slightly damp and darkening.
“Barbie…” you whined, the sound of another shlick drop of your pussy lips stretched around the gummy silicone of your girlfriend’s cock punctuating your need. “F-fuuuck—!” You eased up again, all the way to the tip, then arched your back to drop down again, harder.
Your little skirt was barely there, bunched up around your waist, and your panties long since shoved to the side. Every drop of your hips made your girlfriend’s cock press against that perfect spot inside you, drawing a shaky breath from your lips.
“Come on, you can take it,” Barbara hummed into your ear, tilting her hips upwards as more of your creamy slick dripped down the shaft to soak the seat of her pants. “So good, baby…” she whispered, a free hand coming up to palm one of your aching tits under your top, rolling and pinching the tight bud between her fingertips. “Letting me stretch you out like this.”
“So big,” you cried, pressing a palm down against one of her thighs for leverage as you rolled your hips back and forth then back again in slow grinds. “Filling me up so good… wanna cum—”
Barbara hissed out a moan between her teeth, swatting your hand away and clutching you tighter against her with one muscled arm, the other pinching your clit between a forefinger and thumb before circling it gently, then furiously then gently again, coaxing you to the edge.
“Already? You’re so spoiled—” she grunted, fucking up into the mess between your legs, your ass flush against her pelvis and the pressure on her clit making the back of her neck burn with heat. “Can’t even sit still for two seconds. Climbing on my lap like a needy brat when you know I’m busy. Just needed me, huh? Needed me to fuck you full, baby… so needy for me… it’s okay…” she cooed into your hair.
Your mouth fell open in an uh! uh! uh! over and over again as she ground against that gummy spot inside you, your thighs shaking against hers.
“My stupid girl,” she rasped, hot against your ear. “You can do it— fuck— cum for me like this, honey.” she leaned back, taking you with her as your back pressed sticky against her heaving chest and your hips ground down to chase the aching pleasure she gave you. “Love when your pretty girl fucks you like this, baby?”
“Barbie— yes—” your hips jerked at the feel of her thrusts, your body jolting upward and tits bouncing as she held you down and fucked up into you like a toy. “Ahh— fuck, yes—like that, just like that—” you babbled breathlessly.
The sickening crackle sound of comm link coming in made you clench hard. It was Nightwing shouting into Barbara’s ear — something about a detonator, a pipe bomb or whatever, you weren’t even hearing correctly. You were so close, so close, if only your Barbie could keep fucking you just like this—
“Stay,” her arm banded around your front as she sat up straight, your pussy flush against the hilt and you whimpered at the loss of your impending orgasm as another voice crackled through her earpiece.
“Yeah, I’m still here. Go ahead.” She answered smoothly, typing one-handed while her other hand slipped between your legs to abuse your swollen clit with absentminded circles.
You turned your head, lips brushing her jaw. “Baby, please… I’ll be good, I swear. Just fuck me, please—”
“Nightwing, I’ve got eyes on the east entrance. You’ve got two hostiles, one that looks trigger happy. But handle it quietly...”
You whined, long and needy.
“You’re never good,” Barbara grunted into your ear. “You’re a spoiled brat that came here to distract me and now you’re whining because you’re too full and too wet to handle getting fucked like you asked.” The hand on your hip suddenly pulled you down harder, forcing the strap even deeper.
Your moan was barely muffled against her neck as the obscene sound of your pussy leaking on her cock made your face burn.
“You’re so fucking messy…” she laughed under her breath, right up against your ear. “You want everybody to know you’re a desk pet? Sitting on my cock, creaming all over my lap, and still whining for more?”
“Barbie…” you whined softly, trying to rock down again, but her hand tightened on your hip, stilling you instantly.
You were so soaked. Every slow clench around her strap made more slick drip down the base, coating her lap. “I said stay,” she murmured against your ear, voice low enough that the comms wouldn’t pick it up. “Sit there and wait like a polite slut.”
You whined like it hurt, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your pussy clenched and clenched but gained no relief. She rolled forward, pulling her chair closer to the desk and spreading your thighs wider over hers, as she stayed buried deep inside you.
You bit your lip, face burning. Three minutes passed, then five. You watched the gigantic hands of the clock beyond the glass tick by as Barbara typed one-handed, the other still barely stroking over your weeping clit.
Before the tenth minute, you caved. “I can’t help it… you’re so deep. Please, I need you to move—”
“Not yet.” Her tone was sweet but firm, the one that always made your stomach flip and she gave your hip a warning squeeze. “Sit on it a little longer, baby. Just keep me warm in this pretty pussy,” she said. When your bottom lip trembled, she turned her head and kissed you softly, the heel of her palm pressing down deliciously against your clit as you sobbed into her mouth.
“There’s my sweet girl,” Barbara whispered. “Warming my cock so good while I work… say it to me.”
You whimpered, clenching around her again. Your thighs trembled from holding the position for so long, as your pussy fluttered, begging for relief. “I’m… your sweet girl. Warming your cock so good, Babs.”
She smiled proudly at you and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then turned back to her monitors like you weren’t impaled on her cock and dripping everywhere. Still, her voice never wavered on the comms. “Copy that. Keep me updated.”
You sat there trembling, waiting. The click-clack of her keyboard wasn’t anywhere near as loud as the heartbeat between your legs.
Eventually, you rocked your hips again, grinding down just enough to get friction on your clit and a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it. “I wanna cum, please… I’ve been good—”
“What did I say? Did you go dumb already ‘cause I’m stuffing you full?” Her hand reached up to grip your jaw, turning your face so you had to look at her eyes, all dark, amused, and full of heat.
You buried your face in her neck, breathing hard. “You’re so mean, Barbie…”
“Keep calling me that and I might just let you have it,” she warned, “but only after I finish this. So be patient.” Her free hand stroked your back gently while the other kept typing.
“Now quit squirming. The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can bend you over this desk and fuck you like you need it.”
꙼ᩚ . . . RASPBERRY PI . building a cyberdeck with bf tim !
pairings . tim drake x fem!reader ⋮ wc . 4.2k ⋮ fluff ⋮ warnings . none, pure fluff with a hint of suggestive language. nicknames used : babe, baby and sweetheart. notes . miscellaneous tech jargon + very self indulgent and sorta dialogue heavy, maybe ooc tim who knows... first tim fic kinda nervy + also new fic layout ! ⋮ art creds : @/quezartt ⋮
The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Tim’s penthouse apartment like it was trying to break in.
Gotham’s usual gloom had turned into a full downpour by the time the sun usually broke through the clouds, morphing the morning skyline into a blur of bruised pinks and gunmetal greys.
While inside, the world felt miles away. The only lights came from the soft glow of a few dim lamps, a monitor lazily blinking through the open door of an adjacent room, and the TV playing classics your boyfriend ever-so-graciously — albeit illegally — siphoned straight from Toonami Aftermath like premium cable television.
“Moon Princess Halation!”
The exclamation echoed from the wide flat screen and you snorted under your breath, knees tucked under you on the massive sectional as you hunched over the coffee table decorated with scattered tools. Tiny screwdrivers, flush cutters, tiny spools of wire, custom keycaps for an even tinier keyboard and a LED strip that cost more than you wanted to know.
“When’s Yu-Gi-Oh starting?”
A warm, bare chest pressed against your back while two arms slid around your waist. Tim — the boyfriend in question — groaned through a yawn as his chin dropped heavy onto your shoulder, his messy dark hair tickling your cheek. He smelled like sleep and the faint sharpness of menthol from whatever bruise cream he’d been swearing by lately.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” you murmured, not looking away from the ribbon cable you were carefully threading into the hollowed-out bottom half of an old Nintendo DS where the second LCD screen should’ve been, but was now waiting to be filled with the custom components you’d been collecting for weeks.
“Mmm. I was,” he rasped, voice still gravelly. One of his hands splayed across your stomach under the hem of your shirt, thumb stroking slow, absent circles. “Then I woke up and my favorite person wasn’t in bed. A sort of cruel and unusual punishment.”
You leaned back into him with a scoff, letting his body heat soak through your clothes, careful not to press back too hard because you remembered the look of the bruise along his ribs — that you assumed was still an ugly bloom of purple and yellow from the last time you looked at it while he slept.
“Hi, baby,” you said softly.
“Morning to you too, sweetheart.” Tim kissed the side of your neck, lazy and lingering, then peered over your shoulder at the half-assembled mess that was his cyberdeck project — or, formerly his cyberdeck project but now yours, since he was supposed to be horizontal and useless for at least two more days.
He pulled away from you only to come around the front. “You’re going too tight on that ribbon cable. The hinge is gonna pinch when we close it.”
“We?” You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “Backseat building already and you’ve been awake for thirty seconds.”
Tim’s hair was longer now, falling into his eyes in wild strands that made him look softer — distracting enough to overshadow a dark bruise fading at the curve of his jaw, if the fact that he was shirtless hadn’t made you dizzy enough to almost not scold him.
“I’m not backseat building,” he protested, all feigned innocence, even as he reached past you to gently adjust the tension on the cable with two careful fingers. “I’m… offering emotional support. From a very horizontal-adjacent position.”
You flattened the cable in place just as his other hand reached over to try and steal the flush cutters you were working with.
“Down, boy.” You smacked his wrist and he whined, immediately dropping the tool into your awaiting palm. “This is my work station, by the way — if you haven’t realized — and I don’t want your grimey hands all over it.”
“Thought you liked my grimey hands.” He leaned over to kiss the side of your face, then your cheek, and another one right below your ear. The slight wince from the pull of his sore ribs was obvious, accompanied by the nasty bruise still on display exactly where you left it, like a painful kiss at the curve of his ribcage.
“You don’t love me anymore? Is that it?” Tim complained.
You did. Even with the bruises. Especially with the bruises, because they were proof he was home and safe enough to be annoying.
“Do not even think of sitting down, you need to get back to bed.”
On the TV, Sailor Moon struck another dramatic pose and the music swelled to a crescendo as Tim pretended he didn’t hear you at all.
“I came to watch Yu-Gi-Oh actually,” he hummed matter-of-factly while he sprawled out on the massive sectional, stretching his legs out and draping himself against your side. “Not to see you. Or the Sailor.”
You laughed, tangling one of your legs with his. “What is your deal with Sailor Moon?”
Tim’s hand lazily found your thigh, squeezing gently as he shifted closer, peeking over your shoulder. “I don’t have a deal,” he mumbled. “I just think it’s unrealistic that the bad guys wait for her to transform before the actual fight happens.”
“Right… Because Yu-Gi-Oh is so realistic.”
“Well. If you’re asking—” He stretched one long arm toward the coffee table without untangling his legs from yours, grunting at the flex of his aching muscles. “An argument can be made about its applications to any kind of strategy based initia—
“Again, I don’t recall this being a collaborative effort.” You swatted his arm away. “Shoo.”
Tim made a pathetic little sound and snaked his arms around you again, only tighter, before his hands eventually settled on your hips and pulled you closer, just until your back was flush against his chest.
“You should be recovering,” you continued. “R and R remember? Rest and relaxation—” You shifted so you could face him better, easing yourself up onto his lap gently at first, waiting for him to give you the full go ahead.
“I am recovering,” he mumbled, lips brushing your jaw. He didn’t wait another second before pulling you down onto him, stretching his legs out on either side of you with a sigh. “This is like homeopathic medicine. Skin-to-skin contact, all that stuff. Very healing.”
You shook your head, a hand reaching behind you blindly to push the hair back from his face, your fingertips brushing the faint scar near his hairline before sliding between the strands to scratch lightly at his scalp.
“You are the worst patient on the planet.”
“And you…” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of your neck. “Are sooo pretty…” Then another. “When you’re concentrating.” And another, working his way up until he could nuzzle right behind your ear. “It’s distracting me from how much everything hurts.”
You melted despite yourself, tilting your head to give him better access. “Manipulation tactics. I see you, Drake.”
“Are they working?” He whispered. Your stomach did a flip.
“Unfortunately.”
You could feel him grinning against your skin. “Still got it.”
One of his hands wandered down to your thigh again, just to rest there, while the other slipped down to where you held the flesh cutters in your palm against a cable. This time, you let him intervene — his longer fingers sliding between yours to grip the tool a little tighter.
“Don’t backseat me,” you warned, as he guided your hand in the opposite direction you would’ve gone. “I’m serious.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Scout’s honor.”
And he kept to his promise for a little less than two minutes.
Tim’s lips puckered against the skin where your neck and shoulder met, trailing up the line of your neck until he reached the curve of your jaw, burying his face there with the tiniest kisses.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “And this is just a suggestion,” he continued, voice low. “Let’s... not use PiSugar for power supply…”
“Oh my God, you promised.” You groaned, but there was no real heat in it. His lips were too warm against your skin, his hair tickling you softly as he nuzzled closer and closer.
“I’m not helping,” he murmured with faux innocence, voice still raspy from sleep and the remnants of last night’s patrol that he was rightfully benched from midway. “Just… offering constructive criticism. From a very restful position. And I think that this… this just isn’t it, babe.”
Tim paused to shake the flush cutters from your palm, instead forcing you to pick up the little, black rectangular power cell.
You slapped his wrist in protest and he blew a raspberry against your cheek — so sloppy and wet it made you recoil with disgust and a squealed ‘Ew, you fucking creep—!’
He tossed the PiSugar cell out of the DS’ hollowed shell and toward the pile of unused tools with a victorious smirk.
“Muuuch better,” he said. “Why are we using PiSugar anyway? I’m kinda offended…”
You twisted in his lap just enough to shoot him a look as you rubbed the wetness from your cheek. “It’s cheap and it works. And I would prefer not throwing money at an overpriced battery solution, Tim.”
He made a scandalized little noise, arms tightening around your waist as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. “Now, with all due respect—”
Tim stopped himself when you glared at him hotly.
“Babe. Darling. Smartest girl in the whole wide world—” He continued. “You did not see me use PiSugar or some cheap ass LiPo pack when I made your first cyberdeck. I am disappointed.”
“Jeez, sorry Dad.” You snorted, leaning back into him despite yourself and he hugged you close. “Maybe I just didn’t wanna outsource a battery fit for a supercomputer… It’s not like I’m catching criminals as a hobby.”
“Dad?” Tim laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and against your skin. “Low blow. And no— it’s reasonable and it works better. Geekworm is the go-to, baby. I’m ordering one later.”
“No,” you objected immediately, easing up and reaching for the discarded PiSugar just to make a point. “That is exactly what we’re not gonna do. It’s like fifty bucks, Tim.”
“More like eighty with shipping,” he corrected, completely unbothered, as he hooked his chin over your shoulder again, pulling you back into him. “But I’ll have it here by tomorrow if I—”
“We are not dropping eighty dollars for a battery, you capitalist freak. The PiSugar is fine.” You elbowed him lightly as you tried to squirm free from his grip. “And seriously, go away— I have to finish this—”
He made an exasperated sound, somewhere between a whine of protest and a sigh, then pressed another warm kiss just below your ear. “But I’m bored. And you’re so... so hot when you’re all focused…” Another kiss to the back of your neck, then another, and back up again to press one more against your cheek. “Let me help.”
“Leslie said intensive bed rest. And no activities that require more than ten minutes worth of focus,” you reminded him, trying — and failing — to focus as you reached down to thread another ribbon cable.
“Oh yeah?” Tim’s palms slipped under the hem of your shirt and idled over your stomach, squeezing gently, while his fingers traced silken patterns that made it very hard to keep your hands steady. “Nothing at all?” Your entire body felt hot as he whispered in your ear.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, perv. It’s not happening,” you laughed. “Wouldn’t want you to get a Charlie Horse and die.”
“Okay, mood obliterated.” He deflated. “Even doctors overreact sometimes. I am fine.”
“You came home looking like you lost a fight with a tank. Again.” You looked at him over your shoulder. “And you told Lonnie I was beating you at home, when you know damn well—”
“Firstly, that was a joke made in good faith that is much closer to the truth than you like to admit—”
“—I will ignore that because I refuse to give into the stereotype of punching you in the mouth.”
Tim continued, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Second, it was the line that failed me,” he corrected, lips brushing your jaw. “And I won—”
“You got punched into another building. Then fell from the highest floor of said building while trying to zipline your way back down.”
“Semantics.” Tim shrugged. “Your boy’s always a winner, baby.” Another kiss, this one so much sweeter, your face felt hot. “C’mon…. Let me help. Just the cable management. I’m excellent at cable management. World-class, even.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him again.
His eyes were soft and heavy-lidded, his tousled hair falling into them, and that faint bruise along his jaw making him look unfairly pathetic, in an endearing way.
“Terrible at staying put, is what you are.”
“Please? I’ll be good.” Tim blinked slowly. “Scout’s honor? Again?”
“You were never a scout,” you laughed, your prior defenses now rendered null and void. “Like, ever.”
“Have pity on me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m hurting all over, you know?”
You frowned. “I’m being manipulated again, I think.”
Then another kiss, slower, coaxing. “Make me all better?” He pouted. “Please, sweetheart?”
“Tim—”
His lips met yours softly, and you instinctively turned to him for more, the kiss lazy and slow but full of heat. You could feel him smile against your mouth before he pulled away, forcing that same pout to keep his grin at bay.
Then you sighed dramatically and handed him the flush cutters. “Okay, fine, whatever. Cable management only. But if you even think about ordering that Geekworm before we finish this section, you’re sleeping alone.”
He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me, rich boy.”
“I’d like to.” Tim’s grin was immediate and devastating and you audibly boo’d him as he shifted you both slightly so you were still mostly in his lap but could both reach the coffee table easier. His longer hair kept falling forward as he leaned in, and you couldn’t resist reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.
For the next hour you worked like that—tangled together, half-lazy, trading slow kisses between crimping cables and snapping accessories shut.
His arms framed you on either side, one hand steadying the DS shell while the other passed you tools or held wires in place and every time he leaned forward, his bare chest pressed warm against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder so you were cheek-to-cheek, breathing the same air.
Whenever he reached too far and the ache in his ribs made him wince, you’d scold him gently and kiss the fading bruise on his jaw like it would help heal the rest of him. He’d just smile that small, deafeningly self-satisfied smile and pull you back in.
At one point Tim paused, peering at the exposed internals. “Hey, want an LED status light right here?” He tapped a spot near the hinge with one long finger. “Just a little power indicator. Would look sick when it’s closed.”
You hesitated, then shook your head. “Nah, it’s fine without.”
He gave you a long, knowing look, the corner of his mouth slightly curving upwards. “Uh-huh.”
Two minutes later he was carefully soldering a tiny LED in place anyway, one arm still looped around your waist to keep you steady against him while his other hand worked with that effortless precision you fell for.
“Tim...”
“Relax. I’ve got a steady hand.” He whispered, teasing. “And I know you want the blinky light, even if you’re scared of the iron.”
“I am not scared of soldering,” you lied, cheeks warming as you watched the focused pinch of his brows. The faint smell of solder mixed with the earthy petrichor drifting through one of the cracked windows, and the faintest ray of morning sunshine struggled against the rainclouds.
“Mhm. But you want the blinky light,” he murmured, blowing gently on the fresh solder joint. “I’ve got you mapped.”
“You’re the worst,” you whispered, but you were smiling as you turned your head to press a kiss to his temple. “Fucking show-off.”
“Your show-off,” Tim corrected happily, a dopey grin on his face. “And you’ll thank me when it looks sick as hell at night.”
The cyberdeck build came together slowly but surely after that with your vision and his refinements until it eventually started to look less of a disassembled mess and more like something usable.
The rain kept falling in steady sheets outside as the final Sailor Moon episode on the television faded into the opening chords of Yu-Gi-Oh.
Tim perked up slightly at the familiar theme, unable to hide the excited childlike quirk in his brows, but his movements were growing slower and heavier as the work became more about holding you than building— the little kisses pressed to your shoulder, the pads of his fingertips thrumming against the warmth of your stomach, the feel of his unclothed heartbeat against your spine took up more and more of your attention.
Between the distant sound of Yu-Gi-Oh and the occasional soft click of tools, Tim’s breathing also changed behind you, his body hunching forward against your back in a drowsy fold.
“You falling asleep on me already?” you whispered, amused.
“Halfway there,” he admitted, voice slurred and muffled against the nape of your neck. “...‘S your fault,” you felt him smile a little, nuzzling deeper into your skin, or trying to. “You’re warm and you smell like my shampoo… and you’re doing tech things…. You’re so beautiful.”
You sat the tiny keyboard down carefully and twisted in his lap to face him properly, straddling his thighs. His eyes were half-lidded, his eyelashes fluttering gently with that unguarded softness he only ever showed when he was here and all yours.
“Poor baby,” you cooed, brushing the hair back from his forehead, fingers trailing over his hairline. “Got beat up by bad guys on national television.”
“It was a local broadcast, please.” Tim deadpanned, tilting his head to catch your fingers with a lazy kiss. “And you’re supposed to be nice to me…” his teeth grazed the tips of your fingers.
“You’re spoiled, you’ll live.” You leaned in and kissed him, tasting the faint mint from his toothpaste and all those assorted flavors of him needing you. He sighed into it, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, a warm palm splayed across your skin.
“Take me down a peg,” Tim hummed lazily, pressing another lazy kiss to your mouth. “I like that.”
“Pervert.”
Still, you kissed him again as the rain kept pouring and Yu-Gi-Oh dueled in the background. When you pulled back, his eyes were brighter despite the exhaustion and he pressed his forehead against yours with a long sigh.
“Does it hurt bad?” You asked, carefully trying to shift your body over his lap to ease the weight on him. You could feel the faint twitch of muscles every time you moved, but he never complained.
“Stay,” he whispered as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest while the half-finished cyberdeck was forgotten on the coffee table next to you. “Hurts less when you’re right here.”
You hesitated, hovering just a little. “Tim… your ribs—”
“Are fine,” he murmured, already tugging you down with gentle insistence. “C’mere. I want you on top of me. Proper R and R.”
You let out a soft laugh but gave in, carefully lowering your full weight until your chest pressed against his and you were nearly melded to him. You stayed tense for a second, hyperaware of every bruise while Tim just hummed contentedly, one hand stroking slowly up and down your spine.
“See?” he whispered against your hair. “Perfect. You feel good like this.”
You relaxed bit by bit, melting into the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his bare skin as the rain drummed steadily against the windows and the low sounds of card duels came from the TV.
“Can you sleep like this?” you asked after a while, pressing a kiss between his brows as his eyelids fluttered closed. Tim murmured an ‘mhm’ and hugged you closer, his head leaned back against the cushioned sectional. “Don’t drool on me though,” you said, burying your face in the side of his neck.
“I do not drool.”
“And I’m Batman.”
Tim snorted, his nostrils flaring from amusement and you kissed his jaw.
After a quiet minute, his voice came out soft and drowsy. “We should make one like the Millennium Puzzle.”
You smiled against his collarbone, tracing patterns on his chest with your fingertip. “You seriously have a problem.”
“Hm, you’ll see my vision soon,” he said, voice low and warm. “Tell me your ideas instead. For the rest of this one, I mean. The layout, the interface, all of it. I wanna hear.”
You shifted a little lower so your chin rested on his sternum, careful not to press on the worst of the bruises.
“Okay… I was thinking the top half could have some custom acrylic designs maybe? I wanna see what I can do with that 3D printer you spent a million bucks on— I can give it a mini computer look… but I like the sort of Y2K gaming console turned high tech spyware concept in my head… if that makes sense, I don’t know—”
Tim’s hand kept stroking your back in slow, lazy circles, his breathing growing softer beneath you. “Mmm… keep going,” he mumbled, eyes already drifting shut. “What about the interface?”
You kept talking softly, describing the power cell you secretly did want just to run a bunch of gaming applications, the messaging interface you wanted to design just to sync with his cyberdeck, how you pictured the whole thing looking and operating like pure magic.
“—and that’s where the Raspberry Pi is gonna go…”
Tim’s responses got quieter, made up of little hums and half-formed words. “...Raspberry Pi.”
“…and maybe a small speaker for gaming effects, we can run an emulator for Yoshi’s Island,” you continued, grinning to yourself. “And Final Fantasy.”
You waited for his usual chuckle followed by some cheeky remark about the longstanding rivalry you two had in all things Final Fantasy concerned. But all you heard were the same slow, even breaths.
“Tim? You still with me?”
No answer. All you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his chest under yours and his arms still loosely wrapped around you like he’d fallen asleep mid-caress.
You lifted your head to get a good look at him, and his face was completely relaxed now, lips slightly parted and messy dark hair splayed across the cushiony sectional in fluffy tufts.
“Tim…” you called out to him in a whisper, but he didn’t shift. “Paging geektopia,” you giggled, nuzzling your nose against his cheek.
He twitched softly in his sleep, fingers tightening around your waist. “M’ awake…” he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, squirming tighter against you. “I’m listenin’.”
You let out a quiet, fond laugh and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sure you are,” you whispered, nuzzling closer.
“Sure I am.” He repeated, grinning with his eyes closed. “Just resting my eyes, sweetheart,” his fingers danced in shapes over the skin of your waist — crooked little circles, lopsided hearts, the occasional RR symbol like he couldn’t help himself.
You stayed draped over him, your weight like a warm blanket that he refused to let shift even an inch.
The rain had softened into a gentle drizzle against the windows, and the Yu-Gi-Oh soundtrack played like a lullaby in the background. Every so often Tim’s fingers would still as sleep coaxed him away, then start up again, chasing the feeling of your skin as if touching you was the gravity holding him here.
“You’re gonna build the Millennium Puzzle cyberdeck with me, right?” he mumbled after a long, quiet minute, voice thick and barely there. “We should… date night… gonna be so cool…”
“Yeah, baby,” you murmured, brushing his hair back again. “We’ll build it together.”
Tim made a soft, contented hum, the sound vibrating against your chest as he murmured to himself. “So many Raspberry Pi’s….”
You chuckled.
Then his arms tightened once more, pulling you impossibly closer. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised softly, pressing one last kiss to his bruised jaw. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
When you pulled back, Tim was smiling that small, lovedrunk smile, straining his eyes open a tiny fraction. “Love you, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know….” You let your head settle against his chest. “I know…”
His breathing evened out for good after that, deep and slow as his eyelids fell closed, the faint lines of unspoken pain smoothing from his face.
You watched him for a while, peering up through your lashes at the way his jaw relaxed, the flutter of those soft eyelashes against his cheekbones, and that tiny twitch of his mouth like he was still half-dreaming about his own Millenium Puzzle like a little boy on a lazy Saturday morning.
Outside, the rain kept falling while Yu-Gi-Oh played on low and your boyfriend — your stubborn, bruised, brilliant, and finally resting boyfriend — dozed in your arms.
You stayed right there on top of him, listening to the sound of his heartbeat against your ear drowning out everything else, perfectly content to let him sleep as long as he needed.
Within the tangled warmth of your limbs and his, you whispered, “I love you too,” and the rest of Gotham remained blurred away outside the glass as sleep took you too.
🗒️ written and proofread while half asleep so this might be the best and worst thing i’ve ever written. #timnation STAND UP . art creds : @/quezartt
CHAPTER TWO: guy who thinks i'm his ramona flowers or some shit
content warning: some sexual content/smut (VERY BRIEF), timestamps are NOT accurate, MDNI
"Fuck, you look so pretty like that."
Suna Rintaro is in a good mood. It could have something to do with him winning his match or the fact that his image is already starting to turn around just three days after announcing his fake relationship, but really the primary reason for his mood is you.
You, laid out beneath him, chest bare and eyes screwed shut in pleasure, making sweet noises that go straight to his dick. He feels drunk. There's a layer of sweat on his skin. He dips his head down and attaches his lips to your neck.
When it's over, Suna's pulling off the condom, while you rise from the bed and disappear out of the room. Suna lifts his head to stare after you, listening to your footsteps. He's wondering where you've disappeared to, and then he hears the shower turn on. He snorts. You certainly make yourself comfortable.
Twenty minutes later, you emerge from the bathroom wearing nothing but the jersey he gave to you, the one with his name on it. Suna stares for longer than he needs to. "You didn't have to mark me up," you say, sitting down at the edge of the bed. You reach up to tug at the neckline of the jersey and Suna sees it then, the dark bruise blossoming at the curve of your neck. "I'm too old for this shit."
Suna grins. He feels oddly smug. "Sorry, got carried away."
"Yeah, whatever. So are you gonna be a gentleman and sleep on the couch, or a dick and make me do it?"
Suna blinks. "We've already slept together. Do you draw the line at sharing a bed?"
You're terrible to share a bed with. Suna regrets it when it's three-fifteen in the morning and you've woken him up twice. You snore and then you stop snoring and then when you start it up again it jolts Suna awake. You've kicked him many times and you are the least generous blanket-sharer perhaps on the entire planet.
Suna gets hardly any sleep and when morning comes around you look like you've had the best sleep of your life. Suna almost hates you for it. But when he walks to you work and he gives you a kiss on the cheek (for the sake of the giggling teenager with the camera Suna is sure recognized him), Suna walks away with the distinct feeling that he is probably going to end up doing it again.
EXTRAS!
y/n and suna's text span about two and half weeks ignore the timestamps
y/n just texted her mom that she wasn't ready for her to meet suna yet because it's not that serious yet and she doesn't want to make the same mistake she made with kuroo
kuroo
y/n kind of has the feeling that suna has a little crush on her
froggi yaps -> i bombed my interview so badly today i really needed this comfort ;-; i feel like these kinda suck but this piece was kicking my butt so badly i just needed to get it out :p enjoy
Dick Grayson:
Dick’s sleeping when you text him, the incessant buzzing on his nightstand cutting into the sleep he desperately needs. It had been a long night last night and he didn’t make it home until seven in the morning, going to bed even later than that.
Still, he forces his eyes open and rolls over, grabbing the phone in his hand. He blinks away sleep when he sees the messages are from you, one after the other, each increasingly more panicked.
He’s on his feet in minutes when he reads them, tugging on the nearest clothes he can find and collecting his keys off his nightstand. Opening his phone to track your location, Dick’s on the road in minutes.
You’re sitting under a tree when he finds you, alone and overheating in the middle of a desolate trail just outside of Bludhaven. He calls your name before he approaches, shuffling carefully towards so as not to scare you.
“Dick?” You blink, exhausted from the heat.
He crouches at your side, pressing a hand to your forehead like you’re sick. He sighs, shaking his head and fighting the urge to hunt down your shitty boyfriend and give him a piece of his mind.
“Fuck, he just left you here like this? Do you even have water?”
You shake your head. “He had the backpack,” you explain. “Said I was too slow…”
Fuck, what an asshole. He never deserved you.
Dick helps you to your feet, keeping an arm around your waist to support you. Your steps are shaky, your breathing uneven—clear signs of dehydration.
It’s a long trip back to the car, ending with Dick carrying you on his back. You’re relieved when he finally sets you in the passenger seat, cranking the air conditioning for you.
He passes you a water bottle from his cupholder. “Here, have this.”
You drink half of it in one go, the water helping the dryness that has your throat swelling.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“Tired, sad.” You frown, “I feel dizzy.”
Dick puts the car in drive, peeling away from the parking lot and driving back to the city. “You probably will for a while, with how long you were in the heat.”
It’s silent for a while, the exhaustion setting into your bones and a new sort of tiredness weighing over you. You rest your head against the door of the car, letting your eyes flutter closed.
“Come hang out with me, yeah?” Dick finally breaks the silence. “Need to make sure you’re okay.”
You catch the undertone of it, the part that says: physically and emotionally.
You hum in agreement, letting yourself fall back asleep on the door of his car. Dick waits until he’s sure you’re out cold before leaning over and rubbing a thumb across your cheek.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he mumbles more to himself than anything, “I’ll take good care of you.”
Jason Todd:
Jason’s busy when you call, knee deep in a group of goons in the way of your boss. Still, it’s you calling him, and he doesn’t dare leave you waiting.
“Hello?”
You sniffle into the phone, the distant sounds of gunfire making you raise a brow. “Jay?”
He frowns, fighting his way through the men while talking to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Are you crying?”
It’s a jumble of words that comes next, each one bleeding into the next and filled with sniffles. Jason strains to hear you through the comms piece in his helmet, the gunfire and sounds of violence almost enough to drown you out.
Still, he gets the gist of it. Fuck, he’s going to lose the target. But he can’t just leave you there.
He sighs, “I’ll be there in five.”
You’re pacing when Jason pulls up, soaking wet with the cold rain hiding the hot tears on your cheeks. If only the rain could hide the redness in your eyes and the way your lips have pulled into a pout.
It’s more than a twenty minute drive from where Jason was to the shitty, dingy bar your boyfriend abandoned you at. Jason made the drive in five, in the rain, on his motorcycle.
“T-thanks for coming,” you sniffle out.
Jason looks around, forcing himself to take deep breaths despite the anger surging in his chest. “You sure that ass—he’s not coming back?”
You shake your head. “He said we’re done.”
Jason shakes his head, showing off the fresh red mark under his chin. You frown, reaching up to run your thumb across the bruised skin beneath his stubble. He’s ditched his Red Hood getup, dressed only in his usual cargo pants and a t-shirt. Raindrops slick over his exposed biceps.
“Let me take you home, alright?”
You nod and then he’s ushering you towards his bike, thrusting his spare helmet into your arms. You buckle it over your head, Jason turning around and tugging the strap to make sure it’s tight.
You look at him through the open visor, blinking away the raindrops that cling to your skin. “Jay?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think you could…stay with me for a bit?”
And he knows he shouldn’t, that he has other things to do tonight, an obligation to himself and this city. “Yeah,” he says, “I can stay a while.”
It’s hours later that you’re asleep on Jason’s lap, head resting on the meat of his thighs. He should’ve left a while ago and yet, he can’t bring himself to go.
Still, watching you lay like this in his arms, warm and dry from the rain your boyfriend left you in, anger still swirls in his stomach. How dare he leave you like that? You could've gotten mugged or hurt or worse, and the very thought has Jason clenching his jaw.
Yeah, he’ll have to pay him a visit later.
Wally West:
Wally’s smile dies the minute he picks up the phone and hears you sniffling on the other end of the line. “Hey, what’s going on?”
It’s an unintelligible mess of words that follows, filled with choked sobs and occasional moments of silence. Somehow through it all, Wally manages to get the gist of it: you and your shitty boyfriend got into a fight on the way home, and he abandoned you at some gas station.
Alone. In the middle of the night. With nothing but your phone.
Hot rage sweeps through Wally and before he knows it, he’s running.
One minute, you’re staring at the screen of your phone, sobbing hysterically. The next, Wally West is at your side, looking just as outraged as he is concerned.
“He did what?”
Seeing your teary eyes and the pouty look on your face only makes him angrier. He clenches and unclenches his hands, forcing himself to breathe.
The anger melts away when you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, sobbing harder. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Wally is careful to wrap his arms around you, pulling you flush with his body and kissing the top of your head. It’s been so long since he’s gotten to hold you like this, since he’s gotten to care for you, he selfishly drinks it in.
“Let’s get you home, hm?”
You sniffle, peeling your face back just enough to look at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
“My place, then,” he flashes his best reassuring smile, “don’t worry, doll, I’ll take care of you.”
-
Two hours later and you’re settled on the couch at Wally’s, dressed in his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. After an hour, he’d finally gotten you to stop crying and instead cuddle up with him on the couch.
Your boyfriend is yet to say anything, to even check in and make sure you didn’t get murdered. It leaves a bitter taste in Wally’s mouth but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little hopeful, too.
It’s when you fall asleep that Wally snaps a picture of the two of you, your head nuzzled into the crook of his arm. He grins as he types, trying his best not to laugh while he drafts the message to your boyfriend.
He reads it over once before hitting send, nodding in satisfaction.
Don’t worry, I’ll clean up your mess.
Roy Harper:
It’s late and Roy wishes he was asleep, and instead, he’s driving an hour away to some random highway where your boyfriend—hopefully soon to be ex—abandoned you on the side of the road.
His hands are clenched tight on the wheel, thoughts racing a mile a minute. His foot is pressed harshly into the gas, each minute that passes only increases his anxiety. He’d asked you to stay on the phone with him but that was before your phone died and your location stopped updating.
He can only hope you listened to him and stayed put, and that no one else comes across you before he does.
Luck is on his side when he spots you pacing back and forth on the side of the road. His foot is on the brake immediately, slowing the car down to a stop just a few meters ahead of you.
You make a break for the car, settling into his passenger seat like it’s somewhere you belong. And to Roy, it is.
He frowns when he sees the tears in your eyes and the way you’re shaking from the cold night. “You alright?”
You sniffle, “barely. I’m freezing my ass off.”
He nods, flicking on your heated seat. He moreso meant the whole being abandoned in the middle of the night thing, but given your closed off demeanour, decides not to push it.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” you say quietly.
Roy drops a hand from the wheel, gently squeezing your knee. “You did nothing wrong, that asshole just never deserved you.” Not like I do.
You blink. Maybe he has a point.
And now that he’s started, Roy’s not sure he can stop. “What kind of man just abandons you, alone, in the middle of the night? Don’t you think you deserve more than that?”
“Roy…”
“Seriously, babe,” the pet name slips out so easily that neither of you notice it, “don’t you want to be with someone who loves you properly?”
“Roy,” you say again, more warning than anything.
“God, I take much better care of you than he ever has.”
“Roy!”
He breathes heavily, the gravity of what he just said sinking in. The silence in the car is hot and tense, broken only by the crackling of the heat coming through his vents. Roy slows the car, pulling over to the side of the road.
For a moment, you’re worried he might leave you, too. But then he’s grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, touch equally scorching as it is delicate. He’s not even sure what he’s doing until he’s leaning in and brushing his lips over yours, the taste of your chapstick like an old friend.
“All I’m saying,” he says quietly, “is that you deserve someone who takes care of you. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
boxer jason likes when you press his bruises btw. you won't do it intentionally but when you do it by accident, all the synapses in his brain light up because he’s conditioned to expect touch through pain but he loves you and you touch him gently so when you accidentally make his bruises sore, pain and pleasure gets confused and the pressure is so good it makes his teeth grind
⊹ 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.
tw - stalking, nonconsensual touching, implied kidnapping, and unbalanced power dynamics.
There was someone in your bedroom.
You were also pretty sure you had a stalker, but you were holding on fiercely to the delusion that those two issues may be miraculously unrelated. The stalker thing had come up a couple months ago. You’d been in the corner booth of your favorite café when you felt eyes boring into you from across the room. The culprit was familiar – a pretty, black haired girl who always seemed to take just as long to nurse her coffee as you did. This was not the first time you’d seen her. This was, also, not enough for you to label her a stalker.
That part came later, when the man she was sitting across from noticed her little staring problem and approached you. His smile had been easy, his tone nonchalant. “Sorry about my sister,” he’d said. “Cassandra’s new to Gotham. Hasn’t really gotten the hold of starting conversations with attractive strangers, yet.”
Your gaze slid back to the sister – Cassandra. So, she had a crush. A little creepy, but still well outside of stalker territory.
No. That title would be earned by what came next.
“I’m flattered…” You paused, smiled. “But taken, unfortunately. And very happily.”
The man laughed, apologized. Behind him, so quickly and so delicately that you had to wonder if you’d imagined it, Cassandra shook her head. Her expression never dimmed, and her eyes never left you.
Somehow, she’d known you were lying.
And, now, there was someone in your bedroom.
You could feel their stare. Hot and heavy and burrowing into the back of your head. You were facing the wall, but your room wasn’t big enough to provide the security of a comfortable distance. In your peripheral, you could make out a dark splotch in the farthest corner, entirely disparate from the usual outlines and silhouettes your mind would sometimes turn into monsters in the dead of night. This was new. This was alien. This was real.
For lack of an ability to fall back on denial, you searched for other explanations. You lived in Gotham. Weird things happened all the time. Maybe you’d been dosed with the Scarecrow’s fear toxin and were currently hallucinating. Maybe the dead had risen from their graves (again) and you were the victim of a particularly voyeuristic ghost. Maybe one of the Bats was staking out your apartment complex for a case – it’d happened to your cousin, once, and she had a batarang to prove it. You’d almost lulled yourself to sleep when your dubious-intentioned home invader spoke and, instantly, dispelled every overly optimistic theory you’d managed to scrap together.
“You’re awake.”
Not a question. Not a hallucination, either. You didn’t recognize the voice – feminine and low with the rasp of someone who rarely spoke above a whisper. You tried not to move, not to give any indication that she was right, but all your efforts earned was an airy laugh, a couple feather-light footsteps, and a dip at the foot of your bed. You were trembling by the time you felt her hand on your shoulder, a slight tremor which escalated to full-blown shaking as she eased you onto your back. Never once did you think about running. Somewhere inside of you, there was a deep, animal awareness that the deer who bolted was also the one the wolves were most likely to chase.
Not that she needed to chase you.
Even in the dark, you recognized Cassandra immediately. Any previously considered alternatives had been fantasies – cruel ones, at that. Her cropped hair hung loose around her face. Her lips were split apart in less of a smile and more of an effort to bare her teeth, and her eyes were so wide and so dark, you were momentarily convinced that her pupil had spilled open and consumed the rest of her iris. She leaned down, nuzzling against your cheek, then threw a leg over your body, straddling your waist. Caging you in beyond any hope of escape.
“So pretty…” She was mumbling, now, as if totally unconcerned whether or not you heard. A hand came up to cup your cheek. She was wearing gloves – well, no, she was wearing a suit. Leather and spandex rubbed awkwardly against your skin, weighing you down more than should have been possible. It probably wasn’t a good sign that whatever she planned to do you necessitated full-body coverage. “That’s how I knew it had to be you,” she went on. “I tried, but I couldn’t find anyone else I wanted to look at forever.”
Again, she leaned down. Her lips barely brushed against yours before she drew back, a stream of hitched, almost nervous laughter filling your bedroom. “It’s so—” She cut herself off, dragging a hand through her hair. “There’s pressure on my chest and my head feels— I don’t know what it is. Do you?”
A beat lapsed before you realized she actually expected you to answer. Even then, it took long, agonizing seconds to find your voice and force your tongue to move. “…love?”
“No.” Her response, on the other hand, didn’t require so much as moment of consideration. “I’ve been in love. This is something else.”
Huh.
Your stalker had broken into your apartment, pinned you down, kissed you, and she wouldn’t even say she loved you. If you weren’t so scared, you might’ve been offended.
“I—um, Cassandra—”
“Cass.”
“Alright, Cass.” You choked down your nerves. “Would you mind… leaving, please?”
She blinked, and you pictured her hands wrapping around your throat, her cloying voice cooing in your ear as she finally, miserably ended your life. But, instead, her smile only grew wider. In one smooth motion, she’d gotten off of you and perched on the side of your bed. You were reminded, unhelpfully, of a one-night stand pulling their clothes back on minutes after the conclusion of their namesake.
“I should. Patrol. B gets mad.” She pushed herself to her feet, making her way to your door. Unhurried, she pulled it open, only to linger in the doorway as those terrible, dark eyes found you yet again. “You’ll come to my place tomorrow, alright?”
You didn’t respond. She waited. Eventually, you forced yourself to nod – the gesture so rushed and shaky, there wasn’t a soul on the planet who could mistake it for anything other than pure, unadulterated fear.
Cassandra’s smile widened.
Without another word, she turned around and shut the door, leaving you in total, unending darkness.
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