Omg thank you for opening the prompts and giving lists. If you have the time and inspiration how about from the Prompt sentence list #54 “They’re not your kids, back the fuck off”. Thank you again for taking prompt requests!!!!!
So, because you didn’t specify which character you wanted, I went on ahead and picked Jason. Prepare yourself, this turned into a somewhat cracky, heartwarming fic about Jason putting his foot in his mouth. Reader is in her very early 20s. Not six months out of 19, actually.
This request is a winner, man. I had a much wittier and affectionate intro up here before tumblr let me down so hard and lost my draft. Now we’ve got this awkward paragraph…
Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @lovelywally, @thepuckishrogue (If you want to be tagged, let me know by dropping an ask or shooting me a message! For more Batfam, check out my masterlist.)
This is it.
Finally the day your retail-ravaged soul, along with your psyche, snaps like one of those piddly rubberbands on cheap produce.
“Goddammit lady,” you snarl, slamming your palms down on the cash wrap with a meaty smack. “This is the seventh time I’ve had to ask you to keep your filthy little goblins away from my merchandise!”
Embracing the inevitability of unemployment upon the horizon, you carry on. The words coming out of your mouth are spoken in the low, graveled tone most often associated with violent animals or an emissary of Satan. “Has your daughter ever seen a tissue? Or maybe a garbage can? And that is the fourth necklace he’s broken.” You jab a finger at the accused child, prowling around the register. “The fourth! Your children are terrible.”
The little boy, probably around four years old, stands stock still with widening eyes and a face going pink with the flush of tears. It’s strange to see him so still after witnessing the boy tear through your store like a methhead on payday. He’s a cute enough kid, even with some tears spilling and the remnants of a PB&J smeared all over his cheeks as well as his marauding fingers.
Tattered remains of delicate costume jewelry litter the display in front of him, and you don’t even want to think about how much of that child’s sandwich transferred from his grubby lil’ mitts to the stupidly expensive product throughout the store.
The woman’s daughter (you’re not sure how old, but over six) shrinks from your stormy approach. She dodges away from the denim table where she shoved the wad of stale gum (or the proverbial straw, in this case) you’d seen her spit into her hand moments before (so, hopefully just one $90 pair of jeans you now have to damage). The girl hides back behind her gaping mother as though you’re brandishing a pistol instead of three years’ worth of rage.
The mother, a comfortably wealthy middle-aged blonde woman, looks to be the very stereotype of pushy, ungrateful, baby-boomed self importance. She is so utterly shocked by your hateful outburst that nary a peep escapes her open mouth.
What?
A salesgirl?
Speaking so rudely even after being treated with nothing but disregard and condescension for two whole hours?
Outrageous!
Ha. She’s not half as shocked as your boss is going to be when you throw up a double bird and back flip outta’ this bitch the very moment she wanders in for shift change.
“Get some control over your spawn, make your selections, and get the hell out of my store.” You go in for the kill while the mother is still silent, absolutely fuming. “And here’s a tip, bitch: If you’re not going to teach your children any manners and you can’t find them a sitter, don’t go shop in a specialty boutique!”
Your voice goes shrill as your volume ticks up at the last, and so you are brutally unprepared when an incredulous voice of a significantly lower cadence calls you out.
“Jesus, bitch…”
You spin on your heel, ready to relish taking a piece out of another customer. Unfortunately, in your anger, you don’t recognize that the additional voice belongs to a guy.
A big guy.
A huge, pissed off guy.
“C’mon, Jason.” You identify the face of a redheaded regular grimacing just behind him. She half-halfheartedly attempts to snag his elbow and pull him away. "Don’t engage. Please, don't engage?"
“Nah, shuddap Babs!” he spits over his shoulder. His attention returns to you. “Moms need pants too, ya’ know. They’re not your kids; that means not your business, first of all, and not you goddamn problem after they leave the store. So why don’t you just back the fuck off?”
You are very embarrassed by your reaction to his interference. As suddenly as your anger possessed you, an overwhelming wave of anxiety and stress boils up in your lungs. It claws its way out of your throat and starts pouring from your eyes in a matter of seconds.
“But it is my problem!” you sob, tears of frustration streaming down your face. “My associate number gets flagged for every item I damage. My record is penalized for not taking care of the merchandise when I’m not even technically allowed to ask people to stop breaking things. My commissions bonus is in jeopardy based upon the items I damage, no matter how many sales I make!”
The man blinks down at you as though you’ve started speaking in tongues. He takes a clumsy step away from you, and the redhead sighs with the sort of perpetual exhaustion known only by elder sisters. You hear the door chime signifying the hasty departure of the blonde mom and her rotten kids.
“Oh, and I’m aware!” you continue. “I'm very aware that mothers need pants, you ass. I am a mother.”
If the guy paled when you started crying, he goes absolutely pallid as the pitiful truths of your sad life rush, unbidden, from your tongue.
“My daughter is 18 months old, and I work in this shitty store for shitty pay so that I have food for her dinner and hot water for her baths. All I do is work! My grandma is raising my kid, and I haven’t bought a pair of jeans for myself since I was in high school! A full eight hour shift in this hell-mouth of spoiled, snobby, rich bitches dropping over a thousand dollars on fucking baubles doesn’t even cover one single pair of jeans from that table! Even as a manager, the employee discount doesn’t make owning a stitch of this clothing feasible.”
You take a few breaths to gather yourself. The guy’s face is a mask of social horror, and the features of the woman behind him fell into impassivity about the time you brought up sales and damages.
“You know what though,” you say, speaking in a surprisingly perky, conversational tone as you wipe your running nose on your sleeve and the last wavering trills of your bawling work their way out. “When I run errands, Gram Mary watches Rosie. ‘Cuz I know better.”