Tryst ⥃ Aemond Targaryen

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

from the bottom of my heart i wanna thank every single person on this app who writes modern jace or modern cregan you're doing god's work FR

the way nick is such a pretty crier

yeah, i am not immune to propaganda. a propaganda at men's tits that is lol lift your shirt up boy

Gregory House x fem!reader (platonic?)

Warnings : none

Summary : Greg finds out something interesting about you.

Authors note : Not the biggest fan of this, could've been better, but the idea wont leave my head so I wrote it.

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

Today was particularly rough, your coffee machine broke down so you had to settle for the crappy coffee in the breakroom, the cafeteria had ran out of your favourite chips, a patient puked on you so you had to change your clothes and by god's grace, all the anti-vaxxers in Jersey decided to come visit you today. Sitting down you let out a sigh, your feet hurt and your head felt like it was being pounded by an anvil closing your eyes in hopes for a fifteen minute shuteye, slowly drowning out the noises of the busy hospital. Suddenly your pager rings, the shrill noise cutting through the room, letting out a sharp exhale you take the pager in your hands and look at it, it’s a page from the NICU, nothing uncommon.

Standing up you rush out of the room, reaching the NICU, the nurse fills you on the patient, a seven month premature baby suffering a sudden attack of patent ductus arteriosus, as the baby flailed around trying to take breaths that he couldn’t catch, you’re held a scalpel your gloved hand tightening around the handle of it, bringing the sharp edge scalpel to the baby’s chest, just as you were about to make a cut the baby stopped breathing. Taking a deep breath you set the scalpel down “time of death?” “Twelve twenty am.” “I’ll go tell the parents.” Removing your gloves you walk out of the NICU towards the maternity ward, walking into the patient’s mother’s room “are you Miss Hennock?” “Yeah, what happened, is he okay?” Biting your lip, fighting back tears, “your son has passed on twelve twenty am.”

“What? How?”

“He suffered from patent ductus arteriosus”

“no no no, that can't be possible.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The mother broke down in tears. Her screams could be heard by the whole floor, walking out of the maternity ward, the screams still playing in your mind, stopping by a pillar. You rest your back on the pillar, closing your eyes as tears threaten to spill, hugging your body for comfort. After a few seconds of solitude you hear the familiar tapping of a cane, opening your eyes you see Greg House walking, as he reaches you he stops and stares, staring back at him “what?”

With no response he goes back to walking to wherever he was going.

After fifteen minutes of peace the screams of someone interrupt, sighing you decide to go up to the roof. Just as you were climbing the stairs, you reach the breakroom, opening your locker you take you alcohol flask, walking to the roof you sit down on the edge, taking in a deep breath, you open your flask and take a big sip after 15 minutes and a half empty flask you hear the door open, looking back you see House limping towards you.

“Why're you here?”

“You looked like you wanted to die down there, was hoping you didn’t.”

“Awwww, you care about me.”

“Considering you’re slurring, I would like to consider you’ve finished that flask.”

“No, there’s still some.” You shake the flask.

“ So what happened down there?”

“Oh, nothing important.”

“You were on the verge of tears, someone definitely died.”

“Why do you sound so sure?”

“The last time I saw you cry was when one of your patients had died.” he says affirmatively

“Maybe my mom died?”

“Your mom’s been dead for seven years”

“How'd you know?”

“I like snooping, so what's so special today?”

“Nothing just a NICU accident.”

“That's why you're crying?”

“You know what House, lemme tell you a story, sit down” you pat the spot next to you “your crippled leg must hurt.”

As he sat down, “So what's this story about?”

“About ten years ago, in my third year of medical school, I met a man with the prettiest grey eyes, like the clouds on a rainy day.”

“Where is this going?”

“Sush, so we get to talking and a few months into dating he proposes to me and I say yes” “Want some?” you push the flask towards him.

“Yes” he takes the flask from you.

“So anyways, we get married and a few months later I get pregnant, we were so happy”

“You were married?”

“A few months into the pregnancy I start noticing he had started to become distant with me, coming home later than usual, leaving early, talking about that one new nurse that started working at the hospital, so one day i decide to visit him in the hospital, going around the hospital I couldn’t find him so I start to go back when I hear voices in a broom closet and when i open it, I see him and the new nurse he kept talking about, eating eachothers faces.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He notices tears welling in your eyes.

With a shaky voice and a tight chest you continue, “so we had an argument and then he apologised and I thought everything would go back to normal, but it did not, we started to fight more he started to act weird and one day we have a huge argument like plate smashing and yelling, the argument gets so big he threatens to kill himself. We’re standing in the kitchen, he's holding a knife to his neck, i'm standing a few feet away from and we’re yelling and suddenly he cuts his neck, blood spraying everywhere the stress from the event puts me into early labour, I somehow manage to call 911 and then everything was a blur.”

“You are going to regret this in the morning.”

“The next thing I remember is holding my dead baby in my arms.”

He was rendered speechless.

“That's why I was crying, do you miss Stacy?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, he looks at you “yeah, why?”

“I miss him a lot, I loved him and he had to love me, somewhere sometime between the cheating and lying.”

“Stop” he gets up “you’re drunk.”

You smile at him, “I'm sad.”

“Aren’t we all sad?”

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

fin

Sugar on the Rim I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the gala rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating computers.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating computer?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to waver almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

how to fucking flag pedophiles

call me the fucking ~internet police~ BUT I DIDN’T KNOW UNTIL TODAY THAT THERE’S LITERALLY A COMMUNITY OF “PEDOPHILE POSITIVITY” ON THIS HELLSITE

THERE ARE PEOPLE OPENLY ADMITTING THAT THEY ARE ATTRACTED TO CHILDREN/CONSUMING CHILD PORN ON THIS WEBSITE!?!??! THERE’S 13 YEAR OLDS ON HERE!!!

so my dudes, how to flag “maps” (minor attracted people aka pedophiles)

1. click “flag this blog”

2. click “this violates tumblr’s community guildlines”

3. click “someone is at risk of harm”

4. click “harm to minors”

5. type “pedophile” in the box

Who Needs Heaven? : Safe & Sound

jason todd x fem!reader

aka your daughters learn what happened to jason

warnings: nonspecific discussions on how jason died

(1) the drop-in

The sound of water splashing under toy boats and fish fills the small room.

You ring the washcloth out over the suds, Rory’s idle hands scooping up the excess. She entertains herself with the slowly dissolving bubbles between her fingers as you fill up your cup.

“Put your head back,” you tell her, nudging her forehead.

She does, squeezing her eyes shut.

You pour the cup of water over her head, combing through her hair. You refill the cup again as she pipes up. 

“Mommy,” she says with a casual lull in her voice. 

You pour it out again, making sure to rinse the shampoo at her roots, “Hm?”

Her hand comes up to wipe the stream from off her forehead, “How did daddy get that scar?” 

“Well, daddy has lots of scars,” you say carefully. “You know that.”

She shakes her head, “Littler scars. He has a big one though, right here.” 

She points up and down her torso. 

“What happened?”

You take a breath, eyes focused on the dissolving suds. “What happened…”

She continues on, “He said scars come from when you get hurt and the bigger ones are bigger hurts. How did he get such a big hurt?”

“Um...” She’s quite young to hear that story, especially coming from you. Your older daughters have an awareness of what happened, though it’s never been formally discussed. You think Mia knows what the autopsy scar is and the twins definitely know he died at the very least. You’ve been made aware that there’s been…discussions at school about who their dad is and how he one day died and then years later magically reappeared. You and Jason had decided that you would talk to them about it eventually, but only when they were old enough to not be completely traumatized hearing it.

You just hadn’t assumed that day would creep up on you like this.

You sit back, tense. “Did you ask him that?”

“No…” she says gravely. “I don’t wanna make him sad.”

You nod, trying to collect your thoughts. How can you steer away from this without attracting more questions? 

“Do you know what happened?” she asks, scanning your face.

You do your best to reset your expression to neutral.

You start without really knowing where the sentence is going, “We…we can talk about it later…”

Rory tilts her head, “Not now?”

You shake yours, “Not right now.”

That’s enough to appease her curiosity for the rest of the bath, but you know with that one, it won’t last long.

You’d gotten her dressed and sent her on her way, but your mind stayed heavy the whole time.

You walk downstairs slowly, hands still damp from the bath. As you turn the corner from the stairs you find Jason, reading contentedly by himself in the living room.

You cross the room without hesitation, climbing into the spot next to him on the couch. He doesn’t need to look up, only adjusts the position of his arm so its draped over you, pulling you into his side.

“So…” you start, “Rory was asking about your scar..”

He turns away from the book, looking at you with serious eyes. “What did she say?”

“She wants to know how you got it,” you tell him. “I didn’t tell her, but she didn’t want to ask you either.”

“Why not?” He asks quickly, face brimming with anxiety.

You shake your head, calming his worries. “She said she didn’t want to make you sad.”

He relaxes a bit at that, taking in the information.

You break the silence after a minute, quietly telling him, “I think it might be time to talk about it.”

He looks dejected, eyes on the floor. “They’re still little..”

“I’m not saying tell them everything right now, just…acknowledge it.”

“I don’t—” He sighs, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell them that.”

You think for a moment, nodding. 

“Tell them how you told me. Just…more kid words.”

He still looks resigned at the idea so you continue, “You know how to talk to them. Just tell them what you want them to hear. They’ll listen.”

He nods, eyes low. “Okay…”

You stand up, and he grabs your hand as you rise, pulling himself up too.

You give each other one more confirming look before calling up the stairs, “Girls? Come here.”

There’s a ten second delay before a scuttle of footsteps starts down the staircase, arriving with a low-liveliness, nearly bedtime energy amongst them.

The second you’re within sight of them, they’re keen that something’s not right.

“What’s going on?” 

“Is—”

“Everything’s alright. Nothing’s wrong,” you tell them. “We just want to talk to you for a minute.”

Your words don’t do much to ease their minds, but after a moment they slowly gather onto a single couch. They’re all squished in together and Rory’s half on top of Anna and Laine, the latter of which can barely move. Still, there’s no complaints to be heard, only an air of seriousness throughout the room. 

Jason clears his throat, though he has trouble looking at them, the easier option seeming to be the carpeted floor. 

“Alright,” he starts with a deep breath. “So my, uh, my Y scar…”

The air in the room drops the second the words are out, the girls all quiet and listening closely. You can tell this is something they’d been wondering about for a long time.

“When I was younger and I’d just started doing the, uh, special job my brothers and Bruce do…” He takes another breath, “Some things happened that shouldn’t have and I got hurt..”

“What things?” Ryan asks.

“I…I got tricked by a bad guy and…I just got hurt.”

It’s uncharacteristic for the girls to all look so dejected and serious like this. Goes to show that you were right—they do have an understanding of what happened.

Anna is the first to pipe up. 

“Did you die?”

“Anna—”

“It’s alright,” Jason interrupts. He collects himself before eking out, “Um…yeah, I-I did.”

He’s still stuck on those words and you have to silently push for him to keep talking, so as to not give their imaginations time to run wild.

He takes the hint, stuttering, “But, um, it’s complicated, but I came back and—”

Laine interrupts this time, almost teary-eyed.

“Are you going to die again?”

Jason shakes his head quickly, “No. No, honey, not for a long time.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they process, sorting through the details into something their minds can understand.

Rory looks on edge, wide-eyed, as she asks, “Are you a ghost?”

“No, sweetheart,” Jason answers calmly with a shake of his head. 

That seems to calm her anxiety more than anything else.

“Are you better now?” Laine asks. 

Jason nods, “Yeah, I’m a lot better now.”

Ryan looks skeptical at the choice of words. “How did you…get better?”

He takes a shaky breath, “Well…your mommy helped me a lot. And then you helped me some more. And now…now I’m all healed.”

None of them seem to really understand, but they accept the answer anyways.

The next question is from Anna. 

“Is the bad guy in jail now?” 

Jason only momentarily stutters in his response, but pulls it together nicely. 

“It’s not something you need to be worried about. I promise. Nothing like that’s going to happen again to me or you or anyone.” 

This appears to appease most of the concerns flying around in their heads. 

He continues, “We can talk about it more when you get older, but…

You take the queue, nodding Rory and Lainey your way. 

“Let’s go get ready for bed, okay?”

You nudge the younger two upstairs, who, to your surprise, go without resistance.

You give Jason one last glance before heading up the stairs, happy to see him much more relaxed than he was at the start of this conversation.

He’s left downstairs with his eldest three girls, each nearly bursting at the seams full of their thoughts and questions. 

Jason thumps down on the couch between them, a heavy breath following.

The trio watch him quietly for a moment before Anna speaks.   

“I know what it is,” she tells him somberly. He looks at her with more melancholia than he would’ve hoped for.

She continues, “There’s autopsies on my show sometimes.”

Right, her show. The X-Files.

Jason nods, a bit remiss at the idea that she knows.

From his other side, Ryan pipes up. 

“Did it hurt?”

He shakes his head, “No, I-I wasn’t…” 

Wasn’t alive. He doesn’t want to say that, though. 

Ryan nods, understanding anyways. “Did it hurt when you died?”

He hesitates before answering, wavering between lying to protect their minds and telling them the truth. In the end, he decides that you’re right, they can handle it in small measures. 

“Yeah. It did, a little,” he confesses. ”But like I said, that’s not going to happen again.”

From behind Ryan, Mia speaks so softly Jason almost misses her words. 

“I’m sorry.”

He looks at her, brow furrowed. “For what?” 

“That that happened to you,” she says. Her eyes are filled with an equal sadness to his and it breaks his heart. Even more so that her words are so clearly meant sincerely.

“Oh.”

It’s all he can manage to say.

He was only a little older than Mia when his life had been taken away from him and he’d been forced to reset everything he ever knew. And now, all these years later, he sits here surrounded by his children, his world that he was given a second chance to create. His children that don’t see a monster when they look at him, don’t see the scarred giant that he sees. They just see their dad. 

When they were still young they’d started getting almost excited whenever they got a scar from playing too hard because it made them more like him. It took Jason years to just bear the thought of his scars, but his girls look at them like art. Even when they know he got them in bad ways, they pour out nothing but affection. No disgust, no fear, no hate. Just love.

His eyes close and his face falls in his hands, overwhelmed by the idea of his children being such angels, despite being products of him.

“Dad? Are you okay?” 

He nods, face still covered. His voice is muffled as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I just, um…” 

His words die off with little fight, and when his hands drop his eyes are red. 

Anna, who’s usually compulsed to only touch emotion with a ten-foot pole, is the first to wrap her arms around him, holding him tight. The gesture takes him by surprise, especially from her, and he tenses briefly before deflating like a balloon. Mia and Ryan are quick to follow suit, basically dog-piling over his opposite shoulder.

“It’s okay, dad. We love you. And your scars,” Ryan tells him. 

Oh, they think he’s sad.

Hell, thirteen years ago he would’ve thought he was sad. He only started to understand his feelings after his first daughter was born. He doesn’t tell them he’s not sad, doesn’t tell them that he’s crying because life slapped him around and then gave him everything he could ever want five times over. 

Instead, he just nods, pulling them impossibly closer.

who’s your fav daughter

stay, little valentine, stay ｡𖦹° jason todd

🎧ྀི your roommate makes the fateful mistake of passing you, his roommate, off as his girlfriend to his boundary ignorant family. now the both of you are tasked with maintaining a faux romance for the entirety of a dinner at wayne manor—simple enough, right?

wc 4.2k | roommate!jason, lowercase intended, fem!reader, brief mention of booze, cursing, mutual pining, two idiots fake dating…truly what more can i say (a lot, so). please, enjoy my 'funny little valentines' day special ᯓᡣ𐭩

“there’s not enough room in the freezer for the ice trays. either move your booze or enjoy an ice free apartment,” your voice is tinged with annoyance as you stare down your long-term roommate.

he’s laid back on the shared couch, right cushion side, staring back at you with a impish grin on his face, “or, you could finally throw out that cake you bought for your ‘promotion’ party. since, the fuckin’ promotion never happened and it takes up half of my freezer.”

“our freezer.” you add. “and fuck you, i could still get that promotion any day now. i can always unfreeze it—good as new.”

jason seems to be beginning to tune you out as your eyes drift to a new letter on the fridge, stuck on with an ‘i hate gotham’ magnet. the print is fancy, cursive, bold black ink—YOU’RE INVITED—it reads.

“what are we invited to?” you ask, ice tray debacle not at all at the forefront of your mind now. not when you can tell your roommate’s got an invite from his estranged past guardian, none other than bruce wayne.

he hums a reply at first, still zeroed in to the rerun of some prison show. when he finally picks up on your question he sours, visibly, “some idiotic anniversary dinner for dick and kori. we’re not going, you weren’t even invited.”

you pout, “i want to go! why can’t we go?”

jason’s got a stern look on his face now, and you’ve always found it so unnerving how quickly he musters it up—usually so relaxed in your shared domain.

“we’re not going because i told a lie, and if we show up…everyone will know.” he groans, “just drop it, i need a little more time to ride this out.”

suddenly more intrigued, you prance over to him on the couch, flopping down beside him, “a lie?”

“don’t. just drop it.” he huffs at the obvious annoyance on your face, “it’s just stupid.”

“c’mon, we know all of each others ‘stupid’ shit. what was the lie, todd?” you’re being genuine, riddling your appeasement with a sweetly sardonic tone.

finally, after a good minute of staring at a very completive jason, he cracks, “i might have alluded to being in a relationship with you.”

your smile cracks before he even finishes his admission, oscillating between confusion and sheer giddiness—trying to halt the part of your brain that wants to imagine a life where a relationship isn’t such a laughable idea.

you curl your lips to stifle your last giggles before looking back up at him, “why?”

jason shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the question. his eyes dart away from yours, finding sudden interest in the television screen, "bruce kept...asking about my life here. if i was settling in, if i was happy." he runs a hand through his dark hair, "and then, all the others got involved, asking to set me up with people. i needed them to stop asking. and you-" he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, "you were the most believable option.”

you stare at him, unblinking, trying to process his words. "most believable option…” you repeat slowly, testing how the phrase feels on your tongue. a warmth spreads across your chest-whether from flattery or something else entirely, you're not quite sure. "so, what? think i can’t pretend to be your girlfriend for a dinner?" the idea sends an unwelcome flutter through your chest. you curse yourself.

jason's expression shifts, a mix of surprise and something else you can't quite read. "you'd do that?" he asks, his voice carrying an unusual note of vulnerability.

"of course," you reply, trying to keep your tone light and casual. "what are roommates for? plus, free fancy dinner at wayne manor? count me in." you're aiming for nonchalance, but your heart is racing at the prospect.

jason's jaw clenches, a tell-tale sign of him thinking too hard, "it's not that simple. they'll know it's fake. bruce especially—dick and tim too—they’re too observant for their own good.”

"oh please," you wave off his concern, settling deeper into the couch cushions, "we've lived together for what, two years now? we already act like an old married couple anyway. i know your coffee order, you know my work schedule. we share groceries, we fight about ice trays—“ you gesture broadly to the kitchen, "it's practically method acting at this point."

he looks at you then, really looks at you, with an expression you can't quite read. "you'd really do that? pretend to be with me in front of my entire family?"

"of course i would," you say softly, nudging his shoulder with yours. "what are friends for if not to fake date each other to avoid awkward family dinners?" you try to keep your tone light, ignoring the way your stomach flips when he smiles at you that rare, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"fine." he finally concedes, shrugging his shoulders, "but we need to get our story straight. no holes, no gaps—i figured we'd keep it close to the truth. roommates who gradually realized there was something more." he pauses, then adds, "the best lies are built on truth or some shit, right?”

you nod, and start crafting the imagined romance with jason. over the next hour, you both piece together your relationship timeline—how you first bonded over late night takeout after his patrols, the way you'd patch him up after particularly rough nights, and how somewhere between shared grocery runs and movie marathons, faux you fell for him. or him for you—the both of you can't agree on that just yet.

you try not to focus on how easy it is to imagine, how some of these made-up memories feel more like documentation rather than fabrication.

"okay, and when did we actually get together?" you ask, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to ignore how invested you're becoming in this alternate reality.

"three months ago." jason answers quickly, too quickly, like he's already thought about this. "after that night I came home really beaten up, remember? you were so pissed at me for being reckless."

you remember that night vividly—how he ever thinks you could forget, you’re unsure.

him stumbling through the window at three in the morning, blood seeping through his stupid jacket. how your hands shook as you stitched him up, how quiet he was, how close his blanched face was to yours. you’d attributed the racing of your heart to fear, but now…not so much.

"yeah," you say softly. "that works."

the rest of the week flies by in a blur of preparation and anxiety, until suddenly it's the night of the dinner, and you're standing in front of your mirror, wondering if you've made a terrible mistake.

you're wearing a deep red-toned dress that hits just above your knee—something you'd bought on a whim (a fifty percent off sale) months ago and never found the right occasion for. jason had given it an approving nod when you'd shown him, which somehow makes you feel more nervous than reassured as you stare yourself down.

"ready?" jason's voice comes from behind you, and you turn to find him adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. he looks…different. good different. the suit fits him perfectly, and you wonder briefly if alfred had something to do with that. the older man has a penchant for doting over your overgrown battling ram of a roommate.

"as i'll ever be." you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. "but, um, how convincing do you think we need to be?"

jason's eyes meet yours in the mirror, "enough to fool the world's greatest detective," he sighs, "and his army of protégés." he turns to face you properly, and something in his expression softens, but he looks away too quickly for you to discern, "you look really pretty."

"thanks." you mumble, fiddling with your clutch. "so do you. very…boyfriend."

he laughs, but it sounds slightly strained. "that's the idea, isn't it?" he offers his arm to you, "shall we?"

the drive to wayne manor is muted. jason's knuckles are white on the shifter, and you find yourself reaching over to place your hand over his without thinking. he startles slightly, but he doesn't pull away—even keeps contact as he switches gears.

"hey." you start softly, "we've got this. we know each other better than anyone, we live together. besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

jason sighs, his hand tightening slightly under yours. "you clearly don’t know how bruce and tim get at these things. anniversary or not, they'll smell blood in the water if we slip up."

"relax," you assure him, glancing out at the looming trees lining the driveway. "i doubt they’ll care about your relationship timeline when they’re busy fawning over how happy dick and kori are."

jason shoots you a look that clearly says 'don't tempt fate', but his grip on the wheel loosens slightly. "just…follow my lead. and if it gets too weird, we can always fake a medical emergency."

"that...is always an option." you grin, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips when he smiles back.

the manor looms up ahead, and as jason pulls up to the gate, you feel his hand squeeze yours briefly, almost indecipherable.

"last chance to back out." he murmurs.

you intertwine your fingers with his, ignoring the voice in your head that whispers how right it feels. "not a chance, todd. you're stuck with me."

the gates open, and as you drive up the winding driveway, you're unable to shake the feeling that you're about to cross a line you can't come back from. but with jason's hand so warm and relaxed in yours, you're not sure you want to.

jason parks the car in front of the house at the partition, "in case we need a quick exit." he shrugs.

"i think you're too worried, jason. i doubt they'll even question it. you said they wanted you dating anyway, i bet they'll just be happy." your voice is quiet, hand hovering in front of the doorbell.

he sighs, "you don't know these people, they question everything."

before you can reply or try to alleviate his doubts, the double doors fly open. you grab jason's hand in your own and pull him closer, just as alfred sets eyes on the pair of you.

alfred's eyes visibly brighten at the sight of both of you, his normally reserved expression softening into something fonder, "master jason," he greets, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "and miss, how lovely for you to be joining tonight. everyone is very excited to meet you, i fear my few stories were not enough to quell them."

you smile, a real genuine one too, "it's nice to see you again alfred! i hope we're not too late—jason decided to change his tie last minute."

alfred hums and beckons you both inside, "fashionable tardiness, miss. i assure you."

jason, hand now sweaty in yours, chuckles, "he's being nice since you're with me. he's usually irate by my lateness."

you shoot jason a pointed look as alfred continues. "master richard and miss kori have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. their anniversary dinner is a rare occasion they’ve pulled out all the stops for, you see."

jason grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, overachievers.

the sound of multiple voices echos through from a room, and you feel jason's grip tighten slightly. you've heard stories about his family for years now—mostly complaints, occasionally fond remembrances, and everything in between during late night conversations over takeout.

"master bruce insisted on formal dining tonight." alfred mentions, though his tone suggests mild disapproval. you've learned over your visits that alfred much prefers when the family dines in the kitchen.

jason scoffs quietly, "because god forbid we eat somewhere comfortable." you squeeze his hand again, a silent reminder of your emergency exit strategy. two years of living together has given you an extensive library of non-verbal communications.

the dining room, when you enter, is exactly as alfred has described it countless times—grandiose in a way that speaks to old money and older traditions. the table stretches long and elegant, set with what you recognize as the ‘good china’ alfred often mentions.

your muscles tense slightly as you finally notice all of the eyes on you—staring and studying—you have to think before you step.

bruce wayne rises first, and despite all of jason's stories, despite seeing him on tv and in newspapers, you're struck by his presence. "jason." he greets, then turns his attention to you. "we've all heard quite a bit about you from alfred, though significantly less from my son."

you feel jason's posture stiffen, but you're prepared for this. "oh, you know how jason is with sharing things." you say easily, the words flowing naturally after years of defending his privacy to nosy neighbors and concerned coworkers. "though, alfred's probably told you all my embarrassing stories by now."

dick grayson—exactly as handsome as the magazines suggest—breaks into a wide grin. "actually, alfred's been surprisingly tight lipped. just kept saying we should ask jason ourselves." his eyes sparkle with mischief. "which, of course, got us nowhere."

"some things don't need to be broadcast to the whole family." jason grumbles, but his thumb is mindlessly drawing small circles on your hand, a gesture you've learned means he's more comfortable than he's letting on. 

"oh, but this is so wonderful!" a melodic, cheerful voice chimes in, and you glance up to see koriand’r—kori to most—seated beside dick, her vibrant curly red hair catching the light as she smiles radiantly. "you must forgive us for prying, but jason does not often share such…delightful surprises."

"by 'us,' she means her." dick cuts in with a smirk, earning a playful nudge from kori.

"yes, and what of it?" she replies lightly, turning her attention fully to you. "you see, jason is like a tamaranian grisnek—so fierce and protective on the outside, but underneath, he is all kindness and loyalty. how could we not be curious about the person who has captured his heart?"

"great. glad we're all analyzing my personal life at the dinner table." jason mutters, though his hand stays on yours, his grip steady.

"do not be fooled," kori says in a whisper that is anything but subtle, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "jason pretends to be irritated, but inside, i know he is glowing with happiness."

your lips twitch into a smile despite yourself, and jason sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging with mock defeat. "i think i'm gonna need another drink."

kori leans back, laughing softly, the sound warm and lilting, as she looks between you and jason once more. "you are lovely." she adds sincerely, her tone softening. "and jason could not have chosen better."

tim drake, who you've only seen in passing when he's stopped by your apartment to drop off miscellaneous ‘private’ documents, raises an eyebrow. "yes, it's all very sweet." he hums it almost, tone carefully neutral but eyes sharp, studying you.

"sweet indeed." you agree, letting some of your genuine fondness for jason color your voice. it's not hard to fake being in love with someone when you've spent two years memorizing their coffee order, patching up their wounds, and falling asleep on their shoulder during movie marathons. the hard part, you're starting to realize, might be pretending it's all pretend.

bruce barely looks up from his plate as he speaks again, cutting through your blissful thoughts of jason, “a shame i wasn’t aware you two were involved.”

jason tenses beside you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “yeah, well. guess you don’t know everything, old man.”

bruce sets his fork down with deliberate slowness. his gaze flicks between the two of you, assessing, “i never said i did.” his voice is even, unreadable. “but you don’t bring people around often. that’s worth noting.”

jason scoffs, like he couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, unease, probably both.

jason’s hand finds yours under the table. it’s definitely not a calculated move, not a necessary nor obvious display for the act you’re putting on. it’s just—there. warm and solid, his fingers curling around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you don’t let go.

dinner progresses with a strange mix of tension and ease. You find yourself falling into natural conversation with dick about your work, while jason maintains a careful distance from bruce's attempts at engagement. still, his hand hasn't left yours, and you're starting to wonder if he's forgotten it's all for show.

"so—how did you two finally get together?" dick asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.

you exchange a quick glance with jason, settling into the story you've rehearsed. "it wasn't really some big dramatic moment," you say, the lie feeling uncomfortably close to the truth. "we just...realized we work."

jason picks up the thread smoothly, his thumb still tracing patterns on your hand. "she was patching me up after a rough night, mad at me for being so bruised," he says, and you can hear the genuine emotion in his voice. "and i just...i dont know—knew, i guess."

tim's watching you both with analytical eyes, and you wonder if he can see through the charade. "that tracks." he says finally. "you two have always been...close."

"speaking of close," dick interjects with a grin, "i think it's hilarious jason used to insist you were 'just roommates', and yet never went on any of the dates i set him up on. i should have known, really." there's a pout on his face, humourous.

you laugh, perhaps a bit too nervously, "well, we were. for a while." the irony of the statement isn't lost on you. you can see jason watching you from your peripheral, face stoic—but his eyes are soft. the way they watch over you, simply affectionate.

bruce, who's been quietly observing, finally speaks. "i'm glad jason has someone looking out for him," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your heart ache. "he's always been...independent."

jason's grip on your hand tightens almost imperceptibly. "yeah, well, some things change." he mutters, but there's less bite in his words than usual.

the conversation shifts to safer topics—work, current events, alfred's latest culinary experiments. you find yourself relaxing despite the pretense, falling into familiar patterns of banter with jason, finishing his sentences, and sharing knowing looks.

it's during dessert that damian, who's been suspiciously quiet, finally speaks up. "you're good for him," he declares with all the authority of a youngest sibling. "he's less annoying when you're around."

jason chokes on his tiramisu, and you pat his back automatically, the gesture so natural you don't even think about it. "thanks, damian!" you say, fighting back a smile. "i think."

as the evening winds down and dinner ends, you find yourself in the manor's vast library, having wandered away from the group for a moment of quiet. besides, you feel somewhat redundant against their coded phrases and stories. jason finds you, as he always does.

"hey." he speaks softly, coming to stand beside you. "you doing okay?"

you turn to face him, suddenly very aware of how close he is. "yeah, i'm good. your family's...intense, but nice. just like you said."

he laughs quietly, but there's something different in his eyes. "you're amazing, you know that? playing along with all this. you didn't have to."

"i wanted to." you admit, and it feels dangerous how true those words are. "besides, what are fake girlfriends for?"

jason's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. but then dick's voice calls from somewhere far off in the house and the moment gaps.

"we should head back." jason says, but he doesn't move. "before they send a search party."

you nod, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "yeah, we should."

but neither of you moves, caught in this strange liminal space where pretend and reality blur, and you're no longer sure which is which. even less sure if you hunger for dreams or waking existence—which is which? for a split second, you want to reach out. you desperately want to feel him—to possibly transfer the devotion you’re still too afraid to admit you harbor.

jason’s breath is staggered, coming out forced and shallow. his eyes, darker in the dim light, are flitting between you and the door—until he focuses in on you, fully. you’re too confused as to why he’s getting closer to you to react accordingly when his lips brush yours.

your first instinct is to furrow your brows, still confused. then, you kiss back. hungrily. confusion still fogs your mind, but nowhere near the way jason does. his lips are chapped, plump, and still tasting faintly of expensive dark liquor. his body cages you close him, hands respectfully at your shoulders. of course the only thing you can recognize is jason.

you err on the side respectfulness—opting to tug him closer by the tie. there’s a flash of the memory of him putting it on, and you can’t fight a small smirk from slipping onto your lips. jason must notice, because he finally breaks away to peer down at you.

“what?” he whispers, panting and staring down at your lips.

“what do you mean, what? we kissed.” you still feel giddy from his kiss, but reality begins to settle into you like a winter chill.

jason watches you closely, his expression a mix of smugness and unease, “hmmm—playing it dangerous.” he finally murmurs, shaking his head.

you arch a brow, feigning derision. “you say that to all the girls, todd?”

he exhales a laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “yeah,” he huffs. “that grand number of...you.”

before you can say anything, footsteps echo just outside the library's door. jason instinctively steps back, widening the space between you just as dick pokes his head in. “there you two are! we were about to send out a search party.”

you smile, pushing down the lingering tension. “sorry. just taking a little tour.”

dick’s gaze flickers between you and jason, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “right. well, come on. we're playing charades—and bruce is actually smiling. you don’t want to miss that.”

jason groans, but he follows you and dick back back toward the others. his hand brushes against yours in the hallway, and for a second, you think he’s going to take it again. but he doesn’t. 

charades is winding down by the time you return, alfred putting away various dry erase boards and markers with the kind of efficiency only a butler can possesses.

kori beams when she sees you, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “lovebrids! you have returned!" she gestures to herself and grayson, "thank you for coming—we would like to extend our support to your relationship.”

jason lets out a little breath, like he wasn’t expecting that—like he isn’t sure what to do with the sincerity. “thanks, kori.”

bruce, too, seems slightly less intimidating now. “thank you for coming—you’re welcome here anytime, both of you.” he tells you, and it sounds like a rare offering.

something about it all settles in your chest, warm and unexpected. you’ve spent so much time being jason’s person in private—patching him up, watching his back, making sure he gets home in one piece—that it’s almost startling to have it acknowledged in front of everyone else.

goodnights and goodbyes come soon after, and tim catches jason by the elbow before the pair of you can walk out the door, pulling him aside for a hushed conversation. you linger near the doorway, talking with kori and dick, but you can’t help the way your attention keeps flickering back to jason.

when he finally returns to your side, his expression is unreadable. “ready to go?”

you nod, murmuring your goodbyes as you both step back into the night air. jason doesn’t say anything as he leads you back to the car, but his hands flex at his sides.

the drive back is quieter than before, the easy banter from earlier replaced with something heavier, something neither of you seems willing to touch just yet. jason’s grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road.

it isn’t until you’re pulling into the familiar streets near your apartment that he finally speaks. “they bought it.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “yeah? i told you so.”

jason’s eyes flick to you for a fraction of a second before he exhales. “thank you, seriously. you were great.”

you glance at him, something warm curling in your chest. “we just make a good team.”

something glints in his expression, something hesitant, something aching. “yeah,” he agrees, voice quieter. “we do.”

the silence stretches between you as he parks the car. you unbuckle your seatbelt, but neither of you make a move to get out. stuck stagnant.

“so, this is was fake...” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

jason’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, knuckles red. “yeah.”

you should leave it at that. you should forget the kiss. you should revert back to just his roommate. you should laugh it off, make some joke about how convincing you both were—but you don't—instead you say, “does it still feel fake to you? us...tonight?”

jason’s breath catches. for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. you almost let doubt seep in.

then, he turns, his eyes dark and searching. “god, no.”

your heart stutters in your chest, and you swallow hard, pulse roaring in your ears. “good. me neither.”

for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off. but you don’t, you won't. and when he leans in—slow, hesitant, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—you don’t.

you decide to meet him halfway, instead.

writer’s note .☘︎ ݁˖ all of my thanks to the helpful, @sunnie-angel for being my beta reader for this fic! thank you again for your services—and your sweet comments on this little story, very very happy to have a moot like you !!!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

Soap would hold up your pregnant belly.

You're pretty far along, and the extra weight is putting a strain on your back. It aches something fierce when you have to be on your feet for awhile. Today you're stuck in a long line at the bank.

Of course, Johnny notices the way you're rubbing at the small of your back, so is quick to help relieve the strain. Stepping behind you, he pulls you against his chest, then wraps his arms around you, big hands cupping the underside of your belly to gently lift it up. You instantly relax into his embrace, sighing in relief.

"Feel better now, bon?"

"Yeah, so much better."

He kisses your temple. "I'll give ye a good back rub when we get home."

You smile. "That sounds good."

"Aye, especially if yer naked."

"Johnny!"