damian wayne☆my beloved

“Jason?” you try again, weakly. The man was using your boob as a stress ball.

“Five more minutes, sweetheart,” he mumbles and squeezes again. The thin fabric of your shirt does nothing to keep the heat of his touch away.

“Oh, um…” Your cheeks burn.

He lets out another sleepy sigh and mumbles something under his breath. Something that sounds far too much like, “You’re so good to me, baby.”

You close your eyes. He’s definitely having a wet dream.

Muffling a tiny giggle, you shift slightly, trying to wiggle out of his hold. Instead, his grip tightens, keeping you pressed down to the sheets.

He moves then, trying to get even closer, his hard on pressing against your thigh and making him whine.

“Oh my god.” Mouth to the ceiling, a giddy smile on your face.

You reach out to play with his hair. Pausing for a moment, you wonder what he’d do if you tugged on it.

Naturally, you do just that. A tiny groan leaves him, his hips grinding against your thigh. You feel his lips against the curve of your neck, just resting there.

“You’re gonna be so mortified when you wake up,” you mumble, combing his hair back lovingly.

A tiny, soft sigh escapes him, and suddenly you don’t want to wake him.

So you let him sleep, occasionally pressing a kiss to his forehead while he whines and grinds his hard and aching dick against your thigh.

masterlist

“Cause I can get him outta here if he’s giving you a hard time.”

“I’m all good, thanks P,” you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. “Buuuut, you can top me up again.”

“You’re out of it, kid,” he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadn’t asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.

Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?

That solace turned reflection was cut short however.

“I’m just saying, everybody’s skirtin’ around it and looking at me sideways.” The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. “But you’re a good looking girl… like a fine piece a’ somethin’ you know?”

Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.

You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

“What? Are you shy?” The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.” His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.

Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. “You actually need to back up—”

“Hey, man— you need to watch it. Jace doesn’t play about that one,” came a random voice you’re sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.

“And you need to mind your fuckin’ business,” Grimey Guy whipped his head around. “Cause if that’s true, it’s his fault for not watching his girl.”

Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.

Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure — and some well needed release of frustration — you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out — and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?

But, Jay’s Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didn’t. Sort of.

“Well, that sure is a sight.” Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Meanwhile, Dick’s mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. “No way... isn’t that…?”

“Shut up,” Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.

A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in ‘disguise’ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.

It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.

Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.

In truth, this was supposed to be Roy’s job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now he’s here with reinforcements — a bored Dick Grayson who should’ve been back in Blüdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called ‘The Great Departure’ and figured he’d stick around to boost his poor little bro’s morale — so now Jason is here.

He’s here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.

You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.

From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music — those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.

“Wow,” a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.

The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back — a little bird’s chest, Jason thought.

His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up — would say it’s a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.

Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, you’d tease him for it all the time but he didn’t even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.

Madonna, he cursed in his head. He’d been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.

“You’re a natural,” the guy whose name you’d already forgotten murmured against your ear. “You related to Lola Falana maybe?”

You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone out, a couple more minutes since you’ve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.

“Maybe.” It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.

His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.

You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.

You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.

The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.

“Repeat that?”

You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. “Woman, you tryin’ to get me killed?” He exclaimed in horror.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Your lips curved into a frown.

He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “Look, you’re a nice girl and all…” he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. “Like what I mean is, you’re nice— in a friend kinda way— like I wasn’t tryin’ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like that—”

The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?

“It’s just… you know, I don’t know what’s the situation with you two and if you’re steppin’ out,” he went on, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can’t go there— not that I was trying to, of course! Let’s get that solid— cause you’re Jay’s girl and I—”

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He shook his head firmly. “Everybody knows he doesn’t play about you.”

“Everybody knows this?” Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. “Listen, we broke up—”

He barked a laugh, right in your face. “Look, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I don’t know, at least six feet between us.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You have a good night,” he shrugged. “And congrats when you two get back together,” he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.

“Fucking punk!” You yelled after him. What a drag.

“Do I have to keep wearing this mustache?” Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.

“Oh, lookey here!” Roy’s posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. “Cassio is steadily approaching.”

He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re not well read at all, man,” he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.

“And who are you supposed to be, Bianca?” Jason’s brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question — the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.

A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.

Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.

“Do I know you?” The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. “You from around here?”

“No.” Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.

“Ah,” the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Roy’s lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“So, uh,” Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. “That’s a nice necklace, man.”

The guy looked up at him oddly. “You tryna rob me or something?”

There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. “Just fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,” he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. “My girl got it for me.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. “Damn. That’s real sweet, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny — or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. “Li mortacci tua.”

No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, there’s just no way.

He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl… nags like hell though,” Random guy who you might’ve possibly moved on with, said. “Just the way these broads are, I guess.”

“It’s a bit much talkin’ shit about a lady who can’t defend herself ‘cause she’s across the room,” Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didn’t have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.

“Oh, that one? Nah, not her.” The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. “That one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.”

“What do you mean?” Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.

“She’s a real cute thing, you saw her right?” Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. “We’re dancing, right? And I’m feeling her and she’s feeling me—”

“Yeah, fuckin’ stunad…” Jason grumbled to himself.

“Then I go and ask her name, she tells me, and I’m thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, y’know?” The guy continued. He shook his head. “Man, would you believe that’s Jay’s girl?”

Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.

“Jay? You know how many Jays are in Gotham—” Roy started.

“Fuckin’ Jay from the Alley, man,” the guy exclaimed. “Big, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfucker’s built like a matador—”

“Oh, really?” Dick rested a hand against his jaw.

“Really,” the guy huffed. “And she’s just out here looking like that and dancing on people— have you seen the size of that guy’s fist? Fuck’s sake… I could’ve lost my life...”

Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You weren’t his girl, you weren’t. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.

Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But he’d been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.

“Yo, Benny!” Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You would’ve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.

“Go easy, fellas,” Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. “And watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldn’t wanna see any of you on the Missing Persons’ list.”

When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.

Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. “O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on—”

“—You’re done.” Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.

“Oh, wait a minute, I get it now!” Dick shouted, rising from his seat. “Othello!”

“Need a light?”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.

“Announce yourself first, Dracula.”

Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter he’d intended to use earlier but didn’t have the chance.

The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.

You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.

“You got a ride home?” Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.

“Something like that,” you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

He understood why. Of course, this wasn’t a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.

“What’s with the mustache?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.

“Oh, that… that, uh…” Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. “That was part of a covert operation,” he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.

You laughed despite yourself. “A covert operation?”

“What’s it to you, Columbo?” He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadn’t even been apart for long and he missed you.

You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.

“So… you and that guy in there—”

“Is that seriously how you wanna start right now?” You turned to look at him. “You were watching me?”

“I was gonna say sorry,” he looked up at you. “For ruining your night. He didn’t seem to stick around long, so I figured…”

“No, you’re not.” You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. “No, you’re not, you fucking asshole—”

You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. “I… I don’t know, I just can’t remember why we broke up.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a break—”

He turned his body towards you and interrupted. “A break, not a break up.” Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “And then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. “Maybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe don’t spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?”

He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. “If this is about what happened at Paulie’s…”

You scoffed. “What happened at Paulie’s was none of your business. I can handle myself.”

Jason’s eyebrows rose in mock pride. “Yeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.” The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. “I know you can. I know that. It’s just different because—”

“Because I’m yours?” Your gaze met his, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. “I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot… And I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that.”

“But you did.”

“But I did,” he hung his head. “I did, and I fucked up, and you shouldn’t even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckin’ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I just….”

“You just what?” He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. “Got jealous?”

“Follia,” he huffed. “Don’t get hasty, I didn’t say all that—”

“Oh my God, you were jealous,” you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. “You thought I was with that guy in there.”

“As if,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Look at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sorta—”

“But I was with him and not you,” your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. “Did it make you mad?”

A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.

“What do you think?”

“Jealous, mad,” you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. “Mad or jealous. Uno dei due.”

“Brava,” he hummed. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. “I’m still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,” you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. “So, if you felt jealous, boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s your penance to pay.”

“I know that,” he nodded. “And I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, I’m sure.” Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.

He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. “But I do want to apologize, if you’ll let me.”

You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. “I mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Head—”

“Again, it was a covert operation—”

“I just don’t think a little apology is gonna cut it…” you sighed with faux hurt.

“I swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.” Jason said, deadpan.

You quirked a brow at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason—” you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.

“Guardarmi,” he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. “Focus on me. Let me fix this.”

Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. “Apologize,” you said.

“I was wrong,” he scooted closer. “I was wrong and I’m sorry and I swear to you—”

“Don’t promise me anything,” you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. “Apologize, better.”

“I messed up,” he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. “I should’ve called or come to you but I didn’t. But I’ll fix it, I’ll do better by you. I know I don’t own you… I know that, but when you take me back—”

“If I take you back,” you clarified firmly. “I’m not your girl—”

Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl — maybe not even mine, I just need you.”

“Not your girl yet,” you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. “I don’t hear you apologizing.”

“Madonna Santa,” Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. “I know, I fuckin’ know and I’m begging on my knees here, doll,” he groaned. “Mi dispiace, mi perdoni…”

He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that, it’s cheating.”

“Amore,” he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. “Ho bisogno del suo perdono.”

You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.

“Oh my God, get up, you look stupid,” you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.

“Does this mean—?” Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.

“Fuck no,” you rolled your eyes. “At least take me home first,” you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, you do owe me a rum and coke,” you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.

“Yeah?”

“What about your little entourage?” You asked and he looked at you quizzically. “The rest of Mustache Incorporated.”

Jason’s brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. “They’re uh… working on some notes about Othello for me.”

“Othello?” You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.

“Covert operation, remember?” Jason whistled. “We have to have codenames.”

Taking out your key is your favourite part of the day. 

There’s something about the weight of it in your hand, the familiar scrape of metal, the little resistance in the lock Jason keeps saying he’ll fix and never does. It has been a long day. The kind of long day that lives in your shoulders and behind your eyes. Meetings, emails, fluorescent lighting, office politics.

But then the door opens.

And there it is.

Home.

Warm air brushes your face, carrying traces of lunch, laundry detergent, and the faint smell of the wallflowers you had dutifully chosen at the mall last weekend. You step inside and nudge the door shut behind you with your heel.

Best part of the day. Every time.

You toe off your shoes by the mat, dropping your bag beside the stairs. The hardwood is cool under your socks as you take a few steps into the foyer and glance toward the kitchen.

Nothing.

No tiny ambush from behind the island. No suspicious whispering from the living room. No husband pretending he did not hear the door open because he wants to be dramatic about his entrance.

You narrow your eyes.

The lower floor is completely empty.

Well.

This will not do.

You plant your hands on your hips, draw in one deep breath, and let your voice ring through the house.

“BABIES!!!!!!!”

Your shout bounces up the staircase, down the hall, through the vents, into the bones of the place itself.

thud thud thud thud

A shriek of delighted little boy laughter tears down the hallway, followed by the frantic slap of feet against wood.

“Mommy!”

The toddler appears at full speed like he has been launched from a cannon, hair wild, shirt half untucked, sippy cup in hand, joy radiating off him in visible waves. He barrels straight into your legs with enough force to make you stagger.

“Good gosh, River,” you say, shifting him to your hip. “Give me a moment. You turned two and suddenly weigh as much as a refrigerator.”

The second he’s in your arms, he grabs your cheeks with both hands and starts planting wet, determined kisses everywhere he can reach.

“Mwah! Mwah! Missed you!”

Your heart melts on contact.

“I missed you too, baby,” you murmur, kissing one cheek, then the other, then the little wrinkle between his brows that only appears when he’s concentrating very hard on loving someone.

A warm body appears beside you before River can land the next one.

Jason slides an arm around your waist, pulls you gently against his side, and uses two fingers to hold River’s face back.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and amused. “Daddy gets first kiss.”

River gasps in theatrical betrayal.

You barely have time to laugh before Jason kisses you slow and easy, like he hasn’t seen you in years instead of eight hours. Familiar, grounding, a little smug.

When he pulls back, you’re smiling already.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi yourself.”

River wedges a hand between your faces in protest. “My turn!”

Jason snorts and kisses the top of his son’s head. Then you glance past him toward the staircase.

“Where are the other babies?”

Jason sighs like a man burdened by impossible trials. “Ma, they don’t like when you call them babies anymore. They’re big now.”

“That is ridiculous,” you say immediately.

“I’ve told you this.”

“I reject it.”

He pecks you once more, because apparently he cannot pass within kissing range without abusing the privilege, then straightens and raises his voice in the tone that has ended fights, started baths, and once convinced a child to apologize to a goldfish.

“TRAITORS,” he bellows upstairs. “COME HUG YOUR MOTHER.”

A chorus of groans answers from above.

You grin. “Music.”

Heavy footsteps pound first.

Briar appears on the stairs with all the weary dignity of someone forced into nonsense against his will. Ten years old now and trying very hard to become composed, he takes the last few steps quickly, crosses the foyer, and gives you the briefest possible side hug.

You gasp. “Nope. Try again.”

He recoils. “This is so dumb. I’m in fifth grade.”

You shift River to one side. “Terrible diagnosis. Come here.”

“I own a calculator,” Briar adds, as if presenting legal evidence.

“I do not care if you own a submarine.”

You catch him around the shoulders and pull him into a proper hug. He makes a dramatic sound of suffering but melts after two seconds, arms wrapping around your middle. You kiss the top of his head anyway.

“Perfect,” you say. “Where’s the next baby?”

“I’m not a baby either,” he mutters into your sweater.

Two more sets of footsteps race each other down the stairs.

Sophie (8) and Winnie (6) arrive side by side. Sophie rolls her eyes the moment she sees your open arms.

“Mom,” she says, scandalized. “Please.”

But she hugs you anyway.

Winnie notices the eye roll, pauses, then carefully rolls her own eyes in imitation before stepping in for the sweetest, quietest hug of the bunch, cheek pressing to your side.

You barely make it three steps toward the kitchen before everyone starts talking at once, each child apparently convinced their update is both urgent and legally entitled to first priority.

“I crossed level twelve,” Briar announces, appearing at your elbow with the grave importance of a man reporting market trends. “And I unlocked the obsidian blade, which is actually hard to get, so.”

“That’s amazing,” you say immediately.

“It took strategy,” he adds.

“I’m sure it did.”

Sophie shoves past him with the offense of someone denied spotlight. “I almost did a cartwheel.”

“You almost did one yesterday.”

“This one was closer.”

“How close?”

She demonstrates by kicking one leg up in the hallway and nearly taking out a lamp.

“Closer than yesterday,” she says triumphantly.

Winnie slips in beside you, holding a paper with both hands so carefully it might be sacred. “I drew the park.”

You take it like an artifact. A sweep of green trees, a yellow sun, a suspiciously square dog, and five stick figures holding hands.

“It’s beautifu, baby,” you say.

Winnie glows so quietly it could be missed if you did not know her.

River, who has no art and no measurable achievements to present, simply grabs your chin and announces, “Lollipop.”

You look at Jason.

He looks at the ceiling.

“Purple,” River adds helpfully, showing you his stained tongue.

“Excellent work, baby.”

River objects immediately when you place him on the floor and attaches himself to your leg like ivy.

“No down.”

“You have feet,” you remind him.

“They’re tired.”

Then the complaints begin.

“Briar took my charger.”

“It was on the floor. Floor means community property.”

“Sophie kept singing the same line from one song for an hour.”

“It was catchy.”

“Winnie hid under the table and scared me.”

You hold up one hand. “I need everyone to understand something very important.”

No one stops talking.

You try again, louder this time.

“Children.”

Still they continue.

“I was reading.”

“River bit my shoulder.”

River gasps. “No.”

“You absolutely did.”

You are still processing that when Sophie delivers the final grenade.

“And Dad burned lunch.”

Jason straightens from where he was unloading groceries you definitely did not ask for. “I did not”

“He made smoke,” Briar says.

“The pan was dramatic,” Jason counters.

“We had pizza instead,” Sophie continues, delighted now. “And Dad gave us all five dollars not to tell Mom.”

You slowly turn your head.

Jason points at her. “You little snitch. Give me the money back.”

Sophie clutches imaginary pearls. “It’s already spent.”

“On what?”

“I have plans for it.”

“What exactly?”

“My first Birkin”

River tugs your pant leg with both hands. “Up. Up. Up.”

Then, because no one in this house fears consequences, he adds:

“Kiss.”

You inhale slowly through your nose.

Jason glances over, recognizes the look instantly, and takes one respectful step backward.

Smart man.

You clap once. Sharp enough to bounce off the cabinets.

Everything freezes.

Even River pauses mid climb.

You smile with terrifying calm.

“New rule,” you say. “No one speaks to me for the next five minutes unless someone is bleeding, on fire, or legally changing their name.”

Silence.

It lands across the kitchen like holy light.

Sophie opens her mouth.

You lift one eyebrow.

She closes it.

It is one of your greater powers.

“Quiet time,” you repeat, gentler now. “Words can resume when plates are down.”

A chorus of groans follows, but feet begin moving.

And in the blessed hush that follows, you look around. The house is clean. Mostly. There are crumbs under the counter stool and one marker without a cap and a suspicious wet towel on the stairs, but overall? Remarkable.

Jason and the kids always manage it. While you’re at work, they run this little kingdom beautifully. Jason handles mornings, school runs, lunches of varying structural integrity, homework, laundry, scraped knees, art projects, and the thousand tiny gears of daytime life. Then, when the city darkens, he becomes something else again and goes out into Gotham’s night.

It is a strange system.

It is a good one.

In silence, Briar sets forks with unnecessary precision. Sophie carries napkins like she’s doing everyone a favor. Winnie arranges cups by height. River places one spoon in the fruit bowl and beams when corrected. Jason brings dinner to the table with theatrical exhaustion. You all sit.

For one brief second, there is peace before someone shares a fact, asks for ketchup, or starts a war.

River is in Jason’s lap, because apparently his own chair is now beneath his dignity.

He sits sideways against Jason’s chest as a part of the new arrangement you have recently adopted. If you place identical food on River’s own plate, he rejects it as poisoned. If it comes from Jason’s plate, it is gourmet cuisine.

Parenthood is rich with mysteries.

Jason blows on a forkful of pasta and offers it over. “Open.”

River opens immediately.

You reach across the table and steal a piece of bread from his plate, because like your son, you, too, think stuff tastes better off Jason’s plate.

He catches your wrist before you can retreat and kisses the inside of it like you are alone instead of surrounded by children and carbohydrates.

Sophie gags theatrically.

“Can you not romance each other over the penne?”

“No,” Jason says.

You bite into the stolen bread. “We’re in love.”

“That’s disgusting,” Briar mutters “Can we have one normal dinner.”

Jason leans closer, voice dropping just for you. “You look pretty.”

“I look like I got tackled in the foyer.”

“Still counts.”

You nudge his knee under the table. “Flirt.”

“Always.”

River, unwilling to be excluded from any affection economy, grabs your chin from across the gap and blows a wet kiss in your direction.

You catch it dramatically and press it to your heart.

He beams.

Jason looks deeply offended. “I was in the middle of something.”

Before you can answer, Briar gasps. “YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”

Every head turns.

At the far end of the table, Sophie is sitting ramrod straight, fork in hand, eyes blazing with the righteous confidence of someone who has chosen war.

“No,” she says crisply. “And I mean it more now.”

“What did you say?” you ask, already tired.

Briar points at her with the full betrayal of an older sibling wronged. “She said my haircut looked like I did it myself in the dark.”

“It does,” Sophie replies. 

“That was not all you said,” Briar says, voice climbing.

Sophie lifts her chin, doubles down, and delivers the killing blow with all the grace of a tiny tyrant.

“I said, That's why you’re adopted and I’m the real one.”

You slowly set down your fork.

Jason blinks once. Twice.

Then, with the casual tone of a man correcting the weather, he says, “Uh, no?”

Sophie turns to him, already certain of victory. “What?”

“Babygirl,” Jason says, adjusting River higher on his knee. “You’re adopted too.”

She laughs once. A short, confident sound.

Then no one joins her.

Her smile falters.

“What.”

Jason gestures vaguely around the table with his fork. “All of you are. We found every single one of you.”

You close your eyes. “Jason.”

He continues, because self-preservation has never been his strongest skill.

“On the streets, mostly. I made the mistake of bringing you all home and haven't known peace since.”

Sophie is still staring, fork suspended in midair.

“No,” she says slowly. “No. I’m not adopted.”

“You absolutely are,” Briar says, recovering fast enough to become smug. “I knew before you.”

“You did not know before me!”

“I’m the oldest, I know everything”

Now Sophie looks to you with widening eyes, seeking the last honest authority in the room.

“Mom.”

You shoot your husband a look sharp enough to peel paint.

He has the decency to look only slightly ashamed.

Then you sigh, reach for your water, and take a long drink before answering.

“Well,” you say carefully. “I did want to tell these stories when everyone was emotionally stronger.”

“No,” Sophie says again, louder this time. “Tell me right now.”

River slaps the table with both hands.

“Story time!”

---

By unanimous decision, and also because no one can hear family lore over the sound of forks hitting plates, the trial is moved to the living room.

The migration happens in pieces.

Sophie stalks out first, still wounded and dramatic, carrying the energy of someone who has just discovered both betrayal and excellent material for future arguments.

Briar follows at a measured pace meant to suggest emotional distance, though he very obviously chooses the armchair furthest to Sophie.

Winnie climbs up beside Jason before he even sits down fully, tucking herself into his side with the ease of long practice. He drops an arm around her automatically, somehow Winnie and Jason always find each other on the couch.

River has already claimed your lap by the time you lower yourself onto the couch. He settles there like a cat who pays no rent and fears no authority, wrapping both arms around your middle and pressing his cheek to your chest.

“Mama,” he says.

“Very flattering,” you murmur, smoothing his hair back.

“Someone start talking.” Sophie crosses her arms. “Start with mine.”

“No,” Briar says at once. “Start with the important one.”

“That would be mine,” Sophie snaps.

“Me!,” River adds, though he has no idea what anyone is talking about.

Winnie says nothing, but leans further into Jason as if to secure her place in the narrative hierarchy.

You lift a hand. “Start at the beginning.”

Then, Jason clears his throat with great ceremony.

“Once upon a time,” he begins, voice deep and grave, “when I had a better back and was full of optimism, there lived a handsome man who never complained and had excellent knees.”

You smack his arm.

He grins. “Ow. Abuse in front of the children.”

“Proceed honestly.”

He sighs like art is under attack.

“It was 10 years ago,” he says, shifting Winnie a little higher against him. “There was an accident on Park Row. Building fire. Bad one.”

The room quiets.

You know this story by heart. You still feel it in your ribs.

Jason’s hand rests on Winnie, but his eyes find Briar.

“I got there late,” he says. “Fire crews were still pulling people out. Whole place was coming down. Smoke everywhere. Thought I was looking for survivors.”

Briar, who usually performs indifference like it is a competitive sport, has gone very still.

Jason’s voice softens. “Then I heard crying.”

River looks up at you. “Baby?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his forehead. “A baby.”

Jason nods. “I followed the sound upstairs. Last room at the end of the hall. And there he was.”

He points across the room.

Briar rolls his eyes immediately, too fast. “I know it’s me.”

“Let me be dramatic,” Jason says. “Tiny little soot covered thing in the corner. Loud as hell.”

“I was not loud,” Briar mutters.

“You were furious,” Jason says fondly. “And alive. Only survivor in the whole building.”

The words settle heavily for a moment.

Then Jason smiles, small and crooked. “I picked him up, and he grabbed onto my vest like he was practicing bouldering. Wouldn’t let go, so I brought him home” “Here? Winnie piped up.

“No. Years ago, your mom and I lived in an apartment further in the city, and that's where Briar first lived too” 

Sophie piped up with a “HA, Briar lived in the discount home”. Jason gave her a look which said shut your trap or else I will never finish this story

He settles deeper into the couch, Winnie using his ribs as a pillow.

“It was late. I came home through the window, because doors are for cowards. And over here,” he points at you, “your beautiful mother was on the couch with cucumbers on her eyes.”

The children lose their minds immediately.

“Mom!” Sophie cries. “Why?”

“It was skincare,” you say with dignity.

Jason keeps going, warmed by his own nonsense. “I remember thinking, wow. How did someone this perfect marry me? Stunning face. Incredible hair. Strong moral compass. Great legs.”

“Just tell the story, man,” Briar says.

Even Winnie snorts.

You cover your smile with River’s hair. “Yes, storyteller. Plot.”

“No,” Jason says. “Art takes time.”

“I brought him home,” he says. “Walked in through the window, covered in ash, holding a screaming baby, and your mom just stared at me with vegetables on her face.”

The room erupts again.

You point a warning finger. “I was processing.”

“She was shocked for exactly four seconds,” Jason says. “Then she stood up, took the baby from me, and became the scariest competent person I’ve ever seen.”

“That sounds right,” Sophie says.

“She had him cleaned up, fed, wrapped in a towel, and asleep before I’d found a clean shirt, and then after that we kept him and he became our first baby”

Briar, cornered by emotion, rolls his eyes with great force.

“This is embarrassing.”

You reach out from the couch. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Briar.”

He sighs like a burdened saint, crosses the two steps between you, and lets you pull him into a hug. You kiss the top of his head.

“First baby,” you murmur.

He groans into your shoulder.

River lifts his face and announces to the room, “Briar baby.”

Jason laughs so hard Winnie starts laughing too, though she missed the joke entirely.

Briar escapes your hug the second dignity becomes available again and drops back into the armchair with all the composure of someone who definitely was not just kissed on the head in front of witnesses.

“This family is humiliating,” he mutters.

“You’ll survive,” you say.

“Unfortunately.”

Before the softness can settle too long, Sophie flings herself upright on the couch like a lawyer objecting in court.

“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “We know Briar was adopted. That’s old news. Can we get to the cooler stories already?”

Briar gasps. “My story has fire.”

“And cucumbers,” Sophie says. “not cool, soot baby”

Winnie, still tucked into Jason’s side, lifts her face just enough to be heard.

“Where did you find me?”

Jason looks down at her, his whole face softening.

“You?” he says. “You were a professional handoff.”

Winnie blinks. “What.”

You laugh. “That is not how we’re phrasing it.”

“It’s accurate.”

He shifts, tightening his arm around her as if memory itself makes him hold her closer.

“I was out on patrol one night,” he begins.

“Out on a walk,” you correct instantly.

Sophie groans. “Mom.”

Briar throws his head back. “We know Dad is Red Hood.”

“No, he is not,” you say.

Jason nods solemnly. “Yeah, of course not. Anyway, I was on patrol. In a red helmet. As one does.”

You rub your temples.

He continues, deeply pleased with himself.

“I was passing the fire station when a couple firefighters came running out waving me down.”

“Why were they calling you?” Sophie asks.

Jason shrugs. “Community outreach.”

“Because you’d helped them before,” you translate.

“Because I’m beloved,” Jason counters.

Winnie is watching him with huge eyes now.

“They had a baby,” he says, looking back at her. “Tiny thing. Wrapped in one of those striped hospital blankets. Someone had left you there and rung the bell.”

“One firefighter asked if I could do something about it,” Jason says. “Said they were waiting on the proper people. But since its Gotham it was taking too long and the baby was getting restless”

Sophie, entranced, asks. “And what did you say?”

He clears his throat. “‘No problem. I’ll take her to social services immediately.’”

All four children stare at him.

“You lied,” Briar says, impressed.

“Spectacularly,” you confirm.

Jason looks offended. “I prefer strategic rerouting.”

“You came straight home,” you say.

“I did.”

The memory pulls a grin from him before he can stop it.

“He walks through the front door,” you tell the kids, “holding the tiniest baby I’d ever seen.”

Jason points at you. “And I said, very kindly, ‘Ma, congrats, you’re a mom again.’”

Sophie collapses sideways laughing.

“That is insane,” Briar says.

“It was midnight!” you add. “I had work in the morning!”

Winnie’s mouth has curved into a shy smile.

Jason tips his head down toward her. “You barely cried. Just stared at me like you were evaluating whether I was qualified.”

“Were you?” she asks.

He grins. “Debatable.”

She considers this seriously, then leans into him harder.

You reach across and smooth her hair back. “You were so little. Quietest baby I’ve ever met.”

“Still true,” Sophie says.

Winnie gives her a look so mild and so devastating that Sophie recoils instantly.

“Okay, wow.”

Jason laughs under his breath and kisses the top of Winnie’s head.

“You came home,” he says softly. “And then it felt weird imagining the house without you in it.”

Jason’s hand is still resting over hers where it clutches his shirt. You are halfway leaned across the couch, fingers in her hair. Briar is pretending not to be touched by anything. Sophie is pretending to recover from being verbally annihilated by a six-year-old.

And then River springs upright in your lap like a jack-in-the-box.

“RIVER NEXT!”

Everyone startles.

He points both thumbs into his own chest with such force he nearly topples backward.

“Me. Me next.”

You catch him around the middle before gravity can humble him. “Strong pitch.”

“My story,” he insists, bouncing once on your knees. “Baby story.”

Jason leans back, eyes narrowing in theatrical suspicion. “You just want attention.”

“Yeah,” River says immediately.

Honesty. Rare and refreshing.

Sophie groans. “We know his story. We were literally there.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, kissing River’s temple as he wiggles. “Some people enjoy being celebrated.”

River gasps. “Me!”

Briar folds his arms. “This is favoritism.”

“You were literally first,” you remind him.

“And yet somehow still oppressed.”

Jason snorts.

River twists toward him now, one hand reaching across the gap. “Daddy tell.”

Jason catches the little hand automatically and presses a kiss to the knuckles.

“Bossy,” he says.

River beams. “Yeah.”

You shift him higher on your lap and settle back into the couch. “Alright then. Tell him.”

Jason drapes an arm along the back cushions and looks at the ceiling like he’s searching the archives.

“River’s story,” he says slowly, “started with a mistake.”

You point at him. “Watch it.”

“A Blessing,” Jason clarifies. “A wonderful blessing.”

“That sounds more accurate.”

He grins and looks around at the kids.

“At this point, we already had three of you. Which meant the house was loud, messy, expensive, and full of tiny shoes.”

“So many shoes,” you murmur.

“Too many shoes,” he agrees. “And one day, your mom and I were talking in the kitchen when I said something I should never have said out loud.”

River goes very still, as if sensing myth.

Jason deepens his voice dramatically.

“I said… I miss having babies in the house.”

You cover your face. “I knew immediately we were doomed.”

Sophie points. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you say, “that every time your father expresses a desire for something ridiculous, Gotham hears him.”

“True,” Briar says.

“Rude,” Jason replies.

You lean your head back against the couch and continue for him. “The second he said it, I told him, ‘Great. Now that you’ve said it out loud, a baby will be showing up in three to five business days.’”

Winnie blinks. “Business days?”

“It was an estimate,” you say.

River laughs just because everyone else looks delighted.

Jason nods solemnly. “And then, a few nights later, your mom and I went on a date.”

“Gross,” says three children at once.

“Jealousy is ugly,” you tell them.

“We were walking through Gotham,” Jason continues, “holding hands, minding our business, being gorgeous in public…”

“Debatable,” you mutter.

“…when we turned a corner and saw a car seat sitting right under a streetlamp.”

The room stills again.

River’s eyes go wide.

“Me?” he whispers.

“You,” you say softly.

“There was a note tucked into the straps,” Jason says, voice gentler now. “Said you’d been left there. Said whoever wrote it hoped someone kind would find you.”

River presses closer into you.

Jason reaches over and smooths a curl off his forehead.

“They were right,” you say.

He looks at you for half a second, something old and tender passing between you.

Then he taps River’s nose.

“We found you.”

River considers this with grave seriousness. “Kay”

Words of wisdom. 

And then, from the opposite cushion:

“What about me?”

Sophie sits upright, arms crossed, chin lifted, every inch a woman prepared to litigate for equal representation.

“You skipped me.”

You glance at Jason.

Jason very suddenly studies the ceiling.

Coward.

“You know what,” you say lightly. “I can’t really remember.”

Sophie narrows her eyes. “You can’t remember where you found me.”

You double down with the bravery of protecting your daughter's dignity.

“It was years ago.”

“I’m eight.”

“Exactly. Ancient history.”

“Mom.”

You can feel Jason vibrating beside you with the energy of a man about to ruin your strategy.

You do not look at him.

Do not.

Do not.

“I do,” Jason says.

You close your eyes.

Of course he does.

Sophie brightens immediately. “See!”

Jason shifts like a storyteller preparing his finest work.

“It was the gutter on Fifth.”

The room detonates. Briar folds in half laughing. Winnie’s hand flies over her mouth. River, not understanding but committed to tone, starts cackling too.

You whip your head toward your husband. “Jason.”

“What?” he says. “That’s geographically accurate.”

Sophie’s jaw drops. “The gutter?”

“It was more of a storm drain situation,” he says generously.

“That is worse!”

You open your arms at once. “Come here, baby.”

“I am not coming there,” Sophie says, scandalized. She comes there immediately.

You pull her against your side while she continues protesting into your shoulder.

“There were mitigating circumstances,” you tell her hair.

“There better have been.”

Jason, entirely unrepentant, leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

“It was a rare sunny day,” he says. “Briar was two. We were out for a walk. Tiny Briar was babbling about trucks or snacks or physics, I don’t know, and then he just stopped. He freezes, stares at the curb, and goes…”

He drops his voice into a solemn toddler imitation.

“Baby.”

River gasps. Winnie smiles. Sophie stiffens in your arms.

“I look down and tell him, ‘No, Bri. That is a gutter.’”

The laughter starts all over again.

“But he keeps insisting,” Jason says. “‘Baby. Baby.’ Gets mad that I’m not listening. Starts trying to climb in there himself. So finally I crouch down,” Jason says, glancing at Sophie now, humor softening at the edges. “And I look.”

He pauses dramatically.

“And in the corner, staring up at me with these huge eyes…”

Sophie unconsciously widens her own.

“…was a tiny little baby in the gutter like Pennywise.”

The room shatters.

Sophie whips around. “Dad!”

“What?” Jason says. “She was in a drain and making intense eye contact.”

“That is so mean!”

“It is affectionate.”

You kiss the top of her head. “It is unfortunately affectionate.”

Jason grins and keeps going.

“The problem was, now I had to get you out.”

He spreads his hands. “Too deep to just reach. Too narrow to drop Briar in there with a rope.”

“So I hand Bri my phone and tell him to hold the flashlight.”

Jason nods. “Then I popped the manhole cover, climbed down, and there you were. Still in the corner. Still staring like you were judging my technique.”

Sophie tries not to smile.

Fails.

“I pick her up,” Jason says softly now, the humor easing into warmth. “And she starts crying like she’s mad at me for taking her away from her rat family”

“Dad!” Sophie yelps, scandalized.

River collapses into giggles. “Rat family!”

“She did not have a rat family,” you say, though you are laughing too.

Jason shrugs. “I don’t know her full backstory.”

Sophie buries her face in your shoulder for one second, then peeks back out. “I hate this story.”

“I’m sorry, babygirl, but its true.” says Jason

“I hate how you’re telling it.”

“That,” you say, kissing the top of her head, “is fair.”

“But the second I climbed back out and got you into the sunlight, you stopped.”

The room quiets.

Sophie looks up at him.

“Stopped?” she asks.

He nods. “Completely. Just blinked up at the sky like you’d never seen it before.”

You feel her shift against your side, listening with her whole body now.

“You had this little scrunched-up face,” Jason says, demonstrating badly. “Then the sun hit you, and suddenly you were calm. Quiet as anything.”

River tilts his head. “She solar powered?”

Briar snorts. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Sophie elbows the air in his direction without leaving your side.

“I was not solar powered.”

“You recharge dramatically,” Briar says.

“Be nice.”

Jason smiles to himself and continues.

“I figured step one after retrieving a drain baby was probably hospital.”

“That was the correct instinct,” you say.

“I have those occasionally.”

“So rare,” you murmur.

He ignores you. “I took her in, covered in grime, purple onesie, screaming on and off depending on whether I was moving too slow.”

“I remember getting the call,” you say, taking over before he can get worse. “Your father says, very casually, ‘Ma, don’t freak out, but I’m at the hospital with another baby.’”

Winnie giggles into Jason’s side.

“So I get there,” you continue, “and your dad is sitting in one of those terrible plastic chairs in the pediatric waiting room, holding the angriest little girl I’d ever seen. And… Briar was talking to social services arguing that he is the Daddy” “WHAT??” came a Briar’s voice

Jason snorted and took over “Briar was ready to claim full paternal rights because in his head since he found the baby he should be the daddy. We had to negotiate with him to make him accept he’s the brother”

Sophie groans and mutters about how Briar was annoying even back then. You correct her that Briar was the first person to love her. A look passed between the siblings with begrudging acknowledgement to shelf the fight for now. 

“They ran tests,” you continue the story. “Cleaned you up. Made sure you were healthy.”

“And then?” River asks.

“And then,” Jason says, leaning back into the couch, “we brought her home.”

Sophie looks between you both, voice smaller now.

“Just like that?”

You pull her closer and kiss the top of her head again.

“Just like that.”

Jason reaches over and taps the end of her nose.

“You were ours before the paperwork ever caught up.”

Jason stretches an arm across the back of the couch behind all of you and looks smug.

“Well,” he says. “Those are the stories of how the Toddlets found their way home.”

You turn to him slowly.

“The Toddlets?”

He shrugs. “Workshop title.”

“It’s terrible,” Briar says.

“It’s amazing,” Winniw says sleepily.

“Tod-let,” he repeats to himself, delighted.

Sophie is quiet.

At first you think she’s just tired. She’s leaning into your side now, fingers tracing the seam of the couch cushion, eyes fixed somewhere past the coffee table.

Then she speaks.

“So…”

The room shifts.

Children have a way of changing the weather with one word.

You look down. “Yeah, baby?”

She doesn’t correct the baby this time.

“You didn’t choose me,” she says softly. “You found me.”

No one moves.

The sentence lands in the center of the room and opens something tender in all of you.

Jason’s face changes first. All the easy humor goes out of it.

You turn fully toward her, brushing a curl back from her forehead.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” Sophie says quickly, which means it is absolutely not okay. “I’m just saying. Briar was first. Winnie got brought to you. River was manifested. But me…” Her voice wobbles. “You just found me there.”

You gather her into your arms before the thought can grow teeth.

She comes willingly this time, folding into you with the sudden heaviness children get when they are trying not to cry.

“No,” you say softly into her hair. “We met you there.”

She sniffles against your shoulder.

“That’s different.”

“It is,” you say. “Where we met you is not the same as why you stayed.”

The room is so quiet you can hear the dishwasher click in the kitchen.

“You think families are made in one moment,” you continue, holding her tighter. “They aren’t. They’re made over and over again.”

You kiss her temple.

“We chose you when we stayed at the hospital.”

Another kiss.

“We chose you when we brought you home.”

Her shoulders shake once.

“We chose you every birthday, every bedtime, every school pickup, every bad mood, every hug, every argument, every single day after that.”

Sophie’s grip tightens on your shirt.

“And,” you whisper, smiling now, “you chose us too.”

She lifts her face, tearful and suspicious. “I did?”

“You did,” Jason says quietly.

Everyone looks at him.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“You could’ve screamed every time we held you. Could’ve hated the house. Could’ve decided we were weird.”

“We are weird,” Briar says.

“Deeply,” Jason agrees. “But you didn’t. You laughed with us. You grew with us. You loved us. That’s choosing.”

Sophie looks between the two of you, trying to decide whether to believe something that big.

Briar, unable to survive sincerity for more than thirty consecutive seconds, clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says. “She could’ve gone back to her rat family.”

The room explodes.

Sophie whips around so fast you nearly lose her.

“I NEVER HAD A RAT FAMILY!”

“You don’t know that,” Briar says, already dodging.

“There could’ve been tiny little rat parents waiting.”

“Briar!” you laugh.

River sits straight up, electrified.

“Rat grandma?”

Winnie, very quietly, adds, “Rat cousins.”

Jason folds in half laughing.

Sophie launches herself off the couch with a battle cry and charges her brother.

Chaos returns in a shower of cushions.

Briar is halfway over the armchair trying to dodge Sophie, who has abandoned all dignity in favor of vengeance. Winnie has joined the battle in the most Winnie way possible, silently lobbing highly accurate pillows from Jason’s side like a tiny mercenary. River is on his knees in your lap shouting battle commentary no one asked for.

“GET HIM!”

“I am getting him!” Sophie yells.

“You throw like a pidgey!” Briar shouts back.

“I don’t even know what that means!”

A cushion flies past your head and hits the lamp shade hard enough to tilt it.

You reach over and fix it automatically.

Beside you, Jason is laughing so hard he’s gone quiet.

You turn to look at him.

He’s watching the room the way people watch fireworks. Head tipped back against the couch, eyes soft, smile loose and helpless. The house is loud enough to rattle the windows. And he looks stunned by it.

You know that look too.

It’s the one that appears when joy catches him off guard.

His gaze shifts from the children to you.

For a moment, the noise falls away.

He reaches over and hooks two fingers in your sleeve, tugging until you turn fully toward him.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

His thumb brushes your wrist once.

“Thanks,” he says.

You blink. “For what?”

He glances at the battlefield in front of you.

At Briar laughing despite himself. At Sophie shrieking war crimes. At Winnie calmly reloading. At River trying to hold a pillow the size of him. 

Then back to you.

“For giving me this.”

Your chest tightens.

“Jay.”

“This family,” he says, quieter now. “This house. All of it.”

There is still disbelief tucked inside the words, like some part of him cannot quite accept that this belongs to him too.

You cup his jaw.

“I should be thanking you.”

He huffs a laugh. “Me?”

“You’re the one who kept showing up with children.”

That gets a real laugh out of him.

“Fair.”

“You found them,” you say softly. “You brought them home.”

“No,” he says, eyes on yours. “We built the rest together.”

The room blurs at the edges.

You lean in first this time.

His hand comes to the back of your neck automatically, warm and steady, and then he’s kissing you slow and familiar in the middle of absolute nonsense, like there is no better place for it.

There probably isn’t.

Around you, the pillow fight screeches to a halt.

A chorus rises immediately.

“EWWWW!”

“GROSS!”

“IN FRONT OF US?”

“JAIL!”

You break apart laughing.

Jason keeps his forehead against yours. “Jealous.”

Another pillow hits his shoulder.

River, outraged by exclusion, climbs over your lap and wedges himself bodily between your faces.

“My turn.”

He grabs each of your cheeks with one  hand and plants a loud kiss on your cheek, then Jason’s, then yours again just to be safe.

The older kids collapse into scandalized laughter.

Winnie smiles so hard she snorts.

Sophie points. “That is disgusting.”

“You made him this way,” Briar tells you both.

Jason lifts River one-handed and presses a kiss to his belly until he squeals.

You look around the room.

At the mess. The noise. The children. Your husband with a smile on his face and a toddler under his arm.

Nothing matches. Nothing is tidy. Nothing is calm.

Across the dirtied linoleum sat an ice machine — another source of his entertainment so far. It hacked and coughed every six minutes, spitting out what was surely ice from a questionable water source. In the forty-ninth minute, he sees someone.

Out of place, way too put-together, who didn't belong to a motel at the side of a highway. You balanced a silver bucket in your arms, the other, rustling with the ice scoop. He was undoubtedly judging you for your trust in said machine, but that wasn't what intrigued him, no.

It was a slow progression to get to see the stranger, catching flickers of your features, he was straining to piece together.

You turned to look over your shoulder when you felt a stare, only briefly meeting Scott's gaze and returned to your task.

A hairy pot-belly rudely interrupts Scott's leering. He draws back with a scowl to Doug, who dangles a key-card, bound with dried-up sticker-residue.

"About time," Scott sighs, looking past Doug, only to see that you were now gone, dejection filling his chest.

He grabs his key from the man, digging up a dollar & a twenty-dollar bill. "This would've been yours," the twenty flutters out of Doug's view, handing him the dollar bill instead.

"…If it were twenty minutes ago." Scott smiles all bright while chewing his gum.

The man shoots him a dirty look, "glad I pissed in yer sheets, cheap fuck."

Scott simply raises an infuriating salute as he walks off with his duffel.

Monitors lit up with readings of software most would stare dumbly at.

Scott's bed was made — not for sleep, but for his gear. An extension cord had cables snaked all over each other in an organised mess, connected to the nearest power outlet, which was definitely a fire hazard.

A headband sat on his head in place of his cap, hair pulled back with the thin black plastic. Scott had been mouthing numbers off to himself like a man possessed for the better half of an hour when three sharp knocks on the rickety doors stole Scott's focus.

He looks toward it, pen between his teeth, "…yeah?"

"Hey," the voice sounds lighter, casual, definitely a woman's, "I'm from next door. Do you mind if I borrow your shower? The one in mine's busted."

Scott exaggeratedly moves his legs over the equipment in one swoop, cracking the door open with a weary frown. It softens in seconds.

The Ice-bucket hottie from earlier.

"…Lucky me huh? Gave me the only working room in this shit-hole." He nudges the door open with his heel. "Knock yourself out."

"Mm. Rude if you asked me." Scott raises his brow at your wit, watching in amusement as you tug the bath towel draped across your chest tighter, "pretty sure Doug had an eyeful of my tits when I went down to ask."

He clears his throat, though hacking was a better word for it — trying not to look exactly where you'd inadvertently drawn attention to. Slick, coated tits with remnants of soap. Jesus fuck. You, on the other hand, seem unbothered by the state of your undress.

His gaze followed the sway of your hips as you walked off.

"…I'd bet."

The sound of the shower running only served to pester Scott's mind. He doesn't mean to act like a perv, but it was hard not to when he technically hadn't gotten laid in almost six months. So the thought of a girl — who, in a cosmic cruel joke, was visually aligned with his ideals — barely a couple of feet away in a bathroom, naked, it wasn't really his choice when his cock twitched in agony beneath his sweats.

Maybe…just until you'd left. He glances down, wearily bringing his thumb over the slight tent forming.

Almost like you'd sensed his more-than-creepy self-soothing habits, Scott snaps his hand away from his crotch, where he was idly palming himself beneath his was to ease the ache.

"Thanks. I really didn't wanna use Doug's bathroom." You announced your presence before even stepping out of the bathroom, giving him too timely grace period to get decent. "Also, I think our other neighbours are filming a porno."

He sniffs loudly, swiping at his nose with the very hand he'd been busy with. "Don't sweat it." Scott has enough conscience not to look at you, but what made him look up in query was the familiar, minty scent you brought with you.

Bergamot & Eucalyptus.

"You — …"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I used the fancy-looking thing you had on the counter."

Scott looked speechless. Who just uses someone else's body wash?

"Gel douche," you enunciate with a forced 'fancy' accent, "you don't come by these places often, do you?"

"…And you do?" He can't help the quirk of a smile that creeps up at your brazenness as you approach him with a trail of dripping water. Thankfully, you were much more clothed this time, wearing what he was pretty sure was his motel-issue bathrobe.

"Clearly more than you," you quipped, then nudging your head toward the array of contraptions on the bed. "Ohhhh. You one of those ghost-hunting freaks?"

Scott squints, bouncing his gaze from his equipment and back to you, "are you kidding? Do I look like a paranormal investigator?"

He graduated from MIT, for Christ's sake.

"Yes." You say without hesitation, he shoots you a disgruntled look when you bring the shower wetness to his bed. Equipment bouncing beneath your weight.

"Hey," he warns. Scott scoots over to make space for you, attempting not to let the flutter in his gut go unchecked from the warmth you radiate. "Easy with the bouncing."

He chokes at his own word choice, immediate, explicit thoughts flooding his mind. Be quiet, brain.

"…That's the entirety of my research grant money you're treating like a damn trampoline park."

You raise your brow at that, "grant money. So you're a paid ghoul hunter?" Turning your slipping attention to the devices, tinkering with the switches that sent a flurry of static through his readings."

"For the love of —" Scott groans loudly, "I study hurricane readings." He grabs your wrist in annoyance. "Quit messing with my shit."

"Ow! Watch it." You steady your palm on the sheets, damn near having fallen onto his lap. "What? This triggers a tornado or something?"

Scott seems to notice the excessive force used, promptly letting you go. Back growing stiff at how close you'd gotten. He cleared his throat for what appeared to be the fourth time that night.

"No. Obviously not. I'm not Superman."

You look up at him for a moment, then gesture at him. "Could be. Without the girly headband."

He grunts, flicking the plastic off his head, combing over his hair repeatedly to get rid of the dent. "Has anyone ever told you how tactless you are?"

"What did I do that was so tactless?" you challenge, leisurely leaning back again onto your palms. Feet propped up fully with ankles hooked over one another.

"For one, this", he aggressively points at your position, wincing at the sight of the plush cotton white having been dragged off your inner thighs. Voice only getting higher-pitched and heated, mostly out of projection of his barely contained desires. "Zero self-preservation skills, I could've had bad motives, and you've sauntered right in next to nothing. You're lucky I'm a good guy."

You paused to think for a moment, then shifted forward. Sliding your palms higher up the sheets to bend at his sight. He gulps when the middle of your robe comes slightly undone.

"I don't think so."

Scott blinks, "…pardon?"

"I don't think you're a good guy." You say simply, then lean closer with a sly smile.

His gaze falters at your proximity, discreetly adjusting himself at the twitch of his cock.

"I am." He bites back defensively. "F'not, I wouldn't have been seated still right now even with your painfully obvious motives here."

A pause, then, "I don't pay for sex."

You let out an offended scoff, "ex-fucking-scuse me?"

"I'm not looking down on that sort of thing," he continues, with his palms raised in surrender, "but it's just not my thing."

"Unbelievable. Do I look like a hussy to you?"

Scott tilts his head, then grins at the opportunity to get back at you.

"Yes." He shoots back without missing a beat.

You mirror a disgruntled look, similar to his own from earlier. When it settles that he was likely fucking around.

A huff of air leaves you. "Jerk. So not equal."

Scott folds his arms, surveying your reaction to his accusation, "look, if you aren't, then I'll admit I was wrong. But…you're quite literally throwing yourself at me. What else should I think?"

"You're my type." You point out, still with an edge of annoyance in your tone.

That seems to get him to stop talking for once.

He doesn't stop you when you shift to him, dragging your knuckle up his jaw, then gently prodding at the indent there when he flexes the muscle there in confusion.

"It's cute. These."

Scott unwittingly smiles into the press of your finger. It only served to amuse you even more at how deep it went. "Whoa-hhohh!"

He gently pulls your wrist away from his face, lips twitching with a dorky grin at your coo of amusement. Frankly, he was flattered at the attention. And if he was being really honest? He'd been hard for a while now at your brazen elusion to societal norms.

Only a dead man would remain limp in this situation.

"Fine. I'll bite."

You follow the direction where he guides you at the tug of your wrist — settling snug onto his lap.

"What makes you think I'd even want to after you called me a prostitute?"

Scott grits when you circle your hips teasingly over his bulge that only seemed to twitch harder.

"Fuck and forgive?" He suggests simply with a smile. It's then you catch a glimpse of pink rolling beneath his canines, and he chews on it, with a cocky lop-sided smirk.

You feel your cunt throb in real time, a whole body shudder taking you at the sight of him. Scott's already twisting his hips over to the side to reach out for the drawer, palm resting snug at the divot of your hips. He feels around the drawer until he feels a crinkle, pulling the aluminium square with him.

Scott stops his movements when you push away at his palms, twisting your robe open with your other hand as you lean in. He grunts at the feel of your warm, bare tits against his chest. The cotton pools at your hips, and he readjusts his hold on the small of your bare back.

"You can fuck me raw."

Holy shit.

"Are you fucking with me?" He croaks, a little too desperately.

You pull away with a slow shake of your head, Scott unabashedly looks smitten, looking at you like you were a spike in his readings. "This isn't some…fetish where you're trying to pass people STD's…is it?"

"No, and no." Offence is evident in your voice, but you suppose you would've asked the same thing. "I'm clean. Fuck me with or without, it doesn't matter. But…" You pause and slide your hands up his shoulder, then down to his chest.

"Somethin' tells me….a raw pussy would send you…" He gulps, feeling the drag of your nail stopping right at the waistband of his sweats, emphasising the next few words as your digit traces over the heavily twitching bulge, poking at where the tip might be, "…riiiiight over the edge."

"Fuck." He gasps, head tilted back, when you finally manoeuvre him out of the too-tight pants. Then, his hips jump, at the wet, dribble coating his cock without warning.

Scott groans loudly, "f-fuck." He pants, sliding his palms up your thighs, pushing the entirety of your bathrobe off them.

He winces at the languid pump you offer, slick with your spit over his length. His fingers flex over your ribs, down to the fat in an effort to ground himself from not cumming right then.

"Fffuck baby." His voice is a mere groan, only serving to emphasise just how incredibly painfully tight his balls were growing in anticipation. " Let me fuck er' raw."

You bite down on your lips, thumbing Scott's lips apart. "Are all nerds hopeless virgins like you?"

"What makes you think…I-I'm a virgin." He manages, rubbing absentmindedly down to your knees while you stroke him.

"Your voice is shaking, baby," you mutter with a mocking edge at the term of endearment he'd used just seconds ago.

His lips press taut with the lack of a comeback. Bringing his hands back up to thumb at your clit in defiance. You gasp at that, doubling over and faltering in your movements.

"Well, I'm not. It's just been a while," he counters, "and…you're stupid hot."

You're immediately pleased by the right choice of words, grinning as you lean in to press a peck at the base of his jaw. "Pleased to be the first, then."

The change in position comes quickly, and suddenly — Scott's not too worried about the boat-load of very expensive equipment on his bed. Loud, whiny static is emitted when your feet knock one of the devices off, the heel pressing onto some of the controls.

Scott couldn't have cared less for it, much more focused on the naked girl beneath him, but then you gasp. "Oh no! The grant money."

He rolls his eyes with a cocky grin, chewing tentatively on his gum while hiking your legs around his hips, "you done yet?"

You shake your head, stretching your arms up much like a cat, providing him a tantalising view of the quiver of your hips at the exertion.

"Christ. So fuckin' sexy." He manages, barely.

You lift your head halfway when he leans down hastily, letting him slot his lips with yours. It's a quick shift of mood then — heavy breaths into each other's mouths. Scott doesn't wait to slide his digits knuckle deep with his mouth still on you, rolling his tongue into yours.

The taste of sour green apples isn't registered in your mind when he steadily fucks his digits into you. It's hot, and wet, Scott's barely able to pull his fingers out with how needily you were sucking them back in.

He pulls away from you, smiling with a suspicious broadness. You pause and frown at him. Slowly chewing on gum that most definitely wasn't yours.

"That's fucking gross."

Scott shrugs with a grin, pulling his slick-coated fingers out of your cunt. You clench around nothing at the loss of his fingers, a flicker of your expression giving you away. "What's it taste like?"

He hums, stroking himself with the gathered wetness.

You sigh, chewing with nonchalance, blowing a bubble, then popping it.

"Green apple."

"Good. That's what your pussy's about to taste like, too."

The sudden dribble of wetness landing cold on your clit catches you off guard. Scott drags the wetness of his spit down and thumbs it into your fold. His cock soon pokes at your folds. You whimper the words that didn't make their way out at how inexplicably turned on you were.

A smaller pair of hands brushes past his as you part your pussy for him. Scott grunts at the gesture, shaking his head with a low whistle.

You were insane. And it was making him think very dangerous thoughts. Like ways to keep his cock snug in you forever, possibly.

Delicious, heady whines leave your parted lips at every inch he feeds into you. Pulsing and relaxing around his hot, throbbing cock. A hard snap of his hips has you clutching the sheets, kicking another one of his equipment to the ground.

"Ten grand you just kicked off there, champ."

"My pussy's worth way more than that." You quip, curling your palms around his bicep that was closest to you.

Scott grumbles low, the annoyance quickly fading off him at just how tightly you were clenching him.

"Something we both can agree on."

He turns his attention back to where you were still struggling to take him; another dribble of his spit follows, landing where you both were connected. You're physically shaking at the gesture, and Scott seems to notice. The wetness proved to be an easy fix, and he buries himself to the hilt in you with a final thrust.

"Ohhhhhhhh my fucking god," you groan, feet on its tippy toes, curled when he held you there.

Scott tilts his head, rutting into you, letting you get used to his size.

"Liked that, did you?" He coos, lightly slapping your cheek when you'd attempted to burrow them into the sheets. "Hey." It's rougher this time, where he forces your cheeks to look at him.

"H-Huh?" You let out a surprised whine when his thumb parts your lips, and he manoeuvres the sticky pink out of your mouth.

"When I spit on your pussy," he reminds with a heavy snap of his hips.

"N-Ng—hrrk!" Your eyes roll back at the intensity of where he circled his hips, and you're brought back with another gentle slap. "Y…eah. Was..reeal…hot…"

He smiles, then you feel his thumb soothe where it was turning red.

"Open your mouth."

You blink up at him hazily, letting him guide your parted mouth further open. Scott leans in. A slow dribble of clear liquid drips onto your tongue. Instinctively, you clench hard around his cock.

"Oh, you fucking love it," he muses, his own voice trembling. He smears the spit that missed over your lower lip. You lock your gaze with his, kitten licking his thumb. He flinches at that.

Scott begins to thrust harder, meaner, drinking in your loud moans.

"Mmmh..—fuck. Million dollar pussy you've got, better make it worth for me, huh?"

You begin to squirm your head away, where he was incessantly whispering stupid, mocking words into your neck.

"G-God. Shut up." You gasp, turning your to then gnaw at his biceps, tugging the shirt that was in the way.

Scott rids himself of the fabric with a fluid movement, relishing in the way the softness of your chest flattened onto him, he shucks his sweats halfway down his thighs for ease — where you slowly begin to rub your thighs against the fabric that remained, toeing it for warmth.

"Try not to kick anything else off." He chides, with a slow roll of his shoulders, hiking your hips closer to him.

You let out a softer squeak as you looked askew, past his biceps and onto the ghastly carpeted floors where his equipment that lay there abandoned.

Scott lets out a disgruntled groan at the bites and marks you were busy leaving all over his arm. "Ow — stop that." You don't seem to listen — red, angrier crescent moon marks form on the muscle, biting him like a woman possessed.

He grabs your jaw to face him, and you return a sharp glare.

"What?" You mutter, trying to keep your eyes focused despite the intrusive stretch that rocked into you relentlessly. Scott's fingers slide down the softness of your tongue — effectively gagging you. Drool collects where he holds you open, not stopping the role of his hips.

"Keep that up, an' I'm just gonna have to muzzle you."

You let out a muffled groan.

"Understand?"

Reluctantly, you nod. He pulls out, with a trail of your saliva following. "Hm. Not so bad when you actually listen, for once." With a grin, Scott lowers his head, stifling your annoyed grunts. You return the sloppy kisses he gives you, moaning low and content into his mouth.

Most of the night is spent like this, tasting of sweet, artificial apples and sourness on your tongue — so much so that Scott failed to notice the dozens of missed calls Kate & Javi had been sending him.

By the time silence had settled — you'd worn Scott out cold completely. With moves he didn't even know would've made him cum. At one point, he was sure you might've been his dream girl (though he'd die first before admitting it.)

It wasn't until a loud banging had him jerk right up, dazed.

"Christ, what?" Scott grunts, clambering off the bed, grabbing something nearby him to get decent.

"Scott! What the hell? Where have you been."

He drags his hand down his face, groggily, "I was with…" Scott pauses, looking at the bed — now completely empty. "….huh,” he points loosely to the bed. A confused look taking his face.

His equipment. Where was his equipment?

Javi doesn't understand why exactly Scott seemed frantic, looking for clothes that weren't there, adding to the missing pile of equipment. He shoves past his colleague, palms clutched around the metal railings.

Car missing from the lot, too.

He looks over to the dresser, where a quaint note he'd missed earlier lay.

Cute car. Doesn't suit a guy like you, hope you don't mind.

"Motherfucking…thieving...." He hisses, turning to Javi, "phone, give it." The shorter man looks over to him quizzically, watching Scott walk back into the room, shoulders hunched. Blue eyes tracking over the moving dot on the navigation map.

"I've got you, bitch."

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Oblivious to your reaction, she nods. “Yeah. The teacher said we can bring any daddy, and Jay’s the best one I know.” She swings her legs slightly. “What do you think?”

You force your hand to move again, gently brushing through her hair.

“I’d have to ask, baby.”

“Okay,” she hums softly. “I want our clothes to be matching.”

You finish off the pigtails, trying to keep your hands steady even though there’s a sinking feeling inside your chest.

“So the lunch,” you ask, trying to keep your voice light, “Is it soon?”

“It’s on Friday,” she replies immediately. “Miss Teagues said that we gotta ‘rsdv’ or something before Tuesday.” 

Despite your other feelings, a laugh bubbles out of you, “It’s ‘RSVP’, babe.” 

She crinkles her nose but accepts your correction. She stops swinging her legs and cranes her head up to look at you. “D’ya think he’ll say yes?”

“I don’t know, baby,” you admit. “He might be busy.”

“He’s always busy,” she says, unconcerned. “But he still comes when I ask.”

She’s so certain of it, like it’s a fact. Your heart aches at that. She has so much faith in the unspoken role Jason has created for himself in her life that she doesn’t doubt him for a second. 

Once her hair is completely to her liking, you help her get down from the stool and she announces she needs to find a dress and runs off to her room. 

You’re not as sure as her. You know Jason cares for Sofia but by agreeing to go to this, they’ll be giving a name to his role in her life. Even if it’s true, you're not sure if he’s ready for that. Hell you’re not sure if you are. But Sofia seems to be and you owe it to your girl to be brave and just ask. 

The next time you see Jason is a few days later.

He said he’d stop by to drop off the school supplies Leo left at his place last week. Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet you can’t stop the anxiety from creeping up your entire body

The kids are sprawled out on the floor, cartoons playing loud enough to fill the apartment, when the knock comes.

It’s not even a full second before both their heads snap up.

They’re already scrambling to their feet before you can say anything, socks slipping against the floor as they race each other to the door. 

“Hey guys slow down—” you start, but it’s pointless. You don’t know how they know it’s him, but you know there’s no stopping them.

The door swings open.

“Jay!” Sofia beams, practically vibrating.

“Did you bring my stuff?” Leo adds, already trying to peek around him.

Jason barely gets a word in before they’re both talking over each other.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs, holding up the bag in one hand. “One at a time, gremlins.”

Leo snatches the bag immediately, digging through it like it contains buried treasure. “You forgot my blue pen last time.”

“I didn’t forget it,” Jason mutters. “You left it.”

Sofia, meanwhile, has already attached herself to his side, hugging him like it’s routine.

“Hi,” she chirps.

“Hey, bug.”

His hand comes down to her head automatically, ruffling her hair just enough to make her squeak in protest.

“Jay! My hair!”

“You’ll live.”

You lean against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a quiet sort of familiarity that still catches you off guard.

“You guys wanna let Jay in or what?” you say after a second.

They scatter back to the living room, the big man in tow. Leo dumps all the contents of his backpack in the corner, going through everything. Sofia makes him sit down on the couch before she suddenly gets very shy. 

“Um Jay,” she says extremely softly, a complete contrast to her usual tone and volume. “Mama wants to ask you something.”

You narrow your eyes at her as she looks up at you, “Mama wants to or Sof does?”

She blushes and you feel bad for putting your baby on the spot and you’re about to ask her question to him, when he gently pulls her close to him, in the space between his legs, and asks, “What’s wrong bug? You know you can ask me anything, you don’t have to make Mama do it.”

“My school’s doing a daddy-daughter lunch on Friday,” she finally says, her head turned downwards no longer looking at his eyes. “And Miss Teagues said we can bring any daddy we want.”

Jason goes very still.

You see it, the way his shoulders tighten just slightly, the way his breath sharpens.

Sofia doesn’t notice.

“I was gonna pick you,” she continues, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “If… you wanna come.”

There’s a pause.

Not long but long enough that your girl feels it and panics.

“Bug–” he starts, then stops.

She rushes to fill the silence. “It’s okay if you’re busy! Mama said you might be busy but I just thought ‘cause you pick me up sometimes and you help with my homework and you’re the best Daddy I kn—”

“I’ll be there.”

Sofia freezes. “…Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “Course I will.”

Her face lights up so fast it almost hurts to look at.

“I knew it!” she cheers, throwing her arms around him again.

He lets out a quiet oof but wraps an arm around her anyway, holding her there for a second.

His eyes flick up to you over her shoulder.

Something unspoken passes between you.

You mouth ‘thank you’ to him and he replies with an ‘always’. 

Sofia pulls back, already bouncing again. “You gotta wear something nice! And we need to be matching! And I’m gonna introduce you to everyone!”

“Whoa, whoa,” he mutters. “Slow down, what kinda nice are we talking?”

You can’t help it, you laugh a little.

And for a moment, it almost feels… normal.

Sofia keeps talking, rambling about cupcakes and streamers and how he has to sit next to her, and Jason listens like every word matters.

At that moment, you don’t even know why you felt nervous to ask him. He was so assured in his answer. So certain. Not allowing Sofia to doubt his love and care for even a second. 

Leo calls her and his baby sister rushes over to him, content with her grown ups, more excited to play with her brother now. 

You plop down beside him on the sofa, and the two of you just stare at each other for a moment. 

“Thank you, I mean it really.” You start saying, even though he’s already waving you off like you knew he would. “You didn’t have to say yes but I’m glad you did, it means a lot to her. You mean a lot to her.”

He takes your hand in his palm, his hand warming up your cold one. “She means a lot to me too. You all do.”

You don’t know what to say, your chest overwhelmed with love, so you just stick to squeezing his hand and moving closer to him. You put your head on his shoulder and the two of you watch your kids as they play together.

reblogs + comments are appreciated

It’s not that you were trying to be cruel. You knew your daughter and you knew her stomach. If she finished that cornelli sitting on the top shelf of your freezer, she wouldn’t even look twice at the somewhat healthy pasta you made for the kids.

 You also knew Jason, on account of being classmates in school, lovers in your young adult years and now co parents to a lovely eight year old son named Leo. You knew that he would not be able to hold his own when it came to your own younger daughter.

 It has always been like this, ever since she was born. Even though you two had been separated for around two years by then, when she came into this world, screaming and wailing, he fell in love. He picked your son up, helping him look through the glass separating the hallway from the hospital nursery. Both their eyes resembling something similar, a softness mixed with parts of awe, love and protectiveness.  

Your daughter’s father, a drunken one night stand who didn’t want the responsibility of a child, was a figure rarely missed in your home. The only father she knew was her older brother’s, who was more than happy to share. Jason took on the role valiantly, despite the two of you no longer being in a relationship, and Sofia in turn, looked at him like he held all the stars and moon. 

Jason was a good man and even though you hadn’t lasted as a couple, you were immensely grateful for the fact that he was in your life and everything he did for both your children. It wasn’t always like this though. At the end of your relationship and start of your separation, things were tumultuous, to say the least. Both of you were cruel and unkind, spewing passive aggressive insults at one another, refusing to be in the same space as each other.

 You would slam doors and curse him and he in turn would stay out late and sleep in your son’s room.

 It was the oldest tale in the book, young lovers fall too fast and too hard. Add a kid to that mixture and thus chaos follows. 

However now, more than half a decade older, you were both much calmer. You’ve managed to let go of your younger, more crass selves and let yourself grow into mature adults. There’s a sort of rhythm to your lives now, a melody you’ve perfected along with the help of Jason and your angels. Something to be envious of, according to some of the moms at Leo’s school.  A part of you can’t help but smile at those comments, you’ve worked hard for the relationship you have and you’re glad that it shows. Not to say you still don’t have pesky arguments here and there, but they’re more about what movie to watch for movie  night or whether the kids should get to stay up late. The silly things, but for the important things you guys were in complete sync. You shared your priorities and most importantly trusted and respected one another.

The sound of the front door opening catches both your and your daughter’s attention. You can hear your sweet boy explaining something excitedly to his father. 

“Mom!” Leo exclaims, barrelling through the hallway and into your open arms. You let out a small grunt as his body collides with your own. He hugs you so tightly that you would think that you haven’t seen each other in years instead of just one day.  He starts rambling about his day, what he did and saw at the park. You try to listen as well as you can but your attention shifts to the man walking in the kitchen. 

Even after all these years, he still manages to take away your breath.

Black hair mussed, probably from the ride over. His shirt so deliciously stretched across his chest that you almost want to exclaim out loud, but don’t for the little ears beside you and your self respect you suppose. His biceps that are adorned with tattoos that Sofia loves colouring in, has your son’s Wonder Woman backpack slung on it. Looking at him you can tell that he spends a lot of time at the gym (something you’ve definitely grown to appreciate over the years), a figure that is both desired and envied by people. 

He has a smile on his face, and it seems like he wants to say something to you, before his eyes find your tearful daughter and a frown immediately replaces it. He speeds up and walks past you to where she’s throwing her tantrum. He crouches down to her level and opens his arms, allowing her tiny body to be thrown in them. Her small hands hold onto his neck, sobbing into his shirt.

He stands up, Sofia still loudly sobbing in his arms and turns around. You knew this would happen. You knew the second that he walked in, her antics would be turned up to 1000. 

As he’s comforting her by patting her back, he mouths to you, what happened?, a look of concern gracing his face. You rolled your eyes and sent your son to wash up with a kiss on his head, before answering only to be interrupted by your girl.

“Jay, I'm so sad!” she sobs out. 

He pulls back so he can look at her face, “I can see that bug, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” His hands continue wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mama’s being so-” hiccup “Mean!” 

“Is she now?” He asks, the corners of his lips dancing like he’s trying not to laugh. “That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

Your chest warms as he defends you against your daughter. It’s probably time for you to step in and say something, before she continues to spew lies about you. Though part of you does want to just observe how Jason defends you but you push it down quickly.

“Mama’s not being mean. Mama just won’t let you spoil your appetite before dinner.”

At the mention of dinner, your girl starts to cry harder into his chest, her tiny palms gripping his shirt into a bunch. Her sobs are muffled by his tight embrace. His big hands are caressing her hair and he leaves a small kiss in her hair. He’s grinning at you, now that he knows nothing serious has happened, he finds it entertaining. You explain everything that was happening before they walked through the door and then you can’t help but return a smile. You tried to fight it but it shows up, quite similar to the way Jason does in your life. Sometimes unexpected but never unwanted. The two of you’ve built a life together, and maybe it’s different from what you had imagined but it’s something you’re very grateful for. 

Jason then whispers something in her ears, you hope it’s not him giving in but you have no idea what they’re talking about. At that Sofia stops crying and she scrunches her eyes brows, indicating that she’s thinking hard about whatever he said. After a couple of moments, she nods her head and kisses his cheek before getting down from his arms and running out of the kitchen.

“What’d you say to her?” you ask, curious to know about what made her stop crying.

Jason just shrugged, finally dropping the backpack on the chair, “I just said that she and Leo can share a cone after they help put their dishes away.”

You stare at him with a blank look on your face. “That’s it? I’ve been trying to get her to stop crying for the past half an hour and you do it with one sentence?”

His face is very smug now and you wish to wipe it off (maybe with a kiss).

“Guess she likes me best.”

You smack his arm lightly and he laughs, grabbing it and placing it on his palm before you could pull it away. He pulls you in an one armed hug and you continue to grumble but make no actions to move away. 

“I carry her for 9 months, I give birth for 17 hours and what does she do? Betray me and like you more.”

He just laughs and places a kiss on the side of your forehead, an act too familiar for your current situation but you savor it. “Don’t worry, I like you the best.” 

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you pull away from his side.

“Flattery isn’t going to save you from dish duty, Todd.”

He groans dramatically. “You wound me. I just solved a full-scale hostage situation and this is the thanks I get?”

“A hostage situation?” you repeat dryly.

“Yes,” he says, staring at you intently. “Our tiny tyrant weaponizing her tears is extremely dangerous. A few more minutes and I would have had her in my lap trying to get her to share the ice cream with me.”

You don’t reply, instead you go back to the stove. He follows you and helps bring out the plates and cups from their designated places, because of course he knows where they are. When his back is turned, you lean against the counter, watching him move easily around the kitchen like he’s always belonged there. In truth, he kind of has. The years have carved out a place for him in your life that neither of you ever quite managed to fill with anyone else.

He catches you looking and raises a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, turning back to the stove and stirring the pasta.

Behind you, Jason nudges your shoulder with his.

“Liar.”

Before you can respond, Sofia barrels back into the kitchen, followed closely by Leo who’s being dragged by her.

“I told him the plan, Jay!” she announces, all signs of being upset disappeared completely. Behind her, Leo grumbles to himself and you hear, I didn’t even want ice cream, why do I have to help? But he still goes and takes the stack of plates from his dad’s hand, while Sofia drags the placemats to the table.

Across the room you watch as your family works together to set the table. Jason helps Sofia up to her seat so she can place the mats and then goes to Leo to help him put the plates and cups down. They’re all laughing and giggling and your heart is warm in your chest. You love them so much. You love them all you think, even the adult helping, trying to make this mundane task more enjoyable for his kids. 

This life that you have is better than anything you could have dreamed of.

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.

"S-Spare me." The only remaining thug is on his knees, voice trembling so hard that it's hard to separate his words from the chattering of his teeth. Damian lifts his blade to press against his neck, forcing the thug to meet the blank slits of his domino mask.

"Useless." Damian spats, glowering with unrestrained hatred. "If you wish for a painless death, you will lead me to her or I shall tear it out of you."

"She's on the second floor of the warehouse, on the canopy." The thug stammers, palms clambering against the concrete, tears pooling dots into the blood spilled on Damian's katana. "Please, I don't want to die."

Damian's restraint darkens into something nearly monstrous. What he has contained for years has never been forgotten, buried training drilled into him over and over that has taught him all the ways to end one's life. His blood lust drips off of him as he digs the blade deeper into the thug's wallowed skin.

"Then you should've been smarter to know not to take what's mine."

You clamp your eyes shut at the sound of a scream that never finished.

Shuddering, it takes you long, dragged seconds before you open your eyes, only to find Damian has already grappled himself to land before you. The silence is heavy, and the darkness in his gaze hasn't lifted.

If anything, the sight of you bounded nearly drives him insane. He lands harshly before you on his knees, tearing the tape that seals your lips with such gentle care to hurt you as little as possible, even if his hands are coated with blood that didn't belong to him.

Your sobs tear out of you, finally able to breathe.

"Beloved." His voice breaks, and he pulls you into his arms.

His entire body is shaking. From afar, he had seemed almost inhumane, cold and ruthless like the weapon he once told you of in stories. It was only now, in his embrace, that you feel the tremors in his fingers as his hands caress your hair. Not from adrenaline, but pure, unadulterated fear that you had been taken from him. That he hadn't known where you were, if you were alive, for two days.

"I will find them." He mutters, deranged. "Every single one of them. I will make them pay."

"Damian." Even trying to say his name is a challenge, your body forcefully undergoing shock tremors. "I want to go home."

He obeys your command immediately, using his katana to slash through the bindings of your arms. It doesn't even come close to harming the hair on your arms with his preciseness. You still can't wrap your mind around how easily his body is trained to know the difference between a harmless cut and the final decision to a person's life.

He doesn't even bother trying to let you stand, hoisting you into a bridal-carry. His hand shifts your head to be buried into the crook of his neck, shielding your gaze from the bloodshed that he's caused.

You don't need to ask.

The two of you will be the only ones to leave this room alive.

The silence is more petrifying than the screams that echoed in the warehouse when he made his arrival. Without his voice to ground you, you feel you're only one heavy blink away from your nightmares, from being trapped in that warehouse again.

Covered from your shoulders all the way to your toes in a blanket bundle he's meticulously wrapped, you watch as he parades back and forth in your shared bedroom, double-checking the doors, windows, fire-escape, only to start the routine all over again.

It's impossible to not notice—that he's avoiding you. Whether on purpose or out of survival mode, he has refused to calm down since he carried you back home, eyes unconvinced of your safety even as his gaze frequently flickers back to confirm you were really sitting on the bed that he laid you in.

Finally, after his hair has gone through enough torture from his fingers to form its own tangled mess, you called out to him. "Dami?"

He freezes, as if the very sound of your voice renders him incapable of functioning. He snaps out of his stupor, coming over to you with a barely concealed fright.

"What is it?" He interrogates, already analysing every twitch in your expression. "I had already run the poison diagnosis as well as the X-ray, but we can never be sure. Shall we head to the Cave again?"

You shake your head, although his worry finally spouts a weaker smile out of you. "Physically, I'm fine. Mentally..."

His expression cracks, and his weight sinks the bed slightly as he sits beside you. Closer now, you see the extensive eyebags under the green of his eyes, and the dry cracks in his lips from having bitten them too strongly.

"Dami... are you okay?" You ask gently.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and he averts his gaze. "I should be the one asking you that."

He sucks in a breath, eyes still trained on the window. "I've failed you."

Your brows furrow. "That's not true."

He shakes his head, and when he turns his head, you see tears rimming his eyes, caught between his lower lashes. "I swore my life to protect you, hayati."

"When I couldn't find you—" His voice catches along the cracks, his gaze drowned with guilt. "—my heart stopped. I couldn't breathe—I didn't dare sleep or eat, not till I had you in my arms again."

"...I had never been so afraid."

His admission leaves you breathless. He blinks harshly, staining his cheeks with tears before he roughly wipes them away. "It is selfish of me to remind you of this." He mutters. "Sleep. I shall guard."

"Dami." You cut him off. "I do not want you to punish yourself."

His jaw ticks, and his lips quirk into a cruel smile directed on himself. "You are not my punisher. I am."

"No." Your tone switches, growing stern. "I don't want you to punish yourself, not now—because I need you."

Whatever darkness has kept him away from you, it seems he's finally snapped out of it. Duty-bound as he is, Damian will never turn away when you ask for his presence.

"You saved me." You remind him, hands coming up from under the blanket to grip his. His warmth bleeds into your cold fingers, which have been trembling since the rescue. "I counted on you for that, and you rescued me. You have fulfilled your promise."

"Now, I don't want you to be a blade, or a protector." You break, eyes pleading him to listen. "I want you, Dami."

His chest heaves, and he stares at you helplessly. It must be difficult of him to put it to rest. His blade. His protective instincts to hover while you rested, his instincts hyper-intensified now that his anxieties have been proved right since your abduction. Yet, when it came to you, there isn't a single plea that won't go unanswered.

His arms gently hoist you into his lap, and you both tumble back onto the bed, buried under the sheets. Tugging you closer to his chest, he isn't satisfied till he's practically sealed all the gaps left between you and him. His fingers thread through your hair, shaking and adoring.

"Did they try to harm you?" His desperate plea thrums against your skin, even though he's already checked every inch of your skin, run through all your vital signs.

"No, they were reckless." You confess. "But not that stupid. They knew for me to be a bargaining chip, I had to be unharmed."

"Were you afraid?" He asks quietly.

For a moment, his question puzzles you. It is only when you meet his gaze and face his vulnerability, do you realise he wasn't implying the abduction.

"Of you?" You whisper.

He nods slightly, even as his jaw clenches tight in his admission.

"You have never..." He swallows. "Seen me that way. I must've seem like a monster."

Your gaze softens. "Never."

His surprise is barely concealed as he looks at you.

"Truly?" He whispers, almost disbelieving. Yet, there was a fragile, tender hope despite his walls. "I wasn't in control of myself. I only had you in my sights."

"Dami, you went through hell to find me." You answer. "Your Father told me while you were looking over the details of my scan, of just how far you went to track me down. No monster would look after me the way you do."

Pressing one hand to his chest, your voice is steady. "A monster wouldn't have a heart like yours. Seeing that side of you doesn't change anything. You're still the Damian I know, the Damian I love."

At your reassurance, Damian's mask practically collapses, revealing that inner fright he must've held onto since your return, as he falls into you, a huge sigh of relief leaving his lips.

"I love you." He mutters into the crown of your head, pressing a soft, trembling kiss after. "My life, hayati."

"I will protect you." He swears, gripping you so tightly that even Death himself won't be able to tear you out of his grasp. "I swear, I won't fail again."

Tears prick the corner of your eyes. You're so tired, but only now in his arms, do you feel safe enough to close your eyes. If you didn't have the weight of his arms, you're terrified you'll drift back into the small confinements in the darkness of your vision, or feel the itching burn of the wrappings around your wrists.

"Dami..." Your voice softens, its edge lost to exhaustion. "Will you hold me... till I fall asleep?"

You feel movement in his arms, only for one of his hands to reach your chin, lifting your half-lidded gaze to meet his. There, centered in your vision as you blink, is your Damian.

Tender in his fragility shown only to you, and unyielding in his devotion.

"Even then." He promises. "I won't let you go."

"...I love you, Damian." You whisper.

His eyes soften, a comforting sight before you feel your eyes shut as his fingers thread through your hair in a soothing pattern, finally calming the thundering in your chest.

"There are no phrases in all the languages to convey the meaning of your existence to me." He murmurs, his voice a low purr near your ear, a comforting mantra that reminds you that your protector is holding you close in his arms, far from danger. "Those who try to harm you, they do not deserve to roam this Earth."

"I will protect you." He whispers, a repeating promise not only to you but for himself. "For as long as fate allows me to remain by your side, that is my purpose."

"Sleep, my love." He soothes, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow will be kinder on us. I will make sure of it."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.

“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”

Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”

Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”

“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.

Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”

“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”

“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”

Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.

You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.

You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”

“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”

Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”

You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”

His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.

“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”

“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”

“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."

Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”

—

“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.

Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.

It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.

“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.

"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”

You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.

"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."

His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.

Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.

"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."

"No."

"Why?" You snap.

"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."

The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.

“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.

You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”

You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”

“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"

His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."

Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.

He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.

"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."

His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."

Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.

"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.

"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."

"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."

You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.

"You're unbelievable." You mutter.

"And you're mine still." He responds easily.

It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.

He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"

You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.

"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.

His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."

"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.

"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."

“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.

You shift your gaze to him, confused.

“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”

His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.

“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.

He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”

“What happened to staying on the couch?”

He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”

—

Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.

Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.

Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.

Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.

"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.

You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.

“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.

You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.

Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.

“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.

You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.

“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”

Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”

He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”

—

Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.

“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.

“Damian—”

His gaze sharpens.

You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”

“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”

He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.

“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”

“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”

“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.

You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.

He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”

You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."

"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"

His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."

"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."

"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.

Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."

Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"

“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.

Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.

His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You blink rapidly, growing flustered.

“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”

Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.

You never thought he actually waited for them.

Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.

“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.

Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.

He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.

—

Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.

It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.

Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.

You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.

You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?

Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.

The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.

You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.

You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.

"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.

"Damian."

"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.

Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.

“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”

“It felt wrong.”

The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”

“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”

"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."

You freeze.

"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."

"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."

"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."

"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."

—

The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.

It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.

You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.

You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.

Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”

“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”

"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."

"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."

"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”

You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.

"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."

"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”

—

His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.

"Dami?" You murmur.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.

It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."

"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."

You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"

His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.

"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."

His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."

No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.

"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."

He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.

"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."

"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."

"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."

"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."

"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”

"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."

"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”

“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."

You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.

"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."

A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.

Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.

"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."

"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."

He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”

“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.

“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”

“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”

“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.

“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.

“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.

“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”

His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.

“Damian.”

He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.

With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.

“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”

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