The love that is will always be

Notification bubbles pop up in the bottom right corner of the screen, obscuring the work you're doing on another program, and as soon as one vanishes, another one appears to take its place. Your eyes flicker to the clock ticking away. In ten more minutes, you'll be free to leave and indulge in that goat cheese you and John got at the Sunday market. It's all you've been able to think about since you first clocked in. You can already hear it whispering at you to just take an early lunch, but you've learned that there are a few people who work from home who have nothing better to do than to track the timestamp of every single thing everyone ever does on a project. Your absence won't be missed.

Sighing, you open your Teams window while telling yourself it won't hurt to react to the messages so you can prove you read them before wandering off to find some well deserved food, but what you hoped would be a short message has turned out to be a huge wall of text sent by your team lead. It's dizzying. You scoot forward in your chair to get closer to the monitor only for your stomach to get in the way—or rather, the baby.

39 weeks has stretched you thin. You feel like puff pastry rolled so thin that you're see through, and then stuffed so full you're threatening to rupture. The doctors tell you that you'll hit labor any day now, but you think Lottie has taken that to mean any hour with how often she's sending you check-in texts. It's like she's waiting for you to send her a photo, baby in hand; proof of your hard work coming to fruition.

Before you have the time to daydream of that, your team lead has other plans.

His message rivals the length of Tolstoy's War and Peace, outlining several projects and who he wants heading them. Many of your co-workers have reacted to the message with thumbs up, or asked clarifying questions that your team lead answers with too much excitement and heavier verbiage than needed. You skim through the message with glassy eyes, ready to move on with your day, until you see your name listed for a solo project. Something easy, but long winded enough to keep you busy for longer than your body will allow.

Due at the end of the month!

Your scoff is enough to disturb the baby. Heels dig into your stomach, pressing against your ribs until you're breathing deep just to get enough air into your lungs. Your hands hover over the keyboard to respond to his insane request, but you're not sure how to word it. Standing up for yourself always feels like a battle. You ask for an inch but everyone reacts as if you're demanding a mile. Unearned. Unworthy. Even now your mother's teeth nip at your ear, malice ready to spew down your spine.

Shaking your head, you roll out your shoulders before your fingers finally settle down on the keyboard. Eloquent and kind. (No one likes listening to a whiny girl).

I am unable to be the solo head on this project, as my due date is next week. If I had a partner working on it with me, I would be able to assist until the baby's arrival. Would you be able to assign someone else with me?

You hit send. Amicable enough. Blunt and straight to the point without unnecessary flowery thank yous! or other types of ass kissing. A part of you wants to add in how you're sticking around for their sake. You could have started your maternity leave weeks ago, giving yourself the time to prepare for the birth. But you have no clothes to buy. No nursery to furnish. What else would you do besides work?

Lunch hits the clock but you can't move from your desk. Your team lead is typing in chat, displaying his name at the bottom of the screen as he orchestrates his response. You could leave—you should leave—and return to the message later, but you're glued down. Stuck watching and waiting until it eventually pops up on your screen.

I set the deadline with your due date in mind. You should have plenty of time for your hospital stay and to finish this project up when you return! Thanks for your help.

Your mouth opens but you can't get a sound to come out. No gasp, no scoff—his audacity shocks you into silence as you try to think of something to say in response to something so outlandish. Are you a machine? Something meant to give birth and then return to work as if your whole body isn't being changed and moulded to fit the needs of something else?

When your fingers return to the keyboard, they fly. Wicked sharp, with terrifying attention to detail:

Once I've given birth I won't be able to work on any projects. I will be taking a few weeks off for maternity leave. Again, I am willing and able to assist someone else with this until my due date, but afterwards I won't be at work.

His response comes quickly. Short. Blunt. Slicing.

I thought this birth was a surrogacy. Don't you have to keep the baby to get maternity leave?

All you can do is stare at his message. It burns into your vision, letters etching into your corneas so that no matter where you look the image follows you—not even the tears lining the tender rims of your eyes wash it clean. The message gets deleted but the damage is already done. He cannot paint over the hole he punched clean through your chest. You're leaking. An unsightly existence that pushes shame into your throat like fresh bile.

Private messages ring through your speakers. None of them are from your team lead, of course. You never receive apologies from the people who owe them to you. They're from your co-workers, mostly women, assuring you that they're in your corner and telling you that he was out of line for saying something so cutting.

He slaps a bandaid on the situation. A message sent only because he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar:

Don't worry about it. I'll assign the task to someone else.

You stand from your chair as fast as your body will allow. Lead-like limbs weigh your feet down as you shuffle out of your office and into the heart of the cottage. All of a sudden, you're starving for air. No matter how much passes your lips, it's not enough, and you're left with a dry mouth and aching chest.

Once you reach the kitchen, you close your eyes and attempt to focus on the senses around you. Bare feet on cold floor, seeping into the thick skin of your heels, chilling you until a shiver is crawling up your spine and settling at the base of your skull. A faint aroma from breakfast lingers in the air, but the scent turns your stomach. The twist morphs into an ache. Dull. Squeezing from the bottom of your pelvis all the way up to your sternum as if something is attempting to gut you—to excise the pain that burrows too deep for you to rip out yourself.

Something stirs beneath your skin, wriggling and writhing until you move. You can't stay still. Wiping the tears from your eyes, you waddle to put your shoes on before shrugging your coat over your shoulders and vanishing outside where the temperature is bitter and pierces through you almost as bad as any word ever could. Without socks, the texture of the inside of your shoes digs deep into your feet like glass shards you can't pick out.

A thin layer of snow coats your property in a post-new-years celebration but the beauty is lost on you. Dazzling rime coating the tapering branches on the trees means nothing to you when you're focused on the ground and how your feet break through the crust of snow like they're the eggshells you always walked on when you were around your mother. It hits you square in the chest like a baseball, and you don't even know where the trigger comes from. It's as if your team lead was created in a lab to see just how close the universe could replicate how it felt to be a little girl who was too stupid to ever be loved properly.

It's all your fault—always has been. (Your dad leaving. Every bad mark you ever got in school. Getting pneumonia from playing in the rain. Your first boyfriend shattering your heart into unmendable pieces. Eating alone during lunch. Jamming your finger in the front door. Breaking your mum's favorite mug. Laughing too loud in your room. Hugging your granny too tight. Being too much. Being too you. Existing in the dining room, in the living room, in the backyard, too close to your mum, in school, at the park during the summer, sitting on the bench waiting for someone to notice you, to say hi, to save you, to say you're worth it, worth everything you've ever dreamed of. Lying in bed, music playing in your earbuds so as to not annoy mum, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming about what would happen if you were to get hurt. Comatose in a hospital, unmoving, unspeaking, but still able to hear how your mum might apologize, how the friends you forged in your mind would come to care for you, how you'd wake up with a new life, a better one, one where you could hug your mum without feeling every muscle in her body tense as if it detested the very idea of your existence. A new life where you could be loved). Everything bad that has ever happened to you has been because of you.

Once, your mother told you she hoped that you would have a kid that acted just like you so you could see first hand everything she had to suffer through while raising you. Even to this day, you wonder what's so terrible about you that you would be cursed with something so cruel.

"Darling?"

A gloved hand slips over your bicep stopping you in your tracks. You can feel the texture of it through your jacket, pressing into your skin, indenting you, morphing you into a shape you wish you could recognize but can't. John's eyes are somehow so warm compared to the algid backdrop that sprawls out behind him. A blue so dark you could swim in it, deep like blood swirling in water.

Another ache ripples through you and it only grows in intensity the longer you stare at John, teeth digging into the inside of your cheeks as you try not to fully break. Your perimeter is crumbling. Powdery snow blowing away with the slightest breath of wind. The tears on your face begin to freeze to your cheeks, but John beats you to wiping them away. He tosses something in his other hand onto the ground before using the soft side of his glove to soak up the brine. It isn't until you look at the ground to avoid his gaze that you realize he's been shoveling the sidewalk, something of which you've ruined by tracking more snow onto the freshly cleared areas.

"What's wrong?" His voice is so tender that the words fall around his teeth, like slow cooked meat slipping off bone.

You sniff but the snot building up in your sinuses hardly moves, forcing a sharp sigh out of your mouth as you shake your head. "Work is just… just so frustrating."

It's impossible to tell him how you're spiraling—why you're spiraling. Everything always links back to her in some unexpected way. It blindsides you. Whenever you feel useless (which is often) it always bubbles up to the surface like blood you can't wash clean; a wound that refuses to heal.

"I'm sorry, darling. You'll be on leave before you know it," John gently rationalizes.

He pulls you closer, body against his. His warmth bleeds through the layers separating the two of you, like nothing in the world would ever be able to fully keep the two of you apart. It's impossible to fully let your guard down long enough to go limp against him, but you try anyway. In the midst of the snow, of the pain still rippling through your abdomen.

"I just can't handle them sometimes. It's like they're not even human with the way they don't realize we have feelings or need breaks or are people. I love working from home and I'm happy with my schedule and the flexibility it offers but—ah!"

You lurch forward like someone is tugging on your bellybutton. John's hands rest on your shoulders, keeping you steady as he maneuvers you to face him. "Easy now."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just some Braxton Hicks."

"Let's get you inside." With your hand in his, he's already leading you back towards the cottage. He holds you like you're fragile. A porcelain doll that will shatter at any moment. "I think some rest would do you good."

By the time you get back inside and you've shrugged your coat and boots off, the Braxton Hicks contractions have stopped. It takes little effort for John to convince you to take the rest of the day off to lie in bed and rest. You don't even bother messaging your team lead about you either. John butters you up with freshly brewed tea before pulling the covers over your body. Minutes later, you smell the faint aroma of smoke as he lights a fresh fire in the hearth, and you're reminded of the times you used to escape here as a kid when your mother was sick of you but your grandparents were always more than happy to take you in.

From a young age, this place has always been your sanctuary. You think that's part of the reason why you were so eager to accept such a dilapidating cottage when it was offered to you. Your grandmother is no longer around, but you still are, as are the memories of you huddling in your assigned room, curling up tight, and finally being able to cry in a place where emotion isn't a crime.

It's no small feat pushing the past out of your mind long enough to calm your brain into slumber, but all your hard work is wasted with a torturous dream. You're back in school again, wandering hallways that never seem to end. Every door you try to open is locked, but you can hear people inside. They're laughing. Whispering. You can't hear what they're saying, but you know it's about you.

Eventually, there's a teacher. Slacks and a flannel shirt—he's faced away from you and walking a fair distance down the hallway. You don't recall his name, so you just shout sir! sir! over and over until you're able to pick up the pace enough to catch up to him. He refuses to turn around and acknowledge you until you're tugging on his arm like a child begging a stranger for help finding their parents.

Revulsion soaks the features of his face as he stares at you, eyes wandering over your body until his brows raise. "Couldn't make it to the bathroom?"

The bed is wet when you wake up.

Everything sticks to you. Your clothes, the blankets, the mattress. When you sit up to look down at yourself, you realize there is… something all over you. You question for a moment if you've really wet yourself in your sleep like a child. Embarrassment gnaws at the tips of your ears as you attempt to convince yourself it's normal—you do have a growing baby sitting on top of your bladder, after all—but when you slip out of bed and stand up, there's more. It pours out of you, dripping down your legs, splattering onto the floor. No amount of holding it in will stop it. It spills out of you like pitiful apologies.

The realization of what it is hits you in unison with a contraction. It's strong. Stronger than your Braxton Hicks ever were. You bend forward with a gasp as your hands brace against the edge of the bed. It lasts so long you're not sure if it will ever end, but by the time it fades you're left breathless and trembling.

You suck in a sharp breath as your hands hold your stomach. "John!"

All it takes is one beckoning of his name before you hear his feet on the floor. His pace is quick. Worried. He pauses in the doorway and stares at you in your wet clothes with your sweaty brow. You see him connect the dots quicker than you could, and terrified realization soaks into the intense blue of his eyes.

"I think the baby's coming."

They’d chosen the cafe. A cute place in midtown, just outside of the business district. You’d circled it twice out of caution and once out of nerves — snagging an expensive-looking gold watch off a distracted salary worker during the final lap just to calm yourself down. You spent twenty minutes watching the doors from a measured distance, as if trafficked weapons or prohibited substances would be carted through the front doors. You checked your phone twenty-seven times.

Finally, you forced yourself to actually enter the building you now knew better than your own apartment. You considered counting exits or scoping the perimeter, but at that point, further distractions were useless. Your eyes found them as soon as you crossed the threshold, which might’ve been more impressive if Dick hadn’t already been looking directly at you.

It was a testament to your self-restraint that you didn’t turn around and run immediately. He was smiling that big, golden-boy smile — the one that used to be reserved for reporters and police detectives and Bruce, after the two of you had broken something expensive. He was sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the cafe and waved you over with a level of excitement only a touch too suppressed to be called childish. Barbara sat across from him, her wheelchair pulled up to the quarter of the table the rounded bench didn’t occupy. He didn’t have a drink, but she was nursing two separate cups of coffee. A binder-thick laptop sat closed to her left, which hurt to see. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself leave the house with less than three disparate pieces of technology.

Dick greeted you with a bone-crushing hug. Barbara, a pursed-lip frown.

“Where is it?” she asked.

You laughed. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond, only holding out an open palm to you. Dick nudged your side, pointing to your bulging pocket. “She’s been watching you reached your station,” he explained, his grin taking on a more sheepish note. “To make sure you didn’t get lost.”

You glowered, but fished out your stolen watch and handed it to Barbara, who turned it over in her hand analytically. “I’ll get it back to the owner tonight,” Dick went on, already playing damage-control. “Babs already has their details, and you can come with me to say—”

“Don’t bother,” Barbara cut in. She drew her nail along the back of the timepiece. The gold flaked away like nail polish — the cheapest gilding you’d even seen. “It’s worthless.”

Dick grinned. “Should’ve guessed. No one would be—”

“—stupid enough to wear real gold in Gotham,” you finished, leaning forward to snag one of Barbara’s mugs. “Not with people like me in town.”

You and Dick broke into obnoxious, irrational laughter. Barbara scoffed — her equivalent to your hysteria.

And just like that, you were home again.

The afternoon passed quickly. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t stay for long — one, two hours tops — but the sun sank low in the sky and suddenly, getting out of the city before dark didn’t seem to matter. Dick prattled on about Bludhaven’s many woes and the newest job on his every-expanding carousel of careers. Barbara buried her face in her arms as she complained about Bruce’s newest fledglings and swore that three of you had never been so incompetent. When it was your turn, you made up a pleasing, if not entirely true story about a young woman in the big city with a steady office job and only the occasional bout of kleptomania. It was hard to tell if either of them really believed you, but they were kind enough to let you pretend.

When you were done, Dick moved to the edge of his seat, laying his hand over Barbara’s. Somehow, you’d failed to notice the matching silver bands on either of their ring fingers before then. The sight alone was enough to make you choke on your coffee. You spent a few humiliating seconds hacking into your elbow before managing to spit out something halfway intelligent. “You’re married?”

“Two years ago,” Dick explained. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There wasn’t really time to send out invites.”

“He got me drunk and carried me to a courthouse.” Her tone was chiding, but she was smiling more brightly than she had all day. “Didn’t even get a honeymoon.”

She leaned back, pecking her husband’s cheek. The word seemed incomprehensible. Husband. The last time you’d seen Dick and Barbara in the same room, they’d been half an inch away from tearing out each other’s throats. The time before that, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to tell you whether or not they gotten back together. ‘Marriage’ seemed like an ill-suited title for their on-again-off-again, love-to-hate-and-back-again relationship. You’d never pictured them falling into such a permanent state of being. You’d never pictured them doing something you so clearly weren’t a part of.

But they were happy. They looked happy, at least. Dick pulled Barbara into a more substantial kiss and you stared at your drink, desperate to focus on anything else. Finally, they separated, both giggling like teenagers. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I get it. You invited me back to bask in your matrimonial happiness. Can I go home now?”

They exchanged a glance. Dick’s grin took on a softer undertone. “We, uh— There was something we wanted to ask you for, actually. A favor."

You hummed. “A threesome?”

“Well, that’s not far—”

“Shut up, both of you.” She looked to you, resting both elbows on the table and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “We’re looking for a surrogate.”

It abruptly seemed much, much later. You really should’ve gone home when you had the chance.

Twelve years ago, you would’ve climbed over the table to hug them. Ten years ago, you would’ve still been overjoyed, if a little more skeptical. Five years ago, part of you might’ve been flattered. Now, though, after so many years of so little contact, the only thing you could seem to dredge up was ice-cold dread. You did what you could to hide it behind a sheepish smile, a light drumming of your fingertips against the tabletop. “A baby’s a lot of work. Especially for two parents on the night shift.”

Dick was almost too fast. “You don’t have to worry about that. Turned in my resignation last week. Barbara’s too valuable to lose so suddenly, but I made her promise to slow down before the baby gets here.” Your disbelief must’ve been apparent. He shrugged and added, “What can I say? You set a good example.”

The dread deepened into a frigid, bottomless pit. You shook your head and began to stand up, but Barbara caught you by the wrist before you could so much as get your feet underneath you. “Look, we’ve been taking it over, and neither of us can picture it being anyone but you. We want a family, obviously, but—” She paused, letting out an unsteady breath. “—not unless you’re part of it.”

It was unfair, really. In all your time apart, you’d forgotten how cruel she could be. Of course you were going to say yes, if she pulled that card.

The only thing you’d ever wanted to be was a part of their lives.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you didn’t try to. You nodded wordlessly, and Dick laughed — the sound like wedding bells and sunshine and cloudless sky. To your surprise, Barbara reacted just as strongly. She hauled you closer, dragging you into a bone-crushing hug. It squeezed the air out of your lungs and bruised your ribs, but a quiet, selfish part of you hoped that she would never let go again.

~

Dick insisted that the three of you go about the insemination in the traditional way. You and Barbara spent the better part of an hour berating him for being a filthy pervert before she admitted that it would save you all a lot of time (and you, in particular, a mountain of paperwork) and the idea began to seem much more reasonable.

Arrangements were made swiftly. They wanted you close, but you made it clear that you wouldn’t be spending the worst nine months of your life in the hallowed, haunted halls of Wayne Manor or moving back to Gotham. A travel schedule was made, a small fleet of doctors assembled using Bruce’s name, and about a week after your initial conversation, Dick and Barbara invited you over to their uptown apartment for dinner and a few drinks. What would follow was left implied.

Your anxiety was mitigated by Dick’s surprisingly edible cooking and Barbara’s insistence that your wine glass never be less than half full, even if you could’ve done without the muttered reminders that this was the last drink you’d have in a long, long time that accompanied every refill. You could only be glad you’d quit smoking when you were sixteen. All it’d taken was Selina mentioning that she’d been able to smell it on your clothes from a block away and you’d kicked the habit overnight. You doubted having to store your best friends’ baby for a few short months would have served as such powerful motivation.

As you savored your last drops of freedom, Dick and Barbara celebrated the beginning of theirs. They’d been pawing at each other all night, too giddy to remember how to act like adults, but it was only as dinner wrapped up and you sipped your nth glass of wine that their too-bright eyes turned to you. Dick pushed forward, more brazen in his eagerness. Barbara, as always, was more than happy to sit back and watch the love of her life make yours that much more difficult.

“It really hasn’t been the same since you left.” His words were slurred at the edges, blending together at the breaks. You hadn’t seen him drink anything, but he must’ve been drunk. You had to believe he was drunk.

You nodded sagely. “You wear pants now, for one.”

“Hey. The robin shorts were sick as fuck.” He sighed heavily, his head dipping low. “I just mean— I miss having you on the field. Barbara’s in my ear, which is great, but since Jason—”

He caught himself, breaking off immediately. Barbara grit her teeth. You let your eyes fall to your lap. You loved Dick. You loved Barbara. But there were some things you just couldn’t stand to talk about, even with them. Jason Todd would always be at the very top of that short, terrible list.

It was a small mercy that Dick, for all of his failings, knew when to change the subject. He forced a smile, letting out a breath of a laugh. “It’s probably for the best. You must be so out of practice — you probably couldn’t even keep up with us, now.”

This topic, you liked. You offered a demure shrug, emptying your glass with one more long swig. “I don’t know. Ten years isn’t that long.”

“It’s long enough.”

“Wanna test that out?”

Barbara sighed. “If you two do this in my dining room, I swear to—”

But it was too late. Dick was already vaulting himself over the table and into you. You let him take you to the floor, locking your arms to the side with an iron-clad bear-hold around your midriff. Once you’d landed, you jerked back and drove your knee into his stomach. Dick let you go on reflex, and you rolled to the side, using the momentum to spring yourself into handstand then cartwheel onto your feet. Your back ached from the rough landing, your muscles throbbing from disuse, but that was fine. If Selina had taught you anything, it was how to ignore the parts of you that valued comfort over survival.

Dick was stammering to his feet. He was acrobatic compared to the average civilian, sure, but years of training under a man more muscle than not had left him your inferior in all-but raw strength. You pounced on him before he could fully regain his balance, catching him under the shoulder and swinging upward so that your thighs locked around his head. You twisted and, sure enough, Dick went down hard. You unlatched at the last second, pulling away just far enough to land with a knee planted on either shoulder — pinning him underneath you. He grunted as he hit the floor, only just managing to keep his head from cracking against the tile. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, then another, both panting shallowly. Then, you cracked a smile. Dick grinned back, and a second later, both of you had dissolved into drunken laughter.

The room spun. You shut your eyes, letting your head dip low as you tried to catch your breath. At the same time, Dick reached up, grazing over your cheek and cupping the back of your head. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you down, his mouth crashing into yours.

It wasn’t that you’d never kissed him before. No, you and him and Barbara had spent too much time together as hormone-addled teenagers not to have awkwardly pecked each other during rounds of truth-or-dare once or twice. But he’d never kissed you like this. Hungry and messy and deep. His tongue was in your mouth before you could think to draw back, his nails digging into your scalp when you flinched away on instinct. He was warm against you — too warm. Suddenly, their sprawling apartment felt too small, too stiffing. You would’ve given anything to be somewhere. Outside, walking the empty city streets at night, or better yet, on a rooftop, safe in the knowledge that you were the only person around for miles.

Except, you weren’t somewhere else. You were kissing Dick Grayson. And you were supposed to be enjoying it.

You glanced towards Barbara through your eyelashes. If she was jealous, you couldn’t tell. Her shoulders were relaxed, her smile fond and self-satisfied. With her unspoken blessing, you melted against Dick, moaning absently as his lips moved against yours. You let your knees slip off of his shoulders and a moment later, he was sitting up, looping an arm under your thighs and hauling you against his chest. Barbara was hauled onto his free shoulder with the same easy strength, laughing as she batted at his back. You let the world around you blur and fade as he began to move.

You really were drunk. Reality only came back into focus as your back hit a cloud-soft mattress. You moved reflexively to burrow into the sheets, but a pair of delicate hands corrected you — Barbara’s, taking you by the underarms and hauling you towards her. She was sitting against the headboard, drawing you close so that your back rested against her chest. Your head lulled to the side, but she caught your chin, tilting it up so that you faced her properly. She kissed you as Dick settled between your open legs. Your panties were torn off at the waist, your dress irreparably wrinkled as he pushed it up to your waist. Two minor inconveniences, better off discarded quickly.

Your vision swam. Blearily, with no real understanding of what was going on, you watched a head of dark hair dip low, felt warmth and wetness drag over your cunt. It took you a long moment to realize it was Dick’s tongue and even longer to realize that your best friend (and your best friend’s husband) was eating you out. You tried to close your legs on reflex, but Barbara caught your knee. “Calm down,” she whispered, her voice as strict as it was patronizing. “You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to do this.”

Dick moaned in agreement. The vibration shot straight to your core, drawing a warbling noise up from the base of your throat. The pleasure was there, but it was hot, alien. You’d never quite lived up to your mentor’s femme fatale reputation. Taking off your clothes around anyone, ally or enemy, had never come naturally to you. Somehow, even with the two people you trusted most in the world, it still didn’t feel right.

If Dick sensed your discomfort, he didn’t seem to care. His tongue traced aimless patterns over your pussy, always finding its way back to your clit. You shut your eyes, burying your face in Barbara’s shoulder as his attention dipped lower, his tongue slipping inside of you and curling. You writhed, bucking into his face, and she cooed, running a hand over your hair. You had the brief and nauseating thought that, one day, she really would make a good mother. The only tragedy here was that she needed your help to be one.

The flat of Dick’s nose ground into your clit, and suddenly, it was all you could do not to think at all. Your vision burnt white. Your legs twitched by means beyond your control, your hands finding his hair and tearing. Dick only groaned, leaning into your touch. That was fair. It wasn’t like you could hurt him, not now, not like this. That kind of strength — the resolve it took to do real, lasting damage to another living thing — was beyond you. And that scared you more than anything.

You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. Barbara was still cooing at you, stealing kisses from unresponsive lips. Dick heaved himself up to your height, catching your chin and pulling away from Barbara. There was a long, shallow kiss, and then he kneeling in-between your legs, dragging his shirt over his head and shrugging his pants low on his hips. It hadn’t occurred to you that both of them were still fully dressed. You were the only one exposed.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Dick said, as he pulled away from you. Barbara clicked her tongue, but he only grinned. You could feel the head of his cock pressing into your entrance, his breath on your skin. “Can’t wait to knock you up, kitty.”

Your skin crawled. He shouldn’t call you that, not here. He should say he was going to—

Oh, god.

What were you doing?

The panic set in all at once. You kicked and thrashed, trying to get away, but your body felt so weak and Barbara’s arms were so strong and Dick was so heavy on top of you. He hummed, beginning to ease into you, and you shook your head violently. “No, no, I changed my mind, I don’t want to—”

“Hey, now, we don’t need to do that.” Dick’s voice, smooth and easy. You could feel him inside of you, now, spreading you open. It hurt. “We’re taking it slow, alright? We’re— fuck—” His hips stuttered, thrusting too far too quickly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Barbara’s hand fell past your stomach, rubbing quick circles into your clit by way of apology. “We’ve been needing you for years. Can’t make it without you. So you’ll be good for us, right?”

“Don’t talk to her like an animal.” Barbara let out a huff of a laugh. “An animal would be able to respond.”

“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” With a groan, Dick bottomed out. He was too deep, too big, filling in parts of you that you hadn’t known were empty. You felt his cock twitch inside of you as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture might’ve been sweeter — nostalgic, even — if you hadn’t wanted him to get away so badly. “You want this, don’t you, kitty? Go on — that’s all you have to say.”

You didn’t. You didn’t want to be pregnant. You didn’t want to ruin your body. You didn’t want this.

But Barbara was so warm against you and Dick’s smile was so wide where it cut into your lips. They were so happy. And you wanted them to be happy more than anything.

You could barely nod. Your head hardly moved. But Barbara kissed your temple and Dick began to move — pulling away from you as far as he could without slipping out of you cunt entirely.

You could only be thankful that you were far, far away by the time he thrust back in.

~

You took your first pregnancy test three weeks later. In their apartment, again, with the most expensive kit you and Dick could find at the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They waited outside the bathroom door while you struggled to stop crying long enough to piss on the goddamn stick.

Selfishly, you didn’t run back to them as soon as you were finished. Instead, you sat in a corner and counted out the seconds until the test had processed your results. Even then, you spent another precious minute hyperventilating before you could bring yourself to pick up that stupid plastic wand and find what you knew you would: two thin red lines, terrible and feeble and certain.

You were pregnant.

It went without saying that Dick and Barbara were overjoyed.

~

The first three months were the worst of your life.

You’d been beaten, broken, burnt, drowned, electrocuted, forced to go to a karaoke night with Dick and Titans, and yet, no form of torture you’d ever endured compared to morning sickness. You gained ten pounds, then lost fifteen. Your boobs hurt. You were tired all the time. All food smelled terrible, and you weren’t even allowed to eat half of it anymore. Your boobs really fucking hurt.

But Barbara and Dick’s legion of doctors had assured you that your symptoms, while unbearable, were completely run-of-the-mill. Most of your time was spent in Gotham, letting Barbara take you to obstetric appointments or helping Dick set up the nursery or generally trying to keep your head while they both fawned over you like a blue-ribbon breeding sow. You insisted on staying in Metropolis, but after your bump started to show, Dick made it clear that you wouldn’t be using public transit after dark. You tried to laugh off his paranoia, but for once, he wasn’t joking.

“You’re giving us everything we’ve ever wanted,” he told you, waving to Barbara as he grabbed his coat and started for the door. “Let us give something back, every now and then.”

Of course, you’d given in. As if you’d even stood a chance against him.

The drive was long and quiet. You stared pointedly at your lap as he passed through the sparkling sky-scrappers and shining storefronts of downtown, past the tranquil sprawl of uptown and midtown, and into the decaying residential district that didn’t get featured on tourist-trap billboards and brochures. Shame formed a knot in your throat as Dick’s shiny new sports car idled in front of the crumbling concrete corpse that was your apartment complex. He eyed the bars over the front door wearily, then asked, “You said you were on the top floor, right? Do you want me to walk you up?”

You shook your head. “I’m good, I just— The outside makes it look worse than it is. Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s no trouble.” He was already throwing the gear shift into park, easing his key out of the ignition. “Like I said, we want to—”

You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. You were out of your seat and rushing towards your building before he could convince you to make any more bad decisions for his sake.

The inside was, in fact, not a lot nicer than the outside. Cheap grey paint peeled off cheaper grey walls. The lobby stunk of cigarette smoke and mold, and the elevator had been broken since the day after you moved in. You had long, agonizing minutes to contemplate the depths of your embarrassment as you hiked up the stairs, even longer to wallow in your own self-loathing as you undid the three rusted deadbolts on your apartment door (none of which had been installed by the landlord). By the time you stepped into your flat and found Dick riffling through a drawer in your kitchenette, you almost didn’t have it in you to feel betrayed. Almost.

It was pointless to ask how he’d gotten in. The window on the far wall was cracked open and Dick had always been a good climber. Besides, even if you wanted to play detective, he was faster. Angrier.

“You don’t have an office job.”

“I’m on maternity—”

He pulled the drawer out of its socket, letting its contents scatter across the tile floor. It was jewelry, mostly. Pearl chains, diamond rings, earrings studded with gems that would’ve paid your rent twice-over for the next year — if only the money you’d get for selling them to your broker was clean enough to use so recklessly. “Stolen art in the closet, antiques under the bathroom sink…” He exhaled shallowly. “What happened, kitty? You used to fight crime.”

Only so there’d be less competition for you and Selina. Protecting Gotham’s innocents had never been as important to you as it had been to the Bat’s fledglings. You’d only ever really cared about yourself.

Well, yourself, Dick, and Barbara. But they didn’t need anything you could give.

“I don’t have a lot of other options,” you said, eventually. “I was raised in Crime Alley, Dick. I’m a middle school dropout. I had a record longer than Selina’s by the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I’d even be able to get a real job, if I wanted one.”

“That’s not the problem.” Of course it wasn’t. Not from his perspective. He’d never had to work a day in his life. “If you were going to stay active, you could’ve been active in Gotham. Bruce would’ve helped. You could have—”

“And end up like Jason?”

His expression hardened, then broke open into raw hurt. It was a low blow, but it was true.

Things had already been getting bad, but Jason’s death had been the final nail in the coffin. Dick and Bruce had always argued, but at the time, they couldn’t say two words to each other without getting into a screaming match. A bullet to the base of her spine had paralyzed Barbara from the waist down less than a year before, and she was still swinging wildly between fits of mania that saw her locked in her clocktower for days at a time and depressive episodes so intense, she might as well have been comatose. Jason reminded you of yourself — pulled out of a bad neighborhood, dressed up in a costume he’d never quite grown into, and made to feel as if he could earn the love he was suddenly being drowned in. You used to beg Dick to let him patrol with the two of you, sneak him candy under the table while Barbara lectured you both about the importance of an upcoming mission. Jason was a balm. Jason was the light at the end of the tunnel, just bright enough to make you actually believe it might all get better for your little family.

And then, Jason was dead and the world was dark again. You got out of Gotham about a week later — permanently, this time. Between Barbara’s frustration, Dick’s anger, and your own grief, there just hadn’t been room left for anything else. Anything worth living for.

The wound was a decade old, but time had done little to heal it. The pain on Dick’s face was proof enough of that. He held onto it for a long moment, then another before letting his shoulders drop and stepping towards you, resting a hand on your arm.

“I can’t do anything to bring back Jason,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I can make sure we don’t lose you again.”

A knot formed at the base of your throat. You did your best to speak around it. “I’m doing fine on my—”

“Please, kitty,” he cut in. “You promised to let us take care of you.” And then, letting his hand slip from your bicep to the curve of your stomach, “Besides, you’re not exactly on your own anymore, are you?”

You swallowed dryly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay.”

Dick’s smile was too quick, too wide. “That’s alright. Just stick around for the next few months. Until the baby’s here.”

“Just until the baby’s here.”

By the time you got back to their apartment, Barbara had set up the guest room. She pulled you down to her height for a lung-flattening hug as soon as you stepped through the door, the few possessions you had worth keeping in a duffle bag on your shoulder. Dick stood behind you all the while, his smile bright enough to blind.

~

Living with Dick and Barbara was, admittedly, comfortable. You perched on their marble counters while Dick cooked and argued with Barbara about reality dating shows. You went shopping in a real, honest-to-God grocery store and didn’t mug anyone in the parking lot on your way out. One night, about five months in, you fell asleep on the couch while Dick was at work and Barbara was in her clocktower, and woke up in Dick’s arms as he carried you to the master bedroom. The next morning, you woke up tucked between the two of them, safer and happier than you’d ever been before.

At seven months, you were no better than a spoiled housewife. It felt like your stomach was ten times the size of the rest of you. It’d been weeks since you’d last cooked, cleaned, stole, or done anything remotely productive. On a particularly hospitable Gotham evening, half out of boredom and half out of domestic delirium, you decided to visit Barbara’s favorite coffee shop and waddle down to the clocktower to surprise her. Dick was working late that night, so there was no one home to talk you out of it. Had there been, you might have been able to save yourself a lifetime’s worth of devastation.

You arrived about an hour or so after sunset, carrying a tray of four black coffees with three shots of espresso each. Her workroom was a testament to the Bat Clan’s paranoia. Monitors formed grids of static and surveillance footage across three out of four walls. A holographic map of Gotham was projected into the center of the room, color-coordinated dots of light tracking the active vigilantes in the area and their movements — whether or not they knew they were under Bruce’s management. Barbara sat in front of one of two dozen keyboards, glaring at a black screen filled with incomprehensible code. Her headset was pulled down to her neck, but you could hear voices buzzing faintly on the other side. She nodded by way of greeting as you stepped out of the elevator, gesturing to a relatively empty patch of desk next to her. You did as you were told and leaned onto the back of her chair. “Slow night?”

“It’s not about to be.” She sighed, leaning back. “There’s an arms shipment coming into the port in a couple hours. Tim thinks he can handle it alone, but Damian—”

You chuckled. She pursed her lips.

“And you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“It’s not that,” you assured her. “I just can’t wait to be out there again. I haven’t done a backflip in, like, three months.”

Her frown deepened. “That number should really be—”

“An eternity, Babs.” You sighed dramatically, bowing your head low. “It’s too bad. I was thinking about staying in town for a little while after the baby’s taken care of, but B probably won’t even want the help. Not when I’m so out of practice.”

She grinned. “You’re already thinking about how to leave us?”

“Oh, absolutely. You should tell your kid that I went out for cigarettes and never came back. It’ll be kinder than the truth — that I died trying to jump between rooftops three days post-natal.”

Barbara threw her head back as she laughed, and you were abruptly aware of just how close her face was to yours. If the proximity made her uncomfortable, the way her smile widened as she stared up at you did very little to communicate it. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know,” she said, reaching up and tracing a thumb over your cheek. “You could just stay.”

You hummed. “And what? Live in your guestroom for the rest of my life?”

Something moved across Barbara’s expression — not amusement, but close. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but it was already too late. Barbara tugged you down another inch, pressing her lips softly against yours. You froze on reflex, but this wasn’t anything like Dick drunkenly shoving his tongue in your mouth, wasn’t at all like the way either of them had touched that night. She was being gentle. She was being loving.

It almost hurt more.

The moment was mercifully cut short. Something chimed on one of her many screens and Barbara pulled away, sending you an apologetic smile as she pulled on her headset and began to bark orders. Wasps stung the inside of your stomach, their wings beating against the inside of your throat. She loved you. Dick loved you. That was all you’d ever wanted. You were a part of their family and they loved you.

Why, then, did it feel so wrong?

In a daze, you retreated back to the elevator. On your way, you passed a monitor unlike the others — set to a passcode rather than left blank or idle. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tapped Dick’s birthday into the nearest keyboard, only half-expecting it to work, and when that failed, another date. The day the three of you met. You used to celebrate it annually with gas station ice cream, then later on, cheap drinks at whatever dive bar was open late enough to hit up after patrol. To your surprise, the code was accepted and the monitor flickered to life. After a moment of squinting at the grainy security camera feed, you realized you were looking at Dick.

Except, that wasn’t right.

You were looking at Nightwing.

He was in an alleyway, his suit torn. Several unmoving bodies littered the ground around him. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t the part you were worried about. You’d been told that he was at his office. You’d been told that Nightwing had retired.

Come to think of it, you’d been told that they were both retiring. Another glance towards Barbara, as deep into the Oracle as she’d ever been, was enough to prove that on its own.

The inside of your mouth was abruptly dry. The parasite in your stomach suddenly felt a great deal heavier than it had before.

You hauled yourself into the elevator without saying goodbye to Barbara. Panic formed a thick fog over your mind, blurring your vision and softening the edges of your conscious thoughts. A single, desperate idea clawed its way to the surface, rooting itself at the forefront of your mind. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to stamp it back down.

You needed to get to Wayne Manor.

~

Your initial plan was to vault the wrought-iron gate, scale the west-facing side of the main house, and let yourself in through a balcony door on the third floor. After realizing Bruce’s security measures might’ve changed in the past ten years, you briefly entertained the idea of tracking down one of the tunnels littered across Gotham and hiking back to the Bat Cave on foot. Finally, you looked down at your incredibly pregnant body, bit the bullet, and called Selina.

Half an hour later, you were in the passenger seat of her violently red convertible, watching the lights of Gotham fade as the distant specter that was Wayne Manor grew ever-taller. Beyond the initial pleasantries, you both had yet to speak. It wasn’t until you were out of the city that she looked at you and sighed.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, her lips pursed in the smallest possible pout. She looked older, but not by much. It was hard to imagine Selina as anything other than what she was — selfish, sharp and beautiful. It was hard to imagine anything in Gotham ever changing, no matter how much time you spent away. “What have they done to you?”

You sank into the leather of your seat. “I’m just the surrogate.”

“The acrobat and the ginger?”

You nodded. She clicked her tongue. '

“Those two were always so clingy. Don’t you remember how many times I told you to make better friends?”

“I remember you ditching me mid-heist to seduce their father.”

“Oh, no, I forgot that they’re practically siblings. No wonder adoption was off the table.” She batted her hand against the wheel in mock-frustration. Another time, you might’ve laughed. Now, you only bit your cheek and glared into your lap.

Selina, for all of her many flaws, was not one to rub salt in the wound. Her shoulders fell, her voice taking on a more somber note as she went on. “I didn’t raise you to sulk.”

“You didn’t raise me at all.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.”

“I think I’m being lied to,” you admitted, finally. “They keep talking about— about what it’d be like if I stayed. I just don’t know if that’s what I want.”

Her answer came automatically. “Then leave.”

“I want to, but I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to them. Not after Jason.”

Selina cocked her head to the side. The manor’s gates came into view. They opened automatically while you were still a mile away. She didn’t even have to slow down.

You watched the tangled gardens of your childhood drift past. Too quickly, you arrived at the end of the driveway — a flight of white marble steps looming cold and callous in front of you. Selina held her tongue as you fumbled with the handle and hauled yourself onto your feet. She only bothered to say anything once you were out of the car and no longer her problem.

“East wing, third story, first bedroom on the left,” she dictated. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, kitten.”

You couldn’t be sure what she meant, but her tone was warm, affectionate. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. “I always do, thanks to you.”

She spared you a glance, a barely-there smile, then peeled off — disappearing in a cloud of dust and diesel. You were still beating the gravel out of your coat when you made it to the top of the steps and, against your better judgment, rang the bell.

The door swung open in less than a full minute. Bruce Wayne stood on the threshold, dark eyes wide and mouth open. He blinked at you several times, then seemed to recover. “(Y/n),” he managed, clearing his throat and stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You did as you were told — following him silently down the long, narrow entryway. The manor was just as you remembered it, all bare stone and cathedral ceilings and strange, ebbing shadows. As a child, you’d been in awe of it, still too happy to be anywhere but Selina’s crowded apartment to mind the cobwebs. As a teenager, you’d found it mysterious. Romantic, even. The perfect place to spend your downtime whispering secrets into Barbara’s ear or hiding from Dick in the rafters. Now, it was hard to feel anything but caged-in.

Eventually, you reached the parlor where you had spent more hours than you could possibly count playing terrible board games and stitching up wounds and watching Dick and Barbara do their homework, pretending all the while that you were grateful not to have the obligation. Bruce helped you into an overly plush lounge, then retreated to an armchair on the other side of the room, never one to hover over what he would rather keep at arm’s length.

Once settled, you spared a glance in either direction. Bruce nodded sympathetically.

“Alfred passed last year. Natural causes,” he tacked on, because you were both unfortunate people who led unfortunate lives. And then, more delicately, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

You paid him your best sheepish smile. “Why’s that, Mr. Wayne?”

It seemed to catch him off-guard — being asked so directly. But Bruce wasn’t the type to lie, not in his own home, not to the woman pregnant with his son’s child. “Dick let me know early on that you wouldn’t feel comfortable at the estate. Of course, I asked him to make it clear that you were always welcome here, but—” He laughed, shrugged. “Admittedly, I wasn’t ecstatic to find out that you’d taken up Selina’s line of business. I suppose it would be hypocritical to get all high and mighty about a little petty theft at this point, though.”

So Dick and Barbara had known you were still stealing. Early enough to warn Bruce away before he could reach out, at that.

“He’s been a little sensitive. They both have.” You rested a hand modestly over your bump. “It’s restlessness, I think. Now that he’s given up the mantle and all.”

Now, there was a lapse. Not a long one — half a second at most — but long enough. You could see him doing the math, weighing the options, before finally coming to the sum you knew he would. “Of course,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “The restlessness. Gotham needs protection, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”

Right. Because Bruce Wayne would never lie to the woman pregnant with his son’s child.

Not unless he was doing it to help his son.

You opened your mouth as if about to speak, then closed it again, letting your expression fall as your head lolled forward. Bruce was at your side in a moment — a calloused hand on your back and the other braced against the arm of your chair. You rallied with a ragged inhale, waving him off. “I’m sorry, it’s the dizzy spells — They’ve been getting worse, lately.”

Panic flashed across his expression — there and then gone in the space between seconds. Of course. You were the vessel carrying his grandchild. Had that not been the case, he likely would’ve watched you collapse and left you there to suffer. As a lesson in discipline, if not merely out of petty spite.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, instead. Like you knew he would.

You smiled softly, feigning bashfulness, before wincing, shutting your eyes, and performing surrender. “Water, please,” you mumbled. “If that’s alright.”

There were a few words of muttered assurance, and then he was off — disappearing into the endless halls of his labyrinthine home. You waited five more excruciating seconds, then pushed yourself out of your seat and started for the east wing.

You followed Selina’s directions like your own misplaced north star. Up four flights of stairs and down the third hall. Recognition sparked as you made your way through the manor — slowly, then all at once. Even before you reached the first room on the left, you recognized the furniture, the carpeting, the tear in the wallpaper where you and Dick had once gotten too confident while juggling pocket knives. You knew where you were going.

Jason’s room.

Anger overshadowed horror. Why was she doing this to you? You knew what you would find — a shine, a tomb, the remnants of a boy who had been dead longer than he’d ever been alive. Or worse, there might be nothing at all. Four blank walls and a bed Jason had never slept in. Emptiness where Bruce’s resolve hadn’t left room for grief. Your chest was tight by the time you reached the door, your vision fogged with tears as you took up the handle. With the last of your loyalty to Selina, the last of your love for Dick and Barbara, the last of your patience with Gotham, you took a deep breath and shoved inward, stumbling across the threshold and finding—

Finding Jason.

All the warmth, all the fight left you at once. Jason — except, this wasn’t your Jason. This was a grown man, mid-to-late twenties, more scars than not. His bare chest was covered with bandages, and he sprawled across not the Wonder Woman-themed twin cot of your memories or the white-sheeted placeholder of your nightmares, but some terrible, unknown middle-ground. There was a shock of white in his dark hair, and his nose looked as if it had been broken, healed, and broken again. Still, reality was undeniable. You were looking at Jason Todd, all grown up and very much alive.

He must’ve heard your footsteps. He was propped on his side, facing the door, his jagged features contorted in horror and disbelief and so, so much pain. You could only assume that you were mirroring the same expression back at him.

There was a long beat of silence, then another. Somehow, he was the one to break it — his voice deeper but agonizingly familiar. “(Y/n).”

“Jason,” you echoed back. “Shit, man. You’re alive.”

He coughed out a laugh. “And you’re—” His eyes slid from your face to your stomach, and any levity there might’ve been drained out of his tone. “Jesus Christ. They actually fucking did it.”

Your heart dropped. You opened your mouth, started to ask what he meant by that, what everyone except you seemed to know, but his eyes widened and a second too late, you heard those padded footsteps, remembered just how many security cameras Bruce kept in every corner of his home. You lurched forward, but a hand caught the collar of your jacket and hauled you back against a broad chest. There was a flash of silver in your peripheral, a prick to the curve of your throat, and then you were gone.

~

You woke up to Dick’s mouth on your chest and a bluebird mobile spinning slowly above your head.

Somehow, in your confused state, the latter seemed like more of a concern. You couldn’t seem to turn your head, but you could make out the baby blue walls of the nursery — the room you deliberately hadn’t stepped foot in since starting to show. Stuffed birds and plush bats filled the empty crib in the far corner. A rug you didn’t recognize dominated most of the floor space — toting a pattern of black cats chasing balls of yarn in a series of concentric rings. It was that last part that turned your stomach — the break in motif, the implication that you had anything to do with this. That you were anything more than the host of an obligation you would abandon as soon as it no longer needed you.

…as if you could really do that. With your luck, Dick and Barbara would be as good of parents as they were older siblings. In another decade, you’d still be in Gotham and there’d be a new Jason to—

Jason.

The thought of him was sobering. Slowly, you started to come back to yourself. You were on a bed, which was strange because you couldn’t think of a single reason why a nursery would need a bed, or why that bed would have a pair of handcuffs draped neatly over its headboard. Dick was behind you, holding your body in his lap, his head bowed to better latch onto your nipple while his free hand massaged your other breast. He’d hauled your shirt up to your neck and shoved your bra down below your tits, clearly prioritizing efficiency over elegance. You could feel something shifting inside of you — not lactation, it was too early for that, but not far from it, either. The same pressure, the same rhythm, the same suction. He was trying to nurse.

Barbara, at least, had a little more dignity in her perversion. She was lying on her side next to you, her face half-hidden in a mess of red curls as her hand skirted over the curve of your distended stomach. Her palm pressed against the taut skin above your naval, a smile spreading across her lips. “I felt a kick,” she whispered, looking toward Dick. “She gets that from you. Probably won’t sit still a day in her life.”

You felt Dick’s grin bite into your chest, then the reverberation of his voice as he spoke into your skin. “Me or kitty.”

“Or both.” Her hand drew back. Through your eyelashes, you saw her check her watch, then heard a sigh. “Elevated heartrate. Abnormal breathing pattern. You awake, sleeping beauty?”

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want any of this. But then Dick was pulling away and nestling into the side of your neck, his hand drifting from your chest to your stomach to the space between you—

You jerked away, gasping. The inside of your lungs suddenly felt solid, as if you were trying to suck air into a concrete block. You might’ve scrambled off the bed and found some tight, dark space to hide in had it not been for the strong arm barred across your midriff, the lead weight that was Dick’s body underneath yours. He groaned as you writhed on top of him. Barbara clicked her tongue, reaching past you and flicking Dick’s forehead. “Give it an hour, at least. The poor thing’s still in shock.”

“But she’s so sweet like this,” he whined, rolling his hips against your ass. You could feel his cock pressing into, already hard. Shockingly, the sudden awareness did little to calm your panic, not that Dick seemed to care. “You didn’t see her in the manor. She was so cute — storming around, sulking like she used to when we caught her cheating at hide n’ seek. She even lied to Bruce. I didn’t know she knew how to do that!”

“You don’t think he actually bought it, do you?”

“Hell if I know. Alfred always used to—” You felt him tense. “Hey, what if we named the baby—”

“Stay focused.” Barbara sat up, propping herself on her elbows and coming to sit at eye-level with you. You tried to look away, but she brought a hand to your chin, gently easing you back in her direction. As always, you melted into her palm in an instant. “I’m sure you have questions,” she started, slowly, as if talking to a very young and very poorly behaved child. “This wasn’t how I thought we would have to do—”

“How long?”

Your voice was hoarse, frail. Barbara’s smile broadened. “More specific, please.”

“How long have you known that Jason was alive?”

“Oh.” She seemed unimpressed. “He came back six years ago. We’ve known it was him for five.”

Five years. The timeline was sickening. You’d been letting guilt over nothing eat you alive for half a decade when a phone call, a text, god-forbid a visit could’ve put an end to your self-inflicted penance. Your devastation must’ve shown through. Dick cooed, rubbing his cheek against the crown of your head. “Don’t be mad, kitty. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have felt so bad for us. You wouldn’t have come back.” He paused, laughed. “And you definitely wouldn’t have let us knock you up.”

“That’s not—”

“—fair?” Barbara finished. She let out a breath of a laugh, leaning towards and pecking your lips. You felt Dick’s cock twitch against your ass. “We didn’t have another choice, baby. We had to bring you home.”

“I would’ve come—”

“For a while, maybe.” She was barely listening to you. Her eyes fell to your exposed chest, to the way her husband’s saliva glistened on your skin. “But you would’ve left again. Found an excuse, caught a bus, moved onto another town where you could rob museums and steal jewelry from single mothers. We had to wait a little longer, sure, but—” Her gaze settled on your stomach. You braced yourself for another platitude on family, on how much she and Dick both loved you — even it could never be the same way they love one another. Somehow, what actually made it off of her tongue was so, so much worse.

“It’s better this way. You were never really going to make it on your own.”

Dick’s head lulled forward, his cheek pressing into your temple. He let out a long, pitchy whine, only partially muffled by his closeness. “You’re killing me here, Babs.”

She sighed. “Can you believe what I have to do with?” The question was directed to you, but clearly rhetorical. Even had it not been, your only answer was a wide-eyed look, a pleasing shake of your head. Barbara drank down your panic, then shot Dick a brilliant smile. “Be gentle. And keep her off her stomach.”

You felt him pout into your scalp. “I’m not stupid.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re both insane.” Whatever sense of defeated resignation you might’ve been overwhelmed by was immediately replaced with raw, jagged panic. You dug your nails into Dick’s forearm, thrashed your legs in a clumsy effort to kick Barbara away, but his arm was an iron bar across your torso and all she did was laugh — placing her hand on your knee and pinning you down with as much effort as she might’ve used to swat a fly or brush the hair out of her eyes.

Any other time, you would’ve been able to think of a million ways to escape. Any other time, you would’ve driven your heel into her nose, twisted around, and scratched his eyes out. Any other time, you wouldn’t have let yourself fall into this trap at all, but you were so groggy and so fucking pregnant and so scared of the lunatics that you used to think of as friends that it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut and choke back a mangled sob as Dick lifted you just high enough to turn you in his lap and slot your hips against his. Barbara was behind you in a moment, a pair of toned arms wrapping around your midsection as her forehead came to rest against the nape of your neck. Like her husband, her hand gravitated to your chest on instinct, cupping and groping at your swollen breasts. Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Dick’s satisfaction was not so meditative. He grinned up at you, messy hair partially obscuring his bright, burning eyes. You realized with a wave of revulsion that he was still wearing his Nightwing suit — or most of it, at least. The mask and gloves had been removed, the upper half unzipped and allowed to pool around his waist. Dick and Barbara’s betrayal, you could process. Nightwing and Oracle’s, Robin and Batgirl’s — that was more difficult to grapple with.

But it was happening. He ground into you once, twice before freeing his cock, already stiff and leaking underneath layers of Kevlar and vinyl. Barbara took care of your skirt — dragging it up and out of the way before slipping a hand into your panties. Her clever fingers rubbed quick, repetitive circles into your clit until your self-control lapsed and your hips jutted into her hand. She let out a breath of a laugh and drifted, dipping lower to drag the seat of your panties to the side. Immediately, Dick was there, dragging the fat head of his cock over the length of your slit, smearing arousal over your entrance. Even now, you couldn’t help but admire how fluidly they worked together. You’d always assumed that you were the odd one out, the unnecessary competent, the self-aware third wheel to their otherwise claustrophobic relationship. Now, it seemed glaringly obvious that they’d never mistaken you for a part of their double act at all. The only reason Barbara and Dick had ever kept you around was to fill the role of victim.

And yet, Dick was cruel enough to look at you like something more precious than a scared, bloodied thing they’d found in an alleyway and decided to take home. He held your stare as he thrust into you — moving slowly, drawing it out for seconds longer than it would’ve been kind to. Once again, your body betrayed you. The combination of your wrecked hormones and the sudden overdose of smothering affection had left you wet and malleable, too needy not to welcome their abuse. Warmth you didn’t want flooded your system, pooling in your core and eating away at the inside of your throat like acid. The only mercy was that you were already too far gone to moan.

Dick wasn’t suffering from the same malady, though. He let his head roll back, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you. The wrongness — of seeing him this way, of hearing him make that kind of noise, of finding yourself in this situation at all — was sickening, but your disgust alone wasn’t enough to stop it. There was a moment of stillness, and then Barbara’s hands were cupping his on your waist. It was less an attempt to guide you and more a feat of puppeteering. Your body was unable, your spirit was unwilling, but for all that you lacked, she was there to make up for it. She pressed open-mouthed kisses into your neck as she bounced you on Dick’s cock, muttering nearly incoherent praise every time some small, pathetic noise slipped past the veil of your dissociation. When she bothered to speak out loud, it was to him. Of course. As if you would be worth the effort.

“Maybe we should retire,” she said, nipping at the tender flesh above your jugular. “Imagine spending every day of the rest of our lives like this.”

Dick laughed. “‘d be easier for you than for me. The way it feels to be inside of her— I can’t even—” His voice broke off. His eyes never left you. “Promise, Babs. At least for a few months. At least until the baby gets here.”

You could feel her hesitation. She stilled for a second, but no longer. There was a shallow sigh, a loose smile pressing into your skin. Acquiescence and fond exasperation. This was not a new request. “Of course,” she whispered. And then, squeezing your hip, “We have a new housecat to train.”

Her voice was low, the words barely audible, but Dick moaned and bucked into you. He bit down hard on his lower lip, then reached up and dragged you towards him. Flush against you, he came hard, filling you to bursting. Barbara’s hand fell back to your clit, forcing you to the same end seconds later. There was a blissful moment of detachment, exhaustion and over-stimulation blending together to form a perfectly thoughtless climax, but it was only a moment. When you recovered, you found yourself still trapped between them just as inescapably as you’d been before.

Even in your own mind, your voice was despondent — far away and badly faded. “After the baby comes,” you started. Barbara all-but purred behind you. “Do I get to leave?”

Barbara cooed, but Dick answered. “Oh, kitty,” he sighed, the pity in his voice thick enough to choke.

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Attach your proof of donation! What character do you want written?:  Do you want smut in your fic?: (y/n) Do you want angst or fluff?: What blog, if any, would you like to be tagged when the fic is finished?: Finally, put your prompt here! Feel free to get as creative as you want, just adhere to the rules and make sure it can reasonably be written in 1,000 words!

Writers will be posting on their own account. If you give the blog you want to be tagged with, they will tag your blog! If you'd rather remain anonymous, a complete masterlist of all fics written will be kept here on this blog!

Rules:

You MUST be 18 years or older for this event. Please have it marked somewhere on your blog when requesting! (Or even in your message to us if that makes you more comfortable. We don't need an exact age, just ensure that you're not a minor!)

Prompts are first come first serve! The first 30 people who show vetted/verified proof of donation will be getting fics! We will close our asks when we've met our threshold!

We require a 10$ (or your local currency equivalent) minimum donation. Donating more than 10$ will not get you anything more, but if you have the means to donate more, we encourage it!

Each fic will be around 1,000 words

We are writing for the 141 characters (Ghost, Gaz, Price, Soap) only!

We are doing character x reader fics only!

No dark/Dead Dove: Do Not Eat content, including but not limited to:

fauxcest/incest murder/violence/death/abuse underage or age play nonconsensual sexual content kidnapping bestiality, etc.

All fics will be in English

Prompts will go into a pool for writers to choose from. You do not get to choose/request who writes your gift. Our group of writers includes:

@anneofgreengabagool @warmfrequency @dragonnarrative-writes @saintquincy @girl-lostconnection @ghouljams @oceantornadoo @robin-feldt @ilium-ilia

How to Get Your Gift:

Donate!!

Screenshot proof of your donation. (PLEASE redact any personal information if it happens to pop up on the receipt! Internet safety!)

Send that screenshot, along with your prompt, into our ask box!

You should receive your gift in roughly 1-2 months!

Prompts should be easy to fit into 1,000 words! For example:

Character x reader date night on the beach with some fluff/smut

Childhood best friends meeting again at a coffee shop for the first time after being away from each other for years

Meet cute at (location) 

“Tags” like ‘hurt/comfort’ ‘there was only one bed’ etc helps loads!

Submission Template:

When you submit into our ask box, we ask that you please use this template to make things easier for our writers!

Attach your proof of donation! What character do you want written?:  Do you want smut in your fic?: (y/n) Do you want angst or fluff?: What blog, if any, would you like to be tagged when the fic is finished?: Finally, put your prompt here! Feel free to get as creative as you want, just adhere to the rules and make sure it can reasonably be written in 1,000 words!

Writers will be posting on their own account. If you give the blog you want to be tagged with, they will tag your blog! If you'd rather remain anonymous, a complete masterlist of all fics written will be kept here on this blog!

Author's Note: this one has even less of a plot ! just good vibes ! i hope you all enjoy it !! two longer fics are in the works ! including mdw 2; this time i swear it'll be out soon ! feel free to yell at me about it...

divider by @thecutestgrotto

Crystal clear water lapped at your ankles as you contentedly rested on the grassy river’s edge, keeping a watchful eye on the young children that played with Neteyam and Kiri in the shallow water.  Lo’ak slept soundly against your chest, thank Eywa, snug in the baby carrier that you had woven for his older brother. 

You nodded absentmindedly as the other parents chattered around you, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin and a moment of rest. The morning had been busy; splitting off with Jake after communion with Eywa and only briefly sitting with him at midday meal between his responsibilities. You were hoping your little ones would tire themselves out with all the playing and join their baby brother for a much needed hawtsyìp (nap).

Sudden screams broke you from your thoughts, making your spine straighten and head whip toward the children. You scanned the scene quickly, but spotted no danger as they splashed through the water to the bank, looking more excited than frightened. With a hand rested protectively on Lo’ak, your eyes followed Neteyam and Kiri as they made a mad dash and found your husband coming through the brush. 

“Olo’eyktan!” The children exclaimed as they gathered around him. The older ones greeted him respectfully, according to tradition, but the small ones simply rushed forward. Jake crouched to meet their eyes, the feathers of his mantle rustling as he lowered.

“Are there any strong warriors among you?” Jake asked and multiple hands shot up into the air. “Good, ‘cause I need help tracking something that’s very important to me,” he told them and the children spoke over each other in response. 

“Did you lose something?” one asked.  

“One time, I lost my pa’li (direhorse) toy, but my sa’nu (mom) found it,” another added. 

“What is it? What did you lose?” a small girl got in.   

Jake gestured the children closer with a curl of his finger. “It’s not a thing, it’s a person,” he explained. “She’s tall and beautiful, and has orange beads in her long hair.”

“That could be anyone!” the small girl exclaimed. 

“Well, Neteyam and Kiri are here, so she can’t be too far off,” Jake elaborated thoughtfully. “She just had a baby, too, and he’s always hanging around her. She says he looks like me.”

One of the older children looked in your direction with a puzzled expression before asking, “Your mate? Can you not see her?” 

Jake shook his head. “That’s why I need your help.”

One of the boys waved his hand in the air. “Oh, oh! Ma Olo’eyktan, I know where she is!” 

“Me too!” Another chimed in.

“Think you could lead me to her?” Jake asked hopefully.  

“Yeah!”

“A real hunter has to follow the trail,” one of the children pointed out, surveying the ground around them. “Look! The grass is flatter over there.” 

“Good eye.” Jake nodded in approval. “C’mon, let's go.”

He scooped up Neteyam and Kiri and followed the other children who were looking in the grass for clues of your whereabouts. Laughing to yourself, you sunk down and laid on your back to make their efforts a little more worthwhile.  

Eventually, you heard the other adults greet Jake as he neared, and in no time, sweet little faces appeared in the sky above you. The crowd of children gathered excitedly, pointing and waving Jake over as you playfully attempted to quiet them.

Your husband came into view at last, towering above them and you.  “You found her! I knew I could count on you,” Jake praised as Neteyam and Kiri babbled and wriggled in his grasp upon seeing you. 

“It was easy!” A proud child declared. 

“Yeah!” Another agreed. 

“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you,” Jake told them as you sat up. “You’d all make some great hunters one day.” 

You nodded in agreement as the group of children bristled with excitement and pleasure. Their giggles and the admiration on their faces as they looked up at your husband made your heart ache with fondness. 

“Thank you for helping my mate find me,” you smiled. “You are free to play now. You have earned it.” 

The children splashed back into the water and Jake lowered to the ground with a grunt, stretching out his legs before him. He freed Kiri and Neteyam from his hold and they settled in the grass between you both.

You reached up and ran your fingers over Jake’s headpiece, admiring it and the lines of the handsome face it adorned. 

“Hello, muntxatan (husband),” you greeted softly. “That was very sweet. I am glad you found me.” 

Jake grinned and you ghosted your thumb over the endearing indent of his dimple. “So am I,” he laughed. 

Having been inspired by Jake, the children played as hunters and aytalioang (sturmbeests) in the river, which made for an entertaining spectacle. You and Jake watched as you chatted aimlessly about this and that. 

Jake patted a slow rhythm against Neteyam’s back even long after the boy had drifted off. Your oldest son napped curled up on Jake’s lap while Kiri was happy to lay on the grass, falling asleep on the soft ground.

Your husband was updating you about the Olangi clan when Lo’ak stirred, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes. You gently unwrapped the prrsmung (baby carrier) and held Lo’ak in your arms as he woke. 

“Ma Lo’ak,” you cooed as he smiled up at you. “My sweet boy, did you sleep well? Look, who is here. It is Sempu.” 

“Hey, buddy,” Jake greeted Lo’ak, leaning over. Lo’ak reached out to his father and you lifted him closer to your husband. Jake chucked the baby playfully under his chin and gently poked his small nose. 

“Sempu was just telling me about Akwey,” you informed Lo’ak. “We should pay him a visit soon, do you not think so, my child?” 

You continued the conversation about the Olangi clan’s integration into yours with Jake as you nursed Lo’ak. But after he was done, you brought him up and nuzzled against his cheek, kissing and pretending to munch on the roundest part of his face. 

The faintest wisp of a laugh made you stop cold and pull back. Lo’ak’s eyes were crinkled and his lips were parted in a smile. 

“Jake! Listen!” You called to your mate, despite knowing he had already been, before trying again.

You were rewarded with the sweetest sound one could ever hear. You could not help but laugh alongside Lo’ak, completely in awe and giddy with excitement. His laughter was a recent development, and up until this very moment, Lo’ak would only laugh for his father. Something Jake took great pride in. 

Wanting to hear more of it, you kissed all over Lo’ak’s little face, trailing down his arm to his hand and pretending to bite his supple skin along the way. Lo’ak’s giggle filled the air and filled your heart until it felt like it might burst.

You pulled away to give the poor boy a chance to breathe and glanced over at Jake with a grin.

“I did it!” you celebrated. 

“Yeah, you did, baby.” His voice was laced with his own laughter, eyes soft and smile unrestrained. 

Jake’s teasing and gloating seemed to have been forgotten, replaced by a joint elation. You were blessed to share these moments with Jake; who you knew felt the same rush of delight and wonder when witnessing the enchanting laughter of a child you brought into the world together. One who was made with love, and somehow inspired more of it within you every day. 

You hugged Lo’ak close, resting your cheek against his head as your eyes trailed over your family. Never in your life had you known a love so true.  

masterlist thank you so much for reading!