nat

Gently, you manage to pry the bat free without much more noise. It's heavier than you remember. You keep your eyes on the cheap blinds in your bedroom. The metal outside creaks some more, loud and straining. You can imagine it taking some weight right now. You can't fight, you don't know how, and your chances are looking slim with how big you're imagining this person is. 

Who even climbs up seven flights voluntarily? 

Your face cringes with every noise but you successfully shuffle out of bed. The duvet falls back onto your mattress on the ground. You find your footing on the part of your floor that dips. A shadow moves across the blinds. It shrouds the light. You blink and squint. 

"Puñeta," a deep voice grumbles. You freeze. That doesn't even sound human. Sounds like the fucking Terminator is at your window. 

I can't fight the Terminator.

The wind whips at the glass. It howls and rushes against the surface. There's more quiet swearing coming from the man with a robotic voice. You've somehow gotten closer to the glass. 

There's a loud rattle. That noise shocks you into gaining all the dumb confidence you need. You ignore all survival instincts and look. Between the plastic slats, the Red Hood. A bright red bat is carved across a chest with its own wingspan and a gritty leather jacket. His back caves and hunches over, fitting into the window beside your bedroom. Then, he shrinks in and shuts the latch behind him.

Holy shit.

The Red Hood, one of Gotham's most feared vigilantes. The one who murders people. Who ends up with heads in duffle bags. Who's patrol routes stay in Crime Alley. Mr. Trigger-happy is your neighbour. 

Setting your bat slowly back down onto the ground, you don't have it in you to do much else. With a slump, you fall back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling. You stare until you've memorised all the marks. Until your eyes droop and then reopen with a startle. You stare until you can hear the end of your neighbour's shuffling and stop of his footsteps. You stare until the dark room fades into your eyelids. 

—

Meeting your other neighbours goes by with varying degrees of success. To no surprise, they're all better than the Red Hood.

There's Alanna, the elderly lady on the fourth floor. She's immediately taken to calling you Linda (she didn't listen when you told her it wasn't your name). She told you rumours of the two men who play chess in the nearby park. Well, stretch of grass with two trees and a small stone table. It's barely a park, more like someone's misplaced lawn. One man apparently claims to be a former grandmaster at the game. The other is out of a job and hasn't told his partner yet. Instead, he tucks his briefcase between his feet and spends the morning in business casual losing at chess. Gordo, a cat from what you've gathered, only eats raw salmon and tuna. She tried giving him some kibble and he turned the other way. Gus, your landlord, pats his stomach whenever he's looking around. There's a mystery neighbour on the seventh floor. You tried getting more out of Alanna but she couldn't say more. She swore not to.

Mr. Ronald, middle aged and a bit wobbly, ended up here due to overpriced hospital bills. Weak knee. Widowed, peaceful, and managing a secret pigeon coop on the roof. You asked him about this mystery neighbour. He just shook his head and smiled patiently. 'Good guy', he said. 'Good with the pigeons. Quiet.' That didn't bring you anywhere because this guy sounded more like a ghost rather than a person.

Valerie is on the fifth with her husband and two kids. You passed by them on their way to school earlier. They didn't have time to talk as they squeezed out of the elevator.

Vincent is supposed to be the doorman-slash-receptionist but no one has seen him in days.

On the corner of the street, there's a bodega run by a man named Raul and his cat Gordo. Thankfully Gordo doesn't mind pets. Inside, a couple more groups hung around. Outside too. They sat on the sidewalk or steps and seemed to each have their spot. You made a mental note: Raul seems nice, the place has people and regulars. 

You pass by a few streetlamps on your way to the grocery store. A few stickers on there. A lot of Batman, Robin, and something called Fat Hood. You take a picture of it. On the stoop of a neighbouring building, an older man is sat. He probably definitely saw you stop, take the picture, and snicker like an idiot. There are blankets piled high on his lap and a thin layer of cardboard beneath him. His beard is thick and you can unfortunately smell him from here. He merely follows you with his eyes as you walk past, squinting. He doesn't ask for the groceries in your hand, he just watches, as if he's more than content that you're minding your own business. He doesn't leave a cup on the sidewalk or a sign. He doesn't say a small 'hi'. 

You'll have to ask him next time you pass if he wants something to eat or drink. 

For now though, you need to get moving. You tried distracting yourself plenty by meeting the neighbours. You sussed out your block. You have to meet this mystery neighbour.

The elevator ride up is painstakingly slow. Your door takes too long to unlock and is annoyingly loud. Your hallway feels like it stretches on forever. The stupid blinds keep on falling back down.

Continuing your strange state of determination, you push open your bedroom window. It opens far too easily but you don't pay it any mind. Quickly, you scramble out onto the fire escape. It barely whines. That Red Hood guy must've been heavy. Or maybe it was the entire armoury strapped to his body. You push that second though out of your head. Your feet shuffle across the damp metal. Holding onto the rail, you balance yourself and stop in front of his window.

"Okay, this is fine," you whisper to yourself. This is not fine. You're insane. 

Peering forward, your other hand plants itself onto the brick in front of you. It's dark. Too dark to see anything. Maybe a lump. Or a shape. But no Red Hood. Just darkness. 

Damn.

–

taglist: @lettucel0ver, @apocal-ips, @pinklyred

Mr. Johnson—or Gus—looks you up and down for the second time, shakes his head, and then opens his mouth for the first time since you signed your contract. All he feels that is important to tell you is that he wouldn't even let his own kids live here for free. It's not like you have much of a choice. You wanted to move to a big city, your previous residence just not as ambitious as Gotham or Metropolis. Without the unwavering support of your parents, you saved up as much as you could and got yourself to Gotham. From sublet to sublet, you finally landed here. It was within your budget and within a somewhat okay neighbourhood. Sure, it's on the edge of Crime Alley next to Burnley, but at least it's close to the bus lines and subway.

With such a fun and encouraging 'welcome to the building', you nod with a polite smile and grab your keys. They’re standard, a little cheap, and have seen better days. Like the rest of this place. You stack them on top of a cardboard box with a soft chime and start moving in.

It takes you two hours. You drag your boxes on the creaky iron trolley hidden behind the vacant reception, arms burning and the worn-out tile beneath you squeaking. Up the rickety elevator covered in flyers, graffiti, stickers, and a few buttons permanently stuck before it opens up onto the seventh floor where the doors open up to a small, flickering hallway. The floorboards creak. Discoloured stains and irregular levelling travel down the hall. There's only two other doors, aside from the emergency stairs. Neither of which have doormats. The only indication of life are the scuff marks on the walls and the crooked metal numbers on the doors.

7B, that's you. In oxidised bronze-coloured numbers. The 7 is missing a screw, dangling at an angle. The wood uncovered beneath is a shade lighter than the rest of the door.

This place has so much charm, you think to yourself with a sigh. Character.

You unlock it and swing your door open. It wails, loud and uncomfortable, announcing your presence to too many people. Unsafe in such a quiet building, especially since you don't know your neighbours yet. You'll have to fix that. Get some oil. For now, you just take a step inside.

And, you take it all in.

Left to right.

Right to left.

Your apartment isn't great. It isn't even good. Maybe decent, for Crime Alley of all places. South-East facing windows. A fire escape. An old fireplace that doesn't work anymore and is repainted in thick coats of white. Radiators that definitely hum and hiss, cobwebs stuck to the dials. You got lucky with the amount of rooms, though. A living room, a dining room, a bedroom, an office, a kitchen, and a bathroom. More than enough for just yourself. A place this big and seemingly clean available to you only because the previous tenant vacated mysteriously and all other applicants denied the place. At least, that's what you heard from your broken understanding when you overheard the on-and-off receptionist by the door.

"Three people came on Monday," you had to strain your ears to rearrange the words. "All left within ten minutes. Nothing wrong with the place. They smiled and asked for papers. Five minutes later for the agent to find the papers, they said they changed their minds."

So it's not very reassuring, but the rent is cheap and so was your deposit.

With a deep sigh and a motivating mix of excitement and exhaustion, you get started on settling into your new place.

๑

๑

PART 1 : APARTMENT 7B

1. THE FIRE ESCAPE

2. MISSING JACKET & STALKER GUARDIAN ANGEL

3. TLC

4. TLC PART 2

5. SHOWING RESULTS FOR ‘WAYNE’

6. DÉJÀ VU

7. ANOTHER NEW FRIEND

8. PEN PALS

9. CRIME ALLEY COMMUNITY

10. A WAYNE MANOR CHRISTMAS

11. NEW YEARS

12. RED STRING, POST-ITS, AND DELUSION

13. IT’S ALL GONE

๒

PART 2 : CONDO 28C

14. A NEW START

15. I’VE CONNECTED THE DOTS

16. MUNDANE ROUTINE

17. JEALOUS JASON

18. FORCED PROXIMITY AND INJURIES MAKE THE HEART GROW FONDER

19. THE NEXT MORNING

20. ME BEFORE YOU

21. JASON TODD TALKS TO CATS WHEN HE’S UPSET

22. THE OUTLAWS AND THEIR PRECIOUS CARGO

23. PERFECT TIMING, DAMIAN. THANKS.

24. MORE THAN MUNDANE

๓

PART 3 : PENTHOUSE LOFT A

25. HOUSEWARMING PARTY

26. SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW, SOMEONE BLUE

27. GARTER REMOVAL (AMONGST OTHER THINGS)

28. SUNDAYS

๐

taglist: @lettucel0ver, @apocal-ips, @pinklyred

GIRL DAD! JASON who tears up again when your three year old runs into arms at 3pm. In a quick swoop, her backpack is in one of his hands, and she’s propped up in his arm and on his hip. He buckles your daughter into her child-seat in the back and shoots you a quick text and a giggly voice message from your daughter. He does pickups and thanks to his flexible schedule with the Iceberg lounge and auto-shop, and the less frequent patrols now only a couple times a week.

GIRL DAD! JASON who is a good parent. He knows how to prep bottles, burp, change diapers, and household chores. When the two of you visit the manor, he’s the one leaving during tea or dinner of family game night to check up on the kids. When he’s at your family’s (unfortunately for you) he’s still taking a few minutes to leave to check up on Selena who’s now one. For him, it’s a happy excuse to be away from your family and spend a little bit of time with his girls. He bites back with his usual sass and sarcasm whenever a parent makes a poor remark on how it’s your job and not his to take care of the girls. How he should sit down and relax and have a beer.

GIRL DAD! JASON who takes care of you and your girls. He drives you guys everywhere. He’s the last to dig in at dinner. He rubs your feet, has a Sunday reset ritual of massages and a nice warm bath after the two of clean the apartment.

GIRL DAD! JASON who doesn’t blink an eye as he’s dragged by you and your girls to the coffee table where a tea party is set up. He puts on a tutu, a tiara, and an eyepatch while sipping on some tea with far too much milk and sugar. His other hand puts the teddies back upright and adjusts your princess crown too.

GIRL DAD! JASON who—along with you—insists on getting your girls a variety of toys and activities to do. Wooden animals, building blocks, dolls, stuffed animals, foam swords. Toys that teach both care and compassion but also confidence and competitive spirit and logic. Your daughters are put early into swimming classes and water safety, the piano, soccer, and ballet. Individual and group sports, some stereotypically boy-ish or girly because they can and should do both.

GIRL DAD! JASON who attracts all the moms at ballet recitals and soccer practise. You often manage to attend with Jason but on the off chance he’s there sans his wife, it’s chaotic. The PTA is breathing down his neck to engage more. He offers cold juice boxes and apple slices to whoever wants some. His camera roll is filled with photos and videos ranging from the soccer field to the barre. He pointedly has to ignore Helen’s nails raking against his tattooed arm and the constant excited smiles accompanying a not-so-subtle ‘where’s your wife?’:

GIRL DAD! JASON who makes you want to have more when you catch him prepping breakfast on a lazy Sunday. Selena is in her high chair, Angelina beside her at the kitchen island, and your husband is shirtless and moving around the place. He’s cutting up fresh fruit, scrambling eggs and slicing up sausages into small disks. He’s also managed to get your morning beverage ready and your breakfast started too. He’s effortless, a focused frown between his brows, and you just lean against the stone and watch his back ripple and flex.

-

There’s also a the Monster from Frankenstein’s head on his mid-back. Towards the left side of his back. It’s a bit of a blur if you get too close, the tattoo not done with lines but rows of text. Frankenstein. Descriptions of the monster. A bit obvious to him about how he felt when he came back from the Lazarus Pit.

There’s a few for his heritage. A Taíno mask on his right thigh, rather large about the size of a hand. On his other leg, climbing up the side in a neat row, Taino symbols for animals and the elements. The sun, a coqui, the water.

On his side, between his back and his front, hidden by his arm most of the time, two cars. Crashed into each other. The darker one has lost its tires (they were stolen). The other one is smaller. He won’t admit it’s him and Bruce. The scene is flipped on the vertical line, made to fit in the narrow space of skin.

On his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow, in small are three dates connected. The year he was born. The year he died. The year he got resurrected. Nearby, there’s a small, thin license plate. For Gotham. Accompanied by a little ‘but it helps’ not too far away. A hint to: you don’t have to be crazy to live here but it helps.

The front of his torso has a few too. Not to leave it too bare. There’s the street sign from his childhood home. The one in Crime Alley accompanied by the graffiti and stickers and rust collecting on the metal sheet. It’s just below his chest over his ribs.

Both his arms are nearly covered. Along with the license plate and his three dates. There’s a Cerberus. The three-headed dog of Hades, the god of the Underworld. The three heads are looking away from the direction in which they’re running in, away from death. A thorny crown, like Jesus’ during his crucifixion. While he may no longer be religious and gave up on any notion of the afterlife, it’s another reminder. Blame a guy for coping by finding symbolism and meaning with what he’s been through. It represents the mockery and torture he’s been through. The hope and authority he thought he had as Robin that lead to his downfall. Even if it wasn’t his fault. There’s also a set of teeth, open and angry in an open bite. But they’re fake. Clearly plastic. The violence is a gut reaction for show. The material is fragile and easily damaged.

On his other arm, the hopeless romantic in him. Climbing from his wrist starting in a small vine all the way up to his bicep, a mix of tropical flowers. And flitting between the petals on the outside of his bicep, a hummingbird. Just like the tale from Puerto Rico. Soulmates turned into a flower and a hummingbird, and the bird goes searching for their partner in every flower until they find them.

Then, there’s a few random ones. A Betty Boop face on his knuckle because it was one of the cartoons that passed late at night on the tv that he remembers. Two gymnasts juggling dishes and hoops somewhere on his arm, balancing on a ball. Like that time Dick remembered that he had a younger brother and decided to teach him how to wreak havoc to the manor. A block of dirt from Minecraft because when he came back to life and discovered the game, he had a phase. Now he thinks of the three months where all of his free time was spent rotting on his safe house’s couch and playing it. A pair of socks with holes in it because he spent about six months with drafty socks and constantly forgetting to buy new ones. Hence, a permanent visual reminder. A tattooed rosary around his collarbones and behind his nape, small little pearls and the cross. A memento from his mom that he never got to keep, all of her stuff stolen after her death or taken with her in her final moments (okay this one isn’t random but whatever). A teardrop below his eye to remember the death of his biological father (it’s what he tells himself and strangers who are nosy and rude enough to ask) but in reality it was some stupid street gang who peer pressured him when he was younger. Yes, Bruce and Alfred were both horrified.

The point is, Jason has so many tattoos and is counting on getting a few more as his life evolves. Especially one of your kiss-print right over his heart after the two of you get married. He’s saving that spot just for you.

Inspo pics:

His decision was cemented at eight years old. Rummaging in dumpsters, making himself small and quiet enough so that no one would see him as annoying or greedy, a cold hunger that would only momentarily go away, showers that were seen as a luxury. No time for fun. No money for toys or books. Barely even a functional mattress to sleep on. If this is what childhood was like, why would he ever want to replicate that with his own kid?

And then he started dating you. First dates where he made an effort to impress you turned into mundane comforts and celebrations and eventually even living together. Now a little over two years together and he knows that things are getting serious. He wants things to be serious. But he just can’t give you everything you want.

He’s been ruminating over it for days. His patrols have been going on for longer, an escape for his mind and a way to get his anxious energy out. Every soft ‘Jason?’ you’d mutter in the quiet walls of your shared apartment would send a cold shiver down his spine. He caught you staring at the milk powder and baby formula at the grocery store.

He can’t do this. He can’t give you kids, adopted or not.

His footsteps are quiet, they always are, even as he’s pacing the floor between your living and dining room. You’re in the shower, distracted for long enough for him to calm the fuck down. The ratty t-shirt he insists on wearing even when he isn’t working on his car or bike is covered in wrinkles. There’s a stain on his sweatpants from the food you had for lunch. He feels like the bags under his eyes are worse than usual. Maybe they are. He’s barely able to doze off after coming back home to you at four am and having taken a few more hits than he should’ve. He just can’t stop fucking thinking about you and kids.

He knows you want some. You’ve never officially had a conversation about it but he’s seen you. You with Damian, talking to him like an adult while still indulging his pre-teen interests. Smiling at toddlers at the bookstore. Bouncing a baby on your hip because a poor parent had to go run after their other child. You’re good with kids. They don’t freak you out. You don’t constantly overthink the possibility of fucking them up.

“Jay?” He jumps about a foot in the air, as startled as a stray cat. You’re at the end of the hallway, leaning your hip against the archway as you run a towel through your hair.

“Shit-“ he calms his heart with a hand over his chest, absorbing the loud pounding. “Hey, baby.”

His voice doesn’t even sound right. High pitched and with a ‘you caught me’ lilt. He’s supposed to be a trained vigilante and detective for fuck’s sake.

“Hi,” you only smile at him quizzically, letting the towel drape over your shoulders as you approach him. “Everything okay?”

“Yep.” He nods quickly, tight and too controlled. You spare him another confused look but continue past him to the kitchen. The lights flicker on, warm and cozy.

It’s how the apartment usually feels. Something you’ve managed to curate. Sure, he’s able to make spaces feel lived in and homey, but you make it thrive and buzz. There’s the tea towels you insisted on embroidering hung over the oven door. A mirror above the hutch in the foyer, marked with a permanent ‘I love you’ sticky note. A huge black and white framed picture adjacent to the couch, a photo of you and Jason’s third date. The small burger joint diner where he bought the two of you dinner after a long day. It was nice. Neither of you had the energy for an actual date but still wanted to see each other. The bookshelves he insisted on helping you install, spanning the entire length of the hallway and into the office off of the living room. You sat on an armchair he pulled all the way across the room for you, offering kisses and cold water while he didn’t let you lift a finger. In your bedroom, soft sheets and even softer pillows you insisted on buying. You said it was worth it to splurge on those. Good sleep and all. Or the special mirrors in the bedroom and bathroom. With a click of a button they fog up. Something you had implemented without even making a big deal about it, noticing that Jason sometimes needed some time off from seeing his reflection.

God, this entire life he’s built with you in just the span of two years. He loved it. He loved it like this. You were in love and happy with him, he was more than happy and in love with you. Devoted to each other and still your own individuals. That’s all he wants in life and for the next sixty years to come.

He hasn’t even noticed that you’re now paused, standing in front of him with a worried frown. There’s a pot over the stove, simmering with something but neither of you move to tend to it.

“Jason,” you say softly and he braces himself.

This is it. You’ll learn that he’s some heartless piece of shit who doesn’t even want children. The one thing that everyone says makes their lives infinitely better. Worse? He can’t even give it to you. He can’t get you pregnant or foster or go through the whole adoption process. He just can’t. He can’t stomach through the thought of being a dad, a bad one.

“What’s going on, baby?” You cup his cheek, warm and gentle like always. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch and being called ‘baby’.

He doesn’t reply. It’s always hard for him. Voicing his worries, his emotions. Growing up how he did, it makes it hard to be emotionally vulnerable or even take that first step. Yelled at for crying when he twisted his ankle or rummaged through the empty cabinets for a snack. Belittled and mocked for ever bringing up wanting to be listened and taken care of. Every moment of pain and sadness stuffed deep, deep down all because his birth parents couldn’t care about anyone other than themselves. His problems aren’t problems. He’s just a kid, Jason. He just needs to get over it.

But when he opens his eyes, finding your concerned and understanding ones staring back at him, he pulls away.

He can’t do this. The way you’re looking at him. The rational part of him knows you don’t mean to. You’re just looking at him with love but all he sees is pity. Taking a few steps back, his knees knock against the back of the couch.

“Do you want me to sit on the couch while you write?” You suggest, your voice barely breaking over the simmering stove and Gotham’s soft rain.

With a nod, everything changes. You’re no longer looking at him. You don’t perceive his vulnerability and weaknesses, he can’t see whatever he wants to find in your eyes. In hurried, messy, and tear-stained scribbles he writes it out. Then, it’s handed to you and he doesn’t stay turned long enough to watch.

Instead, he focuses on the digital clock on the oven. No ticking, just the numbers slowly changing. There’s a nice smell coming from the pot, rich and spiced and warm. The rain outside hits your fire escape in little metallic clangs. His foot taps on the hardwood in quick rhythmic bursts.

Finally, after what feels like an hour when it really was only five minutes, you speak.

“First of all, Jay,” his shoulders slump before tensing up at the use of his nickname. You could be reassuring him as much as you could be softening the blow for what you’ll say next. “I don’t want kids. Never really have.”

His head turns before he even realises that he’s looking at you. Your lips are turned up in a small smile. You’re not angry. There’s no malice in your eyes. No hidden anger you’re going to bring back later.

“Is this what you’ve been worrying about for the last few days?” You finally touch him, reaching for his hand and wrap your palm around his.

“Yeah.” He can’t help but feel embarrassed, a pressure tickling the back of his eyes and he feels fucking stupid for crying now.

“I get it,” you don’t comment on his crying, letting him go through it, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. “For a moment, I was worried about that too.”

“What?” His voice cracks.

“That you wanted kids. You’re so good with them.”

He raises his eyebrows and a soft laugh of disbelief interrupts his tears.

“Yeah,” you nod, like this is obvious. That Jason of all people is good with kids. He barely gets along with Damian on a good day (albeit that it’s his moody little brother). “You’re always looking out for them. You crouch down to talk to them and your voice softens but you never speak to them like they’re dumb. Remember that time there was that attack during our picnic at Robinson Park?”

He nods, climbing over the back of the couch (something you usually throw a pillow at him for) and sits glued to you.

“And how some kids running on the grass near us got separated from their parents. You immediately opened your arms and made sure we were all behind you. They all clung onto your legs. Then, when everything died down and we went to find their parents, you double checked for a safe word or confirmation of their name before handing them off.”

“Oh.” He just blinks dumbly, not even remembering that. He was just doing what comes naturally to any of Gotham’s vigilantes.

“I assumed you wanted kids but since we never spoke about it too much, I never asked. I guess I was scared too. I didn’t want to disappoint you, you know.”

“You-,” Jason guffaws, blinking and closing his mouth. “You don’t disappoint me. You never have. Even if you didn’t want kids and I somehow did.”

“Thank you.” You smile sweetly at him and he feels his heart grow three sizes. “You never disappoint me either. Even when we disagree on things.”

Fuck, he feels the tears well up again. He didn’t even know that he needed to hear that. That even in disagreement you aren’t disappointed in him. That he doesn’t go from your boyfriend to a worthless pathetic child in a matter of seconds. That your love isn’t dependent on your mood or his mistakes. Well, of course he’s going to give you a kiss for that.

His hands find the small of your back and the side of your jaw, pulling your lips against his in a grateful and searing kiss. When you part, he’s pressing a few more just for good measure while he has you in his arms.

“So, just to be clear,” your hands smooth down the fabric on his chest, looking up at him with so much love that he can’t look away, “we’re not having kids.”

“Oh, thank god.” He sighs, pulling you with him as he drops his heavy body back onto the couch cushions. “I like what we have.”

“I like it too.” You curl up against him. Your head lands on his pec, his arms wrapped around you. It takes a little fidgeting to find the right spot before you still. Jason takes a few big deep breaths, his mind finally clearing as you rub his hand in soothing circles.

“Maybe I should get a vasectomy?” He says into the comfortable silence. That earns him a loud laugh and a soft smack to the chest.

“Give it a bit more time.”

“What? It’s not like removing an half an inch would drastically change my size.” He ignores your groan of ‘that’s not how it works’. “Plus, no condoms or birth control. Just you and me, and your pussy filled with my cum.”

“Jason!”

“Shhh,” he chuckles. “Think about it. You’re all dewy-“

“Who uses dewy?”

“Me. You look dewy after we have sex.”

“I look sweaty.”

“Dewy. Like a goddess or an angel. Or like a flower after the morning rain. Warm to the touch. Panting and gorgeous. Your lips are always parted and super soft afterwards. Plus, your hands always cling onto something. It’s the cutest thing ever. And then your sweet pussy dripping with my cum while I keep my cock inside of you and you squirm just a little more.”

“Oh my god.” You hide your face behind your hands and he just presses a kiss to your hairline. This conversation he can steer.

“You always make these sexy fucking noises when I keep my cock in you. These little moans and whines that get me hard all over again. And then when I pull out, I’ll put your panties back on and make sure that it stays there.”

“I’ll get a UTI.”

“Shit.” He groans. “Well, just a fantasy then. Instead, I’ll make sure you pee and we take a nice bath. I’ll find other ways to mark you.”

“Like a wedding ring?” You grin and he glances down at you, unable to do anything but smile back.

Another conversation. He just hopes that you don’t find the ring before then.

—

You’re running errands with him on a normal weekend, him pushing the cart while you check the shopping list. He just nods along, half-paying attention to your words because his eyes are drawn to your ass in your favourite pair of jeans. The pair that hug your curves and make you look like a ripe peach. He slips a hand in your back pocket when he helps you get a box of cereal from the top shelf. Then, another squeeze as he finishes up putting the groceries into the trunk and you put the cart back.

Or after a long day of work. He hasn’t stopped thinking about your pencil skirt since you got ready this morning. And the view he got when he dropped you off at your workplace. So he gets a little greedy and grabby by bending you over the stone island and massaging your soft flesh.

“Too tired, baby?” He presses a kiss your nape. When you say ‘no’, he continues until the two of you are spent and naked.

On vacation too. That’s probably when he’s the biggest fiend. From the first class flight all the way to the hotel room, he’s been the sweet and grumpy Aaron that you know. But once you’ve had some dinner and slept off the time difference, now lounging in a cabana watching the waves crash in, he’s unapologetic. Not even attempting to pretend to read, his book is marked and placed on the nearby table. Instead, his big hand on your behind as you read and enjoy the warmth.

He squeezes and watches the flesh dent and bounce back.

With a happy deep hum, presses a kiss to your forehead and relaxes. Finally. You’ve been trying to get him to do so for forever.

more from my blog

Jason Todd

Jason's head turned as soon as you scoffed.

"What's up?" He folds his book up, keeping the page marked with his index. His frown mirrors yours, forming on his face as soon as he heard your noise of discontent.

"My friend," you show him your screen, your friend's reply to your complaining. "I told her that I was disappointed because you couldn't make it to dinner yesterday because of 'work'. She basically said 'I told you so' and said that she would never let it slide and that it would never happen to her. Well, I'm not her and she needs to get off of her fucking high horse."

You pause, taking a breath at the end of your frustrated explanation. Jason's eyes fill with guilt before being quickly washed away by anger. On your behalf.

"Wow," your boyfriend scoots closer, grabbing your phone to get a better look. With the device in his scarred hand, his scowl only deepens, making him look like the Red Hood you hardly ever see. The low-light shadows shape the planes of his face, digging into the shallow slits and faint scars. His jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as he reads the words over. "So she's a condescending piece of shit."

"She's definitely acting like one." Your phone is delicately placed back into your hand while you automatically try to soften the blow for your friend.

"She's the one that said that she didn't want to go on her family vacation to India because of all of the 'poor people', right?"

"Yep."

"And the one that refused to go on a girl’s trip to Paris with you because she thought Paris was ‘ghetto’.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “I….”

The words stop coming. Maybe it’s been too much of not saying anything to her bullshit. In a surge of confidence, you type out a reply and send it before you can overthink it. Then, you turn your phone to Jason and watch him grin.

I didn’t ask for an ‘I told you so’. I just wanted to share what’s been happening in my life and Jason missing dinner happened. It wasn’t a big deal and I don’t need you making me feel shitty just because you ‘wouldn’t let that happen’ to yourself. When’s the last time you shared something about yourself to me without lying to make yourself feel or look better?

“Damn.” He presses a firm kiss to your temple and slings his arm around you. “Proud of you, baby.”

★彡

Bruce Wayne

One second you're complaining to Bruce on your way back from a nice dinner about some unflattering picture. In a nice dress and your boyfriend in a tailored suit, him pocketing his phone while you had taken yours out.

The next your friend is texting you, freaking out over her camera roll being half-empty.

“What?” You squint in the dark backseat of one of the expensive cars Bruce owns.

“Hm?” Bruce leans his head over your shoulder, the two of you sat side by side despite the spacious backseat.

“My friend,” you mutter through a whiff of his cologne, “the one who was jealous that I ended up with the Bruce Wayne.”

“Hm.” Bruce’s vague hum is deeper, a lot more disappointed. Kind of sounding like a Minecraft villager.

“Apparently half of her pictures on her phone have disappeared in seconds.” You reply to her frantic texting. At another ping of your cellphone, you pause.

“Bruce?” Your eyes turn to his face before your head does, narrowing into suspicious little slits.

“Hm?” Calm and unbothered, Bruce hums again.

“All of her ‘blackmail’ pics are gone.”

“Sounds like a non-issue.”

“The same pictures I complained about just a few minutes ago.”

“Lucky you.”

You clench your jaw.

Bruce lifts your intertwined hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist.

“I don’t see why she’d need blackmail of her friends anyway.”

“Alright, Mr. Detective.”

“That’s different.”

“Sure.”

★彡

Clark Kent

Clark doesn't handle other people's grievances well. Especially not yours.

Call him an empath.

As soon as he picked up on the pattern, he decided that he needed to so something about it. It's the superhero in him. Every time this 'friend' of yours doesn't respect your boundaries, he’ll say something. He knows you’re too kind to say anything, still busy adjusting to standing up for yourself. You need someone on your side and he’s more than glad to be that person.

The next time was in a bar, your friend insisting that you all needed to go out and drink to enjoy some time together.

You’re sat between some familiar faces and Clark, his hand linked with yours over his thigh and an air of ease that he seems to follow him everywhere.

“I mean, I get that you don’t drink but like I literally invited you on a night out.” The friend across from you and Clark frowns slightly, her brows knitting as she looks you up and down. You feel your face heat up, your mouth opening to repeat the same ‘I just don’t feel like it’ over again, but Clark beats you to it.

“A night out to enjoy time with her,” Clark rectifies, his polite tone clipped and certain. “Not to peer pressure her into drinking.”

“Did I say I was pressuring her?” Your friend bites back, snarling as soon as Clark hinted at calling out her behaviour.

“This is the third time since you planned this whole thing that you’ve asked her to drink. You don’t even ask it as a question. You just make snide remarks and wait for her to follow.” Clark’s hand tightens in yours as he leans forward in his seat.

“Why are you trying to make me look bad?”

“I’m not doing any of that. I’m just pointing out your repetitive behaviour.”

“Sure.” A scoff from across the table. “Look, do what you want but every time you don’t drink it’s like you’re not even trying to join in on the fun.”

“You’re blaming her for not wanting to have fun?” Clark guffaws in disbelief, the attitude being revealed that rivals the sparring partner from across the table. “You’re the one who can’t even interact and have fun with your own friends unless they’re doing the exact same things as you, in the way you want them to, and how you want them to.”

At the end of Clark’s words, there’s a stagnant pause in the air. Music thrums, people laugh and make noise around your little group. But within the circle around the table, all eyes are set on your boyfriend and your friend. Clark’s face doesn’t change. Self-assured and not backing down. Your friend finally relents, muttering something as she scoffs and rolls her eyes, dragging someone along with her to inevitably shit-talk you and your boyfriend on her way to the bar.

With a sigh, you finish your lemonade and mutter a quiet ‘thank you’ to Clark. He squeezes your hand in return.

“You want to get some ice cream?” He smiles, his dimples brighten up the dim mood. “We could walk across the bridge back to mine. I’ll carry you when your feet hurt.”

★彡