Something that cannot be ignored is that if Louis and Armand ever involved Bestie in their bedroom life, they're probably going to have:

A) a higher stamina level than her

B) a higher pain tolerance level than her

They would have to pay careful attention to see when Bestie starts to get tapped out. At the risk of her being too overwhelmed to verbalize that she's tired, so they'd have a system ("Bichette, hold my hand. Do you want us to stop? Squeeze once for yes, twice for no.")

Then, she'd get all cleaned up and gently cuddled for the rest of the night. <3

Armand and Louis would be so intentional about this. They would want to make sure that Bestie can ask to stop for whatever reason at any moment, and that doing so won’t hurt anyone’s feelings.

At first, a part of Bestie thinks that this is just a manifestation of their pension for worrying over her and that they have to be exaggerating a bit. It quickly becomes clear that they’re not.

it’s so late and bestie is so sleepy and a little sad so she just stares at him for a second before telling him that there is no goal, she just loves him.

armand immediately melts. all anger and uncertainty evaporate into thin air. he’s on her in a second, pressing his face into the side of her neck and kissing whatever skin he can reach. he’s swearing all of his loyalty to her, telling her they can be together forever.

“Are you human?” Armand asked as he looked into your eyes. It wasn’t soft nor aggressive. It was his way of speaking to your soul rather than to your body.

“Are you human?” It repeated in your head. What could he be speaking of? What nonsense? You thought to yourself.

“Yes, Armand. What else would I be?” You said with a soft smile and inquiring eyes. You weren’t exactly amused by his antics, but he always found a way to draw your attention.

“Are you human?” You asked as you watched him admire your entire being. It was a pure expression he gave you. It was as if he were lost in wonder, but knew exactly what he was thinking of.

“Yes, of course.” He spoke softly. There was a sense of avoidance in his eyes as he let out his words. It was as if he gave an incomplete answer. It was as if he had more to say.

“What I believe is that humanity is merely a concept,” you began to say. “Humanity is found in everything, if you’d ask me. It’s only another way of identifying beauty.”

What am I even saying? You thought to yourself. Because yes, what the hell did this even mean? It was like the words spilled out of you before you could catch them.

Despite the amount of time spent with Armand, you still couldn’t understand him like you could with others. However, you always identified Armand with beauty. Any other branch of beauty as well. Beauty was his to keep and admiration was yours to feel.

Humanity was beautiful to you and Armand was more human than anyone to you.

“You’re more human than I am,” you began to say.

Armand looked at you with a shocked expression. It was as if he’d never heard those words before. It was as if he couldn’t believe you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked, confused by such an expression. “Like what?” Armand replied. “Like you don’t believe me.” You smiled.

“It’s just that I don’t get that often.”

“Well, you are.”

Armand stared into your eyes again with such a loving and gentle expression. It was as if he were taking the air out of your lungs and receiving a part of you.

You wished he could do just that. You’d give it to him, actually. Every part of yourself.

─────

“Fuck, baby.” Garrett rasped, his voice low and tired as the big hand he had wrapped around your silky hair in a makeshift ponytail tightened just a little.

The exhaustion from the ice still clung to him, you noticed from how his broad shoulders were slightly slumped, his muscles rigid, his playful smile not quite reaching his eyes.

So earlier, when you suggested doing something to take his mind off of hockey for a while, he’d figured you meant ordering takeout from Malone’s and watching ‘The wedding planner’ for the hundredth time. Certainly, not this.

Not you, looking so pretty in your knees right in front of him while he sat back in his desk chair, muscular thighs spread wide enough to make space for you.

You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to his glistening cock. “Told you this would help.”

“You did.” He laughed, low, running a hand through his tousled dark curls, just so he could look at you better.

Strands of hair fell down the sides of your face, lashes damp, swollen lips covered with his arousal, the strings of your lacy bralette sliding off your shoulders.

One of his fingers reached for your cheekbone, tracing small circles on the flushed skin. “So beautiful, baby.” He whispered, the words coming out slurred from pure tiredness.

You leaned into his touch before wrapping your hand around his length and trying to hold all of him, which was impossible, you’d tried.

Garrett hissed like a wound animal, the hard ridges of his stomach contracting when you gave him one slow, cruel stroke. Feeling the drag of your fingers against his throbbing cock was everything he needed.

A deep, strangled grunt left out his lips as you slid your thumb over the red, slick–covered tip. You felt how it pulsed beneath your touch, at the same rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Fuck, wait, baby.” He cleared his throat, voice still coming out rough. “Slow down or I’ll come.” And for the millionth time, he dragged a hand through his curls, as if that were enough to ground him.

“That’s the point, Graham.” You said, too playful, too amused, but your eyes softened at the sight of him.

Small beads of sweat running down his forehead, hair a mess, his eyebrows deeply furrowed, chest moving up and down, the muscles of his jaw twitching each time you touched him just right.

“Right.” He started, the laugh he attempted to get out replaced by a trembling breath because you kept pumping your hand. “But— wanna come inside your mouth.”

You didn’t answered, with words, at least.

For the last time, you leaned forward, your lips leaving obscene open–mouthed kisses over the tip, your tongue tracing the prominent vein along his cock before pushing down, slowly, keeping your own pace, once again trying to fit all of him. But failing miserably.

Garrett’s sure his brain melted. “Oh, fuck.”

You kept the rhythm steady, lips sliding smoothly in an up and down motion all over his length as your hot tongue worked him with unhurried strokes. Meanwhile, your hand pumped in time what you couldn’t quite reach.

“Keep goin’, baby.” He rasped out, his voice hoarse. His thick fingers tangled gently through your hair, just holding, not guiding.

You hummed around him, taking him deeper, the vibration sending shivers down his spine, but you kept sucking with enough pressure, hollowing your cheeks.

Quickly, Garrett’s breathing turned ragged, the toned muscles of his thighs tensing, fighting back the pleasure.

“I’m close— fuck, I’m so close.”

And you didn’t pull away, not until you felt how his body locked up, how he panted your name under his breath along with a curse, and especially not until he pulsed thick and hot across your tongue, savoring the salty ropes of him.

He threw his head back with a low moan, now his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and his lips parted, trying to catch his breath. You waited until you swallowed every drop to ease off and leave a final kiss to the sensitive tip.

Garrett, with the strength he had left, leaned forward in the chair, big hands sliding under your arms to pull you up onto his lap.

He wrapped you in his arms against his heaving chest, and you found your place in the curve where his shoulder met his neck.

“See how I was right?” You smiled against his warm skin. “You needed to relax.”

He pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, laughing. “Never doubting you again.”

“Glad you learned.”

“Damn right I did, baby.”

─────

soft smut | domestic life w’ jason | fluffy

waking up to find jason asleep on top of you. part of you feels bad cause he’s tired. but mostly he just wants to keep you in bed, with whatever necessary method.

it’s past noon when you wake up to jason laying with his head on your chest. his face literally buried between your breasts like it’s a pillow. snoring softly as though completely content.

you probably wouldn’t have woke up if it hadn’t been for the blinds being open because his weight over you just felt like a blanket. warm and inviting. his suit still on him like he just collapsed here somehow and his huge arms resting beside your head. watching the rise and fall of his back since his chest was to your stomach and the soft ruffle of his hair, you smile to yourself.

when you finally try to get up, he’s not budging even a smidge. if anything, he seems to get heavier, and he doesn’t make a sound still completely asleep. but you know he sleeps at odd hours and lord knows when he got home and collapsed on your sleep-ridden form.

fine, you think to yourself, i’ll give him another ten minutes.

though ten turns into twenty and now it’s 1pm. you shake him a little harder and groan out his name.

“jason, get up. you’re crushing me.”

he mumbles something against your chest and rubs his face there before turns it to the side. hands spanning around your waist to keep you from squirming further.

you groan a little louder and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “half the day is gone and you’re here suffocating me.”

that’s when he lifts his head to look at you. sleep heavy on his eyelids and a soft pink to his cheeks from pressing his face to the fabric of your clothes. the soft imprint of your ribbed shirt against his skin.

“you aren’t suffocating if you can talk ma.”

If Venice!Bestie ever found out the full picture of how Marius (and by extension, Amadeo) viewed her, she would be heartbroken.

It’s one thing for Marius to view her like a pet but Amadeo? HER Amadeo? The man who cared for her? The man who she, in turn, took care of?

How could he do this to her?

I think that would be the first time Venice!Bestie truly understands how deep Marius’s hooks are in Amadeo. She would be so horrified…

They’re so complicated. I don’t think that Amadeo sees Bestie as a pet. When he thinks about Bestie being his, it’s coming from a surprising innocent and loving place.

The value of any ‘ownership’ (official or otherwise) is that Amadeo can keep her safe and keep her close to him. So when Amadeo doesn’t correct Marius, it’s not because he views her as his pet, it’s because he doesn’t want her to be taken away.

The Secret

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dividers by @cafekitsune

The family group chat had been quiet for exactly four hours—a record, honestly—when Jason's message came through.

It was a photo. Just a photo, no context, no explanation.

A tiny baby, wrapped in a pink hospital blanket, sleeping peacefully. Dark hair, scrunched up little face, impossibly small.

The chat exploded.

DICK: IS THAT A BABY DICK: JASON IS THAT A BABY TIM: Why are you sending us random baby pictures STEPH: Okay but that's a REALLY cute baby DICK: JASON ANSWER YOUR PHONE DUKE: Did you kidnap a baby??? DAMIAN: Todd, explain yourself immediately. TIM: Why is no one else concerned that Jason just sent us a photo of a random infant DICK: JASON PETER TODD

Jason's response came five minutes later, while Dick was probably having a minor breakdown:

JASON: Her name is Catherine. She's mine. Come to Gotham General if you want to meet her.

Then he went offline.

The chaos that followed was legendary.

Dick was the first to arrive at the hospital, having broken approximately fifteen traffic laws to get there. Tim was right behind him, looking like he'd run the entire way (he'd grappled; his car was in the shop). Steph and Cass arrived together. Duke had called Bruce, who was currently in the Batmobile with Damian, both of them looking equally shell-shocked.

They found Jason's room number from a nurse who looked deeply amused by the sudden influx of Waynes, and Dick didn't even knock before bursting in.

"JASON PETER—"

"Shhh!" You hissed from the hospital bed, and Dick stopped dead.

Because there you were, looking exhausted and beautiful and very much holding a newborn baby. And there was Jason, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand on your shoulder, looking at Dick like he might actually murder him for being loud.

"She's sleeping," Jason said quietly, voice hard. "You wake her up, you leave."

Dick's mouth opened and closed several times. Tim pushed past him, staring.

"You have a baby," Tim said, like he was testing the words. "You—Jason—you have an actual human baby."

"Yeah, Tim. That's generally what happens when—"

"When were you going to TELL US?!" Dick's voice rose again, and the baby—Catherine—stirred slightly. Jason's glare could have melted steel.

"I'm telling you now."

"The baby is already BORN, Jason! That's not telling us, that's INFORMING us after the fact!"

"Can we not do this here?" You said tiredly, adjusting the baby in your arms. "I just gave birth. I'm exhausted. Can the family drama wait?"

That seemed to remind everyone that you existed. Dick immediately looked guilty.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm Dick. We—I guess we haven't met?" He looked at Jason accusingly. "Because SOMEONE didn't tell us he had a girlfriend."

"Wife," Jason corrected, and held up his left hand where a simple gold band sat.

The room went dead silent.

"WIFE?!" Dick's voice cracked.

"Oh my god," Steph breathed. "Oh my god, Jason secret married someone AND had a baby and didn't tell anyone?"

"I'm telling you now," Jason repeated, maddeningly calm.

"THE BABY IS ALREADY BORN—"

"Dick, you're going to give yourself an aneurysm," Tim said, though he looked pretty close to one himself. "Jason. Buddy. When did you get married?"

"Eight months ago."

"EIGHT—" Dick caught himself, lowered his voice. "Eight months. You've been married for eight months."

"Technically nine, but who's counting."

"I'M COUNTING! I'M VERY MUCH COUNTING!"

Cass had moved closer to the bed, studying the baby with soft eyes. "She's beautiful," she said quietly. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," you said, relieved that at least one person was being normal about this. "Would you like to hold her?"

Cass nodded, and you carefully transferred the tiny bundle into her arms. She held Catherine like she was made of glass, a small smile on her face.

"I can't believe you kept this secret," Tim was saying. "For nine months. How did we not notice?"

"Because I didn't want you to notice." Jason's hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "We wanted to do this privately. Without the whole family hovering and interfering and making it about the mission."

"But we're your family," Dick said, and he sounded hurt now rather than angry. "We should have been there for you. For both of you."

"You're here now," you said gently. "That's what matters."

The door opened again, and Bruce walked in with Damian. Both of them stopped, taking in the scene—Cass holding a baby, you in the hospital bed, Jason looking defiant and protective.

"Jason," Bruce said carefully. "Is that—"

"My daughter. Catherine. She was born this morning at 6:47 AM. Seven pounds, three ounces. Healthy." Jason stood up, moving to stand between his family and the bed like a guard. "And before you start, yes, I'm married. No, you didn't know. Yes, I kept it secret on purpose. Any questions?"

Bruce looked at you, then at the baby in Cass's arms, then back at Jason. Something complicated crossed his face—hurt, maybe, but also understanding.

"Congratulations," he said finally. "To both of you."

"That's it?" Damian said incredulously. "He keeps a wife and child secret for months and you're just—congratulating him?"

"What would you have me do?"

"I don't know, express some concern that Todd hid something this significant? Demand an explanation?"

"I think," Bruce said quietly, watching Jason, "that he had his reasons. And that pushing will only make him more defensive."

Jason's shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Her name is Catherine?" Bruce asked. "After—"

"After my mother. Yeah." Jason's voice was rough. "We—it felt right."

Bruce's expression softened completely. "It's a beautiful name."

Dick had moved closer now, looking at the baby in Cass's arms with wonder. "Can I—can I hold her?"

Jason looked at you. You nodded.

"Wash your hands first," Jason said. "And support her head. And be gentle—"

"I know how to hold a baby, Little Wing."

"This isn't just a baby. This is my baby."

Despite the tension, you smiled. Jason had been like this with the nurses too—hypervigilant, protective, determined to ensure everyone who touched Catherine did it correctly.

Dick held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, which, to be fair, she kind of was. His eyes got suspiciously shiny.

"Hi Catherine," he whispered. "I'm your Uncle Dick. And I'm going to spoil you so much. I'm going to be the favorite uncle."

"You're going to have competition," Tim said, moving closer. "I'm bringing educational toys."

"I'm bringing weapons," Damian announced.

"You're not bringing our daughter weapons," Jason said flatly.

"She should learn self-defense early—"

"She's six hours old!"

Watching them, Bruce moved to your bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Sore. Happy." You glanced at Jason, who was now arguing with Damian about appropriate gifts for infants. "A little overwhelmed by the sudden family invasion."

"I apologize for that. We're... enthusiastic." Bruce's lips quirked. "And Jason's right to have kept this private, even if it hurt some feelings. This is your family. You deserve to have it on your terms."

"Thank you." You hesitated. "I know he gave you all a shock. He wanted to tell you sooner, but—"

"He was protecting you. Protecting her." Bruce glanced at the baby, now being carefully transferred from Dick to Tim. "I understand. I might not like it, but I understand."

Steph had pulled up a chair next to your bed. "Okay, so I need details. How did you two meet? How long have you been together? How did he propose? I need all the information Jason definitely won't give us."

You laughed. "We met at a bookstore. I was reaching for a book and he was reaching for the same one. Very cliché."

"Jason reads?" Duke looked skeptical.

"Jason reads constantly," you corrected. "He proposed three months after we started dating. It was pouring rain, we were walking home, and he just—asked. No ring, no plan, just 'marry me.'"

"And you said yes to that?" Steph asked.

"I said yes to him." You watched Jason, who was now showing Tim the correct way to support Catherine's head. "He's different than you probably see. Softer. More open. He didn't want to tell you because he was afraid of—"

"Of us ruining it," Dick finished quietly. "Of making it about the mission or Bruce or the family drama."

"He wanted something that was just his," you confirmed. "Just ours. And I understood that."

"But you're telling us now," Bruce observed.

"Because she's here. Because she's real. And because—" You smiled as Jason brought Catherine back to you. "—because she's going to be part of this family whether we planned it or not. Might as well make it official."

Jason settled on the bed beside you, and you leaned into him, exhausted and content. Catherine made a small noise, and both of you immediately focused on her, checking, adjusting, making sure she was okay.

"They're going to be so overprotective," Tim said to Dick.

"They're going to be nightmares," Dick agreed. "It's going to be amazing."

The first few weeks were chaos.

Not just the normal chaos of new parents learning to care for an infant, though there was plenty of that. But also the chaos of integrating a secret family into the existing Batfamily structure.

"I'm just saying," Dick said, holding Catherine while you tried to eat something, "you could have invited us to the wedding."

"It was at city hall. Three witnesses. Very small."

"I could have been a witness!"

"You would have cried."

"I—okay, yes, I would have cried. But that's beside the point!"

Jason took Catherine from Dick, checking her over like he hadn't just been holding her five minutes ago. "The point is we wanted it private. Can you let it go?"

"Never. I'm going to bring this up for years." But Dick was smiling. "She's beautiful though. Really. You guys did good."

You'd moved into Jason's safehouse—bigger than his apartment, more secure, better for a baby. The family had immediately tried to get you to move to the manor.

"We have space," Bruce had said. "Alfred could help. You wouldn't be alone—"

"That's exactly why we're not moving in," Jason had replied. "We need space. Boundaries. Time to figure this out ourselves."

But they visited. God, did they visit.

Dick came every other day, bringing gifts and volunteering to babysit. Tim brought books about infant development. Steph brought clothes. Duke brought a security system that was definitely overkill for a two-month-old. Damian brought a knife ("She needs to learn proper blade grip early") that Jason immediately confiscated.

Even Bruce visited, usually in the evening, sitting quietly and holding Catherine with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

"I wish I'd done more of this," he admitted one night, Catherine asleep against his chest. "With all of you. I was so focused on the mission, on keeping you safe, that I forgot to just... be present."

"You're present now," Jason said quietly. "That counts."

Alfred came weekly, bringing food and wisdom and an endless supply of patience for Jason's paranoid safety protocols.

"Master Jason, the baby does not need a panic room."

"She might."

"She is two months old."

"Dangers don't care about age, Alfred."

But the biggest adjustment was Gotham itself.

Because word had gotten out—not about Catherine specifically, but about Red Hood having a family. And that made you a target.

The first threat came when Catherine was six weeks old.

Jason found the note on the safehouse door: Nice family you have. Would be a shame if something happened to them.

You found him in the nursery at 2 AM, standing over Catherine's crib, guns out, looking ready to burn Gotham down.

"Jason," you said softly.

"I should kill them." His voice was flat. "Everyone who even thinks about touching her. I should end them before they become a problem."

"That's not who you are anymore."

"Maybe it should be. Maybe I've been too soft, too comfortable. Maybe I need to remind Gotham what happens when people threaten what's mine."

You moved to stand beside him, looking down at your sleeping daughter. "You know what I think? I think you're scared. And that's okay. I'm scared too. But we can't protect her by becoming the thing we're trying to protect her from."

"I can't lose her. I can't—" His voice cracked. "She's perfect. She's innocent. She deserves better than this city, this life, this constant threat—"

"She deserves you. Both of us. Loving her, protecting her, but also letting her live." You took his hand. "We'll keep her safe. Together. But we can't do it by locking her away or eliminating every possible threat. That's not living."

Jason pulled you both close—you and the crib, as if he could shield you from the world by sheer force of will.

"I've never been this scared," he admitted. "Even dying wasn't this scary. Because this—losing her—that would actually destroy me."

"Then we make sure it doesn't happen. We're careful. We're smart. We use all these overprotective family members who keep showing up. But we don't let fear control us."

He nodded against your shoulder. "Okay. Okay."

But he still put extra security on the windows. And tracked your phone. And made Dick promise to be on call 24/7 in case something happened.

Some battles, you knew, you weren't going to win.

Catherine's first real family gathering happened at three months old.

Alfred had insisted. "Master Jason, she is part of this family. She should be introduced properly."

"She's three months old. She can't even hold her head up fully. What's she going to do at a family dinner?"

"Be adorable. Steal everyone's hearts. Allow her grandfather to dote on her properly." Alfred's expression was gentle but firm. "She belongs here. As do you and your wife."

So you'd agreed. One dinner. At the manor. With the whole family.

You were already regretting it.

"Remember," Jason said as you pulled up to the manor, Catherine in her car seat. "We can leave at any time. You say the word, we're gone."

"Jason, it's dinner with your family, not a hostage situation."

"Have you met my family?"

Fair point.

Alfred greeted you at the door, and his face absolutely lit up when he saw Catherine.

"Miss Catherine," he said softly. "How wonderful to finally have you home."

"We're just visiting, Alfred," Jason said.

"Of course, Master Jason. Visiting." But his smile suggested he had other ideas.

The family was already gathered in the dining room. Dick shot up the moment you entered.

"Baby!" He announced. "The baby is here!"

"Yes, thank you for that announcement," Jason said dryly. "I'm sure she appreciates being announced like a visiting dignitary."

But he carefully extracted Catherine from her carrier, and you watched as your normally tough, dangerous husband transformed into a gentle, protective father, cradling her like she was made of glass.

"Who wants to hold her first?" Jason asked, though his tone suggested he'd rather no one hold her at all.

"Me!" Dick, Tim, and Steph said simultaneously.

"Oldest gets priority," Dick argued.

"That's not a real rule—"

"I called it first—"

"Children," Bruce interrupted. "Perhaps we should let her parents decide."

Jason looked at you. You looked at the eager faces around the table.

"Dick," you decided. "But everyone gets a turn."

Dick looked like he'd won the lottery. Jason carefully transferred Catherine into his arms, hovering anxiously.

"I've got her," Dick promised. "Hi sweetheart. Hi beautiful girl. Uncle Dick missed you."

"You saw her three days ago," Jason pointed out.

"That's basically a lifetime at this age. She's probably grown since then. Developed new skills. Changed completely."

"She's three months old, not a Pokémon."

But watching Dick with Catherine, seeing the absolute adoration on his face, you understood why Jason had been scared to share this. Because this was his family now—not just his brothers and father, but his daughter. And letting them in meant risking them getting hurt, or her getting hurt, or everything falling apart.

It meant vulnerability he'd never allowed himself before.

Catherine got passed around the table like a very precious football. Tim held her while reciting developmental milestones. Steph cooed and took approximately a thousand photos. Duke was surprisingly natural with her. Even Damian held her, though he looked terrified the entire time.

"She's quite small," he observed.

"She's a baby," Jason said. "They're generally small."

"I was larger."

"You were also raised by assassins. Different standards."

Cass held Catherine the longest, just sitting quietly with her, and Catherine—who'd been fussing slightly with everyone else—immediately calmed.

"She likes you," you observed.

Cass smiled. "I like her."

Finally, Bruce held her. And watching Batman—the Dark Knight, the terror of Gotham's underworld—holding your infant daughter with such infinite gentleness made you understand exactly where Jason got his protective instincts from.

"She has your eyes," Bruce said to Jason. "And your stubborn expression."

"She's three months old. She doesn't have expressions yet."

"She's scowling at me right now. That's definitely your scowl."

Despite himself, Jason smiled.

Dinner was surprisingly normal. Catherine slept through most of it in your arms, occasionally waking to look around with unfocused baby eyes before drifting back off.

"So," Tim said carefully. "Are you guys... okay? Financially, I mean. Babies are expensive."

"We're fine," Jason said, in a tone that suggested the conversation was over.

"Because if you need anything—"

"We're. Fine."

"Jason," you said gently. "They're trying to help."

"I don't need help. I can provide for my family."

"No one's saying you can't," Bruce interjected. "But there's no shame in accepting support. That's what family does."

Jason's jaw was tight, but he nodded stiffly.

"I've set up a college fund," Bruce continued. "For Catherine. It's already established, you can't refuse it, it's done."

"Bruce—"

"You can be stubborn about everything else. But let me do this. Please."

Jason looked at Catherine, sleeping peacefully against your chest, and something in his expression softened.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."

"And I've prepared a nursery here," Alfred added. "For when you visit. Or if you need somewhere safe to stay."

"We have a safe house—"

"With respect, Master Jason, a manor full of vigilantes is considerably safer than any safe house." Alfred's expression was gentle. "I'm not asking you to move in. I'm simply ensuring you have options."

Jason looked overwhelmed. You squeezed his hand under the table.

"Thank you, Alfred," you said. "That's very kind."

As the evening wound down, you found yourself in the library with Bruce while Jason was changing Catherine.

"Thank you," you said. "For being patient with him. I know the secrecy hurt."

"He was protecting what matters most. I can't fault him for that." Bruce looked at you carefully. "Are you happy?"

"Very. Even with the chaos and the threats and the constant fear. Yes."

"Good. He deserves happiness. More than he believes he does." Bruce paused. "If you ever need anything—not just money or resources, but support, advice, someone to call at 3 AM when you're overwhelmed—you have family now. All of us."

Your throat was tight. "Thank you."

Jason appeared in the doorway, Catherine against his shoulder. "Ready to go?"

You nodded, standing. Bruce walked you both to the door.

"Come back soon," he said. "Please."

"We will," you promised.

In the car, Jason was quiet. You let him process, knowing he needed time.

Finally, he said: "That wasn't terrible."

You laughed. "High praise."

"They love her. All of them."

"Of course they do. She's perfect."

"She is, isn't she?" Jason glanced in the rearview mirror at Catherine's car seat. "I still don't want to move into the manor."

"I know."

"But maybe... maybe we could visit more. Let her know them. Let them be part of her life."

"I think that's a good idea."

"I'm still installing more security at the safe house."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

He reached over, took your hand. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this. For her. For understanding why I kept it secret and not being angry about it. For being patient with my paranoid bullshit. For—" His voice roughened. "For everything."

You lifted his hand to your lips, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "We're a family now. That's what family does."

"Yeah," Jason said softly, looking at Catherine sleeping peacefully in her car seat. "Yeah, we are."

And for the first time since Catherine was born, you saw him truly relax. Saw him believe that maybe—just maybe—this could actually work.

Secret or not, hidden or revealed, they were his family.

All of them.

And that was more than he'd ever thought he'd have.

The second photo Jason sent to the family group chat showed Catherine at nine months, sitting up on her own, grinning at the camera with two tiny teeth visible.

JASON: She said "Dada" this morning.

The responses came immediately.

DICK: AHHHHHHHHHH TIM: That's developmentally appropriate for her age STEPH: I'M CRYING DUKE: That's adorable DAMIAN: Acceptable first word BRUCE: I'm very proud of her. (And of you.) DICK: When can I teach her to say "Uncle Dick"??? JASON: Never. She's never learning that. DICK: You can't stop the inevitable, Little Wing JASON: Watch me

You looked over Jason's shoulder at his phone, Catherine on your hip babbling happily.

"They're never going to leave us alone now," you observed.

"Probably not."

"You okay with that?"

Jason looked at Catherine, who was reaching for his phone with grabby baby hands. He let her take it, watching as she immediately tried to put it in her mouth.

"Yeah," he said, catching her before she could succeed. "I think I am."

And that, more than anything, told you just how far he'd come.

From secret-keeper to sharing.

From isolated to family.

From protected to protecting.

It was beautiful to watch.

Even if it did mean dealing with Dick stopping by every other day.

₊  ֹ  ˖ WHAT ITS LIKE LIVING WITH BF!GARRETT ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

this man knows that you find his body attractive, so clothes absolutely do not exist in his vocabulary. he’s walking around in his boxers, whoring himself out. if you’re busy doing work around the apartment or studying, he’ll be walking right in front of your face, and you just can’t help but abandon everything and jump his bones. same thing goes for you: he loves it when you walk around in his shirts and nothing else. this is more his preference because we all know he’s possessive as fuck, and seeing you strut around in his shit turns him on big time. it’s one of the reasons he wanted you to leave your dorm and move in with him during your last year after he graduated.

everything is a date to him. grocery shopping? he’s tagging along, pushing the cart, being so goddamn touchy and clingy, making sure to get all your favorites, and then getting you both treats afterwards. browsing bookstores? he’s there with your favorite coffee in hand, pointing out diabolical book titles to crack you up. having to go clothing shopping for himself for an event? he’s forcing you to come along while he tries on stuff, making you compliment him because, again, he’s a whore for your attention. going to the gym? he’s tagging along with his hand on your waist, forcing himself into your orbit. you have to shoo him away every single time to make him do his own thing, because best believe he’ll stand there the whole time and and ogle you. doing laundry? he’s helping, and surprise it’s a date! finally, he’s spent enough time living with tuck to know how to cook, so he’ll be in charge of the cooking, but he’ll absolutely make sure you’re always there with him, distracting him, clinging onto his naked back while he stirs stuff.

he loves leaving cute little notes around the apartment for you to find, and it makes you smile every single time. he does this a lot if he’s gone for a game, so he’ll leave little messages around. garrett’s the type of boyfriend to get worried when you’re stressing yourself out with school, so some nights when he comes home late from a game and sees you in the living room, head bent over work, lights all low, he just quietly leaves his bags near the door and, without a word, lays down on the couch, pulling you into his chest, holding you down while you squirm against him. he’ll turns his ear deaf to your complaints about needing to finish work, and at some point you’ll give up and lay on his chest, quietly listening to his breathing pattern as you fall asleep there, and you can feel his lips on your temple the whole time.

know that your ass is not safe around this man. if you’re both moving around in the kitchen making dinner or cleaning, that little cloth on his shoulder is being used to swat your ass every single time you’re within reach. and when you whip your head to glare at him, he’ll give you a sweet kiss and you have no choice but to forgive him. in a rush getting ready for an event and you’re all pissy because you both might be late? he’s slapping your ass just to aggravate you further. he can’t help it; his girl looks so hot when she’s all mad and has her claws out at him.

speaking of claws, garrett fucking loves it when you claw up his back when he’s fucking you. he’ll proudly show it off in the locker room too, gets real smug when the guys around him hoot and holler. he’s proud. he also loves it when you leave hickeys all over him. he doesn’t care if it makes him look like a fuckboy; he proudly wants to tell people how possessive his girl is. how taken he is. oh, and if you’re kissing him with your lip combo and it’s all over his face and mouth, he’s not wiping that shit off no matter how much you insist.

Its always going to be you | John Logan

warnings: angst

Logan had stopped going to practice. Stopped talking to his friends. Stopped talking to you. He’d hidden himself away at the garage, coming up with continuous excuses to be there that even his brother didn’t believe. 

He stood there covered in grease, tank top clinging to his body, cap turned backwards, dark eyes lost on an engine that didn’t even need fixing anymore. It was easier to take apart a carburetor than to face everything. That his freedom was coming to and end once senior year was over.

You showed up at the garage, wearing his hoodie and hardened eyes, like you’d cried too much to pretend you were okay, full of determination.

“Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on or are you going to keep pretending I’m just another thing you can ignore?”

Logan clenched his jaw, tension carved into every line of his face. “Go home, y/n.”

“No!” you raised your voice. He wouldnt look at you.

“Fuck, I’m serious.” He slammed the wrench on the bench, the sound sharp like a punch to the chest, but you didn’t flinch. “You don’t get it, alright? I can’t give you what you want.”

“And who the fuck said I want some perfect bullshit? I just want you.” 

He laughed, it came out bitter, hollow. The kind of laugh that comes right before tears that never fall. “You deserve someone who takes you to dinner without checking their phone every five minutes because they’re either constantly being contacted by NHL scouts or by customers from the garage. Someone without an alcoholic, unreliable dad at home. Someone who’s not stuck in a life he never chose.”

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna disappear, leave everything you worked for behind?” You ask, putting all your strength into keeping yourself together.

Logan looked at you  for the first time in days. His eyes, dark, intense, full of anger at the world and at himself. “I’m not the guy you think I am. I just know how to fix cars. I’m not the hockey player I pretended to be.” You rolled your eyes in response, you knew he was lying to himself.

You gave up on arguing, knowing in this state you couldn’t reason with him. “I fucking love you,” you said it with rage, eyes glassy.

Logan stood frozen. That line hit harder than any hit he’d ever taken on the ice. 

He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. Not because he wanted to fight, but because it was the only way to keep himself from crossing the garage and pulling you into him.

“Don’t say that, fuck,” he whispered, low, almost a plea. Not because he didn’t love you, he loves you more than anything, but because he’s not the guy you need. 

“You act like I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for, but I do. You keep pretending you have no choices Logan, but you do. Your future isn’t decided. Just because you stopped going to practice, doesn’t mean the scouts stopped. You still have a chance at the NHL. Stop running away for everything you’re scared of, hiding here doesn’t make it go away” you spoke so gently, yet it felt like you were shouting at him, saying everything he didn’t want to hear.

Logan’s breath hitched.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes, those damn beautiful eyes, locking onto yours like you’d just ripped the floor out from under him.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice cracked. Just once. Barely there, but it was enough to notice he was breaking. 

“I get messages every day,” he admitted quietly, kicking at a loose bolt on the concrete. “Scouts asking if I’m skipping practice for injury or some shit.” He scoffed bitterly. 

He took a step toward you then, not fast, not dramatic, but like gravity had finally pulled him in after weeks of resisting.

“And yeah… maybe I could play pro.” A pause. Raw honesty spilling out. “But I made a promise, I got 4 years of freedom, I have to let my brother have his.” 

His jaw tensed, suddenly his voice dropped to something broken and small.

“I can't do both."

You were taken aback, how had he never told you this? “Just let me help you, let me be there for you, I know what I signed up for” you breathed, moving forward to cup his cheek.

Logan froze.

The second your hand touched his cheek warm, soft and real, his breath stopped like he’d been slapped by the universe itself.

Grease smeared on his skin. His probably looked like a mess. He hadn’t shaved in days. Smelled like motor oil and exhaustion. But you didn’t move.

His eyes fluttered shut for just a heartbeat, just long enough to feel the tenderness of someone who actually gave a damn about him, not the hockey star everyone thought he should be.

Then they snapped open again, glassy now and without thinking he leant forward and kissed you.

Harder than intended.

Desperate.

Like oxygen after drowning

The kiss was messy, like he’d been starving for weeks (he had). Like every text left unanswered, every night spent alone in the garage staring at his phone it all poured into this one collision.

His hands slid from your wrist to cradle your face calloused thumbs brushing over soft cheeks and suddenly he wasn’t thinking about scouts or his dad or any promise he’d ever made.

He was here, with you, the person who loved him enough to yell through grease and anger just to get close again.

When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed like if he opened them the moment would shatter.

“You shouldn’t love me,” he whispered hoarsely, the same stupid line again but this time? It cracked halfway through because even he couldn't pretend anymore that it wasn't already too late for that.

You loved him.

And worse?

He fucking adored you.

“I’m going to love you whatever you decide. I’ll love you if we stay here and run the garage, I’ll love you if you’re some hot shot NHL player, I love you, John Logan, the person you are, the person I’ve been with since sophomore year. Can you finally get that into your head, please” your tone pleading, exhausted, desperate.

Logan’s throat tightened.

He opened his eyes slowly. Really looked at you, the way your eyelashes were still damp from crying earlier, the small scar above your eyebrow from that time you and Dean decided to try drunk skateboarding junior year. He smiled, he let himself believe you, he ignored the doubt.

He remembered their first kiss outside Malones after karaoke night. Remembered all the times you’d got up and made breakfast for him and his friends before practice so they’d get to sleep in.

Remembered holding your hand during finals week because college stress nearly made them both cry.

You’d been by his side through everything and he'd spent weeks pushing you away because he thought love meant sacrifice? That if you cared about someone… you had to let them go?

“Fuck,” he breathed and then suddenly hugged you so hard they nearly stumbled back against the workbench.

He didn’t speak.

Just arms locked around each other like nothing else existed the shop silent except for their breathing syncing again after days apart. 

“It’s always going to be you.”

Logan’s arms tightened around your body like he could fuse them together through sheer will.

Simple. Final. No conditions, no take-backs, just forever, wrapped in a sentence.

His throat burned again, not from the grease or the oil fumes, this time but because his eyes were doing that stupid thing they do when emotions get too heavy to swallow down.

❥ PAIRING : beau maxwell x fem!reader

❥ BLURB : you and beau maxwell have a silent mutual agreement to keep your relationship secret, but turns out, you both suck at keeping anything a secret according to allie and hannah at least.

❥ CONTAINS : pure fluff!

❥ AUTHORS NOTE : baby’s first beau maxwell fic, i’m so excited to write and for others to read because i absolutely adore beau maxwell, he needs to not make any unnecessary journeys though…. based on this request, my requests are open!

you and beau maxwell have been dating since freshman year of college and now you two are juniors. you both have never mentioned to your mutual friends that you guys are dating, not that you’re ashamed of each other it just never seemed like the right time.

so you both just kept it a secret, but turns out, neither one of you are good at keeping your relationship a secret.

currently you two are in your shared dorm with hannah and allie, dorm to yourself seeing as both of your best friends told you beforehand that they’d be busy for the rest of the night. so you did what any rational person would do in this situation and invited your boyfriend over for a stay at home date night.