plagued by the shale/zevran conversation where zev said "creating a new life can be a great deal of fun" (and also nod to the control rod commentary lmao the best<3). but all i can think about is how fun and funny it would be to add a little more irony in that man's life and milana finds out she's with child lmao 😇
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⟡ ⌢ getting his baby's ears pierced somehow hurt satoru more than it hurt her. ⊹︰₊ fluff ⊹︰₊ angst if you count satoru being a crybaby
he was apprehensive to begin with, but he let himself be swayed by his wife’s reassuring smile and her steady hand on his face, telling him — promising him — it would be over and done with in seconds and that she wouldn’t even be in much pain.
“i got my ears pierced as a baby,” you’d explained, rocking the topic of conversation back and forth on your chest at the time. “i don’t even remember it! she’ll be okay, honey.”
“she cries when i leave the room!” he had whined back, his hand gently rubbing up and down his daughter's back as the 6-month-old had begun to fall asleep on you, “how is she gonna be “okay” with a needle through her ears??” satoru seriously needed to learn how to say no, though, because you’d convinced him in the end.
bouncing the pudgy infant on his knee and making faces to keep her entertained, he looked around nervously, watching you talk to the piercer with a polite smile. he just sighed, still a little bitter he’d been so easily talked into letting this happen to his sweet baby girl.
“daddy’s sorry for letting mommy talk me into this,” he mumbled in dramatic defeat, like he’d failed her and didn’t deserve to live. his daughter was oblivious and too preoccupied trying to shove her fingers into her mouth to try and make sense of whatever he was saying, and all he got was a garbled “baah!” in return.
“okaaayy, pumpkin, are we ready?” you came back over cooing. her small body wriggled as satoru begrudgingly repositioned her in front of the young woman about to shove holes through his poor princess’s ears. making a point to ignore your husband’s glare, you helped hold her still. the young woman, also nervously avoiding your husband’s hole-dwelling stare, cleared her throat awkwardly and gave the 3-second countdown, holding the piercing gun to her tiny left ear before it clamped down with a sharp clack.
you and satoru held your breath and checked her over. it took a long moment, long enough to give you the false hope that maybe your baby was one of the ones that didn’t cry, but eventually, inevitably, her doughy cheeks began to puff up and redden, her nose scrunched and her big eyes spilled over with tears. then came that gut-wrenching wail.
“daddy’s sooorrryyy.” satoru immediately coddled her, looking ready to start crying himself. “ohh, daddy’s sorry, princess, i know, i know…” his lip jutted out in a sympathetic pout. “mean mommy for making you do this.” he swatted at your hand when you reached to comfort your baby, glaring through his own glossy eyes as he had to hold her still again so she could get her second one over and done with. he knew he had to let it happen, but the tears and the pouty lip felt like they could cleave his heart in two.
another sharp clack!, and her wailing turned into the screams of a banshee. satoru cuddled her closer onto his shoulder, as if he could just smother the crying away, and rubbed her back, 1.) so his daughter wouldn’t see him crying, because he WAS crying, and 2.) so he could attempt to take her mind off of what he could only assume was the worst pain she'd ever felt since birth. he quickly shooed the poor woman away from his daughter, his eyes visibly wet with tears. you couldn't resist a quiet, sympathetic laugh, but he ignored you.
“oh, i knowww, i know,” he sniffled, rocking the wailing infant back and forth. “‘m so sorry, baby girl, daddy’s sorryyy…” he didn't put his daughter down at all that night. he massaged her tiny ears whenever she started to cry, distracted her with toys and kisses.
“she’s literally never doing that again,” he told you later that night, watching her sleep on the monitor. he shook his head when you chuckled. “i’m serious, my heart can’t go through any more of that. she can get them pierced again when i’m dead.”
𐔌 ۪ ઈઉ ᩙ a/n:: i feel like those people who feed birds like when they sprinkle the seeds on the ground except i only feed you guys every 6 months or so lmao
I haven't seen the film yet, but I've been carefully following news about Mark Fischbach's Iron Lung for the last couple of months.
It's REALLY gratifying to see that on opening day yesterday, Iron Lung surpassed its 3 million dollar budget, grossing a cool 3.5 mil. Sam Raimi's latest film, Send Help, also opened yesterday - and it made back only 2.2 million of its 40mil budget.
Ok, you say, but why is that so notable? A difference of 1.3 million bucks is nothing in Hollywood, right? But please, walk with me while I give some context:
For those who are unfamiliar, Sam Raimi Created the Evil Dead trilogy, directed the Toby McGuire Spider-Man films, and remains a noted figure in the long line of Marvel Universe writer-directors. Whether you like him or not, he's an Action-Horror Juggernaut that's established his place in film canon over the last 40 years. Distributors pick him up on name alone. Send Help is his 16th film, so to say he's a veteran of film distribution is no overstatement. Despite the ad blockers I run on my phone and tablet, I've personally seen so many ads for Send Help over the last six weeks that I'm tired of Rachel McAdams' face. Raimi can afford that kind of marketing saturation; he spent 40 million making this film. It opened yesterday in 3,475 theaters, which is on par with a typical "big budget" release spread.
On the other hand, Mark Fischbach is, well, Markiplier. Despite his long youtube career, in the larger film world he's an incredibly niche, small potatoes filmmaker. Anyone who's followed the plight of Qcode's podcast-to-miniseries adaptation, The Edge of Sleep, knows that Mark's incredibly focused and tenacious when it comes to polishing and distributing his work. He fought tooth and nail to get TEoS out of development hell, arguing with streaming services of all stripes, and eventually facing blatant sabotage by Amazon Prime, despite already being Emmy nominated for his previous webseries.
In the wake of all that static from the TV industry, Mark knew he had to get Iron Lung to an audience with no studio backing whatsoever. He and his wife Amy contacted 60 individual theaters, asking for distribution. There's been no ad space on websites, outside of the domains belonging to theaters showing the film. There have been no billboards, no promotional tours, no studio money. But that's where 38 million Markiplier fans have taken over.
Mark's viewers and longtime fans called and emailed their local theaters directly, en masse, because they wanted this movie. The three largest movie theater chains in America sat up and took notice, and international theater chains soon followed. Now, as I write this, Iron Lung is showing in 4161 theaters internationally. That's almost 700 more theaters than Send Help. It's made a 17% profit in 24 hours. For Send Help to make that kind of box office return on investment, it would have had to make 46.8 million yesterday alone - the same amount of money that Sinners made over its 3-day opening weekend.
I don't care if you like Markiplier's body of work or not. I've heard people call this film a "Vanity Project," or an "Ego Trip." I've seen several reviews for the film that are less than glowing. Frankly, I don't give a shit. The debut of this film, on this scale, is a massive achievement. It's an eldritch chamber-horror sci fi bottle film. The last time I encountered a film built like this (one set, carried by one actor, produced on a shoestring budget), it was the Willem Dafoe film Inside (2023). That film grossed less than a million dollars worldwide through its entire run.
Think about that. Markiplier outgrossed a fucking Willem Dafoe Movie. Three times over. In 24 hours.
Forbes, Variety, and so on are like "Huh. This Mark Of Pliers guy made a video game movie that's running with the big boys. Weird." Not one of them has thought to give Mark his flowers for the truly unprecedented nature of this debut. Tiny production. Overwhelming pushback. The beginnings of an unexpected triumph.
It's almost like the film industry built this unfairly maligned artist a coffin, threw it into the ocean of hollywood, waited for him to drown, and got their shit rocked.
"did i call too late?" leon asked, voice gruff through the phone. the sounds of keys jingling and a door—presumably a hotel room door—opening were heard as well.
"you missed tempy," she told him, closing the nursery door.
"but iris is still awake," she added, walking to her eldest daughter's bedroom.
leon hummed, a faint thump sounding from his end. he had collapsed onto the bed of the hotel room.
"baby, daddy's on the phone," her voice was soft, not directed at him but still heard. in moments, a tiny voice came over the phone.
"hi, daddy," iris greeted, her feet pattering against the floor as she crawled back into bed.
"hey, sweetheart," he smiled softly, "you being good with your mother? helping with tempy?"
"of course, daddy," she replied dramatically. he chuckled softly.
she began rambling on about her day, about how they were going to the park tomorrow, and anything she could conjure up in her little mind. eventually, her words began slurring, yawns escaping her. she dozed off eventually, little snores escaping her.
he stayed on the phone, knowing his wife would retrieve the phone eventually. she did moments later.
"she misses you," she whispered softly as she returned to bed, "i miss you."
"i know, honey," leon sighed, running his hand over his face.
"i'll be home in two weeks. maybe less if i can get this shit over with," he added.
"you're gonna be a pillow when you get home, just fair warning," she told him.
"good, i'll need my girls with me," he muttered.
"i love you, leon," she murmured.
"i love you too, honey."
and the line went dead.
rearranged my room & added some more decorations :D
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This was on @whatareyoureallyafraidof's post where they put up this:
And I responded with this image:
and promised in the tags to elaborate if asked. And, @frodo-the-weeb, I will. But it's going to get long and I'm going to have to split it up into several reblogs.
First of all, since not everybody in the world is a Silmarillion enthusiast, let me explain what we're referring to.
One of the stories in the Silmarillion, and possibly the one Tolkien cared about the most, is the tale of Lúthien and Beren; a highly condensed version of a narrative poem called the Lay of Leithian, which Tolkien began writing in the 1930s and tried to get his publisher interested in after the success of The Hobbit.
(Their readers said no, and they tactfully asked him to focus on his Hobbit sequel instead. "The result," in Tolkien's own words, "was The Lord of the Rings.")
The skeleton of The Lay of Leithian is as follows; I'm intentionally leaving out a bunch of information that weaves it into the overarching story of the Silmarillion but isn't relevant to the thesis I'm advancing here.
Lúthien, an Elven princess and enchantress, falls in love with a mortal man, a ranger called Beren. Her father, the Elven King Thingol, disapproves and sends him Beren off to fetch one of the jewels from the crown of the Dark Lord Morgoth.
Lúthien tries to join Beren but her father imprisons her in a tower to stop her, only it's actually a treehouse because they're forest elves. Lúthien magically grows her hair long and uses it to escape.
By the time she catches up with Beren he is chained in the dungeons of Morgoth's second-in-command, Thû (whom Tolkien later renamed Sauron). She rescues him with the help only of a dog, who defeats Thû himself in single combat.
They then live in the forest together for quite some time, but Beren feels bad about being the reason she can't go home to her family, and still intends to finish his mission and get the jewel. He leaves one morning while she's still asleep, so as not to put her in danger, and then when he's on the threshold of Morgoth's underground fortress in the far North of Middle-Earth she catches up with him again and he accepts that she's not going to be put off.
Together they enter Morgoth's fortress and make their way to his throne room. They are in disguise but Morgoth is not fooled and uncovers Lúthien in front of everyone, declaring his intention to make her one of his many slaves. Lúthien offers to sing and dance for him, which is the way she works her magic. She puts everyone in the throne room to sleep, including both Beren and eventually Morgoth.
She wakes Beren and he takes the jewel and they flee, but as they get to the outer door they are stopped by Morgoth's guard-wolf, who bites off Beren's hand holding the jewel.
That's as far as Tolkien ever got with the poem, but we have the synopsis in the prose Silmarillion to tell us the rest of the story; again cutting it down to the quick, Thingol accepts Beren as his son-in-law, Morgoth's guard-wolf attacks Doriath, Beren goes and hunts it but is mortally wounded, his spirit goes to the Halls of Waiting in the Undying Lands where the dead in Middle-Earth go, Lúthien also goes there and, again through her magical song, persuades Mandos the god of the dead to let him come back. Mandos offers her a choice: live on immortally as an Elf without Beren, or return to Middle-Earth with Beren but both of them will grow old and die. She chooses the latter.
Tolkien created Lúthien as a portrait of his wife Edith, which makes Beren a picture of himself. We know this for a fact because he had LUTHIEN written on her grave when she died, and when he joined her in it two years later the name BEREN was written for him:
Now on the lower right side of my response image you'll see Pauline Baynes' illustration of the Lady in the Green Kirtle from The Silver Chair, one of C. S. Lewis's Narnia stories. A quick synopsis of the Lady of the Green Kirtle's part in the story:
The Lady is a witch who rules a gloomy kingdom underneath Narnia, accessible through a fissure in the earth in an old ruined city far to the North. Before the story opens she has enspelled and kidnapped King Caspian's son Prince Rilian, whom she intends to send leading an army to conquer Narnia in her name. For twenty-three hours a day he is her willing slave and lap-dog; to maintain the spell, he must be bound to the titular silver chair for the remaining hour, during which he is sane and aware of his imprisonment.
The protagonists, Eustace and Jill and their guide Puddleglum, meet her and Rilian unawares on their journey to the North; she sends them astray and almost succeeds in getting them eaten by giants. Eventually they rescue Rilian from the chair, but she sings a magical song which very nearly puts them all to sleep but for Puddleglum's intervention. Foiled, she transforms into a serpent, attacks them, and they kill her.
It is my contention that the Lady in the Green Kirtle is Lewis's caricature of Lúthien, with the enslaved and befuddled Prince Rilian representing Beren; and further, that Lewis knew or recognised that Lúthien and Beren were a literary portrait of the Tolkiens, so that The Silver Chair is ultimately a nasty commentary on their marriage.
In forthcoming reblogs I will lay out my evidence for this thesis.
(or part two of accidentally getting hitched in vegas)
read part one here!
summary: after a wild night in vegas for robin's 21st birthday, you and steve wake up married. now, you're trying to fix the mess you've made — except, why isn't steve even trying to help? (spoiler: it's because he likes you.)
content and warnings: yearning!steve being a lovesick dumbass, mentions of alcohol, partying, and throwing up; not the happiest ending but there will be a part 3!
word count: 2.6k
You think Vegas weddings should have an expiration date of 24 hours.
Clearly, no one in their right mind is getting married here. And why on earth do they allow you to make such a life-changing decision if you're inebriated? Last night was one of the only times in your life that you've blacked out and somehow — some shitty, shitty way how — it ended up with you being Steve Harrington's wife.
After you freak out, you allow Steve to have his own mini meltdown. Eventually, though, you have to whisper yell at him to pull it together. You have to go back to college on Monday for christ's sake, and you definitely won't be returning as Mrs. Harrington.
So, while the rest of the crew sleeps away their hangovers, you spend the better half of the morning trying to form a timeline.
Keyword: trying.
The previous night gets incredibly blurry for you around the time you headed to another club and convinced Steve to do blow job shots with you. You cringe at the thought of him watching you suck your mouth around the circumference of a shot glass, whipped cream no doubt sticking to your lips. You remember him laughing at you, not meanly, and reaching out to help you clean your face off.
"I think we might have gone to another place after that... dunno where, but I have some memory of you dancing on top of a bar," Steve says, his hand a mock shield for his forehead. He's back in the bathtub, sprawled across its full length, while you sit on the bathroom floor. You have the motel's notepad and pen, attempting to write out the evening's events.
Steve doesn't know why this matters, but he tries to help anyway.
So far, you have:
10 pm: go out with group
1 am: robin basically dead, vickie takes her back to the hotel; jonathan and nancy go too
1:30 am: we leave current bar?
2 am: no idea how we got to the next bar - we do shots, i think we dance, i'm pretty sure there's karaoke too?
2:45 am: another club???? dancing on bar????
sometime between then and the time we find a chapel and get married?????
7 am: wake up in motel bathroom, i throw up, steve has a panic attack
"Do you remember anything else?" you sigh, leaning your head back against the ugly, floral wallpaper of the bathroom. "Anything about the place we would've gone?"
You can't even utter the words chapel or married out loud. They feel ridiculous and obscene.
With his eyes still screwed shut, he shakes his head, but not before clutching his temples in pain.
"I really don't, I'm sorry," he mumbles, "Listen, why don't we just ask everyone else if they remember anything? Maybe someone saw something?"
Your eyes widen. "Oh, we are not telling anyone about this. Are you insane? We need to get this taken care of, like, now."
He peaks his eyes open and looks at the frantic urgency on your face.
"They're our friends. They might be able to help."
"Unless one of them magically got a law degree last night, I don't think they can do anything."
Steve snorts. "I hate to break it to you, but it's Saturday, sweetheart. No lawyer is gonna see us to get a stupid Vegas marriage annulled."
It's silent as your eyes narrow at him. "It's Vegas. There has to be a lawyer that, like, does this shit for a living."
"Divorces drunken couples?"
"We're not a couple, Steve," you mutter, tossing the notepad on the ground. Groaning, you rise to your feet, refusing to acknowledge your appearance in the mirror. You already know you look as gross as you feel, thanks to all of the alcohol you consumed. "Is there a phonebook somewhere? I'll start looking for lawyers to call."
Steve shrugs, "Check the bedroom."
He's not treating this whole thing half as urgently as he needs to be, and you can't figure out why. With a noisy sigh, you open the bathroom door, prepared to start your search for a phonebook but instead, your stomach drops at the sight of Robin, Vickie, Jonathan, and Nancy already awake.
And they're staring at something.
And you already know it can't be good.
Nancy's the first to sense your presence. Her eyebrows fly to her forehead, but not before her petite hands go to cover whatever they're looking at on the coffee table. Wordlessly, you march towards them, a loud groan falling from your lips when you see it.
Polaroid pictures of your... wedding.
"What the hell happened last night?" Robin breathes, picking one up and thumbing it between her fingers. It's of you in a headband veil, a bouquet of fake flowers in your grip. You're grinning and standing in front of a banner that says Happily Married!
"Oh my god," you mutter, grabbing it from her.
"Rob, we said we wouldn't do this—"
"Is this real?" she asks, cutting off Nancy's attempt at niceties, "Did you guys for real get married last night? Tell me it's real, holy fuck—"
Suddenly, Steve appears at your side, all messy hair and tired, squinty eyes. He's still in the outfit he woke up in — his faded Levi's, a suede brown jacket, and no shirt. You roll your eyes.
"We woke up to a marriage certificate taped to the bathroom mirror," he says flatly, "And princess here needs a phonebook so she can start looking for a lawyer to divorce us."
"Oh my god, this is insane—"
"I saw one in our room," Jonathan says quickly, ignoring Robin's impending freakout — which, for some reason, is reading positive — and standing to his feet, "But I'm not sure if you'll find one with business hours today—"
"I don't care!" you exclaim, the shrill sound of your own voice sending a throb of pain straight to your temples. "We blacked out, we got married, and I need it gone, okay?"
No one talks. Jonathan gets up to walk to his and Nancy's adjoining room to look for the phonebook.
And then: "Well don't you at least wanna look at our wedding photos?"
You spend at least two hours crawling through all of the lawyers listed in Las Vegas.
You get the voicemail for every single one.
You're grateful for the help offered by Nancy and Jonathan, but there's nothing they can really do. Robin pulled Steve into the bathroom around the time you started dialing numbers, but he's been back, flopped across the length of the couch, for awhile now. You insist that everyone else should go out and enjoy the rest of the day, but they all stay behind for moral support.
By the time you slam the phone down, hanging up on lawyer number whatever-the-fuck's office, you think Steve may actually be right: Lawyers don't work on the weekends.
You sigh. "Does anyone know any lawyers in Hawkins that could handle this? I can delay my flight back to school by a day if it means we can get it fixed on Monday."
"Absolutely fuckin' not," Steve interjects, scrambling from his seat on the couch. "My parents will find out. They're friends with, like, a ton of lawyers, and they'll disown me."
"Well you getting disowned is a lot better than us staying married, Steve—"
"It's not happening," he says, crossing his arms over his chest like a stubborn toddler. "You don't know them, they'll seriously kill me."
"What, with their fancy oyster knives?" Robin snickers from the bed and Steve shoots her a dirty look.
"Your parents are barely around, Steve. My uncle's a paralegal for this small little office that's like 20 minutes from Hawkins. I bet you could go there."
For the first time this morning, there's a glimmer of hope for your future.
"Could you call him?" you ask excitedly, "See if we could come in on Monday morning?"
Robin shrugs, "Yeah, I'll try. Hand me the phone."
Clumsily, you stand up from the carpeted floor and bring the wired landline over to Robin and Vickie's bed. Jonathan and Nancy continuing playing a game of Go Fish as you plop down next to Steve on the couch.
"Why are you being so difficult about this?" you ask lowly, trying not to interfere with Robin's phone call.
"I'm not," Steve retorts stubbornly. After everyone looked through the array of Polaroids taken at the chapel, he'd taken to cleaning them up and forming them in a neat stack. He thumbs over the top one of you two; his arms around you, hugging you from behind, you both smiling cheekily — and drunkenly.
"You are," you insist. "You shoot down every idea I have. You haven't helped at all. Do you hate me that much?"
You don't mean it when it comes out, but the words tumble from your mouth regardless. Steve looks at you for the first time in the past few hours, his eyebrows knitted together. His lips part before glancing down at the picture in his hand.
"I don't hate you at all," he says. His tone is gentle, soft, and not because Robin's currently catching up with her uncle. "Why would you think that?"
You shrug your shoulders, bringing your knees to your chest as you settle back against the tattered couch.
"We're two of Robin's best friends and it just feels like you've always kinda ignored me," you explain, nibbling on your bottom lip. "I mean, I know we don't have to be best friends or anything, but I just feel like we've never really gotten to know each other. I don't know anything about you besides... well, besides what everyone says, I guess."
"Then you know none of that shit is true, right?" he asks, a slight edge to his voice. "It hasn't been true in years, not since I graduated high school."
You blink at him.
You'd never really considered that.
"I think it's stupid that you ever even thought I hated you," Steve continues. He stands from the couch and shoves the pictures in his pocket. "'cos that really couldn't be farther from the truth."
In hindsight, Steve regrets throwing a temper tantrum.
As he lays in the cold porcelain of the bathtub, gangly limbs covered in denim, he flips his lighter open and closed, over and over again, as if it'll magically take back the stupid shit he said.
He's throwing himself a pity party. He knows that.
With his hangover headache still clawing at his temples, he wishes he could just sink into ceramic, never to be found again.
Unsurprisingly, it's Robin who eventually throws open the bathroom door, an unamused expression on her face.
"What the hell are you doing, dingus?"
Steve glares at her.
"You yelled at her," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why did you yell at her? She hasn't done anything wrong."
"I know that."
He flips the metallic Zippo closed. Then open.
"So why'd you do it?"
Flips it closed.
Opens it again.
"I'm gonna throw that thing at your head."
Steve sighs and closes it, then stuffs the lighter in his pocket.
"Stupider than the time you punched a scary Russian soldier?" Robin tilts her head, "Stupider than when you told said scary Russian soldiers Dustin's full name? Stupider than the time—"
"Okay, Robs, I get it," he mutters, folding his knees to sit up straighter. "I kind of... Ihaveacrushonher."
"Huh?" Robin's face wrinkles, and she kneels down to get eye level with him. "What'd you say?"
"IsaidIhaveacrushonher."
"You need to speak louder, dickhead, you're mumbling—"
"I like her!" Steve whisper-yells, "And don't say anything, okay?!"
For a moment, Robin's silent. A rare sight.
And then— she's laughing.
Full and loud, in that classic Robin way where Steve knows he's being an idiot, and it makes him want to crumple in on himself even more. He groans and goes to lay back in the tub, head leaning back against the uncomfortable porcelain lip.
"Oh my god—" she utters through boisterous giggles, "You would accidentally marry the girl you like!... Oh my god, it was a mistake, right? You didn't, like, do some weird psychopath shit and get her drunk and—"
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Steve exclaims, "Do you think that little of me?! Of course it was a mistake! This is, like, effectively ruining my chances with her, and can you keep your fucking voice down?"
Robin's laughter finally comes to an end, her hand clutching her stomach from her mirthy fit. Steve's not surprised that it came at his expense.
"So, what? You're offended that she wants to pretend the whole thing never happened? You can't take that personally, Steve, you guys did it when you were beyond fucked up."
He shrugs. "I know that. I just... I don't know. Thought I'd be further along in life by now."
Robin's eyebrows furrow. "What d'you mean?"
He sighs. His best friend is no stranger to his lifelong dream of settling down with a nice girl and starting a family. And surely, no one could have predicted the way they'd spent the past few years — saving the world from ending, and all — but Steve simply assumed that... well, maybe he'd have someone by his side by now. Someone to come home to, someone to care for, someone to call his.
"Oh... oh, Steve."
When it clicks for Robin, she regards him with the kind of softness she only reserves for a few instances — like when he worked himself up to ask Marisa Boysen out the next time she came into Family Video, only for her to tell him that she's dating one of Steve's old basketball teammates. She reaches out and gently squeezes his shoulder. Steve sort of hates when she gets like this, all genuine and real, because it makes him feel a little pathetic.
"It's fine," he mumbles, resisting the urge to shrug her hand away. He doesn't want to take his complicated emotions out of Robin, especially when she's trying to make him feel better.
"You just... I don't know what you're expecting here, Steve," she says it softly, like she's the one who's gently rejecting him.
"I don't know, either," he mutters, scrubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I know I can't, like... we can't stay married. She doesn't even like me. But my parents would maybe, like, be happy for once? And it would just be nice to get started on that part of my life, I think."
Robin gives him a sympathetic look, but it doesn't last as long as either of them would like.
Because, in typical, fumbly, Robin-like style, she accidentally left the bathroom door open.
And now, you're standing in the doorway, jaw clenched, nostrils flared.
For a moment, it's so silent you think you could hear a pin drop.
Then: "You want to stay married?"
You storm out before Steve gets a chance to explain himself, both his and Robin's mouths dropped open in shock. He hears the sound of the door slamming, signaling that you left the motel room.
Robin blinks, then whips her head to you. "What the hell are you waiting for, idiot? Go fix it!"
"Fix it?!" Steve exclaims, though he's still clamoring out of the bathtub, "What am I supposed to do?"
"Explain that you're not a total creep who's trying to bamboozle into marriage!" she shrieks, pushing him towards the doorway. "Tell her what you just told me, just— fix it, dumbass!"
Summary: Bruce hasn't seen Jason in over a week, and he's concerned. Tracking him down, Bruce expects to find his son either dead or up to something no good. Instead, he finds Jason living happily with a family Bruce never knew he had.
AN: I don't know if I'll do a part three for a while, but I do have an idea for it. So, maybe soon???
Part Two
Jason closes the door before turning to you.
You stand there, your brows drawn up together and arms folded over your chest. At first, he’s going to say something, but he can’t. His mind is a tangle of grief and fear, making his mouth feel like it’s full of cotton.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping toward him. As your hands touch his cheeks, Jason remembers how to breathe again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it later.”
“Thank you,” Jason manages. He leans his forehead against yours, smiling as you take the chance to steal a sweet, chaste kiss. His hands anchor themselves on your soft hips, pulling you flush against him. Oh, it feels too good to have you so close.
A whine cuts through the tender moment. “Dad!”
Jason looks down at his son, who is pressed up against the side of his leg, and sees eyes entirely his own. Green with that tinge of blue, but his boy’s eyes are big and wide—Ready to soak in the world with sweet excitement.
Jason wonders, just for a brief moment, if he had once looked like that.
“Alright, buddy,” Jason bends over and picks up the boy with a grunt. “Let’s play, then it’s time for a bath.”
“I hate baths,” your boy cries as Jason carries him off toward your shared bedroom, where there's a soft whine of his baby girl.
He chuckles, kissing the boy’s cheek, before turning to you, who’s following close behind, and kissing your lips. Taking a deep breath, Jason remembers that Bruce is gone, Batman is gone, and, for right now, he can focus on his family.
—
When the kids are down, Jason meets you in the kitchen. You’re in one of his shirts, one that’s even too big on him, leaning against the counter as you scroll through your phone while mindlessly stirring a cup of coffee. At the sound of his feet shuffling, you look up and smile, putting your phone down. Almost instantly, Jason crosses the kitchen to you. He takes you in his arms, pressing you against his body as his nose buries itself in your neck.
You smell like the vanilla lotion on your nightstand, mixed with the flowery perfume he bought you a couple of months ago. He groans, pressing kisses into your neck as his hands squeeze your ass. He doesn’t want to think about Bruce or any of his family for a couple more minutes.
You reciprocate the affection by giggling into his mess of curls and scratching his back. “My Jason,” you whisper, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head.
“Oh, baby,” he whines into your neck. When Jason pulls back, he feels colder, so he moves his hands to your hips to keep you close. “This day started so well.”
“I know,” you say, reaching up to tuck away a curl. “How’re you feeling?”
Jason sighs. “Angry. Anxious.”
“Ah, a double ‘a’,” you remark with a smile.
Jason tries to return it, but fails. He lets you go so he can wander around the kitchen. You don’t move, just lean back against the counter and watch him.
“I should have been more careful,” Jason says, more to himself rather than to you.
“He was going to find out eventually, Jay,” you say. And, you’re right. This was Batman—it was a miracle that it took him two years to figure it out.
His chest is tightening as he remembers all the times Bruce looked at him with nothing but dread. Jason had tried to suck up every qualm and angsty issue he had to fit in with the bats. He played by their rules and their games, but they spurred him even then.
In their eyes, all he’d ever be was Robin. The sweet, dead bird that couldn’t sing anymore. Or, the Red Hood fuck-up who jumped first without thinking.
“I don’t want him over again,” Jason finally says.
You cross the kitchen and grab hold of his biceps, almost like you want to shake him out of this fog of anxiety. “Then he won’t be allowed over.” You lean closer. “Jason, this is your home—”
“Our home,” he corrects, eyes finding yours. You made it a home. At the very least, Jason wants to acknowledge it.
The smile that graces your face is so sweet and pretty that he thinks about kissing you for a brief moment. “Fine. It’s our home, but you’re entitled to ban people you don’t want over.”
Jason shakes his head like that wasn’t enough. Saying that Bruce couldn’t come over wouldn’t do anything. Batman always found a way to get in, whether he was welcomed or not.
Jason closes his eyes and clenches his fists. An image of Bruce stares back at him, wearing that same disappointed expression Red Hood had seen countless times. Only now, he’s in Jason’s home instead of the cave. Shaking the image out of his head, Jason blinks back tears.
When he was with you and the kids in your suburban, peaceful neighborhood, Red Hood stayed in Gotham. The bats stayed in Gotham. All that shit that had plagued him for years, followed him around like a second shadow, stayed in that god-awful city.
Even when you first got together, Jason made it clear he couldn’t just give up being Red Hood. Too many people depended on him, and, luckily, you understood that. You loved him more because of it, not despite it. In turn, Jason swore to keep that part of his life away from you and, especially, the kids.
Jason couldn’t let the bats in his home. Not even Bruce. Because wherever Bruce went, Batman had no choice but to follow.
Yet, he couldn’t forget the way Bruce seemed so excited to see the kids. Jason could see the man whom he had once called ‘Dad’. It made him hope against his better judgment.
“What should I do?” Jason breaths, ignoring the tears on his face. He wouldn’t acknowledge them even if he was sobbing.
You look away from him, thinking. Then, you say softly, “Jason, I can’t tell you what to do. He’s your dad. All I can do is have your back, whatever you decide.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s nothing you need to decide right now,” you reply. “Babe, take a breath.”
Jason keeps his eyes on you as he tries to match his deep breaths to yours. It doesn’t really help, but focusing on you does. He notices the subtle things, like your smudged mascara and the way your nose crinkles when you think. He can’t help but see just how much your daughter takes after you.
His mind drifts back to just over a week ago, when he was in the hospital holding his newborn girl—this tiny, alien-looking sweetheart he helped bring into the world. He remembers thinking the same about your son, how squished and pink he looked in his arms. How small he was, and how fast he grew. He remembers promising to protect them both for the rest of his life.
Suddenly, Jason can think a lot more clearly. It makes him realize just how much he misses his dad. Both Willis and Bruce. He wants to be held in strong arms again and be told that nothing in the world can hurt him.
Jason wants to truly believe that nothing in the world can hurt him like it once did.
“I want my dad,” Jason confesses, looking down between you.
You wrap your arms around him and pull him close. As one of your hands caresses his back in slow circles, the other scratches his scalp. Jason cries then, feeling so exhausted and unburdened at the same time.
