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violetswritingg · 18 days ago

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Fucking Alfred 😂 I love that British man

Adventures in Baby Sitting || Bruce Wayne ||

A/n: Love writing dad! Fics

It started off so sweetly.

You had a gala. Bruce had a press conference. Alfred was busy replacing the Batcave’s missile panel with a Dora the Explorer DVD slot. So Barry—sweet, well-meaning Barry—volunteered.

“I’ve faced meta-humans, aliens, and reverse-time paradoxes,” he said with a grin, crouching to your daughter’s level. “One tiny toddler? Easy.”

Bruce looked up from buttoning his cufflink.

“You’ll be dead in an hour.”

Barry laughed.

He didn’t know.

Hour One: “Snacktime Speedrun”

Barry made lunch.

Your daughter made war.

She requested a peanut butter sandwich—“But not the crunchy one, I hate crunch, I want soft, but not the soft soft, the jiggly soft, like clouds.”

He blinked. “That’s… not a thing.”

She screamed like a banshee and launched a juice box into the ceiling fan.

Thirty seconds later, Barry had prepared six different sandwiches at super-speed, sweating like a hostage as she stared him down with the scrutiny of a Michelin critic.

“I want pancakes.”

He almost cried.

Hour Two: Arts and Catastrophes

Barry proudly laid out a crafts table with non-toxic glitter glue, stickers, and safety scissors.

She used the glue to trap his hands to the floor.

He tried to phase through it.

She smacked his forehead and said, “No cheating, fast boy.”

He sat there for twenty minutes—defeated, sparkling, and glued to a plastic mat—while she drew on his suit with washable marker.

“Why do I have boobs?” he asked quietly.

“That’s your super chest.” She added glitter nipples. “Like Daddy’s suit but fancier.”

Barry silently accepted his fate.

Hour Three: The Speed Force Incident

She wanted a piggyback ride.

Barry, finally thrilled he could do something right, picked her up and zoomed around the yard.

Unfortunately, she discovered momentum-induced giggles trigger something called Power Giggle Syndrome—where she laughed so hard, she peed herself at Mach 2.

Barry didn’t even know what hit him.

One second: high-speed laughter.

Next: soggy red blur skidding to a stop in your living room.

“I THINK I BROKE PHYSICS,” he screamed, holding your happily squealing child at arm’s length.

“I peed on Flash!!” she shouted proudly.

Hour Four: The Return of the Batmobile

Bruce explicitly told Barry not to let her near it.

But while Barry blinked—and in his defense, that’s pretty fast—she vanished.

Thirty seconds later, the Batmobile roared to life.

“I HACKED IT WITH CHEEZ-ITS!” she screamed, standing upright through the sunroof as it reversed full-speed into the koi pond.

Barry stood in the yard, dripping wet, holding a koi fish and his dignity like they both might flop away at any moment.

“She… she rewired it with snacks.”

Bruce arrived two minutes later.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared at Barry.

Barry stared back.

“Please take her before she becomes a god.”

Later that evening, your daughter cuddled up between you and Bruce, hair full of glitter, tutu damp, Batmobile in ruins.

Barry sat on the floor, wrapped in a towel, still blinking glitter out of his eyelashes.

“She called me Fast Mommy for the last two hours,” he whispered numbly. “I don’t even know why.”

“She does that when she likes you,” you smiled.

Barry twitched. “I think I’ve been liked to death.”

Bruce just patted him on the shoulder.

“She’s yours next weekend,” he said calmly.

Barry screamed.

Clark Kent, Superman, Man of Steel, Earth’s protector…

was babysitting your daughter.

It seemed like a safe choice.

She adored “Uncle Clark.” He was calm, kind, and most importantly, invulnerable. The Fortress of Solitude had a playpen. What could possibly go wrong?

You handed her off with a diaper bag and a juice pouch. She gave Clark a gummy bear salute and kissed your cheek.

“She’s never been on Krypton,” Bruce warned.

Clark waved it off with a smile. “I’ve faced Doomsday. I think I can handle one tiny Wayne.”

You and Bruce just exchanged a slow, knowing look.

Hour One: Welcome to the Fortress

Clark gave her a tour.

She immediately licked the crystal walls.

“Is this candy?” she asked, mid-slurp.

“No, sweetheart—”

“Why not?!”

She climbed into a molecular stabilizer and started pressing buttons with her elbows.

By the time Clark fished her out, she had somehow tuned into the communication system of a hostile alien species and declared herself Princess Sparkleboom of Earth.

“Bow before me or I’ll steal your socks!!”

Clark shut it down just before galactic war.

Hour Two: Kryptonian Storytime

Clark tried to settle her down with a bedtime story about old Krypton legends. He spoke gently, explaining the House of El crest, the importance of hope.

She stared at him in complete silence.

Then, very seriously, whispered: "Does this story have a dragon?”

“…No.”

“Then I hate it.”

She ripped a pillow in half with her teeth, declared herself “Queen of Fire and Screaming,” and began to gallop through the halls on all fours.

Hour Three: The Flight Test

Clark hovered to show her a trick.

She exploded into shrieks of joy, arms out, bouncing like a feral Tinkerbell.

“I WANNA FLY TOO!! I WANNA BE JUST LIKE SUPERMAN!!”

Clark chuckled. “Maybe when you’re older—”

She bolted.

Straight up the spiral staircase. Out onto the ledge. And before he could finish blinking:

“LOOK UNCLE CLARK I’M DOIN’ IT!!”

“WAIT—NO—”

She jumped.Off the fortress tower.Into the open air.

Clark caught her at sonic speed—arms full of giggling chaos, snot bubbles, and wind-whipped pigtails.

She shrieked, “AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN!” as he tried not to pass out mid-air.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” he wheezed.

She blinked innocently.

“…What’s a heart attack?”

“You are one!!”

Hour Four: Return to the Batcave

Clark touched down on the Wayne Manor lawn with your daughter perched on his shoulders, eating half a banana and wearing his cape like a toga.

Bruce opened the door.

Clark didn’t speak.

He just handed her over.

“I can’t feel feelings anymore,” he said.

Your daughter waved. “I JUMPED OFF A TOWER AND DID A SPIN!!”

Bruce arched a brow. “Did she try to fly again?”

Clark looked traumatized. “She did.”

“She calls that ‘Tuesday,’” you added helpfully.

Clark slowly backed away, cape dragging, eyes wide.

“Goodbye. Forever. I’m going to space now.”

⸻

Later that night, your daughter curled into Bruce’s lap while he read her Goodnight Moon: Gotham Edition and you cleaned glitter out of her eyebrows.

“I like Uncle Clark,” she mumbled.

“He likes you too,” Bruce said dryly. “You gave him a whole nervous breakdown.”

“…What’s a breakdown?”

“You’ll find out when you’re thirty,” you muttered, brushing peanut butter off her neck.

Hal Jordan thought babysitting your daughter would be a walk in the park.

“I’ve led intergalactic missions through hostile warzones,” he bragged, sunglasses on indoors. “I’ve stared down Sinestro and flown through black holes. One Bat-kid? Please. I’ve got this.”

Bruce deadpanned, “She bit Bane.”

“She also bit a Roomba,” you added.

“She’s three,” Bruce said flatly. “You won’t survive.”

Hal winked. “I’ll be fine.”

Hour One: Ignition

Hal built her a mini Ferris wheel out of green constructs.

She called it “The Vomit Tornado.”

Ten minutes in, she tricked Hal into riding it while she cranked the speed to max by jumping on the console with both feet.

Hal screamed like a man on fire as the construct whipped him around like laundry in a hurricane.

When it finally collapsed, he lay on the floor moaning.

She stood over him holding a juice pouch like a war trophy.

“I WON,” she declared.

Hour Two: The Shrieking

Hal tried to distract her with cartoons.

She demanded to watch Shark Week.

Then she asked if they could fight the sharks.

When Hal said no, she growled at him. Like—actually growled. Deep and feral. Pupils dilated. Crouched low like a jungle cat.

Hal—whose power ring has withstood cosmic horrors—flinched.

She lunged.

He screamed.

Hour Three: The Cage

Bruce and you walked into the manor a little earlier than expected.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

You found Hal on the couch. His sunglasses were gone. His shirt was ripped in half. He had sticker tattoos on his face. His expression was hollow. Haunted. Utterly broken.

Your daughter?

Was sitting in a glowing green Lantern-made cage, happily eating string cheese and humming the Imperial March.

Bruce’s brow twitched.“…Hal. Why is my daughter in a cage?”

Hal didn’t look up.“She growled at me.”

You blinked. “And that warranted imprisonment?”

“She had the look, man. The ‘I’m about to flip a couch and set fire to your eyebrows’ look. I wasn’t taking any chances. I’ve seen that look on Batman. I barely survived it then.”

Bruce looked at his three-year-old daughter doing interpretive dance in containment.

“I’m going to ask you one more time: Why is my daughter in a cage?”

Hal turned, eyes wild.

“She called me a ‘weak meat balloon’ and tried to put glitter in my mouth. I panicked.”

There was a beat of silence.

Your daughter grinned. “He screamed like a dolphin!”

Hal stood up. “I gotta go. I think she stole my ring password.”

“You’re wearing it—” you began.

“Hal glanced down at his ran then, flees the room.

That night, you found Bruce tucking her into bed as she snuggled with a stuffed bat she’d named “Captain Growl.”

“She did great,” Bruce said, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “Didn’t even bite anyone.”

You looked over your shoulder to see Hal pacing the driveway muttering about PTSD and juice pouches.

“She did better than him,” you agreed.

Your daughter sighed happily, whispering:

“Next time I want to babysit Aquaman.”

Bruce paled.“We’re moving.”

It started with a simple family dinner.

Bruce had called everyone in—Alfred made pasta, you made a dessert, and the Batfam sat down like semi-functioning human beings for a rare peaceful evening.

Until you noticed something. Something terrifying.

Your daughter…

was sitting on Jason’s lap.

Feeding him cheese puffs.

And Jason?Was letting her.Smiling.

“B?” you whispered, elbowing your husband.

“I see it,” Bruce muttered.

Jason ruffled her hair, and she giggled like a gremlin, her humming that Jason is the best big brother.

This was very bad.

The Next Morning: Chaos.

Jason was supposed to be on patrol.

Instead, he was spotted in Gotham’s East End riding a tiny tricycle through an alleyway while your daughter sat in the basket with sunglasses and a Nerf gun, shouting:

“THIS IS BATGIRL TWO-POINT-OH, ENGAGE OPERATION JUICE BOX!”

Bruce was already in the Batmobile when the alert came through.

“Jason,” he growled into the comm.

“Explain yourself.”

Jason laughed. “Can’t. Infiltration mission. We’re deep behind enemy lines. She said there was a squirrel mafia in this neighborhood and I’m not risking it.”

“She’s three.”

“She said the safe word is ‘grape jam.’ If you hear that over comms, we’re compromised.”

Bruce almost swerved into a dumpster.

Later That Day: The Incident

Jason thought it’d be funny to show her how to shoot rubber bullets from a safe distance. He created a little dummy out of pool noodles.

She named it “Tim.”

“Why does it have a frown?” Bruce asked flatly.

“She said it looked like ‘that one guy who talks like a calculator,’” Jason said proudly.

The dummy was dismembered in under thirty seconds.

You came downstairs to find the two of them rewatching the footage in slow motion like it was game tape.

“She’s got form,” Jason muttered. “She’s a natural.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m scared.”

“You should be,” Alfred whispered from behind you.

Final Straw: The Flamingo Incident

Jason took her for ice cream.That’s what he said.

What really happened? They “accidentally” stole one of Penguin’s decorative flamingos from a ritzy gala, painted it black, and flew it from the rooftop with a little cape on it.

Jason called it “Birdwing.”

She called it “Sir Pecks-a-Lot.”

Bruce got the call from GCPD.

The flamingo glided through city traffic for three blocks before crashing into a hot dog stand.

You had to pay damages.

Jason framed the security footage.He saved the video on his laptop, in his safehouse.

The Banning

It was a calm evening.

Jason walked into the manor, your daughter riding piggyback while holding two juice boxes like pistols.

Bruce met them at the door with arms crossed.

“You’re banned,” he said.

Jason blinked. “What? From what?”

“From her. No more team-ups. No more rogue missions. No more bat-tricycle patrol. You’re a bad influence.”

Jason just stared at him.Then looked at your daughter.

They both… shrugged. In sync.

Jason smirked. “We’ll find a way.”

Bruce growled. “I will put a tracker on your boots.”

Jason grinned wider. “Already melted them.”

Later That Night

You curled up beside Bruce in bed, your daughter finally asleep after declaring Jason her “blood brother forever.”

“I’m serious,” Bruce muttered. “They’re dangerous together.”

“She’s three,” you teased.

“She’s Jason at three. That’s worse.”

You kissed his cheek.“You love them.”

He didn’t deny it.But when your daughter sleep-mumbled “ride or die,” Bruce rolled over and whispered into the darkness:

“…I’m putting her in prep school in Tibet.”

Despite the mayhem.

Despite the explosions.

The glitter missiles.

The Bat-tricycle crime sprees.

And the time she rewired the Batcomputer to say “Welcome, Princess Doom-Bug” every time Bruce logged in—

There was one soul in the entire universe she never terrorized.

Never growled at.

Never bit.

Never plotted the downfall of.

.......

And his name…

was Alfred.

⸻

The Manor, 8:00 AM

“Your Majesty,” Alfred greeted, bowing as she toddled into the kitchen in her fuzzy slippers and tiny Batman pajamas.

She gasped and curtsied perfectly. “Sir Alfie, my trusted knight!”

Bruce, half-asleep and burnt out, stared in confusion as his feral toddler climbed up into her chair with angelic grace and folded her napkin in her lap.

“She called me a ‘trash bat’ yesterday,” he muttered.

Alfred poured her a cup of milk into a dainty china teacup.

She sipped it like a lady. Pinky up. No crumbs.

Then she tossed a biscuit at Bruce’s head.

“She’s practicing etiquette, Master Wayne,” Alfred said calmly as Bruce wiped crumbs off his suit. “Projectile diplomacy.”

Later That Day: Tea Time Terror? Nope.

Alfred hosted a tea party in the garden.

She arrived in full princess gear—plastic crown, sparkly tutu, and tiny pearls she swore were “from my dragon hoard.”

“Would you like one lump or two, Sir Alfie?” she asked sweetly, pouring invisible tea with a level of grace that would shame the Queen of England.

Alfred took his cup. “Two, if it please Your Grace.”

She giggled and handed him a chocolate chip scone with both hands like it was a sacred artifact.

Ten minutes. No screaming. No growling. No flamingos set on fire.

Just polite conversation about butterflies and war crimes committed by her plush bunny named “Rage-Muffin.”

Alfred nodded solemnly. “Indeed. Very strategic.”

Meanwhile, in the Batcave…

Jason: “She just tried to bite Damian for calling her ‘Tiny Trouble.’”

Dick: “She kicked me in the shin because I said her crown was crooked.”

Tim: “She used my laptop to order twenty pounds of glitter glue.”

Damian: “I caught her trying to tape the cat to my back.”

Bruce: sipping coffee “She offered me a worm sandwich and called it ‘peace pie.’”

They all looked toward the garden where Alfred was teaching her to play chess. She was nodding politely, sipping milk, and smiling like a cherub.

Jason blinked."She’s a con artist.”

Bruce groaned."She’s training under him.”

That Evening: Bat-Bedtime

Alfred carried her to bed like royalty, her head tucked against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

“Goodnight, Sir Alfie,” she mumbled. “You’re my favorite.”

Alfred smiled softly. “Sleep well, little lionheart.”

He laid her down, tucking the covers around her with the precision of a soldier and the tenderness of a saint.

She was out in seconds.

No tantrum. No chaos. No chaos energy.

Bruce stood in the doorway, blinking in disbelief.

“She told me I smell like burnt toast and disappointment,” he said. “Alfred, how do you do it?”

Alfred smiled as he turned off the light.

“I’m British, sir. We’re trained to survive very small tyrants.”

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violetswritingg · 18 days ago

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Let this kind of love violently kidnap me and hold me hostage forever

You having front seat privileges when in Jason’s car or something.

Like maybe you’re going somewhere right, and you use a car for whatever reason blah blah blah and roy joins youse for whatever reason (maybe you’re going out for food or to a store or whatever).

And your first reaction to going to the car is something along the lines of,

“Oh, I’ll let you both go in front so you can talk together.” as like you’re opening the back door for yourself.

And Jason just stands there so baffled, and honestly looking genuinely offended and even hurt that you would even EVER suggest that. (And that you opened the door for yourself cause like what are you doing?? That’s his job???)

He’s acting immediately. You don’t even have time to actually sit down in the backseat, he’s picking you up, leaving the back door open for Roy.

“Get in the back, Harper.”

“Yessir.” You just know Roy’s got a shit eating grin on his face cause he finds it hilarious to see Jason riled up like this, and for something so small too.

The car door shuts with Roy inside, while Jason is still outside with you still lifted up in his arms. He’s looking up at you, still looking offended when he speaks.

“Why would you even say that? You sit beside me. Always, I don’t care who’s with us, you always sit beside me.” He has this big dramatic pout on his face, acting like your suggestion just proved you didn’t love him.

You’re giggling your ass off in his arms, feet still off the ground. “Jay, lovie, it’s just so you can talk together. We never drive with him and he’s your best friend, least I can do is let him sit next to you so you can talk.”

“Noooo, stoooppp, you’re breaking my heart, stop.” Queue intensified pout and frown on his face, he’s whining like a kid who doesn’t want to go to sleep. “You sit next to me so I can hold your hand and touch you and be next to you when I’m driving. I can’t do that when you’re in the backseat.”

“Okay, okay,” you laughing again, pressing a kiss to his dramatic pout. “I’ll sit next to you.” His face instantly lights up, big smile on his face as if a frown had never been there to begin with.

He’s setting you down now, hand on the front door handle before turning to you again.

“also if you EVER open your own door around me again there will be severe consequences,” He says with the most serious voice and look on his face, before placing the sweetest kiss ever on the tip of your nose, and opening the door for you.

You’re kind of stood there baffled, before you let out a small laugh again and sit down in the passenger seat.

Jason’s got his hand on your thigh with yours above it while he’s driving, Roy’s sat in the middle in the back and leaning on yours and Jason’s seats to talk to you both, and everyone’s happy.

Yeah, idk, something like that

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violetswritingg · 20 days ago

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Every time I come across the fic I always smile because I’m also a sentimental piece of shit and would do something like this if my boyfriend was a hockey player

The Collection

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You keep every single puck that Quinn has ever given you, he finds your collection that you've been shyly hiding away. It might just be the thing that makes him realise you're the girl he's going to marry.

Notes: I just want a boyfriend who'll give me a puck from every one of his games, is that too much to ask?

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It starts quite simply enough with an ice hockey game, like most things did with Quinn Hughes. The two of you had known each other for a while, acquaintances through Kiefer, acquaintances who then had become somewhat friends, but by no means were you close. That had changed one afternoon when Quinn had asked if you'd come to watch him play, not watch the team, not watch Kiefer, but watch him. This had seemed quite the clear hint that he was interested, or at least Quinn had considered this a neon flashing sign telling you he was interested. He considered this him shooting his shot.

It later transpired that Quinn considered this your first date, despite the fact he was on the ice and you were beside the penalty box, and that he'd not mentioned once the word date to you, but that's a story for another time.

The important part of this first-date-that-didn't-seem-like-a-first-date was not just that it set in motion your changing relationship status from somewhat friends to boyfriend and girlfriend, but that it was the first time Quinn Hughes ever gave you a puck. Something which to many would seem inconsequential. People got hockey pucks every day, every game. Thousands of fans owned pucks from hockey games, in that sense you were not particularly special.

It had felt so silly, and so girlish at the time, to be excited over an ice hockey puck of all things just because Quinn had tipped it over the glass to you specifically. And it had been for you, the glare he'd sent to those around you who even looked like they might snatch it had been lethal. It had felt even sillier to take that puck, cradle it the entire game, squirrel it all the way home only to write the date and a simple sentence on it in metallic gold pen, 'Quinn asked me to his game'. You're not entirely sure what had possessed you to do it, why it felt like something you needed to record. It had felt so...silly to do but you'd been unable to resist.

You'd squirrelled the puck away in a box in the back of your closet, out of sight of prying eyes, but it hadn't been forgotten by you. In fact, it was seen every single time you went to one of Quinn's games. After each game you'd inevitably come back with a new puck, another one to add to the collection of pucks that you were growing. At first the number was relatively slow to grow, you didn't go to every game, not during the weird stage where Quinn had yet to outright ask you out and you, oblivious as ever didn't realise he'd been trying for weeks.

As Quinn and you began officially dating you found yourself constantly receiving pucks, every game you went to he had a puck for you and at the end of the night you'd write the date and a simple sentence on it of something that had happened that night, something significant in your relationship or simply something significant to you even if it didn't seem significant to anyone else.

Still, the box remained hidden in the back of your closet, something you almost felt too shy to share. Even now that Quinn and you were in a relationship, even now 2 years down the line when he'd asked you to move in with him once your lease was up, it still felt scary to share it. Realistically you knew Quinn wouldn't be put off by it, the sort of sentimental person he was, he'd likely love it. That didn't stop the irrational fear. Especially given how personal some of the pucks were to you. It just felt embarrassing like showing him your blog from when you were thirteen or sharing a sketchbook from when you were twelve.

Moving apartments had been as simple as moving apartments could get, which is to say not simple in the slightest. Moving your things into Quinn's place had felt a little like playing Tetris, trying to find spaces for all your books and knickknacks without completely taking over his space. Trying to find a balance between his things and yours. In that chaos you'd managed to sneak your box of pucks in and to the back of your section of closet, a, in your opinion, perfect hiding spot.

It was not in fact a perfect hiding spot. Perhaps you were naive to think that Quinn wouldn't ever find them even when you shared such close quarters? Or perhaps you'd simply been avoiding the reality, trying to forget about it except in those few moments when you got home from a game before him and rushed to write on your puck and throw it into the box along with its brethren.

Either way, whether naivety or a desire to avoid the issue, it didn't stop you from finding him in that moment sat on the floor of your shared bedroom, looking incredibly cozy in a big hoodie and sweatpants, but pawing through your box that lay in front of him. The cardboard worn and battered from years of use.

"What are doing?" You knew exactly what he was doing, you could see two years worth of pucks piled high in front of him, one currently being turned over in his hands, but the panic seemingly made your brain stop working. Processing the scene felt impossible, you could see what was happening but couldn't quite comprehend it. Quinn was careful with the pucks, almost reverent as he put the one he was currently holding off to the side and reached for another, reading whatever you'd written on it.

"You kept them?" Quinn's voice is quiet, soft, an almost whisper that has you stepping further into the room even as you twist your fingers together nervous of his reaction.

"How...how did you find them?" Perhaps it was silly to think you could keep them hidden, after all you couldn't exactly claim you'd hidden them in some elaborate or overly complicated fashion. They were simply in a ratty old cardboard box in the very back of your half of the closet. It's not like you'd hidden them in some secret compartment.

"I was looking for my ugly Christmas jumper for the party on Sunday...didn't realise you'd kept them all. Why'd you hide them?" He smiles up and over at you from his spot, looking boyish and sweet even as you internally panic about the discovery he's made.

"I...I just...it's embarrassing." You shuffle nearer even as you say it, seeking his reassurance without quite truly realising it. When you're within reach of him, Quinn tugs on your hand to pull you closer from his position on the floor, cross legged and leaning back against the side of the bed.

"Baby, it's not embarrassing, it's sweet...you kept every puck I've ever given you. That's...I love that. C'mere." He tugs you down to the ground, until you're sitting side by the side with him and he can wrap an arm around you. He's warm and smells like the laundry detergent you use, it's calming, reassuring even as you still feel that rush of embarrassment at being found out.

Quinn reaches for a puck he'd put off to the side, it's worn and tarnished, dents from being hit across the ice during warm ups marring it, the logos of Seattle and Vancouver hidden underneath your writing in gold metallic pen.

"See, look, this is the puck I gave you on the day we had our first kiss." You'd written across the front 'Quinn kissed me today!!!!!!!!!' followed by more exclamation marks than was reasonable for anyone to use. You could remember the game clearly, Quinn had asked you to come along, you'd still not quite realised that he was trying to date you and your obliviousness had set a fire underneath him. He'd been so fed up that he'd forgotten what subtlety was. After a hard fought win, he'd rushed towards you in the corridor by the locker room and kissed you in front of half his teammates, all of whom had decided that was a great time to cheer and whistle like they were at a football game. You'd been surprised by it, taken aback, needing a few moments to process before returning the kiss, but you hadn't been unhappy with the sudden turn of events that had you practically unable to form words afterwards.

Quinn's careful as he puts it back before reaching for another puck, rooting around in the box before he pulls out one with the Canuck's orca emblazoned across it. Quinn takes a moment to read it before practically beaming over at you, eyes bright and excited.

"This one is from the game where I took you on the ice after and taught you how to skate," The puck had a creative attempt at drawing yourself and Quinn in ice skates, stick figure form of course, 'Quinn tried to teach me to skate after the game.'

"You mean you tried to teach me how to skate...last I remember I'm still not great..." You tap a nail against the 'tried' in your handwriting and Quinn just grins at you, any lasting embarrassment has started to disappear, and instead you're left with a sense of warmth. That you have all these memories to look back on, moments you might have forgotten about otherwise.

"You're just a work in progress, baby, you can stay upright...most of the time..." You shake your head at him, rolling your eyes as he teases you. It was a well known fact that you were nowhere near as graceful as Quinn was on the ice, having never really ice skated as a child.

You reach into the pile and pick another puck out, a pride night one, reading the caption quickly and very much deciding that this is one Quinn doesn't need to see, "Oh, not, you're not reading this one!"

"Give it here!" You reach away from him, arm as straight as you can get it to hold the puck as far from him as possible. Naturally, it does very little, Quinn and his long arms simply lean over you and pluck the puck from your grip with ridiculous ease.

You groan, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide away from whatever judgement might pass across his face as he reads off the puck, one of the early ones, from before you even realised he wanted you. From the days when you were pining, crushing hard on a man you thought you'd never have.

"Quinn smiled at me during warm ups'...Oh, baby, that's cute," Quinn grasps the nape of your neck in his hand, pulling until you turn to look at him, your cheek still smushed against his shoulder.

"We weren't dating then...and you were always so locked in..." You try to justify it, that back then his smiles were rarer, he was always so focused on the game that a smile was special, that any little interaction felt special because he wasn't yours yet, but it doesn't stop you feeling silly and embarrassed that you'd felt a smile during warm ups was important enough to put on a puck. At the time it had felt like the only thing that mattered, that Quinn had smiled at you, that his focus had been on you.

"I always have a smile for you...even back then, I was always excited when you agreed to come to a game...it made me want to play ten times harder, baby, still does." Quinn can't remember a time when he wasn't excited to see you at a game, to know you were there to support him, even in the early days. If anything the early days were even more exciting, simple because it didn't feel like a given that you'd be there. You weren't his girlfriend back then, you didn't have to be there, he couldn't complain if you weren't. So seeing you had always felt like he'd won a prize because you'd given up your time to watch him play in a freezing cold arena even knowing you'd barely get to talk to him.

"They're silly..." You gesture to the array of pucks, the number feeling ridiculous. How had you managed to collect over 100 pucks? Why had you decided to keep them all?

You stop your self-doubt and wallowing at the feeling of Quinn pressing a kiss to your hair, tugging you into his lap until you're as close as he can get you. Quinn is gentle when he runs his palm from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine and back again, a soothing rhythm that makes you feel more confident when you look him in the eye.

"They're sweet...this is our entire story in pucks, can't get better than that..." The way he smiles at you is so soft and sweet that you wonder why you were ever scared of him finding them, "Don't stop doing it, baby...Promise me."

"I'll run out of space in my box though..." You look down at the almost full, falling apart cardboard box from one of your deliveries 2 years prior, the corners starting to tear, the free space inside almost non-existent.

"Then I'll get you a bigger box. I want to be 90 years old and have a thousand pucks in a giant box, each with something you thought was special enough to write on it... even if it is..." He picks up a puck squinting at it, "'I made Quinn laugh.' or," Quinn finds another from the pile, "'Quinn said my hair looked pretty', although maybe I need to be setting the bar higher, baby" He teases you, flipping the puck between his fingers with ease.

"I was pining after you, okay, and I wasn't sure you liked me back then!"

"Yeah, I forget, me asking you to come watch me play wasn't clear enough!" Quinn has been adamant for years that it was obvious he was asking you on a date, that you were just oblivious. He was, of course, wrong. Asking someone to come watch them play hockey was not in any way an obvious invite to a date and you refused to take responsibility for the earlier miscommunication which was clearly all his fault.

"It's not clear at all, honey! People ask people to watch them play all the time, it doesn't make it a date!"

"It was so a date!" a date in which you spent near 3 hours in the freezing cold and barely spoke to Quinn...definitely what a date is supposed to be. No wonder he was single for so long when you met him.

"Honestly, I'm starting to think you're lucky I liked you enough to put up with you..."

"...I am lucky...I'm lucky you gave me a chance and that you liked me enough to keep all these pucks and I'm lucky you agreed to move in with me even if you hide pucks in the closet like some weirdo." Quinn grips your hips, squeezing gently, smiling up at you sweetly even as he calls you a weirdo like he's not the one who thought watching him play hockey would be a good first date idea.

"You'll be lucky to sleep in the bed tonight if you keep that up,"

"You'd kick me out of our bed, baby? Really?" Quinn pouts at you as you grin down at him from your perch on his lap, arms wrapping over his shoulders and crossing behind his neck.

"...I'm joking, I can't sleep without your snores." If you could call his barely there noises snores, the lightest of snores, the sort of snores that were almost perfectly rhythmic rather than annoyingly inconsistent. Before Quinn you'd been adamant you couldn't date someone who snored, that it would make it too hard to sleep, now? Now, you genuinely missed them when he was gone. The noise a comforting backing track.

"You should put that on the next puck, 'I can't sleep without Quinn's snores in my ear and his manly arms around me'."

"'Manly arms'?" You pull back from him slightly, brows raised in question and an amused twist to your lips.

"You don't think my arms are manly, baby?" You laugh as Quinn raises one arm, flexing his bicep. You can't even see his muscles underneath his baggy hoodie, too well hidden within his cocoon of comfy cotton and polyester.

"I think you're ridiculous...." You shake your head at him, settling back in against him as he peers down at you with eyes that can only be described as loving, soft around the edges and almost hazy.

"Well, I think I'm in love with you."

You sigh happily as you reach for the box of pucks just behind you. You find a puck you know from sight alone, plucking it from the box and handing it to Quinn in response. You watch him read it, the way his smile turns to a full grin that beams at you like you've given him the moon. When in reality its just a ratty puck that says, 'I think I'm in love with Quinn Hughes'.

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violetswritingg · 23 days ago

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I NEED Matt Rempe to confirm this

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violetswritingg · 23 days ago

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violetswritingg · 23 days ago

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Fucking obsessedddddd

A Seal Upon Thine Heart

pairing: knight!Jason Todd x princess!reader

wc: 1.2k a/n: I'm not sure if I'm going to leave this as a single chapter or continue it but either way, enjoy! 🥰

Chapter 2

“I already told ya, it's a surprise for you,” you can hear the smile in your knight’s voice as his large calloused hands cover your eyes. “No peeking.” He whispers playfully in your ear.

With the guards turning their head, against their better judgement, the two of you snuck out past the palace gates and towards the meadowland that lay beyond the rolling hills of your kingdom.

“You know I do hate surprises,” You tell him with a smile of your own. As you lift the hem of your dress you can feel the wildflowers tickling at your ankle. The spring air is crisp with a sweetness to it.

“Aye, I know.” Jason responds. You laugh softly at him.

“Jason,” he almost stumbles as his name falls from your lips so easily, like it belonged on your tongue, “we have been walking for hours.”

Jason tsks you, “We have not, my princess. Do not stretch the truth.” He can feel the way you roll your eyes beneath his palms and he smiles again. Slowly he comes to a stop with his chest flush against your back. The intimacy of the moment sends your heart racing.

“Are you ready, Princess?” He asks quietly in your ear. With a giddiness to the action you nod your head, hands clasping together in front of you.

What Jason reveals to you is a simple bed carved between two large oak trees, branches and roots conjoining together into twisted limbs and knots over the years. The bed was decorated with wildflowers from the meadow, a single white cotton blanket lay across the feather mattress.

“Jason,” you breathe out at the sight before you, “how did you…?”

Jason smiles shyly, “Twas nothing…” he mumbles bashfully.

“This is not "nothing”." You step forward until you're close enough to touch the soft fabric. Reveling in the sight before you, you take a seat. “It is gorgeous.” Your hand runs over the cool fabric. When you look back at Jason you can see the pink hue to his cheeks.

“Will you sit with me?” You ask so softly Jason's knees almost give out. With a nod he complies, sitting beside you on the small bed.

“Where did you find all of these feathers, sir?” You ask him with a playful grin. He scratches the back of his head in turn and his cheeks turn a deeper pink at the honorific.

“Ah, the kitchen - butcher, mostly. Told ‘im I'd take the feathers off his hands. Few hunting lodges ‘round the area.” Jason answers. You take a second to admire how soft his frame looks against the bed, the way his green tunic pulls at his shoulders, the way the soft white of the flowers form a contrasting background to his dark hair and tanned skin. He's beautiful, you think, and all yours.

“So you've been working on this for a long time?”

“Long time.” He repeats quietly, his voice trails off before getting lost in the chirps of the robins around you. You hum softly and Jason clears his throat before pulling out a small book from his pocket. He holds it up almost like he's shy about having it.

“Do you… do you mind if I practice my reading, Princess?”

Your chest warms at his question and you smile at him, “Of course you may.”

And so Jason sits himself, at your demand request, with his back against the tree and you lay your head in his lap. He swallows nervously at the intimacy of the position but he takes a deep breath to calm himself.

It had become a small routine for the two of you to carve out time in your busy day to help Jason with his reading. At first your father was against it, what need does a knight have to read? But you insisted - telling him that the person who was to guard your safety, your life, needed to be as smart as they were strong. So with some push back and pouting, and some help from your mother if we're being honest, your father allowed you an allotted time to teach Jason.

“Set me,” Jason's voice starts out unsteady, unsure. You close your eyes and the rough timber slowly steadies. His free hand finds its way to your collarbone. Soft and delicate skin beneath his fingers, they trail like second nature.

“As a seal upon th-...” Jason's eyebrows knit together at the word. You give him a second to work it out in his head before you open your eyes.

“May I?” You ask quietly.

Jason hesitates. He's embarrassed that he can't work the word out on his own but your gentleness soothes the defensiveness that rises in his chest. He moves the small book so you can read it.

“Thine.” You read the word and with a smile you look back up at him with an approving nod. You can almost hear him mumble a thank you under his breath.

He starts over.

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart. As a seal upon thine arm.”

“That was pretty,” you hum as you close your eyes again. “You're getting better.”

“‘m not.” Jason argues before he catches himself, “But… thank you.”

“What made you choose that poem?” You ask as you lean into his touch. His fingers stiffen before he relaxes again.

“The um.. seal part. Reminded me of ya. Since I have your family's seal on my armor…” he mumbles his reply.

You open one eye and your cheeks warm, “Is my seal also upon thine heart?” You ask him with a teasing smile.

“I-” Jason stammers for a moment before his mouth gapes open. You laugh softly at the sight.

“I jest, my knight.” Jason swallows at the way you call him your knight.

“Forgive me, Princess.” His voice is low and warm as he looks down at you.

The afternoon sun hangs lower across the horizon, casting melting shades of pinks and purples. The warm golden rays from the sun peek through the trees that leave an ethereal glow across your skin. Slowly you rise and turn on the mattress to face Jason. He's never seen a sight more heavenly.

“For?”

Jason hesitates. He wants to pull you in. Every fiber and atom of his being scream at him to place his lips against yours, to take you and claim you and never let you go. But instead he blinks his wide blue eyes and sighs.

“I must get you back to the palace before the King grows suspicious.” He answers reluctantly. Your heart drops. It wasn't what you wanted to hear even if you knew he was right.

“And if I refuse?” You cross your arms defiantly. Jason fights back a smile.

“Then I'll have to haul you over my shoulder like a flour sack, Princess. Tell the king I found you out wandering the forest.” The image you conjure in your head makes you smile like a giddy little girl.

“Oi,” Jason snaps his fingers, his face one of concern now. “What're you thinking about in that pretty head of yours, Princess?” He asks roughly.

“Being hauled over your shoulder.” You answer brashly. Jason's cheeks turn pink again, moving down his neck.

“You're trouble.” He tells you with a shake of his head before he's standing, holding a hand to you. You quickly accept it and stand from the bed yourself.

“You think I'm pretty, truly?” You ask, teasing him again, as he guides you through the meadow. Jason rolls his eyes, of course that's what you were going to poke fun at him for.

“Aye. The prettiest lady in the land, my princess.” He answers.

taglist: @vellichor01 @thy-crimson-king

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violetswritingg · 24 days ago

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Batboys being soft headcanons:

TW- insomnia, nightmares, injury, blood

Dick Grayson-

Dick Grayson doesn’t do ‘vulnerable’. Apparently, it’s simply not on brand for him. But there’s a first time for everything.

he comes to you, crawling, bleeding, haunted by ghosts that he can’t shake off. He’s on the verge of shattering, and this time, he might not be able to put the pieces back together. Besides, he’s the golden boy. And golden boys don’t get to have bad days.

which is why he’s so grateful for you. But it’s also why he’s ashamed. You draw the curtains, close the blinds, and he knows that not a word of this would leave the room

At first, he’s afraid. He doesn’t want to break in your arms; he doesn’t want his jagged edges to cut you. But you pull him close, and your touch is the first bit of warmth he’s had all night. in the end, it’s not even within his control. He breaks, just like he was afraid to. And you soothe him, just like he knew you would. You pick up his broken edges without drawing blood, and you kiss him in a way that makes him think that he’s someone worth saving. Don’t worry. You’ll keep reminding him.

Jason Todd-

he’s not easy to love. That’s Jason’s current mantra. He repeats it in his head when he met you and his heart did one of Dick’s somersaults. It’s what he reminds himself when you ask him out. And when he finally tells you- warns you -you just say something about ‘self-esteem’.

but now, judgement day has arrived. Sleep has never come easy for him, but nowadays, it’s harder to make it stay. Still, incidents have lessened ever since the two of you started sharing a bed. But that doesn’t mean the number has dwindled down to zero.

he doesn’t wake up screaming. He’s trained himself not to. But he jolts awake, upright, shaking, cold with his own sweat. That’s when his breaths start coming in shallow. He faintly hears a small creak in the bed springs and wants to curse up and down. He didn’t mean to wake you

Jason remembers the room becoming vague. He remembers tunnel vision. He remembers- oh god, he remembers everything. The warehouse, the smoke, the tick-tick, of a timer-

he remembers you. Warm hands that he could recognize blind, squeezing his hands, prying his fingers away, biting crescents into his arms. He remembers hushed assurances, your own steady pulse beneath his fingers. You stayed until his breathing evened, and you stayed after. He’s not easy to love. But he thinks that maybe you were built for it.

Tim Drake-

He’s more disappointed in himself than anything. He’s the strategist, he’s the prophet. He knows every move on the chess board. Yet here he is.

According to Tim, it was a ‘miscalculation’. You put it in simpler terms- he got stabbed. The situation, Tim admits, could have gone South very, very quickly. Bleeding out in a random alley, with no backup (classical Drake arrogance, you tut), he was quite glad for his annual will amendment.

in a way, you truly were his guardian angel. He doesn't like relying on people this way- he's been on his own for far too long. But there are exceptions to everything. He tries to keep it in. He tries to behave. But he shudders, his hair damp with sweat. He reeks of fear, and he flinches when you move too fast.

by then end of it, though, you can’t recognize him. Cold and exhausted, barely alive on his couch. He’s never been so close to death before. It’s shaken something in him he didn’t know he had. He’s bared in a way that leaves him freezing. He should be caught off guard. But for once tonight… in the dim light of your kitchen bulb, he gathers whatever is left of his strength, and raises a bloody hand to kiss the top of your knuckles. When he wakes up in your arms the next morning, there’s a contentment that washes over him. He hasn’t felt anything like that in years. Tim resolves to bleeding out more often- if only it meant you’d let him in again.

Aged up!Damian Wayne-

just like Dick, he’s got a hard time admitting to his vulnerabilities. But if anyone can make him soften up, it’s you.

You’ll have to convince him, persuade him. You’ll find him in the Batcave at three in the morning, wracked with guilt and shame and memories that he won’t dare whisper even in the artificial light of the cave.

he won’t listen. He thinks he deserves this. He’s hasn’t even slept in god knows how long. It’s only when you imply that you’re tired does his grip on the sword loosen. you tug on his sleeve, and he won’t know how either of you got here, but suddenly you’re drawing him a warm bath and draining the tension in his shoulders

Later that evening, you’ll find yourselves lying in bed, his hair damp, and his chest lighter than it was a few hours ago. He’ll make you lie down and rests his head in the small crook between your neck and your shoulder, and he whispers things that he never thought he’d tell anyone. And when you don’t pull away, he slips into a dream that he doesn’t want to wake up from

Notes-

Hii!

Thanks for reading, I'm Ophelia!

This was inspired by me feeling really sleepy

as always, I'm ready to take requests

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violetswritingg · 24 days ago

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what do you need from me tonight? .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪

i don’t care if you’re sick, i don’t care if you’re contagious.

𖥔 summary since befriending tim drake you have known exactly how he feels about his brothers: offlimits, forbidden, do not enter! this was never too difficult to maintain, never too hard to turn away when one smiles a little too bright, yet when sweet and sultry jason walks into the room it become harder to turn the other cheek.

𖥔 pairing jason todd x reader

𖥔 genre/tw best friends brother au!! fem!reader !! reader is tim’s bff, fluff! angst?! probably suggestive at times i can’t lie, intoxication, swearing !! jason is a softie, none of that charmer fuck boy jason here!! petnames, kissing, reader and jason are real yearners !! reader and tim are supposed to be like 21-22 which puts Jason at like 25-26 or so (in my mind) batfam mentions and cameos! we love!! librarian!jason !! historian!reader !! tim and reader are platonic soulmates <3 also tim calls reader chicken, idk why!! also thers gonna be typos and run on sentences probably (i blacked out)

𖥔 w/c 8.3k and some change

𖥔 a/n this came to me in a dream… idk i just feel like tim has such strong protective girl bestie vibes so this is what happened. i love tim and reader and reader and jason and i really hope you do too!! lemme know xoxo

masterlist | requests open!!

Since the moment you became friends with Tim Drake, you understood his brothers were completely off limits. It was apparent in how he would go out of his way to not mention them by name—only my brother this or my brothers that—it was in the look of pure disgust when someone would bring up just how hot his oldest brother was when he showed up on the news: alerting the public not to be worried about some crime in Blüdhaven. Even you, his best friend since the trauma of Philosophy 204 bonded you together, were not allowed to ask about them without a deadly glare shooting your way.

You understood, if you had a famous family full of wealthy handsome boys, you too would want to keep them aware from your friends. You shudder at the thought of some girl asking if your brother was single, thus whenever Tim gives you attitude about it, you allow yourself to laugh it off. It wasn’t until the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year that you were even allowed near Wayne Manor, and into the lives of his illustrious family.

Now, five years into your friendship, you could say that you’ve fit yourself into Tim’s life quite nicely. Being his favorite lady, you’re often his date to galas and Sunday brunches with the wives of Wayne Enterprises, The person who comes along when Bruce says “you can bring a friend”, and most special, who he turns to when one of his brothers annoys him. Like now,

“I just don’t know why I’m suddenly Damian’s chauffeur," Tim says, a familiar annoyance seeping from his voice. “Like, my father has billions of dollars yet I have to be the one to drive my little brother around, come on.”

You laugh, but the easy way in which he talks about his family’s wealth brings a bad taste to your mouth… You, a girl born and raised in the lower sector of Gotham, find it quite gross how easy your friend throws his money around sometimes, which you remind him with a swat on the back of his head. “Hey! what the fuck was that for?” He exclaims with a laugh.

“Timothy, you know better than to be all waspy when I’m around…” you sigh, “and anyway, it’s not like Damian goes anywhere but the library and the planetarium… he's just a kid.”

“A kid who threatens to poison me if I don’t buy him bug juice—which I gotta say he is getting too old for.”

“Ahh, Timmy, are you just sad about your baby brother growing up?” You say, pouting your lips in the exact way you know annoys him.

You’ve always thought it’s funny how annoyed Tim gets about Damian, a boy who’s only ever sweet to you—asking you about your favorite animals and telling you about the new exhibits at Gotham’s Natural History Museum. “I don’t get why it's so terrible, Dami’s just a sweetheart,”

“Ugh, maybe to you,” Tim replies, “he just thinks you’re cool cause you work at the Historical Society and you make fun of me,”

“Well, there’s a lot to make fun of.”

“Ha.Ha. Real funny guess who's uninvited to Dick’s birthday party.” With this, you pause. It’s true that most of the parties surrounding Tim’s family are unnecessarily boring and involve fitting into a tight dress and making your hair look presentable. There’s been quite a few times when you’ve wished that Tim would go with someone else and gift you the reprieve from a drawn out conversation with a doctor or a politician, (or whoever else Mr. Wayne invites to drum up philanthropy). However, you look forward to Dick’s birthday every year; a night filled with laughter and sweet drinks, getting to see Dick and his girlfriend Kory get a little too drunk and attempt to do gymnastics on the club’s dancefloor… Even better, it’s the one chance you really get to see Jason, Tim’s older and outcasted brother..

You remember the first time you met him, a Friday dinner you accompanied Tim to… It was the one night a week Alfred was free from dinner duty, thus the two of you had brought chinese and gelato for dessert and Damian kept pestering you about bringing him to the Zoo to see the snakes.

You had already met everyone else, Dick with his charming smile and the spark in his eyes when he pulled your chair out (you’re sure it had more to do with annoying his brother than being a gentleman,) You’d met Duke when he followed his brother into university becoming a welcome third to your little group, and his father–Initmaditing and encompassing Bruce Wayne, but you’d never met Jason.

You’d heard about him, heard the sighs from his father when he noticed his second son hadn’t shown up… Watched the careful way he was spoken about by his family, in past tenses and thinly veiled sadness. Tim had rarely brought him up to you, barely mentioning how there was some sort of accident, how it destroyed their father and separated Jason from himself and his family.

You never liked seeing your best friend sad, it hurt too much to see his blue eyes gloss over, so you never brought him up, yet you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t curious. You remember seeing it on the news, the day that Jason Todd went missing… It wasn’t surprising to hear about a missing boy–living in Gotham meant a new tragedy every day–yet, you remember being shocked that something would happen to that bright young boy, grinning ear to ear in the school picture the news showed.

You were only twelve, but you can think back and see so vividly the magic behind that smile, and how sad you were to realize that this boy, who could have very well gone to school with your sister, was gone… How sad he must be, you remember thinking, to be without his family.

He was quite the mystery to you, more so after becoming friends with Tim, his brother who would so rarely mention him. It was when you saw him slouching at the dinner table and arguing with Dick, that your curiosity came back, you couldn’t believe it–he was so handsome, prettier than the newspaper made him look, and so tall, but you remembered Tim… Remembered how upset he got when Hannah Beauchamp asked him for his brother’s telephone number, so all you did was smile and say hello.

After that you saw Jason more often, always quiet, always bright, but it was still glaringly rare… You never knew when he’d be there, unlike Dick who is unquestionable in his loyalty to family functions, Jason could be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Thus, the only surefire way to see him, is to go to Dick’s birthday, a gathering that Jason always appears at, showing his rare smile and a rare wish to his big brother.

You can’t be uninvited, you really can’t be…

“Timmy, you know I love you,” you say, giggling at the way his nose scrunches, “Please let me go with you to Dick’s party? Please please please!! I didn’t mean it, it’s so hard to make fun of you!”

You know you’ve won when his head tilts, nose sticking straight up like an aristocrat in a children’s novel, you know you’ve won because he sighs into a sweet smile–bringing his hand up to muss your hair.

“You know I can’t go anywhere without you, Chicken.” At his words you unceremoniously jump at him, encircling him into your grasp and squealing out ‘thank you’s.’ “But,” you groan. “You have to come with me tonight… If I have to hear Damian go on and on about Casseiopeia, you do too.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The party was in full force when you arrived, music blaring, couples kissing, the whole nine; It smelled like sweat and tequila, and fancy perfume, and you wished you could feel this way more often.

Tim doesn’t like going out, doesn’t feel safe bringing you out into the Gotham nightlife–your best friend, sweet and loyal and protective, over his family, over you… You know he’s just looking out for you, but the frustrated sighs and the “that place isn’t safe for a little Chicken like you,” get exhausting. He gets frustrated when you go out by yourself, insistent that your group of girls would be much safer if you guys partied at home, yet he never seems to have a problem if his brothers are there too… more eyes on you, he says when you ask.

Still, you wouldn’t trade him for the world–how lucky were you, that your best friend cared so much…

He had gasped when he picked you up, a caricature of your sisters and girlfriends: he squealed and told you he loved your dress, (as if he wasn’t the one who paid for it), a routine that was familiar and warm. He’d driven you both himself, complaining about traffic and assholes who don’t use their blinker, he was telling you about his day and the “insolent” acts Damian committed at school. It was rather nice, just you and Tim listening to shitty pop-punk and laughing, a familiar scene that’s gotten rarer and rarer as his responsibilities have piled on.

He had squeezed your hand before getting out of the car, smiling at you with earnest eyes and a mischievous grin, and told you: “If Dick’s friend Wally hits on you, tell him I still have the pictures from last summer.”

You were a ball of nerves in the elevator, stomach dropping as it went up, up, up to the Penthouse, shying away from the stares and whispers that follow Tim around. But now, encased in house music and the saccharine smell of young lust and birthday magic, your anxiety eases and the smile you send your best friend’s way is finally sincere.

He takes your hand to lead you through the erratic rhythm of dancing bodies, sending dirty looks to men who look at you too long, leading you through the suite like he’s Orpheus on a mission. He doesn’t turn back to smile at you until you’ve reached your destination, the large rooftop patio where the pool lives, here you find Dick–front flipping into the pool fully clothed. His form is perfect, spinning into the water with a ballerina like elegance, a visage so striking against the electronica pumping through the night.

He comes up for air with far less grace, however, shaking his hair out like a dog and yelling at Kory to join him. When he sees his little brother, his face breaks into the most earth-shattering smile, before he breaks into senseless giggles–telling everyone, “You guys! My baby brother Timmy is here!”

Tim, a boy who loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe you, grins at the older boy's voice–pulling you along to greet him properly.

“Happy birthday, Dick!” You tell him, voice raising to be heard over the music and the squealing euphoria of his guests.

“Oh my! Timmy’s little Chicken is here!” Dick’s fondness for you is no surprise, as a professional older brother it is his job to love everyone his siblings love. “Jason! Look who's here!”

It's almost comical how fast you look up, how curious you are to see him, so curious you don’t hear Tim’s sigh or the way his hold on your arm tightens. Like Magic, Jason stands in front of you, leaning against a wall like a poor parody of James Dean. He looks a bit put out, a little annoyed to be interrupted in what looks like a riveting conversation with Roy Harper– a man you’ve only ever met through Tim’s phone on nights when he goes out without you.

“Hey guys,” He says, friendly enough yet you can’t help but notice how much tenser he looks now that Tim stands before him. “Timmy, I heard you’re taking up more and more roles at Dad’s,” he sounds strained, but it’s obvious that he’s trying.

“Yeah, our little baby brother is awesome, Bird, but let’s not forget it’s my turn to receive your compliments.” Dick exclaims, panting a bit from treading water.

“Yeah, yeah, Dickie, you just gotta wait for it, man.” Jason says, before turning back to Roy, you know at once that their exchange is over, you’re not sure what happened… It seems almost like Tim and Jason fought, niceties were exchanged, yes, but the look in their eyes: exhausted and awkward, says more than the short conversation they shared.

They get like this sometimes, a phenomenon you don’t quite understand… You’ve witnessed moments where they seem like best friends, joking and joining together in teasing Damian, yet there's other times… Moments like this, when it seems like there's years of separation and frustration between them.

You can feel Tim pulling you away, his hold on your hand a little tighter than you would like it to be… You can hear Dick yelling at him to stay, ‘the waters nice and warm,’ he yells, yet it's obvious he’s not too worried about it once Kory swims over to him. More than anything you can see Jason, nodding at you from his place against the wall–his drink tipping your way as if to say goodbye.

You’re still a little confused when Tim drags you back into the suite to dance, finding Conner and Stephanie along the way. The four of you twirl and laugh and drink, the boys spinning you and Steph around and around–passing the two you back and forth until you're dizzy and drunk. Tim’s hands steady you, leading you in a crazy dance the two of you made up junior year, and grinning when you drunkenly tell him you love him. The night is alive, it’s burning with winter yearning and the feeling that you’d never be this young again. How you love your friends, how you wonder what's ailing them.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The music is thunderous, eating away at your ear drums and seeping into your bones until your body sings along. You’re not sure what time it is any more, or where Tim went… Your last memory is Conner giving you his jacket before pulling your friend away, a sight that made you giggle and roll your eyes. Steph’s seemed to disappear too, leaving you all alone on the dance floor, swaying in time with the music and whispering jokes to nobody.

The crowd seems to have gotten bigger and the drinks stronger, a revelation that sends you in search of Tim or Dick, or someone you know. Yet, you can’t find them anywhere, off with Conner and Kory surely, abandoning you with only vodka and an empty chip bowl to keep you company. The party seems lonelier now, the music dull and throbbing in your ears, and all the dancing seems out of rhythm. It’s almost like you’ve stepped out of the faery ring, released yourself from an enchantment, and now everything that was once magic is all wrong.

That things happening, that thing where you begin to have nostalgia for the moment you’re in, a kind of bittersweetness veiling over your eyelids as you take in the dark room. This happens sometimes, where you get a sudden case of the blues–too much adrenaline, too much happiness for one person, so it comes out as sad. It doesn’t help that you’re all alone, that Tim left you to go kiss Conner and you don’t really know anyone else, not truly–not the way you need to know them for a moment like this.

You find yourself on the stairs, leaning against the railing as you attempt to regain your balance. The world seems to be spinning, whether it's from the alcohol or all the dancing you’re unsure of, yet the sky seems to be under your feet. You wished Tim was here… he always knew what to do, always knew how to make you laugh when you’re sad and get you home without a scratch… Stupid Conner, you think, stealing your best friend from you when you need him most… typical.

It's minutes later that you feel someone nudging you awake, shaking you from your place on the stairs. The person's hands are rough and warm and gentle, easing you back into consciousness, accompanied by whispers of “come on, little one.”

You don’t feel very good, the alcohol and the sadness filling your throat with the taste of vomit, yet you find it in yourself to look up. Light invades your senses and that same blaring electronica finds a home in your ears again, a repeated refrain of call on me beating into your bones. You find the eyes of the intruder, green like summer; they’re looking down at you in concern, all squinty like a crescent moon. It's not until the song changes that you realize it’s Jason looking at you, your mystery come to find you.

“Jason?” you ask, your voice covered in sleep and intoxication. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Where’s Timmy?”

“Off with Conner.” You harrumph, sneering at his name as if they aren’t two of your most treasured friends.

“And he left you all alone?” He looks a little surprised by this, and a little upset, a combination that will surely keep you up thinking about what it means.

“Yeah, can you believe that?! He’s a treacherous traitor who betrayed me.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure all those things mean the same thing.” He laughs a little, and you wish you were sober just so you could really hear him, the fear you feel that you might not remember this fills you with dread. It's so rare that you get to see him, so rare that you get to talk to him without Tim around to make things different and tense… your crush on Jason is not so hidden, a truth that eats at you in moments like this. You’re sure they probably all know, can all see how flustered you get around him, but you’d never act on it–you’d never do anything to hurt Tim, (that includes kissing his brothers), thus you pretend like it doesn’t affect you as much as it does. But here now, with Jason sitting next to you on the stairs, sharing space and oxygen and more words than you’ve ever spoken to each other before, you feel it becoming harder and harder to pretend.

“Why are you sitting with me, Jason?” You ask him.

‘What?” He replies, eyes wide in shock or maybe confusion. “You’re my little brother’s best friend and you’re asleep on the stairs, why wouldn’t I be sitting with you.” His voice is pure Gotham, it brings a smile to your lips.

“I see, is it just because I’m Timmy’s best friend.”

“Are you flirting with me, Casanova?” he laughs, bringing a bottle of water up to his lips.

“Never ever, Mr. Todd, I swear it, cross my heart.” You can see how he’s smiling, goofier than you’ve ever seen it, less sculpted than the usual smirky grin he wears around his brothers.

“You’re drunk.” He says, before handing you his bottle of water, “Drink.” He says it like a command, like something you couldn’t say no to even if you tried, so you listen, yet you can’t stop thinking about his lips around it just a few seconds before. It invades your senses– the image of his rosebud lips curling around the top like a kiss… What is a kiss if not two mouths touching? What is a kiss without a kiss? Shared saliva and phantom smiles pressing against your own?

One of his large hands goes to the bottom of the plastic bottle–tipping it up further as if to get you to drink more, his eyes swallow you, commanding eye contact as the water tumbles down your throat. “That’s a good girl.” He tells you, voice low and pleasing. It’s only when the bottle is empty that he takes his hand away, lowering the bottle from your lips and looking back into the humid party.

How handsome he is, you think, it’s obvious he dressed up a little more for this than when you usually see him. He’s in all black, slacks and t-shirt displaying some 90s anime, he even has jewelry on: silver rings and heavy chains around his neck… He looks ravishing, like someone should take him home before other people can perceive him. You remember that first time you saw him, that fifteen year old boy on the news who looked like Peter Pan; you remember how you felt when you read that he was missing, if only you could have told yourself you would have found him one day.

“Jason?” You whisper, “Where did you go?” He’s surprised at the question, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t seem mad, more tired; exhausted by the memory.

“Neverland.” He whispers back, a response that brings a smile to your lips even though it’s not an answer.

“What was it like?”

“Hmm,” he says, thinking about his answer. “Well, it was pretty, there were pirates and mermaids, and little fairy girls like you.” That makes you laugh, a big booming thing that escapes.

“I’m a little fairy girl, now?”

“Oh yeah, I saw you spinning earlier… round and round like you were trying to fly.”

“Well, I’m all out of pixie dust.” You tell him, which brings that goofy smile back to his pretty face.

He doesn’t say anything else, just sits quietly with you, humming songs he knows and snorting at the drunken antics of Dick’s guests. It’s nice, just sitting with him–there is no need to fill the space, just peace and quiet. Finally, when you’re feeling sober enough to be a little worried by his answer, you ask, “Why’d you leave? I mean what made you come home?”

It takes him a moment to answer, but when he does it’s full of secrets and saved up sadness, his voice gruff with the memory of it. “I just had to grow up I guess.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

Days later you’re still thinking about that conversation on the stairs, how sad he looked… how vulnerable and young he appeared. When Tim finally showed himself, he was shocked to find you with his brother, thanking him over and over again for keeping you company. You remember how Jason smiled, sweet and sleepy, before he said No problem, Timmy, you just get her home safe. It’s less of a memory and more of a dream, like you went off to Neverland too.

It was difficult to find sleep that night, too shaken and embarrassed by your own behavior… Nerves ate at your brain every time you thought about how natural it was to talk to him, nerves that only got worse when you wake up to a text from an unknown number:

‘Hey, fairy girl, it’s J. just want to make sure you got back alright’

It filled you with heat and parasitic flutters in your belly, but you couldn’t answer… couldn’t get over the guilt you felt when imagining Tim’s reaction, no matter how innocent it all was. So you left it alone, didn’t answer him and went on with your day as normal as you could make it: lunches with Tim and group chat gossip with Duke and Stephanie, anything that could distract you from the fire blazing in your veins.

You were still a little cross with Tim for leaving you all alone, but after making him take you out to breakfast and promise to buy you whatever you wanted for the next week, you thought you’d cut him some slack. He was acting a little weird, he kept making that face that only conjures itself when he’s trying to figure something out, and he repeatedly asked you if Jason said anything interesting to you– a question that has you shaking your head every time.

His words were just for you, you knew that more than you knew anything, so even though it was unfamiliar, you kept it from your best friend.

It’s been a week since that fateful night, a week full of sleeplessness and butterflies when you thought about his bright eyes and warm hands. You’ve always had a bit of a crush, but now it's stifling–incinerating you with the absolute truth of it. Even here at work it suffocates you, presses down in between the dark archives of old newspapers and preserved textiles. It's just another day of paperwork and organization, studying old books on Cherry Hill in hopes to find something that could help stop the impending gentrification.

Tim’s on his way with lunch, something Alfred cooked up to be sure, an exciting but slightly unnerving prospect. You’ve never been afraid of your best friend before, but you’ve also never kept a secret from him… you know it's not a big deal, so what if you and Jason had a sleepy drunken conversation at Dick’s birthday party? It wasn’t like you kissed! Hell, his hands barely even touched your skin except to wake you up, yet the fear of hurting Tim is so massive and encompassing you can’t help but feel like you need to hide it.

You hear him say hello to your coworkers, hear his graceful steps down into the basement, he takes the stairs two at a time. When he finally arrives in front of you, he is jovial–smiling wider than you’ve seen in awhile. He dawdles on, handing you your lunch and telling you about how Alfred made twice the amount so all his kids could have some. It’s nice to hear him speak about his family, you relish in it… how happy he sounds when he speaks of his brothers, Alfred and Stephanie, the smile in his voice when he tells you you’re invited to another Friday Dinner.

“Barbara and Kory are coming too, you’ll be there, yeah?”

“Yeah, Definitely,” You tell him, but your heart isn’t in it. Tim notices it, of course he does, but he doesn’t call it out. You’ve been acting strange lately, but he trusts that you’d come to him if you really needed help. He stays until you both finish your lunch, kissing you on the head before he heads back towards the WE building; the guilt creeps back in when he leaves, roots of shaming entangling you like vipers.

This routine follows you into the week, Tim bringing lunch and stories of Conner and Duke and the mischief they’ve gotten themselves into. Your work kept you busy, working late into the night– the book you found on the Founding of Gotham was interesting, and it was proving to be rather helpful in proving your suspicions that the original City Hall was located in the Cherry Hill suburb of Gotham City. You hoped you’d be able to find all the sources you needed, but it was becoming a bigger and bigger project than you ever realized–a project that was impeding on your life.

It was late into the afternoon when Jason came to see you, bringing with him a smile and something hidden in his book bag.

“Knock-knock, Little fairy, can I come in?” He asks you, halting on the last step. It's dark down here, lit only with lamps and reading lights, still he is beautiful–the white streak in his hair curling down over his eyes. He looks rather comfy, wrapped up in a sweater and a leather jacket, his book bag crossing over his chest and falling around his hip. God, he’s lovely, and he’s here… Why is he here?

“What are you doing here?” You ask, startled by his presence and the life it brings.

“I wanted to bring you some flowers,” He tells you, a secret smile playing on his lips. You look at his empty hands, a confused grin finding its way to your face.

“Where are the flowers, Jason?” You laugh, although it halts when that goofy grin emerges again. Looking at you slyly he takes something out from his bag, pulling out a stack of books and handing them to you. Still confused you shuffle the pile to read each title,

Dandelion Wine, White Oleander, The Chrysanthemums, Daisy Miller, The Secret Garden…

Oh dear, you think, how sweet is this boy? And why? After you’d ignored his message…

“Flowers,” he says, tilting his head towards you, that charming smile still living on his face.

Who is this wonderful, handsome boy? When his brothers speak of him, they describe him as gruff and unlikable–mean and sulky. Yet this Jason is bright and euphoric, sweet and happy and mischievous…

He brought you flowers… flowers that you could keep on your shelf forever; stories of life and sadness and magic.

“Oh my,” you say, “Thank you, Jason.”

“Of course, I wanted to make sure you were okay…” He hesitates for a minute before continuing on, “Y’know, you never answered my text and I thought maybe Dickie gave me the wrong number.”

“Oh, no it was the right number,” you sigh. “I just don’t want Tim to feel weird about the two of us becoming friends…”

“Are we becoming friends then,” he asks you, eyes brighter than before. He looks so young like this, starry eyed and grinning like he won a blue ribbon.

“I don’t know, Jason, are we?”

“I’m inclined to say yes, fairy girl. I don’t steal books from the library for just anyone.”

Shocked, you turn the books over and sure enough, the library's barcode sits against the hardcover.

“Jason! What the hell?! You can’t just steal from the library!” You yell, yet all he does is laugh. It’s such a pretty sound, deep and melodious like a song you can’t forget the words to. You wonder how often he really laughs like this, true and belly-full, like he means it.

“I work at the library, Sugar, don’t worry.” He rasps out, “I’m the person who has to buy the new books anyway… so don’t worry about it.” The pet name rolls off his tongue salaciously, finding its way into your tummy, filling you with warmth and a vision of him at Gotham City Public Library. You’re not sure how you never knew, how you never saw him there in your late night book runs for your work. It fills you with fondness and makes your smile somehow brighter than it already was.

“Well, thank you anyway, J.” You tell him. “Really, no one's ever given me flowers before.”

When his eyes meet yours the floor shakes beneath you, destabilizing you into nervous fidgeting and shy smiles. You can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe your mystery is standing in front you–vulnerable and handsome and smiling. He brought you flowers… God, what are you going to tell Tim?

You see he’s getting ready to leave, so you ask (quicker than you thought possible,) “Do you wanna stay for a while? I’m just reading through some sources, but it might be better with company?” The smile he gives you is serendipitous, magical and dreamlike.

He stays with you long into the night, reading all the left pages as you read the right and sharing his own suspicions. He mentions books at the library that might be useful, and tells you how cool he thinks what you’re doing is, he smiles the whole time. It's late when you finish, yawning and blinking away the strain, he looks more and more like that school picture you once fawned over– young and happy, Peter Pan.

He insists on walking you home, leading you through the still busy Gotham Streets with a hand grazing your back and a watchful eye on the city. Every once in a while he stops to make sure you’re going the right way, and to ask if you’re still alright, a question that brings a smile to your lips and goosebumps on your skin.

When you finally make it home, skin bitten cold and his jacket hanging off your shoulders, he smiles faintly at you, bringing his hand up to push a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.

As he turns to leave he tells you,

“Don’t forget to get those flowers in some water, see you Friday,” And with the way your heart stops, you know you’re doomed.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

Tim Drake is lots of things, but a fool is not one of them. He sees how different Jason is acting during patrol: stumbling over ledges and pulling out the wrong gun. He’s been weird since Dick’s party, quicker to smile and more interested in you than ever before… he remembers seeing Jason try to covertly listen to the Comm when Dick asked Tim how you were,

“How’s Chicken Little doing, Timmy?”

But before he could answer, Damian swiftly responded:

“She doesn’t like it when you guys call her that, can’t you see her nose scrunch up in disgust? Honestly you’re all a bunch of buffoons.”

Tim, however offended he might be at Damian thinking he knows you better than him, couldn’t help but focus on Jason instead. His face might be covered by his mask, yet his body language is unmistakable–he’s more interested than he should be.

“Might I remind all of you, she is off limits, do not disturb, dead end… I will kill you and send your entrails to Lex Luthor to make some weird clone of you if you even think about it.” This message is for all of them, but you’d have to be stupid to not realize it was really only for Jason–Dick and Kory have been basically engaged since they were 20 and Damian still drinks bug juice for God’s Sake… the only other person it could be is Duke, but if the gagging sounds he’s making over the comm mean anything, he doesn’t need to be worried.

Nobody says anything for a second, laughter from Dick and Duke creeping in through his ear piece, yet it all stops when Jason speaks up for the first time that night.

“You know, you really should let her make her own decisions… She’s not a little girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Hood?” Tim asks, getting actually truly angry for the first time. There’s a reason why he tried to keep you to himself in the beginning of your friendship, he knows you think it’s because he didn’t want you to date his brothers, but really he didn’t want to have to share another thing. So much of his life belongs to his family, he just wanted one thing to belong to him.

“Don’t get angry, please, Birdie?” Jason replies, there's no heat in it, just exhaustion.

“What. Do. You. Mean? Hood?” Tim says again, getting more and more frustrated by the minute.

“I just mean she’s a grown up, and she should be allowed to talk to whoever she wants to, even if it weirds you out.”

It strikes Tim as something that wouldn’t bother him if it was about anyone but you, if it was Steph or Bart or Cassie, it wouldn’t have mattered. But it is you, the first friend he’s had that's entirely his own–you’re his best friend in the entire world, the person he loves the most, and he doesn’t need anyone, especially not Jason Todd, telling him how he should act with you.

“Keep your advice to yourself, Red Hood,” Tim barks out to his brother, yet there's a piece of him that's thinking about what he said, a voice in the back of his head that tells him maybe he should listen.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

When Tim calls you to tell you not to come to family dinner, you can’t help but be confused and a little hurt. Sure, he said he’d just come over to yours instead, but the thought that someone was upset with you, or worse that Tim used his brilliant brain to suss out your crush before you could tell him, and now he’d never let you back around his brothers again, whittled its way into your heart and wouldn’t let go.

You never wanted to do anything that would hurt Tim, he’s the person who you trust most in the world, the only person you could say confidently that you would kill or be killed for. You love him, infallibly and wholly, and thinking that he might be hurt by something you’ve done, even as innocent as a couple moonlit conversations with his brother, consumes you into a hellmouth of anxiety.

He arrives at seven, the time he said he’d pick you up for family night, but instead of meeting you at your door, he barrels in. There’s a wild look in his eyes, a look you’ve only seen once– when your Philosophy 204 professor fell over and began to aspirate through a seizure–it’s painful and worried, and you wonder what's making him so upset now. However, when you ask, all he does is shake his head, almost like he’s trying to shake out the worries, pound them out like water in your ears. He looks beyond you, into your kitchen and his sighs become heavier and more sporadic, did he run here?

“I’m trying to figure something out,” He tells you, his voice kinder than his body language made it seem like it would be, yet you’re not surprised–in the five years of being his friend, he’s never once raised his voice at you.

“Okay, what's up?” You ask, anxious.

“Are you and Jason in love? Are you having some sort of gross affair?”

“What?!” You exclaim, sure you have a crush on Jason, and yes you think it would be quite easy to fall in love with him, but come on… Two conversations and childhood crush don’t suddenly turn into an affair.

“Don’t “what” me, Chicken! I have Jason telling me to treat you like a grown up and now I walk in here and his jacket is hanging from my chair… MY CHAIR!” He says, shocking a laugh out of you, “The chair I sit in, god what has life come to?”

“Timmy, we’re not having an affair, he just walked me home after bringing me something at work.” You approach him like a snake tamer, slow and kind in your steps–the same steps you saw the zoo keeper take the last time you and Tim brought Damian to Gotham Zoo.

“But you like him?” He asks, suspicious and guarded. You can’t tell what’s happening in his head, can’t seem to read his mind like you usually can, so instead you let your hands fall onto his shoulders–fingers splaying out to run through the hair on his neck.

“Yes,” You say, quiet as a mouse. “Is that okay?”

Tim lets his head fall into your tummy, blowing out a big gasp of air into your shirt, which makes you laugh and push him away.

“Of course it’s okay, Chicken… I just want you to be happy.” He sighs, “I just don’t really know if you will be happy with him… my brother he’s,” He hesitates, thinks about how he should say this without ruining anything, before he continues: “Jay’s complicated, what happened fucked him up… really bad. And I love you, more than him, more than anyone–you’re my girl. I don’t want you to feel trapped in a bad situation, and feel like you can’t come to me cause he’s my brother… I’ll always be on your side.”

You smile and let out what feels like all the air in your lungs. How you love your stupid, silly, best friend, as if Jason would ever make you feel trapped and horrible when all he ever wants to do is be free?

“You don’t have to worry about me, Timmy, I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” The nickname makes him smile, brings him back to college when all you guys would do was watch Chicken Little and drink bottled sweet tea, when you’d call him Timmy and beg him to let you prank call his dad. Yet, the sentiment makes him sad, how are you a big girl if you’re both still just kids? He doesn’t feel that grown up yet.

“That’s what he said you know,” He replies. “Just, why didn’t you tell me?” He’s watching you, looking at you in that way that makes you spill all your secrets, so you tell him,

“I didn’t want to upset anyone, and I don’t know if he even likes me back, so..”

“Are you crazy?! Of course he likes you, my brother hates literally every single person he interacts with other than Alfred, yet he’s coming to your work to surprise you? Come on.” He’s laughing though it sounds a little pained. It does little to comfort your swirling thoughts. You’re so happy Tim’s not angry, so happy that he’s not throwing you onto the curb like you expected, but he still seems so sad.

You wish you could swaddle him up and make everything okay, promise that you’d never stop being friends, make sure he knows that you’re not going away–that all of this is a little dramatic for a little crush.

“Are you okay, Timmy? With the chance that something might happen between me and Jason?”

“Yeah, Chickadee, just…” he sighs, “Don’t forget what I said, okay? About him being complicated.” You nod, but before you can say anything, he speaks up again. “And, Chicken? Remember our pact about getting married for taxes… it’s you and me spending our afterlives together, not you and Jason.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

You wake the next morning a bundle of limbs and sleepy energy, Tim is barely conscious next to you and the apartment smells faintly of cheetos and ramen; you’d spent the night watching Avatar: The Last Airbender and reminiscing about the good old days. You told him about everything that's happened with Jason, starting from that first sight of his missing poster and ending with the bouquet of books. He was obviously a little grossed out to be talking about his brother in this way, but it felt good to see you so giggly and happy.

He’d felt bad for making you skip out on family night, a feeling of guilt that shook in his bones as his father and eldest brother texted him about skivving out on family bonding. But, he wouldn’t go back to change it, he was so afraid he was going to lose you, that you’d get tired of him and make friends with other people, that having this night with you was well worth all the lectures he was going to have to put up with.

He’s watching you now, anxious and blushing, and he can’t help but feel in awe of you–his pretty best friend, really crushing on someone for the first time. Some part of him is glad that person is Jason, at least then he won’t feel too bad about breaking his nose if he starts any shit with you.

“Everythings gonna be okay,” He says, using your first name in a rare scene of seriousness.

“Yeah, I know.” You tell him. “I just, don’t wanna ruin anything.”

“You know, he’s working today… might wanna bring him some flowers.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The library is alive, warm and inviting like a lover’s embrace. It smells like parchment and dust and clorox wipes, a combination that instantly brings you back to school–elementary crushes and schoolyard gossip.

There’s not very many people here, too early on a school day for anyone to really be finding solace between the aisles, but you see him. Jason sits behind the front desk, wiry glasses settled on his nose and a book in his lap. He hasn’t noticed you yet, too absorbed in his work to really be paying attention. For a minute, you just stand and admire him–this mysterious creature who walked into your life and never left. All these feelings are brand new and ancient… romantic and friendly, respect and admiration. It would all be so easy, with him–to lose yourself in love and friendship–you want it so badly.

You can see it so vividly, waking up with him and spending nights intertwined, reading together and researching maniacally. Falling for him is easy, loving him will be hard you know, but seeing him now: pretty and warm in the afternoon light makes the decision rather easy.

“I’d like to return some books,” you say once you’ve reached him, startling him out of his reverie.

He can’t believe it’s you, beautiful and bright–like a protagonist out of an Austen novel. He thought he’d never be allowed near you again, thought he ruined it all by bringing you up to Tim, but here you were–lovely like the morning. You’re carrying books, flowers, and your smile is starlight.

“Well, right this way, Ma’am.” He tells you, once he finds his voice. “I didn’t realize you could replant flowers after you’ve picked them.” He’s teasing you, but really he’s not sure why you’ve brought the books back–is it a way to let him down? Or are you just returning the favor?

He leads you into the back, unprofessional sure, but he needs to be alone with you. You’re so anxious, he can tell… he needs to be able to reach out and feel you.

“I just felt like you deserved flowers too, Jay.” You tell him, sweet and lovely like always.

“Hmm, well I refuse them… they’re all yours, I already replaced them.” His eyes are mischievous again, burning with joy as they stare into yours. You’re reminded of that night on the stairs, when he made you drink water and burned you alive.

“I talked to Tim,” You tell him, watching as his smile drops.

“Let me guess, he told you I’m bad news and doesn’t want you around me, right?” He asks, rough with the hurt of past bruises.

“Actually, he told me you’re bad news but he’s trusting me to be able to handle it.” Jason looks surprised, his summer green eyes wide with shock. He guessed he never really thought Tim would be okay with it…

He remembers seeing you for the first time: soft and gorgeous in the lowlight of the manor, he was sitting with Damian and remembers how the breath shot out of his lungs at the sight of you. Dami’s been teasing him about it for years now, bringing you up to piss Tim off and making plans for you to bring him to the planetarium on days when Jason said he’d pick him up–like a goddam parenttrap. He thinks back to that night on the stairs a few weeks ago, you looked so pretty spinning around with your friends, like Thumbelina. When he found you on the stairs he was panicked: worried about you and worried about Tim who never left your side, but you were still just so pretty.

He can’t believe you here now, bringing him flowers and his brother’s approval. He’s waited for this for so long, for the okay from the one person dearest to you, the one person who could make Jason actually care about listening to him.

“He really said that?” Jason asks you, hesitant and careful like he’s worried you’re playing a joke on him.

“He really said that,” You reply, laughing when Jason pulls you into a hug. He holds you for a few minutes, feels the air in your lungs press into his belly as you breathe in and out, it feels so good to have you here, to know that he’s not making anything worse by wanting you.

“So that means you’ll go out with me then, fairy girl?” he asks you, his rough fingers moving up to grasp your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking into his eyes. He waits for you to nod, then waits for the word, yes, to emerge from your pretty lips, before lowering down to kiss your forehead. He feels you sigh, feels your hands shake from their place on his arms, his kisses move down down down until they meet the corner of your lips. You're smiling slightly, like you’re having a happy dream, and when he kisses you for real that smile becomes a big grin.

It’s all teeth and laughter and the awkwardness of a first kiss, but Jason holds you up and lets you gasp into his mouth and swallows your sighs. He licks into your mouth and clashes his teeth against yours and calls you his fairy, his magic girl come to take him back to Neverland. He holds you tighter and tighter, and feels you shake under his affection, how lovely it is, how badly he wants to make your bones rattle.

“I’ll bring you more flowers on our date, sugar.” He tells you, kissing the underside of your jaw, before pulling away. He’s sad he has to let you go, frustrated that he has to stay at work while you get to go and hang out with Tim and Damian at the Museum all day, but the kiss you press into his hand–innocent and earnest–makes it worth it.

He leads you out of the back room and into the well-lit main entrance, pausing only to grab his book from the front desk. “By the way, I found this while I was stacking shelves, I thought it might be useful for your project.”

In his hands is a book titled Gotham City’s Founding Buildings, and on the cover, miraculously an illustration of Cherry Hill.

It’s too easy to fall in love with him, you think again, smiling as you pull him into another kiss.

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