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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 days

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Time written - 1:22 a.m

Tw: somnophillia

“Ma.” His rasp rouses you from the warm confines of an empty sleep, followed by the sharp thud of your windowsill sliding shut. Heavy breathing muffled by the mask soon diminished once it was clicked off his head, blessing his face with fresh air, though in all honesty, you would’ve preferred it kept on.

Heavy boots tread over your clean floor, padded knees weigh down the soft mattress that dips due to his weight. Warm, vilified gloved hands cradle along your bare thighs, scratching along smooth skin and lacy red underwear snugly hugging your thighs. Each gentle caress fed by the thoughts carried by the sinner in mind, brought on by the urge to blow off remnants of adrenaline from tonight’s patrol.

Never would such a line be crossed unless it was spoken of and agreed upon. A secret fantasy on his end, further blooming by your sweet, consensual insistence. Another way to aid in the best you can, letting him use you however he needed.

Your own whimpers join into the mix, feeling him nearly nudging your cervix, shooting faintly warm spikes tickling in your lower tummy each time. Palpates of pleasure and pain coursing you further awake, forcing you to grasp a fistful of warm gray sheets.

He uses your cunt for as long as he wants, repeatedly pushing the fat head of his cock through your velvety walls, gripping any soft flesh of your body in a calloused vice, hot gasps and grunts heating the shell of your ear. The occasional clink of his cold, heavy belt buckle softly pats along your rear, combatting the slaps of his aching balls against your weeping cunt. Strong arms buck you back against every thrust, insisting to do all the work so you wouldn’t lift a finger.

Except to grip along any part of him you could. Digging your nails into his forearm, cuffing your fingers along the tight straps of his holsters along his thighs. Scratching along his scalp as you reach as far behind as you could, maintaining tufts of coal black and white hair while chasing sloppy, heavy kisses.

Thick fingers part your lips, his glove yanked off by his own teeth nowhere to be found. Your tongue greedily coats his digits before they vanish as fast as they arrived, slipping down forward to abuse your puffy little clit underneath darkened cherry lace.

On any other night, your resting body would subconsciously grow aware to his delightfully shaped lips suckling between your legs, stealing every ounce of honey your body provided. No rush for slumber, no urge to steal you from your dreams to vocalize your ecstasy. Your thighs squeezing his head in between would’ve been his pillow, Jason’s version of a tranquil heaven to a good night’s rest.

The sting of his nails digging into your skin, blooming with sweat and heat quickly burn with the cold flash of your climax. Back nearly arching off his chest plates, involuntarily reflex wasted against the prison of his thick palms squeezing mounds of your plush tits, begging for freedom under the cotton t-shirt.

This wouldn’t even be the worst of it, in no violent sense whatsoever. On a bad night, your version of heaven came in the form of a structural headlock from Jason’s bicep, your prison being his body shrouding yours as he fucks you into the mattress.

Right now was neither here or there, it was now. In the comfort of your beloved’s embrace, his heavy panting along your neck accompanying chaste kisses behind your ear, murmuring mixtures of love and erotic filth.

High effort breaths collide in the silence, your pussy walls clutching him for dear life, gushing over each eager throb of his over sensitivity. He couldn’t get himself to stop, not until your next climax dumbs your conscience down from an elegant sleepy beauty into a cockdrunk whore who wore his favorite color to bed.

“Another, ma,” Jason murmurs against your smooth canvas of a soft neck, his vanilla and amber scented slate for lovebites to last for days. “Jus’ one more, gimme one more.”

#typed this under 20 min #I have terrible sleep problems #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #dc jason todd #jason todd x y/n #titans jason todd #jason todd x reader smut #gotham knights jason todd #jason todd smut drabble #Jason Todd smut #somnophillia #tw somno #my first thought to not sleeping was to write porn #I enjoy my mind sometimes

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stararch4ngelqueen · 17 days

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Quick Maintenance

Time Written - 11:42 p.m

(Idk where I was going with this, so it isn’t proofread.)

—

Your heavy eyes blinked, slipping in an out of mental focus from the soft snip snip near your right side. Minor tufts of wet hair trickled down your shoulder, sliding along your freshly washed graphic shirt.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to keep a level field as focused eyes squinted to study his work.

Calloused hands held thin, little shears he pulled out from the bathroom drawer, snipping away at little uneven pieces of hair he left unchecked.

Work, school, the sheer stress of wondering what kind of person you were in this world would get to you. You weren’t always like this, priding yourself on not caring what the world thought, meanwhile beaming like a ray of sunshine to all those who knew you once you stepped out the door.

One of the toughest enemies you could ever face in your lifetime, who knows every gruesome detail of your agony, every weak bone in your body, holding each detail of your flawed skin to memory, was the teary eyed person that stared back at you in the mirror.

Some days you barely had the strength to get out of bed, brush your hair, or get some water.

If you didn’t have a bodyguard of a worrisome, golden retriever boyfriend leading you towards the bathroom for a haircut, bedrotting would’ve remained a much easier task.

Dick didn’t force you to cut your hair, the idea came to you before you took a shower. Maybe a minor change was needed, something new within your control to make you feel a little better. You came to him after your long, hot shower with said offer, the man slouched on the couch with brow raised.

“Can you help me cut my hair?” You asked, presenting him with some old scissors you fished out from under the sink.

What an offer to receive on such a late evening. Dick never felt happier to see you out of bed, hair wet and changed into a pair of fresh clothes. All anxiety for you melted off his shoulders, sparing his thumbnails from being chewed on a second longer.

“Of course,” he rises from the couch, said old scissors now in his hand. Now, he sat you ontop of the toilet, gently tilting your head side to side with care to make sure every cut was as clean and even as possible.

A favor for a favor, he thought. You helped him cut his hair when it looked way too outgrown to your liking, way past ‘sexy mullet,’ in obvious words. Nowadays, keeping his hair at jawline was both for preference and convenience, though maintenance would’ve been a pain if not for you.

You offered to cut it for him the first few times, he always questioned why. Gotham cuts hair starting at at least twenty five dollars, which he could obviously afford, but having your pretty fingers run through his locks? He’s trusted no one else since.

“Twenty five bucks is twenty five bucks.”

“Twenty five bucks could be spent on dinner for your stylist,” you’d muse, cute brows bowed in deep concentration on getting the length just right. Your prized perfectionist skills left him feeling in good hands.

“I’m proud of you, y’know,” he says to you, voice lowered to a concentrated level that soothed your ears. Any accomplishment you do on one of your bad days was a gold star in Dick’s book.

His support of soft, comforting words of praise acted like a chamomile balm on a soothing ache. Your mind eventually would be soothed, lulling you into a state of affection he provided so well, sometimes reducing you to tears.

“Though, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t use my body wash.” He mumbles, now using some smaller, much thinner scissors to catch the tiny wisps he missed, taking after your perfectionist tendencies.

A trickle of a smile lasted a few seconds on your lips. “Today didn’t feel like a ‘sea salt and cedar’ day, Richie.”

“Guess that’s fair, least you’re wearing my shirt,” his cheeky grin was contagious, your heart warming at the joy that erupted in his eyes in witness to your gorgeous smile.

“There. All done, beautiful.” Dick concludes, brushing remnants of hair off your shoulder before his thumb stroked along your cheekbone, planting a kiss on your forehead.

A short two step to the bathroom sink left you staring at yourself in the mirror once more, your desired length now becoming reality.

In all honesty, you didn’t exactly like the length of the haircut. Picturing it differently in your mind had you assuming more grand expectations on the outcome.

It wasn’t all new, but it was different, a good different. A good, new you, one you’d appreciate and cherish, because that’s what you always deserved.

Besides, Dick Grayson, your puppy eyed golden retriever would make sure you were satisfied with the outcome. How could you say you didn’t like it to such a handsome face? Impossible.

“How’s takeout sound?” He questioned, watching your hands busy themselves by brushing through your new hair, feeling visibly softer along your fingertips.

“I’m thinking … something spicy.” He slips an arm over your front accompanying a soft squeeze, gifting you a smile through the mirror’s reflection. “It feels like a spicy day, yeah?”

“Anything Sounds delicious,” you admitted, your body recognizing and remembering what hunger felt like after hours of feeling numb under soft blankets and pungent silence.

“Gotcha, I’ll call up a place.” Dick steps to the side, allowing you room before reaching for the sink drawer.

“Where’d you get these scissors, anyway? They’re so tiny.”

“Oh,” you quickly recall the memory, an event quite a long while ago while on an essentials stop at a local corner side pharmacy.

“Accidentally forgot to pay for them,” you hesitantly admit, recalling the particular day. Maybe you’d forgotten to pay for an eyebrow kit that came with an adorably small pair of gold trimming scissors.

“My girlfriend, the thief,” Dick repeats with feigned surprise, shaking his head in mocked disbelief.

“Ima have to report you for this,” he smirks, glancing at you out the corner of his eye. “How much were these, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Like, seven bucks?”

“Huh,” Dick clicks his tongue before plopping said scissors back into their designated drawer, promptly sliding it shut.

“Seven bucks is seven bucks.”

#dick grayson x female!reader #titans dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x reader #dick Grayson #gotham knights dick grayson #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #richard grayson x reader #richard grayson #interesting way to announce I was hella sad and cut my hair but here we are

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stararch4ngelqueen · 18 days

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A Spoonful of Honey

Jason Todd/pregnant fem!reader (cause why not, I started reading the adventures comic so silly Jason is just on my mind as much as big beefy himbo acting like a baby over taking medicine. Chat I’ve been through it these past months, so this isn’t proofread)

Time Written - 11:05 p.m

The morning was cold, dreadfully cold, with a humid fog blanketing the dreary skies, blurring the atmosphere in a quiet haze. The temperature reached forty degrees at the highest around the late evening, giving those who had no business being outside a perfect excuse to remain indoors.

You basked in this opportunity to bring out your gold handle, cream colored dutch oven. Soft cardigan sleeves pushed up to your elbows to cut vegetables for a hearty dinner.

Slow, rugged feet trudged into the kitchen in the midst of you sautéing a rainbow assortment of veggies in butter and oil, dressed in his ‘plain ol’ civilian clothing’, a muted gray hoodie pulled over his head.

A sort throat was how it started; signifying the side effects to his nightly routine. Vigorous exercise could only help so much to fight off the chill, but with temperatures dropping incredibly low, sweat could nearly freeze on skin shortly after it’s been secreted.

The cold nearly nipped a permanent flush to his chiseled cheeks, kissing a sprinkle of color on his nose. He looked as exhausted as he did the previous night, when he first arrived home with a short cough and occasional clear of his throat.

Jason was sick, in the beginning stages of a cold. He’s not even bothering to hide it, yet continued to insist it wasn’t as bad as he led it on to become.

“You’re makin’ soup?” he asked. A comforting, light pressure of broad muscle against your back. Warm hands roaming from their soft placement along your hip dips roam forward, rustling along the fabric of your plush sweater, palms finally settling snug over your stomach.

“Mhm.” You nod, settling one of your hands over his interlaced fingers. “Chicken. With potato, and a ton of vegetables you like.”

“Mmm,” he hums, lightly sniffing the delectable curls of seasoned steam from your spice additions. “Smells incredible, ma.”

“Thank you. Good for the cold,” you comment, feeling satisfied at your seasoned sauté of protein and vegetables. You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little at his calm, droopy expression. “And colds.”

“Wow. Funny.” He murmurs per your amusement, taking over in reaching for the box of broth you set aside.

“You looked a little under the weather. Just wanted to help you feel a little better.” You reply after nodding in thanks for his aid, snapping open the seal to the box.

“You’re always taking care of me.” He exhales, his head tilting to kiss you on the cheek. He sounds grateful for the consideration, but he’s not very surprised by it.

You always had a tendency to spoil him. It’s just been your nature since the minute he first knew you.

“How’s the little one doing?” he asks, thumbs brushing light ovals over the soft mound of your protruding bump. Barely the size of an overripe grapefruit, or an underripe honeydew.

“Fine. No complaints,” you continue while pouring in the chicken broth. “Though, I’m sure the baby’s convinced that papa is doing a terrible job not resting up.”

Of course, he says nothing of it to confirm or deny. As if there was anything to deny, you could hear it in his slightly nasally tone. His fingers continue their gently ministrations, his eyes seemingly fixated on your actions, or unfocused as his mind trails off to space.

“Jay.”

“Hm?” His head slightly perks, leaving you to instantly assume the latter.

“It’s only been four months. You won’t feel much at four months.”

Maybe it’s faint arrogance to the doctor’s words. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he thinks that he can feel their baby shifting and wriggling around inside. He never thought of it before until it occurred to him one day, entering his mind at first as a silly thought before turning into a strong fixation.

“What, are you expecting it to come out and give you a high five?”

“Shut up.” He grunts, earning you a smirk.

“Couch,” you instruct, your gentle squeeze of your hand on his forearm combatting your firm tone. “Dinner’s almost done. Go relax.”

“Alright.” He’s quick to agree, yet his actions say otherwise. For a man who’s known by others to sulk, in your doting presence he reverts to a state a comfortable serenity, regardless of this mild illness weighing heavy on his tired bones. Regardless of your ever so heartwarming instruction, he retaliates with gentle backlash, consisting of third grade retorts and heavy groans. All in good fun, merely poking at your funny bones to catch a glimpse of a smile.

He moves his hand in little circles against your belly, waiting for his baby to respond. While he doesn’t feel any kicks just yet, he’s excited just thinking about all the times they have to come.

As much as you loved every ounce of physical touch, the slightest pet peeve of him not doing as you requested for his own good irked your mind. “Jason. You gotta move.”

“Can’t,” he mutters, “I’m fine right where I am.”

“You can play with the baby after you eat, Jason,” you insist. “You gotta eat, take some medicine, and rest. You can’t take medicine until you’ve eaten first.”

“I bet you the baby’s hungry, too.” Such sweet words from his mouth nearly had you melting on the spot. Already a doting father in waiting, how could you not feel your heart flutter?

“Jason,” you insist once more, your spoon resting on the rim of the cooking pot.

“Don’t wanna,” he replies, sounding both annoyed and amused by such insistence. His warm body never separated from yours for a mere five to seven minutes after that, your palm reaching up and back to catch his cheek, meeting the warm skin of his flushed face.

“You ever notice that you get grouchy during a cold—“

“I’m not grouchy right now though—”

“—the baby wouldn’t want their papa to be grouchy.”

“And you’re being a little mean.”

“Me? Mean?” You sounds surprised, though you’re smiling wide the entire conversation.

“Yes, you.”

“I could never.”

He doesn’t look at you though, his voice sounding playful once more. “You’re being super mean, trying to make me eat and take medicine and everything. The audacity, ma.”

You scoff as you closes the pot, turning your full bodied attention to Jason.

You smile, adoring your sick beloved, the father of your unborn baby gazing down at you with exhausted, lovestruck teal eyes. He always looked so cute, especially sick with a cold. Especially with the mentality of thinking he can do what he wants at this moment, thinking he’s said all the right words to coerce you.

“Good. That’s called love, now gooo.”

He sighs, and he’s really not looking forward to it. The idea of eating just doesn’t sound appealing right now anymore, nor does taking the medicine. Either way, the coziness of his woman wrapped in pearl colored cashmere with a cozy smile finally allured him towards the promising comfort of the living room couch, a temporary respite.

Inevitably, He left you to finish, granting the kitchen vocal silence for the next twenty minutes, apart from the soft drum of heavenly soup coming to a boil. Only when you come to find him did you see him flopped on the couch, an arm draped over his eyes to block all means of light.

You beckon him with a bowl of warm soup settling on the coffee table, alongside the eventual promise of lemon balm tea with a spoonful of crystallized honey.

“I don’t even feel that sick,” he grunts as he sits up, his voice starting to get a little hoarse from him talking (and complaining). Let the big guy say what he wants, you knew him better than even he admitted to allow.

“Then you’ll have no problem drinking my horrible concoction,” your gentle sarcasm would never be heard as unfavorable in his ears.

Jason takes a sip of his soup, slightly wincing from the heat on his sore throat, but he doesn’t seem as pleased with it as he’d originally thought. It tastes good, everything you’ve ever concocted for meals brought comfort, but as of now. he’s not really as hungry as he anticipated.

“What is this? Chicken, right?” He’s just making small talk now, wanting the conversation to last. “It’s really good, really, ma. Just not as hungry as I thought.”

You nod, not really happy about the outcome. But again, he’s sick. You can’t blame him.

“Take a few more sips, at least. Just so the medicine dosent make your stomach hurt.”

Jason looks away when you mentions the medicine, but he nods all the same. He eats what he can from his bowl, his shoulders slumping as exhaustion decides to increase weight down on his bones, forcing him into an even drowsier state.

All he does is partially lean against you after setting his bowl back on the table, keeping his eyes closed to ease the faint throbbing pressure building at the top of his head.

“I don’t even like cold medicine… I can’t sleep when I’m drowsy.” He mutters to himself, seeming to babble to no one but himself on not being so ill.

Your hand reach up to settle along his back, easing the tension with your fingers massaging his neck, confusion conflicting your mind at first.

“What you just said made no sense,” you giggle a bit, watching him lazily shake his head with a mild scoff.

He presses his head against the curve of your shoulder, his voice growing soft like a cat’s rumble. One of his arms settles lazily around your back. his body feeling practically limp.

By now, his response came in a series of short, muffled hums. He’s not complaining, really, but he is being extremely clingy. He just wants to be wrapped up in your arms, succumbing to an incredibly long sleep in your embrace, as if he can’t support his own weight. (He really can, but chooses not to.)

“On the bright side, the medicine says it tastes like honey.” You gently suggest, putting optimism where it may have lacked.

“Can’t you take it for me?” He lightly whines, his voice rumbling with a drowsy rasp. At this point, it’s not even because of the cold. Jason’s just too exhausted to think straight.

“I don’t know if pregnant women can take this kind of cold medicine,” you whisper to him, holding his shoulder after combing through his hair.

“Pretty please?” He whispers, his body feeling a little warmer from your presence. As comforting as it may have been to him now, a few minutes longer would’ve resorted in an uncomfortable ache in his neck from this poor posture.

“C’mon baby, just one little cup of medicine and you can sleep as much as you want. I’ll even yell at Bruce or Dick if they even try to call.”

Jason gives a light chuckle, his nose brushing along your jaw before planting a minor kiss along your neck.

“Fine, guess I’ll stop giving mama a hard time about it. It’ll be your job in about five months.” He speaks in second tense towards the bump in between you, followed by an eye roll on your end.

Watching you measure out the golden, syrupy mixture of potentially foul tasting medicine left him in a weak bind. He’d graciously drink horrid syrups consisting of fear toxin and joker venom if it meant you’d spoon-feed him an antidote. Such blind devotion was rare to come by throughout his life, comfort was your name in a foreign language.

He’s blessed with your smile once he had gotten the medicine down, rewarded with a kiss on the tip of his nose and a cup of promised tea, ambrosia to combat the foul taste. Goddamn medicine bottles with their stupid, deceiving lies.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so needy.” His slurred mumbling surprised you the most as you adjusted the blankets between the two of you.

A light tongue click leaves you, shaking your head in denial from such an unnecessary apology. “Don’t be, you silly man.”

Whether from some conflicting guilt, or illness inducing dysphoria on his mind, or shame, you gently deny and accept his apology with another kiss.

The effect of the medication is quickly kicks into place after ten minutes in bed, starting to drift off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Nothing but calm silence steals his consciousness for a few hours, warm bodies sheltered by the chilly winds batting against fogged glass throughout the long hours of the night. Despite the occasional faint echoes of neighbors next door and above, serene silence envelopes the minds of exhausted bodies.

You were snuggled up beside him with one of many pillows invading the space. Your cardigan sprawled neglected on the floor, cast aside due to the overwhelming seer of body heat.

He sighs softly, still tired, but his eyes glance over to the time on the nightstand clock.

He’s been asleep for hours, the time being … A little after eleven.

“Damn.” He whispers, drawing your closer to his body in a close hold. You feel so good like this, so safe. Spending all this time with him, doting on him, caring for him would mean the fifty percent chance you’d be afflicted next once he got better. Jason didn’t mind one bit, as much as he knew he should’ve been the one spending all his free time being attentive to your needs.

Either of you would look back on this and laugh of it, considering it practice for the baby.

For now, in the short time period of limbo between doctors appointments, checklists on supplies, criminal justice, and other impending challenges of becoming parents, everything was quiet. Calm, perfect even.

“Shh, the baby’s sleeping,” you softly retaliate, your hand cradling over his on the bump. You nudge just a little closer to the warmth radiating off him, seeking comfort with the furnace you call your beloved.

“What time is it?”

“Sleeping time,” he retorts, still sounding a little drowsy, his words coming out slow and somewhat slurred. His nose felt more stuffy than before, his head aching with a pressure that grew the longer he remained awake.

Once more, calloused fingers rustle against the fabric of his shirt on your body, potentially to be stretched during the later months to come. Here’s to hoping, he’s been secretly dying to see it.

“I love you both,” he whispers along your forehead, speaking from his heart in the sanctuary of your shared vulnerability.

You smile, tilting your head up to plant a soft, exhausted kiss on his chin. “We love you too,” you whisper, fighting back sleep to express an intimate act of love.

He closes his eyes, ready to sleep again. He’s not tired yet, stuck between the purgatory of both conscious states, but he’s not going to be able to stay awake much longer. At this point, he’s already half in the land of dreams. He’s comfortable—and happy to be with you, and with his baby.

“Never wanna let go of you two,” he mumbles, faintly catching the fragrance of your shampooed hair, the faint spice of ambery musk clinging to your skin.

You can’t help but quietly coo, burying most of your face against the crook of Jason’s neck.

“Then, don’t.”

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #dc jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd dc #gotham knights jason todd #jason todd x female!reader #jason todd gotham knights #jason todd drabble #jason todd x #my personal life went through a dead dove phase #this is my therapy #for free

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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A weak asf teaser for the new year 💀

#I almost got a concussion #I’ve been out of order for the past days #oops #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghosts and mirages #ghosts and mirages ao3 #do me a favor #never let me fall in love irl that shit was horrible

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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It still amazes me when I’m scrolling through TikTok and the audio from Clouded Conscience is still being used for thirst videos to this day 😶‍🌫️

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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Hey Star!! Just checking in to see how you're doing!!! Love you, take care!

Thank you! I’m doing okay, thanks for reaching out!

Just mentally preparing myself for this new year is all 😇

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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#AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #im deceased #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare

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stararch4ngelqueen · 4 months

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FUCK. MEN.

#fictional men only

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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catholic jason, an alternate version, and detail shots

prints here and here!

#jason todd #red hood #dc fanart #I’m in love

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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Every Jason line I could find in the DLC's audio files

#crying #everywhere #😭😭😭#his voice #jason todd #red hood #red hood dlc #batman: arkham knight #game audio #ref: dialogue #jay: dialogue #rh: dialogue

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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dear starach

how's your work today, i hope you've been fine.

I’m surviving 🤷🏽‍♀️

Work is killing my emotions but I’m making it through the day. Ready to get to the weekend so I can eat hot chip and cry

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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to do the small words (on mobile) you just highlight/select the text and then there should be a “<s>” thingy with all the other text options like bold and stuff

WHAT

omg ima gonna make a shit ton of changes to my posts 😭😭😭 thank youuuu!

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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A Cozy Accident

—

An innocent Jason Todd pregnancy Drabble. Based off my guilty pleasure of bad hair cut Gotham Knights Jason Todd.

Just wanted to try writing him out for fun.

“Babe?” His voice echoes with concern at the sounds of rasped breathing and Jason had barely returned from getting some take out. When he opened the door, he could hear sobbing from the kitchen.

You were nearly slumped on the ground, your right hand weakly braced along the wooden kitchen counter, the remnants of a shattered mug laying around your wet feet.

His eyes widen at the sight, immediately suspecting the worst. The takeout bag falls out of his grasp, laying abandoned on the ground as he hurried over to you with furrowed brows.

“Babe??” He speaks up in concern, kneeling next to you on the floor as your sobs increase. Right away, he relaxes upon his suspicions of an early labor being false, the droplets on your feet being from the broken mug nearby.

No cuts of any kind either, Thank God.

“Hey, hey, shhh…” His hand grips your shoulders, fingers gently lifting up your lowered face, cradling under your chin. “Sssshh, what’s wrong? What’s wrong, babygirl?”

You meet his gaze with teary eyes, sniffling.

“I slipped,” you say, attempting to wipe your tears with a trembling hand. “And I broke the mug.”

Jason slowly nods as he looks over the mess next to you. Warm, spilled spearmint leaf tea splattered on the ground, amidst the remnants of a cream colored mug with hand painted strawberries on it. One of your favorites he had gotten you years ago on one of your dates.

“It’s just a mug,” he says softly. “It’s okay, you get hurt?”

“N-no,” you whimper out while shaking your head. “I caught myself, but I could’ve fallen on the pieces, and… and it could’ve hurt bad.”

Jason sits down next to you, his hand still touching your shoulder. The other rests on yours, which hadn’t left your six month baby bump since your little accident.

It was a little hard, due to your pregnancy hormones, but you tried. It didn’t matter to you if you broke your favorite mug, it mattered that if you had actually fallen on the ground, it could’ve hurt a lot more than you expected.

Maybe your emotions were getting the better of you, but still. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

“Hey. Ssshh, it’s okay. No more crying.” He says quietly, his voice full of warm understanding to your scare.

He reaches to wipe the tears from your flush cheeks, his gaze meeting yours for a brief moment before he peers down to your stomach.

“Just take it easy, okay? Just breathe.”

You could only nod and try, sniffling through your distress as you take slow breaths through your lips. Jason’s fingers begin to trail up and down your arm in a gentle, calming massage during your calming exercise, his other hand gently roaming along your belly in soothing, little swirls.

“Is he moving a lot?” Jason questions, his voice as soft as he can possibly make it.

“Sort of,” you whisper your reply, keeping your gaze focused on his hand firmly pressed against the center of her pregnant belly. He wonders if his hand is in the wrong spot, but at last, he feels it.

It’s so odd, like a tickle of movement under a warm blanket, or in this obvious case, in the tummy area of the woman he loved.

“Wow… you know…” he says, his voice still soft and quiet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes up karate. Or boxing.”

The wrinkles along your forehead vanished, your distressed face slowly breaks into a small smile at his reactions, huffing out a small laugh at his comments. It was a cute thought, your unborn baby kicking or punching with such incredibly tiny hands, his finger’s probably as small as rice grains.

The movements are subtle, but they’re there.

His eyes are downcast, but your faces are still only inches apart in this moment as he sits beside you on the kitchen floor.

“It’s crazy still, to think, I mean,” Jason murmured, seemingly to himself, but directed towards you. “I’m gonna be a dad…I’m gonna be a damn dad.”

Your giggle lightly at his words, smiling lovingly at the sheen of awe in his eyes.

During early mornings, it’s visible when you wake up to his hand settled on your tummy under the blankets. After satisfying meals, his hand ponders along your bump during couch snuggles in the late evening.

Especially at night, his hands nestled comfortably over the fabric of his shirts you slept in, adding in a unique step to his minimalist night routine each night.

“In about three months, yeah.”

The baby moves again nearly on queue, causing him to grin and make a small, amused noise of amazement.

“Damn… he’s active, huh?”

“He probably hears you,” you say, giving him a weak shrug as your nerves fully settled. Maybe he just changed topics to calm you down, but it was definitely working.

He takes your hand in one of his own, holding yours lightly.

There’s still that smile on his face, the slight curl of his lip that made your cheeks flush, making your heart soar like a crushing school girl.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t help but remember the hours he spent in heavy concern over how terrified the idea of children was to him. He hated it, he thought he hated it, despising the idea of raising a child who’d turn into someone like him.

But not anymore.

He wants nothing more than to take back every fearful word that invaded his mind long ago about it.

But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t afraid of raising a child, not sure if he’d do it right. The biggest lesson you’ve taught him was that things change; especially with the right person in your life.

Even before he learned the gender, he loved his son, but every day, more of his personal fears invaded his excitement.

The world is dangerous. It’s not something his parents told him at a young age, it’s what he grew up to learn the hard way, and he’s always carried those fears with him.

But every time he looked into your eyes, those fears come to an abrupt silence, reduced to muffled whispers in the back of his mind, cowering shadows in witness to your smile. Jason can’t help but feel excited to meet his baby, to hold a tiny human in his arms.

“I’m really excited,” he says again, his smile growing a bit more at the thought.

You could only smile in return, running your fingers lightly along the back of his palm.

He’s going to be perfect.

“You sure you’re okay, babygirl?” Jason questions more, watching you slowly nod in return.

“C’mere,” Jason pulls you into a hug, pressing your body against his, pressing a kiss against your warm cheek.

“I wonder if their are any Red Hood plushies for the baby,” you ponder, your voice merely muffled against his broad shoulder.

“I’ll commission a hundred,” Jason mutters his reply. “Sell out some gift shops.”

You quickly learned of your unborn baby having his little ‘nap times,’ when he wouldn’t move as much. Currently, due to your now calmed state, the baby took it as the perfect time to kick again and again, feeling the faintly awkward protrusion.

The more time passed, the more these kicks went from amusing to mildly annoying, but you couldn’t complain just yet.

Funnier yet, Jason seemed to have a sort of detective, or psychic sense on knowing just when the baby was active. Maybe he could tell by your faint reactions, or he was just anxious to constantly be touching you.

“Little guy wake up again?” He asks with a smirk, meeting your gaze as his palm caressed the lower side of your bump.

“I wonder what he’s thinking about,” Jason comments, “Is it not normal for him to be moving around so much?”

“Probably just wants to beat up their dad already for no reason,” you giggle a little bit at the silliness of it.

The thought made him huff with a short smirk.

He recalled Dick wanting to feel the baby out of curiosity, recalling his reaction to a strange, uneven series of kicks against the man’s palm. His own jealousy slightly diminished at the thought that his future son was already hating on his ‘Uncle Dick.’

“I wanna say his kicks feel like butterflies,” you couldn’t help but bring up, trying to find a strange sort of comparison that he could even imagine to attempt to understand. “But it’s more like.. a puppy running in his sleep, nestled right on you.”

Jason laughs at that, a twinge of confusion crinkled in the corners of his eyes. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Hey, it’s weird, but I tried.”

“Mhm, definitely yeah…” He smiles softly and can’t help himself from rubbing your stomach again, feeling the movements of his son.

“I wonder what he thinks of us? Does he like us or does he just use us because we give him food?”

The question was amusingly rhetorical, but it gives him some stuff to think about as his hands are occupied with this ministration. It was ten times better than listening to him crack his knuckles a hundred times per day.

“He’s certainly hungry though, that’s for certain,” you peers over, remembering the take out Jason brought home.

“Maybe they’re trying to reach for the food.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he chuckles. “All this movement… I’m sure he’s just as impatient as I am.”

The mention of food seems to get a reaction out of the unborn child, as his movements become more frequent. This little boy is definitely hungry—as is their father.

“I should feed you first,” Jason says softly, lightly pinching your arm.

“Owwww,” you pretended to wince, giggling at Jason’s words while swatting his hand.

How small is he? How big will he grow? Will he inherit your pretty eyes, or be cursed with his? Will his hair hold the same snowflake streak on the exact spot on his head? So many questions… so few answers.

“Do you think he’s going to hate me for naming him after an actual bat?” He asks in an awkward, jesting tone.

“A bat?” You question.

He looks at you, smiling at your suspected confusion. He pauses for a moment, his expression going still after his smile slowly faded.

“I’ve.. well, thought of naming him Bruce.” He ponders, slowly settling his back against the lower kitchen cabinets, paying little mind to the awkward knob lightly digging into his back.

“I thought of your idea of naming him after me, but I decided that… I don’t think he shouldn’t be burdened with that name… so I went with Bruce.”

“That’s sweet,” you say, appreciating Jason’s choice over honoring the deceased. You sort of figured he would want to name his boy after the most important man that had been in both of your lives, but his light pessimism towards even his own name concerned you.

“I like your name, silly. What’s wrong with it?” You gently insist. “I thought it was gonna be something along the lines of ’Jason Junior’, or Peter.”

Jason laughs at your list of guesses, shaking his head.

“I feel like naming him a ‘Junior’ would be too arrogant. He’s not going to be a ‘mini’ version of me. He’s going to be better than me.” He states with seriousness, his face lacking a nonchalant grin as he stares off into the space ahead of him, which consisted of kitchen chair and table legs.

He was serious about this, fully determined about being a better father than his own was. You knew this personal fear of his, hearing him voice it only once or twice throughout your relationship with him.

Jason had a list, a long list, of things he hated. Ending up like the men who abandoned him was high up on it, around the top five on the weathered paper.

You sit up against your awkward seat on the ground, gently proceeding to cradle his lower jaw in your palm.

“You’re not your father, Jason,” you whisper to him shortly after he looks down at you.

Jason goes still, his voice growing quiet as his expression shifts.

“I know I’m not my father.”

“You aren’t.”

“I’ll never be him.”

“You won’t be,” you gently agree with him, “Because this baby, our baby, will love you no matter what, and we’ll be better than the people who failed to raise us. Okay?”

He remains quiet for a considerable amount of time. Blue eyes staring you down, eyes trailing along your face as if you were a canvas of colorful emotions he was trying to decipher, reading along the lines of your words to fully understand.”

He knew he’d be better. He knew this because you showed him he cared so much. His worries, his fears, his anxieties all branched off from his love for this child. He was going to give him the world.

“I’m going to be what my father never was.” Jason murmurs, shortly after he caressed your wrist, his thumb trailing along your pulse point.

Hearing him say those words made your heart ache.

He was more concerned of following in the footsteps of a stranger that carried a father’s label that abandoned him, rather than the mother who betrayed him.

You loved his determination, giving you an encouraging mental boost. Both of you weren’t going to deal with this alone, that was for certain.

“Did you ask for no egg?”

This sounds like the worst question to ask after such a serious topic of discussion on the kitchen floor, but in all honesty, Jason highly appreciated it. It was awkward and awfully timed, but he saw no other way to get out of this funk he would’ve wallowed in for another hour or two.

It made him focus on yet another strange pregnancy aversion of yours.

Eggs, cooked eggs.

Scrambled eggs.

He’s not going to mention that he had to wait off to the side for them to make a fresh batch of chicken fried rice at the restaurant. He’d get you whatever you wanted to make you happy.

“Uhuh.” He offers his arm after he stands, helping you avoid the nearly forgotten broken mess that stained the floor, one he quickly set to work on cleaning up after transferring the take out bag off the floor towards the dining table in front of you.

“And extra soy sauce?”

“They only had packets this time. No gallons to stick your bendy straw in.”

“Damn,” you click your tongue, not bothering to hide your amused smirk after his monotone sarcasm. “It’s easier to suck than sipping out of cups.”

“Cut it out,” Jason’s hand pats your rear, failing to hide his amused expression at your little jump.

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