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I will be heard bro đź’€
content - cussing , slightly dirty thoughts,
I had a thinky thought about my husband. Because I love my husband.
Single!Black!Mother!Reader x Neighbor!Jason Todd. Ugh.
Jason who lives across the hall, who you suspect is Red Hood. You never call him out on it, or even ask—you just know. And he knows that you know. Lots of people know. But the people of Crime Alley care too much 'bout him to acknowledge it. He did good by them, so they did good by him in return.
Because you know what he's capable of, and because you've seen him care about his community before, you trust him with your life.
And your kid's.
You don't explain to him that you need him to play babysitter, you just knock on the door across from yours with your kid at your side and your keys in your palm.
You're all dolled up 'cause you'd gotten this interview for this job that was perfect for you. That would pay better, and you need to make the best possible impression—kinks perfectly gelled, cheeks blushed, lashes curled, lips all glossy.
You don't notice how his eyes take in the way the grey slacks you wore hug your hips a bit too tight. Or how his eyes get caught on the soft swell of your tits straining against what's meant to be (but failing to be) a loose fitting Red blouse.
You look phenomenal in his color. He thinks, for the briefest of moments, that you did it on purpose.
You look good enough to eat. And when you part those beautifully full, glossy lips—he feels set up. Like you knew he couldn't possibly dream of ever denying you.
"Please."
Fuckin' hell, you say that word so god damn pretty. You're so god damn mother fuckin' pretty. He always thought you had the biggest, prettiest eyes. Wide and dark, like a doe. He wonders, crudely, what they'd look like rolled into the back of your head.
So Jason huffs, and opens the door wider—unlike you, he doesn't miss cues. He sees how you relax, how you smile slightly, how your eyes catch on his face. If he didn't know better he'd think you liked him as much as he liked you.
He watches as you kiss your kid's cheek (envy burns in his stomach that he has to douse) and say he'll take care of them while momma goes to her interview. He loathes when you leave. Wants to tell you to come back, that he'll take care of you. That you didn't have to worry 'cause he was makin' money and he'd happily pay your rent, baby, all you had to do was say the fuckin' word.
He doesn't close the door until he's finished watchin' you walk down the hall. God, those fuckin' slacks, he loves watchin' you walk away.
Your child pouts as he situates them on his couch. He has to flip a little to find qubo, where Jacob Two-Two is in the middle of repeating a sentence.
"I want my momma.."
The kid whines.
He sighs.
"She 'bouta come back. Momma's just gotta go out for a minute, kid."
He swallows down what he really wanted to say. Swallows down a groan, because he's in the presence of a child and he wouldn't dream of exposing a kid to his inner thoughts.
'Christ, kid, I want your fuckin' momma too.'