Telling remus “you could have been nicer to me” and he gets so offended and pouty
fem, 0.9k
“Oh, handsome?”
Remus stiffens a little at your tone. He knows you well, but not well enough to know feigned hesitance from real. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
He sits at the top of his bed, where you often like to be, shirtless in a strange turn but still wearing socks and pants. His torso is pale, dotted in freckles at the chest most of all, though there are a few darker ones along his shoulders. His fairer skin paired with the lighter tones of his hair, curling impishly behind his ears. The book he’s reading gets hugged to his tummy as he waits.
You wonder how best to wind him up without giving it away.
“Can we– talk?”
He is palpably unhappy with your question. You cannot wait to see how annoyed he gets when he realises it’s all a fakeout.
“Yeah, of course we can.” Remus stares at you. “Come and sit, then.”
You sit sideways on the bed, keeping your eyes on his leg so as not to give up the game. “I’m nervous.”
He softens, some. “Well don’t be, chick, just tell me what’s going on.”
Chick is a strange one. He uses it when you’re acting small. Like he’s further apart from you than he means to be, or like he’s- it’s almost protective. Reassuringly, ever so slightly patronising, without any of the associated condescension.
“I was thinking a bit about today.”
“Yeah?”
“And there’s…” You press your knee to his gently, without meaning to. “There were a couple of things that stood out to me, and I don’t want to be a priss, but I just think you could’ve been nicer to me. That’s all.”
Remus, to his credit, looks more worried than annoyed. “What things, dovey?”
“That’s not important.”
When Remus frowns it changes his face. He is almost Cabanel, a fallen angel full of growing contempt. “Right, but if I don’t know what I did, how can I–”
“It was less about the specifics. I just– I think you could’ve been nicer.”
“Right. Again, though, I don’t really know what I’ve done wrong. I actually thought I was well-behaved today. I didn't even complain when you said that man on the telly was handsome, when I really could have, and I–”
You can see him restrain himself from starting a tally, which is mature. If he were there sitting beside you saying such a thing when your relationship is as healthy as it’s ever been, you might feel some resistance, too. Remus had woken you up gently, kissed you sweetly. He’d made your breakfast and done the washing and helped you when you couldn’t dust the eaves by taking the chore from you completely. He is a good boyfriend. He’s a good man, actually. Very hardworking, and generous in love.
You feel actually embarrassed for such a silly joke, which lends itself to your acted-shame. “Sorry,” you say, ducking your head. “I’s stupid.”
There’s a small silence. A hand with freckles on the knuckles takes your hand on your knee, cradling it gingerly.
“It’s not stupid. But I can’t understand if you can’t point things out to me. I am… sorry, though, that I made you feel like this. It wasn’t what I was trying to do, but I’ve done it, and you don’t deserve to feel like that.” He draws all of your fingers together like he’s collecting them under his thumb and squeezes. “Can you forgive me?”
“Are you teasing me?” you ask.
Remus’ voice lowers a shade. “No, dove. Not teasing you, how could I? Don’t like seeing you upset like this.”
Coming clean isn’t as fun when he’s being sincere, but what could you expect?
“Remus, I am very very sorry, but I’m just pulling your leg.” You lift his hand to your cheek and rub his knuckles against the finest of hairs that flock the side of your face. His eyes have gone very dark, his mouth pressed in tight line. “I have tricked you. You are, genuinely, always quite nice to me.”
“Not anymore,” he says decidedly, pulling his hand from your grasp to cross it over his chest. “Sofa. And I’m not kissing you goodnight, so have that.”
“Fuck off,” you laugh.
“I’m dead serious. See how nice I am now?” Remus grins. “Best pack yourself a few pillows, though, that sofa’s murder on the coccyx.”
You laugh under your breath, slinking across the top of the bed to lay yourself over his chest and shoulders. Nosing at his naked collar, you smother anymore laughter, worried and then relieved when he refuses to hug you for a bloated two seconds.
“You’re a nuisance,” he says.
“Thank you for saying sorry, even though you didn’t know what I was talking about.” Your top lip kisses his neck. You screw your face sideways to be closer, forehead tickled by his soft curls. “You don’t have to apologise, though, you could have argued with me. I was trying to wind you up.”
Remus’ arms are like cords around you. You worm your way into his lap, just ecstatic to be loved and to have tricked him. He even laughs by your ear.
Hi Mae, could I request a Remus fic where reader is having a chronic pain flare but still wants to have sex? Like it's soft and slow and he adjusts to make sure he doesn't hurt her (after making sure fifty times that shes alright even though she's the one asking for it). I know you've written for chronic illness before but I don't believe you've written smut around that so it's okay if you're not comfortable with that, but I thought I'd ask
Thank you for your request lovely <3
cw: smut mdni, chronic pain flare
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 464 words
Remus likes it when you sigh. Each time you do, he mumbles approval into your skin or squeezes the fleshy underside of your thigh in his hand, and you grow yet dizzier with molten pleasure.
Other sounds have been misinterpreted. The first time you’d gasped, Remus sat straight up, asking, “You alright?” in the sort of voice that let you know he’d be in tatters if you said no. You’ve smothered one or two whimpers for fear of similar overreaction.
Minus the sparse moments of fretfulness, though, Remus respects your knowledge of your own limits. He trusts you to tell him if things get too much, just as you trust him to tell you if he decides he’s not feeling up to it, too. And with the setup he mandated before he was willing to begin anything—support for your joints, a veritable pile of pillows underneath you—the prospect of this time resulting in anything more alarming than this slow, warm seep through your midsection is far from your mind.
Remus’ mouth presses to the crease of your thigh. Gently, he kisses the soft pudge below your navel. Your stomach. Your ribs, up your chest, your cheek.
“Hi,” he breathes, lingering at your lips. Like he’s pleased to find you there.
You smile. “Hi.”
His eyes, dark and reflective in the low light, flicker across your face. “You look so lovely.”
The warmth you’ve been feeling flares, closer now to the surface. Admittedly, you feel prettier than you have in a long while underneath Remus’ gaze. “Thank you,” you say softly.
“How do you feel, lovely girl?” He kisses your neck. It tickles at first, you giggle, but the humor soon fades into something headier.
You tilt your head to the side to encourage him, breathing, “Good.”
“Yeah? Ready?”
“About as ready as I was a half hour ago,” you tease.
Remus huffs, but it’s for show. “No allowances made anymore for a man who likes to take his time.”
“Nope.”
“No patience at all,” he gripes, his mouth on your neck painfully tender. He pets your side, and it feeds the low ache in your gut. A nicer sort of ache.
“Not getting any more patient.” You laugh when he squeezes your middle rebukefully. He positions himself over you, and you peck his lips again as he sets a kind hand to your hip, steadying you.
“How’s this? You feel okay?”
“Good,” you murmur, your eyes closing as he sinks into you slowly. “It’s good.”
As Remus’ arms curl around you, his touch works like a balm. Soothing everything hurt, and warming everything cold, and enveloping everything lonely. You feel heat behind your eyelids.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, a question vocalized only a moment later.
dustin's stupid creation had stopped working, the radio waves messing up thanks to some new project of the military's that you'd gotten too close to, and you'd lost hopper. luckily, he made it back just in time, but not before everyone (dustin) freaked out.
at steve.
"you drove too close!" the boy shouted, shaking his head. "you weren't listening to me!"
"i was listening to you, henderson!" steve answered, hands in the air as he backed away with a scoff. "i drove through backyards listening to you! it's your job to deal with the tech, it's my job to drive. your little creation messed up. just own it."
"it only messed up because you drove-"
"where hopper was! i was doing my job," he cut dustin off, shaking his head.
dustin glared, lips tugging down and brows knitting harshly. "terribly! like usual."
steve just stared at him for a few seconds before dropping his head, laughing dryly to himself. "i just - i can't."
you sighed, stepping towards him. "steve-"
"i can't," he said again, shaking his head and walking away without another glance at his best friend. he pushed open the doors to the wsqk with too much force, the sound echoing through the radio station as everyone watched him leave.
the tension was thick, eyes on dustin and you as the sound of steve's beamer starting increased anticipation. you pushed off the couch, heading towards the doors.
but, you stopped at dustin, resting a hand on his arm and telling him to, "go easy on him. he's trying."
the boy pulled his arm from your grip, shaking his head. "not hard enough."
you wanted to hit him, you really did, but it wouldn't have been productive and definitely would've made the situation worse, so you managed to keep your hands to yourself. instead, you just frowned sadly, the disappointment evident in your expression to the point that everyone else shrunk back for him. "rethink that," you advised before finally turning and heading out the doors.
steve was standing at the front of the humming car waiting for you, lips pulled into a thin line even as he moved to get your door. even when pissed off, he was a gentleman.
"thank you," you said before he shut it for you, moving back to his side and immediately pulling out of the parking lot.
the tires screeched loudly, and then he took off, going way faster down that dirt road than the beamer was made for. but, if you'd learned one thing about that car in the last four years, it was that it could handle anything - even a steve harrington meltdown.
you just watched him for the first few minutes, the air thick with unspoken frustrations that he was too hesitant to express. every so often, his lips would twitch like he was going to explode with words, but he never did, just kept his eyes on the road.
at some point, his hand ended up on your thigh, gripping it tightly as if searching for proof that at least you were there, at least you stayed, at least you thought he was worth sticking around for, at least you believed he wasn't a screw up.
you took his hand in yours, squeezing it gently and only letting go when he needed to shift gears.
the car stayed silent the whole way home - no radio, no talking, nothing at all. just deep thoughts and heavy breaths.
when he finally pulled into the garage and turned off the car, the door shutting behind you, he spoke.
"i don't like yelling."
a furrow formed between your brow as you turned to him, not expecting that in the slightest. "what do you mean?"
"i don't like yelling," he told you again, eyes straight forward as he stared at an old metal ford sign hung on the wall. "when i get mad, i yell. when i get really mad, i want to hit something, or scream, or both. i don't like it."
you hummed, nodding slowly. he glanced at you, trying to gauge your reaction before you finally admitted, "i don't like crying." he didn't say anything, gaze narrowing in slight confusion before you continued. "when i get angry, i cry. you've seen it. i don't like it because it's embarrassing, and it shows too much of what i'm feeling at a moment when i want nothing less." your eyes found his, hand resting on top of his on the gear shift. "why don't you like that you want to yell?"
"it's bad," he said instantly, brows knitting. "it hurts people. my dad... he yells. a lot. i don't want to be like that."
you smiled gently. "you don't want to hurt people."
"of course not," he breathed out, shaking his head. his hand tightened over yours. "it just - it keeps happening anyways."
your first instinct was to tell him how he's never hurt you, and how his anger and frustration has actually helped protect you and the kids more times than you could really count at this point.
but, that didn't feel like the right thing to say.
so, instead you suggested, "do you want to go inside?"
he let out a heavy sigh and nodded. "yeah."
you both climbed out of the car, the weight of the failed crawl settling on your shoulders as he held the mandoor open for you, following you into the house and up the stairs.
"i think," you said almost casually as you went up, steve watching you carefully from behind. "that your instinct to yell is a combination of things."
he snorted. "what things?"
"well, you want to protect people," you told him, pushing into your bedroom with a sigh. "so, when danger comes you yell to get attention and protect."
"that's not this-"
"i know, just let me finish," you said, shooting him a smile as he shut the door behind himself. you sat on the end of the bed, kicking off your shoes and letting out a breath. "the other reason is just the need to vent. you have a lot of emotion, a lot of thoughts, and they're all fighting to come out at once. it's why i cry. maybe it's why you yell."
"i'd rather cry," he muttered, slipping his shoes off and walking up to you. "yelling hurts."
so he's said.
you smiled small, shrugging. "it doesn't have to."
he frowned. "what does that mean?"
"it means that you don't want to yell to hurt," you said, taking his hands and setting them on your thighs so your fingers could wander his arms. "so your yelling doesn't have to hurt. it can just be... a shout. shouts and yells are different."
"how?" he mumbled, your touch up and down his biceps helping to soothe him slightly.
"well," you hummed, squeezing his arms. "next time you're angry with something and i notice, i'll give you a little nod, and you can yell as much as you'd like."
he sighed, shaking his head. "sweetheart-"
"not at me," you chuckled, smiling up at him. "i'm not giving you permission to scream at me for no reason. just to vent. loudly."
"loudly," he echoed, playing with the thought for a few moments. and then he sighed again. "no. i don't like it. i don't want to scare you."
"i've heard you yell before, steve," you said with a gentle smile. "and it's never scared me away. what would scare me more is you bottling it all up until it actually does become a problem. so if you need to yell? yell! get it all out." you breathed out a laugh. "hell, if you need to hit something, go to the batting cages and hit baseballs. or grab a couch cushion and punch that. all i ask is you don't punch a wall or something and break your hand."
gently, he laughed at the thought, shaking his head. "i won't break my hand."
"good," you said, squeezing his biceps. "we all need a way to let our frustrations out. for me, i just cry and cry and cry, and you let me. maybe it would help you to just... yell, for once. you know, in a safe environment where no one will get offended or anything."
he nodded, mulling over your offer.
"and i can be here, or i can leave," you continued, giving him a small smile. "i can pretend not to hear you as you freak out in the garage and yell your little heart out instead of blowing up at dustin. if that's better."
"i'll consider it," he told you, still a little hesitant at the idea of you being a willing audience to a freak out.
you nodded. "alright. that's something." you stood, pushing off the bed and coming almost flush to him as you hands moved up his arms to wrap around his shoulders. "is there anything i can do for you now?"
he sighed, winding his arms around your waist and tugging you completely into him as his face came to rest in the crook of your neck. "i'm selfish."
"you're not," you answered quietly, running a hand through his hair. "you're hurt, and you're pissed, rightfully so. i'm mad for you."
he chuckled into your skin, sending goosebumps across your back. "thanks, babe."
"he'll come to his senses," you told him. "he's just... in a phase right now. he's getting pissy and being a brat, and it's hard to handle. but, he loves you. when all of this is over, he'll remember that."
"and when's it going to be over?" he sighed, grip tightening just slightly on your middle.
that was the million dollar question, wasn't it?
for over a year now, you'd all been stuck in this perpetual hell of military confinement and upside down confusion. steve, always the babysitter, had ended up tending to everyone else's stresses while being forced to learn how to be a self-sufficient adult, even when the world was actively ending.
he was exhausted.
"i don't know," you mumbled, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. "but, we're doing good as we are anyways. even if it lasts forever, we'll figure it out. we always do. and you know... he's just a kid. he doesn't see it all yet. there's always hope."
he didn't answer, just clung to you even tighter for a long minute.
just as the tension from earlier began to dissipate, he pulled back, dark eyes meeting yours with hesitancy. "i'm selfish," he said again, slower this time.
and you, of course, knew what he was getting at.
you smiled small, hands slipping down to his chest as you gave him a sure nod. "it's okay to be selfish sometimes."
his hand found your cheek quickly, dragging you into a breathless kiss as he pushed you back onto the mattress, free hand warm and firm on your waist, slipping beneath your tshirt for contact.
of course, there was a way to get frustration out that you hadn't mentioned.
i think he’s slow to cuddle. at first. AT FIRST. like babe, max you’re getting from that man is an arm touching yours and MAYBE a hand on your knee.
then once he’s more comfortable…less operating on the idea that “this person will be weirded out if i touch them”, he’ll give you an arm around your shoulders, pull your legs across his lap, and rest his head against your shoulders.
but full on cuddling with jason todd. oh mama.
he’s canonically a big fucking guy. and if i know anything about large men (i do, i actually do) they’re like big dogs. fully forget they’re huge and just all over you. that’s jason. type of man to see you laying on the bed and just…envelop you with his entire weight. also the kind of man that thinks it’s no big deal when he wraps around you when you sit on him. it is. he’s huge. you can’t move. it’s splendid.
never a cuddler when he sleeps though. because i do hc he sleeps like a soldier at war. fully on his back. doesn’t move. but when he wakes up and remembers you’re there…he’s grabbing for you. all sleepy-voiced and monotone saying shit like, “don’t move” and “stay there” because he can’t think of anything better in the moment. you do get ordered into cuddling like it’s a threat. it’s love. trust me.
probably likes cuddling more than his partners ever will and idec if you think you’re physical touch final boss. jason outdoes you. he likes having someone who actually doesn’t mind him grabbing for them.
and because i’m terrible i do think jason is a chronic dealer of the whole, “c’mere, let’s cuddle” speech that ultimately ends with him spreading you open like a book. not everytime. but a lot of them. he’d say he can’t help it but he could! it’s just, i think he gets all comfortable. his body would relax. his mind would go quiet. only thing he can think about is your ass pushed up against him. which makes him give your neck a few kisses, before he’s turning you around and pressing you into the mattress like he needs your imprint there. joy!
Summary: Sirius knows exactly the first place he needs to go after escaping Azkaban. He needs to see his girl, even if it's just one more time. Based on the song Would You Fall In Love With Me Again from Epic
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings/Notes: hurt/comfort, fluff, reminiscing, mainly sirius pov, sirius being depressed, no use of y/n but heavy on she/her pronouns, you can imagine ben barns or gary oldman not really specific, he just looks kinda crusty because its immediate post Azkaban
i cant believe i'm just now doing a Sirius fic... but i've been thinking about this forever and finally got around to writing it! hope you enjoy!
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The moon and stars had long since appeared—taunting him from above.
A deep, troubled history sewn into the sky, the stars pointing and laughing through their silent twinkling at the mangled mutt—no, the stray—down below. He wasn’t quite sure exactly how late it really was, but the lack of patrons walking the streets gave some sort of indicator. It was late. Likely too late for what he meant to do, but he couldn’t help himself.
He needed to see her.
So, down the streets and sidewalks of the cozy highland village he went, guided by something instinctual and strong in his chest that seemed to pull him along. Paws, ripped and dry from the cold, padding over sticks and cobble—none of it really pained him much anymore. The sting of each step nothing compared to the phantom pains that cemented themselves deep into his soul over the last twelve years.
The weathered black dog followed the yellow street lights. Street after street, corner after corner, until he finally arrived, stopping short and looking up at the cottage from the cobbled street.
It had been a pipe dream. A fantasy they’d wondered upon back in their Hogwarts days.
They’d stumbled upon the old cottage—worn, but clearly loved—on one of their stolen date nights, scurrying to Hogsmeade through secret passageways, the map tucked on the inside of his cloak. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, hers around his waist, bottles of butterbeer in their free hands as they walked. Laughing and pointing up at the stars as they window-shopped, himself promising to buy her the world if she asked.
He didn’t remember the conversation, but he did remember her. Her hair tousled with night air, resting her temple to his shoulder every so often, her laugh—Merlin, her laugh—a wild sound he’d found only he really had the power to coax from her. The way she would glow, shining impossibly bright, even in memory, under the street lights. Her warmth, tucked into his side. He remembered the way her breath caught when they’d found the cottage on the outskirts of the village.
“It’s perfect.” She’d whispered to him, the words falling from her lips in a soft breath—and suddenly he began to understand. A life, just the way he’d made fun of James for lamenting over, slowly coming together before his eyes. It was perfect. Far enough outside the village for peaceful quiet evenings, but close enough to engage in just as much mischief as they always did.
It became a common conversation after that. The couple lounging on the common room couches, tucked together and whispering of the small cottage. Of the garden that could grow along the side, the rocking chairs on the porch, the makeshift quidditch field he’d make when inviting the boys over. They may not have owned it yet, but in mind and in heart, it was theirs.
He couldn't help but feel a mixture of warmth and heartbreak standing here now. He knew she was in there—the welcome mat by the door, the vase of flowers on the outdoor table all painfully her—but he couldn't help but feel he was no longer welcome.
He’d missed it all.
Sure, they spoke of it—no, dreamed of it—together, but he missed it. She’d done it, she’d made the dream a reality and his heart soared that she didn’t just abandon her happiness because his memory tainted it. This wasn’t theirs, this was hers. Would she even want him here? After everything? It wasn’t true, he’d never betray them like that, but she didn’t know that.
He made his way up the lawn, padding up the wooden stairs, only transforming back into him when he stood at the top step. He caught his reflection in the glass as he reached for the door handle, and winced at what he found there.
He was hideous. Thin, broken, and dirty. Hair matted where it once fell in gentle curls, a prison uniform torn and dirt stricken over his shoulders.
His hand faltered, hesitating over the cool metal. She wouldn't want him anymore, he knew that, but he had to see her. Just once. Just one more time, and that would be enough.
So, he reached out.
Something in his heart healed and shattered when the door creaked open, careful to shut it gently behind him. The house was quiet, a warm orange glow from the lamps scattered across the living area. It was cluttered in that homey sort of way, things on every surface, bookshelves stuffed with various volumes and trinkets, but everything still somehow managed to look properly in place. The air here smelled like her, that gentle something that always clung to her skin and clothes almost bringing him to his knees.
He looked around trying to connect the pieces of her life he’d missed.
The greatest relief—other than finding her here—was the quiet the cottage held. No sound of another man making her laugh upstairs, or children running across the floorboards. It had been twelve years, he’d prepared himself for the possibility, but he wasn’t sure if his heart could take it. The door opened by a man, her peeking over his shoulder, arm curled around his bicep, a band on her finger that Sirius had begun to imagine placing there just months before everything happened.
The soft sound of music drawing his attention over to an old record player. Unkempt brows pulling together at the familiarity of the old machine and the crate at the leg of the table. His chest seized when he recognized why. Stepping closer, he could see it. Etched into the side, crudely carved into the sideboard one night when he got fed up of it being brought out to common room parties and stolen by drunk classmates, was his name. His hand reached out, a trembling finger running over the mark.
She’d kept it.
And he could almost cry when he looked over at the record spinning, almost at the end. The memories attached to that vinyl. Its cover beaten and ripped, the once sturdy paper soft from years of repeated use. It had been his favorite record, he’d told her so one night when he’d had her tucked against his chest in his bed, that very record playing low. Told her of what it meant to him, what it got him through.
And here she was, playing it over a decade later, the music once again a soundtrack to another important moment in his life. The world called him one of the worst felons in all of history, but here she was, playing his record, his album. He felt the tears sting his eyes, fingers holding the record sleeve like a lifeline.
A small creek drew him out of his thoughts, tired gray eyes looking up at the stairs, finding the culprit.
She was beautiful.
He didn’t flinch at the way her wand was drawn, pointing at his chest—he deserved that, he knew he did—he simply stared, eyes softening anyway. It didn’t matter the defensive stance, the point of her wand directly at him, she was beautiful. Her name, spoken soft and hoarse, slipping past his lips, breathed into the air like a soft prayer before he could help it.
She looked the same, older in that gentle sort of way, aging like a dream—just as he knew she would. His own personal angel on Earth, hair glowing in the back light, combed and ready for bed, a robe thrown over her shoulders before leaving the bedroom. The lack of smile lines however, did make his heart splinter. She deserved those, she deserved years of happiness and laughter, but that was just another thing he’d stolen from her.
Sirius raises his hands slowly, a sign of surrender, “Please” he breathes out, “I just… I needed to see you.”
The wand slowly lowered to her side, he could see now, the way she trembled lightly, eyes trained down on him from the steps as if he were a ghost. Chest inflating in a quick breath, his words proving to her that this wasn’t imagined. He was real. He was here.
Sirius however, misread the small shake of her limbs. He sucked in his own steadying breath, was she afraid, or was it rage that fueled her? He knew she’d hate him for what they’d claimed, what he’d been accused of, but the fact that she could be afraid he’d come to do the very same to her broke him.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” he speaks, voice hoarse and dry, but none of it mattered now, “I swear it to you, I would never hurt you.” Sirius takes a shaken breath, her silence enough for him to go on. “I’m not asking you to forgive me” he speaks low, eyes looking at her as if she were the world—because she was his. “I’m not asking you to forgive and forget everything, I’m not asking you to take me back into your home and resume where we were. I’d never ask you for that. Merlin knows I’d never fit into your life anymore” he speaks, a longing, and faint hint of self deprecating bitterness there, “I just–” his breath catches, “I needed to see you again, love.”
The word slips from his lips, tacked onto the end with the same quiet devotion as always.
She moves, one step down, one closer to him.
Something in him breaks, the need to confess, to repent at the feet of the only grace he’d ever known. But he refrained, choosing instead not to burden her with that, the maddened ramblings of innocence he could feel pooling on the tip of his tongue.
He didn’t come here to shatter any perfect picture she’d made for herself without him. He didn’t come here to shove himself back into a life he no longer deserved. He didn’t come here to lament his innocence for an old love to take him back out of pity.
She deserved more than that. She deserved so much more than him.
“I just needed to see you.” Sirius finds himself repeating in a soft whisper, “I… I won’t burden you with my presence for long I just—“ his voice cracked. Eyes squeezing shut and head hanging low, “Just once, and you’ll never need to look at me again, I’ll leave, I swear it.”
He didn’t see it, the way her head cocked to the side, brows pulling a little as her gaze traced over him. The barest hints of heartbreak as her eyes found each and every difference, the bruises and scarring that were never there before. The way his skin was thin and pale over his bones with malnutrition, the dark circles under his haunted gray eyes.
It stills him, his breath catching in his chest when her voice lilted out—just as he remembered, had imagined it cooing goodnight to him as he tried to find sleep on freezing stone floors.
“You’ll leave?” is all she echoes back. His own self loathing too strong to find the confusion that coats her voice.
“Yes.” he speaks quick, a firm nod accompanying the words, “You’ll never need to lay your eyes on me again—I just needed to see you, say goodbye in my own way since I never had the chance—“
“Why?”
That stops him in his tracks, head lifting back to look at her on the stairs. Dark brows pulling, blinking a few times in his own blooming confusion, “What do you mean why?”
Her words are simple, to the point. “Why are you swearing to leave?”
“You do not want me here anymore—“
“I don’t remember saying anything of the sort.”
Sirius sighs as she cuts him off yet again, running a hand through the matted mess of his hair, murmuring her name in exasperation, “I’m not—I’m not the same.” he shakes his head, “I’m not the person you once knew, I—“
“You are not who I once knew?” she scoffs back.
“No.” It comes in a quick, sure response, gray eyes almost mournful as they find their way back up to hers, “I’m not. I’m different, I’m broken. I’ve done things, seen things, experienced things that—that I will never be able to forget.” Sirius breathes, “Things, that are burned into the backs of my eyes, into my head that I will never be able to get away from.” his voice cracks, watching as a steeliness enters her eyes, “I’m not who you remember, and I won’t ask you to pretend I am.” he breathes, a sad smile pulling at his lips as he begins to step backwards, a stinging appearing in the back of his eyes. “I just needed to see you one more time.” he whispers, “I can live the rest of my life now, knowing you’d found happiness in spite of everything.”
She watches as he begins to step backwards, making his way back through her living room to the door. Ready to walk out of her life, again, over some self righteous claim he was not who she remembered, who she would want anymore.
He didn’t get to make the decision. Not when she could see that he was the same in every way that mattered. Her jaw ticks, speaking before his hand made contact with the door, “You did it then?”
Sirius pauses, hand suspended in the air over the doorknob. “Did what—?”
“The story is right?” She asks, voice strong, “You did it? Ratted out the Potters? Betrayed—“
Sirius spins on his heel, eyes alight with a fire he felt only when thinking of their old friend, Peter Pettigrew, up in that freezing cell. He points up at her, “I never—“ he sucks in a breath, nose curling, “ever would’ve betrayed them, and you know that.” he hissed, “James was my brother.” His voice cracking on the name, “I loved them—I would’ve died before I let that happen.” He declares.
She only nods, not flinching as his voice raises, as his eyes sharpen at the accusation even from across the room. Sirius still by the door, herself perched up on the stairs.
“You don’t sound different to me.” she murmurs back, then.
His face softens, the anger evaporating from him instantly, arm falling back down to his side with a small breath of her name.
“You claim you’re different” she speaks, stepping down the last few steps, “You say you’ve changed, that you don’t deserve to be here anymore.” her eye wander his face, “but you seem exactly the same in every way that matters.”
Sirius shakes his head, almost disbelieving, “I’m…” he breathes, looking down at himself, “I’m not what you remember. I’m not what I used to be—the pretty charming boy you met at Hogwarts—“
“We’ve both aged, Sirius.”
“You know what I meant.” he returns, doing everything he could not to melt at the way she says his name. Like it’s still something worth saying, a name that still means something.
“I do.” she nods, “but I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?” he repeats in an unbelieving scoff, and she simply shakes her head.
They stand there for several seconds. In the living room of the house they’d imagined. Twelve years older, a litany of experiences between them that the other had no knowledge of. Over a decade of secrets, stories, when they used to have none. Old lovers, standing across a space they’d dreamed of inhabiting together, in a stalemate. Gazing at each other across time.
He opens his mouth, about to break the quiet when she does first.
“You're the same.” She speaks with finality, “In every way that makes you, you, you’re the same.” She sucks in full breath, “And where you are different it doesn’t matter. Don’t you dare ever try to convince me—or yourself—otherwise.” A stern almost angered look enters her eyes, “I know you. I know you, and I’ve waited. I loved—I love you.” the firmness waivers, her expression faltering, lips beginning to tremble, “I knew you didn’t—I knew you didn’t do it. I knew it was wrong, and I’ve been waiting for you to walk back through that door.” her eyes shining as the tears begin to gather, “So don’t you dare try to walk out on me.”
Sirius looks up at her in awe, her strong frame, stern even now as she scolds him, trembling under an impossible weight.
He breathes her name once, and that’s all it takes for the wand to fall from her hand, clattering to the floor.
She moves forward, rushing across the space to him and he matches her with ease, rapidly closing the distance that had been forced between them.
He catches her, a sound catching in his throat the second his arms get the chance to wrap around her. One around her back, the other cupping the back of her head, keeping her close as she slammed into his chest. It felt as if something was slowly healing, being glued back together once she was back in his arms. He squeezed her tight, pressing his face into the crown of her head, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a firm kiss to her hair.
It was heaven—no, it was home.
He finally felt like he was back at home. His girl in his arms, holding tight around his torso as if he never left. The smell of her shampoo in his nose, her warmth bleeding into his skin, chasing away the chill that had cemented itself there.
“I’m here.” he breathes shakily into her head, squeezing her back when her arms tighten around him, “I’m here, love. I’m home.” it’s an assurance both to her, and to him. One they both greatly needed, “I’m home.”
“How long has it been?” she breathes, words muffled into his chest
“I…” he trails, with a sigh, “Twelve years.” he whispers into her, holding her tight against him, “They took me twelve years ago.”
“Twelve years.” she repeats, hands curling into the back of his clothes.
Sirius simply nods against the top of her head. The tears he’d refused to fall finally seeping out of the corners of his eyes. He knows she too is crying by the way the fabric begins to cling to his chest, warm with tears.
And he simply holds her.
“But I’m here now.” he chokes, squeezing her, “I’m here.”
“Don’t leave.” she breathes out, small and shaken, “Don’t leave me again, Sirius.” she pleads into his chest, voice wet with tears as she clings on, “I can’t do that again.”
A light, raw laugh falls from his lips, “I don’t plan on it, love.”
“I missed you.” she whispers after a moment of silence.
Sirius swallows thick, burying his face into her hair, “I did too, love.” he whispers hoarse, squeezing her harder, fingers tangling in her hair to keep her close, “I missed you too.” He presses another firm kiss to her head before his face falls, pressing into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, “More than you could ever know.”
Jason Loves being soft with you. Jason is actually a really soft person in general, he just doesn't have the stature to match. He gets something out of the ability to hold you gently. To have you react to him like he isn't this hulking mass of muscle.
Tucking your hair behind your ear, watching you sleep softly next to him, kissing your forehead on a bad day and never forgetting to kiss you goodbye and hello. He's not always aware of it and if you asked him he'd blow it off or tell you "bare minimum babe"
That's another thing. He loves pet naming you. Babe, baby, princess, doll. He loves complimenting you and telling you how pretty he thinks you are.
He's so flowery with his language. " Whatever you need baby" in the softest mutter, a promise to you as he kisses your hand. "My favorite thing is getting to come home to my baby" like bro is unconsciously romantic he really does not think about it !!
Jason’s sprawled across the bed, all six-foot-something of muscle and attitude dead weight draped over you. He hasn’t let go since he carried you from the couch, like his arms are glued around your waist. His head’s on your chest, ear pressed to your heartbeat, damp hair tickling your collarbone.
“You still mad at me?” His voice is a low rumble, Jersey drawl softened, almost sheepish. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t even try to meet your eyes.
“No, Jay.” Your fingers rake slowly through his hair, scratching just the way you know melts him. “Not mad. Just tired.”
He lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Tired ‘cause of me.” His hand tightens on your hip, like he’s reminding himself you’re real. “Shoulda slowed down. Shoulda made you feel good first instead of—”
“Jason.” You cut him off gently, tugging at his hair until he tips his face up to you. He looks so wrecked—red eyes, guilty pout. You cradle his cheek in your palm. “You did make me feel good. Really good. You’re just being dramatic.”
He huffs, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “…Maybe I like it when you baby me after.”
“There it is,” you tease, brushing a kiss over his forehead.
He groans, rolling half onto you so his weight presses you into the mattress. “Don’t tell anyone. Red Hood loses all his street cred if word gets out he’s a fuckin’ mama’s boy for his girl.”
You laugh, rubbing his back in slow circles. “Your secret’s safe with me, baby.”
Jason hums, content, before his voice drops into a whisper against your chest: “Say it again.”
“What?”
“‘Baby.’” He sounds embarrassed, like he’s asking for something filthy instead of sweet.
You stroke your fingers through his hair again, soft and deliberate. “My baby.”
He shivers. Literally shivers. Then he hides his face back against your chest like he can’t handle it, arms tightening until you squeak.
“Jason,” you laugh, kissing the crown of his head. “You’re crushing me.”
“Good,” he mutters, muffled. “You’re stuck with me. Mine.”
By the time sleep takes him, he’s drooling into your shirt, legs tangled with yours, still clinging like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.
Jason’s all sharp edges—scars, curses, leather, and guns. He’s the Jersey boy with a temper, someone the whole city flinches at when his helmet turns their way. But then there’s you. Soft. Sweet. Always smelling like vanilla, cinnamon, or warm sugar. Your smile is gentle, your voice soothing, your hands always warm when they touch him.
At first, he doesn’t get it. He thinks you’re too soft for him, too good, too kind. Gotham eats girls like you alive, and he’s not about to let that happen. He tries keeping you at arm’s length, swears he’ll ruin you if you stick around. But then—one night, after a brutal patrol, blood still drying on his knuckles—he comes back to your place. And you’re there, waiting. Not with judgment. Not with fear. But with a plate of food you kept warm and a whispered, “You’re home. Sit, baby. I’ll take care of you.”
That’s the moment Jason realizes he’s done for.
He starts to crave your sweetness like it’s a drug. After every mission, he finds himself needing your hugs, your quiet humming when you run your nails through his hair, your way of grounding him. He calls you “his little cinnamon girl,” half-mocking at first—but really, it’s reverent. You’re his contrast, his safe place.
The world calls him Red Hood, a monster, a killer. But with you? He’s just Jason. A man who melts under your kisses, who lays his head in your lap and lets you trace his scars, who finds himself whispering soft confessions into your hair when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep.
And god help anyone who tries to touch you. Sweet or not, cinnamon or not—he’ll paint the streets red if someone dares to even look at you the wrong way. Because you might be soft, but you’re his. His cinnamon girl. The only sweetness he’s ever known, and the only sweetness he’ll ever let himself have.
I feel like Hotch would put everyone into his phone with full government names and notes on who they are/how he met them and is super organized and doesn’t have any emojis EXCEPT for his girl. She’d get a nickname or emoji and deff gets a photo
You’re peering over Aaron’s shoulder for no reason other than pure nosiness when a text from Jess comes through. He has her saved as ‘Jessica Brooks (Haley)’.
“Is that really her contact?” you ask quietly. You’re not trying to embarrass him, and the jet is full to bursting with your team and coworkers.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’ve known her for twenty years.”
“It’s efficient,” he says, side-eyeing you with an admittedly fond smile. “If anyone needs to contact her for me, I just have to say it’s Jessica Brooks. There’s no confusion.”
“Do you have many Jessica’s on there?”
He moves away from you to give you a judgemental look. “Are you being hurtful?”
“Who else do you have on there? When Jack gets a phone, what will you save him as? Jack Hotchner, bracket, son?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Your face fills with heat, and curiosity. “Wait, wait. What am I saved as? Don’t tell me it’s my full name, oh, please, Aaron,” you tease. “No, it’s Special Supervisory L/N, isn’t it?”
He’s saved in your phone as an indulgent, perhaps embarrassing Sweetheart Aaron, though you change it when the mood suits you. It’s funny. Baby, sweetheart, angel, it all felt saccharine before you fell in love. You still remember the night after your first kiss when you’d changed his contact name to Aaron with three hearts.
“It’s not,” he promises. “Have a look, if you like.”
You take his phone and click into his contacts. You scroll for your initial and frown when you miss it. There’s a John Edgar (Plumber) and a Kacey (Gardening assistant). He has four separate school teachers and three different Mia’s, one of which is marked without a profession. You’ll circle back to her later. But you can’t find your own face.
“No way you don’t have my number saved,” you say.
His laugh is boyish by your ear. “Back up.”
You scroll all the way to the top.
Your contact name is bracketed in hearts at the very top. It’s pinned. ♥️My sweet girl ♥️. The contact photo is one of you sleeping all smushed into his shoulder, not unlike the way you’d been sitting with him a few moments ago.
The shock of it has you biting down on your bottom lip. Aaron winces as you let the skin pull between your teeth, murmuring, “Honey,” apprehensively.
“Sweet girl?” you murmur back.
“You are, aren’t you?”
You cover your face with your hands, pleased beyond words, and fiercely shocked. “Aaron.”
“Would you prefer something else?”
“I like mine as it is, if that’s agreeable, sir.”
He slips his phone from your hand with another laugh. “Let’s see what Jessica Brooks has to say about my boy.”
“Jack Hotchner, son, you mean?”
He grumbles something under his breath about being ridiculed, while you open your phone up to change his contact to include a few more hearts, in way of apology.
And somehow, it wasn’t Bruce. Or Jason. Or any of the boys.
It was you.
Well—technically, it was a tray of brownies.
Left in the window of your bakery in downtown Gotham, cooling on a checkered cloth. A little card sat beside it, handwritten in your delicate script:
For the rats – do not touch.
Security footage showed the Joker creeping in through the alley like a starving raccoon, pale and laughing and deranged. He didn’t hesitate. Just tore into the tray with both hands, devouring every last square like they were a gift from heaven.
Three hours later, he was dead at his desk.
No toxins. No guns. No explosions.
Just… karmic indigestion.
It was late — the kind of late that only Gotham could make feel heavier, like the shadows were tired too. You were cleaning the bakery kitchen in silence, sleeves rolled up, soft hum of the fridge the only sound. Flour still dusted your palms. The scent of chocolate still lingered faintly in the air, ghostlike.
You weren’t surprised when the knock came — slow, hesitant. A rhythm you’d know anywhere.
“Come in, Jay.”
Jason stepped inside like a whisper, a little sheepish in the shoulders but proud in the chin. He always tried to hide it when he needed softness — like it was weakness. But you knew better. He lingered just inside the threshold for a moment, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
You didn’t speak. You just turned off the faucet, dried your hands, and waited.
“I saw the footage,” he said, voice scratchy. “The others… they think you left the brownies out on purpose.”
You met his eyes. “And what do you think?”
Jason smiled — crooked, slow, reverent. “I think you’re the most dangerous woman I know.”
A pause; it was quiet until he spoke as he looked down, he suddenly felt young again, like the boy who used to follow you through the halls of the manor asking if he could taste the cookie dough.
“I wanted to thank you,” he murmured.
You blinked, brows softening. “Jay…”
“No, I mean it.” His voice grew tight. “He took everything from me. From all of us. And now he’s gone. Because of you. And maybe it wasn’t some huge battle with capes and fire, but… I don’t think I ever felt safer than I do knowing you did that for me.”
You reached for him then, gently — no grand gestures, no dramatic embrace. Just your hand on the side of his face, thumb brushing the faint scar along his jaw. “He hurt my babies,” you whispered. “You think I was going to let that go?”
His breath hitched — barely. But you felt it.
“You are my baby, Jason. You always will be. I still remember the first time I made you brownies. You told me they were better than Alfred’s and I thought he was going to cry.”
Jason huffed a laugh. “He totally did.”
“And I promised myself, back then, that I would protect you however I could.” Your voice softened. “Even if it meant poison in a brownie pan.”
The Embrace....That broke him.
He stepped forward, arms wrapping around you suddenly, fiercely, face pressed into your shoulder like he was thirteen again. He shook, just once — like a weight was leaving his body he hadn’t realized he was carrying.
“Thank you,” he rasped. “For not forgetting me.”
You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head. “You came back to us, Jason. But even when you were gone, you were never gone from me. I grieved, and I waited. And then I got mad.”
He pulled back, eyes glassy, smile lopsided. “So mad you murdered Gotham’s most wanted with a snack?”
“Gotham’s most unwanted,” you corrected. “And technically, I didn’t murder him. He stole from my window. That’s just… consequences.”
He chuckled, low and real. “God, I love you.”
You cupped his cheek again. “I love you too. And I always will. No matter what.”
The manor kitchen was quiet again. Jason had lingered even after your hug — long after the storm of laughter and awe from the rest of the boys had passed. He kept looking at you like he was seeing something holy and terrifying all at once.
You were stirring another pot of ganache when he leaned back against the counter beside you.He was quieter now. More thoughtful. Like something still sat heavy on his chest.
You glanced at him sideways. “You’re brooding. That’s usually your father’s job.”
Jason gave a soft, crooked smirk, but didn’t answer right away.So you nudged him gently, “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
“…Just thinking how poetic it was,” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. “That it was you. Not Bruce. Not me. Not the League. Just… you. With a tray of brownies.”
You snorted softly, still stirring. “Poetic? Jay, it was for the rats.”
He blinked. “What?”
You turned to him, lifting a brow with a perfectly measured amount of innocence. “The Joker didn’t eat those brownies. He stole them. They were meant for the rats behind the bakery.”
Jason stared. “You’re still going with that?”
“Going with what, darling?” you asked sweetly. “I live in Gotham. The rats are emotionally neglected. They deserved something rich and chocolatey after all they’ve endured.”
A pause.
Jason exhaled a slow, disbelieving laugh. “God, you really are terrifying.”
You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “You should’ve seen Gordon’s face. He looked like he was chewing a lemon wedge.”
“I told him,” you went on, lips twitching, “that it wasn’t unusual to bake for pests. ‘Rat cakes, mole muffins, mouse pie.’”
Jason choked on his own laughter.
“And then I added,” you said proudly, “that the rats deserved something sweet for a last meal. Really threw him off with that one.”
“You didn’t,” he wheezed.
“Oh, I did. Poor Jim started massaging his temples like he was fighting off a stroke.” You scooped the ganache into a piping bag. “And when he asked me if I left the brownies out knowing the Joker was still on the run? I said I couldn’t possibly control the choices of a deranged clown.”
Jason leaned over the counter, laughing hard now, face in his hands. “I missed this. I missed you so damn much.”
Your voice quieted at that. “I missed you too.”
His eyes met yours again — and this time, the emotion in them wasn’t masked by humor.
“I think part of me never stopped being angry. At the world. At Bruce. At… myself. And then today, watching that footage, seeing you — knowing you baked something with me in mind… It felt like justice. For the first time, it actually felt like justice.”
You walked around the counter and took his face in your hands again, thumbs brushing just under his eyes. “Jason. I will never forget what he took from you. From all of us. But you are not broken. You are here. You are whole. And you are the only justice I needed.”
He swallowed hard. “You gonna cry?”
“Only if you do.”
“…Then we’re screwed.”
Bruce peeked into the kitchen right then, six-year-old Thomas wrapped around his leg like a sleepy sloth. “He snuck out of bed,” Bruce said quietly, giving you a soft smile.
Jason looked at the kid, then at Bruce. “You tell him what she did?”
“I told him the rats got brownies,” Bruce deadpanned.
“Damn right they did,” Jason muttered under his breath, ruffling Thomas’s hair on the way out.
Later That Night…
As you tucked Thomas into bed, he blinked up at you with wide eyes. “Mommy?”
“Yes, love?”
“Are you gonna make brownies for the birds next time?”
You blinked. “The birds?”
He nodded solemnly. “Because if rats get dessert, maybe the pigeons should get pie."
You kissed his forehead, smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And down the hall, Jason laughed until he cried.
You found Dick on the balcony of the manor that night, leaning on the railing with his arms crossed, staring out into the moonlit garden. The cool breeze ruffled his dark hair, and his jaw was tight, like he’d been holding something in all day.
You didn’t announce yourself. You just stepped beside him, a blanket draped over your shoulders, holding a second one in your hands.
He glanced at you with a half-smile. “Hey, Mom.”
You offered him the blanket without a word. He took it, wrapping it around himself like armor and for a few moments, neither of you spoke.
Then softly, he asked, “Did you really do it for the rats?”
You smiled gently. “Of course I did. Gotham’s pest population deserves good baking.”
He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. Just weariness. His voice dropped. “I think part of me wanted you to deny it. Or say it was an accident. Just for plausible deniability.”
You turned toward him, brushing hair from his forehead like you used to when he was small. “Is that what you want me to say?”
He shook his head, throat working. “No. No, I just…” He looked down at his hands. “You’re the safest person I’ve ever known. You made the manor feel like home when everything else was falling apart. And the idea of you doing something like that? For us?”
You waited.
His voice cracked. “It broke me a little.”
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Sweetheart. When I saw what he did to you — to Jason, to Tim, to Damian — when I watched the fear in your eyes and the way you kept going anyway? Something in me broke first.”
Dick didn’t speak.
“So yes,” you continued softly. “I made brownies. I left them for the rats. And if a rabid animal found his way into my kitchen and helped himself, that’s hardly my fault, is it?”
A tear slipped down Dick’s cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
You pulled him into your arms, holding him as tightly as you did the night his parents died, as tightly as you had the first time he called you Mom.
“I didn’t want you to have to get your hands dirty,” he whispered. “That was always our job.”
You kissed his temple. “You were just boys. It should never have been your job.”
⸻
Later, when the house was quiet. Even Alfred had retired. You were in the kitchen again — washing a final dish, watching the moonlight spill over the sink.
You didn’t hear him come in. But you felt him.Bruce stood in the doorway again, sleeves rolled up, no cape, no cowl. Just Bruce. Just your husband.
“Should I ask if it was for the rats?” he asked quietly.
You dried your hands. “Do you want to ask?”
“No.” He crossed the room and stopped beside you. “I already know the answer.”
You studied his face. He looked more tired than usual, more mortal somehow. The man who had fought gods and monsters… now looking at his wife like she had become something even he didn’t fully understand.
“He broke into our home,” you said simply. “He killed our child. And then he kept coming back. Hurting them. Over and over...innocent people that lost loved ones...children.”
“I know,” Bruce whispered.
Your voice trembled slightly, though you didn’t let it break. “I watched you all try to stop him the right way. I watched you suffer because you couldn’t end him. I baked brownies, Bruce. I didn’t throw a punch. I didn’t fire a gun. I just baked.”
“And he died.” Bruce’s voice was gravel.
You met his eyes. “He died trespassing. In my kitchen. Eating food that wasn’t his. If I didn’t do it… eventually one of the boys would have. Maybe even you.”
He nodded slowly, jaw clenched.
Then, without words, he wrapped his arms around you. Tightly. Like if he held you close enough, he could absorb your grief into his bones.
You pressed your face into his chest. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” he murmured into your hair. “Just sorry I didn’t do it first.”
Tim came to you next, you were in the sitting room as Bruce went to stairs to the bedroom.
“I saw the security logs,” Tim said finally. “You left the brownies out for over five hours.”
You hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes. They were cooling.”
“…With a handwritten sign next to them that said ‘For the rats — don’t touch.’”
You sipped your tea. “They’re very literate, Gotham rats. Excellent readers.”
Tim let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think I’ve spent the last few days just… waiting for someone to get arrested. Or for a press leak. Or for Batman to say, ‘We’ll handle this the right way.’ But nobody’s said it. Not even Bruce.”
You reached down and touched his shoulder, gently. “You think it was wrong.”
He looked up at you, brow furrowed — not in anger, but in deep, earnest confusion. “I don’t know what I think. I just… I’m tired. I’m so tired of looking over my shoulder. Of knowing he’s out there. Of wondering who’ll be next.”
You tucked a hand into his hair, brushing it back like you did when he was younger. “You don’t have to have the answers, Tim. You’re allowed to feel tired. And scared. And angry. You’re allowed to feel safe now, too. Even if you don’t know how.”
His shoulders slumped.He leaned his head against your knee.“I just want to feel okay again.”
“You will,” you said, threading your fingers gently through his hair. “And you are so loved, Tim. You’ve always been loved. Even when you couldn’t see it.”
Tim parted his lips, then dropped his shoulders for a moment.While Tim fell quiet against your side, Damian stayed stiff as stone, arms still crossed. His voice, when it finally came, was sharp.
“He deserved worse.”
You looked at him. “He did.”
Damian met your eyes, and there was something dangerous flickering behind them. “You didn’t just kill him. You humiliated him. You made him small. He died like a rodent — stealing food he didn’t earn. No name. No honor.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Was that wrong of me?”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, unexpectedly, “No.”
But then his voice dropped — just a little. Barely a whisper. “But I worry they’ll come for you. That they’ll try to ruin you for it.”
You reached out slowly, giving him time to refuse. He didn’t.Your fingers touched his cheek, gently turning his face toward you.
“I’ve faced worse than Gotham’s moral outrage, sweetheart. And if they come for me, your father will hold the line. Jason, too. Even Dick.”
Tim mumbled, “And me.”
You smiled. “And you.”
Damian held your gaze. “You didn’t do it for Gotham.”
“No,” you said softly. “I did it for my boys. For the ones he hurt. For the silence after your nightmares. For the bruises. For the toxins. For the blood I couldn’t wash off your skin.”
Something cracked then — just the tiniest bit — in Damian’s expression.
“…I wanted to do it,” he whispered. “I wanted to be the one.”
“I know..” And that was why you did you, you would never put that on your boys.
He leaned in — not all the way, not like Jason or Dick. But close enough that you could pull him into a one-armed hug.
You held both of them like that. One against your shoulder. One stiff beside you, staring out the window but letting himself stay.
Damian slipped off to bed but it was Tim that lingered behind.
He shifted his weight, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a flash drive. He held it in his palm for a moment before placing it gently on the side table next to your tea.
“I deleted it,” he said quietly. “All of it. The security footage. Backup files. Cloud mirrors. Redundant servers. Everything.”
You blinked. “Tim…”
“I know it was for the rats,” he said with a ghost of a smile, voice just this side of trembling. “But if someone ever tried to twist the narrative… if they wanted proof… I didn’t want it to exist. Not where anyone could use it against you.”
You looked at the flash drive, then back at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” His voice cracked just a little. “But you did it for us. And I—” he stopped, swallowing. “It was my turn.”
A pause.
Then you stood and crossed the room, pulling him into your arms without asking.
Tim buried his face in your shoulder immediately, like he’d been waiting all night to fall apart.
“I’m proud of you,” you whispered. “Not because you’re smart. Not because you’re careful. But because you care, Tim. So deeply. And you still choose to.”
His arms tightened around you. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you said, cupping the back of his head.
And when he finally pulled back, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, he looked lighter somehow.
“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled.
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
As he walked away, you looked at the flash drive on the table.
And with a quiet, fond smile, you slipped it into the drawer — right next to the recipe card that read:
“For the Rats – Do Not Touch.”
It was half-past two in the morning when you made your way to the kitchen again. The house had gone still, the kind of quiet that only descended after the entire Batfamily was finally asleep — or at least pretending to be.
You didn’t expect anyone else to be awake.
But Alfred was already there.
He stood at the counter in his robe, folding napkins with his usual precision. A tea tray was already set: two porcelain cups, a small pot of your favorite blend, and a plate of still-warm scones.
You blinked softly. “Can’t sleep?”
Alfred gave you a look that bordered on amusement. “Mrs. Wayne, I believe you’ve forgotten that sleep is a luxury in this household — not a guarantee.”
You smiled faintly and padded across the floor to take your usual seat at the small corner table. “You made scones.”
“I had a feeling you might be up.”
He poured the tea without asking, setting it in front of you with a quiet grace, then took the seat opposite.
For a few minutes, you ate in silence. The scone was perfect — buttery and warm, with just the right amount of crumble.
Alfred, as always, had anticipated your grief before you even spoke it.He broke the silence gently. “You know, I’ve thought about it.”
You looked up. “About… the brownies?”
He gave you a pointed glance over the rim of his teacup. “About what I would’ve done, had I been the one to find him first. That… man.”
You raised a brow. “Really?”
Alfred nodded once, slow and somber. “More times than I’d care to admit. Especially after Master Jason. And again after the second time. And the third. There are limits, even to British patience.”
That made you smile, though your eyes stung faintly. “Thank you for saying that.”
He sipped again. “I suspect the others think I’d scold you. Encourage moral high ground. But I’ve buried enough children in my mind already. I have no quarrel with poetic justice.”
You whispered, “It was for the rats.”
Alfred let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Of course it was.”
A pause. You looked at him, then said with a note of dry wistfulness—
“I wish I’d left something out for Joe Chill.”
Alfred’s composure cracked completely.
He barked a laugh — sudden, full-bodied, utterly delighted — and had to set his tea down before he spilled it.
You grinned. “What?”
“I—” he shook his head, wiping at the corner of his eye. “I’ve waited decades to hear someone say that in this house.”
“Well,” you said lightly, taking another bite of your scone. “I’m just saying… a tray of arsenic flapjacks could’ve spared Gotham a lot of grief.”
Alfred was still chuckling, his shoulders shaking with it. “You, madam, are a menace.”
You held your teacup up in a toast. “To poetic justice.”
He lifted his in turn. “And to very well-fed rats.”
You clinked cups gently, and for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest lightened — just a little.
And tucked away in the back of your recipe box, behind old cookie instructions and stained index cards, was one little note.
For the rats — do not touch.
You never threw it out.
Because in a city like Gotham, justice isn’t always a batarang or a closing argument.
Sometimes, justice is soft.
Warm.
Brownie-shaped.
And laced with just enough poetic consequence to let the rats feast in peace.
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! 🥰
“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.
Summary: having sex with Carmy for the first time. Somewhere along the way… he discovers he has a bit of a size kink.
Warnings: size kink, piv no protection, Carmy has a rlly big dick okay, praise praise praise, soft dom Carm vibes, minimally proofread if you’re reading day of posting.
Word count: 2690
Carmen is nervous. It’s not his first time having sex, but it’s his first time having sex with you—which is a really big deal to him. His heart beats a mile a minute inside his chest as he walks hand in hand with you to his apartment.
Although he’s teeming with nerves on the inside, he doesn’t let it show for a second. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s the definition of calm when you press your lips against his in the elevator. You’re too eager to wait for him to make the first move, so you take matters into your own hands.
Carmen only pulls away from you for a moment when the elevator opens up. He deftly walks you backwards out of the elevator to the door of his apartment without letting his lips leave yours. After pining you to the door, he deepens the kiss, letting his tongue trace across your bottom lip while he digs in his pocket for his keys.
Once he opens up the door and guides you inside, you instantly try and pull him by his jacket to the first piece of furniture you see, the couch. He makes a noise of protest against your lips. “No—not gonna fuck you on the couch for the first time. Bedroom’s this way,” he says, holding your hand and leading you down the hallway.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, giving you half a second to take in your surroundings. It’s obvious he cleaned the place—there’s not a single article of clothing on the floor. There’s not much decoration, only a couple of—
“I can give you a tour later,” he smiles, interrupting your train of thought. “C’mere.” He pats his lap gently.
After you’ve settled on his lap, straddling his hips, Carmy takes your face in both of his hands and brings you in for a gentle kiss. It only stays gentle for a moment though. His thumb pulls down your chin, letting him explore your mouth with his tongue. He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you, and you would gladly let him at this point. At the same time, he lets a hand drift to your hip, urging you to grind onto him.
Carmy’s touch is tentative—almost hesitant. His hands remain firmly planted on your hips. It takes a moment of grinding on his lap for him to finally nudge his hand underneath your shirt. “Can I take your clothes off?” he whispers against your lips.
“Y-yeah—yeah, please.”
Carmy doesn’t even realize how big of a tease he is right now. He’s treating your clothing with a slow and steady mentality. As each layer is taken off, he pauses to kiss at your skin.
When he takes off your shirt, he pauses to kiss your jaw. Your head instinctively falls back, giving him more room to move onto your neck, then your chest. He trades kisses for small sucks and bites on the skin as he grows more urgent. He treats your pants the same way, trailing kisses down your legs as he pulls the fabric down.
He does not treat his own clothing with the same care. The second your hands slide underneath his shirt to feel his stomach, he rips the shirt right over his head. While Carmy works on his own clothes, you hastily unclasp your bra and push your underwear off.
You're gazing back up at his figure as he’s pushing down his boxers, revealing his very hard cock. You don’t try to hide your staring. At first, your eyes start at his chest, wandering down to his chiseled abdomen. They finally end up on his, quite large, dick. Your eyes widen at the sight of it.
Carmy turns pink under your gaze, heat rushing to his cheeks. He breaks eye contact by opening his bedside drawer, starting to rummage through it. “Uhm—I think I got some in here…”
You quickly grab his wrist to stop his searching. “I uh—m’on the pill, so you don’t have to if you’re comfortable…” you trail off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
His eyes dilate at your words. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah—that’s fine with me.” He’s nodding with those big thoughtless eyes as he speaks, and crawls over top of you.
His cock weighs heavy against your thigh as Carmy kisses you again. It’s a rough clash of tongues, leaving a string of spit between your mouth and his when he pulls away.
Carmy breathes heavy when he takes his dick into his hand, giving himself a few pumps. You gasp when you feel the tip nudge against your entrance. “I don’t know if it’s gonna fit—“ he mumbles.
“It can—I can take it.”
His eyes are locked at where he presses up at your opening, using his thumb to spread your fold apart to give him a better look. “I dunno, sweetheart. I think it’s too tight—I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Before you can voice a protest, he starts rutting his dick through your folds, instead. Every thrust bumps up against your clit, making you whimper. You’re thoroughly coating his cock in your wetness.
You can only stand it for so long. “S’not too big. I can take it. I promise I can,” you mutter. Your legs spread wider, eager to feel him inside of you.
Carmen zones out for a second, staring intently at your entrance. You’re pulsing around nothing, slick starting to make its way out of you and onto the bed sheets. It takes a whine from your throat for him to snap out of it.
“Carm—“ you pout. “Need you, please don’t tease me.”
“Sorry, baby. Wasn’t tryin’ to.” In the next moment, he’s lining himself back up. He can’t help the groan that leaves his lips as his tip makes contact with your hot, wet center. Carmen eases his hips forward, slotting the head of his cock inside of you. He fights the urge to let his eyes close at the sensation, but he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of your facial expressions.
Your mouth falls open as he presses inside of you. Your core pulses around his cock, wrapping him in warmth. He’s already losing his mind and he’s barely even inside of you.
Carmy’s over half way in when your hands jolt out to grab his where they hold onto your hips. A sharp whine stops him dead in his tracks. He takes a hand off of your hip to hold your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.
“Shh—I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so good f’me,” he says in between kisses to your lips. He doesn’t press his hips any further. He pulls back a bit, not able to contain the low groan from the throat at the friction. “Already feels so fucking good. So fuckin’ warm and tight.”
“Just a little more, okay? You can take it—I know you can take it. Just tell me when you’re ready.” There’s no rushing tone in his voice, just pure sincerity. Carmen nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while you adjust. He presses sweet, gentle kisses to the side of your face and your neck. After a moment, you nod your head. “You can move.”
Carmy presses in again, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. The only sign is your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a stretch for the rest of him to fit. He’s average length wise—maybe on the larger side, but his girth was more than you’ve taken before. It feels like he’s splitting you in half—in the best way possible at least.
When he bottoms out, he’s holding himself up by his forearms overtop of you. He presses kisses to your cheeks and your neck, mumbling praises. “Did so good, baby—feels s’good. So fucking perfect.” He struggles to keep his hips still, grinding into you.
The first true thrust makes your head spin. Carmy pulls out at a gentle pace until just the head of him remains inside of you. He pushes back in more quickly than before, taking your breath away. He’s just as affected as you are. His mouth is open, breathing deeply as soft groans tumble out of him.
He builds up the pace gradually, taking the time for you to adjust. It’s not long before you’re no longer wincing at the stretch. Finally giving you a chance to take in the sight of Carmen in front of you.
His hair is messily pushed back as a bead of sweat builds at his brow. His abs flex with every single thrust he takes. The gold chain on his neck swings back and forth, hitting his chest. You grab what you can of his body, one hand grabbing onto his bicep while the other holds onto the headboard for support.
Every thrust fans the flames building in your belly. You squeeze at his arm, nails digging into his skin. It’s never felt like this before, and it’s starting to make you dizzy. The sounds coming from the room are erotic—the sound of skin against skin. You’re so wet it’s practically dripping out from around his cock.
“I’ve never felt so full—you’re s’big, Carm.”
He pauses again, smiling at the way you whimper from the loss of movement. You can see the wheels turning in his head before he speaks.
“Can I try something?” He says breathlessly, and you nod your head frantically in response. He accepts the wordless answer for now, but he’s going to have to work on getting you to use your words later. Carmy sits up on his knees while staying inside of you and grabs your leg from around his hip. He has a dark look in his eye when he lifts your leg and throws it over his shoulder. He thrusts gently into you, testing the waters. There’s a choked groan caught at the back of his throat that you don’t miss. His lips press to your calve, leaving a series of kisses on your skin. “This okay? Too much?” His voice is thin, like he’s barely holding himself together.
Another moan slips out of your mouth when Carmy does another soft thrust of his hips. “Not too much—shit, Carmy. I think—I think I can feel you in my stomach,” you babble.
At the sound of your moans, he increases the intensity of his hips. It’s not too much more; he’s still trying to take it slow and let you adjust. The words you just said are getting to his head, though. “You serious?”
“Mhm.” You reach for one of his hands at your hip and tug it up to your stomach. Carmy looks at you with a furrowed brow, but you completely ignore it. You manipulate his hand so that the base of his palm rests at your pubic bone, and his fingers splay in the space between your hips. You lay your hand flat over his and push down. “Feel it? Feel how deep you are?”
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
Then he’s just keeping his hand there, making eye contact while he rolls his hips up into you. You can’t take it, closing your eyes in pleasure. That’s another thing Carmy was going to have to work with you. “Hey—keep your eyes on me, baby. Keep ‘em on me, yeah?”
Your eyes open immediately at his instruction, meeting his gaze. You can barely make out the bright blue of his eyes; his pupils have grown, making the color a thin ring. “S-sorry,” you blurt.
“None of that,” he grunts. He’s still continuing to roll his hips while talking. “Nothing to be sorry about. I j’st wanna see those pretty eyes.”
He gets distracted by the pout on your lips, leaning down to give you real kisses again. This inadvertently pushes Carmy’s cock even deeper inside of you, almost like he’s folding you in half. All the while, he continues fucking into you. A sharp whine leaves your throat again, and your nails dig into the muscles of his back. Carmy freezes in place, worried he went too far—worried that he hurt you. “Shit—I’m sorry sweetheart—“
You vigorously shake your head. “Feels good—holy fuck Carmy.” You cry out. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You beg.
“That the spot? Yeah?” He murmurs as his thrusts start back up again. This time he’s more calculated, like he’s trying to hit that spot and make you lose your mind. “Such a good girl for me—taking it like you’re made for it.”
“Fuck. Squeezing me so tight.” Slick pools out from around his cock with every thrust, leaving a white ring around the base of him. “Those fuckin’ noises—shit,” he mutters.
Your eyes flutter closed. It’s all too much. The heat in your stomach was going to consume you at this point. You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel Carmy’s hand on your jaw.
“Remember what I’ve told you? Need to see your eyes, baby. Keep lookin’ at me and I’ll give it to you, I promise. Just keep you’re eyes on me; I’ve got you.”
In the next moment, he’s taking his hand from your jaw, and sliding it down your body to rub your clit with his thumb. Carmy is fully resting his forehead on yours, keeping his eyes on you.
“C-Carmy I—I can’t I’m—“
“Let go, baby, let me feel you cum around me.”
Those words make the tight band in your stomach snap. You pulse around him as your orgasm washes over you. You’re probably drawing blood with how deep your nails are in his skin, but you don’t care at this point.
Watching you come undone under him gets Carmy even closer to his peak. Your cunt squeezing him makes him pound into you even harder.
He wants to be closer to you—needs to be closer to you. He drops your leg from his shoulder, and practically puts all of his weight onto you; your chest is firmly pressed against his chest. Both of his arms wrap around your back, keeping you tight to his body. Carmy buries in face in the crook of your neck, and begins a reckless pace that takes your breath away. He’s going to town now that you’ve cum, pressing kisses to your shoulder and collarbone to try and conceal at least some of his whimpering.
He still manages to mumble more about how fucking good you feel, and all you can do is hold onto him just as tight as he’s holding onto you. You wrap your legs around his back and interlock your ankles to him even deeper. He groans loudly, like the wind has been knocked out of him. Your hands are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. You make a soft “uh” noise with every thrust of his dick. He’s on the verge of exploding. You’re all over him. Pulsing around him. Leaking around him. He’s convinced he’s died and gone to heaven.
He glances down and sees the ring of your arousal around his cock for the first time, and damn near loses his mind.
His hips start losing their precision, sloppily rutting up against you. Carmy lifts up his head from the crook of your neck to rest his forehead against yours. “C-can I—fuck—can I cum inside? M’so close.” His voice is filled with desperation and need.
“Shit—please. Please, please, please. Want it inside—please fill me up.”
A few more sloppy thrusts and Carmy spills deep inside of you with a whimper. His hips keep moving after his orgasm ends, lazily grinding his cum further into you.
He fully falls on top of you afterwards, trying to catch his breath. You muster enough strength to comb your hand through his curls. Your limbs feel like jelly. “Fuck, Carm.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life—holy shit,” he replies with a laugh.
“No like, I don’t think I can walk. My legs feel like jello.”
He presses another kiss to your shoulder. “I can carry you to the bathroom and clean you up. How does that sound?”
Can I request a fic of Jason rescuing his best friend as Red Hood and the reader/friend being super shaken up and telling him that all they want right now is their best friend and he’s like “so funny thing…” and that’s how reader learns that Jason is Red Hood?
so,, this may have ended up being a little more dramatic than what you had envisioned but I hope you like it anyway <3
(I am willing to write something more fluffy when my requests reopen lol)
synopsis: You’re an informant and land in hot water when Black Mask’s operation gets leaked
notes: SFW, but I want to draw attention to the depictions of violence and injury as well as mentions of death* (nothing that isn’t canon-typical tbh)
*aside from other people also dying, roughly twice, the reader wishes they would pass away because they’re in pain, they express no other type of suicidal ideation but read at your own discretion
anyway, enjoy!
So cold.
You were so cold.
You shivered as you tried to bundle yourself as best you could, tucking yourself against the cold metal wall.
You were so cold.
You could hear nothing but your own breath rattling in your ribcage. Your breath escaped chapped bleeding lips in a whisky mist, a cold flame going out. You bit your tongue to keep your teeth from chattering.
You were so cold it burned.
Your fingers, your eyes, your nose.
You tried tucking your hands under your arms, tried to keep the circulation going in the tip of your limbs, tried not to pay attention to the blood draining out of your leg, out of your body.
Your blood was warm.
The pool of blood you sat in was warm.
You’d attempted to stem the bleeding, shoddily, badly. Even then you had been too cold to properly move. The tourniquet hadn’t been tight enough to slow the outpour.
You gave up.
You were giving up so fast.
You were cold and bleeding and you wanted to go home.
You were tired.
You were so tired.
Your tears had frozen, tear tracks biting your cheeks, while your lungs were simply too cold to heave a sob.
You were a dockworker—a lot of people who lived in Southend worked the docks. It was simple, reliable, community.
Even so, the Harbour’s reputation preceded it. Every soul who worked on the Tricorner island knew what happened on the island.
Shipment arrival schedules were never quite right, fancy suits roaming through mazes of shipping containers; nothing was ever quite right.
Working on the island meant being brought into the fold—man, woman, child, it didn’t matter—seeing the cargo meant you knew. That was enough.
The worst of them took orders directly from the fancy suits.
The best of them kept their heads down and the shipment logs neat.
You were worse than the worst.
You were a snitch.
Every night you’d leave the island. Every night you’d go home to your badly insulated apartment.
Every night you’d scribble down numbers; times, prices, sales, anything you glimpsed from ledgers and timetables and notebooks.
You were good at remembering, down to the minute, the cent, you’d remember info.
That’s what made you Red Hood’s favourite.
Your info was always accurate, scribbled down on innocuous pieces of paper, receipts and post-it notes that you would collect and hold on to until he came knocking at your window.
It was risky, but ultimately, you knew it was good work.
Maybe naively, you thought, but it was still good work. Better than pretending you didn’t see bloody handprints on the inside of container walls.
You were young. But old enough to know.
It was a system, solid, effective, secretive.
Nobody had to find out. All the information the vigilantes knew could have been from a misplaced ledger or an informant from the inside.
Who would ever suspect a docker?
Until somebody did find you out.
Well.
Not really, they didn’t.
You’d learned about it from whispers. Apparently, Roman Sionis’ massive deal had fallen through. Firearms by the sounds of it.
Pity.
Black Mask, after his own personnel had been scrubbed clean, started looking towards the periphery: ordered an investigation on the docks, the warehouse personnel; anywhere, anyone they could have missed that would explain the information leak.
They didn’t find the puddle but they found the mould.
They found 18 different people it could be.
You were suspect 18.
By then he was tired.
Seventeen cooling bodies were piled to your right behind a container.
You didn’t look at them.
He was tired: he asked if you ratted him out. You said no.
You’d barely processed the shot until he was strutting out of the warehouse and you crumbled to the ground, your entire leg laced with agony.
He hadn’t even bothered to finish you off—he had just shot you in the leg. And you hoped he’d hit a major artery so you’d bleed out faster, maybe pass out—hopefully pass away.
Of all your time in Gotham you’d never been shot before. A small wonder.
Jason had once described it to you as being shattered from the inside—that was pretty accurate.
It felt as if your bone had splintered, thousands of glass shards embedded into your leg, burning and eating away at your limb.
You didn’t know if you screamed.
There were only the dead around to hear you anyway.
You’d managed to crawl all the way to the wall and tuck yourself into a corner—it wouldn’t help much, you were bleeding out and your hands trembled too much to apply any pressure.
You were going to die.
But you felt safer dying in your small nook than out in the open, where you were cold, vulnerable.
You hiccuped a sob.
It was your fault.
You had been told to be careful. Jason had told you time and time again to keep quiet. You had.
He and Red Hood were the only people you’d ever told.
You’d been careful.
You’d been so careful.
You still failed.
You’d still…
Jason would be so disappointed. Your friend, your greatest confidant, you’d give him anything if he asked and you couldn’t give him the one thing he asked for.
You’d gone and gotten yourself shot.
You’d gotten yourself shot and you were going to die.
You wanted to apologise. He probably wouldn’t realise you’d left a box of curry for him in the fridge, and you still hadn’t returned his copy of The Great Gatsby to him yet.
He’d probably find it. It was on your bedside table under a half-full mug of coffee you’d never finished. It probably left a coffee ring on the front cover. Ah shit.
That’s where the night had left you, cold and dying. You weren’t even aware of the seconds then minutes ticking by.
But realistically, it could have been that long, because you were still bleeding when the door to the warehouse slammed open.
You muffled a whimper behind your hand, tucking your good leg against your chest, not daring to breathe as heavy footsteps moved deeper into the warehouse.
”Shit!” The modulated voice was closer than you’d hoped, right behind a stack of crates, by the pile of long-gone bodies. “This is Hood—I found about a dozen bodies.”
Your shoulders barely relaxed. It was Red Hood, you knew it was Red Hood—but the panic in your heart had slowed, not in the slightest.
You still didn’t dare inhale.
What if he decided that becoming a target for Black Mask made you too much of a security risk? What if he decided that you weren’t worth the effort? Or maybe he’d realise that saving you would confirm Mask’s suspicions. Maybe he just didn’t care and he’d realised you’d lived out your use-
“Fuck.”
Your hand barely muffled your scream as Red Hood rounded the corner, blank mask turning to stare you down.
Fresh tears ran down your face, making the cold nip at your cheeks.
You wanted to plead, beg; you were tired, you were in pain, you were cold, you didn’t want any more trouble.
Please just-
“Easy,” Hood said, the voice modulator distorting what should have been a soft tone into something almost demonic. If you knew any better, you’d almost say he winced at the sound of his own voice, “Shit. Fuck- shut up I know. I need a med-evac for a civilian… No, conscious.” His head tilted—he was staring at your leg. “GSW to the thigh, it doesn’t seem any veins or arteries were hit.”
You ducked your head as Red Hood stepped forward, closer, much closer than you’d ever been to him—even when you gave him the info he needed, you’d set the paper down on your garden table and take three steps back.
But he was here now.
And you were painfully aware.
“Hey.” A large gloved hand rested on your arm—you couldn’t help the way you flinched again, your heart leaping into your throat as you choked on a sob. “You’re going to be alright.”
It didn’t feel like you were going to be alright.
You were losing feeling in your hands and feet—you couldn’t exactly tell what was the cold and what was the blood loss.
“I’m going to put pressure on it, okay?” he explained as he pulled an abandoned worker's jacket from the top of a crate.
You didn’t quite have time to emotionally prepare that a 200-pound man was pressing his entire weight onto your bleeding leg. You screamed, a raspy, hollow, desperate sound, as you grasped onto his jacket, sobbing over his hurried apologies as he tried to stem your bleeding.
“I know,” he said, “I know, I’m sorry—it’ll get better, I promise.”
”S-stop,” you begged, gasping as your chest heaved, the pain radiated up your hip and pooled in your knotted stomach.
Red Hood looked at you—you couldn’t tell what was going on behind the smooth helmet, if it was frustration or sympathy or defeat.
“It’s going to be okay,” he promised again, shifting so you could rest against him instead of the cold warehouse wall, “If I let you up you’ll bleed out. Help is on its way.”
You sniffled as you continued to heave breaths, trembling hands weakly grasping the lapels of Hood’s leather jacket.
“Talk to me,” he said, startling you from the daze you had unknowingly slipped into, “Come on. I know it hurts but you have to stay awake.”
”It’s so cold,” you mumbled.
“Hey, hey.” Strong hands jostled you upright, holding your head as it lolled against your shoulder.
Bright red stared back at you, Red Hood’s emotionless mask far closer than you had ever seen it before.
If you focused your eyes a little, you could almost make out the scuffs and scratch marks on the metal.
“Come on, stay awake.”
“Hood?”
“Hey,” he sounded almost relieved somehow even with his voice modulator. “You’re okay.”
You knew that was a lie. You weren’t okay.
You wanted to go home.
You wanted Jason.
You wanted your friend. The person who’d stuck by your side even through the shittiest parts of your life. The person who offered you a warm bed and a shoulder to cry on when shit got tough.
You wanted your friend. You wanted him to tell you you’d be alright, to tell you you were safe.
“What?”
You blinked at Hood, trying to make sense of his modulated words.
“Want… Jas’n,” you mumbled again, words breathy, eyes welling with tears again. It stung. Everything stung.
Like the frost was growing over your inert body, like the cold didn’t care you weren’t dead yet.
You were dying, that was close enough.
You felt like sobbing again.
You felt the loneliest when Red Hood would glance away from you and towards the door for any sign of support—it was just those minuscule seconds that had you suddenly heaving, your body trying its best to tremble despite how frozen it was.
You were dying.
You didn’t want to die alone.
“I want Jason,” you whispered again, fingers tightening around his imperceptibly. You made demands like Red Hood would know, like he would be able to identify the specific Jason you wanted, the one in hundreds that probably lived in Gotham.
You wanted Jason.
You wanted your Jason.
“Hey.” Gloved fingers brushed away your tears, cupping your face so gently you almost forgot to inhale. They left momentarily and you heard the soft hiss of air from the helmet unlocking.
The clatter echoed in the empty warehouse.
He went back to holding your face, waiting for your eyes to focus on him.
“Look at me,” he said, almost begged, softly, “Hey, come on, eyes on me. I’m right here.”
You blinked past the wetness, your breath stuttering a little as you refocused on Red Hood’s now bare face, his strong jaw and crooked nose, his pale scars and sea green eyes.
His eyes were so green.
“Jay?” Your voice was a croak, just barely loud enough from hope and disbelief. He was the Red Hood.
“Yeah,” you could almost imagine a smile on his face as he spoke. “Yeah, it’s me. Just hang on, okay?”
He glanced towards the entrance. When he saw no movement, he moved closer towards you. The armour of his chest plate was cold against your cheek—and felt eerily still, you couldn’t hear his heart beat under your ear.
“Jay?”
“Still here,” he promised softly, rubbing your arm, a vain attempt to warm you back up in the frigid weather, his other hand still on your thigh, refusing to give up pressure. You tried to pull away, catch a glimpse of his face properly but also as if thinking better of it, you rested your head back against his chest.
You’d been in that position almost hundreds of times and yet it felt completely alien to you in that moment.
You hadn’t realised your shivering had slowed until Jason was cursing softly and repositioning you.
“Come on,” he mumbled but you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or the backup.
You let him move you until you were tucked against his body, halfway enveloped in his jacket.
It was then that the dread of being just a cold body in his arms struck you.
But there was nothing you could do about it other than sit tight and wait.
It felt like forever before you heard the roar of an engine outside and the warehouse door slam open.
“Hood?”
Jason cursed as he scrambled, dropping his helmet in your lap before scooping you up and standing.
You could hear the moment you came into Nightwing’s view, the sharp inhale and muttered, “fuck.”
“How are we looking?” he asked once Jason had finally reached him and they both began speeding for the door.
“Still alive,” Jason grunted, shouldering past the door. You just about glimpsed the sleek black of the famed Batmobile before you were being tucked back against Jason’s chest.
You felt the shift immediately, warm air stinging your cheeks and fingers. You must have made a sound because Jason began to apologise softly as he settled into the backseat of the Batmobile.
The door was closing behind him as he cupped your hands to protect them from the heat.
“How bad? The hypothermia?” Dick’s voice came after another car door slammed and the car lurched forward at a speed you weren’t aware cars could reach.
“Decreased shivering,” the air in the car slowly grew a little cooler until it was no longer burning you.
“Frostbite?”
“Not as far as I can tell…”
You knew the conversation continued above your head, the soft blue lights of the console and the streetlamps streaking outside the car window hypnotising you into a soft lull.
“Hey.” You startled as you looked up at Jason with bearly eyes to be met with worry. “Don’t fall asleep. I know you’re tired just… stay awake.”
You hummed, a barely half-hearted agreement. You were so cold.
And so tired.
So, so very tired.
You couldn’t really be blamed for letting consciousness slip from your grasp.
When you woke, you were warm.
Warmer than you’d ever been in your shitty apartment actually.
Your head was pleasantly foggy, enough for you to recognise your slow breathing and the nagging feeling in your leg and the warm body you were pressed against—but not present enough to panic about any of it.
Maybe that wasn’t great. Maybe you were in danger but…
“Shh, you’re okay,” a calloused hand brushed across your cheek before resting against your forehead. “We’re at mine—you’re safe, I promise.”
Jason’s voice resonated so sweetly in his chest, making you sigh and press your ear against him.
“Jas’n?”
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” you tilted your head up to look up at Jason properly—he looked properly exhausted, a little paler even for the winter season and dark circles under his eyes. But his smile was soft when he met your gaze, his touch caring as he petted your hair. “Scared the living shit out of me there.”
“Sorry,” you croaked, before trying to clear your throat of the near-painful dryness.
Jason helped you sit up, letting you continue to lean against him, cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt as you stayed squished against his shoulder.
You hissed softly when you shifted your leg.
Right, the gunshot.
Jason reached over to the bedside table and offered you a water bottle with a straw. You couldn’t have felt more grateful, drinking like you’d been offered liquid gold.
“We got the bullet out and stitched you up,” Jason told you when you’d finished drinking and leaned back down against him—he set the bottle down on the bedside table, “You’re currently running a small dose of morphine—it should wear off in an hour.”
You hummed, closed your eyes as the weariness began to weigh on you.
“We couldn’t warm you up fast enough,” he continued explaining as he wrapped his arms around you, “This was unironically the best solution.”
“Aren’t you supposed to get naked?”
You felt Jason’s breath stutter then the soft laughter that rattled in his chest.
“I think you’ll be fine,” Jason said softly.
“I almost die and I don’t even get to see your tits,” you grumbled, not completely sure where your joking started and your drug-induced honesty started. “Almost dying sucks.”
“Tell me about it,” Jason snorted before pressing his lips to the crown of your head, “You were really brave about it.”
“I’m pretty sure… I cried, a lot.”
”You got shot,” Jason shook his head, “You’re allowed to cry.”
You hummed again but didn’t answer—staying awake was more of a struggle than anything else.
“Jason?”
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
“You’re… the Red Hood.” Things were still fuzzy, from the blood loss and adrenaline, but you were so sure. You just wanted confirmation.
The silence between the two of you lingered, so long you’d almost begun to doze again.
“Yeah,” he said softly, “I am.”
“I’m too tired… to be mad at you,” you mumbled into his shirt, shifting a little to ease the pressure of your leg. “Tomorrow.”
“Okay sweetheart,” he chuckled softly, and kissed your forehead before laying down to tuck you in against him. “You can be mad at me tomorrow. Just rest for now.”
You didn’t have to be told twice.
You didn’t actually even have to be told once, already asleep by the time Jason had uttered his last sentence, snoring softly, drooling on his pec.
(“I can’t believe I gave you information for 2 years and you never told me you were Hood!”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll never forgive you. Until you make me pancakes. The chocolate chip ones.”
“You drive a hard bargain. It’s a deal, sweetheart.”)
I really liked this one <3 I had a lot of fun stylistically, even if it fought me a little when trying to write it lmao
anyway, here’s my masterlist and my current wips for more <3 (requests are currently closed as I write my current ones)
carmen’s hand blindly searches the wall, locates the light switch under his fingers before he flicks it upwards, the room filling with soft fluorescence. he blinks at the sight of the twitching blankets, rising and falling and then stilling with the surplus of sudden light. he frowns at the veiled flinch, pushing the switch back down to its previous position. the sole brilliance glowing and silhouetting his back pours in from the hallway.
“baby?” he whispers.
he approaches cautiously, a hint of sniffling bypassing his absolute threshold just enough for him to quirk his eyebrows inwards in concern. the edge of the bed dips under his weight as he gradually peels back the comforter with little to no resistance on your end. underneath is your downtrodden face, fresh tear streaks on your cheeks, your lips tightly together as you battle the trembles they wish to succumb to.
“fuck, what’s wrong? are you okay?” he asks, racking his brain for anything he might have done to cause this, a memory he represses, feelings he might’ve trampled carelessly or by accident.
“nothing,” you say, voice just as watery as those beautiful eyes he loves so much.
“sweetheart,” he murmurs, slightly stern in his tone to convey what bullshit that is and how he knows it, but he pauses seeing your eyes shut.
like he’ll strike, bracing for the impact of some kind of apex predator.
“… do you need anything?” he decides to ask instead of pressing. helplessness surges throughout him watching you shake your head no.
“somethin’ to eat? i’ll make you whatever you want.” anything and everything, it’s yours.
you seem to ponder that option more, not immediately offering a decline, but then he notices your lips turning down further. he catches the well of tears expanding to the point of falling from your lower lash line and so he moves immediately, scooting closer, his arms tugging you from lying back into his embrace.
your cheekbone rests against his chest as you reenter your next phase of sobbing. the tears traveling out wet the front of his t-shirt, his fingers drawing methodical shapes on your back as he comforts you, presses you in close, reminds you you’re not alone. he’s here for you. he’s not going anywhere. the emotions you feel, the ones hurting you this much, he won’t desert you, he won’t let them have you.
“s’okay… shit, s’alright. i love you… shh… i love you.”
Idk wtf dc is on with this one but Jason Todd is not and never will be a womaniser. Like that man might be a 6 foot wall of muscles, trauma, and repressed emotions but he has zero to no experience when it comes to sex. He died as a virgin and was resurrected as one, he was groomed by Talia (acc to some canon representations, I think) so he already didn’t think of sex as this amazing or perfect thing and even if he does have sex where he feels comfortable and safe — he will cry, like who are you kidding??? Jason has mentioned that he can’t distinguish between romantic and platonic love, he’s always been too focused on his missions/job/goal to care about romance— where in the fucking hell is this guy getting time to fuck around with women??? Dc??? wtf????
Jason Todd being a cheater.
I get why people think this bcs other males in the Bat Family have not always been very… faithful, let’s say. But Jason Todd cheating on his woman??? NO FUCKING WAY. This man has had no glimpse of what a healthy and safe relationship is supposed to look like and if he finds someone who gives him that??? If he finds someone who loves him unconditionally, someone who sees behind the mask and loves the broken boy, someone who doesn’t flinch even when all of him is bare— I bet you my biscuits Jason would never even look at someone else let alone think about cheating. Jason Todd is not just any men — he’s the man. He’ll worship someone who gives him the love he’s always been deprived of. When he loves someone, he’s all in. He loves fiercely and loudly; that’s just who Jason Todd is. He’s never cheating. Period.
Summary: Molly insists on taking over headquarters, even going as far as to argue with Sirius on which room should be available. Luckily for him, you are there to put her in her place
Tags: Established relationship, Molly being Molly, mention of drinking, Azkaban changed Sirius, minor angst feeling, mention of Regulus death
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Grimmauld Place, home to the ancient and most noble house of Black and headquarters to the Order of Phoenix. The house was filled with people of all sorts. The Weasleys, the Granger girl everyone talks so highly about, even Harry will be here in the next few days, according to Dumbledore. Remus, an old friend, has also moved in, bringing a smile to your favorite person’s usually gloomy face, Sirius Black.
Over the months that headquarters began, Molly took it upon herself that Grimmauld Place was unfit to live in and it needed to be cleaned. Sirius quickly agreed, if only to spite his mother’s portrait when she witnessed her belongings get thrown out.
“Sirius, be realistic. We need all the rooms we can use. What’s the point in letting the dust collect in that room?” Molly’s shrill voice echoes from the kitchen. You quicken your pace, hoping she wasn't talking about the room you know is off limits to everyone in this house.
Sirius throws back a shot of fire whiskey as you walk into the kitchen. Just from the look on your husband's face, you could tell Molly was nagging about that room again.
“Molly, must I remind you that you are a guest in this house?” Molly’s jaw twitches as you place your hands on Sirius’s shoulders. His tense muscles relax under your touch.
“Just because Dumbledore requested our home as headquarters does not mean you can do whatever you please.” You silence her with a glare as she tries to interrupt once again.
“So if Sirius says leave something alone in this house, then you will listen.” She crosses her arms like a toddler about to have a fit.
“We need the room. Harry will be here in a few days.” She turns to Sirius. “Wouldn't you prefer your godson to have his own room?” You clear your throat, pulling her attention away from Sirius.
“Molly, drop it. Harry can share with Ron. I’m sure he would much rather not be alone than he already has this summer.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. This is not your home. It belongs to Sirius.” Molly screeches. You roll my eyes, stepping away from Sirius and closer to the bothersome witch. “You must have forgotten. Sirius is my husband, which makes this house my home just as much as his. So either you will drop the topic-”
“Or else what? You’ll kick me out.” You smile innocently. “Throw you out? I would never.” Another step closer.
“I would however apparate to your house and rearrange everything to my liking. Merlin knows your house could use some organization.” I spat, showing everyone why the sorting hat placed me into the snake pit. Molly huffs, before storming out of the room calling for her children to leave. “Never have I ever been treated like this before.”
Later that night, you finally join Sirius into bed. “Thank you.” He mumbles into your hair. Those were the first words he had spoken to me all day. Azkaban changed my husband, practically stole his voice. Such a vast difference from when we were still young and in that castle.
“It's fine Sirius. Molly had no right to come here and tell you how to take care of your house.” His arm thrown across your waist tightens. “Our house.” You smile, squeezing his hand.
“Thank you for defending him.” You turn in his hold, heart breaking at the hollow look in his eyes.
Regulus, the ghost that haunts Sirius in this house. You knew how much he blamed himself for his brother’s death. How much he wished he forced him to leave when he escaped to the Potters. You reach out, brushing his dark curls out of his pale scarred face.
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
