My name is August, I'm in my late 20's, i like to write fanfic as a hobby, especially because I overthink about fictional characters. I try to edit on my own but if you see any typos let me know.
I’m mostly writing DC comic stuff but I have a ton of other interests and like to read regularly (fanfic, classic lit, comics, etc) so please feel free to chat!
Current Obsession: DC Comics, Marvel Comics (Rivals got me back into it)
The Way to a Vigilante's Heart is Through His Stomach
(Part 2)
Jason Todd x Civilian!Reader
1,288 words
Rated T (teen and up)
Gender neutral reader, again you're just trying to do your job, Jason is a Menace, implication of stalking, death mention (his specifically)
Part 1
You were never a morning person. Having the patience and grace to deal with perky morning joggers and crabby commuters was not something you were ever able to build up a tolerance towards.
But after last week’s catering job, you decide time at the cafe would help you. After all, what were the chances of meeting a masked vigilante like Red Hood at seven thirty in the morning? You're pretty sure he lived in the shadows, hiding from the cops in some dingy abandoned building wired with bombs.
Unfortunately, your cafe is a rather popular location. It has highly rated reviews, and after ten years of business, it's been considered a community staple. In other words: it’s busy, and to top it all off, you weren't needed in the kitchen today.
Baking was your passion, it was part of why you accepted the job here, learning from some of the best in Gotham (in your opinion). However, there was a last minute schedule change due to the usual cashier and barista calling out due to sickness, and the current one being inexperienced. Andy had a sweet personality, but she was a completely new hire, and she mixed energy drinks with her coffee, she couldn’t be trusted during the morning shift alone.
Speaking of Andy—
"Umm, there's some guy at the counter asking for you," Andy giggles, tapping your shoulder as you work the espresso machine.
You look over your shoulder and, oh god, it's him.
Green eyes, white strip of hair, faded scar on his cheek.
Andy makes a high pitched squeak, biting her bottom lip in excitement.
"So you do know him! Is he your boyfriend, or ooh, an ex?"
The question itself might've triggered a migraine.
"No, we are not," you state firmly.
"Hellooo? Baker with the cat pin?"
Both of you turn your heads towards the dangerous vigilante across the counter who was now calling out for you, not that Andy knew that. Right now, he looks like a regular customer, donning a leather jacket thrown over a t-shirt and jeans, no helmet though. You wonder how many vigilantes go around Gotham without their masks on, nobody realizing it’s them. Maybe the store manager was secretly Batman? Nah, not enough free time.
"What are you doing here?" You ask him, marching up to the counter.
"Grabbing breakfast, what the hell else would I be doing?" He smiles, having the audacity to make you look like the crazy one.
"Well if you don't want to serve him I can," Andy jumps in from behind you.
"Sorry, I wanna talk to them," Red Hood points at you, his eyes flicker downwards to read your name tag. Great, now he knows your name.
A customer coughs on the right side of the counter, waiting for the espresso you were making earlier. You wave Andy off to go serve them, Andy giving a disappointed sigh as they move back to their job. As much as you’d like to pass someone else off to deal with the Red Hood, you figure it might be dangerous… plus who knows what lies he’d tell Andy about you. You turn back to Red Hood.
"Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I ran out of pastries, wanted some more. And look, I'm willing to pay this time," he holds up his wallet, waving it in front of you as if you to confirm it's real.
"That's- this cafe doesn't take blood money."
He rolls his eyes.
"Even I can spare a few bucks for a croissant and a black coffee without needing to rob a bank, sweetheart. Now, what do you recommend?"
You grumble, but gesture towards the display case.
"What are you feeling? Sweet? Savory?"
"I liked those little spinach puffs you gave me last time, you cook anything like that today?"
Why does him admitting that so easily make your ego inflate? You have to hold back a smile.
"No, but if you like savory treats, the chef today makes a good quiche, or if you want something to go we have ham and cheese croissants, sausage kolaches-"
"Those look like pigs in a blanket."
"They're sausage kolaches. Trust me, you don't want a rant from the chef if he hears you say that."
He snorts.
"You didn't make anything today?" He asks again.
"No..." you raise an eyebrow, “I'm working the front today, as you can see." Was he blind? Purposefully obtuse? Plain out rage baiting you?
He seems to think for a moment, before shaking his head.
"I guess I'll try some of those 'sausage kolaches,'" he over-enunciates the pastry sarcastically, "but I would have really preferred something from you. I like what you cooked last time."
Your face betrays you, heating up at the compliment, and even worse, he grins at the reaction.
"Does that mean you'll cook something for me next time?"
You scoff, your hands twisting a dish rag tucked into your apron, trying to find something to take your frustration out on.
"That depends on my schedule," you state matter-of-factly, "and I'm a pastry chef not a cook."
"Fine, I'll find out your schedule."
What?
"What?"
You look around wondering if anyone else heard that, but Andy, for once, is focused intensely on getting someone's foam to latte ratio just right, and the customer behind him is distracted on their phone.
"I said I'll take a dozen kolaches and a black coffee to go."
You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously as you enter his order into the register and ring him up. His card works, surprisingly, and you can’t help but notice the name that comes up on the till.
“Jason Todd… should I write that on your cup, or is it just a pseudonym?”
He chuckles, again, making you look like some insane person.
“I told you, I’m not paying with blood money. This is as real as it gets, unless you’re trying to figure out my bank info?”
You roll your eyes, writing ‘Jason Todd’ on his coffee cup, staring at it suspiciously, before passing the order to Andy to fill. A plain coffee should be simple enough for her to deal with anyway.
To your surprise, he doesn't say much else as he leaves the cafe, just thanks you and continues on his way, but you have a feeling this won't be the last time you'll be seeing him.
Andy walks up to you asking for help with a latte art order, and you feel your shift returning to normalcy, or so you think.
“So that guy, Jason right?”
You sigh, of course she’d bring him up.
“No, we’re not dating or flirting or-“
“No I mean, he’s got kind of a funny name. Jason Todd. Wasn’t that the same name as that kid who died like a decade ago?”
Andy notices your confused face.
“I mean- sorry, I just remember it cause my parents made a big deal about it. But he was like, some rich kid Bruce Wayne adopted and died in some tragic explosion in Ethiopia or something like that. My parents always told me I’d end up like him if I didn’t listen to them. It was actually kind of messed up when you think about it cause…”
As Andy continues to rant about weird childhood punishments, several questions ran through your head like: Why would he have a credit card with the name of a dead kid? Was it just a coincidence that he used the same name? Why would some rich kid be in Ethiopia? And why does this all trace back to Bruce Wayne?
You realize something then, that should have been obvious a few minutes ago: Red Hood was committing identity theft.
Connor Hawke x GN!Reader
582 words
Rated G (general)
Fluff, Arrow family shenanigans, vegetarian Connor Hawke (forgot if he was vegetarian or fully vegan actually... it's not a huge detail in this story tbf)
“So, on your days off you guys still have to wield a bow and arrow?”
It’s a question that’s more amused than genuinely bewildered.
You knew your boyfriend’s whole schtick— vigilantism by night. He was always good at being understanding and honest with you. Still, when you imagined being invited to a family picnic you were expecting a day in the park, not targets, personal cabins, and being escorted to a secret clearing in the redwoods. According to Connor, his dad may be an anti-capitalist now, but he prefers to use the money he’s still got in style. As much as you appreciate it, you wonder if you can find common ground. You didn’t exactly grow up with this much.
Connor shrugs, “it wouldn’t be our signature weapon if we didn’t like it.”
“Plus we want to show off!” Green Arrow himself yells from his ‘workstation.’
Green Arrow– or uh, Mr Queen– you notice him talking to Connor’s mom by the grill. They seem to be catching up while he makes what he had claimed to be his ‘world famous chili dog’ (it’s the first you’ve ever heard of it).
“Alright then,” you look at Connor, gesturing towards the targets, “show off.”
He smiles, picking up his own bow and quiver.
You watch as your boyfriend stands in position, stringing the bow. His back is taught and the muscles of his upper arm flexes, then—
Thwip!
With speed and perfect precision, he lets go and lands a bullseye. You clap enthusiastically, the rest seem to roll their eyes though.
“Oh cmon Connor, you’re being modest, I’ve seen you shoot moving targets, backflipping,” Mia, a long time family friend, comments.
“Nothing wrong with the basics. Besides, I don’t need to right now, Middle Way and everything, right?”
“I don’t think showing off in front of your partner once in a while goes against Dharmic principles,” Mia points out, taking a bite of her barbecue.
Connor turns to you now.
“You don’t mind if I take a break from the heroics, do you?”
“No… but now I am a little curious,” you admit.
A childish chorus of ‘oooooh’s come from his family, challenging him. He shakes his head.
“Bounce an arrow off one of the weather vanes!”
“Use the swing by the docs to catch a fish midair!”
“No no- I’ll launch you up, and you can shoot an apple off your partner’s head!”
You touch the top of your head by instinct, Connor giving you a sheepish grin as his family continues to make up convoluted ideas to impress you.
“I’ll set you up,” Mr Queen says, speaking up from the small crowd, and it looks like he’s got a couple of ingredients in his hand and- oh, you see where this is going. He throws them up in the air. Quick to draw, Connor skewers them midair, the arrow landing perfectly on the grill.
“I’m not gonna lie, that is impressive.”
“For a Benihana maybe,” he chuckles, “but thanks.”
He gives you a kiss on the cheek, and another childish chorus of ‘ooooh’s erupt from the family gathering, and you can’t help but laugh at it.
Mr Queen picks the arrow off the grill, turning the shish kabob trick arrow.
“You’re gonna eat that?” You ask.
“One of you is gonna eat it. I used the ‘vegan meat’ for it.”
“Well you can’t say my family isn’t attentive,” Connor grins. You grin back.
You think you’ll get along with his family just fine.
ft. connor hawke + jordan!reader ; you and connor take a road trip, just like your fathers used to, except you don't fight crime and, for sure, your dad didn't kiss green arrow like you do
content. fem!reader, road trip fic, fluff, friends to something in between
bunny thoughts. he is so underrated that it physically hurts me
"No."
"C'mon Connor, it'll be fun!"
Your travel partner, in the passenger seat, searches for something through the various cassette tapes in the glove compartment. "You said that last time," He smiles despite the scolding, "and we almost ended up in Mexico."
"See? It was memorable!" You watch him out of the corner of your eye, blonde strands falling over his face like golden cascades — something that, surely, was common on some planet beyond the Milky Way. You don't let the thought linger for long, though; your gaze returning to the dirt road.
"Memorably questionable," Connor retorts, finally grabbing one cassette among so many others, but just like the rest it's old, worn, scratches scattered across the once-white surface. "Amanda, '86." He reads aloud, fingers inspecting the tape carefully.
You gasp, "I love that one!"
One last glance and you notice his lips curve upward, pearly teeth come into sight. "You love anything that came after the 70s." And there he goes, removing the last cassette that was playing and replacing it with the new one in his hand.
"You came after the 70s."
"And you love me." It doesn't sound like teasing; Connor wasn't like that. It was just another absolute certainty shared between you.
Despite a car or two passing by, your uncle's pickup truck remained solitary on the long road — a rocky slope on one side, a vast field on the other, old music vibrating from the built-in tape player; blue above like the ones you remember of Coast City's beaches, no clouds in sight.
"Yeah," You agree without realizing it, face, for a moment, turned toward him, the road forgotten as your eyes meet, "I do." It's whispered, mingled with the melody of the song in the background.
Connor averts his gaze to the tape player, smile still dancing in his mouth. "What did we agree on?"
The grunt that escapes your lips hurts, scratching your throat exaggeratedly. "No kisses while I'm driving…" you grumble, the spell broken right before your eyes. "… not even a little one?" It's an attempt you're willing to risk.
And before you can turn, that final gesture to have his lips against yours, you feel them — on your cheek, wet, brief on your skin. A sigh you wish to prolong as much as the hours spent on this road.
Yet, it's gone as quickly as it came, him back in his seat, lashes resting on his cheeks. "Satisfied?" Not as much as he apparently is.
"It'll do." And, finally, your eyes return, for good this time, to beyond the windshield, to the mountains in the distance, to the eternal emptiness at the end of the road. "So, Las Vegas then?"
writing fics on my work breaks suck because when I actually get far with one I gotta sit there knowing I still got a couple hours before I can get home and edit/check word count/make visuals on my laptop
what ever happened to personality?? anyway i made a chart
FEATURING: roy harper, hal jordan, oliver queen, victor stone, garth of shayeris, dick grayson, jason todd, clark kent, bruce wayne, and jean-paul valley
WARNING(S): NSFW (18+ only, mdni), explicit descriptions of sex and intimacy, mentions of anal and anal play, mentions of oral (reader receiving), mentions of nipple play, penetrative sex, afab! reader, not proofread
ROY HARPER: to me, he's like the epitome of 'i love you, but i'm going to fuck you like i hate you' and because of that he usually has you in positions where he can get a great view of your ass. he loves the more intimate, front-facing positions (esp when he's desperate and in need of reassurance of some kind), but more often than not you're in doggy or at least in any position that allows him access to your ass. like his hand will be on your ass at all times if possible.
if you're into it or open to try, he would so love to eat your ass out too, enjoying both your pussy and ass as if he were a starved man—and, because i love him, he'd cum from this alone. if you're not as open to anal in any way, he'd still love to eat you out from behind, leaving bite marks on the fullness of your curves and thighs, and spreading your ass cheeks a part just so he can memorize the way your body reacts to him. in general, i think he really gets off on watching the way your body moves and responds to him, regardless of if it's your moans getting louder at the way he tongues your clit or if it's your back arching and ass pushing back to meet his thrusts; it's just intimate how no matter how rough or soft he's being, your bodies move in such unison. even in casual everyday moments of domesticity, he would just playfully and lovingly squeeze your ass in passing and relish in the little ways you react to him. you could be pouring yourself some coffee in the morning or making yourself breakfast when roy would just pass by and cop a quick feel, causing you to giggle or slightly jump at the sudden touch you weren't expecting. i think he would just love that you love him very presently and openly
HAL JORDAN: he's honestly not that much better than roy here, but because of his complex relationship with gender and sexuality, he wouldn't be as open to anal like roy is, not at least until he's older and post-spectre. he'd still absolutely love any position that allows him access to groping and touching your ass. whether that be having you on your hands and knees with your face pressed firmly into the mattress while one hand grips your hip and the other palms the fullness of your cheek, or having you in reverse cowgirl he's really just indulging and admiring the view. outside of sex, he would also just take every opportunity to touch you; instead of his hand resting on your waist, his would just exist on your lower back and slowly inch its way down, probably and most likely resting his hand in the back-pocket of your jeans while you're both out at a bar for the night
OLIVER QUEEN: never met a socialist that wasn't an ass man! but tbh he's a closeted ass guy to me, one with a solid pr team to make him seem like he's a tits guy but the minute you're alone with him, he's feeling you up! i also just feel like he's so incredibly intimate and romantic about it too, like he's not just into your ass but incredibly in love with your back and how your body is shaped so perfectly, how the pathway of your spine and the contours of your flesh create one of the most delicate curves in the universe. and have you ever noticed how similar one's back can be to the spine of a bow? mechanically not the same, but metaphorically, analogously, i think ollie would find himself immensely in love all the same in how he would, in an effort to offer you a back massage after a grueling week, end up gently kissing his way from the nape of your neck to the very end of your spine all while softly massaging the fullness of your ass before finally pressing kisses there too. you'd probably laugh and giggle and sigh and hum at his declarations of love pressed to your skin like this but it's just music to his ears
also recency bias, i can't not think of @mick-is-asleep's fic and just the concept of him absolutely admiring your back and ass as you ask him to help zip up your evening wear or even have him help clasp your necklace for the night's gala—it's probably the only thing that keeps him sane throughout the event as well as the prospect of getting to undress you once home.
VIC STONE: i think he would know how to appreciate your body regardless, but yeah this man loves your ass. he would absolutely find any and every excuse to pick you up and toss you over his shoulder, and somehow his hand would be conveniently placed on your ass—for stability, he'd assure you. vic is generally pretty playful when he can be, so i don't think he would shy away from pinching and lightly slapping your ass in passing, or even just resting his hand on you as you're laid across his lap watching a movie together. but, vic is also a very competent and intelligent person, he knows exactly when to lock in and that's often during sex; even, if it's on the sillier side, he's still very much focused on teasing you for your pleasure. if you're into spanking, he'd definitely lean into that for you, but largely he's incredibly gentle with his touches—even when he's roughly palming and massaging the flesh of your ass before dragging his thick fingers along your walls
GARTH OF SHAYERIS: he's such a lover boy that if you genuinely asked him 'ass or tits?' he'd probably say your eyes. and he wouldn't be wrong to say that because i think he would genuinely be so in love with your eyes, and just every aspect of you. he's very middle-ground about this though because in the bedroom, where he would prefer any position where he can see your face (again, because of your eyes!), he would very much give a lot of attention to your chest, kissing a fevered yet delicately wet path from your lips down your jaw and neck until his lips are wrapped around one of your nipples, gently sucking before he eventually kisses his way back up to your lips. but outside of the bedroom, in those domestic moments where you're both cuddling on the couch and your head is laying on his chest, his hands would just be resting on the curve of your ass. he's just overall very gentle and tender with his affection (and his mouth)
DICK GRAYSON: perhaps this is also recency bias as i still have @patientofarkhamasylum's amazing fic on my mind, but while everyone does think dick would be an ass man, i think he finds much more comfort and love with his face pressed against your chest. like sarah mentioned in her fic, i think listening to your heartbeat would be incredibly grounding for him especially as things get hectic and out of control for him on patrols or cases—regardless of if it's bludhaven, gotham, or titans-related. there is something so deeply calming about falling asleep—a thing that dick actually rarely does!—with your breasts as his pillow, whether that be in bed or on the couch. i can also see him seeking out hugs like this after grueling cases, after moments where he feels like a failure clad in black and blue (in bruises and design); the idea of coming up to him at his messy desk with water in hand, knowing he probably hasn't had any since the morning, only to have him turn to you with that boyish, tired smile of his before gently pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you as his head rests on your chest, beautiful eyes looking up at you with the wonder you always look at him with before he closes them to concentrate on matching his breathing to your heart's beating. he'd probably also sneak a hand underneath your shirt and unclasp your bra if you were still wearing one at that point in the evening, just so that he can be closer to you (and you'd probably have to stop him from trying to take your shirt off too, at least while the windows to his apartment are wide and open)
and for the same reasons, i think he'd very much prefer sexual positions and acts where you're both facing one another: he's a very sentimental romantic at his foundation so there aren't many positions he favors that you're facing away from him (except for when you're riding his face ig), but these positions, like missionary or lotus, just allow him to also massage and play with your breast as he's balls deep inside you with his tongue down your throat. he generally just likes to have his hands on you in some way, both in and out of the bedroom, because being intimate with your partner like this is something that means so much to him; it's a little overwhelming how all-consuming his presence can be when you're together, but he just loves the closeness, loves being grounded while simultaneously suspended by your presence, your love, your everything
CLARK KENT: this is a guy who actively memorizing heart beats of the people he loves, i really doubt he wouldn't want to bury his face between your breasts and just listen to your heart sing. i think he would also just enjoy pressing kisses down your sternum and relish in the comforting feeling of your heart beating against his lips. clark would also find himself staring at your chest, it's not something he intentionally does though. you can be stretching at your desk after a great writing session late in the evening at his apartment, your tank top riding up slightly and the upward pull of your arms bringing your breasts together, and clark would just stare at how lovely you look like this, even if it's momentary, even if you've already put your arms down and caught the direction of his eyes placed right at your chest. or, as you're both trying to be intimate, you'd take off your shirt and his breath would hitch as if he hasn't seen you in this particular bra before, as if he hasn't seen and loved your breasts before. you'd point it out every time with a giggle and he'd be a blushing mess about it, apologizing like he did something wrong and blasphemous by just looking as if you aren't straddling his waist and staring right at his own chest too..
BRUCE WAYNE: so like he's definitely not beating the breeding kink allegations. i really do believe his happy place is sucking on your tits where i think he could genuinely spend an entire round marking your chest as he moans and pants onto your flesh while his fingers curl inside your core until you're cumming and clenching on them (and ofc he'd cum just from sucking on and biting your nipples) but here's the thing about bruce wayne: he's going to deny and abstain from his wants, desires, and yearnings, especially if it brings him even a smidge of happiness. this is a guy who often doesn't allow himself to be happy (e.g. mask of the phantasm monologue), so while he would absolutely love to spend hours or the rest of his life buried between your breasts and kissing, sucking, biting, and playing with your flesh and nipples until you're forcing him off of you (and even then, he'd beg for five more minutes which would turn into another five minutes, etc. etc.) he really would not let himself indulge unless it was solely for your pleasure
but.. even then,. he's so so clinical with sex—or, maybe not so much as clinical as he is strict in a weirdly intense and try-hard sense. the strictness really only applies to him because, to be honest, this is a guy who grades himself and his performance in bed. so, while he's doing things for your pleasure, like sucking and kissing your tits, you'll start to notice—esp if you've been intimate with him more than like three times—that he's like timing himself? that the way his tongue is moving across your nipples is oddly methodical before he moves to your other breast and does the exact same thing. it's not like it's bad but you can tell he's trying very very very hard to at least get a passing grade, except he's the one grading himself so the highest grade he's ever going to get is like a C.
that being said. if he ever allows himself to go nuts and be happy..best sex of your life. and if you're able, you'd probably end up pregnant
EXCEPTIONS / DEVIATIONS:
JASON TODD: i really do think jason is much more into thighs (and your arms!) something that his hands just naturally gravitate towards while lounging together on the couch or even while cuddling in bed. there is something very lovely to him about your thighs, and i can see him planting the most delicate kisses up and down the expanse of your thigh before he finds himself kissing your clit and tonguing at your entrance, his hands, of course, still holding onto the fullness of your thighs.
but for the sake of this spectrum, he would lean more towards tits simply because whenever you ride him, with one of your hands holding onto the headboard and another on his shoulder for stability, he can't help but take one of your breasts into his mouth and tongue at your nipple. he'd be incredibly sloppy and noncommittal with it though, as he can't pay attention for too long with how you're squeezing around him; he's just a mess underneath you, always, moaning and panting hot breath and pleads to your chest while his hands bruisingly grip your thigh and hip
JEAN-PAUL VALLEY: this man is so sad wet meow meow and generally afraid of anything remotely sexual that he would genuinely combust if he even thought of your body like that. like canonically he's the type to run away as fast as he can like an anime school girl with a nosebleed if you express sexual (or any) interest in him, and would probably explode if you kissed him on the cheek. i can't imagine what would happen if he saw you naked, but regardless i would laugh
I know ppl love the concept of baby daddy Jason Todd but I would never wish to see it actually happen in canon because there’s only one way I can see it go down in the DC writers room, and that’s that one day some person in charge of him will find his kid boring/annoying to deal with and kill them off. And you know what that ends up making Jason? Literally Just The Punisher.
the tim x skater fic might’ve been one of my fav tim fics ever 😭 i’d love to see more of those two
You guys are so sweet 🥹
I’m glad the Tim fic got a lot of love, Tim’s my favorite Robin! Now I’m planning up a new fic idea for him and skater!reader, as well as an anti hero one :] all will be revealed in time
pleazeeeeee we need more or tim x skater r i’m buzzing plezzzz
heh heh 😼 thank you for liking the story
I’m gonna be honest and let you know my writing comes at the mercy of my schedule and will to write lining up. I do plan on writing more male reader stories for Tim and other characters, and I’ve got a soft spot for Tim with civilian love interests so it’s likely!
Barbara Gordon x Fem Vigilante!Reader
Rated E (explicit)
Reader and Barbara don’t get along, reader doesn't know Barbara's gender so pronouns for Oracle change throughout the fic, reader is a brat, exhibitionism, non-consensual voyeurism (is that a thing? it is now), mirrors, nudity, humping, suggestive talk.
1863 words
With an organization as big as the Justice League, you assumed they had some kind of IT office. A couple of heroes had pretty good tech skills, and so did their allies. One in particular remained a complete mystery to you.
The Oracle.
Gotham based (because of course they were). Sometimes referred to as a she, sometimes a he, you’re not entirely sure. Their logo certainly had some kind of feminine mystique- but that could be just as much a tech bro thing. Like naming your personal assistant program Alexa. Your friend Connor seemed to trust her, so did Roy, who mentioned that Nightwing and Batman trusted them with their lives, so you figured you were in good hands.
You just wish the all-seeing Oracle, who by the way was literally seeing through some sci-fi contact lens they designed for you, wasn't such a know-it-all perfectionist.
"I told you, you shouldn't have started that explosive while you were still inside!"
His voice was deeply disguised by a heavy filter. Always was. Apparently who needed to hear her real voice was on a need to know basis, and you didn't make the cut. As if the Justice League didn't feel like some exclusive club already, despite all the efforts Superman was making with his new mandate to give freelance and part-time members their own lockers, grab bags included. That was off-topic though.
"If I didn't set it off right then, they would've all gotten away. Exits blocked off now."
"With you trapped inside," the cold voice reminds you.
You sigh in defeat, looking around what's left of the room you've trapped yourself in. They were right, as usual.
Storage room, or maybe a sad bathroom? Theres some cleaners, rounds- but no arms, a utility sink, a mop, rope- not even the good kind. You felt sorry for whatever henchmen worked this operation. Their boss was obviously skimping considering the generic brand cleaners and cheap rope.
"Did you send me on this bust of a mission on purpose? To get me out of the picture?" You ask.
"Yes, I wasted my precious time and valuable resources just for you."
Ouch. Even with the voice changing filter the sarcasm is sharp.
“You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Oracle argues, in an ironically annoyed voice. It didn’t convince you much.
“I think you’re brash, stubborn, and don’t think ahead- but I don’t hate you. If I hated you, I wouldn’t be calling a rescue team for you, which by the way, is pulling heroes and resources that could have been saved for another emergency.”
If this was a show of kindness you wonder what actual hatred from the Oracle felt like.
“And how long until the clean up team is getting here?”
“Four to five hours-“
“Five hours?!”
Shit. You didn’t mean to yell through your comms, and you can already tell how annoyed Oracle is by the way her line is dead silent (most likely having muted both lines as soon as you started yelling), but how the hell were you going to entertain yourself in this tiny closet for five hours?
You spot a sliver of cracked silver on the far wall.
Walking forward, you pull the cloth atop the object off and find a mirror. It’s cracked- must have been placed here to throw out later. Not like the operation in this base would be able to anymore.
You breathe on the mirror and draw out a little smiley face through the fog just to amuse yourself. As it fades against the surface of the mirror, you take a good look at yourself.
Your face is swiped with scars from fighting, hair a mess, and a good layer dirt and dust clings to a layer of sweat on your skin.
Then you look at your body.
When you joined the Justice League (as a freelance/reserve member, but even so) they had given your costume an upgrade.
Your dark utilitarian clothing had been lined with bullet proof, flexible material, clinging to your skin. It was breathable, but still not the comfiest.
You wonder.
It must have been over a day since you’ve taken this uniform off. And you were stuck in this place for another five hours. The enemies trapped in the building still wouldn’t be able to locate you, according to Oracle’s report.
Your hand moves towards the buttoning on the side, and reaches for the zipper tucked underneath.
The material peels off you, and you feel a sense of satisfaction at the feeling of air against your bare skin. The top half of your costume hangs at your waist, leaving you in a sports bra.
“What are you doing?”
A voice interrupts your undressing. You hiss a swear through your teeth, forgetting that Oracle can literally see anything you can through your contacts. You look around, trying not to look at yourself in the mirror, before deciding the ceiling was very interesting right now.
“I just- it’s been a long day.”
Your face heats up in embarrassment as you try to explain yourself.
“You realize I’m still monitoring you, right?”
That much was obvious, you think, but don’t say out loud.
“You’re mature, I hope so at least, and I’m stuck in a storage closet in the middle of nowhere with no air conditioning. I think you can handle a little skin.”
There’s no response on the other line. You have no idea if they’re still watching or if they’ve turned their gaze away. Was he watching, or were you just one of hundreds of other screens?
Could you rile her up?
They acted like you were an insignificant agent they were stuck babysitting, yet they did catch you in the middle of changing.
Slowly, you turn your back to the mirror, and undo your pants.
Your underwear was far from sexy, moisture-wicking cloth that you decided to wisely save up for after you chaffed last mission. But knowing Oracle could be watching kind of made you excited.
“Just hot,” you repeat.
You kick off the last of your leggings clinging to your ankles, and turn, giving a full view of yourself in the mirror.
"Can't this wait until you get back to a base?"
"I've got five hours to spare Oracle, you told me yourself."
"Technically it could be four-"
They try to correct you, but you remember the utility sink in the corner. Finding a decently clean cloth, you run some water on it, then move back to the mirror.
You press the cool cloth against your skin, wiping a layer of dirt off you, some of the water running down you, dampening your sports bra, and revealing clean bare skin underneath.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
An accusation. One that’s true, but that doesn’t matter more than the fact that she could have ended this sooner, but continued to watch you.
The edge of your lips curl into a mischievous smile. You may be staring at your own face, but you know, when you focus on yourself, dead on, you’re staring at her.
“Yknow, I think I missed a spot.”
Your hands dig under the band of your bra and lift it, revealing your breasts in an unceremonious tug upwards.
Silence. Not even static from background noise picked up by her mic.
You’re not sure if the silence indicates that you’ve been shut down or that Oracle was watching intently, maybe it’s pathetic, but you kind of hope it’s the latter. Because Oracle always had something to say, and for once, you’ve rendered them speechless.
You give him one last chance to answer.
You press your palms against the base of your breasts, slowly massaging them upwards, each finger rolling over your nipples.
Finally, they speak up.
“You realize these recordings are saved. Sometimes other members rewatch them to go over strategy and double check overlooked details?”
She tests you.
“You would save this for the JL’s personal spank bank, wouldn’t you?”
You test her back.
You imagine their mouth pressing into a thin line, the way they don’t respond to your taunt.
“Let’s say… the latter part of this recording gets deleted. Are you going to keep acting like an exhibitionist, or will you stop?”
“That depends on whether you’ll keep watching or not.”
“And what if I do?”
Direct. In a way you don’t expect from her. The heat rising to your face betrays your carefree tone, and you’ve given her a front row seat to it.
“Just like in the field, you talk big but don’t have the skills to back it up. You think this is something that can phase me?”
Your breath hitches at their tone. Authoritative, but not nagging. They were serious.
“I’ve been a vigilante longer than most of you freelancers. I've dealt with faulty equipment, being berated and underestimated by my superiors, overestimating myself to a severe degree, and much, much worse. Whatever this is you're doing, this little strip tease you're giving me? I can assure you, you're not the one coming out of this feeling like you're the one on top."
Unconsciously, your thumbs press and tug at your nipples, and you aren't sure if it's the touching or berating that's getting them hard.
"I could have caught you with your hand in your pants, and it wouldn't have meant anything if I didn't give you a reaction, would it? At the end of the day, it's you who's constantly bothering me. Checking in on whether I approve or disapprove of another one of your faulty strategies."
You back up into a table corner and find yourself rocking yourself on the edge, not taking your eyes off the mirror as Oracle continues to go off on you.
"Face it rookie, you're the one obsessed with me."
A moan slips out of your mouth, causing you to blush again. It was ridiculous, getting off on Oracle chewing you out, but something about it just made you feel weak in the knees.
Shallow breathing continues to escape you, Oracle hearing every beat of it. She has you cornered, and you can hear the glee in her voice as she continues.
"I hope you know how ridiculous you look right now. Just be glad no one but me knows what you're doing to yourself in that room right now. Now be a good girl and finish up."
You jerk your hand away from your breasts and towards your swollen clit, Barbara seeing each ministration of your middle finger, as you hump yourself against the table.
It's not long before you come, your other hand reaching back to hold you up, as your upper back arches. From her point of view, you've started looking up at the ceiling, but she didn't need the perfect view to know she's gotten you off.
Tired, you lay yourself back against the table, catching your breath.
The view of the partially caved in ceiling reminds you, you're stuck in an enemy base. Your post-nut clarity floods your mind with common sense. Naked, in some villain's closet, with Oracle watching.
Tim Drake x Male Skater!Reader
T rating
Older teens/College aged characters, skateboarding, Tim Drake being a narc, fake-out make-out trope, mosh pits, bisexual who doesn't know he has game.
1233 words
Death and taxes were considered the two known constants of life, but after being a vigilante so long, Tim thinks drugs should definitely take that third spot. There was another up and coming drug ring in Gotham looking to fill in the space of the operation he and Batman had just busted last week. Apparently it was made of the same stuff Scarecrow’s last model of fear gas was made of… seriously, what happened to just weed?
Naturally he was doing reconnaissance, but not at some shady warehouse or underground lab. He was at the park. There was a festival, the kind his dad used to complain about. Rowdy college students and speakers that made the leaves of the tress shake. There were live shows, a few ramps set up, and a couple of other booths. It was a great place to meet people. It was also a perfect place to push supply onto a new and unsuspecting crowd that already smelled like vape smoke and cheap beer.
He was trying to blend in, even brought his skateboard, apparently it would make him look more inconspicuous. For a moment, he wonders if he'd be here normally, had he pursued college and not vigilantism. It's been a while since he's been to a festival in the city, and he can't help but feel distant from everyone.
The general atmosphere wouldn’t deter him though. He was focused. In fact, he was so focused on his mission that he didn't even realize the other skater coming up on the turn.
The crash wasn't pretty. He thinks your knee might have knocked directly into his stomach- your limbs twisting and falling onto the concrete together.
"Shit! Sorry-"
Despite how frustrated he feels, the first thing he does is move to help you up. At the very least, you don’t look angry.
His attempt to get up is met with a pained grunt on your end, but after untangling himself from you, he notices you were both lucky enough to get by without anything more serious than scraped shins.
“No, it’s my bad, I should’ve watched where I was going.”
He looks you over again, as you take off your helmet and shake your head side to side to air yourself out.
And now he’s staring.
But so are you.
“I haven’t seen you here before... New skater?” You ask, a polite smile gracing your features, like you're holding yourself back saying something.
“Not really, just haven’t done it in a while.”
You're dressed in effortless street fashion. Casual loose fitting clothes and a confident stance that tells him you belong here. And he... realizes he wore a polo to a skate festival.
To be fair, layering a long t shirt with his current clothes is exactly what he wore when he used to skate more. But what he did wear was a little too preppy for the current crowd.
Giving him a once over, you continue.
"Are you... looking for someone?"
He’d really like to keep talking to you, he would. You’re kind of cute, and you seem to have a good attitude despite being crashed into, but he’s starting to watch his perp fade into the crowd.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll catch up with you later?” He says, taking off, leaving no room for you to reply.
It takes a bit of pushing and snaking through the crowd, but he finds the dealer again.
He watches as the man sneaks into the back of a food truck. Bingo.
Just as he’s about to follow, a hand catches his shoulder.
Your hand.
“No offense dude, but if you’re some kind of narc, it’s pretty obvious.”
Narc?
Well, you weren’t technically wrong, but it’s not like Tim was following any college freshman planning to drink while underage. His guy had known ties to Gotham’s mob, as well as a whole laundry list of other bad business.
“It’s not like that, really.” He holds his hands up in defense.
“Oh yeah? Then why were you tailing that guy who was obviously- whoa, that dude is strapped.”
Tim’s head whips around to look at said ‘dude’ you commented on. Looks like the dealer he was following has some backup. He doesn’t enjoy how this is going, especially in a place as public as this, so he takes your hand and pulls you into the crowd. Unfortunately, his lead was now tailing the both of you.
The last thing he wanted was to rope a civilian into this, but now they've seen you with him.
“Is there gonna be a shooting? Are you on the run? Are you a cop? A secret agent-“
His hand covers your mouth, and if he weren't so annoyed he'd feel more self conscious about how clammy his hand was.
“Shut up and help me find a place to hide!”
Okay, he didn’t mean to yell at you, but he was freaking out a little bit.
Maybe that's the reason why he doesn’t expect you to suddenly take the lead and pull him to a corner next to one of the stages. He notices you weave expertly through a sea of thrashing festival go-ers, some occasionally bumping into him and not seeming to care, and he wonders if you've got any professional experience in vigilantism with the way you dodge.
He shakes those thoughts. You were probably just used to this crowd, literally.
He mentally berates himself for not wearing earplugs to a festival. He can feel the sound from the speaker thud against his rib cage.
You take a cap off of someone too lost in the music and places it on his head, to which Tim raises an eyebrow.
“Are you gonna give this back later?”
“Are you gonna arrest me for it?”
You have a teasing grin on your lips that he wants to swipe off, preferably with his own. No- he has to focus on the mission.
“I told you, I’m not a narc-“
“No, just suicidal.”
“-And this little disguise isn’t enough to hide us.“
“We’re two stupid kids on the edges of a mosh pit. How aren’t we blending in?”
“Well first of all, they’ve seen both of our faces, so-“
He’s cut off.
The next thing he recognizes is the faint taste of corn dog, beer, and artificial green apple. Not the nicest combination, but he finds he doesn't mind it as much as he thought he would. He shivers feeling your hand guide the back of his neck towards you, your thumb tracing the edge of his hairline.
And of course, you're a good kisser.
He almost forgets to check on the other guys. Almost. Opening his eye, he peeks, watching the man with the gun, walk off hurriedly, unable to find you two, probably because your heads were currently smashed together.
When you break off, tilting your head to look at him, he almost chases you, leaning in for a second before getting his head back in the game.
“That was, uh, yeah. Good plan.”
You snicker.
“Told you we’d blend in. Just be careful on not getting shot up.”
He nods, stupidly, drifting through the crowd backwards, as he keeps his eyes on you, before someone elbowing him to the rhythm of a shitty foo fighters cover reminds him to focus.
Man with gun, tattoo on his neck, rectangular shades-
Summary: When Barbara and Cass start training a new Batgirl, Stephanie isn't sure what to think. You're perfect, everything she wants to be and everything she could never have, and your arrival forces Stephanie to confront whether she wants to be you, or be with you
froggi yaps -> lowk this has been sitting in my drafts foreverr because i know it won't do as well as my other dc fics and that made me sad >.< but i love steph and hopefully the other 12 steph enjoyers will like this <3
If you asked Stephanie Brown who Batgirl was, she’d say it depends.
Barbara’s Batgirl was strong, brave, and cunning. A pathfinder, a wonderful hero who saved countless lives and gave everything she had to the life. She was a pioneer, a champion who pathed the way for the rest of them.
Cass’s Batgirl was different, a fresh take on an old hero. Though she’s quiet, though she’s vicious in her fighting, she’s still heroic. She brings a calm sort of comfort wherever she goes.
But if you asked her about herself, she’s not sure what she’d say. She’s a civilian amongst gods, someone dressed in a knockoff costume playing pretend while the others do the real heroic work. A cheap imitation of the real thing.
As far as hero-ing goes for her, she already feels that she doesn’t have much going on. Not that she needs the reminder.
Entering the Batcave, already exhausted from her lack of sleep and the incredibly long day she’s had, she’s not sure what to expect. Maybe the usual arguing amongst Bats, Tim and Damian trading insults like a normal day while Cass sits quietly and reads in the corner.
Definitely not the scene that comes to play out in front of her—Barbara and Cass teaching someone new to spar, someone she’s never seen before who is very much dressed in a rendition of the Batgirl costume. She blinks, rubbing her eyes like the scene will disappear when she does.
It doesn’t.
Her lips purse into a frown. Another Batgirl? Something ugly twists in her chest. She’d fought like hell for this mantle, had done it all on her own against the will of pretty much everybody, and here’s someone new, wearing it with the support of both her predecessors.
She shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. No, that’s not fair. She forces a smile, stepping up to the mat to watch.
She watches quietly for a few minutes while you trade blows with Cass, watches you fight as hard as you can to keep up with Cass who’s very clearly restraining herself. Cass sweeps a leg, taking you down to the mat easily, your mask bouncing off your face.
You squeak, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head where it hit the mat.
Steph’s eyes widen slightly. You took that hit like a champ, and now, seeing you without the mask, she can’t help but think how pretty you are. That twistiness inside of her only grows heavier.
“Hey, good timing,” Babs calls, waving her over.
Steph tugs down her hood and mask. “Hey, guys.” She strains to keep her voice as cheery as usual, “who’s this?”
Cass introduces the two of you, and Steph can’t help but note the way she already seems warmed up to you. How long has this been going on?
You smile and step forward, offering her a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you!!”
“Hi.” She takes your hand, that same strained smile on her face, and shakes it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
She can’t help but notice the softness of your palm against hers—not yet calloused by night after night of hard fighting and acrobatics—and the purple sheen on your nails, almost perfectly matched to her costume. Her hand lingers just a moment too long.
“She’s helping us with this drug trafficking operation at the docks,” Barbara explains, and Steph wonders if she can see through the facade she’s putting on. “Cass and I are helping her brush up on her fighting skills.”
She nods thinly, “right.”
“The Batgirl thing is just temporary,” you explain. “I just needed something to conceal my identity and Babs—”
Stephanie winces at the way the nickname rolls off your tongue, like you’ve always been friends.
“—just had this one laying around.” You finish.
You do a little twirl in the costume, the long cape splaying out as you do. Steph can’t help but look you up and down, examining the way the costume seems to fit and accentuate every curve on your body. Her eyes widen slightly. It fits you like a glove.
The three of you get back to your training, leaving Steph to watch on the sidelines. Slowly, she edges her way out until she’s back outside in the Gotham rain.
If you asked Stephanie now who Batgirl was—her version at least—she could only tell you one thing: replaceable.
The Batgirl thing, it seems, is not just temporary, and Stephanie can’t seem to escape you.
She’s gotten used to your presence now—the way you linger nearby on missions, the way you spend more time with Cass than without, the way your eyes occasionally meet hers only for you to look away quickly like it never happened. She’s never quite sure if you’re judging her, or trying to get her attention, or some other third thing she hasn’t thought of yet.
It would almost be sweet, if it didn’t have her feeling so self-conscious.
It’s after patrol one night, the summer sun just beginning to kiss the horizon of Gotham City, when you catch up with her.
“Steph, hey, Steph, wait up!”
She’s tempted, if only for a moment, to speed up and pretend she hasn’t heard. And yet, for some reason, she can’t. You’ve never been anything but perfectly nice to her, and this jealous mean girl act of hers is so high school.
She tugs down her mask, turning to face you. “What’s up?”
“I think Cass and I were going to this cafe this morning for breakfast, do you want to come?” You smile awkwardly, tilting your head to the side, “they have amazing coffee.”
She considers it for a moment, gears whirring in her head. Some coffee and breakfast would be amazing right now, as well as some time with Cass. But you’ll be there, like a constant reminder of everything she isn’t, and she knows she won’t be able to keep up her positive mood the whole time.
She flashes you a weak grin, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”
“Oh,” disappointment flashes behind your eyes. “No worries, sleep well.”
You turn on your heel to leave, approaching the edge of the old warehouse rooftop you’ve been standing on, when suddenly you look over your shoulder. The golden light of the rising sun reflects off your skin, making your eyes glow and your skin shimmer. You look so pretty like this, Steph can’t help but be a little grateful she only sees you at night.
“I’ll get Cass to text you the address,” you say, that familiar hope back on your face, “y’know, in case you change your mind.”
“Thanks.”
Despite what she said, an hour later Steph finds herself freshly showered and digging through her closet.
She pulls out a casual pink sundress and tries it on, standing in the mirror and examining herself. She frowns at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the dress like that’ll make it fit better. It doesn’t.
Discarding it in the growing pile of clothes on her bed, Steph goes back to the drawing more. She pulls different garments out, trying them on only to drop them back in the pile. She always never struggles this much getting ready, least of all for a casual breakfast with friends.
Sighing, she lets herself flop onto her bed, sitting on her mountain of clothes. It’s just a casual outing, Steph, she tells herself. Just pick a damned outfit,
But she can’t, because all she can think about is what you’re going to be thinking. Are you going to look at her with those eyes like you usually do? She wonders what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll be dressed casual or cute or comfortable. Knowing you, it’s probably some perfect combination of the three.
Her eyes flutter closed as she pictures it. You, wearing some comfy practical outfit, hair perfect, sipping on some fancy drink from the cafe. She thinks about how your face will light up when she walks into the cafe, the way you’ll smile and wave at her when she approaches the table.
“Glad you can make it,” you’ll probably say, or some other line of the sort.
Her heart speeds up at the thought, stomach doing a whirlwind. You’re so…perfect, and here she is, sitting in her mess of a room, unable to pick a damned outfit. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
Tears prick at her eyes. One minute, that’s all she asks. One minute where you’re not constantly on her mind, where she’s not constantly wondering about what you’re doing, who you’re with or how you’ll replace her next.
She doesn’t end up going to the cafe.
Steph’s not sure how she ended up here.
The two of you, trapped in a burning warehouse, surrounded by low level lackeys. She’s not even sure who they work for, their outfits a mess of colours and patterns that she can’t quite make out through the steadily thickening smoke.
Your back is pressed to hers, the warmth of your body seeping through both of your costumes, acting as a comfort. At least, it would be a comfort, if the two of you were in any other situation.
The masked men close in, the roar of the distant fire burning gets louder. Steph’s nerves catch fire, buzzing with the impending promise of action. She bounces on her heels, loosening up her muscles just like she was taught. One more step, one more step and she’s ready.
The heel of the closest man inches forward. Steph pounces. All hell breaks loose.
It’s a blur of action, of fighting her way through the seemingly neverending wave of goons. Her muscles ache, every punch and kick only making the burning under her skin worse. The warehouse gets hotter, the smoke rises, clogging her senses.
Behind her somewhere, the sounds of your own violence echo off the walls. You’ve always been a good fighter—probably better than her—but something in the back of her mind buzzes with worry. Like something bad is going to happen, like she needs to look out for you.
She shakes it away, diving back into the action, trying to ignore the constant nagging in the back of her mind.
She finishes off the last of her men, freezing at the sudden silence. She can’t hear you fighting anymore, can’t see you through the smoky haze. Her heart hammers in her chest. Where on Earth could you have gone?
One second. That’s how long she’s distracted for, maybe less. But one second is all it takes for someone to come up behind her, a forearm pressed over her throat and a leg hooking over her ankles. She’s taken quickly to the ground, back thudding hard against the hard ground.
Stars explode behind her eyes, the wind knocked out of her. Through the haze, she just manages to make out the masked goon above her and the gun barrel shoved inches from her face. She cringes, bracing herself to duck and roll, to do anything but lay here and take it.
And just like that, he’s gone, slammed into the ground by a familiar figure. You’re breathing heavily above Steph, eyes wide behind your mask as you reach a hand to help her up.
She grabs you, letting you tug her to the feet, and the way your hand lingers on hers reminds her of the day you met. Your jaw is slack, worry written across every feature. Steph blinks, letting the air come back to her lungs.
“T-thanks,” she gasps.
“We need to get out of here.”
Steph nods curtly, letting you tug her after you as you search for the exit, only dropping her hand when you brace yourself against the emergency exit and shove hard. Cold night air greets her, filling her burning lungs with sweet relief.
She’s dizzy from the smoke, dizzy from the hit she took. Her lips purse into frown. It’s surely going to leave a big, ugly bruise. Goodbye sundresses.
Standing on the rooftop of the burning warehouse, she watches you approach the edge, scoping out the ground below for any sign of the goons who almost overwhelmed you.
You turn to face her. “Tim called the fire department, they’re on the way.”
She braces her hands on her knees, still lightheaded from the fall. The fall. She forces herself to stand up straight, peeling off her mask and hood. “Where did you go back there?”
“Huh?”
“You—you disappeared, it distracted me. Where did you go?”
She cocks a hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. She was too busy worrying about you, about your safety, to take care of herself. If it weren’t for your impromptu disappearance, she wouldn’t be coughing her lungs up like an amateur right now.
You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “One of them tried to get away and—”
“You couldn’t have told me that?” She snaps, walking towards you, closing the gap until you’re inches away. “We’re partners, you’re supposed to tell me these things.”
“I didn’t think I had time!”
“Or you just wanted the glory for yourself,” she spits bitterly.
You pause, lips parting in confusion. She tugs at her hair. Even now, a slight cut on your cheek and sweaty from battle, you still look perfectly cute. She’s sure she must look a complete mess, sweaty and dirty and bruised.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She tucks a sweaty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nothing, just—nevermind.”
You shake your head. “No, what did you mean?”
“I mean it’s—it’s—”
Frustration bubbles up in her chest, muscles pulling taut like she’s about to enter another fight. She’s not even sure where she’s going for it, what word vomit she’s about to shove in your face now. You’re inches away, staring at her like a deer in the damn headlights, and she’s the lone car on the road with the choice to hit you or not.
“It’s what?”
“It’s you! Always being so—so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you and—and—”
And that urge buzzes beneath her fingertips, that urge she’s always felt just beneath the surface. The one she felt that day you met, when she’d had that fear you’re replacing her. The one she’s felt every day since when you’re around, the same one she gets before a big fight.
She raises a hand and you don’t even flinch, looking up at her with those damn wide eyes. She’s not sure who’s more confused by what she’s doing—you, or her.
And then she’s kissing you, the taste of smoke heavy on both of you. Her hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb swiping over the length of your cheekbone. It’s hot and tense and she feels more that she’s trying to eat you alive than kiss you.
She pulls away, taking a big jump back like she’s been burned.
“Steph,” you breathe her name.
She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “No.”
“Stephanie—”
“No, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She’s shaking slightly, her voice breaking on the words, “I don’t even—I don’t want to see you right now. Okay? Just…just forget it.”
She spins on her heel, bolting over to the far end of the rooftop. She can still taste you on her tongue, like smoke and leftover chapstick and something else buried beneath. She wipes at her mouth and the taste still lingers, follows her down the fire escape at the edge of the roof, chases after her on the way home.
It’s only when she’s in the shower, desperately trying to wash it away, that she feels she can breathe again. What on Earth was that?
Your soap isn’t enough to wash away the smell of smoke on your body, or the taste of Steph’s chapstick lingering in your mouth. You stand under the water for what must be an hour, scrub every inch of your body twice, and still, it doesn’t help. Stephanie’s voice still rings in the back of your head.
You disappeared, it distracted me.
You just wanted the glory for yourself.
Always being so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you.
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see you right now.
Coming from Steph of all people, someone you’ve looked up to, pined after, tried to forge a friendship with, the words hurt. They leave you cold and numbed, a new weight in your chest that wasn’t there before the mission.
She’s always been the sun in your eyes, warm and scalding, bright and beautiful, painful to look at. You’ve always gravitated closer to her, done your best to accommodate her, and this is where you end up. With a bitter kiss and more distance between you than there was to start.
You blink the thoughts away, staring into the steam rising from your kettle on the stove. Your phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number popping up on your screen.
Hey, it’s Steph. Can we talk?
You pick up your phone, contemplating opening the message and answering, and yet you can’t. What do you even say to her right now?
You turn off your phone. Let her sit with it for a while.
A while turns into a week. A week of unanswered texts and calls, of attempts by Barbara and Tim and Cass to get the two of you to talk. You shirk your duties as Batgirl, spend as much time as you can locked away at home, far far away from your double life.
Still, Stephanie isn’t one to give up.
The knock at your door comes early in the morning, so early, it rouses you from your sleep. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up in bed, the pink hue of the rising sun greeting you.
Another knock at your door sends you stumbling down the hall, slippers barely on your feet. You squint through the peephole, stomach syncing when you see who it is.
Steph stands there, dressed in low rise jeans that suit her just a little too well and a baby tee. Her hair is still wet, curling slightly at the ends where it’s started to dry. She must have showered and ran over here right after patrol.
You sigh, turning away from the door, fully intent on ignoring her.
“I can hear you,” she calls.
You stop in your tracks.
“I know I screwed up,” she says, “please just hear me out.”
“I thought you didn’t want to see me.”
“You know that’s not what I meant, I almost just died, c’mon.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath. Deep down, you know she has a point. You almost wish she didn’t, if only so you could stop seeing it from her side.
Despite yourself, you turn around and unlock the door, inviting her in.
She looks sad, undereyes sallow like she hasn’t been sleeping properly. She steps on the backs of her shoes, peeling them off before falling you inside.
“Do you want something to drink?”
She shakes her head, blonde strands falling into her face. You settle in on the chair in your living room, Steph settling in on the far end of your couch—the distance between you hurts, but you’re not sure you could take it right now if she was sitting any closer.
“I’m sorry,” she starts.
You nod, tight lipped.
“About everything.”
Everything. She doesn’t say it outright, but you can hear what she hasn’t said: I’m sorry for kissing you.
“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was scared and-and frustrated, and I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair.”
You always take it out on me, you’re tempted to say. It lingers on your tongue like her lipgloss from the other night, heavy and toxic and yet filled with something sweet.
“It’s hard, you know?” Her voice cracks on the word, pretty eyes brimmed with tears, “I’ve been Batgirl a while. I-I fought to be Batgirl even when nobody wanted me to be.”
You remember Barbara telling you about that, heard whispers about it from Tim. It was strange to you, you couldn’t possibly imagine a world where Steph isn’t Batgirl. Someone as wonderful and capable as her.
“But then you show up and it’s like, what’s even special about me anymore? And you do everything so well, you’re so—so perfect all the damn time, and everyone loves you and it’s like…what’s even left for me?”
Tears brim at your lashes and Steph’s face drops. She frowns, reaching forward like she can stop them from coming. And then you’re laughing, the sweet feeling of relief flooding your chest.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make yo—”
“Do you think I don’t feel that way?”
Her lips part, shock clear on her face. “No,” she mumbles out.
“Do you think I don’t find you perfect and capable and honestly, really fucking intimidating?” You shake your head, “you left some big shoes to fill, Stephanie and—and it hasn’t been easy.”
She laughs, equally as wet and filled with emotion as your own. “You really think so?”
You rise to your feet, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down next to her. She’s so close, you can smell her strawberry scented body wash and the vanilla lotion she put over top of it.
“Yes, god.” You giggle, and it tastes like relief, “I wish you would’ve just told me this before. We could’ve had this talk a long time ago.”
And she laughs with you, the sound like heaven and sunlight and everything you thought you could never reach, and her laugh makes you laugh more. You let your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back on the couch, ribs starting to ache from the laughing you’re doing.
And then she’s cupping your face and kissing away the laughter, vanilla flavoured chapstick heavy on your tongue. She moves against you, body pressing to yours and pressing you further into the couch.
She pulls away, cheeks flushed. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
You press a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in again. “You might need to do that a few more times.”
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The Way to a Vigilante's Heart is Through His Stomach (Part 1)
Jason Todd/Civilian!reader
Gender neutral reader
T rating
Lowkey a comedy, you're just trying to do your job, Jason is a menace
1,636 words
Part 2
Nobody told him there was a stupid event today.
In retrospect, it made sense why Bruce reconvened at the Batcave and ended his patrol so early tonight. Everyone was also used to Jason going off on his own once those brief meetings were done, so naturally, when Jason turned back around to grab a snack from upstairs, no one had stopped him.
The manor has tons of secret ins and outs— one in particular leads to a hidden doorway right outside the kitchen. Entering, he sees a couple of trays and little pastries laid out. Perfect. Alfred was practicing his baking again and he knows that the butler wouldn't mind him tasting some of his work. Taking off his helmet and placing it on the table, he digs in on the finger food.
That's when he realizes he's not alone.
There's shuffling at the doorway to the kitchen and he's about to give a quick explanation to one of the many snitches around the house when he finds himself caught by...
someone.
You look back at him, freezing at the doorway of the kitchen like a startled deer about to get hit by a car.
Slowly, he picks up his helmet, and moves it back onto his head.
You recognize him instantly.
Everyone in Gotham knew who Red Hood was. A vigilante in the most basic of terms. One night he might be saving someone from a shooter, another night he could be bombing the city. And tonight? You just saw his face.
A million thoughts run through your head in this moment. You curse god, berate yourself for thinking you were safe moving from a diner job to a supposedly bougie catering company, wonder if you were gonna be able to see your cat tomorrow, wonder if your roommate remembered to feed your cat tonight...
By instinct you run. That was obviously the wrong choice, because he sprints after you, and quickly catches up.
In a situation like this, your catering tray means nothing to you, company property be damned. You take the silver platter and toss it at him like an Amazon and her discus. Except you're no Amazon, and the cheap tray doesn't do much but clatter to the ground with a loud metallic ring when he dodges.
"What do you— mmph!"
You find yourself pinned between him and the dark wood panel of the hallway as he places a hand over your mouth.
"Don't even think about scream— fuck! Did you just bite my hand?" He hisses, shaking said hand out to the side to mitigate the pain.
"Help! Someone help me!" You don't hesitate. Maybe it's a death wish, but considering he hasn't even whipped out a gun yet, you're taking any chances of survival you can.
That's when you feel it. Cold metal wrapped around your wrist, then a tug. You stumble forward, into him, as he places a rag he grabbed from your apron into your mouth to gag you again as he pulls you away from the kitchen entrance.
You can hear one of your coworkers walk upstairs, calling for you.
Inside one of the many rooms of Wayne Manor is where he takes you, turning the lock. It's empty, because again, it seems your luck was absolutely shit today.
He turns looking down at you.
"I'm gonna take the gag out of your mouth, and as long as you don't scream, I'm not going to hurt you."
You look back at him, clear doubt on your features, but you nod.
Despite the fact you’re stuck in a room with a masked lunatic, you stay silent. Mostly silent. You attempt to spit out some of the cloth fibers stuck on your tongue.
"Who are you?" He asks, because apparently this was now an interrogation.
"Who am I?" You hiss, "Who are- what the hell are you doing here?"
"I was trying to get a snack, until you showed up."
Your eye twitches.
"Snack? At Wayne Manor? Can't you get takeout like a normal person?"
He pauses, and even through the helmet you can tell he feels called out by your observation.
"...I like the way the butler here cooks."
Why was that so specific?
"So what? You sneak into a high profile party just to grab some cookies?"
"I didn't exactly know there was a high profile party tonight!" He argues back at you.
You know you're pushing your luck right now, but come on. This guy is completely ridiculous, violent vigilante or not.
"Do you have a list of all socialites butlers and private chefs, or something? Do you break into St Cloud's penthouse too?"
"Maybe I do."
What! The! Hell!
"Well, I hate to tell you this, but none of those puff pastries were the butler's! It was my company's! So you didn't even get a bite of Bruce Wayne's butler's cooking!" Survival instincts be damned, you just wanted to spite this guy at this point.
"Really? They're not bad," he says, a pleasantly surprised tone running through his helmet's voice filter. It was something you definitely didn't expect because you're not sure how to take the compliment.
"Well. Thanks. I actually helped cook some of those."
"It's good that you can cook, because you definitely don't have any talent in running."
If this asshole wasn't built like a brick wall and armed to the teeth, you'd smack him right now.
"I'll make a deal with you, if you give me an entire tray to go, and you don't tell anyone I was here, I'll let you go."
Your eyes narrow at him in suspicion.
"You're smart not to take my word for it, but you don't have much of a choice right now. Either you let me walk away or I knock you out and make you look like an idiot who tripped over the hallway runner."
Because of course adding a hurt ego on top of a hurt body added to his threat.
"Fine, but I'm not gonna enjoy it."
"Of course you won't."
He keeps to his word though, and unlocks the door. Quietly, more quiet than you expected a man of his frame to move, he ushers you towards the kitchen. There's a small crowd of your coworkers just around the corner, probably looking for you and what happened to you.
You feel his hands on your shoulders, and the low sound of his voice close to your ear.
"I've uncuffed you. You're going to walk over to them and blame your accident on the dog dragging you off. Then you're going to ask for a quick break where you'll bring me the goods."
Then he pushes you forward.
You turn around to find him, but the bastard disappeared.
The sound of your shoes padding against the floor cause the group to turn towards you.
"We were just looking for you! Someone heard a scream, are you alright?"
You think, just for a second, before opening your mouth. You could tell them everything that happened. That the Red Hood was here. That he gagged you. That they should call GCPD and turn on the bat signal.
You open your mouth.
"Sorry, I got spooked by the dog here. Then it tugged me down the hallway to play. He's... surprisingly friendly."
A few of them laugh at that.
"Yeah, apparently the youngest one owns like 50 animals."
"Oh I heard about that, guess you can have that many pets if you're a rich kid."
They devolve into chatter before your manager reminds you all that now they know you're safe, they need to get back out there and serve and cook for the party outside.
You're not quite safe yet though.
True to your word, you exit out the back door of the kitchen, into the open night air.
Wayne Manor's backyard was more like a personal park. There was a well maintained lawn and garden that stretched out into the darkness. It seems as though it wasn't open to the party tonight though, the lights that lined the pathway off blending into the night.
"Took you long enough."
You jump at the voice.
"Careful, you have something I'm interested in."
He points to the little baggie of spanakopitas in your hands.
"You're making this feel like a drug deal."
He snickers at that.
"If this were a drug deal I would've shot you."
Maybe that should've scared you, but at this point, you're a little over his bullshit and ready to get back to work.
He lifts the helmet off of him again, and you can see his face.
He's fit, not that you couldn't see that from his actual build, but the chiseled jawline certainly doesn't let you forget it. There's a few scars running across his face too. Some of them more faded than others. Instead of feeling repulsed, you can't help but think it sort of... suits him.
You shake that thought.
He opens the baggie, lifting one of the pastries to his mouth and chews, getting crumbs over his chin and his dark shirt.
"Not bad, maybe I'll have to hire you myself."
"Please don't."
He lets out a dangerously loud cackle at your immediate response and seems to humor in the way you look around like a paranoid criminal. As if feeding him made you an accessory in his other crimes.
"Thanks, and don't forget, you might've seen my face, but I know where you work."
He jabs a finger at your very clear nametag.
Then as suddenly as he appeared, he vanishes into the dark lawn.
You could try to keep track of him, report where he was headed now that he's gone, but your gut instinct tells you that's more trouble than it's worth.
Besides, what are the chances you're ever gonna meet him again?
Either he is too busy or you may not be making it out of this one. If you do somehow make it out of the circumstances surrounding Bruce Wayne alive, you've become a Gotham Rogue. Sorry champ, I hear the Arkham food is better than Blackgate at least.
Dick:
He is mentally fighting through twelve layers of emotional repression about whether he should allow himself to be happy with you, and just when he finally shows you a straightforward sign of interest, DC editorial decides he should sleep with one of his exes.
Barbara:
She's funny, cute, and brilliant. Your first couple of dates are perfect, until she starts spending less time with you. She has work. She needs to watch over her colleague tonight. Another colleague wants to talk to her and she needs to see them- she's practically her daughter! Slowly her life goes back to duty, and you don't want to settle for second place.
Jason:
He's trying his hardest to disappear as you try to flirt with him. He eventually decides to give it a shot. You're wonderful and patient, and the sex is great, but he still ghosts you after. Despite him being the one who leaves, he considers you 'the one that got away.' DC editorial kills him again.
Tim:
He’s putting you in a limbo of should I tell them about my secret identity or not? Additionally, do you really think either of you are going to be written with a shred personality if you’re dating modern comics Tim?
Steph:
She makes her interest in you straightforward. She goes for what she wants, and you're it. You two flirt a little, and get somewhere decent, but through a series of miscommunications you've somehow both ended up believing you're not interested in each other. DC editorial kills her again—
Cass:
She can read your body language perfectly, but she still can't read your mind. She tries to give you exactly what she thinks you want, despite the fact she keeps disappearing in the middle of your dates and doesn't answer her phone. In the end it's easier for you both if you're just friends.
