💬 Pronouns: she/her (but I’m cool with any in comments/tags)
🗣️ Requests open for: DC, MCU, Harry Potter (main focus is Marauders but open to others too), most fandoms tbh. Feel free to HMU
💏 Request ratings: Fluff, Angst, Slow-Burn, Smut (depending on a few restrictions), Domestic, & Reader Insert. (Open to writing all pairings within certain legal constraints)
📍 Fandom focus: DC Comics (esp. Gotham + Batfamily chaos)
🖊 Current WIPs:
• 🥀A Safe Place to Land🌹
Jason Todd x Single Mom! Reader (no use of y/n)
• ✨ Happy Holidays, Mr Drake ✨
Fake Dating Tim Drake during the holidays (no use of y/n)
💖 Favorite Characters to Write:
• Jason Todd (Red Hood)
• Dick Grayson (Nightwing)
• Bruce Wayne (Batdad™ and chaotic romantic)
• Original Characters with too much sass and emotional baggage
🦇 Tropes I Live For:
• Found family & chaotic breakfasts at Wayne Manor
• Hurt/comfort with way too much emotion
• Slow-burn romantic tension
• Banter that turns into flirting that turns into oh no they’re kissing
• Gotham alleyway confessions
• Protective Batboys
🎯 What You’ll Find Here:
• Fanfiction (multi-chapter, one-shots, drabbles)
• OC content (my own Gotham residents)
• Batfam headcanons
• Writing prompts & snippet shares
• A healthy dose of Jason Todd thirst posting
📢 Tag me in:
• Any Batfam prompt lists
• OC x canon inspo
• Jason Todd memes (pls, I’m weak)
• Fluffy Gotham art
🖤 Let’s be mutuals!
If you love Gotham, angsty found family, and a little romance with your rooftop stakeouts, my ask box is open! 🦇
Once again thinking about ghost and his [zero concept of aftercare] and all his methods for helping you out afterwards...
Ghost has spent multiple instances fucking you dumb, using all your energy and then some because he's simply that obsessed with you. Yet, you still haven't seen any traditional aftercare from ghost.
His favorite method seems to be food, helping you recover physically from the exertion.
Of course there's the granola bars and electrolyte drinks, but you'll never forget the day he he dissappeared for a bit and came back with a perfectly cooked steak, still butt-naked when he handed you the plate. It even had an adorable little garnish.
Though the time he pulled you into a closet because he had to have you in his mouth, only to pop off and hand you a little fish Keychain he found at the gas station, will always be a fond memory.
Or the time where, after a shower and cuddles, you still seemed down and ghost just wouldn't let it stand. So he decided to build a blanket fort around you in bed as if it were the logical next step.
Does he still need to be reminded to help you wash up or to come for cuddles? Yes, but honestly you love whatever his mind comes up with more. You like how personalized it feels.
....you'll never stop teasing him for the time he prepped sourdough in the oven and timed it specifically for when you'd want a break and when you'd be done.
Batfam After Dark: Good Form Part One — Caught Staring
Dick Grayson x Reader Gym flirting, caught staring, praise, playful teasing, form correction, consent-forward heat
The first rule of sharing a gym with Dick Grayson should have been obvious: do not look directly at him while he is doing pull-ups.
🔥 BatFam After Dark Master List 🔥
In your defense, nobody had warned you that Dick Grayson treated gym equipment like a flirtation device.
You had known he was athletic. Obviously. The man’s entire body seemed built around the concept of momentum. He moved like gravity had agreed to be more of a suggestion for him than a rule.
But knowing that in theory was one thing.
Seeing it six feet away from you in a private training room was something else entirely.
Wayne Manor’s gym looked less like a gym and more like a very expensive threat. Everything was sleek black rubber flooring, polished steel racks, neatly organized weights, and mirrors that seemed specifically designed to humble anyone who walked in wearing old leggings and a shirt they had chosen because it was clean.
You had come down here with honest intentions.
Stretch a little.
Walk on the treadmill.
Maybe do some light weights if you felt brave.
Absolutely not stand there holding a water bottle like an idiot while Dick Grayson did pull-ups like he was trying to personally ruin your nervous system.
And yet.
There you were.
Standing.
Holding a water bottle.
Like an idiot.
Dick hung from the pull-up bar with his back to you, arms flexing as he pulled himself up in smooth, controlled reps. Not rushed. Not strained. Not even particularly impressed with himself.
Which somehow made it worse.
His black tank had ridden up just enough at his waist to show a narrow strip of skin every time he lifted. His shoulders moved under the fabric with the kind of easy strength that made your brain short-circuit. His hair was already damp at the temples, curling slightly from exertion, and every time he lowered himself, he did it slowly.
Deliberately.
Like he had never once in his life considered being merciful.
You were not staring.
You were observing.
Respectfully.
For science.
For safety.
For… something.
Dick pulled himself up again, chin clearing the bar with infuriating ease.
Your mouth actually fell open.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
Unfortunately, the mirror existed.
Unfortunately, Dick Grayson had eyes.
His gaze flicked up.
Met yours in the reflection.
And the corner of his mouth curved.
Oh no.
You snapped your attention to the treadmill display like it had suddenly begun revealing state secrets.
Dick dropped lightly to the floor behind you.
You heard the soft thud of his shoes against the mat.
Then nothing.
No footsteps.
No teasing.
No mercy.
Just the horrible, electric awareness of him standing somewhere behind you, probably smiling, probably smug, probably entirely too aware that you had just been caught committing visual crimes.
“You good over there?”
You cleared your throat. “Great.”
“Yeah?”
“Wonderful.”
“Because you looked a little…”
You glared at him in the mirror.
Dick’s grin widened.
“…distracted.”
You turned around, water bottle clutched in both hands like a weapon you had no idea how to use.
“I was not distracted.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You were staring at the treadmill?”
“Yes.”
His eyes flicked to the machine beside you.
“The treadmill that isn’t on?”
You looked down.
The belt was still.
The screen was blank.
Betrayal. From technology.
You lifted your chin. “I was mentally preparing.”
“For walking?”
“For fitness.”
Dick’s face did something very unfair. It softened and sharpened at the same time, amusement warming his eyes while his mouth stayed tilted in that devastating little almost-smile.
“Right,” he said. “Fitness.”
You took a sip of water to avoid answering.
Wrong choice.
Because Dick chose that exact moment to reach for the towel hanging over the bench and drag it slowly over the back of his neck.
You choked.
Just a little.
Barely.
Enough.
His eyebrows lifted.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I hate this gym.”
He laughed, bright and delighted, and the sound bounced around the room like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. Like of course Dick Grayson would be devastating under fluorescent lighting and still somehow make it charming.
“You hate the gym?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been here for four minutes.”
“Long enough.”
He took a step closer. “Want me to help?”
Absolutely not.
Yes.
Terrible idea.
Your brain tried to hold a meeting. Your body had already filed a motion in favor.
“With what?” you asked, because apparently you had chosen danger.
Dick’s gaze flicked over you, quick but not careless. Not the kind of look that made you feel inspected. The kind that made you feel seen.
“Whatever you came down here to do.”
“I know how to walk on a treadmill.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t sound like you believe me.”
“I believe you know how to walk,” he said solemnly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are so annoying.”
“I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”
“It is not.”
His grin turned wicked.
“Little bit?”
You hated that it was.
You hated more that he knew.
Dick leaned one hip against the weight bench, crossing his arms over his chest. It did nothing helpful for your concentration. His biceps did something absurd under his skin, and you made the mistake of looking.
Again.
This time, he did not even pretend not to notice.
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth, then returned to your face.
The air changed.
Not dramatically. Not like a storm rolling in.
More like a door quietly closing.
“You know,” he said, voice lighter than his expression, “if you’re going to stare, you might as well get a better view.”
Your heart gave one hard, idiotic kick against your ribs.
“I was not staring.”
“Sure.”
“I glanced.”
“For a while.”
“It was a long glance.”
“That’s called staring.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’ve also heard that.”
You looked away, cheeks warm.
Dick’s tone gentled, but the teasing did not vanish completely. “Hey.”
You glanced back at him.
He held your gaze, smile softer now.
“I’m only messing with you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You rolled your eyes, but your answer came easily. “Yes.”
“Good.”
That should have been the end of it.
A normal person would have let the moment dissolve, turned on the treadmill, and pretended very hard that they had not been caught slack-jawed over Gotham’s most flexible vigilante.
Unfortunately, Dick was still watching you.
And you were still making bad choices.
“So,” you said, nodding toward the pull-up bar. “Do you always do that many, or were you showing off?”
Dick blinked once.
Then his smile came back slowly.
Oh.
Oh, that had been a mistake.
“Was I showing off?”
“You tell me.”
He pushed away from the bench and stepped closer, not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you became aware of the difference in his breathing, the warmth of him, the clean scent of soap and sweat and something faintly expensive.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Was it working?”
You should have lied.
You really should have.
But the question landed low and warm, and his eyes were too blue, and the little lift at the corner of his mouth made you reckless.
“A little.”
Dick’s expression lit with satisfaction.
Not cocky exactly.
Worse.
Pleased.
“Only a little?”
“Don’t fish for compliments.”
“I’m not fishing.” He took another step, voice dipping. “I’m collecting data.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Oh, now it’s research?”
“Absolutely.”
“You and your scientific method?”
“Observation is important.”
“I observed plenty.”
His eyes warmed.
“I noticed.”
Your face went hot.
Dick’s grin softened into something gentler, more dangerous because it was not just teasing now. It was attention. Focus. The kind of focus that made you understand how criminals felt right before Nightwing dropped out of the dark and ruined their whole evening.
Except this was worse.
Because he was smiling.
“Come here,” he said.
Your stomach swooped. “Why?”
“I’m going to help you stretch.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s extremely real.”
“Is it?”
“Mm-hm.” He glanced down at your shoes, then back up. “You came down here for fitness, remember?”
You hated him.
You absolutely did not hate him.
“I can stretch by myself.”
“I believe you.”
“You keep saying that like you don’t.”
“I believe you can stretch,” he said. “I also believe your form is probably terrible.”
Your mouth fell open. “Rude.”
“Helpful.”
“Condescending.”
“Experienced.”
“Showing off again.”
His smile flashed.
“Maybe.”
There it was.
The admission.
Casual. Bright. Shameless.
Your pulse tripped over itself.
Dick held out one hand, palm up, patient and steady. No pressure. No assumption. Just an invitation sitting there between you.
The gym suddenly felt much quieter.
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
He did not move closer. Did not push. Did not turn the teasing into a trap.
That was the problem with Dick Grayson.
He made safety look effortless.
Which made wanting him feel terrifyingly easy.
You slipped your hand into his.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm.
“Good,” he said softly.
One word.
Simple.
Barely anything.
Your body reacted anyway.
Dick noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
Then he turned, leading you toward the mats in the center of the room.
“Let’s start easy.”
“Famous last words.”
He glanced over his shoulder, smile bright enough to be illegal.
“Trust me.”
You followed him onto the mat, heart already beating too fast.
“I’m starting to think that’s the dangerous part.”
Dick stopped in front of you.
For a second, the teasing slipped.
Only a little.
Enough for you to see the heat underneath it.
Then he reached for your waist.
Slowly.
Giving you time to step back.
You didn’t.
His hands settled lightly at your sides.
“Good form starts with balance,” he said.
His voice had changed.
Not much.
Enough.
You swallowed.
“Is that so?”
Dick’s thumbs pressed gently, adjusting your stance by inches.
“Mm-hm.”
His gaze dropped to your feet, then traveled back up with deliberate focus.
“Relax your shoulders.”
You tried.
He gave you a look.
You huffed. “I am relaxed.”
“You are standing like you’re about to fight the treadmill.”
“The treadmill knows what it did.”
Dick laughed under his breath, and the sound was warm enough to make your knees feel unreliable.
“Here.”
He stepped behind you.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Not touching more than necessary. Not crowding. Still, suddenly the whole gym seemed to shrink around the shape of him at your back.
His hands returned to your waist.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am breathing.”
“You were.”
You made an offended sound.
Dick’s mouth came near your ear, his voice dropping into that playful, devastating register that made every nerve ending in your body stand at attention.
“Want to try again?”
Your eyes fluttered closed.
This was absolutely not stretching.
Or maybe it was.
Maybe this was exactly what stretching was, and everyone had simply failed to mention that Dick Grayson’s version came with warm hands, low praise, and the slow destruction of your dignity.
You inhaled.
His hands softened at your waist.
“There you go.”
Your stomach flipped.
You hated how much one simple sentence affected you.
Dick’s thumbs moved again, tiny adjustments that had no business feeling intimate.
“See?” he said. “You can listen.”
Your eyes opened.
In the mirror, he was watching you.
Not your stance.
Not your shoulders.
You.
The smirk was back, but quieter now. Sharper around the edges.
Your voice came out thin. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
Dick’s smile turned downright sinful.
“I haven’t even started enjoying this.”
The room went still.
Your breath caught.
His hands stayed exactly where they were.
Waiting.
The line between lesson and flirtation had been blurry before.
Now it was gone.
You stared at him in the mirror, pulse hammering, and watched his gaze drop briefly to your mouth.
Then he leaned in just enough that his breath brushed your ear.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
Your fingers curled at your sides.
You could have laughed it off.
Could have stepped away.
Could have made a joke and saved yourself from whatever came next.
Instead, you held his gaze in the mirror and said, “Don’t.”
Dick’s expression changed.
There he was.
Not the golden boy.
Not the easy smile.
Not the charming flirt who could make everyone in a room feel like his favorite person.
Nightwing.
Focused.
Controlled.
Dangerously pleased.
His hands tightened at your waist, still gentle, still giving you room.
“Good,” he said.
And God help you, you wanted to be so, so good for him.
The debrief lasted longer than Kyle wanted, but not more than he had expected. It had taken a while for Kate to walk through Alex’s information, for them to give their details, and for Johnny to fill in his side. He had seen the way Johnny’s eyes flicked about the room to try to find what he wanted to say at certain parts. As if he were trying to cover some intimate details that weren’t pertinent to what happened, but still did. Kyle had caught his eye as Price and Ghost debated with Kate about security measures at the house, and the smirk they shared told Kyle that they both had a similar, not so hidden secret.
When they broke for the evening, well morning really, John had stopped them all from heading to bed right away. They needed to eat, needed a moment to just breathe and be normal for a second. Celeste had made them all plates, and Johnny explained how she had been fretting about their lack of food and sleep for the past few days, making them all grin. As they stood and sat around the kitchen island, Kyle could feel the tension melt away a bit. Feel the soldiers in constant fight mode slip back under, and so it was just the four of them enjoying one another’s company. They would still be on alert, still waiting for the shoe to drop, but now that they were together, it wasn’t as hard.
“I’ll take first watch,” Johnny volunteered as he dropped dishes in the sink. “I’ve had more sleep than you lot.”
“Debatable,” Simon answered as he looked Johnny over. He knew he would have been up almost every night, barely sleeping. At least when it was the three of them, they could take shifts knowing someone else was around to have their back.
“Then stay with me,” Johnny said as he crossed his arms over his chest. “The couch out here isn’t half bad. There’s also a second bedroom back behind the office,” he gestured, looking between John and Kyle. “Has its own bathroom, though it’s not as nice as the main suite…Celeste already beat you to that.” He grinned a bit.
“I’m going to shower,” John said as he stood up, sweeping his hat off his head and running a hand through his flattened hair. “Go check on Celeste,” he offered to Kyle. The tone was knowing, and the smile reassuring that he was not bothered.
“Right,” Kyle said without preamble as he cleaned up his own mess and washed his hands. “You can wake me in a few hours,” Kyle stated to Johnny, to which John cut in that he would take second watch, that Simon and Johnny could have his bed. Of course, he would, because he knew Kyle needed a longer break. Had known he had hardly slept with the racing thoughts and worry.
Kyle didn’t knock this time as he opened the bedroom door, afraid Celeste might be asleep. Instead, he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him as he looked toward the bed to find her there. She was fast asleep, curled slightly on her side with her hand still half holding a book open. As if she hadn’t meant to fall asleep, like she had been waiting. He watched her for a moment, waiting to see if he had disturbed her, but she didn’t move.
Careful to not wake her, Kyle kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag near the wall, emptying out his pockets of everything save for a pistol on his hip. Even though they were in a safe house, he wasn’t going to be out of reach of a gun at any moment, and he knew it would be that way for a long time. When he was fully disarmed and down to just gym shorts, he wandered to the bathroom to get ready for bed before walking around the room, working on cutting all the lights she had left on, save for the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if she had the lights to try and keep herself awake, or if the dark had turned into something scary. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up in an unfamiliar place, unable to see or know where she was. He would be there, of course, but she wouldn’t know that.
When he made it over to the bed, he slowly reached over Celeste to nab the book out of her hands. He slipped a piece of paper into the page she was on as a bookmark, set it on the nightstand, then gently worked the blankets out to cover her. She had changed out of the robe into a simple oversized shirt as a nightgown, and Kyle stared at it, recognizing it instantly. It was Johnny’s. An old ratty thing he wore on lazy days, so worn down that the collar was overstretched and wavy but also buttery soft.
While the bed was big enough to fit at least four people, Kyle resided himself to the couch in the small seating area. He knew it wasn’t going to be the most uncomfortable thing in the world, but it also wasn’t the worst thing he had lain on to sleep. While there was a perfectly good bed to lie in with John, he had promised Celeste he would come back, and he wasn’t about to break that.
As he moved to step away, Celeste mumbled softly, her eyes fluttering a bit as his fingers lingered on the nightstand lamp.
“It’s me,” Kyle said quietly before tacking on, “Kyle,” unsure if she would be able to discern his voice in her half asleep brain.
“Kyle,” Celeste muttered, reaching up to push the hair off her face. She had fallen asleep with it wet, she could feel it sticking to her skin and knew it was going to be an absolute mess to try and work out in the morning. “Time is it?” She asked, the words slurring together as she tried to find the alarm clock.
“Little past three,” Kyle replied, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep,” he said as he moved a bit to block some of the nightstand light as she squinted against the intrusion.
“Three?” Celeste asked before sighing, leaning back into the pillows.
“Yes,” Kyle answered, trying to hide the amusement in his voice as he watched her sleep addled brain try to piece everything together. “Still have some time to sleep. I’ll be right over there,” he gestured toward the couch.
“No, stay,” Celeste said as she looked up at him.
“I’m not going anywhere, just the couch,” he explained again.
“No,” Celeste stated again as she scooted back on the bed to give him room. “Stay here. That couch is awful.”
“I don’t know if,” Kyle started, unsure if this was wise. She was barely conscious. What would happen if she woke up and found him there and panicked? That was some boundary to cross without explicit consent.
“Kyle,” Celeste said, feeling a bit cranky that he was keeping her awake with this. “If you go to that couch, I am going with you,” she said firmly. “I waited long enough for you, now you have to deal with my snoring.”
“Are you sure?” He asked again as he hesitated, despite how much he wanted to crawl into those sheets and pass out.
“I will drag you,” Celeste replied, “get in bed. It’s big enough for both of us, so you can have your own space.”
“Personal space isn’t really my thing,” Kyle replied as he set his handgun on the nightstand and slipped into the sheets, dragging her body close to him.
She was warm, almost too warm, like Johnny, as he tugged her tight to his chest. Her bare legs instantly twined against his as she flung an arm over him. As he turned to reach for the lamp, he felt her huff in displeasure for being jostled around as he rolled back, wrapping his arm around her. She nuzzled down, and in less than two minutes she was back out. He could hear her breathing turn heavy and slow, and as he shut his eyes, grinning to himself despite the exhaustion. He was asleep not long after her.
Celeste woke suddenly.
As if an alarm had gone off or her brain had remembered something extremely important she had to get to. She shifted quickly, moving to roll on her back to feel someone there holding her tight against them. It was early morning, and sunlight was poking around the edges of the blackout curtains. She had fallen asleep when she hadn’t meant to, who knew how much time she had lost. Twisting to look at who was behind her, she bit back a small gasp of surprise to find Kyle there.
Her chest tightened at the sight of him. She had meant to stay awake, to wait for him to come back so they could talk, but she had fallen asleep while reading. It was coming back to her in fragments. She remembered waking up to Kyle tucking her in, something about a couch, and her demanding he get into the bed. That was very forward of her, she thought, and cringed a bit. But that had been it, really. She wanted him to get into bed to sleep, said the couch was uncomfortable, and that she was cranky for being woken up. Perfectly innocent.
Yet.
She could feel the way Kyle held her, his arm woven over her, his hand pressed against her stomach, keeping her tucked to him. His other arm was under her pillow, supporting both of their heads. And his legs were curled into hers, perfectly flattening her against him. His breathing was slow and soft, tickling the back of her neck where he had buried his face in her hair. It was an intimate way to be held, and she smiled a bit to herself as she looked down at his hand, where Johnny’s oversized shirt had bunched up, revealing her bare thigh and the hint of her underwear. But he was still carefully keeping his hand over the fabric, even in his sleep.
“Five more minutes,” Kyle muttered against Celeste’s neck, having woken up the instant she moved. Even his deep need for sleep didn’t override the alert instinct.
“We can stay here all day,” Celeste replied contentedly, not wanting to get up either.
“John may have something to say about that,” Kyle answered, letting his lips brush the nape of her neck as he continued to lie there with his eyes closed.
“He can deal,” Celeste answered, feeling goosebumps on her skin. “You need about ten more hours of sleep at least.”
“Had a solid four,” he answered, “that’s as good as twelve for me after the week I had.”
“You and Johnny are both so determined to run yourselves into the ground,” Celeste sighed as Kyle’s thumb gently began to run circles on her stomach. “There is nothing wrong with taking a break.”
“This is nothing on John and Simon,” Kyle replied as he felt Celeste shift her legs a bit.
“It’s not a contest,” Celeste said with a small smile. “Go back to sleep, I’ll stay with you like you stayed with me.”
“Mmm,” Kyle replied, pressing a sleepy kiss to her neck. “I don’t think I had a choice. You were very demanding.”
Celeste felt herself grow a bit hot around her ears at that. She had been very demanding. “I mean, I can go if that’ll help you sleep,” she said, adjusting a bit as if she were getting out of bed.
“Definitely not,” Kyle said as he tightened his grip. “I like having you right here.”
Celeste smiled softly at that, relaxing back into him instead of trying to move again. She let her hand drift down to where his was resting against her stomach and threaded her fingers loosely with his. Kyle shifted slightly behind her, not to move away but to settle in deeper, his face pressing more comfortably into the curve of her neck. His breathing slowed again, evening out as if he were trying to get back to sleep, but couldn’t quite get there.
“You’re really warm,” he muttered a few minutes later, voice still heavy with sleep. “Like Johnny,” he mused as he felt Celeste laugh a bit.
“Don’t be fooled, my feet are like ice blocks when I first get into bed,” Celeste answered.
“Good thing you went to bed first, then,” Kyle answered, stifling a yawn.
Celeste twisted a bit to turn her head toward him, her nose brushing faintly against his face as she looked over her shoulder. His eyes were half open, watching her through the last bit of sleep that was still holding on.
“You are supposed to be trying to get back to sleep,” Celeste said.
“I’m resting, close enough,” Kyle replied, grinning as Celeste gave him a small eye roll.
“If you don’t go to sleep, I am going to get up and lock you in here,” she threatened, even though it was an empty one. “Clearly you can’t focus on sleep with me here.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Kyle answered as he grabbed her hip and flipped her over to face him so quickly that Celeste let out a squeak of surprise. Even exhausted and half awake, he was quick and strong.
“Fine, fine,” Celeste laughed as she reached her hand up to cup his cheek.
Up close, he looked even worse than the night before. The exhaustion hadn’t eased. If anything, it looked like it had settled deeper into him. But the smile he was giving her was enough to distract her from that worry.
“John wanted to regroup at nine,” Kyle stated as he watched Celeste lean up to check the clock over his shoulder. “How much time do we have?”
“About thirty minutes,” Celeste stated as she settled back. “Twenty minute cat nap then we can get ready.”
“I’m not going back to sleep,” Kyle stated as he watched her face, “not when I have a better idea for twenty minutes,” he smiled as he watched Celeste bite the inside of her cheek, as if debating.
He let his eyes flick to her lips before back to her eyes, waiting for permission, and when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in to capture her lips with his. He took his time, kissing her slowly, feeling at each passing second how she relaxed even further into him. How, when she opened her mouth for him to let his tongue slide in, she fully leaned against him, her fingers softly digging into his chest to hold him.
This was all he wanted, had been for some time. It had killed him to leave her on this mission and to go so fast. There were no lingering farewells, he hadn’t even been brave enough to kiss her goodbye properly. A subconscious fear that if he kissed her, it would be too final. He had known she was perfectly safe with Johnny, but Makarov had a way of ruining everything.
“Kyle,” Celeste sighed out as his kisses moved to her jaw and down to her neck, making her crane her head back a bit to give him room.
Where Johnny had been a quick house fire that made her want to pin him down on the couch and have her way with him, Kyle was a low white hot flame. It took its time, consuming everything, and before she knew it, everything was aflame. His lips felt like brands on her skin, and the soft chuckle he let out after she whined when he nipped her neck made her squeeze her thighs together. And he knew it too because his hand that was on her leg twitched at her body’s response, thumb digging into the soft spot on her hip.
“I can stop,” Kyle breathed into Celeste’s ear as she shivered against him, pressing a kiss to the soft spot just under it.
“No,” Celeste said, as if sounding terrified he would. “No, I don’t want you to,” she continued, her hands sliding around his neck to hold him to her.
Kyle moved his hand down her leg, hooking behind her knee to drag her leg over his hip so he could settle properly between her thighs. When she sighed into his mouth at the pressure she had been looking for, Kyle stole the rest of her breath away with a sound kiss, his hand gripping her backside to keep her tight to him.
Celeste’s body felt like it was finally waking up, finally ready for the attention she had been denying it. After Tristan’s death, the thought of sex hadn’t crossed her mind once for the first full year. Not even a small desire to tend to her needs flitted across her mind, the bedside drawer remaining untouched to the point she wasn’t even sure if the items inside worked anymore. It had only been a few weeks back that she finally felt the want to reconnect with herself in the shower. And for the first time in over a decade, her mind hadn’t been on Tristan during the act. But there had been no shame in it as she had thought there would be. She had expected guilt, tears, as she stood under the shower spray after she came down from the orgasm, but there wasn’t any. She had smiled. It had been nice, a release she didn’t know she missed until she did it.
Twenty minutes was not enough. She wanted more. Wanted to get lost in bed for hours, days. Celeste ran her hand down Kyle’s arm, curling her arm slightly behind her to grab at his hand, and he instantly released his grip. She could feel him ready to pull away, to roll away and apologize, but she stopped him, squeezing lightly as she guided his hand up under the bunch of her shirt to smooth up her ribs. His hands were pleasantly calloused, catching along her skin as he curled his fingers to lightly scratch at the sensitive spots, making her squirm slightly, then gasp at the friction she had caused for herself.
Kyle didn’t need to be shown what she wanted any longer. He let his hand glide up along her side, curving around to her back a bit to let his thumb brush along the side of her breast. It was a subtle touch, but he knew she was zeroed in on it like he was. As he stroked his thumb back and forth, going further each time, he could feel her twist into the touch. She wanted more. Fuck he needed more time. How long could he push it before someone came knocking.
“Please,” Celeste nearly begged as she pulled away from the kiss to look down between them to where his hand was. He was so close, and she couldn’t take the tension any longer. Just seeing his fingers move under the fabric was going to make her combust.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to cup her breast fully, matching her stuttering intake of breath with his own exhale. She kissed him again then, feverishly, as he gently squeezed, letting his thumb find her nipple and trace small circles over it. Her breath was hitched, but he didn’t relent, enjoying how she was fighting to continue to kiss him and not pull away to moan. She didn’t have to fight long, though, because it was him who had to pull away first, a groan slipping from his lips as she began to rock her hips against his, grinding herself against his length.
“We only have a few minutes,” Celeste gasped out as Kyle rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him, with an obvious intent to keep this going.
“I don’t mind running a few laps if we’re late,” Kyle replied with a grin as he reached up to brush some hair out of her face.
“As long as I don’t have to run,” Celeste said with a grin as she braced her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, and kissed him, rolling her hips much more easily in that position.
Kyle let his hands explore, tracing down her spine, teasing along the elastic line of her underwear, and over the tops of her thighs. When she sat up a bit more, he let both his hands glide up her stomach to palm both of her breasts, giving him a small sneak peek at her soft stomach. She was entirely too clothed for his liking. He wanted to feel her skin against his, to memorize every inch of her with his fingers and lips. To see her body react to his touch.
“Can I see you?” Kyle asked after a moment as she arched into his ministrations, her head tossed back to the pleasure.
When Celeste shifted to look down at Kyle she felt a small hesitation in her mind, a moment of self consciousness at being exposed that way. He was shirtless under her, the only stitch of clothing he had on was gym shorts, which didn’t leave much to the imagination as his hardness rubbed over her overly sensitive clit. It was only fair to match him. Then, when he gave her a smile, a genuine, encouraging one that had no pressure behind it, she agreed. Ignoring how her hands felt like they were shaking, she reached down to grab the hem of her shirt, Johnny’s shirt, and tugged it up quickly. She didn’t want to back out, not really, and she was afraid that if she went too slow, she’d stop.
She was beautiful.
It was cliché, but it was the truth, and the only thing Kyle could think of as he looked at her. Her curves were gentle, cinching in a bit at her waist only to flow out again at her hips. His eyes spotted a delicate script tattoo on her ribs that he couldn’t quite make out at the angle he was at, and an old scar right under her collarbone he had never seen before. He didn’t stare long, even though he wanted to memorize every inch of her, because he could see how nervous she was. She was almost holding her breath with her eyes pinched shut, fingers still clasping the fabric of the shirt as if ready to cover herself at any moment.
“Celeste,” Kyle said quietly as his fingers splayed on both her thighs, gently squeezing them to get her attention. “Look at me,” he continued, shifting a bit to push up on his elbows.
“Sorry,” Celeste murmured as she peeked her eyes open, afraid she had ruined the moment.
“No need to say sorry,” Kyle said. “You’re beautiful,” he stated, and he felt her resist, saw her start to open her mouth to protest. “No,” he insisted, cutting off her words. “You are beautiful, and I am so fucking lucky.”
“I,” Celeste started. What did she say to that? Thank you felt egotistical. Saying no would be a lie, she knew she was at least a bit attractive, and she had confidence enough to know she was. But sitting there under Kyle’s gaze felt different. He wasn’t looking at her like he wanted something more from her, but that she was genuinely someone he did feel privileged to be with in this moment.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Kyle answered after a second, not wanting to make her more flustered. “I don’t need you to agree with me because I already know I’m right,” he teased, hoping to lighten the moment.
A small laugh escaped Celeste before she could stop it, carefully tossing the shirt to the side. “Full of yourself,” she mumbled, which in turn made him grin.
“Mmm, I mean, you could be full of me too. Only need to ask,” he taunted, hoping to get her to let her guard down again so they could get back to what they were doing. He didn’t want her to get into her head, she'd lived there for too much of her life as of recent, and he wanted her to let go for both of their sakes. As her eyes widened, he shifted so they were seated together, letting her wrap her legs around him so they were pressed chest to chest, faces barely an inch apart.
“We don’t have time for all that,” Celeste barely whispered as she looked up at Kyle, trying to hide how much he flustered her as she wrapped her hands around his neck.
“It wouldn’t be right now,” he replied, nudging her head back with his own to capture her lips again, this time with a bit more fire behind it. “I want to take my time,” he continued, nipping her bottom lip, “and I need a full night to be able to do that.”
“A full night?” Celeste asked, feeling her stomach coil in anticipation at that.
“Mmm, and the morning after,” Kyle answered as he pushed some hair off her shoulder to kiss the spot there, “then the afternoon.” His voice was low as his hands grabbed her backside to pull her hips flush against his, taking a sharp breath as she pressed against his painfully hard cock. “Maybe we should make it a full two days. To be safe,” he reasoned as he continued to trail his kisses across her collarbone, letting her lean back to give him full access. She moaned loud enough that he was sure anyone in the living room would have heard when his lips finally closed around one of her nipples.
“Kyle,” Celeste gasped out, nearly climaxing as he darted his eyes up to hers with a smirk before he flicked his tongue over her.
“Yes?” He teased, giving her a perfectly innocent look even though he knew what he was doing.
“Tonight,” she nearly begged. “Please,” she added as he rubbed his thumb over her abused nipple.
“Tonight,” he agreed, knowing that getting through that day was going to be an absolute nightmare. The anticipation was going to be the death of him, but it also made it that much more fun. Especially knowing he was leaving her craving more, and she was going to be suffering the same way.
“Now we'd better get ready,” he tried, but she didn’t let him get away that quickly. She grabbed his face with both of her hands and kissed him hard enough that he had to catch himself with his hands behind him to not fall back. He could feel her need with each kiss, each stroke of her tongue against his, and the way she ground against him.
“Oi!” Johnny called as he knocked hard on the bedroom door. He had held off the other two for as long as he could, distracting Simon with a shower and plying both men with coffee. But fifteen minutes was as much as he could get, military men were sticklers for time. “Let’s go, Simon’s hungry and we all know what happens when we don’t feed him.”
“Piss off,” Simon huffed from the couch. He was well aware of what was happening in the bedroom. He could hear the moans and pants in every quiet moment on the television, which prompted him to turn the volume up a few more notches as he scratched Samson’s ears.
“Shit,” Celeste panted from where Kyle had rolled her under him.
“This is your fault,” Kyle teased as he gently kissed her sternum and scrambled off her. “Distracting me.”
“Who distracted who!” Celeste hissed as she scooted off the bed to go find clothes.
“I believe it was you who said please so prettily,” he pushed, ducking as Celeste threw Johnny’s shirt at him as she darted to the bathroom.
He dressed relatively quickly, a pleased grin plastered on his face as he walked out of the bedroom with a toothbrush still in his mouth. The look he got from the other three men nearly made him laugh. There was no embarrassment or hiding around them. Still, he was glad he exited the room first to let them get their exchanges out before Celeste made an appearance.
“Did you get any sleep?” Johnny asked with an eyebrow raise.
“Some,” Kyle ventured as he wandered to the kitchen sink to spit and rinse his mouth. Two cups of coffee were waiting for him and Celeste, made the way they both liked it. “May need a nap for later.”
“Slag,” Johnny answered with a laugh.
“You don’t get to say anything,” Kyle replied to Johnny as John walked over to fill his own cup.
“How is she?” John asked, then quickly expanded at the look Kyle gave him, “I mean, with all this. Does she seem alright after everything?”
“Sure,” Kyle replied with a laugh, “she seems alright. Worried but,” he shrugged, “we all are.”
“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked as he moved to the couch.
“We’ll go over it when Celeste is here,” John said as he took a seat on Kyle’s other side, letting their knees press together as he relaxed into the cushions.
Celeste readied herself as fast as she could, giving up on trying to do anything with her hair. Between sleeping on it wet, Kyle running his hands through it, and mussing it up in the pillows as they messed about, it was a disaster. She tossed it up into a ponytail, and after a quick glance at the weather for the day, warm and slightly humid, she pulled out a sundress.
“Sorry I’m late,” Celeste said as she walked out of the bedroom, doing her best to not flush as all four of them looked at her. “I, ah, we overslept,” she lied lamely. To their credit, none of them pressed her on it, and instead, they just nodded, and Johnny gestured to the last cup of coffee on the counter for her. “I can call down for breakfast,” she offered before quickly going to the kitchen area to grab the drink and down about half of it in her nervous energy, then placing their food order. Pretty much the entire menu, some of it doubled.
“We head back today,” John said after they had all eaten their way through all the food, plates piled precariously on the coffee table. “Johnny and Celeste will take the car they drove here back to the village to pick up her car. You’ll drop it where you picked it up, walk back to Celeste's car, and go home. Tire has been changed already, and it’s ready to go,” John explained. “We will be taking a separate car right home. We’ll get in about two hours before you,” he paused, looking at Samson, who was currently begging him for bacon. “We’ll take Samson,” he offered, “Johnny filled us in on the ride here, and since yours will be longer…well, Makarov will know something is up already, a cat won’t change much.”
“He’ll probably be perfectly fine with Simon,” Celeste said, her voice jokingly bitter. “Is there anything we need to be worried about?”
“Always,” Simon answered for John. “But directly at the moment, I don’t think so. Makarov will be spending his time trying to figure out how we snuck past him. And trying to figure out what we gained from this. I don’t think he’s going to be lying in wait.”
“But that is why we’re going to get there ahead of you,” Kyle answered, “so we can do a clean sweep. Check the security footage and make sure it’s all clear.”
“When do we leave?” Celeste asked, but she already knew the answer, judging by the bags at the front door. They were ready to go now and get back home. Anxious to be home and also about what they could possibly find.
“We’re going to head out now,” John said as he looked at Johnny. “You all will leave out the back with shift change,” he checked his watch, “which is in about thirty minutes. It gives you more cover to slip out without too many eyes on you. The longer we can shake any type of tail, the better.”
“I need to go pack then,” Celeste muttered as she stood up, smoothing out her dress and missing the fact that four sets of eyes watched her walk away.
“Almost wish you were me, huh?” Johnny teased Simon, who shoved him as he got up off the couch.
“Keep it tactical,” Simon huffed. “You’ll be on your own again.”
“I did fine the first time,” Johnny answered as he went to find Samson’s carrier.
The three men left much in the way they came in, except they weren’t armed to the teeth to the visible eye. They were in civilian clothing, but there were weapons within easy reach on all of them. Samson was quiet in his carrier, Simon having drugged him earlier that morning without much fanfare. Johnny and Celeste followed not long after, slipping out the back stairs with the cleaning crew and into the sleek black car they had driven there.
“My car really is a shit box,” Celeste sighed after about ten minutes of being in it on their way home. It wasn’t nearly as smooth on the road as the one they had borrowed, and the engine was much louder.
“Don’t admit that to Simon,” Johnny said as he navigated between cars, pushing the speed limit. “Or he’ll get you a new one and happily take this to the junk yard.”
“He wouldn’t,” Celeste answered, a bit shocked, but at the knowing look Johnny gave her, she knew he was right. “I couldn’t accept a new car,” she continued, even though it would be nice.
“You wouldn’t have a choice,” Johnny stated, “Simon doesn’t exactly listen or take no for an answer.”
“So I’ve learned,” Celeste replied.
When they got back to the house, John was the first out of the car, pistol on his thigh, loaded with one in the chamber as he walked to the front door. Simon had tapped into the cameras when they were within an acceptable range and had already started scrubbing the footage. There had been nothing of note at either of their places, but they still weren’t taking the risk. They swept their place first, letting Samson out in the living room to explore on his own before going over to Celeste’s, leaving the door cracked for him to come home when he was ready.
“Clear,” John called from Celeste’s bedroom, as Kyle echoed it from down the hall, and Simon confirmed with a hand gesture from where he checked the detached garage, when John looked out the window.
They set up camp in Celeste’s house while they waited for Johnny and Celeste to get there, Simon obsessively checking the phone tracker for their location. They had to make a stop at the Café for Celeste to continue to lay down her cover story. Apologize for the car issues she had, suck up to those that were there, find out her schedule, and pick up her check. Everything needed to look normal to everyone in her life to avoid any questions from them. It was bad enough trying to trick Makarov, small town gossip was a whole other beast.
“Dinner,” Johnny called from the front door as he heaved the bags of food, letting Celeste slip past him before kicking the door shut.
“Everything good?” John asked as Celeste kicked off her shoes and went to the sink to wash her hands.
“All fine at work,” Celeste replied. “Carl didn’t really care. Andrea looked pissed as hell,” she smirked at John over her shoulder, “she had to actually work for once. But I think they all bought the story. I let Johnny throw some big mechanical words at them, and they stopped asking questions.”
“Sounds about right,” Simon replied as he snatched a sandwich out of Johnny’s hands as he tried to lay everything out.
“What about here?” Johnny asked as he tossed a wrapped sandwich to Kyle’s waiting hands. “Anything?”
“All quiet at first glance. No evidence of visitors,” Kyle replied, “we’re going to do a closer look again to make sure we didn’t miss anything small.”
“Do you think we pulled it off then?” Celeste asked as she leaned against the counter, waving away John’s offer to take his chair. She had been sitting in the car for hours, she wanted to stand and stretch out a bit.
“Time will tell,” Kyle answered, “but for now I think it’s safe to call it a win that we are all here in one piece.”
As three of them pored over computers, rolling footage back and forth, and John tapped away at paperwork, Celeste cleaned up dinner. She balled up all the wrappings and stuffed them into her overflowing trash. In their haste to get out a few days prior, they hadn’t taken the trash out, and the smell that hit her in the face made her flinch. It needed to go out.
“I’m going to run this to the road,” Celeste said as she yanked and fought with the bag to get it out of the container. “I can do it,” she stated as Johnny rose from his seat as if he would take it. “It’s just to the road. I can grab the last of our stuff from the car, too.”
Their hands had been full with dinner that they had left a duffle in the backseat and had said they’d get it later.
“Pull up the camera,” she teased as Johnny still tried to fight her.
“Fine,” Johnny sighed as she lugged the bag out of the kitchen and to the door.
It was still warm outside, even with the sun so low in the sky that it barely gave off any light. The bugs were out in full force, and she could hear a few boat motors on the lake in the distance. Summer was starting to wind down. There would be the final surge of tourists to get in the last few weeks of the holiday before kids went back to school. There was always a small lull at the start of August, then the place would be overflowing with kids and families.
She tossed the bag into the can and paused for a moment to pluck a few weeds from around the platform before wandering to the car. It really was a beautiful time of year, and the rain was holding off for the most part. The lake helped keep things cool, the wind rushing off of it helping to keep everything cool. Perhaps she could convince the guys to take a small break and go down to the dock for a few hours. The water should be warm enough for a swim, even for her.
As she popped open the car door to get the duffle, she heard something in the bushes, making her stomach drop. The dread of someone sneaking up on her sluiced through her as she turned around quickly, prepared to yell or run. But there was no person there. Instead, the bushes rustled again before a small dog's head poked out. One of Mrs. Nettles' dogs had gotten out and was stuck in the bushes again. They liked to chase small birds and rodents, but their fur would get all tangled in the branches, and they couldn’t get back out.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Celeste breathed, hand on her hammering heart as she shut the car door and wandered over to free the dog. It was too dark to see much, but she managed to break a few branches and free the dog, who jumped easily into her arms, trembling a bit.
“Sneak out again, did you?” Celeste mumbled as she petted the dog's head. Mrs. Nettles was annoying, but the dogs weren’t so bad. It wasn’t their fault their owner was the way she was. “Lucky I found you before your mum did.”
Hiking the dog tighter under her arm, Celeste headed up to the road to walk over to Mrs. Nettles' drive to return the dog home.
“Went for a swim too?” Celeste asked as the dog whined and wriggled in her arms. Their paws and belly were all wet. “Naughty thing,” she teased as she walked down the gravel drive, a twin to her own.
The lights inside were all off, and Celeste paused for a moment. If the woman was in bed, she was about to wake her and probably be yelled at, even though Celeste was being friendly and returning the dog. She could feasibly keep the little guy that night and bring it back in the morning, but her luck, Mrs. Nettles would accuse her of dognapping. Maybe she should go get John and make him return the dog. Mrs. Nettles at least liked him.
Celeste rang the bell, then hesitated again. The bell sounded too loud to be inside. When she looked closer, the front door was ajar. She could hear the other dog inside scrambling around inside, yipping and bumping at the door.
“Mrs. Nettles?” Celeste called as she nudged the door open with her shoulder.
The house was completely dark. No television. No lamps. Not even a hallway nightlight or electronic clock.
“Hello? Mrs. Nettles?” Celeste tried again, her brain beginning to whine that something was wrong. She was an old lady. Maybe something had happened, and since she was so foul to everyone around her, no one bothered to come check on her.
The second dog came skittering around the corner again, nails scrabbling on the floor as it launched itself at her legs. It was barking frantically, spinning in a circle, before it took off down the hallway again. Barking the whole way.
Something was wrong. The dog was trying to tell her something was wrong.
She needed light.
Reaching out her fingers felt along the wall until they found a light switch. She flipped it on, wincing at the sudden blast of the LED lights. For a moment, her brain didn’t understand what she was seeing. A dark stain covered the floor. It was all over the entryway, a dark puddle that smeared down the hall as if something were dragged. There were dog prints dancing around in it. When the dog in her arms squirmed hard, to either be let down or to burrow tighter into her, Celeste looked down automatically.
The white fur wasn’t wet. It was soaked. It’s paws, belly, muzzle. All of it was absolutely covered in blood. Her stomach dropped as she looked at herself. Blood was smeared across her forearm where she had been holding it, across the front of her dress where it had wriggled, and on her legs where the other dog had jumped on her.
“Oh God,” Celeste groaned, feeling her stomach churn.
The blood trail continued down the hallway before disappearing to the right toward the living room area. Every instinct told her to run. But what if Mrs. Nettles were alive, bleeding, and in need of help.
“Mrs. Nettles!” Celeste called out as the ringing in her ears got louder. She hurried down the hall, her simple thong shoes sliding in the puddle of blood.
The living room opened in front of her, and she found the light and flipped it on. There Mrs. Nettles was. She was sitting in her armchair that faced the window, the same one she always sat in to patrol the street. The same spot Celeste had seen her in hundreds of times and had sarcastically waved to as she passed by.
For one second, Celeste tricked herself into thinking she was sleeping. But then she saw the blood that covered her chest, well, where her chest used to be. It was a twisted, tangled mess of flesh, and the smell of rot hit Celeste hard enough in the face that she dry heaved. There was blood all over the room leading to the chair, and she could see the trickle down the woman’s cheek where someone had given her a headshot to be sure she was truly dead.
The dog slipped out of her arms as she staggered away. She barely heard the yelp of disagreement as it hit the floor. She was running for the door, the scream tearing from her as she went. She couldn’t get the image out of her head, the smell from her nose. She screamed the whole way to the door, and when she made it across the threshold, she yelled again. This time a name.
“John!” She yelled loud enough that it felt like it was tearing her throat from the inside, certain she would spit up blood. Why she yelled for him of all of them, she wasn’t sure, but she screamed it again a second time. She didn’t even get to the third before he was busting through the trees that lined the property, gun drawn.
“Where?” He asked, his eyes roaming over her body, searching her for injuries since she was covered in blood.
“In-inside,” Celeste barely got out before she threw up everything she had eaten into the potted plant on the doorstep.
======================
I have been sitting on this plot point for forever, I am so happy to finally get to it.
BATFAM AFTER DARK: Correcting Misinformation (part three: Take Care of Me)
Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
After Red Hood catches you scrolling through masked thirst traps, he decides it is time to remind you that the internet has nothing on the real thing.
🔥 BatFam After Dark Master List 🔥
Jason went still when you said it.
Not uncertain.
Not hesitant.
Still in the way a man went still when he had just been handed the exact thing he wanted most.
“I want Red Hood to take care of me.”
For one long second, he only looked down at you from beneath the shadow of the half-lifted helmet. His mouth parted. His jaw tightened. His breathing had gone rough enough that you could hear it.
Then his smile changed.
Less teasing.
More hunger.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
Your fingers stayed curled around the red edge of the helmet. “Yeah.”
Jason lowered himself over you again, slow and deliberate, kissing you like he meant to take the words right back out of your mouth. His bare hand stayed at your waistband, warm against your skin.
Waiting.
You knew the question before he asked it.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said, mouth brushing yours.
Your face heated.
Apparently asking Red Hood to take care of you was one thing. Explaining exactly how was another.
Jason caught the hesitation and kissed the corner of your mouth, gentler this time.
“C’mon, baby.” The modulator still caught around the edges of his voice, low and dark despite the softness of his touch. “You were brave enough to ask for me.”
Your stomach flipped.
You swallowed. “Use your mouth.”
Jason’s eyes disappeared further into shadow beneath the mask.
“My mouth,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
You made a helpless sound, half mortification, half arousal.
His thumb slid once beneath your waistband—not under, not yet, just tracing the boundary of what you were asking for.
“Say it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you ask for what you want.”
You looked up at the smooth red helmet tipped back above his face, at the exposed line of his mouth already kiss-swollen from you, and decided that embarrassment had no business in the room anymore.
“I want your mouth on me, Red Hood.”
Jason exhaled hard.
“Fuck.”
The word sounded pulled out of him.
Then his mouth was on yours again—hungry, rough, pleased. He kissed you until you were clinging to him, until your legs had tightened around him on instinct, until the hand at your waistband felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.
When he pulled back, his lips brushed your cheek, then your jaw.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He kissed his way down your body.
Slowly.
Because of course he did.
Because Jason Todd had apparently decided that being asked to use his mouth gave him permission to ruin your ability to form thoughts before he even got there.
His lips dragged over the hollow of your throat. The curve of your breast. The soft skin of your stomach. Each kiss landed deliberate and warm, followed now and then by the cool graze of the helmet when he shifted above you.
You shivered beneath him.
Jason smiled against your skin.
“You still thinking about those videos?”
You let out a breathless laugh. “A little distracted right now.”
“Good answer.”
He kissed the skin just above your waistband.
Your stomach tightened.
His hands came to rest at your hips, thumbs brushing your bare sides. Even kneeling between your thighs with his mouth inches from where you were aching for him, he took his time looking at you.
Not in a way that made you want to cover up.
Not anymore.
In a way that made you want to open for him.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he said quietly.
Your breath hitched.
“Red—”
“There she is.” He smiled, mouth close enough to your stomach that the warmth of his breath made you squirm. “All soft for me.”
Your fingers caught in the couch cushion.
His bare hands found the fastening of your pants.
“Lift your hips.”
You did.
Jason eased the fabric down your legs, unhurried, attentive, his gaze following every inch he uncovered. Your underwear went with them, leaving you exposed beneath him, breathless and flushed and suddenly very aware of the way he had dropped to his knees between your thighs.
For you.
The sight alone nearly finished you.
Leather jacket open. Armor still strapped across his chest. Helmet still tipped half-back, hiding his eyes and leaving his mouth bare.
His mouth.
You pressed your thighs together on instinct.
Jason’s hands settled gently on your knees.
“Uh-uh.”
Your pulse jumped.
He kissed one knee.
Then the other.
“Let me see you.”
It was not the command that did it.
It was the reverence under it.
The way his thumbs rubbed small, patient circles against your skin, giving you all the time in the world to decide.
Your thighs parted.
Jason’s breath caught.
For once, he did not have a smart remark ready.
The silence made you want to squirm more than the teasing had.
“You’re staring,” you managed.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I am.”
Heat rolled through you so fast it left you dizzy.
Jason turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Then higher still, mouth slow and open against sensitive skin while your breathing dissolved into uneven little gasps.
“You have any idea,” he murmured against your thigh, “how long I’ve wanted to get you exactly like this?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair beneath the helmet.
“Red, please.”
His mouth curved against your skin.
“There it is.”
He kissed once more, soft and maddening, just shy of where you needed him.
“Please what?”
You groaned. “You know what.”
“I do.” Another kiss, this one close enough to make your whole body tense. “Want to hear you say it anyway.”
You had absolutely created a monster by calling him Red Hood.
You dragged in an unsteady breath.
“Please eat me out.”
The sound Jason made was obscene.
Low. Broken. Ravenous.
“Good girl.”
Then his mouth met you.
Your entire body jerked.
Jason held your hips through it, not pinning you down, just steadying you as the first slow sweep of his tongue sent pleasure snapping through you. He took his time at first, licking into you with unbearable patience, tasting you like he had nowhere else in Gotham to be.
“Oh my God.”
He hummed against you.
The vibration shot through your body, and your hand fisted hard in his hair.
Jason groaned.
“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing you as he spoke. “Pull my hair if you need to.”
You were already doing it.
You did it harder.
His mouth returned to you with a hunger that made your back arch off the couch. The helmet knocked lightly against your thigh as he shifted closer, cold red metal against overheated skin, and the contrast tore a broken sound out of you.
Jason stilled just long enough to look up.
The mask still hid his eyes.
All you could see was the lower half of his face between your thighs: flushed mouth, sharp jaw, the hint of a satisfied smile.
“Like that?” he asked, as though your body had not already answered for you.
You glared down at him, breathless. “You are impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “I like it.”
Jason smiled.
“Thought so.”
Then he went back down before you could say anything else.
The first few strokes had been teasing.
These were not.
Jason’s tongue found the place that made your hips jerk and stayed there, circling with devastating focus until your fingers tightened helplessly in his hair. His hands slid beneath your thighs, drawing you closer, holding you open for his mouth as if giving him access to you was the only instruction he planned to follow all night.
You could hear yourself now.
Little breathless sounds you might have tried to swallow earlier, breaking free every time his tongue moved exactly right.
Jason rewarded every one of them.
A groan against you.
A firm pull at your thighs.
A low, ruined murmur of, “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”
“Red—”
He lifted his mouth barely enough to speak.
“Yeah?”
You hated how wrecked you already sounded. “Don’t stop.”
His expression changed.
The playful edge remained, but beneath it something deepened—pleasure, possessiveness, a tenderness so intense it almost felt unfair.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
He hooked one arm beneath your thigh, settling you more firmly over his shoulder, and returned his mouth to you with an intensity that made you cry out.
The half-raised helmet dragged lightly along your skin every time you moved.
The red mask.
His bare mouth.
The voice that still came out rough and altered whenever he praised you.
You were never going to survive this kink now that he knew about it.
Jason licked you slowly once, deliberately, then focused his mouth exactly where you needed him. Your whole body tightened.
He felt it.
Of course he did.
His hand spread across your stomach, warm and steady, holding you through the tremors starting to build beneath your skin.
“Getting close?” he murmured.
You nodded desperately.
His hand pressed gently into your stomach.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes.” Your voice cracked. “Yes, Red. I’m close.”
A rough sound escaped him.
“Good.”
He kissed your thigh once—an absurdly tender little pause that made your chest ache—then lowered his mouth back to you.
“Come for me.”
The command, the mask, his mouth—all of it hit at once.
Your body broke open beneath him.
The orgasm rolled through you sharp and bright, stealing the air from your lungs. Your thighs tightened around his head; your hands gripped his hair; his name—no, his mask, his title—tore out of you in one helpless cry.
“Red—”
Jason held you through every shaking second of it.
His tongue softened but did not abandon you, drawing out the last aftershocks until you could not tell whether you were trying to escape the overstimulation or chase the feeling forever.
When you finally made a weak, broken little noise and pushed at his shoulder, he stopped instantly.
He kissed the inside of your thigh.
Then your hip.
Then the soft curve of your stomach as he climbed back over you.
You were still trying to remember how lungs worked when he appeared above you again.
Helmet crooked.
Hair ruined beneath it.
Mouth glistening.
Looking entirely too smug for a man who had just dismantled you on your own couch.
You blinked up at him.
Jason grinned.
“Still think the internet knows what it’s doing?”
You made an offended sound and covered your face with both hands.
He laughed, warm and low, then caught your wrists gently and brought them down to the couch beside your head.
“No hiding now.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re so pleased with yourself.”
“Can you blame me?”
You tried to glare at him.
It lost some of its impact when your entire body was still trembling.
Jason lowered himself over you carefully, his smile fading into something softer as he took in your flushed face and unfocused eyes.
“There she is,” he murmured.
This time the words were not teasing.
They landed warm against your ribs.
He let go of your wrists and cupped your cheek instead, thumb stroking slowly beneath your eye.
“Good?”
Your smile arrived weakly, lazily.
“So good.”
His shoulders loosened, a tiny release of tension you might not have noticed if you had not been looking for it.
Then, because apparently your survival instincts had not improved at all, you reached up and tapped the side of the red helmet.
“Though technically,” you whispered, “you didn’t give me anything I could upload.”
Jason froze.
The apartment went silent.
Then the mouth you could see curved into the slowest, most dangerous smile of the night.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping back into that modulated Red Hood rasp, “you really do like making bad decisions.”
You grinned up at him, still breathless.
“Maybe I like being corrected.”
Jason kissed you once, slow enough to make your toes curl all over again.
When he pulled back, his thumb dragged gently over your bottom lip.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve got plenty more material.”
BATFAM AFTER DARK: Correcting Misinformation (part two:The Real Thing )
Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
After Red Hood catches you scrolling through masked thirst traps, he decides it is time to remind you that the internet has nothing on the real thing.
🔥 BatFam After Dark Master List 🔥
Jason kissed like restraint was something he respected in theory.
His mouth claimed yours in slow, filthy increments, like he had all the time in Gotham and none of the mercy. One gloved hand cradled the back of your neck, the other firm at your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while still giving you room to move away.
You did not move away.
You moved closer.
That was your second mistake.
Jason made a rough sound against your mouth, half laugh, half warning.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Your fingers twisted in the front of his jacket. “No.”
His smile brushed your lips. “No?”
“No careful.”
The air shifted.
You felt it before he moved—the moment Jason Todd stopped teasing and started deciding.
His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, slow enough that you could stop him, deliberate enough that you knew he wanted you to feel every second of it. When he lifted your leg around his hip, he paused.
For one suspended second, he waited.
You answered by tightening your fingers in his jacket and pulling him closer.
Jason’s breath caught.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then he pressed you more securely against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your body understand the exact difference between being trapped and being held.
And God help you, you liked being held by him.
Jason kissed down your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear. The half-lifted helmet bumped lightly against your temple, ridiculous and erotic all at once, the cold red shell still hiding most of him while his mouth worked you open inch by inch.
“You really do like it,” he rasped.
“The mask?”
His teeth grazed your pulse.
You shivered.
“The mask. The voice. The whole dangerous bastard act.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “It’s not an act.”
Jason stilled.
Then his mouth curved against your neck.
“Smart girl.”
The praise went through you like a struck match.
Your hips shifted against him on instinct.
His hand tightened on your thigh, and his voice dropped into something darker, rougher, more wrecked.
“There it is.”
You hid your face against his shoulder.
“No, no.” He drew back just enough to look at you through the shadow under the helmet. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“I am not shy.”
“Baby.” His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh through your clothes. “You just tried to climb me because I called you smart.”
Your cheeks burned.
Jason sounded delighted.
Cruel man.
Beautiful man.
Infuriating man.
He lowered his mouth to yours again, slower this time, letting you feel the shape of his grin before he stole your breath. His body pressed you more fully into the wall, armor and leather and heat, and the contrast was dizzying—the Red Hood outside, Jason underneath, both of them focused on you with unbearable intensity.
Your hands found the exposed edge of his jaw.
“Can I?” you whispered.
He knew what you meant.
Jason went quiet for half a breath.
Then: “Yeah.”
You pushed the helmet up.
Not off. Just higher.
Enough to see his mouth fully, his nose, the dark sweep of his lashes as his eyes stayed hidden behind the lower shadow. His lips were kiss-swollen. His jaw tense. His expression caught somewhere between hunger and tenderness.
It made your stomach flip harder than any thirst trap ever could.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Jason’s mouth twitched. “That good?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So you did.
You kissed him hard enough that his composure cracked.
Jason groaned, full-bodied and real, and suddenly both his hands were on you—careful, yes, but not gentle in the way polite men were gentle. Jason was gentle like a storm choosing not to break the house. Like violence kneeling at your feet and asking permission.
He walked you backward without taking his mouth from yours, guiding you by instinct through your apartment until your legs hit the couch.
You fell back with a breathless laugh.
Jason stood over you.
Helmet still half-on.
Jacket open.
Chest rising hard beneath his shirt and armor.
For one blazing second, neither of you moved.
Then he reached for his gloves.
One finger at a time, he pulled them off.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Watching you watch him.
Your mouth went dry.
“That,” you said, “is unfair.”
Jason tossed one glove onto the table. Then the other.
“What, this?” He flexed his bare fingers once, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing to you.
“You are such a menace.”
He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your hip, the other beside your shoulder.
“No, sweetheart,” he said, mouth close to yours. “I’m a reward.”
Your breath caught.
Jason’s bare hand touched your cheek.
That did something worse to you than the gloves had.
Because the gloves were fantasy.
This was him.
Warm skin. Calloused fingers. The faint tremor of restraint.
He brushed his thumb over your lower lip, watching the movement like it personally offended him.
“You have any idea what you look like right now?” he asked.
“Don’t.”
“You want me to stop talking?”
“No.”
His smile sharpened.
“Then don’t tell me don’t.”
You stared up at him, heart hammering.
Jason’s expression softened around the edges, even with most of his face still shadowed.
“Still with me?”
You caught the tip of his thumb between your lips, just long enough to make his breath stutter.
“Completely.”
His gaze darkened.
“Good girl.”
The words had barely left his mouth before his kiss followed them down.
This time, he didn’t stop at your mouth.
He kissed your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck. His hands moved with devastating patience, learning the lines of you over your clothes, mapping every place that made you gasp, every place that made your fingers dig into the couch.
When he reached the hem of your shirt, he paused.
“Can I?”
You nodded, then remembered. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He lifted it slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You helped him, arms rising, breath catching when the fabric disappeared and Jason looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth surviving for.
The hunger in his face almost undid you.
Then the tenderness did.
“Jesus, baby,” he whispered.
Your instinct was to joke.
To deflect.
To cover yourself.
Jason caught your wrists before you could.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“Don’t hide from me.”
The words hit low and deep, somewhere older than desire.
Your breath shook.
His expression changed instantly.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “No. Just…”
He waited.
You swallowed. “I’m not used to being looked at like that.”
His face went still.
Then he lowered himself over you, slow and controlled, one knee between yours, one hand still wrapped gently around your wrist.
“Then you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
Your laugh came out weak and emotional. “Bossy.”
“Correct.”
He kissed your wrist.
Then your palm.
Then the inside of your forearm, each kiss deliberate, worshipful, infuriatingly slow.
“I’m gonna look,” he said against your skin. “I’m gonna touch, if you let me. I’m gonna take my time until you believe me.”
“Believe what?”
Jason’s mouth hovered over your pulse.
“That you’re wanted.”
Your eyes burned.
“Red.”
The name came out softer than you intended.
He kissed you before the softness could turn into tears, deep and grounding, letting you taste the promise without drowning in it.
Then his hand slid down your side.
Bare skin under his palm.
Your whole body arched.
Jason inhaled sharply.
“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s my girl.”
The words made you melt.
His girl.
His.
Not owned like a thing.
Chosen like a refuge.
Jason’s mouth moved lower, dragging heat over your skin. Your fingers found his hair beneath the helmet, tugging just enough to make him groan.
The sound went straight through you.
“You like that?” you whispered.
He looked up from your chest, eyes still hidden, mouth wicked.
“You pulling my hair?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.” His hand slid to your hip. “Do it again.”
So you did.
His restraint frayed visibly.
His breath hitched. His jaw clenched. His hand tightened, then softened immediately, like he was reminding himself to keep you safe even while you were trying your hardest to ruin him.
You loved him for that.
You wanted to ruin him for that.
Your hips shifted against his thigh.
His attention snapped back to your face.
“Baby.”
The warning in his voice was thin.
“What?” you asked, too innocent to be believed.
Jason laughed once, dark and low.
“Oh, you’re trouble.”
“You climbed through my window in a red helmet and started bullying me over thirst traps.”
“I did not bully you.”
“You absolutely did.”
He leaned down, mouth brushing yours.
“Want me to be nice?”
You hesitated.
His grin turned dangerous.
“No?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His hand slid under your knee, spreading you open beneath him just enough to make your breath catch. He stayed over your clothes, stayed controlled, stayed right on the edge of too much and not enough.
“Maybe you don’t want nice tonight,” he said.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
“Maybe I want Red Hood.”
Jason went utterly still.
The reaction was instant. The breath punched out of him; the hand beneath your knee tightened once before easing again.
Then the last of the teasing drained from him.
He kissed you hard, grinding down just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. Heat sparked everywhere at once, sharp and sweet and overwhelming. Your body chased him before your pride could stop it.
Jason broke the kiss just long enough to growl, “That’s it.”
Your head tipped back.
He followed, mouth at your throat, hand at your waist, thigh between yours, giving you friction in slow, controlled pressure until your breath started coming in broken little sounds.
“Red—”
“I’ve got you.”
You clung to him.
“I’ve got you,” he said again, rougher. “You can take what you need. Use me, baby.”
Your body answered before your mouth did.
Jason groaned against your skin, and the sound made everything worse, hotter, closer. He held you steady while you rocked against him, his praise dropping low and filthy-soft at your ear.
“Good. Just like that.”
“There you go.”
“Look at you, all worked up for me.”
You buried your fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours as if he had not already stolen every coherent thought from your head.
Jason laughed against your lips, dark and pleased.
“That’s my girl.”
The mask bumped lightly against your cheek again, and you laughed breathlessly, half overwhelmed and half delirious.
Jason pulled back.
“What?”
“You’re still wearing the helmet.”
His smile was pure trouble.
“You complaining?”
“No.”
“No, you are not.”
Then he lowered his mouth beside your ear, voice dipping into that Red Hood rasp again.
“Because you like remembering exactly who’s got you spread out on this couch.”
Your whole body clenched.
His expression turned feral.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You covered your face with one hand. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
He kissed your palm, then drew it away from your face.
“Eyes on me.”
You obeyed.
Not because he forced you.
Because you wanted to.
Because the room felt suddenly electric, because Jason was above you looking like temptation in a half-raised helmet, because every place he touched you felt claimed in the safest way.
His hand slid to the waistband of your pants.
Paused.
“Can I keep going?”
Your answer came immediately.
“Yes.”
His voice lowered.
“Tell me what you want.”
You swallowed.
The words were embarrassing.
The wanting was not.
You reached up, touched the red curve of the helmet, and whispered, “I want Red Hood to take care of me.”
Jason’s breath left him in one hard exhale.
For a moment, he looked wrecked.
Then he kissed you, slow and devastating.
“Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “I can do that.”
BATFAM AFTER DARK: Correcting Misinformation (part one:The Evidence)
Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
After Red Hood catches you scrolling through masked thirst traps, he decides it is time to remind you that the internet has nothing on the real thing.
🔥 BatFam After Dark Master List🔥
The first mistake was letting him know you’d seen the videos.
Not that Jason Todd needed the internet to tell him what a mask did to people. He knew. He knew because every time he came back through your window in that red helmet, all broad shoulders and leather and Gotham-night violence, you looked at him like you’d forgotten every reasonable thought you’d ever had.
But tonight?
Tonight he found the evidence.
Your phone was still open on the couch when he stepped in from the fire escape, boots silent for a man built like a threat. Rain slicked over his jacket. The red helmet turned toward the glowing screen.
A masked man leaned into the camera with a gloved hand braced against a wall.
Jason went still.
You froze in the kitchen doorway with a mug in your hand.
“Oh,” you said.
The helmet tilted.
“Princess.”
You pressed your lips together. “In my defense—”
“There is no defense.”
“It was research.”
“Research.”
“For cultural literacy.”
Jason picked up the phone between two gloved fingers. The video looped again: heavy breathing, black gloves, a slow head tilt clearly designed to make the comment section lose its collective mind.
Behind the helmet, you could feel his stare.
“You watching masked thirst traps while I’m out risking my ass?”
You set the mug down very carefully. “I mean. Technically, I was watching them because you were out risking your ass.”
The red helmet angled lower.
Oh no.
Oh no.
He set your phone facedown on the couch.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like a man putting down a weapon before choosing a better one.
“C’mere.”
Your stomach swooped.
“Jason.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
The voice modulator made it worse. Lower. Rougher. Mechanical at the edges, but unmistakably him underneath it. The sound crawled straight down your spine and settled somewhere warm.
You crossed the room with all the dignity you could manage, which was not much, because he was standing there in full Red Hood gear, rain-dark curls barely visible beneath the back edge of his helmet, arms crossed over his chest like judgment incarnate.
When you stopped in front of him, he didn’t touch you.
Somehow, the restraint was more devastating than his hands would have been.
He only looked down at you through the blank white eyes of the helmet.
“You like the mask thing?”
Your breath caught. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
You lifted your chin. “Yes.”
His gloved hand came up, not to grab, not to force—just two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it.
“There she is.”
The praise hit harder than it had any right to.
Jason noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. The shift in your breathing. The way your lashes fluttered. The way your mouth parted before you remembered you were supposed to be pretending this wasn’t getting to you.
He stepped closer.
Leather. Rain. Gunpowder. Warmth under armor.
“Been sitting here getting all worked up over strangers in masks,” he murmured. “When you’ve got the real thing climbing through your window.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t say strangers.”
A pause.
“Baby.”
The petname in that voice was unfair. Illegal, probably. A Gotham-level public hazard.
You smiled anyway, because survival instincts had never been your strongest quality around Jason Todd.
“What?” you asked sweetly. “You jealous of TikTok, Hood?”
His hand slid from your chin to the side of your throat, gentle but possessive, thumb resting over your pulse.
“Jealous?” he repeated. “No.”
He leaned in until the smooth red curve of the helmet hovered beside your cheek.
“I’m correcting misinformation.”
Your knees nearly gave up.
His other hand settled at your waist, steadying you before you could betray yourself completely. Warm and solid, giving you an easy out and making it devastatingly clear that he knew you didn’t want one.
“You good?” he asked, voice quieter now.
That was Jason too.
The threat. The flirt. The man who could make you melt with one hand at your throat and still pause to make sure your feet were under you.
You nodded. “Very good.”
“Words, baby.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m good.”
His thumb brushed once over your jaw.
“Color?”
“Green.”
A low sound came through the helmet. Approval. Hunger. Restraint wearing thin.
“Good girl.”
You made a tiny, deeply embarrassing noise.
Jason went still.
“Oh,” he said.
You covered your face. “Don’t.”
“No, no.” His voice warmed with wicked amusement. “We’re learning things tonight.”
“Jason.”
“You like the mask. You like the voice.” His gloved hand caught your wrist and gently drew your hand away from your face. “And you like being praised.”
Your cheeks burned. “I like when you praise me.”
That shut him up.
For half a second, all the teasing vanished.
Then Jason’s hand tightened at your waist.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
He bowed his head until the helmet rested lightly against your forehead. Cold, smooth, impossible. You could hear him breathing behind it now, rougher than before.
“All this time,” he said, softer, “and you still don’t get it.”
You touched the red metal with careful fingertips. “Get what?”
“That I come home half-feral and bleeding and pissed off at the whole city, and then I see you looking at me like that…” His voice dropped. “And suddenly I remember there’s something good waiting for me.”
Your teasing smile faded.
“Jay.”
He huffed a breath. “Don’t get soft on me now. I had a whole intimidating thing going.”
“You did,” you said. “It was very effective.”
“Was?”
You leaned closer, lips brushing the side of the helmet where his cheek would be if he weren’t hidden away from you.
“Still is.”
His fingers flexed.
Then he moved.
One second you were standing in front of him. The next, he had you backed carefully against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your hip, his body caging yours without trapping you.
Your breath hitched.
He didn’t kiss you.
Not yet.
He let the mask hover close enough that you felt the promise of him. Let you stare at your own reflection in the red surface, flushed and wanting and very much not bored anymore.
“You know what the difference is?” he asked.
“Between what?”
“Those videos and me.”
Your fingers curled into his jacket. “What?”
His hand slid to your lower back, pulling you just close enough to feel how controlled he was trying to be.
“They’re performing.”
He leaned in beside your ear.
“I’m starving.”
Your eyes fluttered closed.
“Jason.”
“Say it again.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Jason.”
“Not that.”
You knew what he wanted. Worse, you wanted to give it to him.
Your fingers rose to the edge of the helmet, not removing it, just holding there.
“Red.”
He went utterly still.
Then, in a voice that was all heat and devotion under the distortion, he said, “Yeah, baby?”
You tilted your face up.
“Take me apart a little.”
A beat.
His hand cupped the back of your neck, steady and reverent.
“Only a little?”
You laughed breathlessly.
Then the helmet clicked.
Released.
Jason lifted it just enough for you to see his mouth.
Not his whole face. Not yet.
Just the sharp line of his jaw. The dark shadow of stubble. The curve of a dangerous smile.
Your brain short-circuited.
His smile sharpened.
“Still green?” he asked.
“Neon.”
Jason grinned.
Then he kissed you like Gotham could burn down around him and he’d only ask for five more minutes.
Jason can handle being watched. What he can’t handle is the thought of someone turning his love for you into a weapon. But when distance starts to hurt more than it protects, you offer him a different countermove: choose closeness anyway.
A/N: Hi hello, I am alive 😅 I know it has been about five months since I updated this story, and I’m so sorry for disappearing on you all. Life got wildly out of hand for a while, but I finally found my way back to Jason, Reader, and this little Gotham family. Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around and waited patiently — it genuinely means the world to me. 🖤 Now let’s get back into the danger, yearning, and Jason Todd emotional repression, shall we? 🦇
🥀 a safe place to land master list 🌹
Jason comes home before dawn.
Quietly.
Not because he needs to be — the apartment has learned him by now. The floorboard near the hall groans if he steps too far left. The old lock clicks twice before it settles. Sophia’s door doesn’t squeak anymore because he fixed it, and that small fact hits him harder than it should when he passes it in the dark.
He stops outside your room.
Just for a second.
The city is still clinging to him. Cold air in his jacket. Damp on his boots. The stale metallic taste of rooftops and old blood, even though none of it is his tonight.
Not really.
He lifts a hand toward the doorframe.
Then lets it fall.
It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.
You’re asleep. No one is watching through the walls. No one is counting how long he stands here, how often he comes back, whether he goes soft when he thinks no one can see.
Still.
Moretti isn’t stupid.
That’s the part Jason can’t shake.
The man isn’t lunging at the obvious target. He isn’t throwing threats into the dark or kicking down doors. He’s watching for motion. Reactions. Pressure points.
Who moves when your name comes up.
Who tightens the perimeter.
Who cares enough to make mistakes.
Jason has made a career out of being the mistake other people don’t survive.
He cannot make you one.
So he steps back from the doorway and goes to the couch instead.
He sits in the dark until the window begins to pale at the edges.
⸻
You find him there before the sun fully comes up.
Of course you do.
You’re wearing one of his shirts, hair loose around your face, bare feet silent against the floor. You pause at the end of the hall, eyes adjusting to the dim room.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then you say, softly, “You came home.”
Jason looks up. “Yeah.”
It’s the wrong answer.
Not because it’s untrue.
Because it’s too small.
Normally, he would reach for you. A hand at your hip. Fingers brushing your wrist. Something unconscious and territorial in the gentlest possible way, like he’s still surprised you let him have places to land.
This morning, he doesn’t.
He watches you notice.
That hurts more than the bruises.
You cross the room anyway and sit beside him, not touching. Just close enough that he can feel the warmth of you at his side.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
Another too-small answer.
Your mouth tightens, but you don’t push. Not yet.
That almost makes it worse.
⸻
The morning moves around the distance like water around a stone.
Jason makes coffee.
You make toast.
Neither of you says anything that matters.
He keeps his body angled away from the window without making it obvious. He doesn’t kiss you by the sink. He doesn’t touch your lower back when he passes behind you. He doesn’t lean into the quiet like he normally would.
He does all the right domestic things.
Rinses his mug. Checks the messages from Barbara. Puts the butter back where it belongs. Picks a stray thread off the sleeve of your shirt and realizes halfway through the movement that touching your clothes is still touching your life, so he stops.
Your eyes flick down.
You saw that too.
Damn it.
Jason turns away before you can say his name.
His comm buzzes on the counter.
Barbara.
He answers because avoiding one problem by stepping into another is practically a family tradition.
“What?” he says.
“Good morning to you too,” Barbara replies.
You lean against the counter, arms folded, listening.
Jason doesn’t put it on speaker.
You raise an eyebrow.
He does.
Barbara pauses. “Am I interrupting something emotionally avoidant?”
“No.”
“Yes,” you say at the same time.
Jason shuts his eyes.
Barbara sighs. “Fantastic. My favorite operating environment.”
“What do you have?” Jason asks.
Her tone shifts, clean and precise. “Moretti’s people are testing correlation. Not access. Not location. Pattern.”
Jason’s jaw locks.
You go still beside him.
Barbara continues. “Red Hood movement. Response timing. Geographic clustering after certain names hit certain channels. He’s not looking for her directly.”
“He’s looking for why I care,” Jason says.
“Yes.”
You absorb that without flinching.
Jason hates that you have had to learn how not to flinch.
Barbara’s voice softens by the smallest degree. “Important note: disappearing completely is also correlation.”
Jason looks up.
“What?” he says.
“If you suddenly stop moving near her, stop responding near her, stop showing up in any predictable overlap, that’s also data.” A pause. “Absence is a pattern too.”
The kitchen goes quiet.
Jason feels your eyes on him.
Barbara, because she is merciless and correct, adds, “So whatever you’re doing right now that feels noble and self-sacrificing? Rethink it.”
You press your lips together.
Jason points at you. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
Barbara says, “She was.”
Jason exhales through his nose. “You done?”
“For now,” Barbara says. “Don’t get loud. Don’t get obvious. And don’t confuse distance with safety.”
The line clicks dead.
Jason sets the phone down.
Slowly.
You wait exactly three seconds.
Then: “You’re acting like proximity is dangerous.”
There it is.
No anger. No accusation.
Just the blade placed cleanly on the table.
Jason looks at the counter. “It is.”
Your face changes, but only a little. A small tightening around the eyes. A controlled inhale.
“That’s what you think?” you ask.
“That’s what I know.”
You nod once, like you’re deciding not to argue with the fear itself. “Okay.”
That throws him more than a fight would have.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Yes. Proximity can be dangerous.” You step closer, careful and steady. “So can distance. So can silence. So can changing so much he can see the shape of what scared us.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Because you’re right.
Because Barbara was right.
Because he hates that the two of you are right in the same direction.
You fold your arms tighter, not defensive. Holding yourself together.
“I’m not asking you to be careless,” you say. “I’m asking you not to let him decide what closeness is allowed to look like.”
Jason’s throat works.
“He’s counting,” he says finally.
“I know.”
“Every time I come here. Every time Hood moves in your orbit. Every time I answer too fast or show up too close or—” He cuts himself off, jaw hard. “I don’t know how to touch you without thinking about who might use it.”
There.
He said it.
Not all of it.
Enough.
Your expression softens, but you don’t reach for him yet.
That is worse.
That is better.
“I hate that,” you say quietly.
Jason huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Makes two of us.”
“No.” You shake your head. “I hate that someone made you feel like the answer is to take yourself away.”
The room goes still.
Jason looks at you then.
Really looks.
You don’t step into him. Don’t force his hand. Don’t make closeness into a test he can fail.
Instead, you sit at the small kitchen table and lay your hand open on the surface between you.
Palm up.
An invitation.
Not a demand.
“Then choose it on purpose,” you say.
Jason stares at your hand.
He has taken worse risks.
He has stepped into gunfire with less hesitation.
But this feels sharper somehow. More exposed. A decision made in daylight instead of darkness.
If he takes your hand, it means he is admitting there are things Moretti can see and still not own.
It means refusing to amputate tenderness just because someone might map the wound.
It means trusting that protection doesn’t have to look like absence.
Jason crosses the room.
Slowly.
He sits across from you, jaw tight, eyes lowered.
Then he takes your hand.
Your fingers close around his immediately.
Warm.
Steady.
Real.
Jason exhales, and something in him gives—not breaks. Gives.
“I hate that you’re right,” he mutters.
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles. “I know.”
He looks at your joined hands, then at you.
“I’m still changing the pattern.”
“I know.”
“Routes. Timing. Hood sightings nowhere near here. Maybe Dick runs a few false overlaps. Tim can make the data messy.”
“Good.”
His eyes narrow. “You already thought of that?”
“I spent three days at a beach house with the world’s weirdest crime family,” you say dryly. “Some of it rubbed off.”
Despite himself, Jason laughs.
Not loud.
Enough.
Your smile is small, tired, victorious in a way that makes his chest ache.
“So we make a plan,” you say.
“Yeah,” he answers. “We make a plan.”
But he doesn’t let go of your hand.
Not while he calls Barbara back. Not while she answers with, “That was fast,” like she absolutely knows what just happened. Not while they sketch out the shape of it in clipped, efficient language.
Decoy movement.
False Hood sightings.
Nightwing making noise two districts over.
Tim muddying timestamps.
Barbara smoothing the digital edges.
Your routines staying human. Unremarkable. Yours.
No one says the word bait.
No one needs to.
This isn’t that.
This is camouflage.
This is choosing which parts of love belong to the world and which parts stay behind closed doors.
When the call ends, Jason is still holding your hand.
His thumb has started moving without permission, slow against your skin.
You notice.
You don’t mention it.
Mercy, he thinks.
Or maybe strategy.
Maybe, with you, they are starting to become the same thing.
⸻
Evening comes softer than it should.
The apartment is lit low, curtains drawn not because of fear, but because privacy is allowed to be practical. You make dinner together without ceremony. Jason burns the edge of the garlic bread and looks personally offended by it. You scrape the blackened part into the trash while he insists it was “char.”
“It was ash,” you say.
“It was character.”
“It was evidence.”
That gets you the smallest smile.
The kind he doesn’t mean to give away.
Later, you check your phone and find a message from Alfred.
Miss Sophia has informed Master Damian that Ace requires a bedtime story. Negotiations are ongoing.
You laugh so softly it almost isn’t sound.
Jason glances over. “What?”
You show him.
His face shifts before he can stop it. Soft. Painfully fond.
“She okay?” he asks.
“She’s okay.”
He nods.
That ache moves through both of you, quiet and shared. Missing her is not panic. Missing her is proof.
The night keeps going.
No alarms.
No sudden calls.
No one at the door.
Just the kind of quiet that makes decisions feel louder.
When Jason stands to leave, the old instinct flickers across his face.
Distance.
Calculation.
The urge to make the goodbye clean and untouchable.
You see it.
He sees you see it.
For a second, the board waits.
Then Jason steps toward you instead of away.
Not by the window.
Not in the open frame of the room.
In the hallway, where the light is warm and low and private.
He cups your cheek with one hand.
“On purpose,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
Then you nod. “On purpose.”
He kisses you.
Not desperately. Not like goodbye.
Like proof that a thing can be protected without being hidden from the people who matter.
His mouth is warm and careful, his thumb brushing once beneath your cheekbone. You lean into him, fingers curling in the front of his jacket, holding him there for one more second that belongs to neither Moretti nor Gotham nor the cold arithmetic of men who think affection is only useful once it can be counted.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
People refuse to believe ghost when he tells them he's dating you. Because...well...ghost is weird.
He wears a mask around base all the time, seems to communicate solely in grunts when he's not making a disturbing joke, and ignores social cues like a text from an angry ex.
The team genuinely refuses to believe that the guy who hums lullabies while sniping and acts like a creature only recently introduced to humans is dating...you.
You, the steaming hot mechanic who contracts on base. You're the kind of catch anyone in their right mind would be taking a chance for at least once, as evidence by the fact you've been flirted with by everyone in the 141 before.
They only believe it when ghost has to go sign some papers for trashing another vehicle during training, and you just so happen be the mechanic available for once.
"Another one, si? C'mon baby, you promised to calm down..." you tease, only taking a moment to offer the guys a sweet smile before looking back at ghost with hearts in your eyes "what was it this time? Hm?"
Ghost only smiles all dopey when you roll up his mask to plant a peck on his lips, grunting "got a stiffy thinkin' of you....also saw a spider. Little distracted. Would've bled out thinkin' aboot yer lips."
You snort, press a firmer kiss to his lips and pat him on the hip "love you too, si. Since you're here, I packed extra lunch, it's in my area."
Ghost robotically walks off, a bit alien and a bit like a zombie with his mask still rolled up. Not smiling, but...not exactly frowning like usual.
You watch him walk off with an absolutely smitten expression of your own, and only notice gaz standing next to you when he asks, "the hell do you see in him?"
You sigh, thinking of the time ghost once jumped into a frozen river and spent a night in medical because someone said he had a fish facr.
Ghost accidentally pavlovs himself with the scent of your perfume. Mostly because he likes to hold you close, arms wrapped around your torso and nose tucked into your neck when he fucks you, inhaling the slight musk mixed the floral and wood tones.
It's not usually a problem, seeing as ghost is taking you to bed the second he gets back from deployment anyways. Never once had an issue about it.
Until you get the bright idea to spray some of your perfume on his mask as a little surprise for when he's on the field. He can't blame you, it's not like ghost exactly told you about this particular quirk of his.
But it does mean he's sporting a stiffy from the moment he pulls on his mask in the locker room to the moment he finds the time to rut against the dirt if his snipers perch....only to get hard not ten minutes later when his brain registers the hint of the perfume again.
jason todd who's a little perv and so shy about it ╱ mdni, panty sniffing and stealing, soft teasing ˚.✦
You've been waiting for the perfect moment to confront your boyfriend about your fourth missing panties of the week.
It comes late that night. Jason’s just peeled off the Red Hood gear and he’s standing in the bedroom doorway in nothing but low-slung sweatpants and the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbones. He looks tired, beautifully so, dark hair damp and falling into his eyes. He hasn’t noticed you watching him yet.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, one of his t-shirts swallowing your frame. In your hand is the thin black lace you found shoved hastily under his pillow this afternoon, the fifth pair, actually. You hold them up by one finger, letting them dangle.
“Jay.”
His head snaps up. Green eyes lock on the scrap of fabric, then on your face. The color drains from his cheeks so fast it’s almost comical, replaced a heartbeat later by a flush that crawls from his throat all the way to his ears.
“Shit,” he breathes. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic he can’t ever quite kill. “Fuck. You weren’t supposed to—”
“Find them?” you finish softly, tilting your head. You don’t sound angry. You don’t even sound surprised. “Baby, this is the fifth pair this week.”
He winces like you’ve struck him. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out at first except a mortified sound caught somewhere between a groan and a plea.
“I didn’t...” He stops, drags both hands down his face, fingers splayed wide. “I didn’t come in them. I swear to God. I wouldn’t—I’m not that fucking disrespectful, I just—”
He cuts himself off, throat working. The flush deepens until the tips of his ears are practically glowing. He can’t look at you. His gaze keeps darting to the panties, then to the floor, then to the wall. Anywhere but your face.
You stand slowly, letting the lace slip from your fingers onto the bed. You step closer. Not crowding him, not yet. Just close enough that he can feel your warmth, smell the faint trace of your shampoo still clinging to your skin.
“Tell me why,” you murmur.
Jason swallows hard. His voice comes out wrecked, barely above a whisper. “They smell like you.”
He risks a glance at you then, like he’s waiting for disgust or laughter or disgust-laughter. When he doesn’t find either, his shoulders drop a fraction.
“I know it’s fucked up,” he mumbles. “I know. I just… after patrol sometimes I come home and you’re already asleep and you smell so fucking good and I um... I miss you even when you’re right there. So I took one. I was gonna wash ’em and put ’em back, I swear, I just—” He breaks off, voice cracking on a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll buy you new ones. Ten. Twenty. Whatever you want. I’m sorry.”
He’s practically vibrating with embarrassment now, huge frame hunched in on itself like he’s trying to disappear. One hand is clenched into a fist at his side, the other keeps scrubbing over the back of his neck like he can wipe the shame away.
You reach out, slow, and catch that restless hand. His fingers twitch against yours but he doesn’t pull away.
“Hey,” you say gently.
It takes him a long second. When he finally looks at you, his pupils are blown wide, cheeks scarlet. He looks like he’s two seconds from bolting or dropping to his knees.
You step into his space properly this time, until your chest brushes his. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart against your ribs.
“You could’ve just asked,” you whisper, lips curving. “I would’ve let you keep one. Or… I could’ve worn them for you. Let you take them off me.”
A broken noise punches out of his throat. His free hand flies to your waist, gripping hard like he needs the anchor.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. “Don’t hah say shit like that when I’m already losing my mind here.”
You smile against his jaw, press the softest kiss there. “Too late.”
His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your neck.
“I’m such a fucking pervert,” he mutters into your skin. “You deserve better than me sniffing your underwear like some desperate—"
You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.
“You’re my desperate pervert. And I like that you want me that bad. I like that you think about me when I’m not even awake. I like that you’re blushing so hard right now I can feel the heat coming off you.”
He groans miserable and turned-on all at once.
You tip your head, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Next time… just tell me. Or better yet, take them off me yourself.”
His grip on your waist turns bruising. His breathing stutters.
“Fuck,” he chokes. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I be you'll die happy,” you murmur, smiling against his pulse.
He laughs and finally wraps both arms around you, crushing you to his chest like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I love you,” he mumbles into your hair. “Even when you’re torturing me.”
You slide your hands up his bare back, nails grazing gently. “I love you too. Panties and all.”
He buries his face deeper against your neck and lets out a long breath.
“…Can I keep the black ones?” he asks, so quiet you almost miss it.
You remember that time Queen Elizabeth got invited to a wedding as a joke and she showed up? That with Bruce Wayne.
A couple invites Bruce Wayne to their wedding as a joke. They don’t expect him to even see the invite let alone show up, after all he’s a very busy man. There’s no way he’d show up to their wedding when there’s a million other, much more important things he could be doing with his time.
But he does show up.
Embarrassed, the couple confesses that it was a joke and they didn’t think he’d show up, but then Bruce flashes his million dollar smile and says of course there’s no way he’d miss it and offers (insists) on paying for the honeymoon.
Just a Fandom Writer @prongspower - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
