Kitty

broadcasting from my brain (23, they/she)

[toki-like-eat-kfc]

Thorin as Crown Prince

[readingkitty]

God I’m worried about my younger sibling but I genuinely can’t do a damn thing about it.

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

NEEDY | steve harrington

You're starting to wonder if you're too needy for Steve.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 2.5k contains: angst, hurt/comfort, eventual (tooth rooting) fluff, established relationship, toxic ex, mention of a previous age gap relationship, steve harrington loves hard.

author's note: requested by anon | i really loved this request! as someone who has felt too clingy in the past, it got me right in the feels 🥹🥹 this was meant to be much shorter but couldn't stop

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

The first time someone had called you clingy, it had been your best friend. You were seven years old and hadn’t really understood what it meant. All you knew was that she stopped being your best friend shortly after that. 

The next time—it was a boyfriend who had called you needy. He had said it affectionately. You were fifteen and he was older. Much older. You hadn’t questioned it. Just smiled and clung to him a little tighter. But over time needy became clingy and clingy became suffocating.

Suffocating. That was what he had called you once. It had been during an argument but you knew he meant it. You had noticed when he had started to recoil at your touch. How he would roll his eyes when you would try to hold his hand in public. How he turned his head when you leaned in for a kiss.

You stopped reaching for him after that. 

He stopped trying entirely.

Needy. Clingy. Suffocating.

Those words had lived under your skin for four years now. They had buried themselves in your veins and refused to leave.You had built walls up in every relationship since—something to protect yourself from falling hard again. You had stopped yourself from clinging onto someone who would inevitably despise you for it.

But then Steve Harrington came along like a damn wrecking ball and tore down those walls that you had built.

You had met through your cousin Robin—after multiple attempts on her part to set you guys up. You had finally given in after she had promised you that he wasn’t the guy you had known in high school. That he was—in her words—a great guy. It was a mark of how much you trusted Robin that you had finally agreed.

You were annoyed to find out that she had been right. Steve had taken you to Enzo’s and you had laughed over his terrible pronunciations of Italian food. He had laughed when you pointed out that the waiter seemed to be wearing a fake moustache. Steve had asked you questions—a lot of questions in fact and seemed genuinely interested in your answers. In every way, it had been a perfect date. Steve had been perfect. 

He didn’t kiss you that night—just a simple kiss to your cheek after he drove you back home and left you with a promise of a second date. The fact you had wanted him to kiss you told you that you were in deep already.

You considered cancelling the second date. You had considered telling Steve you had changed your mind—that you wanted to remain friends. That he was nice but not your type. Not because you truly meant it but because the thought of another guy one day finding you suffocating made you want to run for the hills.

But you didn’t. You decided to go on the second date. You decided to see where things went.

Four months and numerous dates later and it was undeniable now—you were in deep. You were fully in love with Steve Harrington.

The realisation that you loved him had hit you out of seemingly nowhere two weeks ago. You had been his plus one to his cousin’s wedding. He had looked ridiculously handsome in a suit and tie—a tie that perfectly matched your sage green dress. Which had felt like a statement of unity that told everyone that Steve Harrington was yours and you were his. Over the course of the evening, you found yourself staring at him. Not only because he looked so handsome (though, in fairness, it did contribute) but because being at a wedding with Steve, it had made you think about your own wedding one day.

You found yourself wanting to ask him if he wanted to get married. Whether he wanted a big church wedding or a small, intimate wedding. If he wanted to elope, even. You wanted to ask him if he wanted kids—how many he wanted. If he wanted to get a dog or cat or both. You wanted to ask him about the future and it was that moment—as you watched as he twirled one of his little cousins around the dancefloor—that you realised you loved him. You really fucking loved him.

It had scared you so much that you had found yourself wanting to pull away. You felt the need to cling to Steve after that. You felt as though you wouldn’t be content until you were able to crawl into his skin and live inside of it. Steve never seemed to mind—he always smiled when you would reach out to hold his hand during dinners. He didn’t seem to mind when you would cuddle up to him during a movie. How you always greeted him with a hug. But there was that little voice in the back of your head—the one that sounded suspiciously like your ex-boyfriend—that told you to stop being clingy. A voice that told you that if you wanted Steve to not grow tired and annoyed at your need to touch him every five seconds, then you needed to pull back.

And so—you did.

Steve Harrington was starting to wonder if he had done something wrong.

He had noticed how you were beginning to pull away from him. He noticed how when he had picked you up from work the other day that you didn’t hug him. How you didn’t even lean over the centre console to kiss his cheek the way you usually did. How the last time you went out for dinner you didn’t hold his hand beneath the table. How you didn’t reach for his hand as you walked down the street together. How you seemed to stop reaching from him entirely.

Steve felt it—especially now when you were sitting on the other side of the couch instead of curled up next to him, your head resting against his chest as one of your hands slipped beneath his shirt to trace patterns on his skin. Run your fingers through the hair on his chest.

But instead, your hands were tucked beneath your thighs—a respectable gap between the two of you. One that felt more like a chasm than just the space between you. It makes Steve feel on edge. Makes him think about Nancy—how she had pulled away from him. How he didn’t even realise it was happening until it was too late. The thought makes Steve look over at you—makes him think about everything he could have done wrong over the past two weeks. 

Was it that time he had forgotten to get the chocolate you wanted from Bradley’s? Was it that he hadn’t taken you to see the fifth Friday the 13th movie before had stopped showing at the movie theatres? Was it that he hadn’t noticed your new haircut the other day?

“You okay?” Steve finally asks you—trying to sound normal, like he wasn’t spiralling on the other side of the couch. Like he wasn’t losing his damn mind because you weren’t touching him.

You turn to look at Steve, your eyes softening slightly when you look at him because all you wanted to do was curl up on his lap. Kiss his stupidly handsome face. Tell him that you loved him.

But the thought of Steve growing tired of you—of thinking you needy, or clingy or suffocating—it kept you rooted to the spot.

“Yeah,” you say finally, looking away from him and back at the movie you were watching. “I’m okay.”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t trust yourself. Don’t trust that you won’t drop the L bomb if you look at those big brown eyes of his for a second longer.

Steve nods—his throat feeling tight as he watches your expression carefully. He notices how you tense your jaw, how your eyes are a little glassy. Part of Steve—the part of him that remembered how Nancy had pushed away his affection—told him not to press you. To just let things be. You’d talk to him when you were ready.

But the other part of him—the part that knew he loved you—told him not to do that. Told him to not let you dwell on whatever it was bothering you.

Steve finds the remote behind one of the sofa cushions between you and he turns off the TV before he could second guess himself.

You blink—looking over at Steve in confusion.

“Why did you—”

“—I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me,” Steve interjects, setting down the remote on the coffee table before he turns his body to face you fully. His hands twitch as though itching to reach for you.

You swallow, looking at him properly now and seeing how his face twists with worry and concern and you feel something that feels an awful lot like guilt settling in your gut. Because he was right—you weren’t being honest with him.

So you say nothing, you look at him as you wait for the inevitable—for him to tell you that you were too much. That you were too needy. Too clingy. Too suffocating.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead—he leans over to you, wraps his fingers around both your wrists to pull your hands out from under your thighs. Then—he laces his fingers through yours without breaking eye contact. It does funny things to your heart. Makes your stomach feel fluttery.

“Something’s up,” he murmurs, lifting your hand so he could kiss the knuckles on your right hand. Then, he does the same with your left. Eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me. Please. Whatever it is—I promise you, it’s okay.”

His voice is so soft, so tender, so loving that you want to be wrapped up in it. You wanted to be cocooned by his gentle words and velvety voice until you felt okay again.

“It’s silly,” you whisper finally, so quietly that Steve has to scoot closer to you on the couch—that carefully constructed space between the two of you lessening.

“Baby, if something is bothering you—it’s not silly,” he says, so matter of factly it makes your face warm. “Especially if it’s something that I’ve done.”

You look at Steve, brows furrowed in utter confusion. “Something you’ve done?”

Steve nods, squeezing your hands gently. “Yeah. I mean—I must have done something wrong. You’ve been so distant lately. You don’t touch me the way you usually do.”

Your breath hitches, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth as your fingers twitch against his.

“I just—” you begin, trying to find the words but struggling as your fear of rejection comes bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “—I just didn’t want you to think I was too needy or clingy. I don’t want you getting sick of me.”

Steve looks at you for a long, long moment before his face breaks out into a smile. For one horrifying moment, you think that he’s going to laugh at you. But then, he gently lifts one hand to cup your cheek. Holding your face as though you were made of something precious.

“Sick of you?” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently rubbing over your cheek as his eyes danced over your face. “Baby—I can’t get enough of you.”

“You say that now but—”

But Steve is already shaking his head, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your nose. He then places one on your forehead. Another to your left cheek—then your right. Before he finally places a gentle but firm kiss to your lips. One that takes your breath away. One that you lean into and kiss him back before you could let doubt seep in.

Just as your hands reach up to grip the front of his shirt, he pulls away and you let out a small whine at the loss of his lips. Steve smiles at that but looks at you with an almost stern gaze.

“But nothing,” Steve says finally. “I don’t know who the hell has made you think that you could ever be too much but they were wrong. They were so fucking wrong. I love that you want to touch me all the time. I love knowing that you want me—I love that you make it known that you want me—that you can’t go five minutes without a kiss.”

The concerns of your mouth twitch, looking back at him as his thumb continues to gently caress your cheek. “I think five minutes is a stretch,” you mumble.

Steve smiles, rolling his eyes before he places a chaste kiss to your lips that you find yourself wanting to melt into.

“I think it’s accurate,” he murmurs against your lips before he pulls away to look at you carefully.

It’s quiet then for a few moments, him just looking at you and you leaning into his touch like it was all you ever needed.

“I need you to know something,” Steve says, breaking the almost silence between you. “I need you to know that—that you could never be too much for me. Never. You are—fuck, baby—you’re my favourite person. I could never get tired of my favourite person. I want to be near you all the fucking time. I’m like the most pathetic guy because of you—Robin and Dustin tell me that all the time—how much I talk about you. How many times I have this stupid smile on my face when I’m thinking about you.”

You bite back a smile, your chest feeling warm and eyes beginning to sting a little because you had never been wanted like this. Steve notices and wipes your tears away before they could fall.

“You—are never going to be too much for me,” Steve tells you. “Never, baby. I mean that.”

You’re speechless—genuiely speechless. 

And the only thing you can think to say is—

“I love you.”

Steve’s thumb stops brushing over your skin. His eyes widened. His heart might have even stopped beating.

For a split second, he says nothing. You think the worst. That you had said it too soon, that you misunderstood his speech as something more—

But then Steve is kissing you and all you can think about is him. About Steve and his hands that still held you as though you were made of gold. Steve and his ridiculously perfect hair that only you were allowed to mess up.

He pulls away—though it’s clear he doesn’t want to from the way his breathing is erratic. The way his forehead presses against yours.

“I wanted to say it first,” Steve whispers.

“Too slow,” you say quietly with a small smile.

He laughs and then—he’s kissing you all over again. The space between you is nonexistent as he pulls you onto his lap. As his hands find your waist and yours find their way into his hair.

“For the record,” Steve says as he pulls away for a moment to catch his breath. “I love you too. More than you love me.”

You laugh and it’s a sound Steve hopes to never forget. And you? Well—you don’t question whether Steve Harrington thought that you were too much ever again.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

[sanguineterrain]

knight in shining helmet | jason todd

Summary: You're a princess who's visiting Gotham City. You weren't loving it to begin with—then you of course had to get kidnapped. Needless to say, your expectations of the night are in hell. You're hoping, at least, that you'll be rescued by the famous Batman. Instead, it's the infamous Red Hood that finds you.

Pairing: Jason Todd x princess!fem!reader 

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings/tags: kidnapping, rescue, reader and jason don't get along at first, violence, drugging, meet-ugly, 7-eleven food as a courting strategy, kissing, softie jason (he always makes an appearance somehow!), strangers to...not-so-strangers.

the divider

You suppose that, for a princess, you ought to have expected a kidnapping to pan out at least once in your life. 

You just didn't think it would happen tonight. In Gotham City. A place you weren't loving to begin with. 

“Unhand me!” you scream as soon as your taker's filthy, sweaty hand leaves your face. “You'll be executed for this!”

You're not actually sure of Gotham's death penalty policy, but you feel like it's something you should throw in. In any case, the three men who've dragged you away, tied you up, and bruised you in the process, should be a little more afraid of getting caught. 

“Batman will find you,” you add. “He'll save me.” You've heard great tales of Gotham's hero. If anyone can help you, it's him. 

That makes one of them pause. But the ringleader sneers at you. “If he finds us. He's got a lot on his plate every night, ya Majesty.”

“I am a priority guest in this city, of course he would—”

“Shut her up,” the leader snaps, and suddenly, you're being gagged. Disgusting. Completely unsanitary. You don’t want to imagine if the gag has ever been washed.

You keep screaming and fighting through the gag until a needle pricks your neck. Your terror spikes as you realize there's suddenly an ultimatum to the fear: either Batman finds you in time, or he doesn't.

That's your last thought as the drug renders you unconscious. 

When you awaken, it's still nighttime. Nearly pitch black, except for a dim lightbulb in the center of the room. It looks like you're in some kind of warehouse. You can't see much of anything and it makes you claustrophobic. Your head aches and your vision is blurry, and your cheek is pressed against a grimy floor. You just want to go home.

You try to sit up first, but that nearly makes you throw up, and you do not want to throw up through this ratty gag. So you swallow the feeling and close your eyes, waiting until the nausea passes. You open your eyes and they begin to adjust to the darkness. You’re alone, which confuses you.

Then you spot the explosives hooked up at the bottom of your dress.

The good news is that your kidnappers aren’t here. The bad news is that the reason they aren’t here is because they can remotely explode this place and you inside of it. If they don’t get the ransom they’re no doubt demanding, tonight will be your first and last night in Gotham. 

Another thought chills you to your bone: what if the explosives are set to go off whether they get the ransom or not?

You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come. You’re going to die.

But wait. Maybe not. Surely, Batman is looking for you. And his young, brightly-colored companion. You never understood that color palette choice.

They’ll save you. Your father has no doubt alerted authorities. You’re the most important person in the city tonight! Of course people are looking for you. 

Yes, you’ll be saved, the criminals will be punished to the highest extent of the law, and you’ll be escorted back to your hotel where you can take a long, luxurious bath. That’ll be very nice. 

You’ll also never visit Gotham again, that is for sure. 

The door to the warehouse rolls open with a boom. You flinch and squint, trying to make out the figure. If it’s your kidnapper, you want to act like you’re still asleep. You think you saw that trick in a film at the cinema you snuck out to watch when you were young. You didn’t catch the whole film, though—you were found out by your guards before you could. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d watched the whole film!

As the figure gets closer, you realize firstly that he’s a lot bigger than your kidnappers. You sigh in relief. Batman.

“‘Lo?” asks a gruff voice. “Anybody here?”

You shout through your gag. You can’t make out a face, but it’s alright. Relief floods you. You’re saved.

Your savior jogs to you. You tilt your head as you make out a… red helmet? With glowing eyes?

Wait a minute.

“Holy shit,” Not-Batman says. He pulls out your gag first. “Y’okay?”

Realization strikes you; you recall a story one of the party guests shared earlier in the night about a crime lord and his terror on Gotham.

"You're that terrible gangster that left a duffle bag of heads!" you blurt.

"In the flesh," he says, tapping the barrel of his gun to his helmet in a salute. Red Hood. “You don’t look very happy to see me, all things considered.”

“I don’t want your help!” you say, wriggling away from him. “I’m in an alliance with The Batman!”

He tilts his head. “‘S that so? What alliance would that be? Beauty Pageant Runaways For Bats?”

“I am not a beauty pageant contestant,” you say hotly. “I am a princess, and I have a small militia looking for me.”

He kneels in front of you, holstering his gun. His one of many, many guns. Your skin itches with sweat and adrenaline as he approaches. Those glowing eyes in his helmet flip your stomach. This is all wrong. You're supposed to be saved by a hero, not an outlaw. A criminal.

“Princess, huh?” Hood nods. “Ah, yeah. I heard somethin’ about that. They took you from the Plaza. Just my luck that I’d run into ya.”

“You mean, you weren’t actively looking for me?” you ask in a small voice. 

“Nope. You’ve got every vigilante and cop in the city looking for you, Your Highness. I came in here ‘cause I smelled motor oil.” 

Now that he’s found you, what does he plan to do?

“Are… are you going to release me?” you ask.

“Depends. Is this place rigged to blow?”

“My dress,” you say, unsure whether you should let him know about the explosives. A man who leaves severed heads in a duffel bag doesn’t seem wrapped up too tightly. 

“Hm?” Hood lifts your skirt slightly. He whistles. “Damn. This is some excellent work. Whoever did this is a pro demolitions expert.”

His praise doesn’t comfort you, oddly enough.

“Is it live?” you ask.

“Doesn’t look like it. And I’ve got a lot of experience with explosives. Just stay still for now.”

Hood squats and pulls out a knife. You shift. He's bigger than you even like this, crouched at your level. His shoulders nearly block your entire view. 

“Who were they?” he asks.

“Who was who?”

“The people that took you.”

“I don't know. They were wearing masks. Three men,” you say, frozen as he takes the knife to your feet.

“Mm.”

Hood begins to cut the ropes around your ankles. You delicately point your feet, unsure if he'll slip and get you. 

Your lip curls. "Where's Batman? Or that boy who works with him? Aren't they in charge of this city? I want to speak to one of them."

“I don’t work for the Bats,” he says, an edge to his words.

“Well, I don’t feel comfortable with you rescuing me,” you say. “You’re a criminal.”

Hood stops cutting and looks at you. "Y'want Batman? Fine. I don't mind letting you wait around for the Bat.”

He pockets the knife and rises, walking out of the warehouse and disappearing. Just like that. Your heart jumps.

"Wait!" you shout, squirming in your binds. "Wait, come back!"

But it's silent. Panic digs its claws into your chest.

"Red Hood! Red Hood, come back! Please!"

You begin to cry out of desperation, tears dripping onto your already soiled dress. You try to pull your feet apart, but the rope isn't cut enough and all you do is worsen the burns around your ankles.

You bow your head and cry onto the floor. You just want to go home. You want your goose feather pillows and Egyptian cotton ten-thousand thread count sheets. More than that, you never want to return to this stupid city.

"Are you cryin'?"

Your head shoots up. Hood stands over you, arms folded. 

"You-you came back," you say, voice wobbly.

He shrugs. "I had an inkling that you had a change of heart, princess.”

You look away. "You left me.”

"I did,” he says. “But as much as you might deserve abandonment, I'm duty-bound to rescue everyone. No matter how obnoxious of a Batman fan they are."

"I'm not a fan. I just didn't want the morally corrupt, violent drug runner to save me."

He leans down and snaps away the ropes from your ankles—a feat of strength that doesn't go unnoticed. Then he saws the ones around your wrists. "Yeah, well, I don't do that anymore, and for such a pretty face, you suck at sweet talking."

He tosses the rope aside and pockets the knife. You rub your wrists and attempt to sit up. This time, you don’t want to throw up. Success! 

“Anything hurt?” he asks. 

“My legs,” you say miserably. 

“Okay, let me rephrase: anything that'll make you bleed out in the next ten seconds?”

“Um… no.”

“Fantastic. I can probably getcha back to your hotel in an hour.” 

You hold out your arms expectantly. He tuts.

“I don’t give hugs until the third kidnapping. Fourth one is free.”

You huff. “You expect me to walk like this? They took my shoes! Gotham is so uncouth.”

“And what am I s’posed to do about that?” Hood asks. “I look like a Payless to you?”

“I don’t know what that is,” you say. “Don’t you vigilantes have a protocol to follow? I cannot possibly walk through this filthy warehouse on my bare feet. I’ll catch a virus! You’ll have to carry me.”

Hood lets out a full-bellied laugh. It’s somewhat eerie through his modulator. You lift your chin, maintaining your composure. 

“Oh my God! Highness, you’re a diamond-encrusted piece of work. I don’t carry anybody unless they’re unconscious and I like ‘em a lot. It’s a short list.”

Your brows furrow. “I’m a guest in your city, and I’ve been kidnapped! The least you can do—”

“The least I can do is leave you to rot here,” Hood says, tone cutting. “Or let your kidnappers come back and finish the job. You aren’t in whatever palace they carted you out of; you’re in fuckin’ Gotham, and if y’want my help, you’re gonna suck it up and walk.”

You look away, tears brimming once more. You sniffle. 

“You don't have to be so mean,” you say, voice watery. “I’ve had a difficult night.” 

It's quiet for a few moments. You've never cried as much as you have tonight, especially not in front of a stranger. A dangerous stranger. 

“...Look, I think I got some spare boots,” Hood finally says. “Stay here.”

“Where would I go?” you mumble. Whether he hears you or not, he doesn’t reply, stalking out of the warehouse. He returns thirty seconds later with a pair of ugly, black, man boots. 

“Used?!” you ask, voice high.

“Lightly, Your Majesty. They’re my spares. Here.”

Hood tosses the boots at you. You stare at them like he’s flung a pair of rats at you. He taps his wrist.

“Time’s a-ticking, princess. I’m on a schedule. I can always let you wait for Batman. He’ll find ya. Eventually.”

So you put on the boots. 

You attempt to stand next, but the drugs and binds have made your limbs weak. You try and fail to get up twice before Hood hooks his arms under yours and hauls you up without a sweat. You squeal, fingers digging into his brown leather jacket. 

He towers over you, doubly intimidating now that you're standing. 

“Got it?” he asks, arms slipping away. 

You definitely don’t have it, and you wobble backward. Hood grabs you again, hand on your back. 

“Whoa. Easy.” Hood cups your face, a little rough. You squirm, mind flooded with all the germs that are probably on his gloves. “Look a'me. Look—stop fighting, Jesus Christ.”

“This is no way to treat a princess!”

“Yeah, I missed that day of training,” he says dryly. “Stay still, I'm tryna see if your pupils are dilated.” 

“Your grip hurts!”

Hood loosens his grip and manages to keep you still long enough to examine your eyes. He hums and lets go.

“Seems like you’re still feeling the effects. Should wear off soon. Now…”

Hood steps back, but not so far that you can’t grab onto him should you fall again. He gives your dress a onceover. 

“So that’s not gonna work.” He takes out his knife again. Your eyes widen. 

“What on earth are you doing with that?” you ask, taking a small step backwards.

“Cutting your dress,” he says, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

You gasp, backing away. “No you will not!”

“Princess—”

“This dress is one-of-a-kind, handmade for tonight’s gala. You’re not going near it! It cost seventeen thousand euros!” 

“Is it worth more than your life?” Hood snaps. “I don’t have any spare clothes and I’m not dragging a ballgown with three pounds of C-4 attached to it around. You have to be able to move and you have to get on my bike. Now quit whining.”

You sulk as he cuts and tears the bottom layer of your gown. He isn’t as savage about it as you expect: the cut is neat and could even be salvaged in the hands of a good seamstress. The night air makes your legs prickle with goosebumps. Then his words register.

“Bike?” you ask as Hood sets your dress remains aside. You’ll grieve for your dress privately.

“Mmhm.”

“I thought you had a Batmobile.”

“That’s Batman’s car. Hence the name. I have a bike ‘cause I’m a morally corrupt, violent, drug runner.”

Your nose wrinkles. “Can’t we take a taxi? Or call a car service?”

Hood snorts. “No one’s driving to this part of Gotham at this hour. It’s my bike or nothing. Or, of course, you can wait for Batsy.”

He starts walking and you hurry to follow. Hood’s strides are long and you’re unsteady in his too-big boots.

“Can you please slow down? These boots are enormous!”

He doesn’t say anything, but he does slow down, waiting until you catch up before leading you to his bike. It’s a nice motorcycle, you suppose, if you were into that thing. You’ve always thought motorcycles were a stupid risk to take. Being on the road is dangerous enough—why remove the comfort and protection of a car?

Hood’s bike is shiny and cherry red, just like his helmet. He produces a proper motorcycle helmet from nowhere and hands it to you. 

“Are you sure this is safe?” you ask, inspecting the helmet. It looks fairly clean and unused. 

“Hasn’t killed me yet, and I’ve been dead once.”

Is that his idea of a joke?

“You’ll be fine,” Hood says at your silence. “I’ll go slow.”

“Alright,” you say, putting on the helmet. It smells oddly pleasant, like spicy cologne. “Very slow.”

“Yeah, yeah, very slow. C’mon.”

Hood kicks a leg over the bike and straddles it, all muscle memory. His muscles flex as he bends his legs. He pats the space behind him. 

Cautiously, you attempt to do the same, but you soon realize that doing that exact move in a dress is probably not the smartest. You hold onto the seat with both hands instead and clumsily try to fold a leg over. It doesn’t work.

“Yo, Bambi. This century would be good.”

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle!” you say, glaring at the back of his helmet. “You could help me.”

“For fuck's—” 

Hood turns around, grabs the back of your calf, and pulls. Your legs part and you shriek, certain you’re about to flash him. He holds your waist as you flail so that you don’t bang into him as you sit. 

“What is wrong with you?” you hiss, smoothing down your dress.

“Re-lax, I didn’t see anything.”

“This is highly undignified—”

“Yeah, we don't really do dignified in Gotham, princess. Comfy?”

“No.”

“Mm. Hold my waist.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all ya want.” Hood takes your arms and wraps them tightly around his waist. He’s warm and, oddly enough, soft despite his bulk. “You’re drugged and unsteady. If y’don’t hold on, you’re gonna fly off. Press up against me and hold tight.”

“Go slow,” you say again, obediently holding his waist.

“Yeah, I’ll go slow,” he says. 

“Do you promise?”

“Promise.”

Hood turns the ignition. The bike roars to life, louder than you expected. You suck in a breath as he revs the engine and starts off.

True to his word (and what a flimsy word it is), Hood goes slow. He takes gentle, easy turns and breaks at all the stop signs, even though this part of the city is essentially abandoned at this hour. You’re able to study the streets, twinkling streetlights a little too bright to your recovering eyes. But you look anyway, shocked at the dilapidated buildings and uneven pavement. You’re definitely not in the Gotham you were earlier tonight. It hardly looks like the same city.

You turn your attention to your savior. It feels like an odd word to use for the Red Hood, whom you’ve heard enough about tonight. Your father had warned you excessively about what a dangerous area this was, and who exactly made it so dangerous. 

But a savior is exactly what Hood has been to you. You decide that, despite his roughness, he still deserves a good reward. Perhaps a Hoodmobile. Or new boots.

Your rescue is going smoothly until you cross the bridge. That’s when another biker turns onto the road behind you. 

“Shit,” Hood says, and you’re startled that you can hear him so clearly despite the noise. It’s like he’s in your head. “We’re being tailed.”

Well, that’s not good. You turn around briefly but you can’t make out your follower; you’re too scared to move on the bike.

But then you hear the bike behind you speed up. 

“Motherfucker,” Hood says, and speeds up. Your arms tighten into a death grip. 

“Hold on,” he says, like you'd do anything otherwise. 

Hood speeds up and takes a sharp left turn. You tense and yelp, squeezing your eyes shut. He takes several winding turns and you keep your eyes shut through all of them. The nausea has returned and you’d prefer not to ruin the inside of his helmet with your stomach contents.

“We lose him?” he asks when the road levels off and it doesn’t feel so much like you’re on a rollercoaster.

“Um…” you begin, and chance turning around.

It’s clear for a few seconds until…

Well, to echo Hood’s sentiment: motherfucker.

“He’s there!” you yell, and Hood growls.

“The helmets are mic’d, you don’t have to shout,” he says, leaning into a left turn. 

“I see him!” you say, and grab one of Hood’s holstered guns. He scrambles to grab it but misses, surprise slowing him down.

“What the fuck are you doin’?!”

You ignore him and take off the safety. Moving your free arm up to Hood’s neck, you fire. He curses up a storm, throwing in a few words you’ve never even heard. 

The shots go wide; one dents a parked car, and one hits a stop sign. 

“You’re fuckin’ nuts!” Hood yells and snatches the gun out of your hand. 

But your tail falls back, evidently spooked enough by you and your poor aim. He turns on a side street and disappears.

“He’s gone! We’ve lost him!” you say happily. 

“Are you insane?” 

You wince at his volume. “The helmets are mic’d, you know.”

“You’re so—”

Hood cuts himself off and pulls sharply onto the sidewalk. He dismounts and pushes the kickstand down hard. Then he turns to you, chest heaving.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again. Are you crazy? You could’ve gotten us killed!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” you ask, putting out your arms. “We lost him!”

“No, we didn’t. All we did was throw him off our trail a little. We gotta walk the rest of the way now because he probably fell back to get more guys to follow us. But that’s not the point: what you did was insanely risky and stupid. You don’t know how to use a gun and you could’ve hurt yourself.”

You stay silent, chewing on his words. Hood isn’t wrong, he’s just… loud about it.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps. 

You don't reply. 

“I need a yes.”

“...I wanted to help.”

Hood sighs. “Yeah, well… just don’t. I’m good at what I do and I’ll get you back in one piece. But you gotta trust me.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. You feel small, but you don't want to cry in front of him again and confirm that you really are just a spoiled, whiny princess. “I'm sorry, Red Hood.”

You sit down on the curb, feeling exhausted. Tonight is awful. 

It's quiet for a long moment. Then Hood says, “Don't cry.”

Your jaw works as you swallow hard. “I'm not.” You turn your head so he won't see.  

“Christ on toast,” he mumbles above you. “This is exactly why I don't do rescue missions—”

You sniffle. “I'm not crying.”

“—’Cause I'm the world's biggest asshole,” he finishes, voice miles softer. 

Hood sinks onto the curb next to you. He scoots in just enough so that your shoulders brush against each other. 

“Look, ‘m a jerk. The Bats are better at handling civilians and being nice. You got the potty mouth with a bad attitude.” 

You rub your eyes. “I don't like yelling.” 

“Yeah,” Hood says quietly. “Okay. I'll try not to yell unless you're in immediate danger. But you can’t pull stunts like that. Deal?”

You nod. “I won't fire any more of your guns.”

He snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Where’d you learn how to shoot, anyway? I mean, y’didn’t do it well, but you did it. Not half-bad for your first time in Gotham.”

“My father wanted me to learn gun sports,” you say. “I learned how to take the safety off and point and shoot, but I refused to do any more lessons after my instructor shot a duck for target practice. I think guns are uncivilized and destructive, and I don’t condone killing animals for sport.”

“Uncivilized unless you're getting tailed by kidnappers?” You think you detect a smile in his question. 

“Everything has its exceptions,” you say primly. 

“Ain't that the truth. C'mon, we should get moving. We're, ‘scuse the saying, sitting ducks out here.”

Hood stands first and offers you a hand. You take it, letting him pull you up. He does that so easily. It makes your spine tingle. 

“How far are we from my hotel?” you ask.

“‘Bout two miles. If I had my gear I'd call for an assist,” he says apologetically. “Wasn’t planning to save lost princesses tonight.”

“I don't suppose there's any chance that you'll carry me, is there?”

“Pretty and funny,” Hood says. “You're the whole package, beauty queen.”

Your snarky reply is cut off by your stomach growling. Your eyes widen. 

“Pardon me,” you say, mortified. 

“What, ‘cause you're hungry?” Hood asks. “‘S a normal human condition.”

“You don't know anything about royal manners,” you say, but you're relieved. Your father would give you a tight, deadly look if you were hungry in public. 

“No, I really don't. Born and bred Gotham, baby.” 

“Showing any signs of hunger or thirst around company is highly undignified,” you say. 

“Being a princess sounds exhausting.”

No arguments there. 

Hood starts walking. You scramble to follow, and he seems to remember your shorter stride and slows down. 

“There's a pretty decent 7-Eleven nearby,” he says. “I'd take ya to my favorite diner, but we're on a tight schedule. Those guys won’t be far behind.”

“A seven and eleven? Oh, I've heard of those!” you say. 

“I’m… glad you're so excited about convenience stores?”

“I saw it in a film once. My father didn’t catch me watching this one. It looked so rugged, eating in a convenience store and fighting crime afterward. I've never been to one.”

“I know I shouldn't be surprised considering how much your dress cost but it does kinda blow my mind that you've never tasted anything but the finest cuisine,” Hood says. “Wait, did you say your dad didn’t catch you?”

You hum. “He doesn’t like me watching films that aren’t pre-approved.”

“Wow. Y’know, I could pirate you some movies if y’want. I know a great website for it.”

You laugh. “That’s alright. I manage to sneak out to the cinema more than I used to, now that he’s older.”

“Pretty sneaky, beauty queen.” He sounds impressed. 

You shrug, trying to hide your pride. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

You turn on the corner and he leads you through a residential area. A few people outside of their apartments stare at you, but when they see Hood, they relax. 

“Red!” a little boy shouts from a fire escape. He waves excitedly. Hood waves back.

“Hope you’re listening to your ma,” Hood calls to him, mock-stern. To anyone else—to you—it would be unnerving. 

But the boy grins. “I am!”

“Then why aren't ya in bed, huh?” 

The boy shrugs. “Not tired. Who's the lady?”

“The lady is a princess, so be nice,” Hood says.

“Whoa!” The boy gapes at you. You wave at him and he jumps up from the window. 

“Mom!” he yells. “Red Hood found a princess!”

You giggle as Hood leads you away. 

He shakes his head. “Kids.” He sounds terribly fond. 

You stare at his back for a moment. 

“They like you,” you say. “You keep them safe. But you're also a friend.”

“Helps to earn their trust,” he says gruffly. 

You walk a little more in silence. 

“I was wrong about you, Hood,” you say. He doesn't look at you. 

“Lotta people are. Nothin’ new.” 

No, it probably isn't. 

“‘Kay, here we are. C’mon. We gotta be fast, alright?”

“Alright,” you say, following him into the 7-Eleven. 

“Hey, Benny,” Hood says to the tired cashier behind the counter.

Benny nods. “Long night?”

“You got no idea.” He gestures to you. “She’s a princess.”

“Sweet,” Benny says. “What’s up?”

“How do you do?” you say politely. 

Hood leads you to the rolling hot dogs and other cylindrical foods under the heat lamps. You frown.

“I have had a hot dog before,” you say. “I’m not that sheltered.”

“Yeah, but have ya had a buffalo ranch roller? My brother and I used to get these after patrol. That with a blue raspberry slushie? Heavenly after getting thrown into a dumpster.”

“Well, you’ve gotten me this far, so I suppose I’ll trust you,” you say.

“I’m flattered. Benny, my usual.”

Benny gives a thumbs-up and puts the ‘roller’ in a paper bag. Meanwhile, Hood takes you to the back where the slushie machine is. You watch as he fills a plastic cup with electric blue sludge. Your brows raise.

“Why is it that color?” you ask.

“Tasty chemicals,” Hood says cheerily. “It won’t kill ya, I promise.”

“That would be counterintuitive at this point,” you say. 

“I appreciate your faith in me, princess.”

You return to Benny, who rings up the food. “Five twenty-seven.”

Hood looks at you expectantly. You look at him.

“What?” you ask.

“This is the part where you pay,” he says.

“A princess never carries money on her person,” you say, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“You–” Hood looks at Benny and sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pays and you take your treats, trotting out the door. 

“Thank you, kind sir!” you say as Hood waves. 

“See ya, Ben.”

You hold out your slushie for Hood to take while you work on your fried goodie.

“I’m not a cupholder,” he says, but he takes the cup anyway.

“It’s warm!” you say, delighted. “Let me take a bite.”

Hood patiently waits as you bite and chew. You hum.

“Good?” he asks.

“I like it,” you say. “It’s unusual. Is this chicken?”

“So they say,” Hood says. “Try the slushie.”

You take the cup and first take a small sip. It’s cold and sweet and slightly sour and probably full of enough sugar to rot your teeth out of your head. You love it.

“This is wonderful,” you say. 

He laughs. “Yup. Told ya, nothin’ like this combo. It’s a classic. C’mon, let’s get moving.”

You walk and eat, and it definitely improves your night, having something in your belly. 

“This is just like Roman Holiday,” you say.

Hood snorts. “I don’t think we watched the same movie.”

“It has a likeness. You’re Gregory Peck.”

“Yeah, sure. If Gregory Peck was a street fighter, then yeah. I’m Greg fuckin’ Peck.”

“No, you’re right. You’re much younger than he was in that movie. How old are you?” you ask.

“Twenty-four.”

“Really? Why are you doing this?”

“Took a career test.”

You bump his shoulder. “Seriously, Hood. You’re young. You’ve so much potential. I can tell that you’re smart.”

“Hence why I do this,” he says.

You tut, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous. You could do more. Be more.”

“You’re just fulla charm, aren’t ya?” Hood says. 

Your next step is hesitant. Hood keeps walking. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” you say. “I guess I assumed…”

“Yeah, I know. You assume a lot, princess. And you’re wrong.”

“You made assumptions about me! You thought that I was stupid and naive and I’m not.”

Hood stops, turns. “Maybe I like doing what I do, huh? Ever think of that? I meant it when I said I’m not a criminal anymore. I help people.”

“I know that,” you say quietly. “I see how the citizens treat you. They like you. You care for them greatly. I just… I just meant that you could try new things too. If you wanted to.”

He’s quiet for a bit. You keep walking. 

“I didn’t think you were stupid,” he eventually says.

You scoff. “Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Yeah, I thought you were a little… sheltered. But you’re smart. You’re certainly tougher than your dad gives you credit for.”

You roll your eyes. “He still thinks I’m six years old. It takes me getting kidnapped to see a city.”

“Pretty shitty tour.”

You smile behind his back. “Oh, I don’t know. The tour guide is alright.”

Hood stops. When he doesn’t speak, you approach.

“Hood?”

He suddenly puts a hand over your mouth and drags you backwards into an alleyway. Your yelp is muffled. Hood puts a finger to where his mouth would be under his helmet.

That’s when you hear voices.

“—single fuckin’ clue. She could be in the fuckin’ Atlantic by now. Halfway to China!”

“China’s on the other side, dumbass.”

You look up at Hood, eyes wide. 

Those are your kidnappers' voices.

He seems to understand and nods. He squeezes your arm and removes his hand from your mouth. He points to himself and points outside, then points to you and points down. 

You assume that means stay put and don’t try to shoot anyone with his gun. You can take a hint.

Hood slinks out of the alley. You peek your head out to look, curiosity overtaking fear. Besides, you trust Hood. You figure with a reputation like his, he can more than handle his own. 

“Nice night, ain’t it?” he says. 

The two men turn, looking close to pissing themselves. Good.

“Hood, we weren’t doing nothin’!” one says.

“Yeah, Ricky and I are clean!”

“Oh, really? So you had nothing to do with the kidnapping of a certain visiting princess.”

“We was nowhere near the Plaza!” Ricky cries.

The other elbows his friend. Before you can blink, Hood has them both down on the ground, pistols pointed at their necks. 

“You were gonna hurt her,” Hood says, and now there’s no trace of humor in his voice. “That poor, sweet princess. Strapping C-4 to her like a fuckin’ bank vault. Drugging her, tying her up. You fuckin’ animals.”

“It wasn’t our idea, it was Bobby’s!” Ricky cries. 

“Shut up, Ricky!”

A shot rings out and you flinch. Ricky starts sobbing. Red seeps from his leg.

“The only reason I’m not killing you two right now is because I want a word with your boss. But make no mistake.” Hood leans in. “You’ll pay for hurting the princess. I’ll make sure of it.”

With two final hits, Hood knocks them out cold. The sudden silence is loud. 

He looks at you then, those eerie eyes glowing. He beckons you out. You go. 

You look down at the unconscious bodies. “You don’t have to kill them.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’d rather you didn’t. You shouldn’t have that on your conscience.”

“They kidnapped you. They would’ve hurt you had their boss ordered it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t want you to bear that burden, Hood.”

“‘S not a burden,” he says, gently taking your wrist. Your eyes fly open. “If it’ll make you feel better, safer, anything. It’s no burden.”

“Okay,” you say quietly, frightened at how pleased a part of you is at his words.

“I’ll tie ‘em up and send for ‘em when we get back. One second.”

You watch as Hood drags their bodies into the alley like they’re sacks of feathers. He handcuffs them to a drainpipe and ties their feet and gags them. 

“So they can see what it feels like,” Hood says, dusting his hands. You can’t help your small smile. 

“Ready?” he asks.

You look up at the starless sky, suddenly exhausted. Your limbs feel like lead. “I guess so.”

Hood looks into the distance, then back at you. He sighs.

“Climb on my back.”

You blink. “Pardon me?”

“You’re pardoned.” Hood shrugs. “I can tell you’re tired. We don’t have far to go.”

“Won’t I be too heavy?” you ask. “All that way…”

“Princess, I’m honestly offended. I once carried Batman and my brother to Bludhaven. I’m more than capable.”

“But what about your rule?” you ask. “About carrying people.”

“Turns out you’re not so bad,” he says. “Get on ‘fore I change my mind.”

So you climb onto Hood’s back. He secures you easily, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Don’t choke me out,” he says. “Otherwise we’re both goin’ down.”

You smile and relax on his back. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

At first, it feels like an eternity, waiting for the familiar Plaza sign. You can’t complain, though: Hood is warm and being carried by him is even better than riding on his bike. 

You blink, startled at the thought. What are you even talking about? This is the Red Hood. You were terrified of him a few hours ago. 

And yet, the rhythmic bumping and Hood’s solid figure lulls you to sleep. You don’t even realize until you’re being nudged and a voice pulls you back to consciousness. 

“Hey.”

You’re gently jostled awake. You blink blearily, yawning into Hood’s shoulder.

Oh. Right. You’re on his back.

“Hm?” 

“Ride ends here,” he says. “We’re at the Plaza.”

“Oh.” Sleepily, you try to climb off. Hood sets you on your feet. Embarrassment fills you as you become more awake.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. You could’ve woken me! I—”

Hood holds up a hand. “Hey, chill out. ‘S fine. You had a long night, I get it.”

“Right. I, um…” You look up at the hotel. The top floor windows disappear in the layer of fog that’s settled over the city. You wonder what Hood’s windows look like. 

“I’m gonna track down your main kidnapper and make sure they don’t hurt anyone else. I’ll kick his ass, at the very least.”

You look at Hood, blinking. “Oh. That’s very nice of you, thank you.”

He shrugs. “‘S my job.”

You nod clumsily. “Right, of course. I could give you something in return, though. Money or, um, firearms. A car, perhaps?”

He snorts. You smile shyly. 

“Cute,” he says, but he’s not being mean. “No, that’s okay. I’m pretty set, actually. Doing what I do is surprisingly lucrative.”

“Surely there’s something—”

“Seriously, princess, no charge.”

You bite your lip. Is this too bold? Yes, definitely.

“What about a kiss?”

At first, you think Hood hasn’t heard you. Then he turns to face you in a way that tells you no, he definitely heard you. 

“Ex-cuse me?”

“Um.” You scratch your neck. “Well, princesses kiss their knights goodbye, don’t they?” you ask, but it’s weak. It’s stupid. You’re so young.

You think he’s going to just walk away. That would be the kindest thing to do in response to your blunder.

“I’m sorry, forgive me. That was a terrible joke,” you blurt.

“No, it wasn’t.”

He steps forward, close enough to kiss you if he didn’t have the helmet. You look up at him, heart pounding.

“Wasn’t terrible or wasn’t a joke?” you ask, blood roaring in your ears.

Hood’s quiet. 

“Haven’t done much kissing, to be honest with ya,” he finally says, not answering your question. 

You shake your head. “Nor I.”

“Mm. And y’wanna kiss me? Don’t offer ‘cause you think you owe me.”

“I want to kiss you, Hood.”

He tilts his head. “Y’wouldn’t be kissing a knight. More like kissing a toad.”

You frown. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m no Greg Peck. And I’m no hero either.”

“Do you give this speech to everyone who wants to kiss you?”

“You’re the first one who’s wanted to,” he says.

You inhale sharply. “Oh.”

“Uh-huh.”

You wait. He waits. You both wait for the other to back out. You don’t. Neither does he.

“Can’t believe a princess wants to kiss me,” he mumbles.

And then he covers your eyes with his hand.

You blink, lashes sweeping over his glove. You hear a click, then a hiss of air. His helmet hits the ground with a dull thud. 

Hood gingerly holds your chin with his free hand. You keep your eyes closed even though he’s covering them, out of respect.

His mouth is warm and so, so gentle. You barely feel his lips at first, so you press a little harder. Hood doesn’t know what to do with his mouth, resting it on yours, so you take the lead, following what you’ve seen others do and what you’ve watched on television.

You reach up and hold his face. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You stroke his stubbled jaw, feel strong cheekbones and the ends of curls above his ears. 

“Your Highness? Your Highness!”

The hand leaves your face so quickly, your eyes stay closed for a second longer, slow to react. Then you open your eyes and see the empty street.

Your lips tingle with heat. It’s all noise around you, policemen and your guards flitting around you, asking questions, alarmed by your torn dress. 

You exhale, disappointment overtaking you.

Your father is in front of you, taking your wrists. “Can you hear me? Doctor, I need a—”

“I’m fine,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m alright, Father.”

He exhales and pulls you into a hug. It startles you. He pulls away before you can hug him back.

“I am so glad you’re alright,” he says. “The police say they saw a figure with you. Who was that? Was he your kidnapper?”

“No, not at all,” you say, staring out into the street beyond. Your lips are buzzing. “He was my hero.”

— part 2 —

[sanguineterrain]

in the buff | jason todd

Summary: The one where you learn firsthand that Jason Todd sleeps in the nude.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings/tags: best friend jason, awkwardness, nudity, reader hardcore thirsting over jaytodd, love confessions, humor (attempts at it, anyway), silliness. inspired by this post!

the divider

There's been a huge (blessed) development in the drug ring case that you and Jason are working on. You can hardly sleep now.

Normally, you'd call or text Jason, even though he's usually already in the know. It's possible that you just like having an excuse to call him, but who can confirm such a thing?

But it's late, probably too late to call, considering Jason doesn't answer his phone unless it's pinged directly to his helmet after a certain time, courtesy of his family being "a buncha jackasses" (his words, obviously).

But maybe it's not too late for a visit. After all, Jason patrols late, and has insane insomnia. He very well could be awake at this late hour. And he's never minded you dropping by before.

In truth, you haven't seen Jason in a few days and you feel restless now when you go longer than a day without seeing each other. You're not quite sure why that is.

So here you are, disabling the window alarm on Jason's apartment. Partly for a case, partly for your own benefit.

It takes a few minutes but you manage to open the window without anyone calling the police or whacking you with a broom. You slide open the window mostly soundlessly. Then you wait. The room remains dark and quiet.

You're pretty proud of yourself actually. It's not that you're green when it comes to spycraft, but you're certainly no Batman.

Still, you've managed to sneak into Jason's apartment without waking him. The Red Hood. You peek in to check if he's really asleep.

And he is, dark hair stark against the white pillow. It sticks out in messy tufts. You can't see past Jason's neck and his freckled arms, illuminated by the orange streetlight outside. You put your laptop bag on the floor.

He's sleeping on his stomach, facing away from you, but you're very endeared by how he's curled up under his sheet, hands tucked under his pillow. If you went really close to his face, you could count his eyelashes. Jason has such pretty eyelashes.

That's a perfectly normal thought to have about your best friend, right? Boys have pretty eyelashes. You're just making an observation.

You're bewildered by how cold the room is, surprised that Jason can withstand such a temperature. Maybe it's a Pit thing.

You watch him for a moment longer. Guilt pools in your gut. Are you really going to wake him when he's probably just gone to bed in the last hour? It takes Jason so long to fall asleep, you know that.

...

No, you should let him sleep. You can work on the case in the morning.

You bend down to get your laptop bag. In that time, the light flicks on.

You flinch, turn around, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Said gun is held by an extremely naked Jason Todd.

"Oh my God!" you say at the same time Jason realizes his mistake.

"What the fuck!" he shouts, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.

But not before you get an eyeful of your best friend's, er, weaponry.

"Why are you naked?" you shout, gaze darting everywhere. Good Lord, it's seared into your retinas. You're never getting the image of Jason's dick out of your brain.

"Why are you in my apartment?" Jason snaps back.

"No, my question is way more urgent," you say.

"No the hell it's not! You broke in! I'm allowed to be naked in my apartment!"

"Okay. Alright. I came because there's been a development in our case. I thought we could work on it together but when I realized you were asleep for real, I decided to leave."

Jason rolls his eyes. "You know I'm a light sleeper. I just went to bed. I was up late.”

Realization strikes you. Could it be...?

"Oh my God. Do you have someone here?" you ask, voice sinking to a whisper.

"I have you here," Jason says irritably.

"No, like—" You make a hole with one hand and stick a finger into it. "Y'know..."

"Jesus, no!" Jason's face twists in disgust. "C'mon!"

"Okay, chill out, Jay-Jay. It'd be fine if you did. I can keep a secret," you say, shrugging. People have sex. You know that. You've never thought about Jason having sex, but you suppose it's possible. Why not? Just because you've never had sex and you always hoped that Jason would be your first doesn't mean that he would. If he's moved on in his life, then you should too.

Jason scoffs. "Yeah, okay. You think anybody would get into bed with a headcase like me?"

Hope rekindles. You're not behind. Jason's right there with you, virginity firmly intact.

He puts the safety back on the gun, squishing the pillow against himself with his elbow. You watch in fascination at his multitasking. Jason starts to turn around to put the gun behind the headboard before clearly thinking twice about mooning you.

"So... why are you naked?" you ask, respectfully keeping your eyes north of the equator.

"If you must know, I sleep in the nude. Now turn around."

You don't turn around. "In the nude?"

Jason's eye twitches. "Yes, nude. It's better for your body and it's more comfortable and I don't—"

You pull a face. "Who says in the nude? How old are you, a hundred?"

"That's what you're harping on?" Jason asks. "You broke into my apartment!"

You hold up a finger. "I didn't break in, I disarmed the alarm like you taught me."

"Yeah, which was only for emergencies. This isn't an emergency. Now turn around!"

So you turn around. You hear the pillow fall and the image returns. You recite the alphabet backwards. When that doesn't work, you think about the time you helped Jason on a mission in the sewers and couldn't get the smell out of your suit for a week.

Yeah, that'll do it. You shudder.

"Can't believe you just broke in," he mumbles. "Raised in a fuckin' barn, swear to God."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm truly, honestly sorry, Jaybee. From the bottom of my heart. Can I look now?"

"If you dare."

"Are you decent?" you ask.

"Too easy of a joke," he says. "Yeah, the jewels are covered."

You turn slowly. Jason's got red (ha) boxers on, so you turn all the way.

Huh. Well.

You've never really thought much about what Jason's got going on underneath his armor. Certainly, you've assumed that he's got a good physique and a lot of stamina, considering what he does. You've always assumed that. But Jason's Jason. Your best friend, Jason. Your best friend, Jason, who came back really tall, yeah, and with a deep voice and a super pretty face...

Well, anyway. He's Jason. That's all.

But now? Now you get to look in depth, and... whoa.

Jason's broad, stocky, heavily muscled with a soft layer of fat on top. His arms are huge, hands proportionally big. His pecs are full with pink nipples the same shade as his lips. That's a fact you're never forgetting. Your belly flutters.

Okay, what the fuck! No. This is peak creepy behavior, leering at your best friend like this, even if he does have shoulders you could sink your teeth into and thighs you'd happily get crushed between. No! Bad.

...You look some more. He's covered in scars. This is the first time you've seen his autopsy scar in person. It's white, noticeable but healed, like most of his scars. There's a dusting of dark hair from his chest to his belly button. It thickens as it dips beneath his—

Mm, nope. Not thinking about that again.

"Hello-o."

Your eyes dart back to his face.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks, forehead crinkled.

"What? Yes. Sorry. Yes." Your cheeks burn.

Something crosses Jason's face, too quick for you to read. But then his expression stones over. He glances at the dresser across from the bed.

"If you gimme a sec, I'll put a shirt on so y'won't have to look at all this," he says, gesturing roughly to his body.

You blink, lost in Jasonland. "Huh?"

"I know the scars are pretty gnarly. Lemme find a shirt."

Jason goes to the dresser and digs through the top drawer. His wide back is strung tight with tension, you can tell. You hurry to him, blocking the drawer with your arm. Jason looks at you, brows rising.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Um."

Words. You remember words, don't you?

"You..."

You haven't been physically close to Jason in a long time. He smells like soap and detergent and is all-encompassing. Your brain feels like slush. Don't stare at his pecs.

"I didn't—I'm not grossed out by your scars, Jason," you finally manage to say.

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Sure. You're just grossed out by everything else about me." He sighs wearily, like he's practiced this speech every night in the mirror. "Look, it's fine. I know I'm really—"

"No, it's not fine! I can't bear having you think I'm repulsed by your body, Jason. That's just not true," you say.

"Well, you were starin' pretty hard, so—"

"But it wasn't—I wasn't staring in disgust, I was—I..."

Jason crosses his arms. His pecs are pushed up as he does so. His stomach looks so soft. But you know he's strong. Way stronger than you. Strong enough to wield his strength against you, if you wanted him to. Strong enough to be gentle with you, too.

You wonder if he's still ticklish.

"You're doin' it again!" Jason says, and this time he really does look hurt. Fuck. Fuck! You're a shitty best friend.

"No!" You lock eyes with him. "No, no! I mean, yes, I was looking at you. But I wasn't looking in a bad, judgy way. I was, uh, taking in your physique. Because you have a... a very nice body. I've never seen you without clothes so I was looking at you. Sorry."

Yeah, you'll just go die in a hole after this.

Jason squints at you for a long moment. You start to shift in place. Sweat beads on your forehead. You lick your lips, hoping Jason can hear your honesty.

"Are you messin' with me?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, why would I—"

"You're really telling me that you find this," Jason gestures to his body, "Good looking?"

This is worse than any physical torture. You'd prefer Batman beating you up on a roof to being here.

You rub your temple, cheeks aflame. "Oh my God. Yes, Jason, you're a good looking guy. Can we move on?"

"No, 'cause I think you're lyin', and I don't like it. You're always honest with me."

"I am being honest," you say, suddenly more annoyed than anything. Because what the fuck? "Are you kidding me? There's a whole forum dedicated to the Red Hood and how much people want you to step on them. And that's without seeing your face! I have eyes, Jason, of course I find you attractive."

And that should be the end of it. Jason's already slack-jawed like a dead fish. But no, you keep going.

"You make me nervous and I thought I had a lid on it because we knew each other as kids but it's becoming clear that I very much don't, and that probably has to do with the fact that you're the only guy I've been close to, and I never got over you. And now I'm gonna go drown myself in the Hudson. Good night."

You go to slip out the window. Maybe it'll shut on your head and knock you out. That would be a divine gift.

It doesn't, though. The universe isn't so kind. Instead, Jason catches your arm and keeps you rooted to your spot. His hand is cold. You wonder if the rest of him is warm.

"Wait, wait. Just hang on."

You groan. "Dude, I'm fucking mortified over the last five minutes. Please let me keep some of my dignity," you say without looking at him.

"Now when have I ever done that?" You can hear the smile in his voice.

And suddenly, the miserable reality of never being more than friends with Jason Todd comes crashing down. It's too late. You've always been too late.

You sag in his grip.

"We can just forget this ever happened," you say quietly. "Chalk it up to idiocy."

"Mm, yeah, we could. 'Cept I don't think you're an idiot. And I want you to hear what I have t'say first. Will ya look at me?"

Mopily, you look at him. His hand drops.

"I—"

"You've never slept naked," you say before he can get a word out. "That's new. Otherwise, I would've known, and then I would've used the door."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Can I speak?"

You cross your arms. "Yeah, okay."

"First of all, I don't think it's necessary for me to disclose that I sleep in the nude." You open your mouth to argue. "But I know it was a mistake. I'm not mad about that. Okay?"

You nod. "Okay."

"I won't lie and say I'm not surprised at your... reaction. I don't really... I've never... I'm not Dick or Bruce, y'know? I wasn't told my whole life what a handsome boy I am. And dying and returning didn't really help with that stuff either."

"I think you're handsome, Jason," you say quietly. "Honest."

He coughs and looks away, a tiny blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, uh, think you've made that pretty clear. For the record, I think you're really beautiful. Always thought so."

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. I mean... yeah."

"You're just saying that 'cause I saw your vein cane," you say, grinning.

"Don't call it that."

"How about—"

"No."

You're both quiet.

"How 'bout pork swor—"

"No!"

You smile, eyes squinty. Jason glares.

"Don't nickname my thing," he says.

You nod solemnly. "You're right. It's your thing. You should choose its name."

He shakes his head. "Sucha weirdo."

"Hey, I've never been with a guy. I don't know the rules of thing-naming."

Jason tilts his head. "Never?"

"Never."

"Why?"

You shrug. "Never found anyone I liked enough, I guess. I've pretty much had my heart set on you, Jason."

His face softens. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, uh, me too," he says. "You're it for me, honey. I just never... I mean, really, I never thought it would actually happen with you. Not then, not now."

"Huh. You really should've flashed me earlier. We could've sped things up exponentially."

"Yeah, why didn't I think of that," Jason says dryly.

"Dunno! We all know you're more than a pretty face."

His face reddens. You grin.

"Are you shy?" you ask, dancing on your toes.

"No. Shut up."

"You're shy! I make Jason Todd shy! Oh, this is wonderful. I should break into your apartment regularly."

"It's just new for me!" he says. "Lea' me alone."

You cozy up to him, confidence renewed by the mutual confession. You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason looks at you, hands slowly coming to rest on your waist. The rest of him is warm.

"Just teasing you, Jaybee," you say.

"Hmm." He slowly nudges your cheek with his nose. "Like y'always do?"

"Like I always do," you say sweetly. "But for the record, if we ever share a bed in the future, you're gonna have to keep the soldier in his tent."

Jason lets go of you, exasperated. "Oh, for—y'know what? Your visitation privileges are revoked. Get outta my apartment."

You put on the saddest face you can muster. "You're kicking me out? Into the cold?"

"It's eighty degrees."

You sigh loudly. "Okay, fine. Date tomorrow?"

"Seriously?" Jason asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Seriously! Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"You really wanna date me?"

"Never been more sure of anything in my life."

Jason's relief is palpable and bittersweet. You'll spend the rest of your days letting him know just how spectacular he and his pectorals are.

"Okay," he says, shy again. You don't tease him this time.

"Great!" You close the distance between you and peck him on the cheek. His blinks in surprise.

"I'll give you a proper kiss on our date," you say, winking. "Bye, Jasey-Daisy."

"Bye, honey. Don't break into anyone else's apartment on your way home."

"Never," you say, climbing out the window. "You're the only one for me, Toddy!"

[sanguineterrain]

restroom attendant | jason todd

Summary: Tonight is the worst night ever--you just got dumped on your birthday, and all you want to do is cry in the restaurant bathroom in peace. That is, until, the Red Hood bursts in. This city just won't cut you a break.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader 

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings/tags: humor, mild angst, reader's ex-bf cheats and dumps her, jason is such a silly goose, flirting, meet ugly, canon-typical violence, awkward jason, comic relief dick grayson.

A/N: this is probably the silliest fic i've ever written LOL! i hope you guys enjoy it. please support your local jason todd enthusiast and reblog :)

the divider

Tonight sucks. 

With a shaky hand, you attempt to soothe your swollen eyes. You’ve probably been in here for about twenty minutes. Your Uber has definitely left, as has your now ex-boyfriend of three years. 

Yoga instructor. It’s always the yoga instructor. They’re always fucking the yoga instructor.

You swallow a mouthful of tears and phlegm and try not to let the wet sink touch your dress. You'd gotten dressed up for your dinner date at Prescott's, one of Gotham's upscale establishments. All you’d wanted was a little class on your birthday, maybe have some wine and play footsie under the table with your boyfriend. But no. That would’ve been too easy for you. 

You’re starting to think this city is cursed.

The door slams open. The force of it shakes the bathroom, rattles the mirrors. You spin around.

A man slides across the floor and smacks his head on the opposite wall. Red Hood appears in the doorway, the eyes of his helmet glowing eerily. 

Yep. Definitely cursed.

"Let's try this again," Hood says pleasantly, reloading his gun with a fresh magazine. "And in the interest of making myself transparent: when I ask you a question, Jerry, I expect a truthful answer."

He stalks over to Jerry and heaves him up by the lapels of his suit jacket. Hood's biceps bulge as he holds Jerry against the wall. You squish yourself against the sink. Water soaks the back of your dress. 

"You're crazy, I didn't do anything!" Jerry shouts, feet barely scraping the floor. 

"Volume, Jerry. People are trying to enjoy their meals.”

“Let go of me, Hood! I wasn’t anywhere near the Iceberg Lounge!”

“Yeah, see, words are coming outta your mouth, but they don't match the fact that I have three people who put you at the scene. How can we remedy this inconsistency? Any ideas?"

Jerry squirms, but he's no match for Hood's strength. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Don't give me to the cops!" Jerry begs. 

"Cops are the least of your worries right now," Hood snarls. "You're damn lucky Nightwing wants to talk to you, Jerry, or your head would hurt a lot more."

Slowly, you reach for your purse, trying to pull out your phone. Instead, you knock it to the floor. Tears gather in your eyes because this night just can’t cut you a break.

“Motherfucker,” you whisper. 

Hood turns, those frightening white eyes now on you. Jerry also looks at you, legs still dangling.

“Hey,” Hood says without a sign of struggle. “Shit. Y'alright? Did I swipe ya?”

“No,” you say, voice shaky.

His posture softens. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I believe you. But, um… you're in the women's bathroom.”

Red Hood gives the room a onceover. 

“Huh. So we are. Dunno how that happened.” He shakes Jerry by the collar. “Why’d you run into the women’s bathroom, asshole?”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't kill me!” Jerry wails. 

“Shut it, Jesus. I'm not gonna kill you. Not yet, anyway.” 

“It's fine, I was just leaving,” you say, bending down to get your purse. 

“Hey, no, don't let me push you out,” Hood says. “Sorry. I'll be gone in a couple minutes.”

Hood adjusts his grip so Jerry's face is against the wall, arms and legs restrained. Then he zipties Jerry and sits him down hard on the floor. Hood presses a button on his helmet. 

“Yo, N, I'm at Prescott's. Yeah, with Jerry. No, I didn't tell him to run in here, he did that all on his own! Well, I chased him for ten blocks, so I’d prefer if you’d keep your bitching to yourself. Thank you… Okay, we're in the women's bathroom, so—well, I didn't do it on purpose! No, I’m—will you just come here? There’s a side window.” Hood presses the button again with a grunt. “Dickhead.”

“Are you gonna erase my memory?” you ask. 

Hood jerks, turning back to you.

“What? Hell no, I'm not gonna erase your memory. I don't do that shit, I promise.”

You slump against the sink. “That's too bad. I would prefer it.”

He looks up from Jerry’s last ziptie and pulls it extra tight. Jerry whimpers. 

“How come?” Hood asks.

You shake your head. “It's nothing.”

“Hm. Doesn't look like nothing. If you're in danger—”

“I'm not in danger. I…”

You glance at Hood. You can't see his face, but his body language seems genuine. From what you've heard, Hood isn't known for mincing words or doing things he doesn't want to. And he’s good to Gothamites. Well, the law-abiding ones, anyway. He’s even been endorsed by Batman.

What's the harm in telling him about your disastrous night? Not like you'll see him again. Or Jerry. 

“I got dumped,” you say. 

“Ah.” Hood nods. “Been there.”

Somehow, the idea of Red Hood getting dumped is weirder than him beating up a guy in the women’s bathroom of Prescott’s.

You sniffle, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. 

“Yeah, um. It was our three year anniversary today. He took me here, told me he was in love with his yoga instructor, and then left.”

You tear up thinking about it. Hood makes a quiet noise.

“Shit. Well, I haven't been there,” he says. “But I know infidelity. I'm sorry. Dudes are trash.”

“And it's my birthday today,” you blurt, sniffling. 

“Happy birthday,” Jerry says, clutching his stomach. 

“What a fucking asshole!” Hood snarls, and lets go of Jerry, who crumples like a sack of potatoes. He’s out cold in a second, frozen on the floor.

Your brows rise. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. It’s his first time in Gotham.” Hood shrugs. “Anyway, where was I? Right, your asshole ex. Like it's not enough to publicly dump you, and then he goes and does it on your birthday? Who is this guy? I'll go talk to him right now.”

You laugh a loud, snorting laugh. It bounces off the tiles. 

Hood tilts his head. “What’d I say?”

You catch your breath and wave your hand. 

“No, nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crappy night and that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to me.”

“I mean it,” Hood says. “I’ll scare him if you want.”

“As tempting as that is, I don’t want to be an accessory to a crime.”

You also don’t want to put your ex in the ICU, no matter how much he might deserve it. Best to let the universe do its thing.

“You’d be acquitted, don’t worry.” Hood leans against the stall. “I’d never letcha go to jail.”

You smile, your ears growing warm. “You don’t even know me. What if I deserve it?”

“Nah. I got a good sense about people. I can tell you’re sweet. Probably don’t even go through yellow lights.”

“I try not to,” you say, heat spreading to your face. 

“Yeah, a good girl. I figured as much.”

Your eyes widen. Hood coughs and rubs his neck. Even his coughs sound intimidating through the helmet, but that’s negated by his scrunched-up posture.

“Fuck. Sorry. That wasn’t a come-on,” he says. “I mean, it sounded like one, but I’m realizing what a creep I am, flirting with you in a bathroom with a zip-tied criminal. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I hate myself.”

You grin. “It’s okay. You made my night better, actually. Thanks.”

“That’s a testament to how terrible your night’s been if I made it better.”

You shrug. “Could always be worse. I bet Jerry had an even shittier night than me.”

“You’d win that bet. But I—”

The window swings open with a clunk. Nightwing pops his head in. He looks at Hood, then you. 

“Uh,” he says. “Evening. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is it took you almost ten minutes to get here,” Hood says, back in Vigilante Mode. “Did you get lost?”

Nightwing smiles with all his teeth. “I was actually cleaning up your mess at the Bowery, Hood. You’re welcome.” 

He looks at you. “Hi. Sorry about this. I hope we didn’t ruin your night. If there’s anything we can reimburse you for…”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. My night was already sunk. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for keeping Gotham safe.”

Nightwing laughs. “The pleasure is ours.”

“Alright, enough chattering, Dickwing,” Hood says. “Take him.”

He lifts the unconscious Jerry, pushing him up to the window. He does so effortlessly, his jacket riding up to reveal his skin-tight jumpsuit. 

You look away before he catches you staring. There’s definitely something wrong with you. 

Nightwing takes Jerry and waves at you. Then he disappears.

“So, uh,” Hood says. “I gotta go.”

“Oh! Right, of course. Sorry to keep you.”

“Now what’re you apologizing for?” he asks, and it almost sounds like a tease. You wonder what his smile looks like. What color his eyes are.

“Well, I really didn’t mean to keep you…”

“You didn’t keep me,” Hood says, and you can hear the warmth even through his modulator. “This is probably the best arrest I’ve ever made.”

He starts to climb through the window, then stops. He digs into one of the pockets of his belt and pulls out a scrap of paper. 

“This is my number,” he says. “Well, it’s kind of the vigilante hotline. But you can reach me here, in case you ever need help.”

Hood walks over to give it to you. He smells like gunpowder and oranges. He’s even larger this close, the width of his shoulders dwarfing you. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He nods and backs up, clapping his hands.

“Right. So I’ll go… Bye.”

Hood looks at you for a moment more. Then he hops up onto the window sill and slides out, somehow graceful despite his bulk. The window closes. 

Your dress has dried, which is nice. You walk out of the bathroom. It’s a miracle no one else has come in. 

You get your coat and this time, when you see the empty seat across from yours, you don’t burst into tears, which is progress. You call another Uber and go to wait for it at the front. The hostess approaches you.

“Ma’am?” she says, and holds out a small, plastic container. In it is a slice of tiramisu. 

“I didn’t order this,” you say.

“It was called in and paid for by a Mr. R.H. He wishes you a happy birthday.” 

“Oh. Thank you.”

You’re definitely leaving a five-star review on Yelp.

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[halfway-happyyy]

Hey it's me again! 🥹

I wanted to ask smth else if that's okay with you because I just love love how you write Frank!!

I'M CRAVING some secret relationship trope with Frank where they have to hide to sneak kisses and little touches. Maybe from Curtis who said that 'it's too dangerous.' but they absolutely don't care.

It could be anything, really! I just CRAVE something like this with Frank 😭

Have a good day!! :3

hello again 🥰

okay but imagine trying to keep it a secret from your bosses at Nelson and Murdock??

“Come in with me, Frank.” 

You hadn’t meant for it to come out as desperate as it did, but now that you’d breathed life into it, you wouldn’t take it back for all the gold in the world.

He squeezed your hand thrice and murmured, “I want to kid, but I can’t. You know I can’t.” 

“But it’s busy– they could barely get a table, and it’s got that shitty pub lighting that makes seeing anything almost nearly impossible–” Frank leaned forward and captured your lips in a series of scorching kisses that made the words fizzle and fade in your throat. 

“It’s too risky,” he gruffed, somewhat breathlessly before pecking your forehead. “Now go– have fun, work on your pool skills, and call me when you wanna come home, yeah? I’ll be here.” 

You sighed, defeated, and began to walk backwards toward the entrance of the bar. “You are a mean, mean man mister Castle.” 

He grinned at the ground and gave his head a half-shake before eyeing you again. “Yeah, that’s what they keep tellin’ me. Now get outta here, kid.” 

The humid warmth of Josie’s was a stark contrast to your March-evening chilled skin, and a shiver wracked you as you scanned the crowded bar for any signs of Nelson or Murdock. It took you a moment, but the sound of Matt’s laughter was unmistakable and you smiled to yourself as you wound your way past a myriad of tables to get to their booth at the back of the bar.

“There she is!” Foggy called out with the enthusiasm only a couple of beers could accomplish and you couldn’t help but feel a bit awed by it all. That these men– who for a while had remained strictly your bosses, but were now your close friends– never made you feel anything less than stupidly grateful.

“Here I am.” You declared, and dropped into the cracked leather booth beside Foggy with a sigh. 

He leaned away to examine you and eventually announced, “you look different tonight.” What his tone lacked in accusation, he more than made up for in suspicion, and it caused a heat to warm your cheeks.

Memories from earlier that morning of Frank’s calloused fingertips as they carved trails in your skin only the two of you knew about, and the not so unpleasant sting at the apex of your thighs from being stretched a little too fully by him, rushed back in waves that rendered you momentarily speechless.

“That’s an odd way of saying hi to someone,” Matt chided, before sliding over a very full pint of Josie’s infamous draft beer. It sloshed past the confines of the glass and glistened against the wooden grain of the gnarled table. 

Foggy cleared his throat. “Right. Hello. I meant different in a good way– maybe I should have said well-rested, or bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, you know. That sorta thing.” 

You took a deep sip of the amber liquid and winced at the hoppy bite on your tongue. These men were great lawyers, but their taste in bars– and beer– left something to be desired. 

“And you two look like some of New York’s finest attorneys,” You raised your pint in a toast. “To Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law– another successful case in the books!” 

“Yep, another win under our belts and still not much else to show for it.” Foggy glanced sideways at Matt. “Will this newest victory mean we’ll finally be able to afford some better coffee for the office? And I’m not even talking about the fancy stuff– although Indonesian lemur poop coffee does have a certain ring to it, I’m really just asking for anything above motor oil.” 

Matt frowned. “We might be able to afford fancier coffee if we stopped taking on so many pro bono cases.” 

All that statement warranted from his partner was an exaggerated scoff. As long as they were Nelson and Murdock, they’d never stop taking on more than their fair share of uncompensated cases. It was one of the things that drew you to their firm in the first place.

“And,” he added. “They’re actually not lemurs, Foggy, they’re Asian palm civets.” 

Foggy rolled his eyes in a way that had the three of you dissolving in peels of laughter, and when that eventually dissipated, he very nonchalantly said, “I see you bring no date with you this evening.” 

You shrugged. “Not for lack of trying. He’s uh– got work.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Work. Or could it be that maybe he’s just intimidated by us?” 

The beer that you’d just taken another sip of traveled the wrong way down your throat and you spluttered loudly; laughter followed immediately at the mere thought of Frank being intimated by these two in any way.

“You know– because we’re two very successful New York City lawyers.”

That got Matt laughing again. “Yeah, her date is definitely intimated by us, Foggy. How could he not be?” 

You tried to keep your voice neutral when you said, “he’s just a private guy, likes to keep to himself. Maybe I’ll be more successful in getting him out next time.” 

You knew you wouldn’t be.

“Well, it better be soon,” Foggy sighed dramatically. “‘Cause we’re only getting better and more intimidating by the day.” 

“No, I know. You guys get any better and you’ll be trading me in for a legal assistant who actually knows what they’re doing most of the time.” 

“Pfft,” Matt waved you off. “Are you kidding? We can’t afford one of those.” 

Laughter followed again, but it died when Foggy’s attention turned to the lone television in the corner of the bar. 

“-Peace no more? It seems the Punisher has traded in his recent hiatus for his familiar reign of terror with a deadly shootout at a suspected drug den in Hells Kitchen.” 

Your heartbeat thrummed in your throat as the reporter continued. 

“He’s a maniac!” Foggy cried.

Matt dragged a palm down the front of his face and shrugged. “He’s certainly something.” 

You smacked the table twice, in dire want of changing the subject and enthusiastically suggested another round of beers and some pool. The blush from earlier had returned to your cheeks in full force but if either man noticed anything, they made no mention of it.

“A fine idea indeed!” Foggy beckoned for you to move so that he could head to the bar. “Meet you at the pool table in five!” 

You watched him vanish in the crowd and glanced at Matt, whose head was tilted at an angle that only meant one thing. 

“You know, as my friend foremost and colleague second, I would be remiss if I did not tell you to be careful.”

The blood in your veins ran ice cold. You and Frank were nothing if not annoyingly discrete, but then Matt had a sixth sense for these kinds of things.

“What are you talking about?” 

He polished off the rest of the beer, trained his unseeing gaze on the wall just above your shoulder and simply said, “you and Frank. It’s dangerous, and I just want you to exercise caution where you can.” 

“But, how–

“Well for starters, you stepped in here smelling faintly of uncured concrete and gun powder, which was a dead giveaway there, if I’m being honest. And then with the news reel just now, your heart rate exceeded what was normal by like a mile, and again– this is all just to say that I care about you and I just want you to be safe.” 

Your response was swift.

“I never feel safer than when I’m with him, Matt.”

Giving life to that statement felt inexplicably good– like you were doing right by yourself and by Frank by being honest about it all with the one person you knew you could be.

Matt wanted to say something else, but then Foggy whistled at you from a pool table across the bar, and that was the end of that.

By the time you'd (spectacularly) failed your second round, the desire to be home with Frank had become almost all-consuming. You sent him a quick text between turns that simply read, ready when you are. He responded almost immediately– on my way, be there in 10.

You threw your jacket over your shoulders and went around the table to say goodbye. 

“Leaving so soon?” Foggy frowned, while chalking the end of his cue.

“Yes, I am thoroughly over being humiliated by you two. Now give me a hug and send me on my way.” 

Matt cleared his throat. “I’ll walk you to the door.” 

You knew better than to fight him on that, so you accepted the arm he held out for you without fuss.

“You’re good to get home?” He asked when you reached the entrance.

You nodded. “More than good, Matt. I’ll see you Monday?” 

A smile lifted his lips skyward before it disappeared entirely. “Monday it is.” 

You leaned in to peck his cheek before stepping back out into the chilly evening. 

True to his word, Frank was waiting for you against the side of a brick wall a few buildings down from Josie’s, the collar of his jacket turned up against the late-March breeze. 

“Hey,” You murmured when you reached him.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Hey yourself, kid. Let’s go home, huh?” 

The walk back to your apartment was mostly silent save for the periodic blare of passing sirens in the distance.

He broke the silence in the elevator with a gruff, “you gonna tell me how your night was or do I gotta pry it outta you?”  

You exhaled a puff of air and fell back against the wall for support. “Pool was a bust.” 

He snorted. “That good, huh?” 

“Other than that, it was nice to celebrate their success.” 

“And you.” He pressed. “You gotta know you're part of their success, right?” 

That made you smile. “Yeah, Frank, I know.” 

“You hungry?” He asked before taking your coat and hanging it up in the closet next to his. He’d made a simple dinner while you were out; pasta and meat sauce, and a spinach salad with whatever vegetables he could scrounge for in the fridge. 

You fidgeted with your hands a moment before finally announcing that you had something to tell him.

That seemed to catch his attention, and he turned to you with a wiry eyebrow cocked in question. 

“Matt knows. About us.” 

Tension crackled between you as you rushed to fill the silence.

“I didn’t tell him, obviously, but he does this thing– I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it anymore– but he homes in on your scent and your heart rate– and whatever other physiological response happens when you’re in love, and he just… knew.” 

He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry Frank, I know we’re trying to keep this thing under wraps–

His expression remained unreadable until a muscle flexed in his jaw. “You’re in love?” 

“I–” you blanched, not realizing you’d actually voiced it. “Yeah, Frank, I am.” 

In that very casual way of like– all I do is think and sleep and dream about you. 

“And at this point– I guess I see no use in trying to run from it anymore.” 

He rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck. “Curt knows as well. Thinks it’s dangerous.” 

You swallowed back the emotion rising in your throat. “Curtis knows what, Frank?” 

“That it’s you, kid.”

His gaze– which until then had been fixed on a crack in your kitchen tile– found yours, and he shrugged. “That my sun rises and sets on you. It’s pretty much been that way from the start.” 

He pushed himself from the counter to wrap himself around you. His lips as they ghosted the shell of your ear, and the way his stubble tickled your cheek made you shiver against him and his hold on you tightened.

“If I know anything, it’s that this life is a short one and I’m not spendin’ whatever time I got left pretendin’ I don’t feel a certain way about you.” 

“So, we can give up the ghost now. But i'm still not gonna stop stealin' kisses from you, you got it?” 

Because you were at a loss of what else to say, you simply nodded. “yeah, Frank, I got it.”

“Attagirl. Now, go sit down and lemme fix you a plate, alright? Want you to eat somethin' before you hit the hay.” 

[burningfudge]

frank having an open flap on the windshield of his truck is killing me. this man really got a custom made windshield to make it easier to shoot people while driving 😭

[twentytomidnight]

reservation for two, bring tupperware, priority delivery

Frank Castle/Reader, 2.6K

a/n: I fear watching the punisher show with my friends had a terrible effect on me, anyways enjoy

cw: description of injuries, Frank is a dog, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

Matt Murdock has the most interesting friends that he brings around to his place. Just your luck that they all want to flirt with you. Frank Castle/Reader

There's a code that you and Matt have established between each other. Reservation for two means that he needs food but can't go for himself because he's got company—the injured, incapacitated type.

Bring tupperware means something needs stopping up, and it's not the pipes—usually a wound or an artery that won't close, so best to bring bandages. Priority delivery means as fast as you can possiblly make it out the door. 

Usually you don't get all of them in one text. But when you do, you know that it's time to hustle to the shwarma place around the corner with a first-aid kit tucked under your arm. 

You always make sure to tip extra for larger, quicker portions, from the sleepy-eyed 24-hour employees. Then you dart off into the night to follow the marching orders given you. It's a good thing that Matt's moved his apartment down to a lower floor in the building or else you'd start demanding some gratuity. 

You never arrive in one, organized piece. These requests, favors, really, because you care for Matt and you want to make sure that he and whoever's tagged along with him for the ride don't bleed out, demand a lot of you. 

And they never come at convenient time—always when you're across the city or in the dead of night. This time it's the latter, which you're grateful for. It meant that you were home to shoot off into the darkness to do this little Florence Nightingale routine that you're used to with Matt. 

Maybe it's just a talent that you've picked up with the practice—but you can usually get a hint for who's there on the other side of the door with him. When it's Jess, there's usually some muted, acerbic comment that you can pick up audial snippets of. When it's Luke, you can hear laughter of camaraderie—when it's Danny, there's usually something breaking. On the rare, rare chance that it happens to be Peter, you can all but feel Matt's palpable irritation through the door. 

But this time, you can tell that it's someone different. You've never heard this voice, masculine and deep, as it reverbs through the door, as it carries with it a more rigid, stiff—yet somehow amiable—atmosphere than when you usually darken Matt's doorstop. 

But you make your way there all the same. You take care to check that the plastic tray hasn't upended itself in the to-go bag, that you haven't lost the trauma kit in the journey up three flights. 

And then you knock as you always do. Matt's voice, which is responding to the deep baritone cutting through the wood grain abruptly falls short. 

You're no talent for cues like he is, but you can hear the smooth, practiced stride he makes. There's the casual "That's my person," that he throws over his shoulder to the person assumedly lounging on the couch in the center of his abode. 

You catch a grumbling, "Didn't tell me you had a food delivery service," that's both crass and sarcastic—if they're making jokes, then they must be doing alright. Or at least, they're good at not letting on how hurt they are; a skill that Matt and all of his friends take on as a prerequisite. 

"They're not delivery service—"—You hear the edges of Matt's patience fraying as he reaches the other side of the door you wait patiently at—"—They're a friend." 

There's a fragment of emphasis on the word friend, as if to remind present company just how much of a courtesy it is that's been done. As if this person needs a constant reminder. 

It's a head's up to you, who Matt knows you can hear through the width, that this person might be prickly. You batten down the proverbial hatches. 

"Same difference, red." Rumbles the voice, which is louder now that you're closer. You can pick up the nuance of husk and coarse quality that this voice adopts with ease. 

"Maybe," Matt returns with careful deliberation in the even keel of his voice, "That's why you don't have food delivery service." 

There's a chuckle of admiration at the pluck your friend takes. Then the deadbolt switches out of the latch, the doorknob turns in the jamb—and then your friend reveals himself in the doorway, smiling in general direction of you. He's slightly more worse for wear than you last saw him, with some coagulating blood from a jab to the lip, a bruise already flowering on his right temple, a bit of tenderness as he favors his right side. He's been worse, but he made it to the door. 

The gratefulness is evident in his voice as he grins down at you, taking a modicum of effort to do so as he reaches to take the food from your grasp. 

"Hey," He inclines his head with the appreciation he can't verbalize, "Thanks for coming on short notice."

He's already turning on his heel to lead you down the small hallway that opens out into the rest of his apartment. You're dutiful follower, closing and re-locking the door behind you as you juggle the remainder of your chattel for the night. 

"No problem," You answer—the faint, familiar stench of blood wafts to you now that you're in the belly of the beast. Already, Matt has glided on ahead into the brightly-lit illumination of his apartment beyond you.

"I'm glad that I could help."You trail carefully after him. You take care to avoid a few splotches of blood on the hardwood that were missed in what you can assume was harried flight back into the domicile. "Where can I put everything?"

"Well, the counter and the table are pretty full up," Matt begins wearily. You can already hear a disdainful noise from the company that's drawn quiet for you—but it seems that the reprieve is over now that the outside world has been shut out once more. "I'll clear a spot for you."

"Yeah?" That gravelly voice seems to drum through you with greater pitch now that you share the room with it, as you expose yourself to the sight of the owner that bears it. "Why don't you come over here and make me a nice mai tai too—"

You get a good look at the landlord of the tone when you pass the foyer, the injured person sharing space with you both. Well, perhaps barbarian would be better classification of the half-naked, bleeding gladiator reclining on Matt's finest towels that separate him from the textile of the furniture. 

He's already got a few hamfisted bandages wrapped round the circumference of his head. This does little to disguise the heavy brow and the sneer of that lantern-set jaw that grows as he takes in Matt upon return. 

And those dark eyes slink to you as you regard the state of undress that he's in, rudimentarily patched up and all muscle and sweat and sinew. God, he looks powerful, like he doesn't need the bevy of weapons that are littering the ground around him, the guns that are cavalierly placed on the table, a few of the cushions, the counterspace that Matt stated were otherwise occupied. 

No wonder Matt needed reinforcements. But interestingly enough, whatever statement he intended to make as your introduction seems not to have been interrupted—but rather, it trailed off and died. 

Now, he surveys you, evaluates you, regards you with something that you would categorize as blatant interest. Yes, he might be suffering head trauma, but he knows when he likes something he sees. 

You remember to smile, just as you have each time that you have made nice with one of Matt's after-hours friends. You even remember to say something mildly witty. 

"Hi. Your Oober Feasts Delivery is here." You assert as you hold up the other takeout bag. Matt is already pulling over a vacated side-table from his bedroom to set up shop in, by the arm of the couch that his companion is closest to. Perhaps Mr. Murdock assumes that if said friend is able to shovel food into his gullet, this will improve his temperament. 

You watch the tick of the bandage as it clocks up, the brow raising in amusment, the smirk making itself clear. "You heard that?" 

"I have ears." You respond with the good grace that you can muster. You cross the perimeter of the room to the table; Matt's friend's eyes follow you every single step of the way. 

When you settle down the bag, you look back up to the gilmmer of that dark gaze, watching you. You already knew who this was the second you walked into the place. 

"You must be Frank."

Frank has the composure of his wits to smile and display some bloodied teeth. It seems odd to make mention of the fact that it seems to be rather dashing look on him, so you don't verbalize it. Matt seems to be showing all the non-verbal indicators that he's suffering a terrible headache. 

"Sure am—"—Frank takes aim towards you in laid-back fashion as he reposes. "Who're you? Don't think Matt's ever mentioned you before." 

It's clear that there's something he wants either of you to confirm or deny, but he's not ready to put it out into the open. He's brash about it, but he'll also play his cards close to his chest, this Frank. 

Matt sighs through his nose as he delineates between which half of the tale is for medical care, and which is for food. You follow suit to mollify the annoyance lacing through him. 

"Sure I have, Frank." Matt responds bracingly, with surprisingly good humor. "You just weren't listening." 

"Sure I was," Frank returns as he continues to make visual analysis of you, "You just weren't sayin' it loud enough." 

This next statement he makes is directed towards you. "You, uh, live in the area?" 

Matt's voice is a warning note. "Frank—"

You know the virtue of a well-placed laugh to diffuse the tension, so you do so now. Matt hefts up one end of the table as you do, moving it closer to Frank. Frank, it seems, is rather interested in the minutiae of certain…assets of your body. 

"Yeah, Matt and I used to be neighbors for a bit." You inform him, settling down the food side of the table closer to him. 

You offer him the finest spork that Shawarma Bay offers—when the rough pads of his fingers brush against yours, it's a difficulty to suffocate the shudder that's whispering up your arms, your spine. Especially when those eyes are still searching you for any hint of weakness. 

Those thick brows that are making manifest under the bandages rise up that swathed forehead. 

"Neighbors, huh? He borrow a cup of sugar off of you every now and then?" When his face assumes a leer, it's clear that he's still trying to search for intel. Something that will reveal the nature of your relationship to Matt—and whether you are actually friends or off-limits territory. 

Matt seems to torn in asking for your continued services or leaping across the couch and strangling what remaining life clings to his friend. So, you have to take one for the team. You make a scoff through your nose. 

"More like my medicinal care and soup, if anything." You pass him a take-out plate—his eyes are still gravitating to the orbit of your heavenly body as he accepts it. "I used to be an ER doctor." 

There's another degree of interest, though it's still lecherous by a good mile as he asks his next question. 

"Oh, so red got the good ol' up-close-and-personal treatment, huh?" 

Matt's voice has a tad more heat as he interjects a, "Frank—"

The laugh that you make is more genuine albeit unexpected; you're taking care to set up your medical supplies in the remainder of the acreage of the table. Frank takes a walloping bite of basmati rice as he continues to observe you. 

"I guess. Matt's a pretty professional guy." You answer back, and give Matt a smile that he returns rather thinly—not due to any fault of your own, you surmise. 

The source of his vexation speaks up again, commanding your attention once more.

"Well, I'm not, sweetheart—"—At this, you look back up to the state of disarray and injury that he's been reduced to—"—And I'm pretty banged up over here." 

His smile is voracious for more than just the food, as you share the heat of each other's gazes. 

"So," He advances across uncharted territory to you, shifting the flat, bloodied muscles of his abdomen as he does so, "You wanna come and help me out?" 

Before a silence—not uncomfortable, save for the third party forced to be unwilling witness to this interaction—ensues, Matt speaks up. To say that embarrassment is weaved through his voice is ample understatement as he straightens to full standing height. 

"Frank," Matt pinches the bruised bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, "You're not making a good first impression." 

Still, Frank has eyes, has hunger of sight only for you as he grins. You'd be a liar if you said you didn't have a similar smile already crossing your face, at this charming neanderthal who bleeds all over Matt's towels. 

"Who said I wanted to in front of your cute friend, red?" Frank asks. 

You approach him with scissors and bandages hand-in-hand, something that only encourages the arch of his mouth. "I'll help you only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself." 

Frank, it appears, is not without bargaining chips of his own. "Only if you promise to go to that Chinese place down the street with me sometime." 

You make a huffed chuckle, soft in the space that seems only shared by you both. "Is that a guarantee you'll be on good behavior, then?" 

He shifts, which both aggravates his wounds, and makes him quite the lurid, masculine picture. Something that entices—and intrigues you, even against your better judgement. 

HIs voice is crude, his eyes are gleaming, as he responds, "Sure, sweetheart. An oath of my chivalry and all that shit." 

"I'm surprised that that exists in the first place." Matt jokes, reminding his compatriot that he's still in the room, witness to this display of shamelessness. As though Frank gives a damn, when he's so close to sealing the deal. 

"Only for the people that I try for, red." Frank smirks as he still continues to search you, before you brave into the unknown. "And y'ain't one of 'em." 

There's an unbidden command in his voice as he seeks out your services—and you're wont to respond. "Now, how 'bout you come over here and patch me up, honey?"

You think that this is the start of a very interesting relationship with Mr. Castle, indeed. 

Dividers provided by the excellent @strangergraphics

[readingkitty]

Yall i fucked up the tumblr cookies and turned them off and now I can’t see anything on my tags anymore 😭 someone please help me fix it

[readingkitty]

Ok I figured it out! We’re back baby

[zevampirex]

I open my inspo folder on Pinterest and BOOM ! Them

Also wanted something fun to make some practice exercises

[readingkitty]

Yall i fucked up the tumblr cookies and turned them off and now I can’t see anything on my tags anymore 😭 someone please help me fix it

[epiphanyrogers]

January Jumble Scribbles⋆౨ৎ˚⋆

joining the january jumble scribbles event hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles! as someone with a tendency to overwrite and has never met a sentence she couldn't make longer, keeping these to 300 words is genuinely intimidating (i promise i will try my best!). all parings will be x fem!reader (no use of y/n). i've also given myself the extra challenge of making each one a bit smutty because god forbid i write anything that isn't at least a little horny...

Main Masterlist

𑣲Day One: "Oh what are you doing here? The sun is up!" ⤷ the morning after | steve rogers | suggestive content | fwb

𑣲Day Two: Where worlds collide and days are dark. ⤷ absolution | andy barber | mob boss!reader | smut | enemies with benefits

𑣲Day Three: “You make it very hard to think.” ⤷ extra credit | professor!bucky barnes | grad student!reader | smut | dumbification

𑣲Day Four: “You behave so much better when I have my hands on you.” (swapped) ⤷ soft spot | ransom drysdale | smut | i can fix him <3

𑣲Day Five: "I’ve had bigger thrills leaning up against my dryer." ⤷ spin cycle | natasha romanoff | agent!reader | smut

𑣲Day Six: “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” ⤷ manners | sugar!daddy ari levinson | sugar!baby reader | smut | daddy kink

𑣲Day Seven: Do you love me now that I can dance? ⤷ mission: failed | bucky barnes | undercover agent!reader | suggestive content

𑣲Day Eight: How could something so real be so quickly erased? (swapped) ⤷ cosmic dust | nomad!steve rogers | heavy angst

𑣲Day Nine: You don’t see stars here, they’re just city lights. ⤷ midnight show | bodyguard!steve rogers | popstar!reader | smut | window sex

𑣲Day Ten: “I never disrobe before a gunfight.” ⤷ conflict of interest | assassin!bucky barnes | assassin!reader | suggestive content

𑣲Day Eleven: “You let me do this every time.” ⤷ pray for the wicked | biker!curtis everett | preacher’s daughter!reader | smut | noncon/dubcon

𑣲Day Twelve: “Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know.” ⤷ until morning | lady-in-waiting!natasha romanoff | princess!reader | smut | period royalty au

𑣲Day Thirteen: Arm yourself because no one else here will save you. ⤷ emergency release | bucky barnes | smut | apocalypse au

𑣲Day Fourteen: "Am I noble enough for you now?" ⤷ star-spangled | steve rogers | smut | established relationship

𑣲Day Fifteen: “You’re not as quiet as you think.” ⤷ homecoming | dad’s best friend!ari levinson | smut | reader is college age

𑣲Day Sixteen: But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then. ⤷ five years on | steve rogers | hurt/comfort | follow up to cosmic dust

𑣲Day Seventeen: “Captain, if I’m shooting I’m emptying the whole gat.” ⤷ training season’s over | steve rogers | trainee shield agent!reader | fwb | implied sex/sexual references

𑣲Day Eighteen: “You started this.” ⤷ smart mouth | dom!lloyd hansen | brat!reader | smut | light bondage | edging

𑣲Day Nineteen: Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood ⤷ the captain’s education | uso tour!steve rogers | showgirl!reader | subby/inexperienced!steve | smut

𑣲Day Twenty: “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.” ⤷ foreign affairs | matt murdock | diplomat!reader | o come all ye faithful universe | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-One: "They just said get up there and make some trouble.” ⤷ backstage pass | bodyguard!steve rogers | popstar!reader | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Two: “I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth.” ⤷ debrief | stucky | paris trip! | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Three: You don’t surrender when you still got one bullet left. ⤷ castle crumbling | frank castle | cowgirl position | lowkey kinda fluffy? | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Four: “Don’t move. I want to feel this.” ⤷ feels like home | nomad!steve rogers | cockwarming | fluffy | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Five: "I'll be stronger in your eyes than I could ever be in my own." (swapped) ⤷ witching hour | bucky barnes | angst

𑣲Day Twenty-Six: “Every sound you make is making this worse.” ⤷ hung up on you | bucky barnes | smut | cheating (on reader’s shitty bf w bucky) | phone call exhibitionism??

𑣲Day Twenty-Seven: I’m open to that in a safer environment. ⤷ stress relief | jake jensen | canon level violence | implied smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Eight: “I actually watch her back and not her backside." ⤷ team building | stucky | soft dom!steve | mean dom!bucky | smut

𑣲Day Twenty-Nine: “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you… slowly.” ⤷ earn it | dark!andy barber | smut | power imbalance | noncon/dubcon

𑣲Day Thirty: Do you believe in life after love? ⤷ the devil’s angel | sea captain!bucky barnes | the lighthouse universe | gothic maritime au | smut

𑣲Day Thirty-One: “I said behave… not that I expected you to listen.” ⤷ office hours | professor!bucky barnes | grad student!reader | smut | orgasm denial

Disclaimers: since it’s likely each ficlet will contain smut, or at least implied sexual content, all of my entries are 18+ MDNI, and individual warnings will be listed in each entry. some prompts already have teasers for the pairing, but may be subject to change!

[readingkitty]

:(

Yeah, I think I am sad about it. That’s ok though. I’m allowed to be.

[grooviestsadpapaya]

Sorry about the lack of art but look at this teeny tiny wizard I drew and my triceratops earring for size comparison

[catbayunthestoryteller]

The Cat’s Already Out of the Bag

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

You never asked much of Jason. Not when it came to his past, not when it came to his scars, and definitely not when it came to the people who shared his blood or masked identities. He told you stories in pieces when he wanted to, in that gruff, careful way he had when he was testing how much of himself he could give without bleeding out. You loved him for it. Loved him in a way that didn’t require explanations or family dinners or Sunday brunches at a mansion.

You introduced him to your mom, to your closest friends. He grumbled, grinned through his teeth, and held your hand the whole time. That was enough.

And so, when he hesitated every time you brought up his family, you let it drop. You weren’t trying to be the girl who needed to be shown off like a trophy. He'd been through hell, and if you were his safe place now, you’d stay that way.

But life, as it turned out, had a stupid sense of humor.

It started at an animal shelter. You’d gone in looking for a cat. Something scrappy, a little moody, something like Jason, if you were being honest. You were crouched in front of a cage when a sharp voice behind you said, “That one is known to bite.”

You turned and saw a kid. Eleven, maybe twelve. Dark hair, posture like he owned the building. His arms were crossed, and he was staring at you like you were in his way.

“Oh?” you smiled. “Well, biting is a love language.”

He blinked. “That is an unhealthy relationship dynamic.”

You laughed, and he tilted his head, like he hadn’t expected that. You ended up chatting as you filled out the forms for adoption. Apparently, he volunteered here to supervise the treatment of the animals. He helped you choose a different cat (“less feral, still appropriately antisocial”), and when he left, he said, “Damian Wayne,” with a slight bow of his head, as if he expected you to already know the name.

You introduced yourself too, completely unaware.

The next was a woman on your train. There was some commotion, guy yelling at a kid, getting too close, too loud, and you got up without thinking, inserting yourself between them before your heart could catch up to your body. The man backed off. You didn’t realize someone else had also intervened until the kid ran off and the stranger beside you murmured, “That was reckless.”

You turned to look at her. Short, dark bobbed hair, sharp, amused eyes.

“Maybe,” you said, breathless. “But it worked.”

She nodded. “Still. You should be careful.”

“You too.”

She smirked. “Always am.”

You learned her name after a few more stops. Cassandra. She helped you find your phone when it slipped under the seat and then vanished when you looked up again.

You ran into Tim at a bookstore, both of you reaching for the same obscure sci-fi novel. You were quick to give it up, but he insisted you take it. You ended up swapping numbers just to geek out about the author later. You didn’t think it weird until weeks later when you realized he never mentioned a last name.

And Dick? You met Dick when you locked your keys in your car and he helped you break into it. You didn’t know who he was until he laughed a little too confidently as he handed your bag back through the cracked window. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a history of breaking and entering,” he’d joked.

“Not sure if I should thank you or report you.”

“I’d recommend neither.”

By the time you met Bruce at a charity gala your boss dragged you to, you were starting to think the universe was playing a prank. He’d spilled his drink on you. Actually spilled it. Then offered his own handkerchief, old-fashioned as hell.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d said. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, a little stunned. “I’m just relieved it wasn’t red wine.”

“Bruce Wayne,” he said.

Of course he was.

You gave your name with a smile that felt like a secret, like the final piece of a very stupid puzzle slotting into place.

Weeks passed. Jason didn’t notice, and you didn’t tell him. How could you? You weren’t trying to meet them. And it wasn’t like they knew who you were. Just some girl with a stubborn cat, an affinity for sci-fi novels, and a habit of helping people.

But eventually, Jason came home one night, stood in the kitchen rubbing the back of his neck, and said, “I think it’s time.”

You looked up from the pan. “Time?”

“To meet the family.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded, eyes cautious. “They’ve been asking. I’ve been…holding off. But I want them to meet you.”

You almost laughed. But you didn’t. You just smiled and said, “Okay.”

Wayne Manor looked exactly how you imagined it would: big, brooding, and probably haunted.

Jason squeezed your hand on the way in. You squeezed back. He looked nervous, like he was preparing for a fight.

You walked into the grand room, and...

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

Because Damian was staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

Cass's brows shot up.

Tim nearly dropped his glass.

Dick let out a sharp laugh. “You’re the girlfriend?!”

Jason turned like a dog hearing an intruder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “Don't tell me you know each other.”

“I...well, not all at once,” you said quickly. “It just sort of…kept happening.”

Jason blinked at each of them in turn. “You didn’t mention this?”

“They didn’t know I was your girlfriend,” you said, trying not to laugh.

“And you didn’t think to tell me you met my entire family?!”

You shrugged helplessly. “I thought it’d weird you out.”

Bruce entered the room then, paused mid-step, and said, “You.”

You waved. “Hi, Bruce.”

Jason looked like he might implode. “You met my father?”

You stepped beside him, slid your arm around his waist. “Surprise?”

He stared at you, speechless. And then he laughed. Loud, full-bodied, beautiful. You hadn't heard him laugh like that in weeks.

“Well,” he said, tugging you closer. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

Damian snorted. “Literally.”

Jason groaned. “This family is cursed.”

But his hand never left yours. Not once.

Jason had barely stepped out onto the balcony when he heard the door creak open behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Only one of his brothers walked like he was trying not to wake a sleeping baby and get a standing ovation for it.

Dick Grayson. Golden boy. Gotham’s favorite acrobat.

“I’m not gonna give you the talk,” Dick said.

Jason smirked. “You sure? You’ve been practicing it since I was fifteen.”

Dick chuckled and leaned against the railing beside him. “Nah. Figured someone else would get to it before me. Tim’s already making a PowerPoint, probably. And Damian’s writing a list of interview questions.”

“God help me.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the wind brushing through the trees below, the faint clink of laughter and cutlery drifting out through the open window. You were still inside with Cass and Alfred. Jason could hear your voice. Soft, casual. You fit in like you were born to.

“So,” Dick said eventually, nudging him with his shoulder. “How long?”

“Over a year,” Jason said.

Dick turned. “Seriously?”

Jason nodded. “Moved in together a few months ago.”

There was a pause. “Jay…”

“If you’re about to ask why I didn’t tell anyone, save it,” Jason cut in, voice lower. “She’s not…this isn’t like before.”

“I know,” Dick said, without hesitation. “I know that. That’s why I’m here.”

Jason glanced at him, surprised.

Dick shrugged. “You kept her away for a reason. I get that. But now that I’ve seen you together…”

He trailed off, searching for the words.

Jason helped him out. “It’s different.”

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly. “It really is.”

Jason leaned forward on his elbows. “She never asked for any of this. Not the Batcave, not the guilt. She just…makes space. You know?”

Dick nodded, slowly. “She didn’t flinch when Cass told that story about the broken jaw incident.”

“She laughed.”

“Exactly.”

Jason didn’t say anything for a while. Just let the weight of it settle in his chest, the kind of good weight that made you feel anchored, like maybe your feet belonged somewhere after all.

“Do you love her?” Dick asked, not with suspicion, but with a kind of quiet respect.

Jason didn’t answer right away.

He thought of the way you touched his hand when you thought no one was watching. The way you filled his apartment with warmth without even trying. The way you made the worst parts of him feel like they were still worth loving.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

Dick smiled, a real one this time. “Then you did good, little brother.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“No promises.”

They stood there together for another minute. No more questions, no more pressure. Just two brothers in the chill Gotham air, one of them finally realizing that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.

From inside, your laughter rang out again.

“I’m going back in,” Jason muttered.

“Yeah?” Dick smirked. “Can’t stand to be away from her for five minutes?”

Jason flipped him off as he pushed open the balcony door.

But the truth was…yeah. He couldn’t.

a/n: My spin on meeting the Wayne family. Um...Hi, fandom?