Not an ask but thought this was the best way for you to get to see the pretty Mers so here's both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe
EVERYONE LOOK AT THESE!!!!!!!
I love them! I love the colors and the patters and the designs - oh wow. I love the little details of their heads and the fins around them. They look so COOL.
⠀⠀𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈.⠀( some mysteries are better left unresolved , 9.6k words. )⠀by dilemmars.
1.⠀⠀ PAIRING⠀⠀:⠀⠀violet x f!reader.
2.⠀⠀GENRES⠀⠀:⠀⠀based on the storyline and universe of arcane ( league of legends tv show )⠀; first love trope, started dating recently, stablished relationship, exes to lovers. basically you and vi were dating before the start of the story, then got separated.
3.⠀⠀WARNINGS⠀⠀:⠀⠀i will add the warnings that the tv show has: slight presence of sex and nudity, foul language, alcohol, drugs and tobacco. moderate scenes of fear and terror. high content of violence and gore. in this second chapter, there's going to be an explicit scene of bullying and violence towards reader, and mentions of prostitution. please do not read if you're uncomfortable with it.
4.⠀⠀AUTHOR 'S NOTE⠀⠀:⠀⠀second chapter out! i don't know why, but i found it kind of difficult to finish it because it took me a while to decide how i was going to approach the first part. and i also feel like it's super repetitive, so i hope you don't find it boring (an di'm sorry if you do! i'll try to write better) :(( then we have more arcane episode 2 content, and a bittersweet end. next chapter will be the end of the first act (and we all know how it goes), i would advice to prepare yourself for some angst. meanwhile, just enjoy 🤍
5.⠀⠀IMPORTANT⠀⠀:⠀⠀this is a work of fiction. i do not own arcane or any content produced or owned bychristian linke, alex yee, riot games or netflix. all rights belong to netflix and the writers of arcane. all plot events and character developments that are not related to the main character's story belong to the writers and creators of the series.
The whisper of the name of Vander, the hound of the underworld, and his fearsome reputation, had drifted through the gaunt streets of Zaun like a famished viper aching for nourishment, but it had also reverberated within the glassed walls of the brothel in which you had grown up. You had first heard it from your mother's lips, like the caress of a feather brushing your skin, when you were too young to remember what had been of the city before him. In your blurred memories, only a chaos of violence and children's games, and then just peace. Like so many secrets huddled under the beds and behind the wardrobes of The Gilded Lily, it was a mystery how Vander had managed to keep that invisible line between the two worlds intact for so long. The only important thing, however, was that it worked.
At the age of twelve, you had come to think that he could be your father. Like many children of prostitutes, you had never met yours. Like many unwanted results of endless nights of work, you hadn't been much more than a mouth to feed that couldn't monetise your stay at the brothel. At least, until you got older. You had spent your days wandering the city in search of mechanisms to fix, wanting to spend as little time as possible under the brothel roof, knowing that your presence was not welcome. Profiting from the rare tastes of the men and women who frequented the many decorated rooms downstairs —and the even wilder fantasies they paid for in the rooms upstairs— your mother had decided to keep you when she learned of the unexpected pregnancy, against the madam's insistent advice and the usual procedure on such occasions.
During your childhood you had heard too many names whispered in the perpetual night of Zaun, always hidden in the poorly lit corridors of the place, but Vander's had never been one of the feigned moans that used to echo in your head even when you covered your ears. Only once, while your mother was getting ready for one of The Gilded Lily's most important clients, your nimble hands braiding and winding strands of her hair, had she muttered those six letters, in a hurried ‘If you ever find yourself in danger, call on Vander’. She had always become wary, anxiety creeping like a terrifying shiver up her spine, when you had to leave the building without a place to shelter. And on those occasions, after forcing herself to ask you not to return until after the early hours of the morning, you would lose yourself in the alleys of Zaun.
You still remembered that night, when her lips had left a quick kiss on your forehead, a carmine shadow that had remained on your skin until she had smudged it with her thumb, and then you had disappeared from her room, carrying that unknown name in your heart like a secret. It had been no accident that your mother had confided those words to you after seeing you come home with more than one bruise on your face, some nights even more, because she knew he could help you. And her instinct had not failed, because you had remembered his name precisely until you had needed to pronounce it.
Life in the brothel hadn't been so bad once you had familiarised to the overpowering scent of all the perfumes, the chaos of the attic rooms —with clothes of all kinds scattered on the beds, make-up products everywhere— and the unclassifiable noises behind closed doors that became a background melody once you got used to them. Still, and despite the fact that all the women and men who worked there had found it hard to consider you as one of their own, sometimes even treating you more like a pet than a child, you valued your independence too much to waste time getting annoyed looks for being in the way. You had often slipped into the alleyways adjoining the big building, after looking for the moment when the Madam locked herself in her office, and you had walked the dirty streets of the undercity with your head down under your hood.
That had been how you had discovered the tattered shop of the gentle Benzo, the owner of a cave full of treasures, who had grown fond of you. He had given you your first screwdriver, and taught you how to build any mechanism from scratch. He always kept useless pieces of machinery in a box with your name on it, ready for you to pick them up as soon as you could. At first it had been in exchange for you looking after the little boy who had been left outside his door years ago, who was only slightly younger than you, but it had ended up becoming a problem, even if he hadn't been aware of it at the time.
In Zaun people didn't need a reason to sin. It was as easy as breathing the foul oxygen that clung to your skin and poisoned you from the inside, urging you to steal, to fight for money, to kill if you had to. The need made you unpredictable, desperate. And that culture of poverty, applied to children, was lethal to those with fewer possibilities. Applied to you, well, let's just say it had meant a big target painted on your forehead that screamed you were too easy a prey for the most despicable ones.
It had not been the first time you had been attacked thinking you could have something of value in your pockets. You had heard the comments of adults passing by, whispering about the blood that ran through your veins, speculating about the amount of money you would have under your name just because you lived in The Gilded Lily. They had assumed you were the brothel's heiress, always messing around in the city streets with no sense of direction, ignoring the consequences, and you had dressed up in the mask they had woven for you, lifting your chin proudly as you listened to them, wanting to believe that fantasy. Until the first punch had come. Merciless, silent, followed by a low laugh and a threat. You had curled up as overly bold hands roamed your body in search of diamonds, when you could only offer nuts and bolts.
But they had grown even bolder, taking everything you had on you no matter how little it was worth, leaving you with less and less material and more than bruises.
That night they had simply gone overboard, for the fun of it.
You had tried to stifle a chuckle at almost bumping into a customer, too busy making a funny face at Ekko as a goodbye, while sneaking out of the shop door. No sooner had you set foot in the street, the cold air outside invading your lungs almost painfully, than you had received the habitual punch. Swift and heavy against your windpipe, knocking the breath out of you, bending your body forward. One of your attackers had laughed to your right when the bag you had been holding had fallen to the floor, spilling screws and metal pieces onto the cobbled floor, and hadn't even bothered to pick them up. They had finally decided to stop pretending that mugging you was not their goal.
You had held your hands to your chest, your eyes following a screw rolling a few centimetres, before a second punch landed, straight in your face. A twinge of pain had coursed through you as you felt their fist hit a wound on your cheekbone that hadn't quite healed, and you had frowned, stumbling back. The third, aimed at your jaw, had been the one that had knocked you to the ground.
You had collapsed, gasping for air, curling into yourself on the cold floor, dazed. Your body had pulsed, your heart pounding, and you could only think that if you stayed still long enough, they would leave you alone. With your back pressed against the wall of Benzo's building, your ragged breaths had hit your forearms with every inhale, your arms protecting your face. But far from hearing their laughter fade down the alley, the silence had granted you a moment's peace before you were kicked in the pit of your stomach, a breathy and quiet pant spilling from between your lips.
You had drawn your knees even tighter to your chest, sobbing, and tensed your muscles, fighting against the weakening pain. You hadn't been able to tell if you were crying, thick tears sliding down your face, or if it was blood, but after a few seconds you hadn't cared. You had wanted it to be over as soon as possible, even if it meant being knocked unconscious. You'd had no idea how many there were, their voices, distorted by your fear and their amusement, shimmering in a mocking tone. You had closed your eyes as you had felt another kick to your ribs, and had cowered against the wall, wishing you were dead.
But then you had remembered your mother's words. Soft and crystalline in your memory, just as fearful as your voice when they gushed from your chest like salt water desperate to leave your lungs after a shipwreck, ‘I know Vander!’
The hand of one of them had paused against your shoulder at the broken sound, and you had frowned, praying that his name was threat enough to make them go away.
‘Do you?’ they had asked you, the poorly disguised fear in their voice feeling like a breath of fresh air.
‘Yes!’ you had replied, glancing out from behind your arms, breathing heavily. ‘And he's going to go after you if you don't stop!’
You hadn't let doubt creep into your gaze, even though you knew you hadn't offered a very confident view of yourself, cornered by three boys older than you in the middle of the street. The one who had prepared to unleash another kick had taken a step back, clenching his hands into tight fists, as if afraid of the consequences. But before you could even begin to get up, ready to run away, the one who had positioned himself on the opposite wall had slowly approached you, a crooked smile painting his face.
‘Do you actually believe her?’ he had muttered, crouching down in front of you, his venomous breath slipping fear into your bones, grabbing your hair so he could pull you face to face with him.
‘Why would Vander waste his time with someone like you?’ he had uttered, his eyes flashing with rage. You had dropped your gaze, trying to look away from him, wondering if you were paying for a crime someone else had committed, if the hatred in his eyes was really directed at you, who hadn't done anything, or if you were just the wrong person at the worst time.
‘I,’ you had stuttered, and the curve in his lips had widened, ’I'm not...’
‘Do you genuinely think he would come to save you?’ he had insisted, tightening his grip on your hair, forcing you to look at him, and you had closed your eyes angrily, the emptiness in your chest cracking at his words, seeping doubt into your heart. ‘I don't think so.’
You had held your breath, expecting to receive a final strike, for the three of them to retaliate against you, but his crouching body had tensed over yours as the shop door had burst open, his blonde hair caressing his neck. Your chest had deflated, knowing that a stranger would not prevent the attack from getting worse, and you had simply waited for him to leave.
‘Well, I do,’ the man had murmured, and you had turned your head to look at him, surprised that he had intervened. The light from Benzo's had spilled onto the cobblestone floor above his large figure, his shadow lengthening over when he had stepped forward. ‘Leave the girl alone, Deck.’
The breath had caught in your throat, shooting a flash of pain into your ribs. No one had ever stood up for you. You had narrowed your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's face, but had only been able to hear the disbelieving snort of the boy in front of you as he addressed the stranger.
‘Do you really know her, Vander?’
You had then opened your eyes wide, Deck's annoyance a reflection of the surprise in your gaze, but you had remained silent. Whatever happened would be your fault, simply for tempting fate in such a way.
‘Does it really matter?’ he had replied, all darkness and gravelly voice, and you had seen him pull a match from his pocket, lighting it with a quick flick against the wall, the fire illuminating his rugged features. He had rested the pipe between his lips as Deck decided what decision to make, and you had heard him let out a soft hum as the blond had raised his hand in a quick gesture, releasing you to the floor.
You had leaned your head against the wall, protecting yourself, as the boy had hovered over you to get up. You had expected one last punch, a warning for the next time he found you and Vander wasn't around. But he had done nothing, walking away with his friends in the shadows of the streets. Then you had clutched your hands to your chest, letting a faint whimper slide down your throat, sobbing, and you had rested a hand on the cold stones of the ground to try to get up.
But then the pain had shot up through your abdomen like an electrified circuit, your legs failing under your own weight, and you had collapsed to the ground. You had thought it was not worth staying, not when the consequences of daring to involve Vander could be worse than what you had already received, but he had stood beside you, his gaze lost in the distance, waiting for them to be gone for good.
‘Thank you,’ you had murmured, taking a breath of air. Perhaps sweet words would soften him in case he decided to punish you in some way for mentioning his name.
The whisper of your voice had seemed to bring him back to reality, his body turning towards you, and he had made the attempt to move closer, stopping short when he saw the way your body was pressed against the wall behind you, completely tense. He had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth, the smoke spiralling upwards, and frowned. If you hadn't been so busy running away, you would have been able to make out the glint of insecurity in his gaze.
‘Hey, little one,’ he had uttered, advancing towards you in short, painfully slow steps, as if confronting a wounded animal, ’I'm not going to hurt you.’
You had looked up, your cheeks broken in tears, your shoulders shaking, and you had seen the way his eyebrows had risen in a convex curve, his lips pulling into a coy smile that had been intended to soothe you. And then you'd felt his hand on your arm, his palm sliding its rough calluses against your skin, and you'd frozen, pausing for a moment before remembering that it was Vander. Vander. If your mother trusted him —and she trusted very few people— you could afford to put your faith in him until he proved to you that you could trust him too.
‘You don't have to worry,’ you had told him, huddling against the cool surface of the wall, trying to muster a smile that would keep him from asking too many questions.
‘You sound like it's not the first time this happens,’ he had observed, crouching down in front of you, pushing your long hair away from in front of your face so that he could assess your injuries.
The absence of a reply had been your response, and answer enough to his assumptions. Of course it had happened before, hence why they felt so comfortable attacking you in such a public place. It had happened before, to a lesser extent. Before, in dark alleys. Before, maybe starting with a slap. And with each time you had offered no resistance the harassment had continued, more times, more pressure, more pain.
‘Come here,’ he had sighed, leaving the pipe between his lips and sliding his hand down your back, under your knees, to take you in his arms. You had let him lift you up, your hair cascading, and sighed against his chest, resting your cheek with your eyes closed. At least you would have enjoyed a quiet moment before you had to find a place to spend the night, the brothel doors closed to you until your mother finished with all the customers who came in asking for her.
You had been forbidden to disturb her, because if the Madam lost money, no matter how young you were, it would be you who would have to take her place to compensate for the absence of income.
But then you'd realised that Vander had been walking back towards Benzo's shop, and you'd frowned at the dull light of the lamps left on over the counter. You'd felt his flexed arms straining to keep you from falling as you'd started to squirm, ignoring the phantom fists that had pounded all over your body, ‘Easy, easy, kid.’
‘Vander?’ you'd heard Benzo, appearing behind the front desk with a grease-filled cloth in his hands, ‘I thought you'd already left. Who...?’
‘Deck and a couple of boys were harassing this little girl,’ Vander had explained, leaving you sitting on the stained surface of the counter, his hands gentle but firm on your shoulders to keep you from running away, and you'd winced when you'd heard Benzo mutter your name in surprise.
And then Vander had repeated it, looking at you, and you'd felt too vulnerable.
‘’M not little,' you'd muttered, deflating, crossing your arms over your chest with a stubborn snort, “and I'm fine.”
‘You're certainly not okay,’ Vander had replied, and you'd known his heart had decided to protect you against all odds in the way he'd uttered it, as if rage was consuming him. ‘And it's not the first time this has happened.’
‘Does your mother know about this?’ Benzo had asked you, pulling out a clean rag from under the counter, grabbing one of his bottles of alcohol. You had slid your gaze around the shop instead of answering, knowing that Ekko had to be somewhere, eavesdropping. You hadn't wanted him to see you like this.
‘What do you know about her?’ Vander had asked, setting the pipe down next to the bottle before taking the cloth in his hands and wetting it, making an effort to remain calm as he ran the fabric over your bruised skin, the cool air of his gentle breaths soothing the stinging of the wound slightly.
‘She's Raven's daughter,’ the shop owner had replied, and you had shuddered under the weight of his words.
‘Raven,’ Vander had repeated, and you had raised your eyes at the tone of his voice, far from the lust that used to accompany your mother's name every time someone said it. It held a past, just as it had done with Benzo when you had revealed to him who you were.
‘She was the one who told me to call for you if I needed help,’ you had hastened to add, hoping it was the right thing to say.
Vander's gaze had softened as he listened to you, nodding absently, ‘Of course she told you.’
You'd watched him relax his shoulders, his gaze fogged with memories, as he'd bent down to continue cleaning the cuts on your face, his hand resting on your cheek, his rag a caress on your skin, and you caught every movement, wishing you could replicate the care with which he'd treated you if you ever needed to treat someone's wounds. Then he had instructed you to pull your shirt up a little so he could assess the bruises on your ribs, without touching you at any point, and he had remained respectful even as he moved to place a bandage over the injury to your knee, trying not to tear the starred fishnet stockings you had put on that morning.
‘Your mom's right, you know?’ he had announced, once he had finished, his thumb undoing the dry trails your tears had left on your cheeks. ‘If you're ever in danger, you can come to me.’
His eyes had met yours in the grim glow of the room, the shadows on his face heavy on his skin, and you had flashed a mischievous smile, lighting up your dry lips. The whisper of Vander's name, the hound of the underworld, had roamed the filthy streets of your city like a hungry predator, and even reverberated between the sinful mouths of the prostitutes you had grown up with, but it had never sounded better than when it had left your lips that night. Loud, broken, crying out for help. Reflecting a desperation you felt in every bone, knowing it could save you from a doomed fate.
And no one had pronounced yours better than he had, stopping at every letter, giving it the attention you had never received. He had fixed something deeply flawed in you, proving that you weren't alone in that cursed city. After that night, your mother had never feared for you again. Vander had sworn to protect you, inviting you to the back of his bar when his kids weren't home to teach you how to defend yourself. And the next time someone had threatened to try to assault you, you'd been the first to punch.
It had not been hard, because Vander was a great fighter. And his adopted children had helped him develop the patience necessary to be a good teacher. Throughout your time with him, the whispers of his name had become quieter, dimming his legendary reputation and turning him more cautious. Sevika had told you it had been the riots he had led, the suffering he had seen in the eyes of his children for the consequences he had provoked. Perhaps you did not remember what the city had been before him, but the enforcers' apprehension towards the inhabitants of Zaun was proof enough that the fine line that had once existed between Piltover and the underground had begun to dissipate.
Especially after the unsuccessful incursion that Vi and the rest had pulled off the day before.
You had felt guilty, at first, worry lurking in the shadows as soon as they had failed to show up at the appointed time. And the emptiness in your chest had grown by the minute, uncertainty eating you alive, as you tried to keep your hands busy to avoid conjuring up dire possibilities. Then you had been flooded with relief, seeing them appear, all four seemingly well. And after the tense conversation with Vander, before Vi distracted you with her kisses, you had felt confused, a swirl of uneasiness growing inside you.
Even that morning, when you woke up, you were still restless. You had awakened to the soothing weight of Vi's sleeping body draped over yours, Powder finishing one of her projects in absolute silence in the bed next beside you. It had to be late, though it was hard to tell with the permanent ashen sky over the city, but the day before they had returned so full of adrenaline that they hadn't realised how tired they were until they had collapsed onto their mattresses. It was only natural, after such an intense day, that you had woken up at lunchtime.
You had carefully slipped out from under the covers, leaning on the edge of the bed to do a little stretching for your ankle. You'd been doing it for almost three weeks, but that morning was the first time that rolling your foot backwards hadn't made it stutter in pain, and your heart leapt in your chest at the realisation. It probably had something to do with the fact that you'd spent most of the day sitting, not really moving much, though you hated having to agree with Vander on that one.
Nevertheless, when Vi had proposed spending the afternoon in the abandoned basement you had turned into your meeting place, a couple of streets away from The Last Drop, you couldn't help but ask to join them. And Vi couldn't help but agree, giving in to your pout. With the cane Vander had made for you under one arm, and Claggor providing support under the other, you had walked steadily over the cobblestone streets of the undercity, making your way into the large playroom.
Vi had gone straight to her boxing ground, her body restless with pent-up energy and the need to always be ready to defend you all, and the rest of you had scattered around the room, looking for something to entertain yourselves with. You had let Claggor help you practise fencing footwork, slowly and surely, so as not to lose practice while you were injured. At least until you realised that Powder had taken refuge among the cables and mechanisms of the firing field, and then you hopped up on the counter to make sure you didn't miss anything.
Watching Powder shoot was always a delight, especially after a cocky Mylo didn't hit a single one, and you loved to referee. You had considered shooting as a valid method of defence when your first few weeks of boxing training had left your knuckles raw and too slow to heal, so you weren't bad at it. And although you had never stopped boxing —your name was written next to Vi's on the leaderboard— you had eventually developed a taste for sword fighting. Wooden or bronze swords, of course, because no one really trusted a sixteen-year-old girl with a weapon.
Just as the gun you held in your hands, checking that no one had tampered with its mechanism, had blank ammunition, fun enough to practice with but completely harmless. Thanks to Powder's colourful dyes, the only problem was how long it took for the paint stain to come out if you were shot.
‘Remind me why we bother with this dump,’ uttered Mylo, checking the gun as soon as you handed it back to him while curving your lips into an enigmatic smile, knowing that he was wary of your nimble hands.
‘Vander said to lay low,’ Vi replied, and you looked her way at the sound of her voice, swinging your legs from the table that separated the shooting field from the rest of the room. She was at the other end, in front of the boxing machine you had helped her fix a few years ago, and she paused her punches for a moment to respond, wiping the sweat from her brow with the outside of her forearm. ‘Enforcers never come down here, so this is as good a place as any.’
You nodded, forming a gesture of concern, but glanced behind the table to check on Powder. Her blue hair was moving to the rhythm of a tune that played only in her head, giving the finishing touches to the machinery that made the dummies on the shooting field move on simple rails, all of them painted menacingly and fluorescently by her, and you didn't bother to stifle a smile as you realised how quickly she was learning all the tricks you were teaching her.
‘Oh, what's the matter, Mylo?’ you heard Claggor say behind you. ‘You worried Powder's gonna beat you again?’
You glanced quickly towards him, wanting to know his answer, a chuckle slipping quietly from your throat, and you widened your smile as you saw him frown, clearly feeling attacked, ‘Hey, if she didn't keep fixing these things, I wouldn't keep missing.’
‘Suure,’ you muttered, scrunching up your nose playfully, resting your hands on the table and leaning back slightly.
‘It's true!’ he tried to defend himself, pointing his threatening finger at you. But before you could answer him, ready to start one of your teasing wars, Powder leapt to his feet, the cables of the mechanism in her hands.
With a sharp gaze fixed on Mylo, a wolfish grin curving her lips, she connected the ends, the lights going out behind her back once the greenish substance that started the game ran along the connected wires. You raised your hand as soon as she slid past you to stand next to Mylo, and Powder high-fived you enthusiastically, letting out a small giggle as you said, ‘That's my girl!
You turned slightly, watching the different figures glow in the shadows, and narrowed your eyes, focusing on all the targets. You weren't sure if Mylo would be able to hit any of them, but it was going to be difficult. Powder had been fiddling with the setup system so she could increase the difficulty level because she was getting better and better at it. Sometimes she would come to you on the rooftop of The Last Drop, where you usually hung out with your girlfriend, to ask your advice when she reached a point where she didn't know how to proceed. And you would always hold her hand and tell her everything you knew.
You had no idea how fast the game was set that afternoon, but you knew you were going to have a good time. You pulled your legs up onto the counter, crossing them so you could massage your ankle absentmindedly, and you didn't see Mylo getting ready to shoot. The first sound caught you by surprise, startling you, and you saw the pink ball of ammunition pass by the target without even brushing it.
‘You guys know I wouldn't take you on a job you couldn't handle, right?’ mumbled Vi, and suddenly all your attention was focused on her, who had finished her boxing session and was taking off her gloves in an exasperated gesture.
‘Are you kidding?’ replied Mylo, his eyes riveted on the fluorescent dolls, and you didn't get to witness him continuing to shoot relentlessly, though you did hear him. ‘Maybe just don't take Powder next time.’
You couldn't even roll your eyes at his words, the satisfied hum of Claggor letting you know that, as you'd hoped, Mylo hadn't hit a single one. You stared at Vi, at the way her chest rose and fell after hitting the hard cushions of the boxing machine for so long, the perspiration covering the edges of her shirt, the unsure gleam in her eyes.
You heard Powder take Mylo's position in front of the firing area, you felt the warmth of her body next to yours as she prepared to shoot, and you heard every breathy sound she let escape between her lips before each bullet, but you didn't need to look at her. She wasn't going to miss. She never did. Mylo provided her with enough motivation not to.
What worried you was that the night before Vi hadn't wanted to tell you how she really felt. She never kept anything from you —you were both open books to each other. But you knew that the conversation she'd had with her father had awakened something in her. Something dormant, of course, because Vi had always felt that fire inside her when it came to protecting her people, but something you couldn't quite put your finger on. And that, added to the certain consequences the explosion had been caused in Piltover, kept you anxious about what the future would bring.
You rested a hand on Powder's shoulder as soon as she finished, a proud smile tugging at your lips as she looked up at you with satisfaction shining in her eyes, and you planted a kiss on her forehead under Mylo's bitter gaze, who had to put up with Claggor's teasing remarks. And as soon as Powder ran to the slot machine leaning against the wall, you jumped down, ignoring the two boys to walk slowly towards your girlfriend.
You rested your arms on the banister that separated the area where the boxing machine was located from the rest of the room, smiling softly at her, and reached out a hand to slide it down her forearm. Her eyes turned gentle under your attention, intertwining her fingers with yours, and you fixed your gaze on the bandages around her wrists and knuckles, trying to fix those spots where they had come loose with your other hand. Vi crouched down beside you to make your job easier, and sighed heavily.
‘We'll talk, right?’ you asked, your tone calm and collected. You weren't accusing her, you simply wanted to know that everything was okay.
But her reply was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass, your eyes widening, and you turned hurriedly as the glass that had held up for so many years shattered into pieces, a man's body slamming through it. He ended up unconscious a few steps away from you, while a group of Enforcers glared at you, analysing you with disdain, from the street. You all stood for a few seconds in complete silence, paralysed, until you heard the low, menacing voice of one of the topside cops announce, ‘Search them’.
It took you a heartbeat to cross the room, as fast as your ankle would allow, and position yourself in front of Powder with one hand resting on her arm. They advanced slowly, the glass cracking under their boots, while you raised your hands. They had nothing on your friends, it was impossible. They were simply making a routine round, asking easy questions, in case anyone knew anything about the explosion at Piltover. If you lied, calmly resisting their provocations, they would be gone in no time, and you could go home.
‘Go ahead, idiots,’ said Mylo, looking up and down at the Enforcer in front of him. ‘We got nothing.’
And then it all happened too fast. You didn't see Vi gesture to Claggor, but you knew it was she who had instructed him to pull the lever. The room was suddenly plunged into darkness, the fluorescent colours glowing from the shooting range dummies and the monkey doodle Powder had designed years ago and painted in the floor the only illumination, and Powder grabbed your hand to help you slide over the counter, both of you fleeing between the dummies.
You had no idea if the others were following you, to look back being too risky, just that you did your best to grind your teeth every time you stepped on your run and your ankle twitched to the side that hurt the most. Your breath caught in your throat when you felt a hand on your spine, and you stifled a scream, but Powder let go of your hand, sprinting towards the back door, and you let yourself be caught in his arms when you realised it was Claggor at your back.
Mylo was on the other side, running after Powder to get outside, and as you looked back you saw Vi close the door behind her and block it with your cane. You threw your arms around Claggor's shoulders to make yourself as small as possible, easying the task of running with you down the alley, and you all followed Vi, trusting that she would know which way to disappear. But then she stopped dead in her tracks, the suddenness of it causing you to fall to the ground, when she saw two Enforcers attacking a citizen. They stopped too, looking at you, and you felt Mylo's hands on your shoulders, helping you to your feet, as they ran to you. You saw the panic in Vi's eyes as you made eye contact with her.
You had screwed up. Big time.
The silence of the street was interrupted by your quickened breaths, but also by a loud whistling sound that drew your attention upwards. An old metal ladder creaked towards you as you heard Ekko mutter an ‘Over here!’ and you only had time to process his presence when Vi grabbed your hips and propelled you upwards. You clung on as best you could, scrambling upwards, grabbing Ekko's hand to pull yourself onto the wooden bridge that spanned between two houses, and stood beside him to help pull the rest up.
Mylo grabbed your arm, jumping to your side and pulling Ekko by the shoulders to run away, Claggor following soon after. Your heart stopped when you saw one of the Enforcers trying to climb after Powder, and you grabbed Vi at full speed so the kid could get to safety.
You paused for a moment once Vi had broken the ladder, preventing them from following you, taking a deep breath in the great pipes that connected Zaun's poorer neighbourhoods, and you held on to the wall, limping, as Powder walked alongside his sister. They had been discovered. The Piltover police now knew that it was four children from the undercity who had allegedly caused the explosion, and they were not going to stop until they had them punished. You had to tell Vander, and that was perhaps what scared you the most.
If an adult had to know about it, things's were getting way too serious.
The Last Drop was usually packed on any given weeknight, the music playing muffled under the constant murmur of conversation, and Vander always behind the bar, serving beer to all his customers. That night there were many more people, but the walls of the bar wailed in the silence that permeated the atmosphere, broken only by the cold voice of Sevika, who seemed to be holding back her temper.
‘We should hit them back,’ she said, leaving a loud thump on the wooden table. ‘We've got the numbers to beat them.’
Before her words, many of the attendees at the impromptu meeting Vander had organised murmured their approval, ‘Yeah! Let's teach them what it means to mess with us!’
You, leaning in the shadows, always relegated to the sidelines with the rest of the kids, listened with your heart in your mouth, knowing that the tension in the air went far beyond the occasional dispute that Vander had to resolve. Youall had confessed everything that had happened as soon as you arrived at the place, Vander's eyes shadowed by what you said, and he had no choice but to announce it to the rest of the Lanes' inhabitants.
Now he was leaning against the counter, on the wrong side of it, and Benzo was standing next to him, folding his arms, as serious as the bar owner. He pulled a match from his pocket, as you had seen him do countless times since you had met him, and lit his pipe calmly, creating anticipation among those around him.
‘You sure that's what you want?’ he asked, the smoke spiralling through the air, knowing what answer he was going to get. ‘We crossed that bridge once before, and we all know how that ended.’
It had been a long time ago, when the streets had whispered his name in awe. Your mother had ended up telling you the story.
‘You're just protecting your kids,’ protested a man you didn't know, frowning. And it hurt you to hear it, because you knew it was partly true.
‘I'm protecting our people,’ he replied, quickly, stoking his pipe as if he meant to attack someone. ‘I'd do the same for any of you,’ he continued, looking around at the rest of those present. ‘We look out for each other. It's the way it's always been. This will blow over, we just need to stand together’.
‘The Vander I knew, the one who built the underground,’ Sevika interjected, anger trembling in her voice, ’would not be afraid to fight.’
Vander took two steps towards her, standing face to face, ‘Do I look afraid?’
‘No,’ she replied, calm but menacing, ‘you look weak.’
Without waiting for an answer, she whistled, the sound attracting the attention of her people, and turned around, her coat floating behind her, some of those beside her following her outside. You sighed, knowing that Sevika was the only one who could dare stand up to Vander, and crossed your arms, leaning against the back wall. The conversation would die once she was no longer willing to fuel it.
‘Why isn't he doing anything?’ muttered Claggor, looking almost apologetic.
‘We kicked the Enforcers‘ butts with just the four of us,’ Powder replied, angrily, her scowl making her look even more adorable than usual. ‘Imagine what the whole of the Lanes could do.’
‘Jeez, even Powder wants to fight,’ exclaimed Mylo, opening the door leading down into the hall.
‘So why aren't we?’ protested Vi, exasperated.
You remained silent, as did Ekko, leaning against your arm, and sighed again. Claggor followed Mylo once he went downstairs to lie on the couch. You put your arm around Ekko's shoulders, caressing his hair, and noticed how unusually quiet he had been. Vi also noticed, raising an eyebrow in his direction, ‘Spill it Ekko’.
‘Huh, oh, okay,’ he stammered, and it made you frown. You knew Ekko was an expert at finding out secrets, but often conversations between adults made little sense to you. It was rare that he had any information about Piltover at all. ‘Well, um, Vander's got a deal with the Enforcers.’
‘What deal?’ you asked, exchanging a glance with Vi.
But Ekko shrugged.
You sighed a third time, drawing a smile from both of them, and ended up laughing too, covering your mouth with one hand. It was wrong to look so happy when something so serious had just happened just a few feet away, but it was also a way of dealing with it. Your heart was pounding as if you were on the edge of a cliff, on the verge of an event that could turn out to be catastrophic, but you just wanted a moment of peace.
You pulled your pocket watch out of your waistcoat as Ekko walked past you to meet Powder downstairs, and checked the time. You knew that if no client showed up unannounced, your mother would have a free moment in a few minutes. You hadn't been in the brothel for almost three days, so it could be a good time to stop by and stay for a bit.
You looked at Vi, deciding what to do next.
‘I might sleep over at my Mom's tonight,’ you commented, pouting.
She nodded, taking your hands in hers, ‘We'll be fine.’
‘I know,’ you replied, moving closer to her and leaving a fleeting kiss on her lips. ‘They're always safe with you.’
She kissed you back in the shadows, burying her bandaged hand in your hair, and stifled an annoyed huff when she had to pull away from you. She leaned her forehead against yours, biting her lip, and then let you go, disappearing up the stairs. They could do with a rest, you knew. Better a quiet night, and face the problems the next day.
You walked through the streets of Zaun, hair hastily pulled back in a bun, but at a slow pace, when you left the bar. You tried to rotate your ankle every few steps, grimacing when it hurt but determined to make the effort to walk without limping. When you reached the entrance to The Gilded Lily you dodged some drunken clients, sneaking up the stairs until you reached your mother's room. You kept your ear to the door, listening for any sound that might indicate you couldn't stay there.
When only your mother's sweet voice sounded, humming a made-up melody, and you knew she was alone, you tapped the surface of the door twice before stepping inside. Your mother's gaze lit up as she recognised you, rising from her vanity chair to hug you, ‘Hi, baby!’
‘Hi, Mom,’ you smiled back, taking refuge in her arms.
‘Did you come to get those pieces you left behind last week?’ she asked, after kissing your cheek and sitting back down, taking the lipstick stick between her slender fingers.
‘What pieces?’ you asked, and frowned as you followed the direction she pointed as she continued to prepare herself, wiggling her fingers absently.
Your mother's wardrobe. Raven was one of the prostitutes who got the most clients —the one who made Madam win more money among her girls— and that had earned her some privileges at the brothel. In addition to being able to raise you, to allow you to grow up in her room and not have anyone complain when they had to take care of you, she was also allowed to have the only room with a built-in wardrobe in the building, apart from the owner's. When you were little, you used to hide there quite often. Since you couldn't fit anymore, you only kept your clothes and a big box with projects you were working on.
But you didn't remember leaving any behind the last time you spent the night there.
You opened the heavy doors, and it felt like getting another hug from your mother. All the clothes she had stuffed in there, with exotic silk kimonos, long linen dresses and velvety nightgowns, smelled like the cheap fruity cologne you had once gotten her on the black market in town, and then kept getting because she had loved it. You smiled when you saw the chaos of fabrics jumbled among all the shelves, and bent down to open the drawer where you kept your things.
Inside was a jumble of metal, tools, multiple loose papers with drafts of diagrams and a complex mechanism wrapped in a rag. Your eyes widened in surprise when you remembered that you had indeed left the invention hidden there, and you pulled it out at full speed, sitting cross-legged on the floor and checking what you had left to do the last time. You didn't notice the way your mother was looking at you through the mirror, admiring the way you were working, so focused on the gears in your hands.
You didn't even notice the clock hand ticking, too focused on the artefact you had designed a few months ago, changing parts you thought you had misplaced, modifying data in the designs you had spread out on the floor. You became again the child you had once been, hiding in your mother's wardrobe with heavy headphones that isolated any noise from the outside, oblivious to reality. Since you had met Vander's children, you had kept most of your gadgets in the workshop they had let you keep in their house, but going back to work on the floor of your mother's room felt like coming home.
You remained in that state of abstraction until you felt your mother's lips pressed against your temple in a warm kiss.
‘Imma go downstairs, baby,’ she said, and you just nodded.
She was going to have a quiet night, then. Whenever Raven appeared downstairs it was always to relax and flirt with curious first or second-time visitors to The Gilded Lily, too shy to wander into one of the upstairs rooms. You were glad. As your mother got older she didn't lose beauty, let alone charm, but she got much more tired. She deserved more time to rest.
You remained working on the small portable radio until your back began to complain, and you had to get up to stretch a little.
And then you heard it. A soft, stifled sound coming from the window. You frowned, leaving the device on the cloth it had been wrapped in, and walked across the room. Of the two panes of glazed glass that served as shutters, one could not be opened because you had nailed it against the frame years ago, so that you could place a made up air-purifier box on that side of the sill and allow your mother to get cleaner air from outside.
As you opened the other, however, and looked down, you caught a glimpse of your girlfriend's pink hair camouflaged under her hood, ready to throw another pebble to get your attention. You smiled at the sight of her, motioned for her to wait there, and crossed the carpet as quickly as you could. You paused for a moment as you reached the door, and retraced your steps to pick up the almost finished radio and tuck it into one of the pockets of your cargo trousers, but you headed back out into the hallway, descending the stairs of the brothel by sliding down the banister, as you had done so often when you were younger.
As soon as you stepped onto the street you walked the few metres between the entrance and the alley around the corner, and walked towards Vi with a smile tugging at your lips. She had been leaning against the wall, her hands in the pockets of her slacks, but she pulled them out to wrap them around your hips as soon as she had you close enough.
‘You couldn't wait until tomorrow to see me, couldn't you, pretty girl?’ you asked, grinning against her lips.
‘I wanted to see you before I went to sleep,’ she whispered, her gaze downcast, her fingers playing with your belt buckles.
‘Hey, did something happen?’ you asked, worry swirling in your chest, sliding your hands up to cup her cheeks, your thumbs caressing her freckled skin.
‘The enforcers came,’ she replied, her muffled voice sending shivers down your spine.
‘My God,’ your hands tightened against her face, and you frowned. ‘Are you all okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah, nothing bad happened,’ she said, trying to reassure you. ‘Vander managed to warn us in time for us to hide.’
But her explanation failed to calm you in the slightest. Vi looked pale, almost sickly, as if whatever had happened had scared her to death. You felt the nervous twitch of her fingers at the waistband of your trousers, fiddling with the fabric almost anxiously, and a void opened ravenously in your throat. You didn't like seeing her like that. It was unnatural, not being able to enjoy her jokes and her teasing remarks, that the gleam in her eyes didn't greet you when you looked at her, and that her stiff shoulders seemed to slump under the weight of a responsibility that wasn't hers.
‘Listen,’ you began, trying to make eye contact with her, ’we'll be alright, okay?’
‘I know, I promised,’ she replied, leaning against the touch of your palm.
‘I already know we'll be alright,’ you added, stubbornly. ‘What I mean is, it'll all pass. We'll go on with our lives as before, because the enforcers will get tired of looking around, and we'll hide great, yeah? I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Uh-huh,’ you nodded, memorising every detail of her face. ‘I'll find a place to hide Powder, and I'll help her practise to make her little bombs work. I'll show her what I do to make my inventions work. And I'll tie Mylo to a chair so he doesn't screw up anything. I wouldn't worry so much about Claggor. And you can come to the roof of the Lily, and do some boxing with me. We'll steal food from Madam.’
‘Wow, you've got it all figured out, huh?’ she finally smiled, sighing.
‘You know I'll always want you to have the option of stepping back when it all gets too much,’ you whispered to her.
‘I know,’ he replied, leaning her forehead against yours. ‘I'm glad I have you. I'm glad Powder has you.’
‘Don't be silly, I'll never leave you’ you replied, shaking your head slightly, your eyes closed. ‘Besides, Powder has you, she doesn't really need me.’
‘Pow-Pow's my little sister,’ she explained, her breath brushing against your skin, ‘she needs the other girl in the group so she can have some time away from me. She adores you, I'm glad she has that.’
‘Well, I know for a fact she looks up to you a lot, so...’ you replied, sliding your head down to rest on her shoulder, remaining hugged against the brothel wall. ‘She still needs you. She will always need you.’
Silence swirled around you, and you felt a soft hum exhaled between Vi's lips.
‘Besides, I'm working on a radio that will allow us to spy on the enforcers,’ you announced, leaning in.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ you confirmed, pulling it out of your pocket. It was a small metal box, which fit in your hand. ‘Wait until I press the button and say something nice.’
You connected the two loose wires, and the radio started up with a soft buzz. You frowned as you tried to remember which was the button that recorded and which was the one that played back, and finally pressed the one you had painted blue. Both were buttons you had taken from your mother's old clothes, and Vi smiled as she realised. You nudged her arm to get her to start talking.
‘I love you, cupcake,’ she whispered, and you covered your mouth with your hand so she wouldn't see you blush. ‘You'll always be my girl.’
You stopped recording, shaking your head, but didn't say a word, pressing the second button. Vi's voice echoed between you, somewhat canned, repeating word for word what she had just said. When you looked up, Vi already had her eyes on you, delighted.
‘This is awesome, cupcake,’ she murmured, her voice watery.
‘Oh, don't be like that,’ you reproached, checking the device. ‘It still needs improvement.’
‘You're a genius,’ she attacked again, sliding her hands up and down your back.
You put the radio back in your pocket, embarrassed.
‘You could add it to the mechanical crow you have at home,’ she proposed, clinging to you, ‘so you could spy even more closely, and no one would notice.’’
You opened your eyes wide in amazement, and patted her on the shoulder, ‘That is genius!’
Her giggles echoed through the alley, and you swooned against her body, ‘I need to write that down as soon as possible,’ you said, dead serious, ‘I'll stop by The Last Drop tomorrow to see if it would be possible to implement the radio into the design I have done.
‘I love you, cupcake,’ she repeated, and you grabbed her by the the collar of her sleeveless hoodie, bringing your lips together in a kiss.
‘I love you too, pretty girl,’ you replied, pulling away from her. And then you added, a little louder, just to tease, ‘I love youu, Violet!’
You kissed her goodbye with another peck, resting your hand on the wall behind her head, and let her lips move over yours, hungrily, for a few more minutes. But when Vi moved her leg between yours, her mouth sliding down your neck, and your heart began to pound in your throat, you decided to stop once more.
‘You should go get some rest, Vi, baby,’ you whispered, your breath hitching.
‘I love you,’ she whispered again, and you melted against her, ’I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.’
‘I love you too, my love,’ you sighed, as she parted her lips from your skin, ’but it's getting late.’
You felt her hand slide down your abdomen, up to your chest, and you held your breath. But she simply pulled your pocket watch out of its pocket, glancing at the time. Her shoulders tensed again, leaving the watch in your hand, and she murmured a soft, ‘Yeah, it's pretty late.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ you whispered, taking a step back.
She made an affirmative noise, peeling away from the wall, and you turned to head back to the brothel. With your girlfriend's voice stored in your radio, you climbed the stairs, adrenaline coursing through your system, barely aware of the pain in your ankle, and dropped to the floor as soon as you reached your mother's room, picking up a blank sheet of paper to begin designing a new model of your robot.
It wasn't until a few minutes later that your heart began to race again, when Raven came in quietly, and you were startled by her stealth.
‘What did you go out for?’ she asked you, taking off her black lace jacket.
‘Oh, Vi came to see me,’ you replied, pausing your pencil over the paper. Your mother knew who she was and what relationship you had, you weren't worried about what she could say.
‘That's weird,’ she uttered, your heartbeat quickening in your mouth, ‘she usually never comes. I thought something bad had happened.’
And then your heart stopped for a moment. Something bad had happened. The enforcers had discovered them. But Vi's gaze had remained opaque the whole time she'd been with you, and though it had seemed to you that she was still frightened by what had happened, perhaps you'd misinterpreted it. You knew those grey eyes better than you knew yourself. She had been scared about what was going to happen.
‘Do you think she would do something foolish to protect her family?’ you asked your mother.
‘Oh, baby,’ she murmured, a drop of sadness spilling over her face, ’she'd do anything to make sure you're okay, just like you would for her.’
You closed your eyes for a moment, frowning, angry that you hadn't noticed sooner.
When you opened them, you stood up and walked out of The Gilded Lily, determined to find Vi.
⠀⠀𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍.⠀( send an ask or comment under the series to be part of it , just if you're going to interact with it ━reblogging with feedback. )⠀@im-just-a-simp-le-whore , @celestialzdiviner , @corpsebridenightamare , @louissst28 , @astr1dblogs , @notsolarry , @starlostastronaut , @yoonkinii , @padsfirewhisky
Part 2 of 'Stray'
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader
Synopsis: Confrontation rarely goes as planned.
Word Count: 2791
Warnings: Stalking, minor gore/injuries, allusions to death, Jason doesn't know how to process his feelings without being mean.
Jason had tried to rationalize why he kept coming back. Really, he had tried. He had to make sure you weren’t hiding something. He didn’t trust the packages you handed out. He was just making sure you got home safe.
But what could you possibly be hiding when you appeared to lay your soul bare on Gotham’s filthy streets? What didn’t he trust about the packages when he had seen their contents with his own eyes? Why did he need to make sure you made it home safe at all?
None of it explained how comfortable he had become on the balcony across from your apartment.
Jason glowered under his helmet as snow fell in thick clumps, whipped about by the harsh breeze. You left your window open sometimes when the wind had died down. Tonight was not one of those nights. He stuck to the shadows, scrunching his shoulders, and crouched on the balcony–you would have to look out of your window and up to see him. That fact did not provide him with any sense of relief.
The lights were off in your apartment save for what he assumed was a lamp out of his view. He could hardly make out the furniture he seemed to know so well from a distance; the second hand couch you had shoved against a wall and the foldable table that was constantly covered in a slathering of random items. One of the three chairs you owned was dragged beneath one of the three large windows that allowed him to view into your apartment. To the right of the three large windows was the fire escape and the small window beside it. The thin curtains were drawn on that window.
In the two weeks Jason had been observing you he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. You didn’t seem to spend much time at your apartment, using it primarily for sleeping or preparing your deliveries. He could tell from your clothing that you worked some middle management, decent paying job like most Gothamites in this neighborhood. He knew when you left for work, when you got home, what kind of music you liked.
He knew your name. Of course he did, that had been the first thing he had hunted for after lurking outside your apartment the first time. Lurker. Jason had never described himself as that before. It seemed to be a lot of what he did now.
The curtains by the fire escape window drew back and Jason tensed as he always did. He watched with narrowed eyes as you slid the window open, placed something on the ledge, and closed the window again. It had become a ritual by now–you, leaving gifts for him every few days, and him, never accepting them. He never strayed too close to the items you left out, and they were always gone by his next visit.
Jason curled his fingers, the tips of his new gloves pressing into his knee pads. He worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together. The one dim light in the apartment went out, and his bated breath went with it.
He stood with a ragged sigh. So that was it, the end of his nightly routine. The sun would rise in a few hours and he needed to be tucked back into his safehouse before then-
What was that smell?
Jason jerked his helmeted head towards the fire escape. A tray sat outside the window, too big to rest on the ledge, and steam wafted upward as heat met wintery chill. Even through his modulated helmet he could smell the sweet, sugary aroma that stifled his rampant thoughts.
Caramel. It smelled like caramel.
Jason hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He knew getting closer was a bad idea he likely wouldn’t be able to come back from. If he moved that mental boundary even an inch forward- give an inch, take a mile. That was all Jason Todd knew how to do anymore, afterall.
Snow crunched under his heavy work boots. The fire escape rattled subtly, the sound muffled by the wind. His mind screamed to stop, turn around, leave, and don’t come back. All of that came to a screeching halt when he saw brownies topped with a caramel drizzle in a glass pan. When was the last time Jason had warm brownies, or anything sweet for that matter? Not since-
Jason shook his head as if the act alone would clear the thoughts that tumbled through his head. Since dragging himself from the Pit, his diet consisted of scraps and canned food. Nothing like this bitter thing that stunk of home and burned itself into his memory.
One couldn’t hurt.
Right?
Jason was becoming too predictable. Shadowing you on your route home, lurking outside your apartment most nights, pursuing you through the tangled mess of streets in Crime Alley. It was all a recipe for disaster when someone finally caught onto the pattern. Jason couldn’t afford patterns, not when it put him in danger. And maybe put you in danger, too… not that he needed to be bothered by that. You weren’t some street urchin who needed his protection.
Yet, still, he hid in your shadow like a sheep dog trailing a lamb.
He sat on a different perch this time, making the fire escape platform that belonged to the apartment above yours his new home. He sat in a crouch, occasionally shifting to stretch his hips and work sore muscles. His elbows were planted on his knees, his eyes cast downward through the grating. The platform below was illuminated by the lights inside your apartment, that familiar golden glow bathing the rusted red metal.
Jason’s stomach lurched when the window slid open, softly clicking into place at the apex. Your hands extended slowly, clasped tightly around a plate wrapped in plastic.
“Stop,” Jason spoke up, breaking the silence.
The plate crashed onto the metal platform. He expected your hands to disappear back inside in fright and slam the window shut behind you. He expected that window to never open again.
Instead, you surged forward with your hands firmly planted on the snowy ledge. In the blink of an eye your entire torso was outside the window, your neck craning to catch a glimpse of him above you in the darkness. Jason’s heart thundered in his chest as your eyes finally met his helmet.
“Stop what?” you asked, and he thought his heart might stop at the sound of your voice.
“Stop that,” he growled with a tip of his helmeted head towards the fallen plate. He leaned forward and planted one gloved palm on the grated platform, glaring daggers at you. “I don’t need your help.”
You shuffled about so that you could sit on the ledge, paying no attention to the thin dusting of snow that no doubt wetted the pajama pants you wore. Jason squinted in the darkness at your shirt, the image of some musical group emblazoned on the front. Was that your favorite-?
That wasn’t important.
You gripped the ledge on either side of your thighs and leaned back as far as you could, holding yourself at an angle so you could stare up at him. He wished you would glare, sneer, pout- hell, if you laughed in his face it would be better than the doe-eyed stare you fixed him with.
“I just thought you might be hungry.”
His thoughts came to a screeching halt. This was Red Hood you were talking to–the new, violent vigilante who used decapitation as a means of sending a message. Jason who, quite frankly, fed himself not because he felt he deserved it but because he needed fuel to continue fighting. And here you were, gazing up at him with a blank expression as if talking to a man in kevlar and armor was the most normal thing in the world.
“I don’t need you to feed me,” he hissed between his teeth.
“Then why do you keep coming back?”
His eyes scoured yours beneath his helmet, memorizing their color, their shape, their emotion. He expected this would be the last time he would see your eyes, after all.
There had to be some reason you were doing this–people don’t just do good things. There had to be a motive. Maybe it was some sort of short-term fame you desired, being the person to finally get a close-up look at the savage animal that roamed Crime Alley at night without first having its fangs sink into you. Maybe this was some cheap attempt at an exciting seduction, one that would leave him angrier than he already was.
Or maybe you were just plain stupid.
Jason thought back to your apartment. Empty and cold and barely lived in, and, given the eagerness with which you presented yourself to him, perhaps you were the same. Lonely and stupid.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he snapped, teeth bared.
You glared. A nasty, pensive, bitter expression that sent a pleasant chill down his spine. Why did you look so sweet like this?
“Fuck you,” you snapped with equal measure. You gripped the bottom of the open window, slipped back inside, and slammed the plastic frame behind you. The glass rattled mockingly at Jason, who jolted at your sudden departure.
Oh.
Maybe he thought you looked sweet because that hateful glare was how Jason expected people to look at him. Hate, he could handle–maybe even revel in it, at this point. It was certainly easier than being loved and inevitably letting someone down.
So why did he feel like, despite your nasty glare, he had let you down?
Jason crouched there for a while after you left, long after the lights had gone out. When he finally stood, his joints ached from the long night and his chest felt heavy with unwanted emotions. His hands gripped the railing of your upstairs neighbor’s fire escape, then he swung himself over the edge.
His boots landed loudly on the metal grate of your fire escape. He stood there for a long moment, glaring at the dark window with its curtains tightly drawn. It was cold and uninviting–not that he deserved anything more. His gaze fell on the forgotten plastic-wrapped plate on the ground, then flicked back to the window.
Jason hated how much he thought about you.
His safe house apartment was, somehow, more barebones than yours. Jason lived stolen paycheck to stolen paycheck–he couldn't exactly get a job when he was legally dead. So, he spent his days preparing for his nighttime excursions, preparing to remold the Gotham criminal underworld.
Or washing dishes, as he was doing now.
Your dishes. That’s the only reason he was thinking of you, of course. Otherwise, the week he had spent far from your apartment meant nothing to him. He had left the glass baking tray and dinner plate sitting on his counter for too long, and, well…
He honestly wasn’t sure why he was washing it. He had no intention of returning the items, not when he was trying to stay as far away from you as possible. Well, except for two days ago when he had followed you through Crime Alley.
Jason just needed something to occupy his mind after his patrol. He scrubbed at the glass harder, as if the grating of the sponge could absolve him of his own sins. Blood on his hands, again. They deserved it. They always did.
Would you say the same?
Jason growled and dropped the dish in the sink, his soapy hands clasping the edge in an iron-tight grip. His knuckles turned white under the pressure, the bones sore and skin torn from endless nights of fighting. Why did his mind have to circle back to you again? Always back to you, what you were doing, if you would approve of what he was doing, what you were thinking or feeling.
It was the damn dishes. Yes, it had to be the fact that he was washing your things that made him think of you. Otherwise, he didn’t care what you thought, or did, or anything.
You were too damn sweet for his taste anyway.
Maybe if he returned the dishes and finally purged you from his life he wouldn’t think about you again. One last trip to your apartment–he wouldn’t even have to see you, he could just leave the items on your fire escape and be done with it. Knowing you, you were asleep by now and would be until mid-morning. He could leave it outside your window and if it was buried in snow before you realized it was there that wouldn’t bother him.
Jason hadn’t realized he had geared back up until he was standing beside his window. He blinked once, twice, staring down at the helmet in his hands. His heart thumped wildly in his chest.
He scoffed. He had forgotten the dishes in his haste.
Carrying the dishes during his traversal across the city wasn’t any easier the second time. He kept the plate and the glass pan tucked under one arm, carefully judging his leaps before launching himself between buildings and scaling walls. This would have been easier with his old equipment-
No. No, that door opened to a world of trouble he didn’t need. He would make do with what he had, and he would do a better job of cleaning up Crime Alley than anyone else ever could. Technology wasn’t important.
The tension in his shoulders eased when he landed on that familiar balcony across from your apartment. It was about four in the morning, and he was certain you would be asleep–the lights were out, the curtains drawn, and that was the only indication he needed to prove himself right. Jason stared for a moment longer, taking in the comforting silhouette of your apartment. He had memorized all the details weeks ago, to the best of his ability at this distance.
His heart drummed in his chest as he swung across the wide alley between the buildings. He landed hard on your fire escape and staggered to regain his footing, unbalanced with one arm immobilized by the damn dishes. His free hand hit the wall beside the small window to hold himself upright. Jason squeezed his other arm tighter against his side, pressing the dishes against his armored chest in an attempt not to drop the fragile items.
The window slid open.
Jason’s heart jumped into his throat as he tipped his helmet down to see you staring up at him, neck craning with your head out the window. Your eyes were wide, lips parted, brows scrunched together in confusion. His cheeks burned, a sharp shiver rolling down his spine.
He straightened and skittered away from the window. Your bewildered expression followed him, tracing up and down his armored figure with intrigue. This was the closest you had ever been to the mysterious vigilante–could anyone blame you for staring?
Then your hungry gaze dropped to the dishes tucked under his arm. Jason swallowed dryly as he watched the corner of your mouth cock up in a subtle grin. The familiar color of your eyes met his, and his chest ached.
This was a horrible idea.
“I waited,” you broke the silence. You shifted until your shoulders were out the window, your hands planted on the windowsill to hold you upright. You tipped your head, nodding in the direction of the building across the street. “I saw you there one of those last nights. I thought… I thought maybe you might come back. I looked for you there.”
Any retort died in his throat the moment you spoke. Part of him wanted to drop the dishes and run. Part of him wanted to scream at you, tear into you until you were nothing but little pieces. That was all he was good for anymore, ripping people apart. It wouldn’t be hard either.
You aren’t worth my time.
I don’t want to owe you.
You’re making a mistake.
Those were all things he wanted to or should say.
“I didn’t think you would want me to come back,” he answered truthfully.
You beamed. His breath caught raggedly in his throat and his thoughts came to a screeching halt. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that?
“Do you want to come inside?” you offered. You offered the very thing he had been craving for three weeks. A chance to step into your sweet domesticity, to satisfy his curiosity, to experience something warm and comforting. You cocked your head to the side, fixing him with that doe-eyed stare.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), sex pollen so its inherently not strictly speaking consensual, oral (f & m receiving), free use, overstimulation
A clattering in your living room has you blearily shifting awake. The dark of your bedroom takes your eyes longer to adjust to than usual, it feels like. You peer at the time, finding it only just past midnight. Even on the good nights, midnight is pretty early for him to be coming back.
Though, there’s really little concern of the noise-maker being anyone but your boyfriend, he’s set up too many security measures and failsafes around your apartment for anyone to get lucky waltzing in. It does worry you though that he is making such a clamor when he’s usually so careful about entering silently as to not wake you.
You’re about to climb out of bed to investigate when the door creaks open, though light doesn’t flood through the crack like you’d expected.
Jason stumbles into the doorway, falling into a lean against the wall for support.
You sit up quickly, instantly on alert. “What’s wrong?”
He takes one glance at you and immediately averts his gaze to the floor like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.
You look down, thrown by his behavior, only to see your usual nighttime attire: one of his shirts over underwear.
You blink back up at him, furrowing your brow. “Jay?”
You can vaguely make out a sigh from him, “Fuck…” he squeezes his eyes shut. “Ivy..”
Ah. This has happened before to the others, but this is the first time you’ve seen him affected by it. You’re prepared for it, though you hadn’t anticipated that it would be so seemingly debilitating.
“What can I do?” You try not to look as concerned as you feel but you can’t say with confidence that it’s working.
He slowly pushes himself off the doorframe, heading wearily towards the bathroom. He tugs his shirt off with difficulty, tossing it to the side. “Nothing, nothing..I jus’ need to…” he takes a deep breath, “Get it out of my system..” He’s trying to be comforting but the pain in his voice rids it of all believability.
You frown, watching him linger. “That seems like the exact kind of thing I could help with.”
His eyes close helplessly as his head falls back, “You can’t, baby.”
“Why not?”
He sighs, “I’m not…as in control as I’d like to be right now.”
Your pout deepens. This is something you’re working on with him—trusting both you and himself with vulnerability. Especially when it comes to situations where he feels like he’s putting you in a vulnerable place too. But you trust him with your whole being and you want him to know it. “That’s okay.”
“No,” he shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you say resolutely. “I trust you.”
He wavers, “No, I…No. I can’t.”
He says that, but he’s still not retreating to the bathroom. Instead, he loiters awkwardly, like he’s caught between decisions.
You feel a twinge of heartache in your chest, “Does it hurt?”
He’s quick to answer, “I’m alright.” Though he doesn’t try his hardest to sell you on the idea.
Your face pans, “That’s not what I asked.”
“I—” he huffs, conceding. “Yeah. Yes.”
You extend your arms out, beckoning him towards you. It clearly goes against his better judgment but he can’t help himself from moving closer to you. An evident testament to the strength of Ivy’s work.
You take his hands in yours, looking up at him with begging eyes, “Let me help you? Please?”
Up close like this you can really see how labored his breathing is and how pained he looks. You sit up onto your knees, pulling his hands closer. “I wanna take care of you. Let me help my boy out. He deserves it.”
He steels his jaw, trying to replenish his rapidly weakening resolve. He exhales heavily before grabbing your chin, eyes serious. “Look at me,” he says sternly. “You stop me if I’m too rough.”
You nod adamantly, “I will.”
You fidget with the loop of his belt, waiting for permission.
He squeezes your hands slowly, head bowing. “Help me, sweetheart.”
You’re instantly up on your feet, maneuvering him to switch places with you and sit down on the bed. You kneel down in front of him, undoing the clasp on his belt.
You tug his belt off, letting it clatter on the floor before freeing him the rest of the way. To your surprise, his eyes remain on you rather than your actions. He brushes your hair out of your face haphazardly, murmuring, “Pretty fucking girl..”
You keen at his words, fighting the urge to pause and rub up against him. Instead, you busy yourself and lick a line up his cock, immediately feeling his body stutter. You lick another stripe, this time adding a kiss afterwards.
His hands squeeze at the comforter under him, “Baby, please.”
You give a short nod before taking him in your mouth completely. He groans like it’s automatic, body practically vibrating in place. You rest your hands over his and he’s quick to turn his own over to hold onto yours.
It only works as a momentary distraction, as one of his hands leaves your grasp to move your hair from blocking his view again, petting your head nicely as you suck him off. “Oh, good girl. My good girl.”
He babbles when he gets overwhelmed during sex, though it doesn’t happen often. And especially not like this.
“Fucking—” he stammers, “God, you’re so—”
Frankly, the image of you on your knees in front of him, so willing and eager to help him out…it’s killing him. He’s putting absolutely all of his remaining restraint into not taking over and fucking your mouth the way he wants to—and it shows—so you’re doing your best to take as much of him in your mouth as you can and using your hand to compensate for the rest.
His head bobs back as his hand falls to a rest atop your head. His breathing is deep and heavy and you can see the way his abs flex through his restraint. His hand briefly fists up before stuttering back to lay open-palmed on your head.
“Oh, baby—” he lets out a gravelly moan and his arms nearly give out from holding him up as he comes.
You happily collect it on your tongue and he audibly groans when you swallow.
He’s quick to pull you up off the floor and place you on the bed so he can clamor over you. You fall back to have your arms hold you up as he finds your lips.
“Take your shirt off,” he tells you breathlessly. “Please.”
You oblige without hesitation as he kisses and gropes along your torso. You don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s at face level with your underwear, fingers dipping under the band.
You sit up onto your hands, “Jay, you don’t have to—”
He shakes his head, “‘M not gonna hurt you,” he mumbles, very adamant. “Not doin’ it.”
It’s been a long running personal requirement for Jason to thoroughly prep you in some way before fucking you, and he’s right for it—you would definitely get hurt if he didn’t.
You feel conflicted about it now though, like it’s not fair of you to let him pay such mind to you when he’s quite literally in unprecedented pain.
But he slips your underwear down without hesitation, not wasting any time in getting to work. He doesn’t start with his usual teasing and build-up, instead he goes straight into licking at your core, eyes closed and strands of white hair stuck to his forehead.
He hooks one hand around your knee and the other wraps around your thigh, pulling you closer. He used the newfound proximity to lap at you with more concentration and purpose, quite literally devouring you. You struggle to keep your breathing in tune with the rest of your body, not having been prepared for so much so quickly.
He’s eating you out like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, not giving himself any time to breathe or even think about anything else. You’re about to push him away so that he’ll take a breath or two when he moans into your cunt, instantly veering your brain straight off course.
He breaks from licking your pussy only to change course in favor of sucking on your clit, leaving open-mouthed kisses every few seconds. You thread your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him as best you can.
This is a new experience for both of you in terms of intensity and desperation and it has you feeling like you were injected with the same toxin he was. It throws you so completely out of your senses that you don’t even notice that he’s rutting into the bed as he kisses you. Though, odds are he doesn’t realize he’s doing it either.
His grip on you tightens as he gets more fervent, the dig from the indents of his fingers promising to bruise. His eyes flutter as he makes out with your pussy, little mewls making their way through periodically.
“Jay—” you cry, tugging harder than you’d meant to on his hair. He hums in response, letting you know that he’s here, he’s with you, he’ll take care of you.
Even high out of his mind he can still read you like a book, and can tell that you’re nearing your peak. He gets meditated and precise with his actions, leading you right up to the edge. You whimper again and he begins to rut harder.
It takes only a few moments of this repetition for you to briefly tense up before you start to tremble, heat flooding through your body. The saccharine new taste of your cum motivates him to reach his own end, moaning into you and sending a second wave of rapture over you.
You exhale heavily as his forehead drops against your stomach, catching his breath. It doesn’t take him very long.
You can just start to realize the persistent trembling in your thighs when he licks another stripe down your pussy. You whine, sitting up on your elbows and squirming higher up on the bed.
He pulls back murmuring, “Sorry.” He kisses the inside of your thigh, “Sorry.”
You watch as he pushes up on his forearms to look at you proper, seeming almost dizzy. “I need..I need…” his shoulders drop. “Please.”
You just nod, giving him permission to do whatever he needs.
He pulls you up by the waist and tugs you into him as close as he can, kissing you hard. You move to hold his jaw in your hands, stroking your thumb across lightly. He leans you backwards to lay you down flat, head just below the pillows. He folds over you easily, kisses becoming less and less intentional in placement as his hands stroke and squeeze up your sides.
He pulls away only to glance down as he lines himself up with you, pushing in slowly. He peers back up at your face as he does, watching carefully to make sure it doesn’t hurt.
You hold onto his shoulders as you take him, the stretch feeling significant but familiar.
He kisses your cheek once he’s fully inside and begins to rock in and out of you slowly. The pace picks up quickly as he continues to makeout with you.
A particularly intense thrust has you wrapping your arms fully around the frame of his shoulders, hugging him close to you. He immerses himself in the crook of your neck, fucking you with deeper and more punctuated strokes than you can remember.
“Jay,” you gasp as he places firm kisses across your jaw like he’s trying to hammer it into your head that he fucking loves you.
His thrusts gradually get faster and while it’s perfectly overwhelming for you, it doesn’t seem to be enough for him.
He huffs before pulling out of you without warning. He untangles your arms from around him so he can flip you over to lay on your stomach. He pulls you back up just as quickly, arm wrapped around your torso, leaving you to hold yourself up by your hands and knees as he kisses on your neck messily.
This time when he reenters you he continues on with his previous pace, taking you by surprise once again. Your mouth is practically hanging open as he ruts into you, successfully sending your thoughts straight out of your head.
He lays kisses down your spine murmuring, “I love you.” He moves in and out of you without falter, “Thank you, thank you..”
His hands hold your waist in place, keeping you steady for both of your sakes. Multiple times his grip tightens only to loosen the second he realizes how hard he’s squeezing you. You don’t mind though, you’ve never had any trouble revering marks left behind by him before.
“It’s—” you pant, “It’s okay—” you reach back to put your hand over his, pressing down.
His brash hold returns upon the permission, more assured. “Good girl, good—” he praises, “So fucking good for me, baby.”
He reaches around and dips his free hand below your hips, beginning to rub circles on your clit.
Your arms shake and you worry that they’re nearing buckling, but, attuned with you as ever, his arm wraps tighter around your middle, pulling you up a bit higher so that you barely have to mind any of the work of holding yourself up.
He makes sure to support your weight nicely, holding you in a way that he knows won’t be uncomfortable for you. His circles never cease, never falter from that just right pace he’s come to know like the back of his hand.
You’re brought to your high by the arrival of his, struggling to keep your head upright as you come.
He thumps down over to the side to lay on his back, chest heaving. You pick up your head to look over at him, finding that he doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as you’re sure you do. Still, he breathes heavy, pupils blown out and sweaty.
You notice how his fists clinch up and loosen a couple times over, trying to convince himself that he’s done, he doesn’t need any more from you, he’s all better now.
But you also notice that he’s still hard. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, dead set on not looking at you and having to confront that he really, really does still need you.
So you force yourself to sit up, placing a hand on his chest for balance. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to relax for your sake but that’s the last thing you want him to do.
You push yourself up and over his waist, perching over his abs and brushing his hair back from his forehead. You press a kiss to his head before sitting up on your knees and reaching down to line his cock up with your entrance.
You plant a hand on his chest as you sink down onto him with a deep breath.
“You’re okay,” he rasps, watching in mesmerization as you start to lift your weight up slowly off of your thighs and sink back down.
“I’m okay,” you confirm, guiding his hands to your hips. The presence of his hands on you feels like reassurance and works wonders to help you pick back up some of your energy.
The pace you latch onto feels good, for both of you, but you realize fairly quickly that you’re not going to be able to go as fast as he needs you to.
His hands slip down from your hips to your upper thighs, helping you bob up and down. It doesn’t take long for this to give way to him grabbing your hips and moving you entirely himself.
You watch his arm muscles flex as he shifts you around, leaving you awed with the way he shows virtually no struggle while shifting the majority of your body weight up and down over and over again. Just being completely manhandled by him has you letting out an involuntary moan, letting your head fall back.
“There you go, there you go,” he coos, motions without cessation.
He has you riding him faster than you ever have before and it becomes overwhelming quickly. But Jason, ever the caretaker, coaches you through it, encouraging your every movement.
“That’s my girl,” he groans, watching the way your breasts bounce. “Perfect fucking thing.”
The acclaim in his voice makes your eyes shut and your diaphragm shake, all while he continues to fuck you senseless.
Your body stutters above him, hands flying onto his for support. He comes only moments later, seemingly the only thing that could break his concentration for ragdolling you. The following release of your hips has you slumping over onto his chest, face laying in the bend of his neck.
He turns his head wearily to you, rubbing a hand up your back. “‘R you okay?” he slurs out.
You hum feebly, eyes unable to stay open.
“Can I…?” It takes hearing the words for you to realize that somehow he’s still hard.
You try to nod hard enough that it can be distinguished against the heaviness of your breathing, though you can’t be sure you were successful.
He sighs, “Baby…”
His hangup is immediately clear to you, even through the haze of being post-three orgasms in less than thirty minutes. It takes real, measurable effort to get this singular word through, but you manage.
“Yes,” you breathe out. A ‘yes’ is going to have to work for him because you don’t have a shot at stringing together anymore syllables.
He places a gentle hand on the back of your head, his other landing on your lower back. He slowly starts to fuck you again, this time much softer than before. It’s calm enough that you can settle into the fatigue in your bones and start to feel the exhaustion sweep over your consciousness.
In between kisses laid sweetly upon your neck, He murmurs affections to you the whole time, though you lose almost all of them to sleep. He moves you around a bit more as he goes, though careful to be gentle enough that he doesn’t disturb your peace anymore than he has to.
By the time he’s done he’s bordering on completely out of it and can’t do anything but collapse atop you, nuzzling into your neck.
There’s a pretty consistent pattern that can be found when helping him deal with post-patrol aftermath. Scarecrow’s never any good, his pop-ups tend to end in winding Jason down from panic. There’s always injuries after Bane and invariably there’ll be a mess from Clayface. Half the time he has to get an entirely new suit after a run-in with Killer Croc. So as far as Gotham’s problems go, Poison Ivy isn’t the worst.
the morning after epilogue
✨ oh you don’t reblog? that’s…no, that’s totally fine for you! im so happy for you…i mean its just been out of fashion for like three seasons but yeah, that shows a lot of…confidence! ✨
aka jason wildly preferring you over everyone else
4 in 1 blurbs
warnings: standard batfam arguing etc.
You sit curled up embarrassingly close to Jason on the couch, head on his shoulder. The team is still in their gear as they filter into the living room, masks and helmets discarded in scattered locations between here and the cave. The mission had been fairly simple and with all of them together it only took a couple hours to finish up.
As you waited, Alfred had kept your mind busy in the kitchen while he taught you how he makes his famous ice cream from scratch.
The clamor of the heroic party’s return had made itself known sooner than later, and you think your face must have displayed your emotions nicely because Alfred nodded you away with a small smile and no second thought.
You’d walked into the living room, weaving through the mess of siblings until a hand snuck out on your left and grabbed your wrist. You barely had time to look at him before Jason pulled you down to sit next him on the sofa. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in and leaving virtually no space between you. His armor sits heavy against you, but a welcome weight on your shoulders.
Tim plops down on the couch across from you and you can just make out a bit of blood on the side of his head, aptly accompanied by an irritated look sprawled across his face. It’s not enough blood to be concerned about—not for them—but you can venture a guess that whatever they were up to shouldn’t have called for any injuries and his pique is likely directly related to that.
Though Dick’s goading aura might have something to do with it too, as he comes crashing down next to him a second later, partially sitting on Tim’s cape and pulling him into an awkward angle.
Nightwing doesn’t seem too perturbed by the younger vigilante’s agitation and curt manner of pushing him off.
The others are too caught up in chatter to pay much attention to you, and you can be certain that’s why Jason takes that moment to press a kiss to the side of your head. He lets his lips linger there for just a second as you lean into him.
Alfred’s own entrance is the only thing able to subside the flurry of conversations skirting around the room.
“A job well done,” he commends with a nod. “A selection of ice creams awaits you in the kitchen.”
He gives you a sly wink before retreating back through the swinging door, leaving Stephanie and Cass to practically trip over themselves trying to beat each other to the kitchen. Robin follows after unhurried, mask still on, with his hands behind his back.
Jason kneads your thigh before pushing himself up to stand. He turns back, looking down to you. “What do you want?” he asks softly.
You hum, "Just strawberry's good."
Tim sits up, "Can I—”
"No, you've got legs,” Jason grumbles, stalking off to the kitchen.
Dick barks out a laugh and you bite back a smile.
Tim looks absolutely aghast.
“That’s such bullshit. You know, he used to be nice.”
“No he didn’t,” Dick laughs, shaking his head. “Not since you’ve known him.”
Stephanie stumbles out of the kitchen then, the door hitting her back on the way, as she mutters a curse behind her. You can vaguely makeout Jason grunting something back before she rolls her eyes.
Steph looks at you, shaking her head as she returns to her seat, “You live like this?”
You shrug, “He’s nice to me.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Tim grumbles.
Jason returns after Cass a minute later with a bowl of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. He expertly ignores Tim’s unwavering glare as he resituates himself beside you.
He scoops your legs up over his lap and positions the bowl in between you, wrapping the sleeve of his jacket around it so that the cold porcelain doesn’t make contact with your skin.
The others have set themselves up so that the four of them are stuffed up against each other on the sofa adjacent to you, very obviously examining you both.
And while you’re willing to acknowledge the amused stares and singular glare, Jason only sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he glares at the coffee table.
Only a few seconds of this are allowed to go by before he pulls over a throw pillow and sets it over your knees, so that it rests atop your heads like a mini-fort, successfully blocking out his siblings' view of the two of you.
You smile and press a light kiss to his shoulder as he simmers.
Regrettably, you miss the way Damian side-eyes the pillow above you as he re-enters the room, perching himself atop the back of the couch behind the others.
“This is so nice,” Dick preens. “He used to just leave the room when too many of us gathered in one place. Now he has to stay.”
Stephanie watches the makeshift fort with wary eyes, scooping ice cream into her mouth. “Yeah…I don’t wanna freak you guys out but, uh…”
It’s quiet for a moment and you guess Cass is speaking.
You’re proven right when Stephanie starts up again, “My thoughts exactly.” Her voice drops into a raspy whisper that isn’t really meant to go unheard, “I don’t know who the hell that is, but it is not Jason.”
“This is unprecedented,” Damian mumbles, dipping into his own chocolate cup.
“Do they always talk about you like you’re not here?” you ask Jason quietly.
“Yes,” he grumbles with a scornful look directed at the bowl.
A low hiss can be heard immediately after, “I’ve never heard him whisper before, what the fuck?”
You can’t hide your laugh as well as you mean to, but you know Jason’s light swat to your thigh is nothing more than a rib.
Mumbles continue along the other couch, mostly going unacknowledged, until Tim busts out, “He doesn’t even like strawberry!”
Jason snaps the pillow out of the way, “The fuck do you know about what I like?”
Tim resets his posture with one hell of an attitude, snarking, “Well I can name one thing you really seem to fucking—”
Jason grabs the pillow harshly and chucks it at Tims head which connects with a loud thwack.
Damian swats it away before it can knock him off balance, though his scowl is only half worth what Tim’s is.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says with a sneer. “This is why you don’t get invited to movie night anymore.”
Jason doubles back at him, “Sorry, is this not your own fucking house?”
Tim huffs, “Yes, which i—”
“Then get your own goddamn ice cream!”
Tim huffs as he stands, sending Jason a pointed look. “I’m going because I want to.”
Jason barely gives him a sardonic nod as he stomps off.
“Get me some too!” Dick calls back, only for the back of his head to be met with a sideways grimace from Tim.
As he leaves, the focus of the room seems to shift towards Damian dripping chocolate onto his cape and it fades away from there.
You turn to Jason, lowering your voice to just below a whisper, “If you don’t like strawberry—”
“I like it,” he tells you, leaving no room to argue as he takes a bite.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Declined.
Voicemail.
Declined.
Declined.
“I swear to God, he better be dead,” Stephanie mutters to herself.
She shuts her phone off and tosses it into the passenger seat with a huff. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel as she scans the sidewalk across from her car.
The night before the majority of the team had been involved in a less-than-successful plan, which some have called “a display of complete idiocy and inability to circumspect.”
Then Tim had to go and make a joke about that word choice in what was apparently a bad moment. This gave way to a harsher punishment of the team being forced to clean the batcave foot by square foot—notably, an impossible task.
So naturally, they had to retaliate.
The plan was to dismantle the batmobile piece by piece and leave it a collection of parts for Bruce to find. Problem being, the group as it stood didn’t possess the capability to do so without doing a great deal of damage to the parts. Damage, that the family was not willing to face extra retribution for.
Fortunately, they knew just the man for the job.
Unfortunately, said man has devoted his life to ignoring their messages, favoring to live peacefully and distantly from them. And because that peace and distance does come with an add-on of borderline complete secrecy from his family, no one had any idea where to look for him.
So, Stephanie decided to do the next most rational thing and track down your location. She’d hoped he would be with you like he always is, but for seemingly the first time in the last year—he’s nowhere to be found.
Now, was revenge for a minor-slight by Bruce so important that it required Stephanie to take all of these steps to get a hold of Jason? No, absolutely not. She’s pretty sure that the others have already given up on it by now and started cleaning. But it’s about the principal. And also, she does not want to clean the floors of a cave.
She jumps up in her seat when she spots you exiting a store, scurrying to unbuckle and pry the car door open.
She’s across the street in half a second, running directly into your line of sight. It actually would’ve been very difficult for her to miss your line of sight, considering she’d landed only a good six inches in front of your face. “Hey!”
“Oh, fuck—” you jump, grabbing your chest. You take a breath when you realize who it is, less surprised now by the theatrics of the introduction. “Hey Steph.”
“Hey,” she smiles casually, like she didn’t do what she just did. “So Jason’s been ignoring us and I need to get a hold of him,” she tells you.
You nod, still collecting yourself. “Oh. I don’t know where he is—”
She shakes her head, “That’s fine. Can I use your phone to call him?”
You frown, “Is something wrong?”
“With him, yeah,” she snarks. “I called him, Tim called him, Dick called him, Cass called him, Damian called him, we used Bruce’s phone to call him—that was a bit of a long shot, but still. This is our last option. Well, not our last option, if this doesn’t work I could get really invasive, but—” She shakes the thought from her head, “Nevermind.”
You nod blankly, taking in the mountain of information she’d just handed you. “How’d you know I was here?”
She scans your eyes back and forth for a second before her own widen in realization and she’s shaking her head. “No, no, don’t worry we’re not tracking you! I just hacked into the traffic cameras to find you.”
“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding some more. “Okay.”
You hand her your phone without any further questions—for your own sake—and she happily accepts.
“You know I texted him 115 times?” she tells you as she scrolls through your contacts.
You furrow your eyebrows, watching her click his name and press the phone to her ear. “Did you count?”
“Well, I had the time, di—you son of a bitch! One ring?” Stephanie scorns into the phone.
You can hear Jason groan on the other end of the line.
He says something to Stephanie that she follows up with a firm shake of her head.
“No,” she says defiantly. “She let me use it.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes, not pleased with his response. “What if it was an emergency?”
She listens for a second, skeptical look on her face.
She gasps suddenly, “I am not overstepping, we thought you were dead!”
Over the course of about ten seconds the shock on her face drops into just-been-caught guilt. “Well, I mean we considered it.”
You imagine Jason’s telling her to give you your phone back as she stands her ground, pushing, “If you promise to text me back.”
A short response on his end.
“Promise to text me back!”
There’s a brief lull before she’s giving a self-satisfied nod and jostling your phone back into your hands. “Here ya go. Thanks, babe!” She smiles wide at you before jogging back across the street, not waiting for the cars.
You smile as you watch her go, putting the phone up to your ear, “Hey Jay.”
You can hear the relief on the other end of the line. “Hey sweetheart. You know if you see Steph in public, you can just walk away?”
“I’m not going to walk away from your family.” You look again across the street, “Also I don’t think that was an option for me this time.”
“That thing is fucking scary.”
Cass smiles fondly, signing, “I think he’s cute.”
Tim eyes the way Salem traipses around his feet, yellow eyes staring up at him. “Why’s it even here?”
Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to scroll on his phone. “He’s hers. Deal with it.”
Tim scrunches up his mouth. “She knows I hate it. And she, unlike you, wouldn’t subject me to this just for the hell of it. So again I ask: why is it here?”
Jason huffs, looking up from his phone. “What do you want me to say? He wants to be.”
Tim scoffs at that, “‘It wants to be’? You’re the one who put it in the car.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jason says factually.
Tim looks at him sideways as Salem leaps onto Jason’s lap and nudges his hand up. Jason follows along as requested, petting the top of Salem’s head with an open palm.
Tim squirms to the other side of the couch with a look of disgust on his face. Salem watches him the whole time.
A smile adorns Cass’ face as she signs, “She says he can read people’s energy.”
Tim huffs, resting his head against his fist. “What does that even mean?”
The conversation is cut off by the clatter of you and Dick stumbling into the room, carrying a freshly painted headboard. Blue paint coats both of your hands and has no doubt stained your clothes.
You’re clearly struggling a bit to keep your grip on your end, the weight of the wooden frame dragging your arms down.
Jason stands and Salem flows along with his movements easily, leaping down onto the hardwood. He comes over and helps you lift your end of the frame with a stupid amount of ease, to the point that you’re not even holding any of the weight up anymore. The three of you—less so you—move the headboard and lean it up against the wall. After it's set down Jason steps back and looks over it gingerly.
“It looks good,” he murmurs to you, quiet enough to not give his brother the satisfaction of his approval.
Dick had asked you over to help him paint Damian’s bed frame as a surprise for him for not getting in any “altercations” at school this semester. You’d decided on coating it with his favorite color first and then fill it in with a collection of what Dick has “on good authority” are his favorite animals. It’s a fairly random assortment that you’re not sure adds to or disproves Dick’s credibility. You’d spent the better half of the afternoon googling animals you’d never heard of just to make sure you projected their likenesses accurately. Dick had been very clear that you had to be precise on the details because Damian would know if he was really looking at a komodo dragon painting or if it was “some common lizard.”
You sigh, “I hope he likes it. I’m worried we did it too childish for him.”
“He is a child,” Jason says plainly.
“But he is not childish,” you counter. And he sure isn’t. You’d had a hard enough time convincing Damian to watch cartoons, adding a colorful animal mural to his bedroom might be one step too far. You’re still trying to figure him out.
“He’ll like it,” he says firmly.
You smile, slipping around under his arm and tucking yourself into his side.
Not a moment later, Dick slings an arm around Jason's shoulder, grinning as he pulls his brother in close.
Jason’s immediately louring. "No, get away from me."
Dick, unfazed and still smiling, removes his arm and takes a big step to the right. You do the same, figuring he needs his space, but you get caught by the wrist before you can do more than sway to the side.
“Not you.”
He pulls you back under his arm, wrapping it around the front of your shoulders. You hook your fingers around his forearm, letting your hand hang.
You hear a double-clap from the other side of the room that has you both turning around to face Cass.
She signs something to Jason with a fond smile on her face.
You look back and forth between them as Jason waves her off. “What?”
He shakes his head, “It’s nothing. She said—she said we’re cute.”
You smile up at him and he deflects—not so subtly—and starts nudging you back towards where the group is gathered, now all standing.
Dick’s quick to start bragging off to the room about how great of a job the two of you did and how really complex and daunting it actually is painting animals for a child.
As he talks, your eyes find Jason, who’s definitely about to roll his eyes any second now. A bit subconsciously, your hand comes up to brush Jason’s white streak of hair back, away from tickling his forehead.
On the other side of Jason, Tim does the same, sweeping Jason’s hair back in a much more mocking manner.
This gives way to Jason smacking his hand away, harder than he needed to.
"Wha—You let her do it!" Tim protests, overplaying how much the slap hurt.
Jason scowls, "She can do whatever she wants."
Tim drops his shoulders, looking at Jason as if he’d been scandalized. “Oh but I can’t?”
“Not if it involves touching me,” Jason grumbles.
Tim steps closer, putting a finger to Jason’s chest. “You’re such a—”
From the floor, Salem hisses up at Tim, successfully startling the teenager. “Auahh—”
He stumbles backwards, grimacing at the cat.
“Fucking demon,” he hisses, walking away.
When Tim’s far enough away and Salem’s seemingly satisfied, he brushes up against your leg, purring.
You peer down at him with a furrowed brow.
“What’s Salem doing here?”
“I’m not doing this shit with you.”
“No, come on, 9 out of 10 times is what you said. How ‘bout just once? Beat me one time at anything, Jaybird.”
“Anything?” Jason asks like he knows damn well Dick can’t swear on that word.
Rightly so, Dick backtracks. “Something agreed upon.”
Jason throws his hands up, partially in exasperation, partially relenting.
Dick smoothly turns his back to him, announcing, “Opening up the room for ideas.”
Damian’s eye roll is almost audible from the corner armchair, where his attention is unmoved from intently sharpening a blade he’d recently come into possession of.
Bruce similarly remains unbothered in his seat, trying to read despite the distractions.
“Ooh, okay. Okay.” Stephanie wiggles up a little on the couch. “You could race!”
Dick shakes his head negatively, “I literally just busted my knee up two days ago, Steph.”
“Convenient,” Jason mumbles.
“You were there!” Dick exclaims with an open mouth.
Steph continues, “Um…”
Cass waves to the room from her position upside down on the couch, head hanging down next to Stephanie’s legs. Attention successfully acquired, she signs, “Staring contest.”
Jason grimaces, “That sounds like a nightmare.”
Dick gives him a faux-smile.
“You should play chicken,” Damian chimes in, holding up his knife.
“No,” Bruce drones monotonously as he flips a page.
“Tic tac toe?” Steph suggests.
Cass is already shaking her head as she scrunches up her mouth in thought.
Jason rolls his eyes, “What are we, five?”
Dick nods, cracking his knuckles as he thinks. “No, we need something that really proves our worth.”
Bruce looks up from his book, staring numbly through his brow, but remains silent.
“You could arm wrestle,” Steph suggests.
The elder brother twitches at that, “Uh, no.”
Cass moves past that before a joke has the chance to be made. “Handstand contest?” she suggests.
Jason shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”
The elder brother looks at him incredulously. “You’ll do a handstand contest with me?”
“That’s what I just said.”
Dick scoffs, “Jaybird, I’m an acrobat, you’re just some guy.”
Jason, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact, pulls his sweatshirt off from his back. “Well, you’re a lot of things, aren’t you?”
Dick throws his head back with a squint.
Jason fishes his phone out of his pocket and Dick follows suit, offended stare maintaining all the while.
No exchange is required as they both toss their phones across the room, landing together with a rough clatter on Damian’s lap. Damian’s resulting glare is borderline disgusted.
Dick starts them off, “Alright, go. One…two…”
Both men push up onto their hands, muscles flexing as they find their balance. Dick’s form is better, of course, but Jason looks to have a stronger foundation.
They both hold strong as several minutes go by with the brothers only maintaining the attention of some of the room, and the interest of none of it.
Stephanie huffs and tilts her head, thoroughly unentertained with the consistency they’re both managing.
“Starting to wish they’d picked something that moved along a little faster,” she murmurs to Cass.
Dick glances over at the younger brother, clearly displeased with his lack of trouble keeping up with him. He shuffles closer one hand at a time, using the decreased distance to poke at Jason with his foot, trying to knock him over.
Jason kicks him back harder, “Hey! Don’t be a dick—”
“Very funny,” Dick leers.
They both end up finding a struggle to keep balance and are forced to mind their own.
A chime rings out from the corner that has heads turning briefly in his direction before coming back to the competition.
“Whose was that?” Dick calls out.
Damian leans over and inspects the screens with disinterest. “Todd’s.”
Jason adjusts his position, “Who is it?”
Damian responds with your name.
“And?”
He picks up the phone shrugging like he couldn’t care less, “She wants to know if you want to go see some movie,”
There’s a brief silence before Jason drops out of the handstand, standing up.
Dick’s blood-flushed face peers up at him, bewildered. “Wait, what?”
The family watches with wide eyes as Jason picks his sweatshirt up off the floor and tugs it back on.
Stephanie gawks, bordering on laughing. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
Dick lets himself fall into a kneeling position with a huff, “You would rather go to some movie you don’t even know the name of than win a bet?”
Jason moues at him, “Uh, yeah.”
He tosses a twenty at Dick, and plucks his phone from Damian’s hand as he strolls past him, typing out a reply.
Cass sits up a bit and signs up to Stephanie, “Does he even like movies?”
Bruce, now attention now fully removed from his book, watches Jason exit with the slightest hint of a smile. Dick sits dumbly on the floor, staring after him with an open-mouth.
Damian twists the knife in his hands around contemplatively before rising to stand.
“I will go,” he announces, dropping his blade onto the seat of the chair. Jason grumbles a no but Damian follows after him just the same.
you know what happened to the last guy that didn’t reblog? … 🔪🧨💥😵⚰️🪦
aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood
part one
warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault
It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.
“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.
He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.
You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.
He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”
“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.
He frowns at you, confusion evident.
You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.
Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.
When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.
You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.
He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”
You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”
“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.
He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”
“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”
It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”
“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”
He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”
You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.
“Mhm.”
You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.
“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs.
Your head tilts, “You live here?”
He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”
You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”
He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”
You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”
“I don’t always come to your apartment—”
You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”
You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”
“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.
That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”
“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”
“What?”
You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”
“Okay...”
“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”
He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”
You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.”
He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”
“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.
He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”
“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”
He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”
You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”
You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.
“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.
He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.
His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”
What?
“What?”
“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.
You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”
He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”
You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”
“What?”
“We can’t do this again.”
He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.
You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”
“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.
He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.
Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.
And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long.
But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.
He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.
He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.
Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.
Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.
So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.
You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.
“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?”
There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”
His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.
He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”
You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”
He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”
“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”
“Explain.”
He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”
You blink. “Explain.”
“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.
You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.
You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”
He only gives a half-hearted shrug.
You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.
He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”
You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”
He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”
“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.
You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up.
He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.
As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.
You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”
He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.
An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.
You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”
“But then where would you go?”
He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.
You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.
His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.
Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.
The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.
A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.
“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.”
He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.
You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.
What the fuck?
Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.
You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.
There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.
Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.
It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.
You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.
The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.
“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.
You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.
Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”
You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.
You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”
She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”
You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”
“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”
“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.
You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.
“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”
You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.
A second man mutters something you can’t make out.
The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.”
Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”
There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”
“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”
A sigh, “Dumbass…”
The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?”
“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”
One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.
“What the fuck?”
You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.
Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”
She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”
The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.”
“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”
He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”
Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.
“Get up.”
She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.
You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.
You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.
“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.
Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.
“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.
Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you.
The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”
Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”
“I disagree.”
All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.
The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.
Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.
“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.
He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”
Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.
Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”
“Really?”
“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”
Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.
He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.
Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.
Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”
Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”
The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”
“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.
The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”
The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”
“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you.
Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”
Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”
Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”
Boldly, Murray steps up to him.
But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”
The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.
It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it.
Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.
Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”
“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.
Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.
His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.
After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”
He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”
You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”
His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”
You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?”
Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this.
He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”
This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking.
You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”
He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”
“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.
His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”
You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”
He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”
You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…
He nods solemnly, “Okay.”
You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.
“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.
A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”
One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.
Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.
You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.
So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.
Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.
He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.
He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.
“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
You stare at him incredulously.
After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”
You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.
He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”
You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”
He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”
You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”
He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”
You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”
He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”
“Bullshit.”
He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.
You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”
“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”
You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”
“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”
He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”
He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”
Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.
“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”
That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”
He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.
And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.
The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer.
He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”
You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.
He thinks about that for a moment.
“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.
You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.
He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”
You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”
He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.
It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.
It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.
He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.
You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.
You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…
All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.
He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.
You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.
J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…
Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”
He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”
Autopsy scar. Fuck.
“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”
He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”
He nods, likely relieved.
You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.
You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”
“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”
You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”
You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”
He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”
You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..
There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.
He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.
You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”
He pauses before telling you, “A cemetery.”
You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”
He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”
“Yeah, I’d say.”
“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.
You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.
He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.
He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”
You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.
You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.
origamiaround
areudirty
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
izzy806
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
