about me: jace/kaz, she, insomniac, i ⥠lantern corps, d1 fanon batfam hater, i write whenever i have time and an idea, currently playing batman legacy & gotham knights, restudying art, i really enjoy smaus, twt smausđ€€, requests are open and encouraged (iâll probably spend time researching their personality to try and be as close to canon as possible)
ââ i write for dc and marvel sfw & nsfw, nsfw warning will be in the summary in case you arenât comfortable with seeing that content!
ââ i believe in giving readers personalities so there will usually be a reader info post before the fic/series airs. maybe a reader + reader crossover if iâm feeling peachy. i hate when reader inserts are bland so this is my outlet. personally i like to think theyâre not me but their own character so thatâll leak out in my writing. âĄ
৻êȘ danny johnson, roy harper, artemis grace, harvey dent, bruce wayne, kon kent, wally west, remy lebeaux, & kurt wagner !
synopsisââ :: â when you do something that makes them question their sexuality.
includingââ ! â barbara gordon. stephanie brown. cassandra cain. rachel grayson. jessica todd. tessa drake. diana wayne. â¶
contentsââ ! â fem reader. obsession. genderbend batboys. women are hot asf. women who love women are angels. masterlist. english is not my first language. â¶
BARBARA GORDON
She is helping you study.
You're leaning over her shoulder to read something on her laptop.
You absentmindedly rest your chin on her shoulder.
"..."
She freezes.
A full body lock, every nerve suddenly tuned to the warmth of your jaw settling into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Your breath ghosts across her collarbone, a soft, steady rhythm she can feel through her shirt.
Why do you smell so nice?
Warm skin, clean cotton, and a faint sweetness that makes her mouth water.
No, that's a weird thought.
You're her friend.
Girls smell nice.
Probably.
Then you laugh softly at something on the screen.
Your hand brushes hers.
Barbara's heart skips so fast she nearly drops the keyboard.
"Why that was... hot?"
She spends the next three hours secretly googling things like:
"Can straight women think their female friend is attractive?"
"Why am I nervous around my friend suddenly?"
"Why I feel hot when she touch me?"
By midnight she's staring at her ceiling.
"...Oh fuck."
STEPHANIE BROWN
You're shopping together.
You come out of the changing room wearing a cute dress.
She looks up.
Itâs nothing outrageousâjust soft fabric that drapes exactly right, hugging your waist, skimming your thighs. But when you do a little spin, the hem flutters up just enough.
"Steph?"
...
...
"..."
Her mouth is completely dry.
The way the light catches the curve of your collarbone, the way the dress moves when you shift your weight, the way youâre looking at her expectantly with those eyes.
Pretty.
...
"WAIT."
She immediately stares at a random lamp, cheeks burning.
"Wow."
"Cool lamp."
You're confused.
"What lamp?"
"I LOVE LAMPS."
She refuses to look at you for the next ten minutes because every time she doesâ
Pretty girl.
Pretty smile.
Pretty eyes.
"OH GOD."
By the end of the day she's texting Barbara:
"Hypothetically... if your friend is really pretty... and you canât stop picturing the way her dress hugged her... everything..."
Barbara replies almost immediately.
"You like girls."
Steph throws her phone across the room and presses her thighs together in mortified confusion.
CASSANDRA CAIN
Cass doesn't really categorize attraction with words.
She notices feelings first.
You're laughing.
Your eyes crinkle.
You gently fix the collar of her jacket.
Your fingertips graze the sensitive skin just below her jaw.
"There."
"..."
Cass forgets how to breathe.
Like actually.
Her throat closes. Her heart slams once, hard, then stutters into a frantic rhythm. A flush crawls up her neck, hot and prickly, and her stomach clenches like sheâs missed a step on a rooftop.
You tilt your head.
"Cass?"
Nothing.
Her brain has become static.
You poke her cheek.
"...You alive?"
Tiny nod.
Very pink ears.
That night she signs to Barbara:
"Heart...weird."
Barbara immediately assumes medical emergency.
"No."
Cass signs awkwardly.
"Girl."
Barbara slowly blinks.
"Oh."
"...OH."
RACHEL GRAYSON
Tonight she's supposed to be going on a date with her boyfriend, Brandon.
You're helping her get ready.
She sits on your bed while you stand between her knees, close enough that the heat of your body radiates against her.
"So..."
"Don't laugh."
"I'll try."
"I'm nervous."
You laugh anyway.
"It's just Brandon."
"I know!"
You gently tilt her chin.
"Look at me."
She does.
Big mistake.
You're wearing an old crop top.
Every time you lean in, she catches a glimpse of your collarbone...
...the soft curve of your tits peeking above the neckline...
Then your fingers gently rest under her chin.
"So pretty."
You murmur it absentmindedly while blending her makeup.
Pretty...?
You lean even closer.
"Stay still."
Your thumb brushes the corner of her mouth.
Then you carefully apply lip gloss.
"So..."
"..."
"...Almost done."
She isn't listening.
She's staring.
Your eyes are focused completely on her lips.
Your face is only inches away.
Your own lips part slightly in concentration.
Why...
Why do you look so pretty?
Why is the scent of your perfume making her dizzy?
Why does she want to lean forward and close that tiny, unbearable distance?
You finally finish.
"There!"
You beam at her.
The sweetest smile she's ever seen.
"So gorgeous."
She forgets Brandon exists.
For about thirty very confusing seconds.
She stares.
You wave a hand.
"Earth to Rachel?"
"..."
"...Babe?"
"...Can..."
She coughs.
"...Can you...do my makeup again?"
"I literally just finished."
"...Again."
"Why?"
"...Practice."
She absolutely considers canceling her date.
Suddenly she'd rather spend the evening with you cuddling than going out.
JESSICA TODD
Some creep has been bothering you for nearly ten minutes.
You keep trying to leave.
He won't let you.
Thenâ
A hand grabs his shoulder.
"You deaf?"
Her voice is terrifyingly calm.
"She said no."
One glare.
The guy decides life is precious and disappears.
She immediately turns toward you.
"You okay?"
You don't answer.
Insteadâ
You throw yourself into her arms.
She catches you immediately.
Your face presses against her chest.
Your fingers clutch her jacket.
When you finally look upâ
Your eyes are watery.
Your lips are in the saddest little pout.
"...Thank you."
She feels so fucking hot it's emberassing.
"I..."
"I really needed you."
You sniffle.
"...Can you take me home?"
...
...
Take you home.
You need her.
You're holding her.
Jes forgets how to speak.
"...Uh."
"...Yeah."
"...Home."
She puts an arm around your shoulders.
The whole walk back she's staring aggressively forward because every single time she looks downâ
You're leaning against her.
Trusting her.
Depending on her.
Her brain keeps screaming.
FUCKING GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKING ADORABLE.
SHE WILL FIGHT THE ENTIRE CITY FOR YOU.
WAIT.
WHY WOULD SHE FIGHT THE ENTIRE CITY FOR YOU?
Halfway home you hook your pinky around hers without thinking.
She nearly trips over absolutely nothing.
TESSA DRAKE
She has a scientific explanation for everything.
Surely this has one too.
You've fallen asleep beside her during an all night investigation.
Hey hey I've read your fics before and its woah. wow. and I saw your requests were open and I was like yay ! so if I may please. request a oneshot of Genji x male reader where Genji and Reader are hanging out and Reader is like wow fuck fuck oh my wow holy Genji is soo hooot so hot sexy and Genji keeps doing small things like idk maybe leaning in close to point something out or just small basic touches on the back or shoulders n stuff and Reader is like oh holy I'm going to explode. Whole time Genji is unintentionally causing Reader to crash out and then Genji gets like called in for duty (haha doo dee) from overwatch and he's like ah shit. nd he hugs Reader goodbye and Reader can smell his cologne when he hugs him bye bye and maaaaybe Genji hugs him around the waist if you're feeling generous oh and genji is taller than him I guess
idk if this counts as 18+ but it doesn't matter to me how u write it it's up 2 u . please please please and thank you I appreciate it greatly. I honor you. bowing emoji
Touch me more
âź PARING Genji Shimads Ă Male! Reader
âź WARNINGS/TAGS new era! genji, fluff, overwatch agent! reader, reader is crushing hard, drabble
âź SUMMARY Genji is talking to you but all you can focus on is how close he is
âź WORDS 496
âź A/N Hi! First of all, thank you so much for the request! Ngl, this request reminded of the time I was super into Genji once my cousins showed overwatch somewhere in 2018 or 2019 I believe. I thought he was so cool and the first skin I bought after I saved the credits was Young Genji. Even thought I don't really play him anymore, I would still say I'm quite fond of him (I still like young although happi genji is my all time favorite skin for him). Back to the fic, writing all those descriptions kinda reminded me of how I felt when I had this really intense crush a few years ago so it was a pretty fun experience writing about that. I hope you enjoy this! Also small note: I closed requests because I have a few requests that I should catch up with before I open my requests again and just focus on fighting the procrastination
ao3  masterlist  requests
It was so hard for you to focus whenever Genji was around. And the worst part about it was that Genji was completely unaware of the effect he had on you. It was always these little touches of his that got you riled up - a gentle touch on the shoulder, a hand on your back. Any kind of contact with him you had stayed with you for hours as long as it was from him.
The afternoon was no different. You were sitting him, Genji was showing you something on his phone when you felt his hand on your shoulder. He was saying something but you couldn't focus on whatever he was trying to say because all you could think about was how close he was. And he was so excited about what he was telling you, you felt bad. Especially when his smile was so big and his dark eyes seemed to shine so brightly. You knew you should listen, but he was so close and your brain turned into a mush.
âAnd thenââ He looked at your face suddenly, noticing the small blush that appeared. âEverything alright?â He asked, his voice softened to a gentler tone from the enthusiastic one. And then he squeezed your shoulder gently.
âOh, yes! Sorry, you were just talking so⊠please go on. I would love to hear more.â You tried to act like you weren't slightly startled and very flustered by his question.
He took one more look at your face before he spoke up.
âAlright, then. What was I⊠yes, right.â And then he was talking again.
You tried to listen to what he was saying, doing your very best to focus on the words but your brain had a hard time cooperating.
And then you heard Athena call out from the speakers, asking for Genji's immediate presence in the west wing. He let out a small sigh, putting his phone away.
âDuty calls. I'll see you later.â He said before giving you a quick hug, causing you to freeze.
You didn't expect that at all, especially since Genji wasn't that much of a hugger. He had hugged you before, but it was so rare for him to do that you didn't get used to it yet. And now you were in his arms, time seemed to slow down and your heart was beating so fast. You hoped he couldn't hear or feel it. It was practically ringing in your ears. He was so close you could smell his cologne.
âYou changed your cologne?â You babbled out before your brain could catch up with your mouth. Genji pulled back with a small snort and you felt your cheeks warm up even more.
âYeah. Glad you noticed.â He then let you go and stood up.
âBe careful, alright?â
âOf course.â And with that he was gone.
You let out a breath that you didn't even know you were holding and leaned back. You were down bad for him.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, empathic bond, forced proximity, shared bed, violence, guns, blood/injury, sensory overload, alien tech, mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, references to Royâs past and recovery, oral sex, vaginal sex
Summary:
The Outlaws are easy enough to handle from behind a screen.Â
Roy Harper is a different kind of problem: reckless, brilliant, charming, and far too good at finding excuses to text you after midnight.Â
When a mission drags you out from behind the keyboard and into the field, the line between banter and wanting becomes a lot harder to pretend you cannot see.
Authorâs Note:
set loosely during the New-52 Outlaws era. reader is the teamâs smart-mouthed tech handler, not a vigilante.
Roy Harper sent you a picture of a smoking circuit board at 2:43 in the morning with the caption, be honest with me, doc. is she gonna make it?
You stared at the message from the dark hollow of your bedroom, phone held inches above your face, one eye open and the other still committed to sleep. The image was grainy, badly lit, and deeply offensive to anyone with even a passing respect for wiring. A ribbon cable had been severed, two contact points were scorched, and the outer casing of what looked like a modified arrowhead had partially melted into a shape that suggested Roy had either dropped it into a furnace or tried to flirt with it.
A second message arrived before you could decide whether to answer.
also before u get mad this was already broken when i touched it
Then a third.
mostly
You typed with your thumb.
you are a public safety hazard
Royâs reply came almost instantly.
ur awake :)
You closed your eyes and inhaled through your nose.
i am awake because you keep committing crimes against engineering
i thought u liked engineering
i like engineering when it isnât screaming for help
sweetheart that feels like a limited worldview
You rolled onto your back and dragged the edge of your blanket up to your chin, as if warmth could protect you from Roy Harper and his apparently endless ability to find you through encrypted channels, bad hours, and your own poor decisions. You had been working with the Outlaws for eight months, which was long enough to know better and apparently not long enough to stop answering.
The arrangement had started with Red Hood breaking into your apartment at midnight, helmet tucked beneath one arm, a hard drive in his gloved hand, and a red domino still fixed over his eyes. Oracleâs word had apparently earned you a glimpse of the man beneath the mask, though not his carelessness. Your motion sensors had warned you three minutes earlier, so you did not scream; screaming at strange men with guns gave them too much satisfaction.
He had said, âOracle said youâre good.â
You had said, âOracle needs to stop giving my name to strange men with guns.â
âShe didnât. She said you answer to Relay.âÂ
You looked at the hard drive in his hand. Then at him. Then at the open window behind him.
âIs breaking and entering a Red Hood thing, or a you thing?â
His mouth twitched like he had decided not to reward that. âYou want a job?â
You had nearly told him to climb back out the window. Then you had taken the drive, decrypted the first layer out of spite, and found three trafficking routes, a shell company tied to a private militia, and enough offshore transactions to make your professional curiosity stronger than your survival instincts.
After that, you became what Jason called support and what Roy called mission control. You ran comms, built surveillance patches, forged clean travel documents, tracked dirty money, scrubbed safehouse feeds, and kept their gear from betraying them at inconvenient moments. You did not go into the field. You did not wear armor. You did not jump off rooftops, exchange fire with mercenaries, or stand close enough to explosions to develop opinions about them.
You were not an Outlaw. You reminded them of this frequently.
Jason respected it because he understood boundaries when they were backed by blackmail-level system access. Koriandâr found it charming because she found many human distinctions charming, especially the ones people pretended were not emotional. Roy ignored it whenever possible.
Roy called when he had a pertinent technical question. Roy called when he had a stupid technical question. Roy called when something was sparking, smoking, blinking, ticking, leaking, or behaving in a manner he described as âominous but kind of sexy.â Roy also called when missions went too quiet and his voice took on that careful, bright edge that told you he needed noise in his ear until his hands stopped shaking.
You knew the difference. You never said you knew.
Your phone buzzed again.
for legal reasons jay says i need to ask if this could explode
You opened the message, stared at it, and then sat up with a sigh that carried all the ruin of your sleep schedule with it. Your laptop sat on the nightstand because you had learned months ago that Royâs emergencies were usually easier to solve from a full interface.
You accepted the secure call.
Roy had a way of saying Relay as if he had personally discovered the word and intended to make it everyone elseâs problem.
âRelay,â he said into the comm, bright and shameless.
You closed your eyes. âDo not make it sound like a pet name.â
âWasnât planning on it.â
âYou absolutely were.â
âLittle bit,â he admitted. Then, before you could hang up on principle, he added, âBefore you say anything, I want you to know I value your expertise.âÂ
âIâm hanging up.â
âSee, that is the kind of decisive leadership I respect.â
âShow me the circuit board.â
His video feed came in at a terrible angle. For three seconds, you got an intimate view of his collarbone, the strap of his harness, and a smear of soot on the underside of his jaw. City lights glittered behind him, too high and too distant, which meant rooftop. Gotham, judging by the industrial gloom and the fact that Jason was audibly swearing somewhere off-screen.
âCamera,â you said.
Roy adjusted it. âBetter?â
âMarginally. Why is it smoking?â
âIn my defenseââ
âNo.â
âYou didnât hear the defense.â
âI have heard enough of your defenses to know they are usually confessions with better lighting.â
Jasonâs voice cut in. âAsk her whether the thing is going to detonate.â
âI did ask,â Roy said.
âYou flirted with her and then talked about legal liability.â
âThat is asking.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose. âPoint the camera at the board.â
Roy obeyed. Mostly. The feed lurched as he moved closer, catching a blur of rooftop gravel, Jasonâs boot, and the smoking circuit board balanced on the ledge before settling crookedly over the component. Then Roy leaned in from the side, too close, and the camera caught the line of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the smile he was failing to suppress because he knew he had woken you and had the nerve to enjoy being scolded for it.
âRoy.â
âRight. Board.â
The feed shifted. You studied the damage, your irritation fading as your brain caught on to the problem. The arrowhead was not one of Royâs usual designs. The housing had been modified to carry a small but highly unstable cell, likely scavenged from alien tech and forced into a human-made casing by someone either ambitious or stupid. Given the Outlawsâ usual social circle, probably both.
âDo not cut the braided line,â you said.
Royâs hand froze in frame, wire cutters visible between two fingers.
You stared.
He slowly moved the cutters away. âWasnât gonna.â
âYou absolutely were.â
âMaybe as a thought experiment.â
Jason made a sound of disgust. âGive it to me.â
âIâve got it.â
âYour entire life is evidence to the contrary.â
Koriâs voice floated through the line from farther away, calm and warm. âIs our friend awake?â
âShe is,â Roy said.
âI am involuntarily conscious,â you corrected.
Kori sounded pleased. âHello. I am sorry Roy has interrupted your sleeping.â
âThank you, Kori.â
âHe has been watching his phone for twenty minutes, so I believe he was hoping for an excuse.â
The rooftop went silent.
You blinked at the screen.
Jason barked a laugh.
Royâs face came back into frame too fast. âOkay, that is wildly out of context.â
âIs it?â you asked.
âYes.â
Kori hummed.
Jason said, âNo.â
Roy pointed somewhere off-camera. âNobody asked either of you.â
You leaned back against your pillows, suddenly much more awake than you wanted to be. âTwenty minutes?â
âI was waiting until it was necessary.â
âYou were waiting for a component to smoke so you could text me?â
âTechnically, the component made that decision.â
âFascinating. I hope the two of you are happy together.â
Royâs grin softened around the edges, just enough to make the room a little warmer than before. âJealous?â
âYou are one bad solder joint away from a memorial service.â
âYouâd come?â
âI would make sure Jason disposed of your browser history.â
âThatâs love.â
âThatâs hazard pay.â
Jason leaned into frame, expression flat. âAre we done?â
âFor now,â you said. âDisconnect the cell from the regulator, wrap it in the thermal sleeve, and stop letting Roy hold things that can alter the skyline.â
Roy placed a hand against his chest. âYou wound me.â
âClean the cut on your forehead while youâre being wounded.â
His smile froze for a second.
It was small. Barely anything. But you saw it because you had gotten too good at watching him through screens. The cut was half-hidden near his hairline, a little dark with dried blood. He had not mentioned it. He would not have mentioned it until the mission was done, and then only if it made a good joke.
âBossy,â he said softly.
âAlive,â you replied.
For a moment, the rooftop noise faded.
Roy looked into the camera, and the usual distance of comms felt thinner than it should. âYeah,â he said. âIâll clean it.â
âGood.â
His mouth lifted. âYou worried about me, Relay?â
You should have said no. You always said no. It was part of the rhythm. Roy leaned too close; you pushed him back with sarcasm. He tossed charm into every open channel; you swatted it away before it could land anywhere vulnerable. The system worked because both of you understood it was a game, and because neither of you had ever been stupid enough to ask what would happen if one of you stopped playing.
So you said, âI am worried about your unpaid invoices.â
âThere she is,â Roy murmured.
Your stomach did something foolish.
Jason took the damaged arrow out of Royâs hand and moved out of frame. âI liked her better before you started flirting.â
âYou hired me,â you said.
âOne of my few regrets.â
Kori said, âI enjoy this. It is like watching a small battle, but affectionate.â
âIt is not affectionate,â you and Jason said at the same time.
Roy, traitor that he was, only smiled.
You ended the call before he could see you smiling back.
By noon the next day, Jason had ruined your week.
He arrived through the door this time, which meant either he wanted something difficult or he had finally learned from the countermeasures you had installed on your windows after his first visit. Roy came in behind him, carrying a cardboard tray with four coffees and the expression of a man who knew he was about to enjoy himself. Kori entered last, ducking slightly under the doorframe of your apartment with easy grace, a bright smile, and a paper bag.
âI bought pastries,â she announced.
You pointed at her. âYou may stay.â
Roy held up the coffee. âI brought caffeine.â
âYou may plead your case.â
Jason set a matte-black case on your worktable. âWe have a job.â
âYou always have a job.â
âYouâre going on this one.â
You looked at him.
Jason looked back.
Roy took one careful step away from your desk, proving he had some survival instincts after all.
âNo,â you said.
âYou havenât heard the job.â
âI heard enough. You used the phrase going on this one, which is the wrong phrase to use with someone who works from a chair for several excellent reasons.â
âYouâre the only one who can do it.â
âThat is often true and rarely requires me to leave my apartment.â
Jason opened the case.
Inside, secured beneath layers of anti-static film and dampening mesh, was a shard of metal about the length of your thumb. Metal was the simplest word for it, though you knew as soon as you looked at it that it was not quite right. The surface shifted from silver to green to a color that slipped away when you tried to focus on it. Fine lines ran through it in repeating geometric curves, too deliberate to be damage and too organic to be standard circuitry.
Your irritation thinned despite yourself.
âWhat is that?â
âA piece of the problem,â Jason said.
Roy leaned his hip against the edge of your table. âA sexy piece of the problem.â
âDo not flirt with the alien shrapnel.â
âI was flirting with the expert.â
âAlso ill-advised.â
Koriâs expression had gone serious. âIt is old.â
You glanced at her. âYou recognize it?â
âNot fully. I recognize the shape of its energy, but it has been changed. Perhaps Tamaranean. Perhaps Psion. Perhaps both.â
That got your attention. âBoth sounds bad.â
âIt often is,â Kori said.
Jason tapped the lid of the case. âThis shard broke off the main artifact during transport. A private collector named Lucian Crowe bought the larger piece and locked it under his estate near Marseille. The vault is air-gapped, shielded, and running a hybrid system none of our gear can read from the outside.â
You looked at the shard again. The lines along its surface seemed to pulse.
âCrowe has alien tech in a private vault,â you said slowly, âand you want to steal it.â
âRecover it.â
âSteal it before the man who stole it can keep it. I understand branding, Jason.â
Roy grinned. âCrime with ethics.â
âDo not help.â
âI think I helped a little.â
âYou did not.â
Jason crossed his arms. âThe vault has no wireless access. Drones die within thirty feet of the lower level. The main artifact is tied into the internal security system, and if we pull it wrong, we donât know what it triggers.â
You closed your eyes.
Roy said, âSheâs doing the thing.â
âWhat thing?â Jason asked.
âThe thing where sheâs already solving it and hating us for being right.â
âI am hating you for several reasons,â you said.
âBut one of them is because Iâm right.â
âDo not make me regret saving your face from microfusion shrapnel.â
Kori stepped closer, her voice gentler than the othersâ. âWe would not ask if there were another way. You will not be there to fight. You will be there to understand the machine.â
âI understand machines from behind walls and heavily encrypted distance.â
âThe distance is the problem,â Jason said. âWe need hands on the system.â
You looked at Roy before you meant to. He had gone quieter. The humor was still there because Roy rarely abandoned a shield while conscious, but it had settled into something less bright. He was watching you with open concern, and that was worse than if he had made another joke. Roy could tease you into doing almost anything because you could tease back. This felt like care, and care made you stupid.
âIâm not a vigilante,â you said.
âWe know,â Jason replied.
âI donât do fieldwork.â
âWe know.â
âI am extremely attached to being unshot.â
Roy lifted a hand. âFor what itâs worth, I am also attached to you being unshot.â
You stared at him.
His mouth twitched. âThat sounded smoother in my head.â
âDid it?â
âNo, actually. I panicked halfway through.â
You should not have laughed. Unfortunately, you did.
Jason looked between you with the exhausted resignation of a man who had been trapped in an elevator with jazz. âRoy stays with you the whole time. Kori and I handle security. You get in, interface with the vault, disconnect the artifact, and get out.â
You studied the shard. The sensible answer remained no. It sat in your mouth, clean and ready. Then the lines along the metal flared in response to some unknown input, and your nearest monitor flickered.
Your curiosity stirred.
Roy saw it happen. You knew because his face changed.
âDonât,â you warned.
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou looked smug.â
âI have a naturally smug resting face.â
âYou have a naturally punchable resting face.â
âSee?â Kori said warmly. âAffectionate battle.â
Jason groaned.
You rubbed a hand over your face. âI want hazard pay.â
Jason nodded. âDone.â
âAnd I call retreat if I think the system is unstable.â
âDone.â
âAnd Roy does not touch anything unless I specifically tell him to touch it.â
Roy put the coffee down and raised both hands. âI will be your humble assistant.â
âThat sentence has never once described you.â
âI said will be. Personal growth.â
You held his gaze longer than you should have. âI mean it. If Iâm on the ground, you listen.â
Royâs smile softened again, the joking surface giving way to something steadier beneath. âIâll listen.â
You hated that you believed him.
The estate outside Marseille looked like every criminal billionaireâs idea of subtlety: pale stone walls, manicured cypress, glass balconies, an infinity pool overlooking the sea, and enough concealed security to make the entire cliffside hum with money and paranoia. From the outside, it could have been a vacation home. Through your tablet, it looked like a migraine.
You crouched behind a maintenance structure near the eastern edge of the property, wearing body armor Jason had produced far too quickly and an earpiece you had modified yourself because you trusted your own encryption more than his. The Mediterranean stretched dark and quiet beyond the cliffs. The night smelled like salt, stone, and expensive flowers.
You missed your chair. You missed your monitors. You missed the ability to glare at danger through a screen while wearing pajama pants.
Roy crouched beside you, bow in hand, wearing the serene expression of a man who thought breaking into fortified estates was a reasonable way to spend an evening. He glanced over when you shifted the tablet against your knee.
âYou okay?â
âI am reconsidering several life choices.â
âThatâs normal.â
âFor you.â
âUsually I wait until after the explosion.â
âYou are bad at comfort.â
âI can try flirting.â
âI will push you into the ocean.â
He smiled, but his eyes stayed on the perimeter lights. âYouâd have to get through my reflexes.â
âI have disabled three of your comm units remotely.â
âThose were innocent.â
âThose were playing music during a stealth op.â
âThey were boosting morale.â
âThey were playing ABBA.â
âExactly.â
Jasonâs voice cut in through comms. âIf you two are done.â
âYou are no fun on heists,â Roy said.
âItâs not a heist.â
âIt is absolutely a heist,â you said.
Jason ignored you both. âPatrolâs coming around west. Kori, youâre up.â
Above you, Kori crossed the sky like a silent flare, too fast and high for the guards to register before their feed died. Your tablet showed two camera grids that froze, looped, and resumed with edited footage. You tapped three commands into the overlay and opened a six-minute window through the outer perimeter.
âEast path is blind,â you said. âThermal sweep is on a delay. Two guards by the service entrance, one drone on the south balcony. Kori has twelve seconds to make that drone regret existing.â
âI will be swift,â Kori said.
The drone vanished from your feed.
Roy whispered, âI love watching her work.â
âI love when people complete tasks without arguing.â
âThat feels pointed.â
âIt is.â
He touched your elbow lightly. You looked at his hand before you looked at him. The contact was brief, barely more than a check-in. It should not have steadied you as much as it did.
âStay behind me once weâre inside,â he said.
âI thought you were my humble assistant.â
âI can be humble in front.â
âThat is not how hierarchy works.â
âIâm reinventing it.â
You rolled your eyes, but your pulse had slowed. Roy noticed. His hand fell away before it could become something either of you had to address.
Jason dropped the two guards by the service entrance with the efficiency of a man who had decided the night would go better if no one got to finish a sentence. The door opened on your command, and the four of you slipped inside.
The first floor smelled like polished wood and cold air. Crowe had filled the place with art, or what people with more money than taste considered art: stolen statues, framed weapons, antique maps, fragments of things that belonged in museums and were instead arranged under perfect lighting for one manâs private enjoyment. You kept your attention on your tablet. Objects were easier to pity when you were not trying to stay alive.
The house systems were easy compared to the vault. Too easy, which annoyed you. Crowe had spent millions on hardware and then let human arrogance make the architecture predictable. You looped feeds, delayed door alarms, and walked Jason through a rotating pressure sensor in the hall outside the private elevator.
Roy stayed close. Too close, sometimes. His shoulder nearly brushed yours when you stopped beside a panel. His breath warmed the side of your neck when he leaned in to look at your screen. Once, while you were bypassing a biometric lock, his hand came to rest on the wall beside your head as he watched the corridor behind you. It put him around you without touching. Protective, but not crowding.
You hated how aware you were of him.
âYouâre staring at the wrong thing,â you murmured.
Royâs eyes flicked down. âIâm watching the hall.â
âYou were watching my hands.â
âYour hands are doing cool things.â
âMy hands are working.â
âThat is one of the cool things.â
The lock clicked open.
You refused to look at him as you stepped through. âYour field professionalism is overwhelming.â
âThank you. Iâve been practicing.â
Jason, several yards ahead, said, âYou havenât.â
âIâve been thinking about practicing.â
âThatâs different.â
âItâs adjacent.â
The private elevator took you below the estate, deep enough that your tablet lost the house network and switched to local mapping. The lower level had been carved into the cliff and reinforced with composite paneling. The air turned colder. The lighting became harsh and clean. Wealth disappeared, replaced by sterile function. You saw lab rooms through narrow windows as you passed. Containment chambers. Scanning equipment. Storage cases. A surgical table with restraints attached.
Your stomach tightened.
Roy noticed immediately. âHey.â
âIâm fine.â
His voice lowered. âI know you are. Still.â
You glanced at him and found no joke waiting. He had seen the table too. He knew what kind of people used restraints in private labs beneath their homes. The anger in his expression was quiet and sharp.
Jason stopped at the end of the hall. âVault.â
The door was circular, seamless, and embedded in the wall with no visible handle. A single access port sat beneath a shielded cover at waist height. The readings on your scanner went strange as soon as you lifted it, numbers bending into nonsense before snapping back.
Kori stood very still.
You looked at her. âBad?â
âOld,â she said again. âAnd hurt.â
It was not the kind of thing you wanted to hear about alien technology.
Jason glanced at you. âCan you open it?â
âProbably.â
âComforting.â
âYou want honest or comforting?â
He said nothing.
âThatâs what I thought.â
You settled in front of the access port and pulled your kit from your bag. Roy crouched beside you, bow resting across his knees, his body angled toward the corridor while his attention kept flicking back to you.
âDonât hover,â you said.
âIâm guarding.â
âYou are hovering with weapons.â
âVery different.â
You plugged into the port. Your tablet flashed white, then black, then filled with symbols that were not part of any language pack you had installed. The translation patch you had built from the shardâs resonance data stuttered, corrected itself, and began offering rough approximations.
Roy heard it in your silence. âWhat kind of frown is that?â
âThe bad kind.â
âI know several bad kinds.â
âThe system isnât just locked by code. Itâs reading the room.â
Jasonâs hand tightened around his gun. âReading how?â
âHeat. Electrical output. Brain activity, maybe.â You tapped deeper into the system, watching the symbols reorder themselves. âItâs tied into the artifact. Crowe didnât build a vault around it. He built the vault through it.â
âThat sounds unstable,â Roy said.
âThat is because you have pattern recognition.â
âIâm choosing to take that as a compliment.â
âIt almost was.â
Kori moved closer to the vault door. âCan it be opened without harm?â
âI think so,â you said, which was the most dangerous kind of answer. âI need quiet.â
For once, you got it.
Your world narrowed to the interface. The system resisted blunt commands, so you stopped giving them. You followed its rhythm instead, tracing the places where Croweâs human security had been forced around something older and stranger. The vault was listening. You disliked the word, but it was the right one. It listened for patterns, for intent, for emotional pressure. It had been designed for something delicate before Crowe turned it into a lock.
You found the seam.
The door opened with a low mechanical groan. Cold air spilled over the threshold. The chamber beyond was round and dark, lit from below by thin white lines in the floor. At the center stood a pedestal. Suspended above it, inside a transparent containment field, was the artifact.
It looked like two interlocked rings around a shard of living light. Metal, crystal, and energy moved together in a slow rotation, too elegant to be weaponry and too precise to be decoration. It gave off no heat on your scanner, but your skin prickled as if you had stepped too close to lightning.
Roy let out a low whistle. âOkay. That is sexy alien tech.â
âDo not flirt with the artifact either.â
âIâm appreciating craftsmanship.â
âIt can probably hear you.â
He leaned away slightly. âThen I respect its boundaries.â
Jason entered first, gun raised. Kori followed, eyes fixed on the spinning rings. You stayed near the access port, still connected to the vault system, and began mapping the containment field.
The deeper you went, the less you liked it.
âThis was altered,â you said. âBadly.â
Kori nodded. âThe Psions did this.â
You glanced up. âYouâre sure?â
âI know the cruelty of their work.â
There was a weight in her voice that made Royâs expression darken and Jasonâs mouth flatten. You looked back down, suddenly aware that this was not merely a dangerous machine. It was history in pieces, stolen, modified, sold, locked away under a rich manâs house.
You hated Crowe with surprising clarity.
âWhat was it originally?â you asked.
âI do not know,â Kori said. âPerhaps a healing instrument. Perhaps a ceremonial bond. Something meant for trust.â
Roy shifted. âAnd Crowe wired it to his alarm system.â
âMen like Crowe think trust is something they can buy a cage for,â Jason said.
The vault hummed.
Your tablet vibrated against your palm.
You looked down. âThat wasnât me.â
The floor lights shifted from white to amber. The artifactâs rings turned faster, drawing light inward until the center went dark. New symbols spilled across your screen faster than your patch could translate.
Roy stood. âTalk to us, Relay.â
âSecondary command just woke up.â
âCan you stop it?â
âI can if everyone stops asking me questions.â
Jason moved to the vault door. âWe have guards coming.â
âOf course we have guards coming.â
Kori lifted off the ground, energy gathering around her hands. âCan I destroy the pedestal?â
âNo,â you snapped. âIf you hit it while the containment field is inverting, the feedback couldââ
The vault door slammed shut. The sound punched through the chamber like a verdict.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Jason was at the door, knife in hand, tearing into the manual panel. âOpen it.â
âIâm trying.â
Roy came to your side. âWhat do you need?â
You shoved the scanner at him. âAim this at the artifact and keep it steady. Do not touch anything else.â
His face changed at your tone. All humor gone. âGot it.â
He moved into position.
You cut into the secondary command. The system fought back like a living thing. Crowe had built a trap beneath the trap: if anyone tried to deactivate the field, the artifact would activate instead, using the neurological signatures in the room as a trigger. You saw it one second before the system committed.
âOh,â you said.
Roy looked over. âOh good or oh bad?â
âEveryone down.â
The artifact opened. Light tore through the vault.
Roy moved first. He dropped the scanner and lunged for you, one arm catching around your waist as he hauled you backward from the interface. Your tablet hit the floor. His body turned around yours, bracketing you against the nearest console, one hand cradling the back of your head as the room went white.
For one impossible moment, you felt everything. Kori was a star in human shape, fear and anger blazing together with a grief so old it felt like deep space. Jason was a locked door with a burning room behind it, every instinct sharpened toward getting all of you out alive. Beneath them both, the artifact reached through the chamber with desperate, broken purpose, searching for a pattern it recognized.
Then Roy eclipsed all of it. His fear hit you like impact. Your name. Your body under his. His arms locked around you. The violent certainty that the blast would hit him first because he had chosen to be there. Beneath that, a rush of things you were never supposed to feel: affection buried under jokes, wanting buried under habit, the old ache of being too much and never enough, the terror of losing something before he had ever admitted he wanted to keep it.
The light went through him. Then through you.
The world snapped apart.
You came back to the sound of Roy saying your name. At least, you thought he was saying it. The comms were static. Your ears rang. Your cheek was pressed against his chest, and his hand was still cupped around your head. The vault strobed red around you. Somewhere nearby, Jason was cursing at the door.
âHey,â Roy said. âCome on. Look at me.â
You opened your eyes. His face hovered above yours, too close and too frightened. Blood tracked from a shallow cut near his temple. His hair was mussed, his shoulder smoking where the blast had burned through the outer layer of his jacket.
âYouâre very dramatic,â you managed.
Relief flooded you so hard you gasped.
It was not yours.
Roy laughed once, shaky and breathless, and then went still because he felt you feel it.
Your eyes met.
âOh,â you whispered.
The vault door shrieked open behind you.
Jason stepped through the gap with his helmet on, guns drawn. âMove.â
Guards shouted from the corridor. Kori flew past him in a streak of light, and the next several seconds became chaos.
Roy got you upright. The moment his hand left your waist, pain stabbed behind your eyes so sharply your knees buckled. He caught you again, and the pain eased.
Both of you froze.
Jason fired into the corridor. âThis is a bad time for whatever that is.â
âAgreed,â you said, grabbing Royâs hand.
His fingers closed around yours. Relief moved through the contact, warm and immediate, and you hated that you could not tell which one of you felt it first.
The escape came in pieces.
You remembered Roy keeping one hand on you as the four of you fought your way out of the lower level. You remembered Jason taking point with ruthless efficiency. You remembered Koriâs light burning through smoke. You remembered trying to pull up the estate schematic and seeing the lines swim on your screen whenever Roy moved more than a few feet away.
Worse than the pain was the noise.
Roy was in your head, though not exactly in words. He came through as pressure, heat, flashes of thought sharpened by emotion. His shoulder hurt. His ribs ached. He was angry at himself in a way that made your throat tighten. Shouldâve pulled her sooner. Shouldâve said no. Shouldâve kept her out of this. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
âStop,â you snapped as the group reached the service corridor.
Roy looked at you. âWhat?â
âThinking so loudly.â
His eyes widened.
Jason did not turn around. âDo I want to know?â
âNo,â you and Roy said together.
That would have been funny if the west stairwell had not exploded.
By the time you reached the van, your hands were shaking badly enough that Roy had to help you inside. He climbed in after you, and you hated the way your body leaned toward him as soon as he sat. Kori got behind the wheel. Jason slammed the back doors shut and pounded the side panel twice. The van tore away from the estate with the kind of speed that suggested Kori had learned to drive from someone who believed roads were merely polite suggestions.
Roy sat beside you, close but not touching. The space between you throbbed.
You clenched your teeth.
He noticed instantly. âCan I?â
He held out his hand.
That was the thing that almost broke you. He was in pain too. You could feel the echo of it. He was worried, confused, and strung tight with adrenaline, but he still asked before touching you.
You nodded.
His hand closed around yours.
The relief was so intense you had to shut your eyes.
Jason turned in the passenger seat. âExplain.â
âThe artifact was tied into neurological response,â you said, forcing the words through the haze. âThe blast created some kind of feedback loop.â
âThat is not an explanation.â
âItâs the only one I have while trying not to vomit.â
Kori glanced at you through the rearview mirror. Her expression softened. âYou are bonded.â
Jasonâs helmet turned toward her. âBonded.â
âIn feeling. Perhaps in sensation. It may be temporary.â
âMay be?â
âThe technology was damaged,â Kori said. âAnd altered. I will need to examine the shard.â
You opened your eyes. âWhat shard?â
Jason was quiet for half a second too long.
You stared. âJason.â
He reached into his jacket and withdrew the black case.
âYou brought unstable alien tech into the van with the people it just scrambled?â
âI wasnât leaving it for Crowe.â
âYou could have mentioned it.â
âWe were being shot at.â
Royâs thumb moved across the back of your hand, small and unconscious. It steadied you before you could resent it. Then his worry spiked when he realized he had done it.
You turned to him. âDo not apologize.â
âI didnât.â
âYou were about to.â
He looked uncomfortable. âThis is going to get weird fast.â
âIt already got weird. Youâre late.â
Kori pulled onto a dark service road, leaving the estate lights far behind. âTouch will help. Distance may worsen the symptoms until the bond settles.â
Jason leaned back in his seat and said nothing for a long moment.
Then he said, âOf course touch helps.â
The safehouse was ugly, practical, and aggressively Jason.
It sat on the edge of an industrial stretch outside the city, surrounded by shuttered garages and storage units. Inside, it had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen stocked with protein bars and instant coffee, a weapons table, a medical cabinet, and furniture that looked as though Jason had collected it from various places where people had died. It was clean, secure, and devoid of any object chosen for joy.
âYou live like a haunted landlord,â you said as Roy helped you through the door.
Jason removed his helmet. âYouâre welcome.â
âI did not say thank you.â
âYou were about to.â
âI was not.â
Royâs hand was warm around yours. âShe wasnât.â
Jason looked at him. âYou stay out of this.â
âIâm literally attached to this.â
âTemporarily,â you said.
Roy glanced at you, and the flicker of hurt crossed the bond before he could bury it.
Your chest tightened.
You had not meant it like that. Or maybe you had, because the alternative was admitting that something in you had already started to worry about what would happen when it was over.
Jason did triage in the living room. He checked your pupils, cleaned the cut at your temple, asked questions about dizziness and memory, and kept his expression carefully neutral as you and Roy sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch because anything more than a foot of distance made both of you nauseous. When Jason cleaned the burn across Royâs shoulder, the sting echoed across your own skin.
You flinched.
Roy turned immediately. âYou felt that?â
âYes.â
His guilt rolled through you, hot and awful.
âStop,â you said.
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou felt guilty.â
Jason paused with the gauze in hand. âYou can feel that?â
âApparently.â
Roy looked down. âGreat.â
You touched his knee before thinking. âIâm fine.â
He went still.
The contact was nothing. Barely anything compared to holding hands, compared to his body over yours in the vault. But the emotion that moved through him in response was enormous. Relief. Desire. Care. All of it slamming into restraint so quickly it almost hurt.
You pulled your hand back.
The headache returned at once.
Roy caught your wrist, not hard, just enough to maintain contact. âSorry.â
You glared at him. âWhat did I say?â
âRight. No apologizing for involuntary alien-bond nonsense.â
âOr for wanting things.â
His eyes snapped to yours.
The silence that followed was a problem.
Jason stood. âIâm getting Kori.â
âCoward,â you said.
âYes,â he replied, and left.
Roy stared at the coffee table like it might offer legal counsel. âFor the record, I am trying very hard not to make this your problem.â
âYou are doing a terrible job.â
His mouth twitched. âYeah?â
âYou are anxious directly into my brain.â
âThat sounds unhealthy.â
âIt is.â
He leaned back against the couch, wincing when his shoulder touched the cushion. You felt the pain and turned without thinking.
âShoulder.â
âIâm fine.â
âYou are a liar.â
âYou knew that before the bond.â
âYes, but now I have receipts.â
That startled a laugh out of him. You felt the way it loosened something in his chest, and that was worse than the desire. Desire was easy to categorize, even when inconvenient. Royâs happiness at making you laugh was soft. Too soft. It slipped under your defenses before you could lock them.
Kori returned with Jason and the shard. She had wrapped it in a square of gold fabric that shimmered strangely under the safehouse lights.
âI spoke briefly with someone who may know more,â she said. âThe full answer will take time, but I believe the device was not made to harm. It was a bonding instrument once, perhaps used for healing or shared pain. The Psions damaged it. Crowe made the damage worse.â
You looked at the covered shard on the table. âOf course he did.â
âCan you reverse it?â Jason asked.
âNot safely yet. The bond was formed under distress. It must settle before I can separate them without causing more harm.â
âHow long?â Roy asked.
âHours. Perhaps days.â
Jasonâs jaw tightened. âAnd until then?â
âProximity,â Kori said. âTouch, when needed. Calm will help.â
Jason looked at your joined hands.
Roy looked at the ceiling.
You said, âDo not.â
âI didnât say anything,â Jason replied.
âYou thought something judgmental.â
âI always think something judgmental.â
Kori sat across from you, expression kind. âThe bond does not create what is absent. It reveals and amplifies what is already present.â
The room went still.
Royâs hand tightened around yours for half a second before he forced it to relax.
Jason closed his eyes.
You looked at Kori. âIs that medically relevant?â
âYes.â
âIs there a less devastating way to say it?â
She considered. âThe machine cannot invent desire, only conduct it.â
âThat was worse.â
Roy made a choking sound.
Jason turned toward the kitchen. âIâm leaving before this becomes my problem.â
âIt is your safehouse,â you said.
âThen Iâm leaving the problem in a room Iâm not in.â
Kori watched him go with fond patience. âHe is uncomfortable with tender complications.â
Royâs voice was dry. âJason? No.â
You tried to laugh, but the movement made your headache worse. Roy noticed, because of course he did.
âRest,â he said.
You looked at him. âDo not start giving me orders.â
âThat was a suggestion.â
âIt had tone.â
âMy tone is concerned.â
âYour concern is bossy.â
âIâm learning so much about myself tonight.â
Kori smiled. âRest would help. The bond will be easier to understand if your bodies are not fighting injury and fear.â
You wanted to argue. You also wanted to lie down before your skull split open. Unfortunately, standing without Roy touching you remained a bad idea. The second your hands separated, pain flashed through both of you. He caught your hand again, breathing through his teeth.
âOkay,â he said. âHands remain.â
Jasonâs voice came from the kitchen. âOne bedroom has a queen bed. The other has two twins. Kori and I are taking the twins.â
Your entire body went hot. âExcuse me?â
He reappeared with a glass of water and an expression that dared anyone to make him explain further. âYou two need touch, or you get migraines. I need at least three hours of sleep before Crowe sends people after us. Kori needs space to figure out the alien soul Velcro. Adults can share a bed without making it weird.â
Royâs emotions jumped so violently that you almost winced.
Jason pointed at him. âEspecially you.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou breathed like an idiot.â
âYou heard him breathe?â you asked.
âI heard the intent.â
Kori nodded. âThe intent was loud.â
Roy looked betrayed. âI am being persecuted.â
âYou are being accommodated,â Jason said. âTry gratitude.â
âI can take the floor,â Roy said quickly.
You turned toward him.
His face was open enough that you forgot your retort. Beneath the humor was the same fear as before: that you would think he wanted the situation, that his wanting made him unsafe, that needing touch because of the bond would make you feel trapped with him.
It was exhausting, realizing how careful Roy was underneath all that recklessness.
It was also inconveniently attractive.
âThe floor makes no sense,â you said.
He blinked. âWhat?â
âThe chair makes no sense either. The couch barely fits Jasonâs emotional repression, let alone a human body. We can share the bed.â
Roy stared.
âYou are going to be normal about it,â you added.
âAbsolutely.â
âYou are already being weird.â
âIâm being extremely normal in my head.â
âYou are not.â
His mouth opened, then closed. âThat is unfair.â
âYes.â
Jason set the water on the table. âGreat. Settled.â
âI hate this family meeting,â you said.
âWeâre not a family,â Jason said.
Kori smiled. âWe are an unconventional support structure.â
âThat is worse,â Jason said.
The bedroom was small, plain, and lit by a single lamp with a crooked shade. The bed took up most of the floor space. There was a dresser, a chair, blackout curtains, and no evidence of anyone having ever enjoyed being alive in that room. Jasonâs safehouse aesthetic seemed to have been developed by asking a bunker what it feared most.
Changing became a negotiation conducted with military seriousness and no eye contact. Jason had grabbed your emergency bag from the van, which meant you had backup hardware, chargers, field tools, and three different ways to bypass a locked server. What you did not have was clothes, because you had not packed for whatever fresh hell this was. Roy had a spare shirt in his bag, soft from use and big enough that you could pretend it solved more problems than it did.
You changed first, with Roy standing with his back to you and one hand held awkwardly behind him so you could keep two fingers hooked through his. Each brief loss of contact sent pressure blooming behind your eyes before you found his hand again. Fabric dragged. Armor came off in stages. Your dignity followed shortly after. There was no underwear in your bag, and the thought of putting borrowed sweatpants over nothing felt somehow worse than wearing only Royâs shirt, which at least fell low enough to cover what it needed to cover if you did not move too carelessly.
By the time you looked down at yourself, drowned in Roy Harperâs shirt and partially empathically bonded to him, you had given up on preparing for sharing a bed.
There was no preparation for that.
Then it was his turn, which was somehow worse. You faced the blackout curtains with the focus of someone defusing a bomb while Roy changed behind you, his fingers still loosely linked with yours. A buckle hit the floor. Fabric shifted. Roy swore under his breath when his injured shoulder pulled, and you felt the brief flash of pain through the bond before he could hide it.
âShoulder,â you said.
âIâm fine.â
âYou are very bad at lying for someone who does it professionally.â
âIâm wounded.â
âYes, that is my point.â
A soft laugh left him, followed by another rustle of fabric. âYou know, if youâre going to feel every time you want to look, turning around might be the more honest option.â
You stared harder at the curtains. âI am practicing restraint.â
âHot.â
âRoy.â
âWhat? It is.â
âYou are making this worse.â
âI am standing half-dressed in a safehouse bedroom while psychically handcuffed. Worse was already here.â
By the time he sat beside you again, Roy was in sweatpants and a clean shirt, his damaged shoulder bandaged beneath the fabric. He had not showered. Neither of you had. There was still a faint smear of soot near his jaw and dried blood near his hairline, but the clean clothes made him look softer in a way you had not prepared for.
He looked at you.
Then he looked at the hem of his shirt, which had fallen low enough to cover you when you were standing still, but now that you were sitting, rode just high enough to make it impossible for either of you to forget what you were not wearing beneath it.
Heat pulsed through the bond.
âSubtle.â
He closed his eyes. âI am trying so hard.â
âI can tell. That makes it funnier.â
âIt makes it worse from where Iâm sitting.â
âYou could stop staring.â
âI did stop staring.â
âAfter getting caught.â
âI am only human.â
âYou are mostly nuisance.â
âMostly,â he agreed, and his smile was tired but real. Then, after a beat, âFor the record, I am aware this is a practical clothing issue.â
âThat sounds almost mature.â
âI said almost.â
âYou were doing so well.â
âIâm doing heroic work internally,â he said. âYou have no idea.â
âUnfortunately, I have some idea.â
The old rhythm helped. You got into bed before you could overthink it, choosing the side closest to the wall because you had tactical instincts and also because it gave you something to do. Roy waited until you settled, then lay down beside you with stiff care, leaving an absurd gap between your bodies.
The gap lasted less than five seconds.
Pain bloomed behind your eyes, slow and sharp. Roy hissed softly beside you.
âThis is stupid,â you said.
âI support that assessment.â
âHand.â
He reached for you under the blanket. Your fingers slid together. The pain eased, though not fully.
Roy looked at the ceiling. âBetter?â
âSomewhat.â
âThat sounds like a no.â
âIt is a partial no.â
âCan I move closer?â
The question was so careful that something in your chest ached.
âYes.â
He shifted toward you. His shoulder brushed yours. Relief moved through the bond, warm and immediate, followed by awareness. His body close to yours. The hem of his shirt riding high against your thigh. The sound of your breathing in the quiet room. The fact that the two of you were alone now, with Jason and Kori beyond the wall and a bond humming between you like a live wire.
Roy went rigid.
âBreathe,â you said.
He let out a laugh that barely qualified as one. âWorking on it.â
âYou are panicking.â
âI am in a bed with the woman Iâve been flirting with for eight months while alien tech broadcasts my inside thoughts. I feel like a little panic is fair.â
Your heart gave a stupid little turn.
âThe woman youâve been flirting with?â you asked.
He froze.
You turned your head on the pillow. He was close enough that you could see the uncertainty cross his face, the way he wanted to make a joke and could not quite reach for one fast enough.
âYeah,â he said finally. âThat woman.â
You should have deflected. You were good at deflecting. You had built entire relationships out of deflection, made yourself useful enough to be kept around and sharp enough not to be handled carelessly. With Roy, deflection had always been easy because he was doing it too. Both of you tossed sparks across distance, trusting neither would let the fire catch.
The bond made silence honest.
âI flirted back,â you said.
His breath caught.
You felt that too.
âYeah?â he asked.
âYou cannot possibly be surprised.â
âIâm trying to decide how much of that was real and how much was you keeping me from electrocuting myself.â
âThose can overlap.â
His smile flickered. âKori would be thrilled to hear you say that.â
âDo not tell Kori anything.â
âShe already knows everything.â
âShe suspects everything. That is different.â
Roy rolled slightly onto his side, careful with his shoulder, facing you fully now. His hand remained in yours beneath the blanket. âWhat do you suspect?â
It was the wrong question to ask softly.
You looked at him, at the face you had watched through glitching cameras and rooftop feeds, at the mouth that could make anything sound like a joke until the joke broke and something sincere slipped out. Roy was reckless, yes. Brilliant. Charming. A walking hazard label with a bow and unresolved emotional baggage. He was also kinder than he pretended, more careful than he wanted credit for, and lonelier than most people noticed.
You suspected you were already in trouble.
âI suspect,â you said, âthat you call me when things are broken because it gives you an excuse.â
Royâs expression changed. âSometimes.â
âI suspect sometimes the broken thing is you.â
His jaw tightened.
You almost regretted saying it, except the bond carried his answer before pride could: yes.
You squeezed his hand. âI donât mind.â
He looked away. âYou should.â
âThat is not your decision.â
âMaybe not. But I know what itâs like to be somebodyâs bad habit.â
The words landed gently, which made them hurt more.
You knew pieces of Royâs past because files existed, because Jason had warned you without giving details, and because Roy had mentioned recovery once in a voice that dared you to make it a subject. You knew enough to understand that wanting had not always been safe for him. Need had been complicated. Comfort had been complicated. Shame had teeth, and sometimes Roy smiled like a man keeping them from closing.
You turned onto your side, keeping hold of his hand. âYou are not my bad habit.â
His mouth moved like he wanted to argue.
You lifted your eyebrows. âDo you want to fight with the woman currently inside your emotional blast radius?â
That startled a laugh out of him. The bond warmed.
âYouâre terrifying,â he said.
âYou like that.â
âI really do.â
The words were immediate. Too immediate to hide behind.
You both went quiet.
Desire moved then, slower than before. It did not crash through the bond the way panic had. It spread, intimate and heavy. Royâs gaze flicked to your mouth, then back up. Your own body responded before you could pretend otherwise. The bond caught that too.
Roy inhaled carefully. âWe should sleep.â
âYou donât want to sleep.â
âI am making a noble suggestion.â
âIt is a bad suggestion.â
âIt is probably the only smart one Iâve had all night.â
âDo you want to stop?â you asked.
His eyes closed briefly. âNo.â
âThen stop trying to decide for both of us.â
He opened his eyes. âI am trying to be decent.â
âYou are being decent. You asked. I answered.â
âThat easy?â
âNo. But it can be that clear.â
Roy stared at you for a long moment, and whatever he saw in your face must have reached something the bond could not, because his restraint shifted. It did not vanish. It changed shape, making room for want instead of trying to bury it.
âCan I kiss you?â he asked.
âYes.â
The first kiss was careful.
That surprised you, though perhaps it should not have. Roy did many things quickly, but he kissed you as if he had spent months imagining it and still did not trust the moment not to break under his hands. His mouth touched yours softly, once, then again, and his fingers tightened around yours beneath the blanket.
The bond lit.
It was overwhelming, but not unpleasant. His nerves and yours braided at the edges, doubling sensation until the slide of his lips over yours felt like both giving and receiving. You felt his pulse jump when your free hand touched his jaw. You felt your own pleasure echoed back by the low sound he made when you kissed him harder.
Roy pulled back first, breath uneven. âOkay?â
You blinked at him. âThat is an absurd question.â
âIâm going to need more than that.â
You kissed him again.
He accepted that answer with enthusiasm.
The second kiss was less careful. Royâs hand slid to your waist, warm through your shirt, then stopped there until you shifted closer. The permission broke something loose in him. He drew you in, still mindful of his shoulder, mouth opening under yours with a hunger that made the bond flare hot.
You had expected him to be good with his mouth because Roy was good with it in every way that had annoyed you for months: talking his way past locked doors, flirting over comms while bullets flew, distracting armed men with sheer offensive charm, and making you laugh when you were trying very hard to stay mad at him. Expectation did not help. He kissed like he listened, and that was devastating. Every small sound you made changed him. Every reaction taught him something. His hand moved at your waist, thumb stroking once beneath the hem of your shirt when it rode up.
Skin touched skin.
Both of you gasped.
Roy went still. âToo much?â
âNo.â You heard your own voice and barely recognized it. âAgain.â
His eyes darkened.
He touched you again, this time deliberately, palm sliding beneath your shirt to settle against your side. The bond carried his reaction with humiliating clarity. Heat. Desire. Awe so intense it nearly embarrassed you. He was not only touching you. He was stunned that he was allowed.
You caught his wrist and guided his hand higher.
Roy exhaled shakily. âSweetheart.â
The word had always been a weapon in his mouth. Playful. Teasing. Designed to make you threaten him. This time, it sounded wrecked.
You kissed him before he could see what that did to you.
Things moved slowly after that, though not because either of you lacked interest. The bond made rushing impossible. Every sensation needed room. Royâs hand on your skin, your fingers in his hair, his mouth at your throat, the flex of his stomach beneath your palm when your hand slipped under his shirt. Everything reflected. Everything deepened. If either of you moved too quickly, pleasure sharpened toward something almost painful.
Roy learned the rhythm faster than you expected, and then you remembered that he was always learning. That was part of the problem with him. People saw the jokes first. They saw the reckless grin, the bad impulse control, the quiver full of impossible arrows, and they missed the mind underneath. Roy paid attention. He adapted. He learned where pressure became too much and where you wanted more.
You pushed his shirt up, and he sat back enough to pull it over his head with a wince.
Your hands caught his before he could hide it. âShoulder.â
âItâs fine.â
âYou are incapable of telling the truth about injuries.â
âI tell the truth about injuries all the time. Usually through humor.â
âThat does not count.â
âIt counts a little.â
You touched the edge of the bandage. The burn was ugly but clean, crossing the upper slope of his shoulder where the blast had hit him first. Your throat tightened.
Roy felt it.
âHey,â he said softly. âDonât.â
âYou got hurt because of me.â
âI got hurt because Crowe is an asshole with a haunted space artifact.â
âRoy.â
âI pulled you back because I wanted to. Iâd do it again.â
The truth of that moved through the bond, steady and immovable.
You hated it. You needed it. You could not decide which feeling scared you more.
âThat is exactly the problem,â you said.
His smile was small. âYeah. I know.â
You touched his chest, just over his heart. âDo you?â
His hand covered yours. For once, the answer took time.
âI know Iâm not great at limits when somebody I care about is in trouble,â he said. âI know thatâs not fair to the people who have to watch it. Iâm working on it.â
The last sentence landed with the weight of something practiced, not because it was false, but because he had said it in other contexts. Recovery was not always about one thing. Sometimes it was about learning how to survive your own instincts in every direction.
You leaned in and kissed him gently.
He accepted it like forgiveness, which made your chest ache.
âThis does not get you out of being yelled at later,â you murmured.
His smile touched your mouth. âWouldnât dream of it.â
You pushed him back against the pillows, careful of his shoulder. He went willingly, watching you climb over him with a look that made the bond go bright and hot again. You settled over his thighs, the hem of his shirt riding higher than either of you could pretend not to notice, and his hands came to your hips before they froze.
You felt the restraint lock down.
âRoy.â
âIâm being respectful.â
âYou are being tense.â
âI contain multitudes.â
âYou can touch me.â
His fingers flexed. âWhere?â
The question went straight through you.
âAnywhere.â
His mouth parted like he had several answers and trusted none of them. Then his hands slid up your sides beneath his shirt, slowly enough to change your breathing. He followed the reaction, eyes fixed on your face, palms warm against your ribs. When his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, pleasure curled low in your stomach and moved through the bond before you could hide it.
Roy swallowed. âCan I?â
You knew what he meant. The shirt was the only thing you had on, and both of you knew it.
âYes.â
He lifted it carefully anyway, giving you time to stop him, giving you time to help him. The fabric dragged over your skin and disappeared somewhere beside the bed, leaving you bare above him in the crooked lamplight. Roy looked at you with an expression that made you feel too seen, not because of the bond this time, but because of him.
âYouâre doing the thing,â you said, self-consciousness flickering despite the heat between you.
âWhat thing?â
âLooking at me like that.â
His mouth curved, but his voice came out softer than his expression. âI like looking at you.â
âYou are very sincere while concussed.â
âIâm not concussed. Jason checked.â
âJasonâs medical standards include âstill breathingâ and âno visible organ loss.ââ
Roy laughed, and the sound eased the tightness in your chest. Then his mouth found your collarbone, and the laughter left both of you.
His kisses moved lower, careful and hungry at once. When his lips closed over your nipple, your hips rocked down against him before you could think. Pleasure flashed through the bond. Roy groaned against your skin, his hands tightening on your waist.
âDo that again,â he said.
You did.
The friction pulled a sound from both of you. He was hard beneath you, and the realization would have been obvious without the bond, but feeling his desire from the inside was something else entirely. It was not simple lust. It was layered with months of almosts. Your voice in his ear. Your name in his phone. Your hand reaching for him in the van. Your face above him now, wanting him back.
You bent and kissed him.
Roy met you with enough heat to make the room tilt. His hands roamed carefully, learning you through skin and sensation, until one slid down over your hip and stopped at the outside of your thigh.
There was nothing beneath his hand except bare skin, and the knowledge moved through the bond like a spark catching dry tinder.
Roy went very still.
You felt him pull himself back from the edge, not away from you, but away from rushing. It was almost unfair how much that restraint affected you.
âTell me where this stops,â he said.
Your breath caught.
Then you held his gaze and answered clearly, because the bond had already stolen subtlety from both of you. âIt doesnât.â
His fingers flexed once against your thigh.
âSweetheart.â
âI want this,â you said. âI want you. Keep going.â
The restraint in him shifted. It did not disappear, but it changed shape, becoming focus instead of distance. The smile that crossed his face was small, bright, and gone almost immediately beneath concentration.
He shifted you gently onto your back, moving slowly when the bond tugged at the change in position. For a moment, he hovered above you, braced on one arm, hair falling forward, bandaged shoulder held carefully away. His eyes searched your face once more, and whatever he found there softened something in him.
Then he kissed his way down your body, and coherent conversation became less available.
Roy touched you like he had something to prove and all the time in the world to prove it. He drew your shorts down your legs, pausing when the movement pulled you too far apart and the bond complained in a sharp pulse. He solved the problem by keeping one hand on your thigh, grounding both of you. Then his mouth returned to your skin, kissing your hip, your stomach, the inside of your thigh.
You reached down and caught his hair. âRoy.â
He looked up. âTell me no, and I stop.â
The clarity of it nearly undid you.
You tightened your fingers gently. âI was going to tell you to keep going.â
His eyes darkened.
The first touch of his mouth made your back arch.
Roy groaned like he felt it almost as strongly as you did, which, given the bond, perhaps he did. His hands held your thighs open with careful pressure, not pinning, only steadying. He learned quickly there, too, which should have been unfair and absolutely was. His tongue moved slowly at first, testing, listening to every breath and every tug of your fingers in his hair. When he found a rhythm that made your hips lift, he stayed there.
The bond turned pleasure into a loop.
Your body reacted; Roy felt it; his hunger spiked; you felt that too. It built on itself until the room seemed to narrow around his mouth and your hands and the low sounds he made against you. The headache, the fear, the vault, the shame of wanting too muchâall of it receded beneath the weight of being touched by someone who was paying attention.
âRoy,â you gasped.
He slid one hand up your body and found yours, lacing your fingers together beside your hip. The contact steadied the bond and ruined you at the same time.
You came with his name on your mouth.
Roy did not stop until you tugged at his hair and murmured, âToo much.â
He pulled back immediately, pressing one last soft kiss to your thigh before he climbed up your body. His mouth was warm and wet when he kissed you, and the taste of yourself on him sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He smiled against your lips as he felt it.
âSmug,â you whispered.
âDeeply.â
âYou were told to be normal.â
âI have never promised that successfully.â
You laughed, breathless, and his expression changed again, going soft in the dim room.
âI like that,â he said.
âWhat?â
âYou laughing.â
The words sat between you, tender and unexpected.
You touched his face. âYou are dangerous when you stop joking.â
His smile wavered. âYeah?â
âYes.â
âGood dangerous or bad dangerous?â
You kissed him instead of answering. He seemed to understand.
After that, the rest of his clothes came off with less grace than either of you had hoped for. Roy nearly tangled himself in the blanket trying to remove his sweatpants without moving too far away from you, and you laughed so hard the bond lit with his satisfaction before he even freed one ankle. He accused you of enjoying his suffering. You told him his suffering had excellent comedic timing.
The laughter helped.
It made the room less fragile. It reminded you that this was Roy, not only the bond, not only the desperate press of feelings neither of you had invited. Roy, who made terrible jokes when injured. Roy, who sent you pictures of broken arrowheads after midnight. Roy, who looked at you like you were the most impossible machine he had ever been lucky enough to understand.
He reached for the pocket of his discarded pants and produced a condom with triumphant relief.
You raised an eyebrow. âPrepared?â
âI am an optimist.â
âYou brought that on a mission?â
âI brought several things on a mission.â
âDo not make me ask follow-up questions.â
He tore the packet open, then paused. His humor faded, replaced by that careful seriousness again.
âLast check,â he said. âIs this what you want?â
The question settled over you, warm and steady.
You were tired, sore, overwhelmed, and still connected to him in ways you did not fully understand. But the answer was clear. It had been clear before the artifact, before the vault, before Roy shielded you from light meant to tear through anything in its path. It had been there in every late call you answered and every joke you pretended not to enjoy.
âYes,â you said. âYou. This. I want it.â
Royâs breath left him.
He kissed you slowly, and then he rolled the condom on with hands that were not quite steady.
When he settled between your thighs, the bond went quiet for one suspended moment, like even the alien technology understood that this needed its own space. Roy braced himself above you, careful of his shoulder, his body warm and solid against yours. You wrapped your legs around his hips and drew him closer.
He entered you slowly.
Both of you stopped breathing.
The sensation was intense enough on its own, the stretch of him filling you inch by inch, the heat of his body, the tremble in his arms as he held himself back. The bond made it sharper but not less yours. You felt his restraint, his pleasure, the stunned gratitude moving through him as if being wanted by you was something he had not known how badly he needed until it happened.
When he was fully inside, his forehead dropped to yours.
âOkay?â he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, then realized he needed to hear it. âYes.â
He kissed you, and then he moved.
Slow at first. Careful. Almost too careful, until you tightened your legs around him and drew him deeper. Roy groaned into your mouth, and the sound snapped the last thread of careful restraint between you. His rhythm shifted, still controlled, but fuller now, each thrust dragging pleasure through both of you.
You held onto him carefully, avoiding his injured shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscles of his back. He kissed your jaw, your throat, your mouth whenever he needed to swallow a sound. The bond carried flashes of him: the way you felt around him, the way your voice saying his name nearly unraveled him, the way he kept thinking that this was real and then fearing it might not be.
You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. âReal.â
His hips stuttered.
âWhat?â
âThis is real,â you said.
Royâs expression cracked.
He kissed you hard, and the next thrust punched a sound out of you. He followed it, angling his hips until pleasure sparked bright and deep. Your nails dug into his back. He found that rhythm and stayed there, breath coming rough, eyes fixed on you like he needed to watch you feel it.
âThere,â you said.
âYeah?â
âYes. Roy, please.â
The word âpleaseâ did something to him. You felt it ripple through the bond, desire and want and tenderness and a nearly painful need to give you whatever you were asking for. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same attention as before.
The pleasure climbed fast.
You clung to him, overwhelmed by the press of his body, the rhythm of him inside you, the touch of his fingers, the bond folding his desire around yours until the room seemed to pulse with it. Roy murmured your name against your mouth, low and unsteady, and that was what pushed you over.
Your orgasm hit in a wave that made you shake beneath him.
Roy followed seconds later, his control finally breaking as he buried his face against your neck and came with a groan that seemed to move through both your bodies at once. The bond flared warm and bright, then softened, carrying the echo of pleasure into something quieter.
For a while, there was only breathing.
Roy shifted carefully, wincing as he moved off his shoulder and onto his side. He dealt with the condom, then came back to you under the blanket with that same hesitation as before, as if he still expected permission to expire without warning.
You moved into his arms before he could ask.
His body relaxed around yours.
The bond had settled to a hum. It no longer hurt. It no longer crowded every thought. It was simply there, a thread between you, warm and strange and temporary.
Royâs hand moved slowly up and down your back. âYou okay?â
âYes.â
âPain?â
âJust sore.â
âRegrets?â
You lifted your head.
He was staring past you, trying to make the question sound casual. It did not work. Even without the bond, you thought you would have known.
âNo.â
His throat moved. âIf tomorrow you decide this was just the artifactââ
âIt wasnât.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI do.â
âSweetheart.â
You pushed yourself up enough to look at him properly. âRoy.â
He shut up.
âI wanted you before the artifact. I wanted you before the vault. I wanted you when you sent me pictures of broken equipment at two in the morning and pretended you needed technical support when what you needed was someone to stay on the line.â
His face went still.
You softened. âI stayed on the line because I wanted to.â
His arm tightened around you.
For once, he had nothing quick to say.
Then, very quietly, he said, âI didnât want to be another thing you had to fix.â
Your chest ached.
âYou are not a project,â you said.
âIâm a little bit of a project.â
âYou are a person who sometimes needs help.â
âPeople get tired of that.â
âSome do,â you said. âSome answer the phone.â
He closed his eyes.
You kissed him gently, and when he kissed you back, the bond carried gratitude so raw that you nearly cried. You did not. You let him hold you instead.
Jason knocked on the door six hours later with the emotional delicacy of a police raid.
Roy jerked awake beside you. âOccupied.â
âI hate that I know that,â Jason said through the door. âKori has a reversal plan. Put clothes on.â
Royâs face went through several stages of horror and resignation.
You buried your face in his chest and laughed.
Jason added, âIâm going to the kitchen. If I see anything I canât unsee, Iâm shooting both of you.â
âYou would miss me,â Roy called.
âI would grieve efficiently.â
Koriâs voice floated from farther down the hall. âI am pleased the night went well.â
âOh my god,â you whispered.
Roy closed his eyes. âThe sea is still an option.â
âYou are not leaving me alone with them.â
âRight. Teamwork.â
Getting out of bed was less painful than expected. The bond still tugged when you moved too far away, but it no longer punished you for every inch you moved. You borrowed one of Royâs hoodies because your shirt had somehow ended up under the bed, and because the second he saw you in it, his entire face did something worth preserving for later mockery. This time, you put on the sweatpants, even if you still had no underwear.
âDo not look so smug,â you said.
âIâm looking respectfully.â
âYou are not.â
âIâm looking respectfully smug.â
âThat is worse.â
When you entered the kitchen, Jason was making coffee with the grim focus of a man trying to survive exposure to other peopleâs feelings. Kori sat at the table with the shard wrapped in gold fabric before her. She took in Royâs hoodie and sweats on you, Royâs hand at the small of your back, and the carefully neutral expression both of you were failing to maintain.
Her smile bloomed.
Jason pointed a spoon at her without turning around. âDonât.â
âI said nothing.â
âYou inhaled.â
âIt was a happy inhalation.â
âDonât do that either.â
You sat at the table, Roy close beside you. âCan we end the bond?â
Koriâs expression sobered. âYes. It has settled enough. The separation may be uncomfortable, but it should not harm you.â
âAnd afterward?â Roy asked.
âThe forced connection will end. There may be residual sensitivity for a few hours.â She looked between you, not unkindly. âAnything that remains after that is yours.â
Jason muttered, âGreat. Science and feelings.â
You looked at Roy. His face was relaxed, but you knew him better now. Even without the bond screaming every emotion across your nerves, you could read the worry in the set of his mouth.
âWhat?â you asked softly.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that Jason could pretend not to hear if he wanted to. âWhat if it feels different when itâs gone?â
âIt will.â
His gaze flicked to yours.
âDifferent does not mean gone,â you said.
He absorbed that. Slowly. Like he wanted to believe you, but did not want to grab too hard in case the belief cracked.
You slid your hand into his under the table. He held on.
The reversal felt like stepping out of a crowded room into silence.
Kori guided your hands and Royâs around the covered shard. She spoke in a language you did not recognize, soft and rhythmic. The shard warmed beneath your palms. For one last moment, the bond surged open. Roy flooded through you: fear, hope, want, affection, the terrible vulnerability of needing something and choosing to reach for it anyway.
Then the thread snapped.
You gasped.
Roy did too.
The silence inside your own head was immediate and enormous.
You were alone in your body again. No echo of Royâs pain. No flicker of his desire under your skin. No second heartbeat of concern and care and restless energy. Just you, your breath, your pulse, your hand still touching his over the shard.
You should have felt only relief.
Relief came, yes. But grief came with it.
Roy stared at you across the table. For the first time since the vault, you could not feel him at all.
Then he pushed back his chair just enough to face you properly, cupped your jaw, and kissed you like he meant to make himself understood without supernatural help.
You leaned into him. His hands framed your face, warm and real and chosen. There was no bond to amplify it, no alien resonance making emotion impossible to hide. There was only Roy, kissing you in Jasonâs ugly kitchen while Kori made a delighted sound and Jason said something under his breath that would probably ruin the moment if you cared.
You did not care.
Roy broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours. âStill real?â
You touched his face. âStill real.â
His smile came slowly, bright and relieved enough to make your chest hurt. âGood.â
Jason cleared his throat. âKitchen.â
Roy did not look away from you. âYou have one fork.â
âI eat here emotionally.â
âYou do not do anything emotionally.â
âI am about to throw you outside emotionally.â
Kori folded the gold fabric over the shard. âI think this is a successful courtship.â
âIt was not courtship,â Jason said automatically.
You glanced at Roy.
His hand found yours.
You smiled despite yourself. âIt might be courtship now.â
Royâs face lit up.
Jason stared at you. âYou too?â
âI contain multitudes,â you said.
Roy looked delighted. âThat was my line.â
âI improved it.â
âYou improve a lot of things.â
The sincerity landed without warning.
You looked at him, and for once, there was no bond to reveal the emotion underneath. You did not need it. Roy was standing in front of you with his hand in yours, bruised, exhausted, warm, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly gotten you killed by association.
You squeezed his hand.
Two nights later, Roy sent you a picture of another smoking circuit board.
You were back in your apartment, behind your screens, wearing a shirt you stole from Roy and trying to restore the last pieces of your sleep schedule. The Outlaws were in Prague this time, which you knew because you had routed their travel documents yourself and because Roy had sent you six pictures of street food before Jason confiscated his phone for operational security.
The picture arrived at 12:19 a.m.
terrible news. sheâs dead
You zoomed in on the circuit board, then sat back.
that is a capacitor
yeah but she had dreams
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
why are you texting me about a capacitor during a surveillance op?
Roy took fifteen seconds to answer.
because jay said if i asked u out over comms heâd shoot me
Your heart turned over.
Then another message arrived.
dinner when iâm back? not because of alien tech. because i want to see you and ideally not almost die first
You let him wait. Just long enough to preserve your pride.
Then you typed back.
dinner. eight. bring intact technology or donât come at all.
His reply came almost instantly.
yes maâam
A second later:
for the record i wanted to ask before the alien overshare
You looked at the message for a long moment, the monitors humming softly around you, the room quiet except for the faint pulse of encrypted channels and the distant city beyond your window.
You answered honestly.
i know
The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.
yeah?
You thought of the first call, the smoking circuit board, the jokes that were not only jokes. You thought of Roy in the vault, pulling you back before the blast hit. Roy in the dark bedroom, asking when he could have taken. Roy in the kitchen after the bond broke, crossing the room because he wanted you without anything alien making the wanting easier to admit.
You typed:
i wanted you to
This time, his answer took longer.
When it came, it was simple.
good. eight.
Your secure comm pinged before you could answer.
Jasonâs voice came through a moment later. âRelay.â
âYes?â
âTell your boyfriend to stop smiling at his phone during surveillance.â
Royâs voice protested in the background. âHe called me your boyfriend!â
âI heard.â
âYou didnât correct him.â
âI was processing the presumption.â
âYou paused.â
âThe bond is gone, Harper.â
âI have instincts.â
âYou have head trauma.â
âAlso instincts.â
Jason made a sound of profound suffering. âIâm muting him.â
Koriâs voice entered the channel, warm and pleased. âI believe this is still courtship.â
âStill not courtship,â Jason said.
Roy laughed, bright and familiar through the line. âPretty sure it is now.â
You leaned back in your chair, listening to them bicker through the clean channel you had built, the signal steady in your ear. The Outlaws were easy enough when friendship came with protocols. Jason needed routes, Kori needed context, and Roy needed reminders not to touch volatile equipment without supervision.
Roy had become the kind of problem your phone recognized before you did. It buzzed after midnight, and some tired, traitorous part of you already knew it would be him before the screen lit up. Not because he was careless, exactly. Careless people did not send encrypted attachments, blurred circuit diagrams, and three separate angles of a device before asking whether the blinking red light was âa personality thing.â Roy prepared for disaster beautifully. He simply preferred to flirt with it first.
But your phone was in your hand, your smile was already there, and when his voice came through the comm again, softer this time, you did not pretend you had not been waiting for it.
âSee you at eight, sweetheart.â
You looked at the monitors, at the open line, at the ridiculous shape your life had taken because Jason Todd had once climbed through the window with a hard drive and Roy Harper had never learned when to leave well enough alone.
âTry not to die before our date, Arsenal.â
His laugh warmed the channel.
âWouldnât dream of it.â
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Robin divider â€ïžđ
encompassing a failed trip to Ikea, her brief journey though the deserts of California (she didn't even KNOW California had so much desert) and being stranded in a picturesque, but unbearably boring coastal town before she finds her way to star city, working for queen industries.
part 1
Her hand shook as she looked over leasing documents. It was a small studio above another unique in a complex that was just house that had been convertedâshe had the second story, with an older woman above her that was a few blocks from her job and a straight shot to the beach.Â
It wasnât particularly cheap, but not egregiously expensive and did have AC. If she squinted, she couldâve probably seen passing ships in the distance. She had a few interviews lined up for positions in her fieldâone being a Fish Biologist which wasnât the worst. Her Bachelors had been in Aquatic Biology, but her Masters was in Geology with a specialization in Marine Geology and before she dropped out, had been trying to do a PhD in Geophysicsâeverything had pointed her in the direction of being a Coastal Geologist. She tried not to think of those years and what seemed like an endless stream of failures before she gave in, telling herself that she was living off Bruceâs dime, but she was looking for a job.
Except, she stopped after a few months and Bruce had never asked.
Half of the jobs she looked at paid less than being a server, which disgusted her but that she knew she shouldnât be too surprised about.
She should be more worried about her thoughts kept circling back to what would Bruce think of the studio. It wasnât in a horrible neighborhood, really it was a pretty nice one but she also thought her car was nice and he hated her Golf. She signed her name at the correct highlighted sections, she flipped to the next page and signed some more. It didnât matter what Bruce thoughtâthis studio was the end of their association. There would be no weekly texts asking about how San Diego was, if there was anything that she needed, how apartment hunting was going that she would ignore on principle.Â
She told herself that she wouldnât miss them, but the near ancient part of her that had almost loved Bruce hadnât entirely been snuffed out and to make matters worseâshe had been near invigorated with his concern for her.Â
She couldâve shoved the thoughts down. It wasn't worth thinking if Bruce simply texted her a few times, called her a handful more.. Having him physically track her down across the country was enough to make her think that he mightâve loved her, despite the experience of years prior that had her knowing he didnât.
She was signing on the second to last page now, plotting out her text to Bruce. Would it be just a few lines? Short and concise? She refused to be sentimental. The last thing that she wanted to say anything even alluding to potentially missing Bruce, though she would. It wasnât the money, or the townhouse she wouldâve never been able to afford otherwise (and likely will never be able to live in a building that nice again) He was a chapter of her life that was closing. Technically, her departure had been a break up but she refused to think of it as suchâit was an arrangement ending, an obligation that met its natural conclusion.Â
Bruce would have to find another woman to hold onto his arm at events.Â
It shouldnât be hard, she was certain that there were other womenâhe just didnât bring them in public during her tenure.Â
Bruce hadnât confirmed, but she wasnât stupid enough to think that she was unique, or special. She hadnât even been to Wayne Manor, that was huge.Â
One of those women had likely been invited, maybe she lived there.Â
She signed the few highlighted places on the final page, flipping the leasing documents closed and sliding it over to the leasing agent who was telling her more about what to expect, final walkthroughs, everything that went into an apartment that she couldnât be bothered to pay attention to. Eventually, the leasing agent stood and she took that as a signal that she should as well, they shook hands, walked out together and she spent a few minutes staring at her steering wheel.
She debated on the merits of leaving without notice but knew she wouldnâtâshe hadnât intended to hurt Bruce by leaving without notifying him. She truly hadnât thought he would notice.Â
She rested her forehead at the top of her steering wheel and decided the best time to tell him about her apartment would be when she was stepping out into the elevator for the last time.
-
She stepped into the elevator, her belongings only the duffel bag she had left with, then a grocery bag of miscellaneous condiments, half a bag of sourdough and varying cheeses. She hadnât selected the floor to the lobby yet, she had drafted her text to Bruce, but kept drafting, revising, editing and scrapping.Â
She had just recently deleted two paragraphs of absolute nonsense. She was putting too much thought into thisâneither of them would be devastated by the end of their arrangement. Neither of them held a deep enough emotional stake.Â
âI got an apartment. Thanks for everything.âÂ
She sent it, sliding her phone into her pocket as she hit the button for the lobby.Â
-
She didnât bother unpacking the grocery bag, just placed it into the fridge and surveyed the studioâwhere should she put the sleeping bag?Â
She tried to remember what she learned from scrolling past Feng Shui videos.Â
Then she decided she was way too tired and simply unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner closet to the windows, tossed her camping pillow onto and slid her duffel bag off to the side.Â
She settled in quickly, but just staring up at the ceiling with her hands folded over her chest. Bruce hadnât replied to her text.Â
She hadnât expected him to, she was no longer his responsibilityâBruce no longer got anything from associating with her. She had left the brownstone knowing this.Â
Her lease was month-to-month. If her interviews didnât pan out, she could pack up at anytime. It wasnât as if she purposefully made her way to San Diego, she had just been attempting to outrun Bruce and how had that gone for her? She had only stayed due the serving job being easy money and the perfect location to hang her hammock.
She settled on saving a few thousand. It wasnât particularly important where she lived, she just wanted to catch up for all the years she had lost.Â
-
She had only two days of peace before she was woken to a loud, repeated knocking at her door. She had initially ignored itâher shift ended at 2am and it was too bright out for her to be awake.Â
The knocking didnât cease, but did grow annoyingly consistent and steady.Â
With a groan, she crawled out of her sleeping bag, âIâm on the way, Jesus Christ!â She had been too tired to shout, it came out as more of a slightly louder speaking voice.Â
She didnât have a peephole, or any meaningful way to see who had been knocking, so when she opened the door her eyes widened at the sight before her. Bruceâslightly crumpled, a few strands of hair askew. He didnât wait to be invited in, he stepped past her, gently moving past her and sliding his shoes off before he stepped too far past the threshold.Â
âYou donât even have a mattress.âÂ
She didnât close the door. âYouâre not camping. Youâre in a building, civilization surrounds you.â He continued, not even needing to walk further to inspect the studio. He moved towards the fridge and physically recoiled at how little was inside.Â
âThis is all beer, condiments. That milk expired last week.â She still hadnât closed the door. Bruce grabbed her milk, turning around and scanning under the kitchen bar, frowning, then turning back around to open cabinets.
âWhat are you snooping for?â
âThe trashcan.â
âI donât have one. Just put it back.âÂ
Bruce looked up at her, his scowl having progressed into a glower. He tucked the expired milk under his arm, âYouâve lost weight.âÂ
âItâs rude to comment on someoneâs weight.â
âYou left your door open.â
âIâm waiting for you to leave.âÂ
Bruce turned away, moving towards the bathroom, peaking inside, âThat is restaurant toilet paper?â She ignored him, he closed the door and moved towards her closet, but closed it quickly when he realized there was nothing inside but spiderwebs. Finally, Bruce turned to look at her, lips in a thin line.Â
âThis is no way to live.â
âIâve kept the door open for you.âÂ
Bruce walked over, she almost let out a sigh of relief at him leaving, but that horrible, awful man pressed the door closed. âWe will need to furnish this place.âÂ
âWE?âÂ
-Â
Bruce stood awkwardly beside an Ikea couch.Â
âThis is too big. Per my measurements, you can only fit an arm chair. Maybe if you chose a loft bed.â He was typing a note in his phone. This was the fourth couch they had looked at, she leaned down and dragged a hand across the fabric but instantly recoiled, âThis would give me rug burn.â Bruce ran a hand across the couch where hers had been.Â
âLetâs just move on to the armchairs.âÂ
She looked towards the basket he carried, filled with only one item inside after almost four hours of Bruce dragging her around Ikea, holding household items up like an offering she was constantly declining, other than a turtle wall lamp. âI am not buying an armchair.âÂ
âIâll take care of it.âÂ
âDonât piss me off.â Bruceâs eyes widened slightly and she realized that she had never, not once spoken to him with such vitriol. She had been short with him, snarky recently, but she had never openly disrespected him. She felt a lump in her throatâguilt. She pushed the feeling down, she didnât want to be here. She was tired, she hardly slept. Bruce hadnât cared, wellâshe hadnât mentioned it.Â
That was irrelevant. It shouldâve been obvious that she was dead on her feet. If Bruce Wayne cared past this being an attempt at stripping her control, he wouldâve noticed. He wouldâve never ignored her protests.
Though if she thought about itâdid she really know Bruce? She thought she mightâve, but that as years ago. Additionally, she was blinded by love. Bruce had never seen this side of herâthe one that bent rules, challenged the parameters of academic life, got into way too many arguments with strangers and had impulsively backpacked across almost every state and a multitude of countries for her research.Â
She watched a couple laughing in a distant living room mock up.Â
That had been when she still believed in academia, before she realized how much work went into publication, how little money there was to earn, before she fully understood that academia was only a pastime for the wealthy.Â
âYouâre tired.â Bruce stated, ignoring the outburst. âIâve been tired.â Bruce looked down at the turtle lamp, âThis is good for now. We can check out, grab food.â He was mostly talking to himself, eyes glued to the turtle lamp.
She pushed past him, she had known Ikea was intended to be a maze but had never found navigating the store too hard, it was fun even, âIâm not hungry.â She knew that Bruce was only a few paces behind her, although now lapsed into silence.Â
He had remained silent during checkout, his expression of indifference only cracking when she paid for the lamp and a dark chocolate bar she had tossed in at the last second. He tried to reach for the items, but she had quickly tucked them under to her before he had the chance.Â
Just before they reached her Golf, he finally spoke though she thought it was mostly to himself, âI donât know how I thought any couch would fit in that.âÂ
She slid into the drivers seat and carelessly put the lamp in the backseat, but waited until Bruce situated himself in the passenger to hand him the chocolate bar. He looked at her hovering hand in the same way she imagined one would look at being handed a radioactive coreârevulsion, terror, confusion.Â
She just shoved the chocolate into his chest, allowing it to slide down into his lap and turned over the Golf, shifting into reverse and breezing through gears as she progressed to the highway. âYouâre going twenty over the speed limit.â She sped up.Â
-
Bruce hadnât spoken for the rest of the drive, the man had remained silently behind her until they reached the door to her studio and when he tried to step in, she placed a hand flat in the center of his chest.Â
âIâd rather you not.â He looked at her face (she refused to meet his eyes) then down at her hand and nodded before stepping back and allowing her to close the door in his face. Had she ever spoken to Bruce with such measured control? Then she remembered she had forgotten the turtle lamp in the car, before remembering that it didnât matterâshe was going to leave.
She settled into the sleeping bag, pulling her phone and calling the restaurant. âWhatâs up?âÂ
âI quit.âÂ
âBro.âÂ
She hung up, tossing her phone on top of the duffel bag and burying her head under the sleeping bag.
-
She spent the next four days doing absolutely nothing.
 She only left the sleeping bag to use the restroom and hold her head under the faucet for water when her mouth became dry enough it felt her throat was cracking and breathing had become too painful to continue.Â
On the fifth day, she rolled her sleeping bag up, emptied an already barren fridge and tossed the five additional items she had acquired into her duffel (tooth brush, toothpaste, Walmart hair brush, two scrunchies she found at the bottom of her glovebox) and locked the door behind her, sliding the key into the lockbox the landlord hadnât yet got around to removing before she lightly jogged down the steps to her Golf.Â
She spent a few minutes staring at the steering wheel, before finally deciding to drive. She drove aimlessly on the five, impulsively decided to merge onto the 805, then the 15 before realizing that the last place she wanted to end up in was Temecula and swiftly merging onto the 215, realizing that this was getting her nowhere and merging back onto the 15 by the time, she squinted, reached Victorville.
When she reached Barstow, she merged onto the 40 and had pulled over with her head in her hands by the time she reached Tehachapi and promptly pulled up directions to Pismo Beach. She had never expected this much desert in California.Â
-
By the time Bruce messaged her again, she had been almost four weeks past Pismo Beach, stranded in Crescent City for the past threeâher water pump had progressed from just being leaky to being a few miles away from catching on fire.Â
She knew that she shouldâve replaced the water pump years agoâthe 2015 Golfâs were notorious for being horrible in regards to them, but she hadnât needed the car. She had thought if she just didnât use the car, the maintenance magically didnât need to happen.
âYou quit your job?â Why was he still keeping tabs on her? She just cleared the notification and went back to staring at a distant semi isolated island her map had called Battery Point, though from Third Street she could hardly make out details.Â
She was anxious, waiting for her Golf to be repaired, the shop hadnât the parts for her car and she hadnât felt such aching anxiety until forced to wait for the parts to arrive. The feeling of being trapped, of being stranded it was different than how she had felt in San Diego.Â
The option to leave had always been there. She had chosen to stay, then chose to leave.Â
She kept expecting to see Bruce, knocking at her hotel door, materializing behind her, but he likely still thought she was in San Diego.Â
The repair of her Golf brought other problems for her: it took a substantial amount of money from her savings and she had only been passively picking up jobs as she made her way through Californiaâenough that she knew she needed to find some work in Crescent City before she left. Except, she didnât have a car so she was limited in variety and distance, but it wasnât a huge city, she could definitely walk.Â
Though that implies she would be able to find a temporary job in a small city.
She pushed herself up, turning away from the coast line and heading down 3rd street in the direction of her inn, but telling herself she would stop a block away at the library to printâshe rifled through her pocket to see how much change she hadâminimum four copies but not more than seven.
-
Star City wasnât the worst. Similar to Gotham with its vigilantesâthough she found they were less gritty than Gothamâs: Speedsters, Arsenal, Green Arrow. She had picked up another waitress job, then got a better paying job with Queen Industries, working in one of the smaller acquired companies trying to advance tidal energy.Â
It wasnât something that she particularly likedâless field work, more studying and deconstructing what those in the field had sent her and only venturing out when she needed to see what her research produced, but it paid exceptionally well. She wasnât entirely sure how she ended up with such a well-paying job despite little experience, but chalked it up to her masters. It had been a few months since the last time that Bruce had messaged her, she infrequently thought of himâmostly when she was standing in the grocery store line, for the sole reason they printed those awful gossip tabloids that were spaced sporadically at checkout lines. Bruce Wayne, front page even when she was in California, for Christs sake, always another tabloid, another woman (never the same.) Passively she thought of him when she saw items he mightâve liked: a watch, food, a pastry that they wouldâve split.Â
She had expected to feel a tinge of sadness, but found herself to be primarily uncaring, so far removed from the situation that the idea she had been in their position was near unbelievable.Â
She had downloaded Hinge, Tinder, Bumble but had no luckâthe apps didnât even work half the time she found (an almost endless loading screen that only occasionally gave way to one match, before freezing her phone and crashing) and after a series of her deleting, redownloading, rinse and repeat, she somehow ended up banned from each platform, one after the other like a series of dominos. She had tried to reach out to their support to plead her innocence, but they had never replied and she had never pushed.
Thus, she was here.Â
Sitting in a bar, looking awkward with her back straight and legs tightly pressed together with her ankles crossed.Â
She tried to look at the other patrons for an idea of how to sit without looking like an undercover cop, but they were all men and her dress was too short to be manspreading. She sipped at her drink, steeling her face into anything other than a scowl in attempt to look half friendly. Or maybe a scowl was better? It hadnât deterred Bruce, but his resting face was equally as unwelcoming.
She spent close to an hour alone, resigning herself to needing to head towards a better, more mainstream bar with men closer to her in age, or at least some damn silver foxes. Just when she had begun to stand, the bell above the door chimed.Â
She wouldnât say she voluntarily sat, more that his visage was more akin to a mirage in a desert than a man in a bar and she felt that she had been awkwardly half standing too long to play it off as her leaving, rather than just stretching.Â
The man was handsomeâslightly long red hair, tall and muscular but not egregiously so. He had a serpent tattoo on his arm, shown due to his sleeveless shirt. He wore a pair of cowboy boots that she thought out of place, with starched jeans.Â
He had slid beside her casually, ordered a drink and completely ignored her existence. She looked around, attempting to be casual but knowing that she was horrendous at rubber-necking: they were the only two at the counter, so he had to be slightly interested in her.
Or too drunk.Â
She could smell the alcohol wafting off of him, pungent enough to almost be sickening. This wasnât his first bar of the night and she knew he hadnât been hidden somewhere: this bar was too small and he too attractive. She weighed her options, on one hand, she had been âwithâ Bruce (not interested in anyone else) for so long that she didnât fully remember how to flirt and knew she would despise introductory questionsâhaving to pretend to be interested in someoneâs favorite color was going to piss her off. To her, those questions were what one asked when holding each other, she would be running her hand along his arm and desperately wanting to know more.Â
On the other hand, she thought he was bad news. She could see the red flags when the man hadnât even said a word to her, but lord, was he attractive.Â
So she leaned forward, resting her cheek against her palm, âYou okay?â The red head looked at her, eyes widening slightly as if he hadnât expecting her to speak to him, or hadnât known that she was there. She preferred to think that it was the first option, she didnât have the energy to deconstruct the second.Â
The man looked down at his drink, and she regretted ever talking to him. She was about to become this manâs therapist when she had only wanted to screw him all night long and disappear before he woke up. To her surprise, he turned towards her with a weak grin plastered on his face, âOf course, doll. Why, whatâs a pretty lady like you doing here with only half a drink?â He flagged down the bartender and ordered her replacement of her own and over the course of her brand new lemon drop, they talked until the bar closed.Â
Conversation came easy with him, the man, Roy, was hilarious. He complimented her humor, he understood her references. They talked of his father, a forest ranger and how much time Roy had spent outside with him, then how nature became a way to connect with him once the man had passed. Roy was drunk enough to not notice how she had steered the conversation away from her own parents.
She shared her summitsâhow she wanted to climb higher mountains, but she was horrible at bouldering and couldnât imagine liking ice pick climbing anymore. That had been when they exchanged numbers, with an offer of meeting Roy at a climbing gym to practice.Â
They spoke of their work: Roy working in private security and her working as Geomatician, opening an entirely different topic of conversation about what her duties consisted of.
From there, came her schooling, then their various travels.
She had intended for their interaction to end with them both naked, but somehow and against her better judgement, she had ended up helping Roy get home.Â
She had let Roy lean against her as he poorly explained the directions to his apartment, just a few blocks from the bar, resulting in them both stumbling and looking like some sort of congealed mass of twitching limbs and fits of giggles. It was freeing, to be so completely understood by another person, an instant connection and closeness that she was unfamiliar with, but not particularly against and when they reached Royâs door and he had struggled to find his keys, she had rifled through his pockets for him until she pulled the bundle of keychains out and opened the door for him.
It had been too dark to make out the details of his apartment, though she could still tell it was rather barren, Roy somehow managed to have a few more pieces of furniture than her, who was still using her sleeping bag and her only source of light was the turtle lamp she had begrudgingly taped to the wall when she realized that she couldnât function in total darkness.
âWhereâs your room?â
Roy had gradually becoming increasingly more dead in her arms, by this point, he was only able to raise a shaky hand towards the end of the hallway, hardly half way before it immediately fall back down to his side. She struggled to get him to the end of the hallâpractically dragging him along. There were three doors, she opened the one closest to her and she instantly knew that it wasnât Royâs room. It was too decoratedâa little girlâs room, filled with stuffed animals, posters, pictures and a made bed. She had cabinets of toys, a plush rug, it was the most full room that she had seen so far, she instantly closed the door and moved on to the one at the end of the hall.
Her hand shook as it hovered over the doorknob, though she knew it was ridiculous. She opened the door to a blissfully empty, plain room. The bed had one pillow, a fitted sheet and a quilt bundled up in the corner.Â
âYer jostling me too much.â Roy groaned.Â
The bedside table was a series of empty cups, Tylenol and a stack of huge technical books taking up most of the space. She could see sticky notes poking out and as she got closer, saw that the top stack was something related to engineering.Â
âIâll show you jostling.â She grumbled, helping Roy into the bed, leaned over him to grab the quilt. He wasted no time bundling under the quilt and mumbling, likely to her but quietly enough that it was to himself. Then she grabbed his empty cup and went back to the kitchen she had identified earlier, washing the cup and placing it on the dish drying rack before she grabbed a new one and opened the fridge.Â
There was a Brita, but it was empty.Â
Okay. Okay. Okay. She filled the Brita, then took the same cup from the drying rack and filled it froth tap. When she was returning the Brita to itâs original spot, she took the chance to throw away the molding cheeses and hunt down the horrific smell wafting from the inside that she eventually tracked down to the milk.Â
She checked the expiration dates on some of the other items and threw them away too before she stopped opposite to the first room that she had opened, the third room turned out to be a bathroom with a medicine cabinet filled with varying pain medications. âJeez, how much do you get drunk?â She mumbled as she grabbed the Advil, just incase the Tylenol wasn't enough and made her way back to Royâs bedroom, placing the two items beside the table.Â
âThanks.â Came Royâs sleepy voice, âSorry. You mustâve wanted a different outcome.â He reached for the water and almost knocked it over, she helped push the cup into Royâs outstretched hand. âNo, I had fun. Iâm okay with just making sure you get home safe.â Her own sincerity surprised her. She meant that. She hadnât been too attached to her original intentions.
She thought Roy mightâve tried at a laugh, but ended up just being a rumbling from his chest as he placed the cup back, a little too closer to the edge than she wouldâve liked, so she pushed it back slightly. âYou can stay, if youâd like.â He pushed away from the edge, patting the warmed space that he had been.Â
She shook her head, forgetting that Roy couldnât see her before she spoke up, âI appreciate it, but Iâll pass this time.âÂ
She didnât fancy getting thrown up on. She also found that she simply didnât want to, she hated that this was the moment she missed Bruceâhe had taken care of her in similar ways, more times than she could count.Â
She had never been able to hold her liquor too well, Bruce had never complained and he wouldâve slid into bed with her, rubbing circles on her back. The room was too hot, she was sweating, âIâll lock the door behind me.â She heard his whispered thanks as she shut his bedroom door behind her.Â
She felt unbearably sober on the walk back to her apartment. She only slightly and occasionally swayed, the cold air did wonders against whatever buzz had remained after literally tucking Roy into bed. When the alcohol as no longer warming her, she wished that she had taken a jacket from Roy, maybe negotiated to sleep on his couch as by the time that she had made it to her apartment, there was no stretch of skin not covered in goosebumps.
 Her feet ached, the sun was rising. She climbed the steps to her apartment and paused just a few steps before her door, deciding that she must still be slightly drunk because she felt dangerously closed to relieve when she saw Bruce was scowling beside her door. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the wall, no tie in sight.Â
Bruce didnât wait for her to reach him, in a few strides he had closed the distance between them. âWhere was your phone? Where were you? Why did you walk?â A thousand questions that made her groan, relief not yet fading as he draped the jacket of his suit over her shoulders, pulling her into his arms to warm her.Â
Oh. She was swaying, not entirely sure where she was attempting to go with Bruce: was she trying to get out of his arms? Was she trying to lead him into her apartment? He remained steadfast, as if he wasnât entirely sure what she was doing either.Â
âThanks for not breaking down my door.â Bruce huffed. Her arms were tucked between them,Â
She closed her eyes, drunk enough to be committing the moment to her memory.Â
She inhaled, expensive cologne that she referred to as âbergamotâ when she day dreamed about him. She hadnât a clue what a âbitter almondâ was intended to smell like, but she assumed it would be Bruce accompanied with the light, floral scent characteristic of his expensive laundry detergent. The same brand stocked in the brownstone, promising âLilly of the valleyâ, âsweet muskâ and âsandalwoodâ but found smelt like a chemical concoction on her own clothes despite being nigh irresistible on Bruce.Â
She visibly relaxed into him, she knew she did, the familiar settle of her body against his, the way her head leaned in towards his chest. She couldnât help itâher drunk self had been essentially pavlovâd into believing that Bruce Wayne = Safety.Â
âLetâs get you inside.â She nodded, but only began moving when Bruce started shuffling them towards her front door. His hand trailed down her side, dipping one heavy hand into her pocket as he retrieved her keys and opened the door. He clicked his tongue as he took in her sparse decor.
âI donât want to leave you here.â His hand was rubbing small circles on her back. Her body was pliant, checked out, but not her mind.Â
âI didnât ask.â He stepped in and closed the door behind them. Her apartment wasnât much warmer than outside. Bruce guided her towards the corner she had laid her sleeping bag, but didnât lower her when they reached it. She was slipping from him, sand pouring from an hourglass as she moved to envelop herself in the sleeping bag. She was so tired, she knew it.Â
Bruce grabbed her arm before she could fully touch the ground, resulting in her awkwardly suspended in the air, âShouldnât you change?âÂ
âWhen you leave.âÂ
âItâs nothing I havenât seen.âÂ
She rolled her eyes, too tired for a proper rebuttal, but refusing to allow Bruce more than she had already givenâtoo much. Her small acquiesce was kicking off her heels before settling inside of the one-person sleeping bag, awkwardly reaching to pull the zipper halfway.
Her outfit was uncomfortable, definitely not meant to be slept in, but she refused to undress in front of Bruce and was too tired to gather clothing to change in the bathroom. The privilege of something so domestic as dressing her was firmly revoked from the likes of Bruce Wayne.Â
She expected Bruce to leave, but to her surprise, her horrorâBruce laid down with her. She imagined a hairline fracture in her resolve, a small splinter that would spider out if she allowed this, if she didnât, if she, if she, âOi.â Oh my god, what was she saying? What does that mean? She had never said that in her life, it was the alcohol, âOld man, the floor wonât be good on your back.âÂ
Bruce did not care. His only vocalization being a grunt as he pulled her bundled form closer to him. She was more drunk than she thought, definitely, it was simply Pavlovian habit that stilled her from pulling away, that had her refraining from lecturing Bruce about boundaries and how he should get the hell out of her apartment. It was Pavlovian habit that she settled closer to him, sleeping better than she had in months despite the uncomfortable bunching of her dress.
-
When she woke up, dazed and warmer than she thought her apartment could achieve, she wondered why she was still tucked her sleeping bag, rather than sprawled out with the zipper entirely undone.Â
Then, Bruce moved beside her and everything came back to her with horrific clarity. She moved to sit up, but Bruce had his arms were tightly around her, likely worried she would make a run for it when he slept (she wouldâve.)Â
Her head was pounding, there was no one to put a glass of water and Advil on her nightstand. There was no one to even buy her a nightstand, the Advil wouldâve gotten lost in the pile of miscellaneous belongings she had accumulated but couldâve left behind and never thought about.
Bruce stirred, grip loosening slightly as she towards him and felt her chest tighten at the sight in front of her. His hair was slightly ruffled, his shirt entirely unbuttoned with a sheen of sweat coating his bare chest, a smear of her makeup was on his cheek.Â
He was so unbearably handsome, the salt and pepper hair, familiar creases by his eyes, his forehead wrinkled from constant scowling, the stupid, startling blue eyes, 5 oâclock shadow. It was reminding her of feelings that she would do well to push down.
She wanted to make a joke, something about Bruce Wayne being disheveled, but found only an uncomfortable, slithering sensation that embedded itself in her chest as Bruceâs eyes openedâclear, aware and sickening soft, she almost thought Bruce was looking at someone important to him. In this moment, she couldâve fooled herself into thinking that she was someone that, The Bruce Wayne mightâve loved.
The version of her from four months ago wouldâve folded. She told herself that the hopeless romantic in her brain that refused to die despite being repeatedly bludgeoned was what he was counting on, that stupid part of her seeing what she wanted to see.
Bruce rested his head in the crook of her neck, nose nuzzling into the soft area behind her ear.Â
Her apartment was silent, passing cars and sirens of Star City paling in comparison to his breathing, his fingers trailing languidly along her arm. She shivered as Bruceâs stubble brushed against sensitive skin with his slight movement.Â
She didnât pull away, she was nauseatingly sober. She stopped trying to get up, allowing herself to settle against Bruce while her mind raced. She was embarrassed over the part of her that wanted to soak up any scraps of affection that Bruce wouldâve tossed her way, but not enough to push. Hadnât she done enough running? Wasnât she tired? She had spent so much time as an unemployed sugar baby she had almost forgotten how stressful having no safety net was.Â
She hadnât had to work doubles in years and after them, she now felt heavy and tired, could barely remember how she had been able to do double after double and still maintain her apartment and clean her car weekly. Then when she got her Geomatician job, she thought, finally, the lightâno more doubles.
She in fact, was essentially on call. Though it balanced out by having only three hours of genuine work, she had initially used extra time to get ahead on her next projects, but was sure to only submit them slightly early, to avoid more.Â
It was not fun to have her hours of free time balance out though working outside of her online hours. It only became more tolerable when she had begun to fill her free time with reading.Â
These were what she used to rationalize cuddling closer to Bruce, trying to remain casual but finding that there was no way to casually press yourself against another person without transitioning into molding yourself around them.Â
She realized this quickly, then, with equal speed, gave up worrying about how to be casual when Bruce slid his leg between her own, resuming the tight grip that she had awoken to, she briefly amused herself with the idea of making a joke about him not getting any ideas about strong arming her back to Gotham, but felt a hint of genuine concern that he might take that as something akin to permission.Â
She had meant to stay awakeâreally, she probably needed to check on her emails, but her work phone hadnât screamed at her, so she was probably fine. She was so warm, so comfortable, Bruce was so familiar to her, she had been pavlovâd into falling asleep when he held her.Â
Especially when her head was pounding, the light peaking through the blinds was already painful. She couldnât resistâshe had never stood a chance.Â
-
When she woke again, Bruce was shifting beside her. The light was in full swing, but at some point her and Bruce had switched places and he was now blocking out the lightâshe was tucked into his chest, face buried between his pecs.Â
The old her wouldâve been fine dying here, smothered to death by practical musculature that was simultaneously imposing and threatening, but also slightly softened by age that she used to relentlessly grope, caress and poke at, until her hand would be inevitably swatted away.Â
She needed distance. Close proximity with Bruce filled her head with nonsenseâmemories of her reading beside him, freshly pedicured feet in his lap that he would absentmindedly massage while on his phone. Campingânot glamping, days of backpacking and summiting mountains together were not glamorous, yet he hadnât complained. He had fared considerably better than she thought was possible.Â
He had been with her when she was getting certified in Search & Rescue, had been beside her after she had recovered her first corpse and decided that she hadnât the stomach for it.
She was going to be fucking sick.Â
âBruce, let me up.â She recognized how he purposefully stilled his breath, pretending to be asleep.Â
She almost scoffed at his blatant audacity. âBruce,â she began, patience a thin line as she tried to escape his clutches, cursing herself for allowing herself to stay as long as she had.Â
Bruce wasnât a loving but distant partner. If this entire post sugar baby debacle had proven anything to her, Bruce was a shark: he pulled when she wanted distance, pushed when she was hesitant and though she didnât understand why, she could assume it was the same reason that Bruce Wayne did anythingâpower, control.Â
His grip loosened enough for her to push his arm off of her. When she sat up, she spared a second to look down at Bruce: arm behind his head, hair tousled and messy, oh god. Deliciously messy, enough that her hand twitched to run her fingers through the strands and make more of a mess of him.Â
When she lived in Gotham, she had never once seen his impeccably pressed shirt wrinkled, at some point he had unbuttoned it halfway and she was exposed to his chest, freshly shaved considering how bare it was, his suit jacket was crumpled under him, serving as a discarded pillow.Â
She knew that she needed to kick Bruce out. She could admit now she had been running from himâwhenever he got too close, when she got too close to forgiving him, she had packed up. She had wanted a multi-month cross country roadtrip, it shouldâve taken her months to drive from New Jersey to California, but because she had been, she groaned, fleeing from Bruce, it had been too quick. She hadnât even gotten any souvenirs!Â
Bruce tilted his head, too much clarity in his eyes for someone who had just woken up. She wondered how long he had been awake before her, what had he bene doing with that time? âYou need to leave.â Her voice was hoarse, but didnât crackâthat was a win.Â
summary: When Bernard finally pieces everything together, he thinks heâs saving Tim from a monster. What he doesnât understand is that Tim has never needed saving and you were never the problem.
tags: NSFW 18+, Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Ghostface Tim Drake, Dark AU, Scream AU, Serial Killer AU, Female Reader, Toxic Relationship, Soulmates (Twisted Version), Violence, Murder
Part 1
"I leave you alone for a few hours and suddenly you're getting your ass kicked by Bernard." He laughed softly. A little too softly. A little too happily for the situation. "That's honestly embarrassing." His thumb brushed against your cheek. "Good thing I got here on time."
His eyes flicked toward Bernard's motionless body sprawled across the floor. The smile on his face widened. "Can you imagine how upset I'd be if somebody hurt my favorite person?" Then he looked back at you. "Actually..." he tilted his head, studying the bruise already darkening along your temple, "I think I'm already upset."
Before you could respond, his arms slipped beneath you. You let out a small sound of surprise as he effortlessly lifted you off the floor.
"Tim"
"Shh"
As if you weighed nothing at all, he carried you across the room and carefully lowered you onto the couch. The entire time, his attention never left you. Not Bernard. Not the mess in your apartment. Not the fact that there was currently an unconscious body lying a few feet away. Just you.
He crouched in front of the couch and gently cupped your face between his hands. His expression softened. "Everything okay, dove?"
The nickname would've been sweet if his shoes weren't still splattered with someone else's blood. "Yeah," you muttered. "My stomach just hurts." You pressed a hand against your side and winced. "I think he bruised my ribs."
The tenderness instantly vanished from Tim's face. "He what?"
"Tim-"
"He kicked you?" His voice dropped dangerously low. You immediately recognized that tone. It was the same one he used right before somebody ended up dead.
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
He carefully took your wrist and moved your hand away from your stomach. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Like you were something fragile. Something precious. His eyes scanned the area for a moment before his jaw tightened.
"That asshole."
Then, to your surprise, he lowered his head. The first kiss landed directly over the sore spot. Soft. Barely there. Another followed. Then another. Each one ridiculously gentle compared to the violence that seemed to follow the two of you everywhere.
"Tim..."
"I'm fixing it."
You snorted despite the pain. "That's not how bruises work."
"It is now." His lips brushed against your skin again. "Doctor Drake's orders."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Tim immediately noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. "There she is," he murmured, finally looking up. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "I was starting to worry."
For a brief moment, he looked genuinely shaken by what could have happened. Then his gaze drifted toward Bernard again. And the smile slowly returned. "Now," he said lightly, "what should we do about him?"
"He knows about me." Your gaze drifted toward Bernard's unconscious body. "He wanted to protect you." A bitter laugh escaped you. "He actually thought I was going to kill you."
For a second, there was silence. Then Tim burst out laughing. Not a nervous laugh. Not an awkward laugh. A genuine one. The kind that made his shoulders shake.
"Oh my God." He covered his mouth, trying and failing to compose himself. "That's what he thought?"
You rolled your eyes. "Apparently."
Tim looked at Bernard. Then back at you. Then at Bernard again. And laughed even harder. "That's adorable."
"Tim"
"No, seriously." He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "He thought I needed protection from you.â The amusement in his expression slowly softened. His gaze settled on your face. Warm. Affectionate. Completely insane. "You're the last person I'd ever need protection from."
Something in your chest tightened. You reached forward and cupped his face. The laughter immediately disappeared. Tim leaned into your touch without hesitation. You smiled. Then pressed a brief kiss against his lips. Sweet. Familiar. Comforting.Â
When you pulled away, neither of you spoke for a moment. Tim simply stared at you. Thinking. Calculating. You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. Finally, his gaze shifted toward Bernard. The softness vanished. Replaced by something colder. Sharper. Dangerous.
"We have to get rid of him." His voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. As if he were discussing taking out the trash.
"Tim-"
"I'm serious." He reached for your hand and intertwined your fingers. "I won't leave even the slightest chance that he could become a threat to you."
The possessiveness in his voice should have been alarming. Instead, it felt strangely reassuring. Tim squeezed your hand. "Nobody gets to hurt you." His eyes flicked toward the unconscious boy on the floor. "Nobody."
You followed his gaze. Bernard still hadn't moved.
"Okay," you said after a moment. "So what do we do with him?"Â
A slow smile spread across Tim's face. The kind of smile that never meant anything good. "Funny you should ask." He glanced toward the kitchen. Then back at you. "I already have an idea."
The fog slowly began to lift from Bernard's mind. Consciousness returned in painful fragments. First came the pounding headache. Then the cold. Then the realization that something felt very, very wrong.
Bernard groaned softly and forced his eyes open. Darkness greeted him. For a moment, everything was blurry. Black spots danced across his vision as he blinked repeatedly, trying to focus.
His head throbbed. The back of his skull felt like it had been split open. Slowly, memories came rushing back. Reader. The fight. Tim. The ceramic cat crashing into the back of his head.
Shit.
His pulse immediately spiked. Instinctively, he tried to sit up. Panic hit him almost instantly. His hands wouldn't move. Bernard jerked violently against the restraints, only to discover that his wrists had been tied tightly behind his back. His ankles were bound as well. Every movement only made the ropes dig deeper into his skin.
"Fuck..." The curse escaped as a whisper.
His breathing quickened. Heart hammering in his chest, he looked around. This definitely wasn't the apartment. He was sitting on cold dirt and gravel. Sparse patches of grass brushed against his legs whenever the wind blew. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction. The only source of light came from a pair of car headlights several yards away. Their harsh beams cut through the night and illuminated the clearing in an eerie yellow glow. Beyond them, everything disappeared into shadow.
Then he heard it. Water. The steady sound of waves crashing against the shoreline. Bernard froze. Slowly, he turned his head. The vast black surface of a lake reflected faint moonlight in the distance. His stomach dropped. No.
No, no, no.
He knew this place. He'd been here before. A secluded lake nearly two hours outside Gotham.
No houses. No tourists. No late-night fishermen. Nobody. Just miles of forest and empty roads. The perfect place for someone to disappear.
A cold wave of terror washed over him. His gaze snapped back toward the headlights.
And for the first time, he noticed the two figures standing beside the car. Watching him. Waiting for him to wake up.
Dressed in black robes and wearing familiar Ghostface masks, they walked toward him without a word.
Bernard's pulse quickened. He already knew who they were. Still, seeing them standing there felt unreal. Like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. They stopped a few feet away.Â
Slowly, you reached up and removed your mask. Cool night air brushed against your skin. The moment Bernard saw your face, whatever hope remained in his expression vanished.
You offered him a bright smile. "Hey, Bernard."
The casual greeting only made the situation feel more disturbing. Beside you, Tim removed his mask as well. Unlike you, he wasn't smiling. He simply stared at Bernard for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. Disappointment flashed across his face. As though Bernard had failed an important test.
"Bernard..." he said quietly. Then he shook his head. "Bernard, Bernard, Bernard..." He clicked his tongue. "Buddy." Tim stepped closer. Bernard instinctively tried to lean away. "You did something unforgivable." His voice remained calm. Almost gentle. Which somehow made it worse. "There was a point where we could've worked this out." Tim shrugged. "You passed that point."
Bernard stared at him in disbelief. "Timâ"
"No." The single word immediately silenced him. Tim's expression hardened. "You should've stayed out of it."
For a moment, nobody spoke. The wind rustled through the trees. Waves lapped quietly against the shore behind them. Then Tim turned away. "Stay right there."
"Not exactly like I have a choice," Bernard muttered.
Tim ignored him and walked back to the car. The trunk was already open. After a few moments of rummaging around, he pulled out two heavy weights with thick ropes attached to them.
Bernard felt his stomach drop. Tim carried them across the clearing and dropped them onto the ground beside him. The metal hit the dirt with a dull thud. Bernard's eyes immediately locked onto them.
Then onto Tim. Then onto you. Neither of you looked away. For the first time that night, genuine fear settled deep in his chest.
Tim stepped closer and gently brushed his hand against your cheek. Instinctively, you leaned into the touch. A small smile tugged at your lips. Even after everything that had happened that night, his touch still grounded you.
Your gaze drifted toward Bernard. The look on his face made something dark and satisfied stir inside your chest. Hurt. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Let him watch. Let him finally understand. Tim was yours. He had always been yours. And no matter how much Bernard wished otherwise, he had never stood a chance. His eyes glistened in the headlights, tears threatening to spill over.
That's when a cruel idea crossed your mind. Let him see. Let him hear.
You turned back to Tim. The moment your eyes met his, your breath caught. There was something almost frightening about the way he looked at you. Complete devotion. Complete certainty. As though you were the only thing in the world worth caring about. Slowly, you closed the distance between you.
Your lips met his. Tim responded immediately. One hand settled against your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. The rest of the world seemed to disappear. The cold night air. The lake. The headlights. Bernard. None of it mattered. Not when Tim was looking at you like that. Not when he was holding you like you were something precious.
Your fingers slipped into his dark, messy hair, and you felt him smile against your lips. The sound sent warmth rushing through your chest. His hand traced a slow path along your back, lingering there as if reassuring himself that you were safe. That you were still here. Still his.
Eventually, the need for air forced you apart. Neither of you moved very far. Tim rested his forehead against yours for a brief moment before pressing a soft kiss against your jaw. Then another. And another. Every touch felt careful. Reverent. Full of an affection that bordered on obsession.
Behind you, Bernard made a small, broken sound. Neither of you looked at him.
You grabbed his hand and guided him toward the car. Tim followed without hesitation, like he didnât need to think twice about anything when it came to you. He gripped your thighs tightly and lifted you on top of the car hood.
His strong hands pulled your legs apart so he can settle himself in between your thighs. With a quick movement, he grabbed the hem of the robe and pushed it up to your hips, exposing your bare legs. Without waiting for anything, Tim dropped to his knees and began smoothing the skin on your thighs with his hands.Â
He left warm kisses moving up to your clothed core. Don't waste time, he moved your panties aside. He wet his lips and his tongue peaks out before his head dips between your legs.Â
You felt the push and pull of his tongue against your clit. He moans at the taste of you before his eyes close and he focuses. Almost immediately, he starts doing the motions he knows that you like. Every stroke of his tongue, your moaning, your whining, your squirming and writhing, your fingers in his hair, your toes curling, your thighs squeezing his head, the way you pulse around his fingers.Â
You moaned his name as you came embarrassingly quickly on his tongue. His tongue cleans you up nice and slow but with practiced methodical behavior. "Baby, you taste like heaven" he muttered.
He opened his eyes as he rose to his full height. One hand had already drifted to the waistband of his trousers beneath the robe when a sudden sound cut through the night.
Bernardâs sobs. Broken. Uncontrolled.
Tim paused. Slowly, his gaze lifted. His eyes met yours. Understanding flickered behind them almost immediately. A small, knowing smile curved his lips. He leaned in closer, brushing his mouth near your ear.
âYou cunning, cruel thing,â he murmured.
Warm breath lingered against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You responded with a faint, almost playful smile. Then stepped away from the car and straightened your clothes as if nothing had happened. As if the night itself hadnât shifted under your feet.
Both of you turned back toward Bernard. He was still crying. Quietly now. Not fighting anymore. Just⊠breaking. The sight sat heavy between you.
Tim exhaled sharply, as if trying to push something down inside himself.
âLetâs get this over with,â he said flatly. His eyes didnât leave Bernard. âSo I can take you home and take care of you properly.â
He moved toward the weights without hesitation. The metal clinked softly as he lifted one of them.
Together, without speaking much, you prepared everything in tense silence. No need for discussion anymore. Everything had already been decided long before this moment.
The walk to the footbridge felt longer than it should have. The forest around you was completely still. Even the lake seemed to wait.
Bernard was dragged forward between you, the sound of movement scraping against the ground breaking the silence in uneven rhythm.
When you leaned down near him, your voice was almost gentle. âItâs nothing personal.â
Tim let out a short, humorless breath beside you. âIt is personal,â he corrected coldly. The contrast between you hung in the air for a second too long.
Bernard lifted his head slightly. One last look. Pleading. Shattered.
Then everything moved quickly and you two pushed his body into the water. The water swallowed the moment whole. Ripples spread across the dark surface, widening until there was nothing left to see but black water and silence.
Neither of you spoke for a while. Finally, Tim broke it first. He turned his head toward you, as if nothing had just happened.
stalked you on the internet, itâs feminine intuition âcause I always had a vision of us standing like this !
starring.. dick grayson x fem reader â social media au fem!reader fluff crackfic profanity supportive wingman! wally west reader is close friends with wally forced private physical trainer! dick all post related people is only a pose reference, imagine them however youâd like!
yours truly, shua â work by shuaze. do not copy, translate, feed to ai, repost on any other platforms.
GN Reader :) Forgive me for lore/character inaccuracies.
Unedited. Just a silly quick write
Remy getting turned into a cat had been funny for exactly three seconds.
Then he'd started following you around.
Not in a cute way.
In a "you are now responsible for me and I resent it" way.
The first time you tried to get him to walk on his own, he simply jumped right back onto your shoulder.
The second time, he climbed your leg.
The third time, he sat in the middle of the road and screamed until you picked him back up.
"You are the most dramatic person I've ever met."
"Mrrrow."
"I don't even know what that means."
The cat glared.
You somehow understood it perfectly.
It definitely wasn't polite.
You'd been partners for a job recovering some stupid artifact. One minute he was picking up the artifact, the next, an orange and black cat was staring at you, yowling its head off.
You'd laughed.
That had been your first mistake.
The second had been calling him adorable.
The third had been taking a picture.
Remy remembered all three.
The first ten minutes had mostly consisted of you trying to figure out what happened.
The next thirty consisted of Remy trying to convince you he was still Remy.
He'd eventually succeeded when he knocked over a deck of cards, somehow separated out the queen of hearts, and then stared at you like you were the idiot for not understanding sooner.
"Oh my God."
The cat narrowed his eyes.
"Remy?"
"Mrow."
"You're actually Remy."
The cat visibly relaxed.
Then you laughed.
The look he gave you could've curdled milk.
From that point onward, things somehow got worse.
Because it was then you both realized you had no idea where the hell you were.
No signal.
No jet.
No way to contact the mansion.
Just miles of road, forest, and one extremely angry cat.
You'd thought being stranded would be the biggest problem.
It wasn't.
The biggest problem was that Remy had apparently retained every single aspect of his personality.
Including his inability to mind his own business.
The first indication came when an old pickup truck pulled over beside the road.
The driver leaned out the window.
"Y'all alright?"
Before you could answer, Remy launched himself from your shoulder into the truck.
"What the hell?!"
"MROW."
The man stared.
You stared.
Remy sat proudly in the passenger seat.
"Remy."
The cat blinked.
"Get out of the truck."
He did not get out of the truck.
The driver laughed.
"You know, I think he likes me."
Remy immediately knocked the man's sunglasses off his face.
You ended up apologizing for fifteen minutes.
The second indication was when food started going missing and also appearing.
By the end of the first day, he'd stolen half your trail mix.
Two sandwiches.
A hot dog.
And somehow an entire packet of beef jerky.
You never actually saw him take the jerky.
One second it belonged inside a store.
The next it belonged to Remy.
The workers were still trying to figure out what happened.
Honestly, so were you.
Nighttime brought its own challenges.
Namely the fact that every motel within reasonable distance was full.
Which was how you found yourself sitting beside a campfire in the middle of nowhere.
Remy sat across from you.
The flames reflected in his eyes that were far to red for a normal cat.
You tossed another stick onto the fire.
He stared into the woods.
You stared into the woods.
The woods stared back.
Somewhere in the distance, something howled.
You looked at Remy.
Remy looked at you.
Slowly, the cat got to his feet.
Then he climbed directly into your lap.
You blinked.
The cat immediately curled into a ball.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you carefully looked down.
Remy refused to meet your eyes.
"Oh."
His ears flattened like he didn't want to hear anything you were about to say.
Something surprisingly warm settled in your chest.
You scratched behind one ear.
The noise he made suggested he hated it.
The fact that he immediately leaned into your hand suggested otherwise.
"Don't worry," you said softly. "We'll figure it out."
Remy was quiet for a moment.
Then he sighed.
Actually sighed.
You hadn't even known cats could do that.
A few minutes later he fell asleep.
You took another picture.
His eyes snapped open instantly. The glare returned.
You grinned.
"Just making memories."
He looked like he was mentally adding another charge to the ever-growing list of crimes he'd eventually commit against you once he had hands again.
At this point, the list was getting fairly extensive.
The next morning somehow managed to make it worse.
You woke up cold, stiff, and alone.
The fire had long since burned out.
The blanket you'd thrown over yourself during the night had slipped halfway onto the ground.
And Remy was gone.
For a solid thirty seconds, you genuinely panicked.
You were on your feet immediately.
"Remy?"
Nothing.
The surrounding forest remained stubbornly silent.
A dozen horrible possibilities flashed through your mind.
He'd wandered off.
Gotten lost.
Been taken by a wild animal.
Gotten stuck somewhere.
You spent the next twenty minutes searching.
You were halfway through planning how exactly you were going to explain to the X-Men that you'd somehow misplaced Gambit when you finally spotted him.
Sitting on the roof of a convenience store.
You stopped walking.
The cat stared down at you.
You stared up at him.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then you pointed.
"How?"
Remy blinked.
You looked around.
The building was completely flat.
No nearby trees.
No ladders.
No fire escape.
Nothing.
You looked back up.
The cat had the audacity to look smug.
"You know what?" You sighed. "I don't actually want to know."
The smug expression somehow intensified.
Unfortunately, that was also when you began realizing that being a cat came with certain advantages.
Advantages Remy wasted absolutely no time exploiting.
For starters, people paid almost no attention to him.
A fact he discovered immediately.
You'd stop for directions.
Remy would vanish.
You'd spend ten minutes looking for him.
Then he'd reappear from seemingly nowhere.
Usually looking entirely too pleased with himself.
The first few times, you assumed he was just wandering.
Then he started bringing things back.
A receipt.
A road map.
A motel key.
An entire wallet.
You stared at the wallet.
Then at him.
Then back at the wallet.
"Remy."
The cat blinked innocently.
"Did you steal this?"
"Mrr."
"That wasn't a no."
The cat yawned.
The wallet mysteriously reappeared on the counter of the gas station ten minutes later.
You suspected guilt.
You also suspected he was offended that you weren't impressed.
The real problem started once he figured out just how much people liked cats.
Remy had spent years weaponizing charm and becoming a cat only expanded his arsenal.
The first victim had been an elderly woman at a rest stop.
She spotted him immediately.
"Oh, aren't you handsome?"
The cat practically melted.
You watched in horror as he rolled onto his back.
Rolled.
Onto.
His.
Back.
You pointed accusingly.
"You hate people."
Remy purred.
The old woman laughed.
"He loves the attention."
The cat purred louder.
Your jaw dropped.
Because that was a lie.
A complete lie.
This was the same man who spent most social interactions acting mildly inconvenienced by everyone around him.
Yet somehow he had convinced this woman he was the sweetest creature on earth.
The second she walked away, the purring stopped.
The glare returned.
You narrowed your eyes.
"Oh, so you're a fraud."
The cat looked completely unashamed.
Which, honestly, tracked.
The true extent of his betrayal became clear three hours later.
You'd been unsuccessfully trying to convince a truck driver to let you hitch a ride.
"No room," the man said.
You sighed.
"Right. Thanks anyway."
Then Remy jumped onto the man's lap.
The truck driver froze.
Remy immediately began purring.
The traitor.
The absolute traitor.
The man looked down at him.
Then at you.
Then back at the cat.
"Well..." he said. "I suppose I could make room."
You stared.
Remy looked directly at you.
And somehow managed to look smug while purring.
You'd never wanted to throw a cat into the sun more.
By the time the sun started sinking again, you were exhausted in a very specific, soul-deep way that only comes from spending a full day arguing with a cat that used to be a man.
Your goal had been simple: find shelter.
Preferably indoors.
Preferably with walls.
Preferably somewhere Remy could not climb onto a roof and disappear into the skyline like a furry bad decision.
Which was how you ended up asking the trucker to drop you off at a small roadside motel that looked like it had been surviving purely out of spite and budget cuts.
Neon sign flickering.
Ice machine humming like it was on life support.
One car in the lot that looked like it had been there since the last century.
You stepped out of the vehicle.
Remy followed.
Immediately tried to walk into traffic like he thought it would stop for him.
You grabbed him by the scruff without even thinking at this point.
âI swear,â you muttered, âif you die as a cat, Iâm going to lose my shit.â
âMrrr.â
âDonât âmrrâ me.â
He did it again anyway.
The motel sat in front of you like it was considering whether your existence was worth the effort of acknowledging.
Probably not.
You approached the front desk anyways.
Remy, tucked under your arm, immediately went rigid.
You felt the shift before you saw it.
The little con artist had spotted something.
A key rack.
A dangling set of plastic tags.
A moment of silence passed.
Thenâ
He launched.
Not jumped.
Not climbed.
Launched.
Straight off your arm like a furry missile with a criminal agenda.
âHeyâ!â you hissed.
But he was already gone, disappearing behind the counter with the confidence of someone who had never once considered the concept of consequences.
You stood there.
Blinking.
Looked to the empty front desk, then the now shaking key rack and the little paw that kept whacking a tag.
The little paw kept batting at the keys with the focused intensity of a man defrauding a government system.
A moment later, something clattered behind the counter.
Then another.
Then a suspicious thunk that sounded like a small lamp meeting its end.
You closed your eyes.
âRemy,â you whispered into the air, âI am begging you to have a reason for this.â
A pause.
Thenâ
A key slid out from beneath the counter.
Dragged.
Slowly.
Like it was being offered in a sacred ritual.
You watched as the plastic tag emerged fully into view, followed by a triumphant little orange-and-black head.
Remy.
Sitting there.
Holding the key in his mouth like heâd just negotiated a hostile takeover.
He stared at you.
Unblinking.
You stared back.
"âŠYou stole a room key."
He blinked once and dropped it.
You grabbed the key just as the motel phone rang.
The receptionistâwho had been in the back roomâemerged looking mildly annoyed and extremely underpaid.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
You smiled.
Which, under the circumstances, was already suspicious.
"Hi," you said quickly. "Yeah, sorry, I just wanted to check and see if housekeeping was done with our room?"
You glanced at the key in your hand. "Room 12."
The woman looked at her monitor, then the key rack, then you.
You lifted your hand slightly.
And there it was.
A key.
Dangling innocently from your fingers like it had always belonged there.
The woman blinked.
Behind the counter, something small and orange briefly flicked into view.
Then vanished again.
"Oh," she said slowly. "That mustâve been⊠a scheduling error."
"Yes," you agreed immediately. "Probably that."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she reached for the room log.
You could practically hear Remy, somewhere behind the counter, committing emotional warfare in real time.
"Oh my god," she muttered. "No one marked it as cleaned."
"Oh, really? That's unfortunate," you said.
"Iâll get maintenance on it right away."
"Thank you so much."
But she was already walking away, calling for housekeeping like she had just uncovered a major administrative catastrophe.
Within minutes, panic had bloomed through the motel like someone had yelled fire but replaced it with cleaning emergency.
You watched as two staff members rushed past you with fresh sheets.
Another with a vacuum.
Someone else dragging a cart that squeaked in protest.
You stood there and Remy reappeared at your feet like nothing had happened.
Sat.
Looked up at you.
Completely unbothered.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"âŠYou are unbelievable," you said.
"Mrrp."
"That is not a defense."
He blinked slowly.
Then curled his tail around his paws like he was awaiting applause.
You exhaled through your nose.
"âŠWe have a room."
The catâs ears perked.
You pointed at him.
"And I hate that I have to give you credit for that."
Remy, very slowly, sat up straighter.
Proud.
Unrepentant.
Absolutely insufferable.
And somehowâ
Just a little pleased with himself.
You shook your head as you headed toward the hallway.
"Donât ever do that again."
The cat followed immediately.
You didnât believe for a second he had heard you.
Or cared.
The motel room was not good.
It wasnât even âcharmingly bad.â
It was just⊠bad.
The kind of bad where the carpet had given up years ago and the lighting made everything look even dirtier than it was.
But it had a door that locked.
And a bed that didnât immediately threaten to collapse.
Which, at this point, was all you could ask for.
You barely remember getting into it.
Just the blur of exhaustion, the faint awareness of Remy pacing the room like he was inspecting enemy territory, and thenâ
Nothing.
Sleep hit you like a dropped weight.
No dreams you could recall.
No sense of time.
Just dark.
Warm.
Still.
At some point in the night, you shifted.
The mattress dipped slightly under a new pressure, but your brain didnât fully register it.
Only that something small and warm had settled in.
Familiar, in a way you didnât question.
Morning came in uneven slices of motel light.
Blinds half-closed.
Sunlight sneaking through in thin gold stripes across the room.
You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking that feels like surfacing from underwater.
For a few seconds, you didnât move.
Just breathed.
Then you realized you couldnât move much at all.
Something was on your chest.
Heavy enough to notice.
Light enough not to hurt.
You frowned slightly, still half-asleep, and looked down.
Orange.
Black.
Curled into a perfect, impossible little circle right on top of you.
Remy was asleep.
Actually asleep.
No smugness.
No glare.
No commentary.
Just soft, even breathing, his tail tucked neatly around himself like heâd decided your chest was the most acceptable place in the universe to temporarily stop existing.
For a moment, your brain refused to process it.
Then it did.
"Oh," you whispered.
His ears twitched.
Not fully awake.
Just enough to acknowledge you.
You stared at him.
This was⊠cute.
He hadnât climbed on you like a nuisance.
He hadnât demanded attention.
He hadnât used you as furniture out of spite or convenience.
You shifted your hand slightly, unsure if you should move him.
Your fingers hovered for a second.
Then, carefully, you brushed one fingertip over the space between his ears.
The reaction was immediate.
Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, instinctive lean into your touch.
Like something in him had decided it didnât need to argue right now.
You exhaled slowly, a small laugh slipping out before you could stop it.
"Well," you murmured. "Look at you."
Remy made a sound that could generously be described as a sleepy protest.
You took that as permission.
Or at least, non-violent tolerance.
Your hand stayed where it was.
The room stayed quiet.
For once, there was no running.
No arguing.
No theft.
No elaborate escape plan unfolding in the background of your life.
Just a ridiculous mutant thief turned cat.
Sleeping like he trusted you enough to do it.
And you, very carefully, not moving a single muscle like you might break the moment if you did.
"âŠDonât get used to this," you whispered.
Remy did not respond.
Which, somehow, felt like the loudest agreement he could possibly give. Or the loudest "I don't care what you want."
Either way, you just stayed like that.
Listening to the quiet breathing on your chest.
By the time you woke up properly, Remy was no longer on your chest.
Of course he wasnât.
He was sitting by the window instead, tail flicking slowly, watching the parking lot like he was judging everyone who had ever checked into this motel as a life decision.
For a moment, you just lay there.
Still half caught in that strange softness from earlier.
Then you exhaled.
"âŠOf course youâre up already."
"Mrr."
"Iâm going to take that as âgood morningâ even though I know itâs not."
He didnât turn around.
Which, in Remy terms, was practically a greeting.
The rest of the day blurred into motion again.
More road.
More walking.
More asking for directions from people just to make sure you were still on the right track.
Remy, meanwhile, had fully adapted to his new role as the worldâs smallest liability.
He rode on your shoulder like he owned it.
He disappeared at least four separate times and returned with things you did not ask him to acquire.
A snack.
A motel brochure.
Someoneâs pen.
You stopped asking questions around the pen incident.
At one point, a kid tried to pick him up.
Remy allowed it.
Like he had been waiting for this exact moment his entire life.
He purred so convincingly you briefly questioned whether you were traveling with the same creature who had once tried to pick a lock with a playing card.
The kidâs parent took a photo.
Remy looked directly at you while it happened.
You could feel him smirking without him having a face that could technically smirk.
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
But something had shifted slightly.
Not dramatically.
Not in any way you could point to and label.
Just small things.
He stopped wandering quite so far.
He stopped vanishing for long stretches.
He started sitting closer when you paused to rest.
Not on your shoulder every time.
Just next to you.
Like distance had become a calculation he didnât want to get wrong.
You didnât say anything about it.
Of course, he didn't either.
You both ended up at another roadside stop near dusk, the sky going soft and orange in that way that made everything feel temporarily less broken.
You sat on the curb outside a closed diner.
Remy sat right next to, practically pressed against your leg.
The silence stretched.
Comfortable in a way neither of you acknowledged.
Eventually, you leaned back on your hands.
"Weâre still lost," you said.
"Mrrp."
You huffed. "Fine, not 'lost' but still miles away from home."
He flicked his tail.
Somewhere down the road, headlights passed.
For a moment, you just watched them fade.
Then you felt something small push against your side.
Remy, rubbing his head against you like he'd been a cat all his life.
You glanced down at him.
He didnât look up.
Pretending very hard that this meant nothing.
You huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yeah," you murmured. "Okay."
You sat up, your hand instinctively scratching his ear.
Surprisingly, he didn't protest.
You laughed. "I have to admit, Remy, you're pretty cute as a cat."
He froze.
For a second, even he looked surprised.
Like some deeply buried cat instinct had just received the best news imaginable.
The entire world felt like it held its breath with him.
Thenâslowlyâhis posture changed.
Not defensive.
Not offended.
Recalibrating.
His ears angled slightly forward.
His tail gave one slow, deliberate flick.
You narrowed your eyes.
"âŠWhy do I feel like Iâve made a mistake?"
"Mrr."
Except this time, it wasnât sharp.
It wasnât protest.
It was⊠smug.
You watched him carefully as he walked in a tight circle around the concrete.
He sat down again, just slightly closer than before.
Like he had decided your statement required clarification through proximity.
Then, very deliberately, he leaned into your hand.
Not accidental.
Not hesitant.
Performed.
You blinked.
"âŠOh my God."
His eyes half-lidded.
Not sleepy.
Pleased.
Like he was listening to praise he refused to acknowledge out loud.
"Youâre enjoying this," you said slowly.
His tail flicked once.
Calm.
Collected.
Absolutely unbothered.
You scoffed. "Youâre using this."
A blink.
A pause.
Then another slow headbutt against your palm, firmer this time, like punctuation.
It was almost worse than him being offended.
At least offended meant you were safe.
This felt like he was quietly taking inventory of every way he could leverage future attention.
You leaned back slightly. "This is manipulation."
"Mrrp."
"That didn't sound like denial, mister."
He stretched out beside you then, deliberately pressing his side against your leg again, settling in like heâd signed a contract you hadnât read.
And if cats could smirk, you were fairly sure thatâs exactly what he was doing.
"âŠYouâre impossible," you muttered.
His eyes closed halfway.
Satisfied.
Like that was the correct answer.
The night settled in slowly after that.
Less frantic than before.
Less sharp around the edges.
You eventually made it to another motelâthis one slightly less offensive than the last, which you took as a sign of personal growth in the universe.
Inside, everything played out the same familiar way.
Key.
Room.
Remy disappearing briefly into the hallway like he was checking for structural weaknesses.
You didnât ask.
Some lessons were learned.
That night, you fell asleep faster.
And this time, when you woke upâ
He was still there.
Not on your chest.
But curled at your side, pressed against your arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like it had always been that way.
Like it might not change tomorrow.
Like it might not change tomorrow.
The next day passed in a strange sort of rhythm.
Walking.
Hitching rides.
Stealing food.
Well.
You weren't stealing food.
Remy certainly was.
By this point, you'd stopped pretending otherwise.
The two of you had somehow developed a system.
A terrible system.
An embarrassing system.
But a system.
You'd handle directions.
Remy would disappear.
Then he'd return ten minutes later with information he absolutely should not have had access to.
Somewhere along the way, you'd stopped questioning it.
On the morning of the fourth day, however, something changed.
You noticed it while stopping at a gas station.
Not because of anything dramatic.
Because for the first time in nearly a week, Remy stopped.
Completely stopped.
No wandering.
No climbing.
No theft.
Just sitting perfectly still beside your feet.
Watching something.
You followed his gaze.
The sky.
At first, you didn't understand.
Then you heard it.
Faint.
Distant.
Growing louder.
The unmistakable sound of an engine.
You froze.
Remy didn't move.
A shape appeared overhead.
Small at first.
Then larger.
Then unmistakable.
The Blackbird.
For a second, neither of you reacted.
The aircraft swept overhead.
Banked sharply.
Then circled back.
Directly over your position.
"Oh."
The word left your mouth before you could stop it.
The jet dipped one wing.
Like a greeting.
Like confirmation.
Like someone finally saying there you are.
Beside you, Remy's tail stilled.
And suddenly the last week felt very far away.
The roads.
The motels.
The campfires.
The ridiculous arguments.
The mornings waking up to find a cat pressed against your side.
All of it.
Temporary.
A rescue team arrived less than twenty minutes later.
The reunion was loud.
Confusing.
Filled with questions neither of you wanted to answer.
The cure took less time than getting everyone to stop asking questions.
Apparently turning a man into a cat was significantly easier than explaining how the two of you had managed to survive nearly a week on the road.
Most people seemed content with the simplified version.
Remy became a cat.
You got lost.
Chaos happened.
The end.
The details were yours.
Remy was human again.
The world was back to normal.
Or as normal as life at the mansion ever got.
For a few glorious hours, everything seemed fine.
Then came the mistake.
It started with a conversation.
One innocent conversation.
The kind that happened every day.
You were sitting in one of the common rooms with a handful of the X-Men, recounting the trip.
Everyone seemed particularly interested in the cat part.
Which felt unfair.
There had been plenty of other things worth discussing.
The theft.
The hitchhiking.
The motel scam.
The attempted robbery of a gas station hot dog.
Yet somehow everyone kept returning to:
"So he really slept on your chest?"
You sighed.
"Once."
"Aww."
"It wasn't an 'aww' moment."
"It sounds like an 'aww' moment."
"It wasn't."
The chorus of disbelief that followed suggested nobody agreed.
Someone else leaned forward.
"Do you have pictures?"
You made the mistake of answering honestly.
A minute later, half the room was crowded around your phone.
"Aww."
"Oh my God."
"Look at his face."
"I can't believe that's Gambit."
"HE'S IN A LAUNDRY BASKET."
"I told him not to climb in there."
"He looks so offended."
"He was offended."
"He looks fluffy."
"He does look fluffy."
"He was fluffy."
"AWW."
You buried your face in your hands.
The traitorous part was that you were laughing too.
Because, objectively, some of the photos were funny.
The room had devolved entirely by the time Remy walked in.
Nobody noticed at first.
Not until a familiar voice spoke from behind them.
"Whatcha got dere?"
The room froze.
Instantly.
The way a room freezes when everyone realizes they're about to witness something incredible.
Slowly, heads turned.
Remy stood in the doorway.
Coffee in one hand.
Looking entirely unsuspecting.
You watched the moment happen.
The exact moment.
His eyes flicked to the crowd.
Then to your phone.
Then to the screen.
A photograph stared back at him.
Cat Remy.
Fast asleep.
Curled into a tiny orange ball.
His coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.
The room held its breath.
"...Cher."
Uh-oh.
You immediately recognized that tone.
You slowly stood.
"Now, Remy."
His eyes never left the phone.
"How many pictures?"
Nobody answered.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because the silence told him everything.
His gaze shifted.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
Toward you.
You took one step backward.
"To be fair, some of them are really cute."
The room erupted.
Half the X-Men started laughing.
Someone nearly fell off the couch.
Remy's eyes closed briefly.
Like he was summoning patience from another dimension.
When they opened again, he pointed directly at you.
"You."
You pointed at yourself.
"Me?"
"You."
You nodded.
"Yeah, that's fair."
Then you ran.
Because survival instincts existed for a reason.
Remy's laugh followed immediately.
Which was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been angry.
The chase that followed reportedly went through three hallways, two stairwells, and one unfortunate kitchen.
Nobody ever got all the photos.
Most of them, sure.
But not all.
Because hidden away in a folder you'd renamed three separate times sat one final picture.
A blurry photo taken in a roadside motel.
A small orange cat curled against your side, completely asleep.
summary đ a bookkeeper hides in the basement while the Iceberg Lounge changes hands. jason todd finds her, keeps her because she's useful, and tells himself it's temporary. a month later, she's patching up his wounds and telling him about the years she spent being treated like shitâand heâs letting her.
tags đ prince of gotham!jason todd x ex penguin employee fem!reader , grumpy crimelord x tired bookkeeper , found family , rescued from a criminal enterprise , ocd implied!reader , slow burn-ish , forced proximity , blood and bandages , boss!jason todd , low angst , dry humor , domestic-ish , quiet intimacy , undefined feelings , jasonâs POV , 2nd person , dialogue heavy , time-skips & fast forwards .
wc đ maybe 4-5k
⊠masterlistăâ±ădc masterlistăđŒ ÍÍ
THE BASEMENT of the Iceberg Lounge smelled like mold and old cigar smoke, and Jason Todd was starting to regret every decision that had led him down here.
Not the takeover. That had gone smoother than Jason expected. Cobblepot was locked in a storage room on the third floor with a gag in his mouth and a shitload of opinions he couldn't express. The Sisters Su were patrolling the main floor with their usual unsettling grace. His men were counting the money. Everything was going according to plan.
Except for the woman hiding behind the wine racks.
He heard you before he saw you. A sharp inhale, quickly muffledâa shoe scuffing the concrete. You were trying to stay quiet and failing, which meant you werenât trained for this: no tactical training, no weapon discipline, no idea how to vanish properly.
Jason rounded the corner slowly, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He wasn't concerned about a trap. If youâd been a threat, you would have acted by now. But he'd learned long ago that scared people do stupid things, and he didn't want to get hit with a wine bottle tonight. That would be embarrassing. He'd never hear the end of it from the Sisters.
You were crouched behind the last row of racks, pressed against the cold wall with your knees pulled up to your chest. Messy hair fell across your face in uneven waves, and you wore black slacks with a white button-down that had come untucked at some point, probably during the chaos of the takeover. Your flats were scuffed at the toes. You looked like you had been hiding for hours.
Your hands were shaking.
Jason stopped a few feet away and waited. He had learned that trick from Batman, though he would never admit it. Sometimes the silence was more effective than anything you could say. It made people talk. It made them fill the empty space with something, usually something true.
You looked up at him, and he watched the recognition hit you like a tangible force. Your shoulders pulled in tighter. Your breath caught and held. You knew who he was. Everyone in Cobblepot's organization knew the Red Hood by reputation, even if they had never seen his face. The helmet was off now, but the leather jacket, his build, and the way he carried himself told the story clearly.
He crouched down, not because he was trying to be kind, but because looming over you wasn't going to get him useful information. Also, his knees were tired. It had been a long night.
"You work here?" he asked.
You nodded, a quick jerky motion.
"What do you do?"
There was a pause as your throat moved with your swallow.
"Bookkeeping," you said, and your voice was steadier than he expected. "Payroll. Some bartending when they were short-staffed."
Jason looked at your hands again. No calluses. No scars. No signs of someone who had ever held a weapon for longer than it took to hand it off. These were the hands of someone who punched numbers into a calculator and maybe carried a tray of drinks when things got busy.
"You know how to use a gun?"
"No."
"A knife?"
"No."
"Anything that could hurt me?"
You looked at him then, really looked, and something in her expression shifted. Not defiance, exactly. More like resignation. Like you had already run the numbers and found the only answer that made sense.
"No," you said again. "I'm not a threat to you."
Jason believed you. He also believed that being harmless didn't mean being safe. The people who would come looking for Cobblepot's associates wouldn't care whether you had ever held a gun. They'd care about what you knewânames, accounts, payment schedules, the quiet links between the Penguin's operations and the rest of the city's underworld. Youâd been here for two years. You knew things.
If you left here tonight, someone would find you. Not his people, probably. Someone worse â someone who wanted information and didn't care how they got it.
You wouldn't survive the week.
Jason had seen that movie before. He had been the kid in it, once, before Bruce found him. Hungry and cold and hiding in alleys, watching the bigger predators circle. He had made it out because someone had decided to keep him. Not everyone got that lucky.
He stood up and pulled out his phone.
"Get up," he said.
You flinched but got up. Your legs were unsteady, and you had to brace one hand against the wine rack to avoid falling. You didn't ask where you were going. You just followed him up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the elevator that took you to the private floors above the casino.
On the way up, he typed out a quick text to one of his contacts: Run a background check on a woman. Bookkeeper. Cobblepot's organization. Everything by morning. He hit send and tucked the phone back into his pocket.
If youâre clean, you can be useful. If you weren't, he would deal with you then.
Either way, youâre not staying in the basement.
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
The office was a disaster area.
Cobblepot had been a meticulous monster, which meant his workspace used to look like the inside of a very expensive clock. Everything had its place, with pens aligned and files labeled. A humidor sat on the corner desk, probably costing more than Jasonâs first car.
Then the takeover had happened, and Jasonâs people had torn through the place looking for anything useful. Drawers were pulled open. Papers were scattered across the floor. A knife was still lodged in the wall above the safe, left there by one of the Sisters Su as a joke.
You stopped in the doorway and stared.
âYou did this?â you asked.
âSome of it.â
âYou have a filing system.â
âI have a system.â
You looked at him like he had just claimed the sky was green. Your eyes swept across the room, taking in the chaos, the scattered documents, the three empty coffee cups on the windowsill, the bullet holes in the ceiling.
âThis is not a system,â you said. âThis is a crime scene.â
Jason turned to look at you. You were still pale, still shaking a little, but something else was creeping into your voice. Exasperation. Like the state of his office was personally offensive to you. Like you were this close to grabbing a trash bag and fixing it yourself.
He almost chuckled. Almost.
âI didnât bring you up here to critique my organization,â he said.
âThen why did you bring me up here?â
He didnât have a good answer. He had a practical answer, which was that you knew Cobblepotâs operations and he needed someone to untangle the mess of shell companies and hidden accounts. That was true. That was useful. That was the kind of cold calculation he prided himself on.
But if he was being honest, which he rarely was, he had brought you up here because leaving you in the basement felt wrong.
Not wrong in a moral sense. He had done plenty of things that were wrong. Wrong in a personal sense. Like watching someone drown when he knew how to swim. Like walking past a hungry kid when he had food in his pocket.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
âSit down.â
You sat.
âYouâre staying here tonight,â he said. âTomorrow, weâre going to talk about what you know. After that, weâll figure out what to do with you.â
âWhat does that mean?â
He dropped into his own chair and kicked his boots up on the desk, scattering a stack of papers he hadnât gotten around to reading yet. The chair creaked under his weight. He was tired. His shoulder ached where someone had landed a lucky hit during the takeover. His knuckles were split and starting to scab over.
âIt means youâre not dead,â he said. âThatâs more than most of Cobblepotâs people got tonight. Youâre welcome.â
You looked at him for a long moment, and Jason saw something flicker across your face. Not gratitude. Not fear. Something closer to calculation. You were trying to figure out if he was lying, if this was some kind of trap, if he was going to hurt you after you gave him what he wanted.
He respected that. Trust is earned, not given. He had learned that lesson in a warehouse with a crowbar and a bomb. He wasnât about to forget it.
âOkay,â you said finally. âIâll stay.â
âThe couch pulls out. There are blankets in the closet. Donât touch the guns.â
âI donât know how to use a gun.â
âYou said that already.â
âIâm saying it again so you remember.â
Jason snorted. âLady, I donât forget anything.â
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
The background check came back clean at seven the next morning.
His contact had dug up everything. You had worked for Cobblepot for two years, started as a temp during tax season and somehow stuck around. Before that, you had done bookkeeping for a chain of restaurants in the Diamond District that had gone under during the recession. No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. No connections to any of the major players in the city.
You were exactly what you looked like. A civilian who had needed a job and ended up working for a monster because monsters paid well and didnât ask questions.
Jason read the report twice, looking for the catch. There wasnât a single one.
He wasnât sure if he was relieved or annoyed.
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
The first few weeks were awkward.
You slept on the couch in his office because there werenât any other rooms available and Jason wasnât about to let you wander around the building unsupervised. The Lounge wasnât exactly a hotel now, was it. It was a criminal enterprise with a casino attached, and letting a civilian roam the halls was a good way to get you killed or get him compromised.
You ate the food he brought you without complaint, even when it was cold and the coffee was shit. You didnât ask for anything. You didnât push. You just existed in his space like a presence he couldnât get rid of. Stupidly polite and quiet like you were worried one slip up would get you a one way ticket to heaven.
It was annoying. He wasnât sure why.
Jason told himself it was temporary. He had plans. Big plans. The Iceberg Lounge was just the beginning. He was going to clean up Crime Alley, take down the drug rings, starve out the human traffickers. He didnât have time to babysit a bookkeeper who had gotten caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But you were useful. That was what he told himself when he handed you a stack of financial records and asked you to make sense of them. That was what he told himself when you found three shell companies Cobblepot had been using to launder money through a bakery in the Diamond District. That was what he told himself when you looked up from a spreadsheet with an expression of pure disgust and said, âHe was hiding money in a frozen yogurt franchise. Who does that?â
Jason laughed before he could stop himself.
You looked at him like he had grown a second head.
âDid you just laugh?â you asked, eyebrows perked.
âNo.â
âYou definitely laughed.â
âI coughed.â
âThat was not a cough.â
âThe air in here is dry.â
You stared at him and he stared right back.
âYouâre weird,â you said.
âYouâre the one who worked for a guy who kept penguins in his office.â
âThey were taxidermy.â
âThatâs somehow worse.â
You almost smiled. Not quite. But almost. Jason picked up a pen from his desk, spun it between his fingers, and put it back down. He didnât know why he was fidgeting. He just was.
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
She started organizing his office on the fourth day.
Jason walked in after a meeting with a weapons supplier and found his desk completely changed. The papers were stacked in neat piles, labeled by category and date. The guns had been moved to a locked drawer, and the keys were on his keychain, which meant she had gone through his stuff at some point. The coffee cups were gone, replaced by a single clean mug and a coaster he didn't remember buying.
He stood in the doorway and stared.
"What did you do?" he asked, eyes scanning the room before finally landing on you.
You didn't look up from the filing cabinet you was sorting through. You were wearing the same black slacks and white button down from the basement, though youâd rolled the sleeves up to your elbows at some point. Your hair was pulled back in a messy knot and there was a smear of dust on your cheek.
"I organized it," you answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He sighed.
"Why?"
You finally looked at him, and your expression was almost bewildered, like you couldn't understand why he was even asking such a dumb question. Not that you could say that out loud⊠not quite there yet.
"Because I sleep in here and looking at that desk was giving me a headache," you replied. "I couldn't focus on the ledgers with that much chaos in my peripheral vision.â
Jason just stared at you.
You stared back.
"I'm not going to apologize for it," you added, shrugging.
He should have been annoyed. He should have told you to stay in your lane, to keep your hands off his things, to remember that you were here because he allowed it and he could un-allow it just as easily. The last person who had touched his things without asking had lost a finger. Not by his hand, but the principle still stood.
Instead, he dropped into his chair and looked around. The room felt different. Definitely calmer now. He hated that he noticed. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulder, still sore from the takeover, and tried to focus on something else.
"Where's the Glock?" he asked.
"Bottom drawer. Left side. The safety is on."
"How do you know how to check a safety?"
"I told you I don't know how to use a gun. I didn't say I didn't know anything about them." You closed the filing cabinet and turned to face him. "I grew up in Gotham. Everyone knows how to check a safety."
Jason leaned back in his chair and studied you. Youâd stopped flinching when he walked into the room sometime in the last few days. He wasn't sure when. You also stopped measuring your words, stopped being careful, stopped treating him like something that might bite.
He was still unsure whether this was a blessing or a curse. Being liked certainly had its perks, but being feared? That was even more powerful. With his reputation on the line, your efforts werenât exactly helping him.
He picked up his phone, looked at it, put it back down. No messages. He already knew there were no messages.
"You're not going to stay here forever," he said.
"I know."
"You understand that."
"I understand that you keep telling me that." He watched you cross your arms over your chest. "You also keep not telling me when I can leave."
Jason opened his mouth and closed it.
You had a point. A good one, at that.
"You're not a prisoner," he said.
"I'm not free either."
"Everyone in Gotham is a prisoner of something. At least here you have food and a couch and a lock on the door."
You tilted your head, studying him like he was problem you were trying to solve. He didn't like that look. It made him feel like you could see things he didnât want to show you.
"You don't have to keep me here," you said.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
Jason didn't answer. He thought about saying something honest. He thought about telling you the real reason, the stupid reason, the reason that made him feel like a kid again.
Then he thought better of it.
"Because you're useful," he said, and the word tasted like a lie even as he said it.
You didn't look like you fully believed him either. But you also knew better than to push. You just went back to the filing cabinet.
Jason tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he picked himself off the chair and walked out, leaving you with one notice.
âDonât go through my stuff.â
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
That whole name thing happened around the third week.
Jason was in the middle of reviewing a list of Cobblepot's outstanding debts when you walked into the office with two cups of coffee. You set one on his desk and kept the other for yourself, curling up on the couch with a folder full of bank statements. Youâd been doing that more often lately. Just existing in the room with him. Reading or organizing or working on tasks he assigned you while he handled his.
It shouldâve been distracting, but day by day heâd gotten used to it.
"Red Hood," you said, flipping open the folder. âIt says here thatââ
"Don't call me that."
"Well⊠what should I call you?"
"Boss works."
"That's weird."
"You're weird."
"I'm the one who organized your filing system and found three shell companies in a frozen yogurt franchise. You're not allowed to insult me."
Jason looked up from his papers. You were smiling in a way he hadnât seen before. Not a nervous smile or a polite smile, but a genuine one that suited you.
"Jason," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"My name. It's Jason."
He hadn't meant to tell you. He hadn't told anyone in Gotham his real name since the takeover, not even the Sisters Su. There was power in a name, and he wasn't in the habit of giving power away. Bruce taught him that much. Secrets were currency. Names were weaponsâsometimes.
But youâd been here for three weeks now. You hadn't tried to run. You hadn't betrayed him. You hadn't looked at him like he was a monster, even when he came back to the office with blood on his collar and the occasional fresh bruise somewhere on his face or neck or elsewhere.
You just made him coffee and organized his files and treated him like he was a person instead of a symbol.
"Jason," you repeated, testing the shape of it. Your mouth curved around the syllables like you were trying to figure out if they fit.
âYeah.â
"Okay," you said, and went back to whatever was on your screen.
Just like that.
Jason stared at you for a long moment. You didn't look up. You didn't even acknowledge the weight of what he had just given you. You just sipped your coffee and flipped a page and existed in his space like it wasnât a big deal.
He tried not to think too much about it. So instead he went back to his paperwork and tried even harder not to think about it. He cracked his knuckles one by one, a nervous habit he had never been able to shake.
đâ đâ â Ëâ đŹâ Ëâ â đâ đ
Jason comes back from a job later than usual. His knuckles are split open and his shoulder aches where someone got a lucky hit in with a goddamn pipe. The cut on his ribs isn't deep, but it's bleeding through his shirt and that's definitely going to stain the fabric. He's tired in a way that goes beyond the physical, the kind of tired that comes from fighting the same fights over and over and watching the city swallow his efforts whole.
He walks into the office and finds you still awake.
You're sitting on the couch with your laptop open, reviewing the accounts from the frozen yogurt franchise that turned out to be a money laundering front. You look up when he comes in, and your eyes go straight to the blood on his shirt.
"You're hurt," you say, voice tinged with concern.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
You give him a look that says you don't believe him for one second.
"Most of it," he amends.
You close your laptop and stand up. "Sit down."
"I don't needâ"
"Sit down, Jason."
The use of his name stops him. Not because he's scared of you, but because you say it like you have every right to tell him what to do. Like you've already decided that he's going to sit down and let you patch him up, and his opinion doesnât matter in the slightest.
He sits down and wonders when he became so⊠compliant.
You disappear into the bathroom attached to the office and come back with a first aid kit. It's his kit, which means it's military grade and contains enough supplies to treat a gunshot wound. You open it on the coffee table and start pulling out bandages and antiseptic wipes.
"Take off your shirt," you say.
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Bold."
"Don't be annoying."
"I'm never annoying."
You don't dignify that with a response. You just wait, your arms crossed over your chest, until he sighs and pulls his shirt off over his head. The movement pulls at the cut on his ribs, and he grits his teeth against the sting.
You kneel in front of him and start cleaning the wound on his ribs first. Your hands are steady. Like youâve done this before. You work in silence for a while, dabbing at the cut with an antiseptic wipe, and Jason finds himself watching your face.
You're focused. Concentrated. Like this is just another task you decided you had to do, no different from organizing his desk or reviewing a spreadsheet.
"You're not bad at this," he says.
"My mother was a nurse," you reply without looking up. "I learned a few things."
"Where is she now?"
"She died. Six years ago. Cancer."
Jason doesn't say he's sorry. He learned a while ago that sorry doesn't mean anything to people who have lost someone. It's just a word people say to fill the silence.
"She the reason you stayed in Gotham?" he asks instead.
You pause for a moment, then go back to work. "Part of it. The other part is that I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"That's why most people stay."
"That why you stayed?"
Jason thinks about it. He thinks about leaving Gotham a hundred times, a thousand times. He thinks about the places he's been and the people he's met and the ways he's tried to build something for himself outside of this city's shadow.
He thinks about Crime Alley. About the kid he was, stealing tires off the Batmobile because he didn't have anything else. About the way Bruce looked at him the first time, not with pity, but with something that felt like recognition.
"Someone's got to clean up this mess," he says. "Might as well be me."
You look up at him then, and your expression is unreadable. "That's very noble."
"It's not noble. It's stupid. There's a difference."
You almost smile. He sees it in the way the corner of your mouth twitches upwards just a little .
You finish cleaning the cut on his ribs and start on his knuckles. The split skin is raw and angry, and you work carefully, dabbing at the blood with the same steady hands. The silence stretches between you, unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.
"Cobblepot treated me like furniture," you say quietly. Unexpectedly.
Jason looks at you.
"I was there to do a job. I did it well. But I wasn't a person to them. I was a thing that balanced the books and poured their drinks and stayed out of the way."
You press a bandage across his knuckles, smoothing the edges down with your thumb.
"His men talked about me like I couldn't hear them. Made comments. Jokes. Nothing I could report, nothing that crossed a line they thought mattered." Your voice is flat, controlled. "I learned to ignore it. To be small. To be useful enough that they didn't notice me and not useful enough that they wanted more from me."
Jason watches your face as you speak. There's no self pity in your voice. No anger, even. He wonders why youâre not mad.
"The ones who were worse, the ones who actually tried something. They didn't last long. Cobblepot didn't like competition for his attention. He would get rid of them. Not because he cared about me. Because they were touching something that belonged to him."
You reach for another bandage.
"I hated him. Every single day. I hated the way he looked at me and the way he talked to me and the way he made me feel like I should be grateful for the privilege of being treated like garbage." You finally look up at him. "And then you showed up. And you killed the ones who deserved it. And you locked him in a room somewhere in this building."
"He's on the third floor," Jason says.
"I hope heâs suffering."
You say it with so much conviction that Jason feels something shift in his chest. He looks away, rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. He doesn't know what to do with the thing shifting in his chest, so he ignores it.
"You're not grateful," he says.
"I'm not," you agree. "I'm relieved.â
You finish wrapping his knuckles and sit back on your heels. The first aid kit lies open between you, supplies scattered across the coffee table. The office is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the windows.
"You couldâve killed me," you say. "That night in the basement. You couldâve killed me and no one wouldâve asked questions. I was nobody. I worked for Cobblepot. That wouldâve been enough reason for most people."
"Civilians aren't on my list," he says again. "They never have been."
"You killed some of his men."
"His men weren't civilians. They made choices. They carried weapons. They knew what they signed up for."
You look at him for a long moment. "And me?"
Jason holds your gaze. "You hid behind a wine rack and shook so hard I could hear your teeth chattering from across the room. You weren't a threat to anyone."
You nod slowly, like you're filing that information away for later. Then you stand up and close the first aid kit.
"You should eat something," you say. "There's leftover soup in the kitchen. I'll heat it up."
"I don't needâ"
"You're bleeding, you're tired, and you haven't eaten since yesterday. I've been here for almost a month. I know your schedule." You pick up the first aid kit and carry it back to the bathroom. "Sit there and don't move."
Jason opens his mouth to argue.
"Jason."
He closes his mouth. Heâs too tired to.
You disappear into the bathroom, and he hears you putting the kit back in its place. The water runs for a moment. You wash your hands. Then you walk past him toward the door that leads to the kitchen.
"I'll be back in five minutes," you note. "Don't do anything stupid."
"When have I ever done anything stupid?"
You pause in the doorway and look back at him. Your expression is dry, unimpressed, and something else that he can't quite put his finger on.
"Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?"
Before he can respond with something equally dry in humor, you're gone.
Jason sits on the couch with his bandaged hands and his stitched ribs and listens to you move around in the kitchen. The sound of a pot being placed on the stove. The click of a burner lighting. The quiet hum of your voice as you talk to yourself, though he can't make out the words.
He picks up his phone from the coffee table. No messages. He already knows there are no messages. He puts it back down. Then he picks it up again, checks the time, and puts it back down again. He's being an idiot.
You aren't afraid of him. You haven't been afraid of him for weeks now. That should bother him. It doesn't. He's not going to think about why.
He thinks about what you said. About being treated like furniture. About learning to be small. About hating Cobblepot and being relieved that someone finally did something about it. He pushes the thought away before it can settle. He doesn't have time for that. He has plans. Big plans. Ones that donât include you getting in the way of.
The soup will be ready in a few minutes. You'll come back with two bowls and sit across from him and you'll eat in silence or maybe you'll talk. He doesn't know which one he wants more.
He doesn't know what this is. He doesn't have a name for it.
For once, the Prince of Gotham doesn't have a plan. And for once? He didnât absolutely hate the feeling.
   đđ°đđłđł đșđźđżđžđ - 02
đœđźđ¶đżđ¶đ»đŽ! mechanic!jason todd x reader
đđđșđșđźđżđ! jason finally fixes your car, but he has to make sure it still runs properly as well. for your safety, right?
đđźđŽđ! afab!reader, tension, inaccurate car information, time skips
đđŒđżđ± đ°đŒđđ»đ! 4871
đđČđżđ¶đČđ đșđźđđđČđżđčđ¶đđ! find it here <3
the familiar musk of jason's shop filled your nostrils once again.
your thighs were frozen to the thin metal chair that remained beside jason's work station. the rusted legs creaked under your weight, threatening to break with each movement.
you tried not to let your mind wander this time.
the events of the prior night plagued you through visions. his arms â the way they flexed with each turn of the wheel, the way his body leaned closer to yours as he retrieved his sweater from the back seat.Â
his words stuck to your back for the rest of the night. "see you tomorrow, pretty girl,"Â landing and ironing itself to your skin.Â
you recalled his scent â vanilla musk, mint, and the faintest hint of the cigarette he had smoked earlier that clung to the tips of his hair.
in front of you was a familiar scene. dark wash jeans, and a black t shirt. brown boots. body laid supine on a trolly underneath your car.
"how long do you think this will take?" you asked, cringing slightly from the chair's loud screeching.
"tryna get away from me that quickly, darling?" he called back. you hear the smirk in his words. smug bastard. "i'm just getting started down here."Â
"tim said that you said it would be an easy fix,"Â
jason's only response was a hum of confirmation. he hadn't lied â it was an easy fix. but he couldn't bring himself to let you leave just yet. he couldn't. he was selfish, he knew, he wanted to stay in your presence just a little longer. because you⊠you were off limits. you would go back to your life â school, work, tim, your friends. jason didn't believe that he needed to fit into your life alongside those factors.
"that it wouldn't take long?" you continued after his lack of response.Â
"that was before i saw what a mess your car is,"Â
"shark is reliable," your voice rang back defensively. your car was beautiful. a 99 chevy cavalier. perfect for you.Â
"you named your car 'shark'?" his lip curled above his top teeth. of course you had named your car. you had seemed like the type who would. the name was cute, jason would admit, you were cute, but denying it was easier than admitting it.Â
"yeah," your tone was flat, defensive. "it's grey, and strong â therefore, a shark."
"right," jason agreed for your sake. the name of your car didn't change his life in any way. he rolled himself out from the undercarriage and stood in front of the hood of your car.Â
he took a moment to inspect and assess. seeing him in his element was mesmerizing. his calculating gaze showed care and experience. his eyes roved over each part, and how they worked together.Â
"come here," his voice called out, head nodding invitingly. your feet were moving over to him before your brain even realized it was happening. he was a magnet, one that you didn't think you could stay away from even if you wanted to.Â
"see this?" he murmured as he stepped to the side to make room for you. you nodded. his finger remained pointing to a part on top of your engine. "that big thing is your engine. and this is your valve. it's leaking and is what is causing problems."Â
you nodded again in understanding, leaning your upper half closer to inspect it. jason tried to keep his gaze on your car as well, and keep from wandering down your back. but fuck you were so close to him. and the smell of your perfume was flooding his senses. his fingers hovered on the small of your back, fingers brushing the hem of your tank top â black this time, and just as tantalizing.Â
"the good thing is, your engine is fine," he explained. his words were so close to your ear, and you were aware of his proximity to your back. the way his "want me to show you how to fix it?"Â
your head tilted back over your shoulder to regard him. his face was so close to yours, close enough to cause your breath to hitch in your throat.Â
"yeah? so i can take your job?" the corner of your lip twitched upward.Â
jason's expression softened fractionally, his eyes roving over your face. "you think that's how this works?"
words died in your throat. his gaze on you almost stopped your heart. your lips parted to respond, a witty response ready and shaped under your tongue. yet all you could do was press your lips back together and turn back towards the car. jason was entranced by the curve of your mouth. his own mind was short-circuting, just the same as yours. at the sight of your lips pressed together, he took that as a sign to step up closer behind you.Â
"okay," he murmured, his arm circling you. his biceps caged you in, pressing against your shoulders. "we are gonna take this rag and wrap it around here,"
his voice was breathy against your ear, but still low and controlled. his weight against your back was grounding, yet completely debilitating. every ridge, every crevice of his chest pressed into you.Â
"and then, we're gonna pull," a loud pop followed the end of jason's sentence. your eyes remained on your engine under the valve, scanning, questioning.Â
jason's own gaze remained fixed on your face. your fascination, your concern, was evident on your features. your brows dipped slightly as your mind worked around the inner workings of your car â he was speechless by the sight.Â
clearing his throat, he let go of your hand and removed himself from behind you. "and, she's all fixed up,"
you immediately felt the loss. a steady chill crawled up the back of your spine. his chest had been so warm and solid against your back. a small part of you was upset at how easily jason fixed your car. you almost wished there was more wrong in order to spend more time caged in by his arms.Â
"thanks for fixing her up," you turned to face the front of him, gaze lifted to meet his. his height was towering, no matter the size of your own body. he commanded space. took it up without meaning to â without even wanting to. he was inescapable, a large mass that captured your attention. "how much do i owe you?"Â
"don't worry about it," his response was short. dismissive. nonchalant. his arm reached by your head, unhooking the hood of your car and letting it shut.
"jason." you stated, disbelieving. "i'm serious."Â
"so am i,"Â
"just tell me how much i owe you,"
"nothing. was a favour for your boyfriend," he shrugged, his expression remaining unchanging.Â
"he's not my boyfriend," your face contorting into a look of disgust. tim was the last person you would choose to date. especially when there was someone else on your mind, someone who happened to be standing in front of you.Â
"right, well, still a favour for the piece of shit,"Â
you gave him a look at his choice of words to describe tim. there were a few beats of silence between the two of you.Â
"shop policy is that we need to test run the car," he gave you a sidelong glance, his hand brushing over the hood. "make sure it's running properly."Â
"you do this with all your clients?" you raised a brow, unconvinced.Â
"can't let you go unless i know you're safe in that thing," he ignored your question, "in good conscious."Â
"do i get to drive?" you raised a brow.Â
"in your dreams," his voice muttered. he had already opened the passenger door of your car, hand gestured for you to get in.Â
"it's my car and i don't even get to drive," you snarked, slipping by him, your back brushed against his chest again briefly.Â
"as long as you're with me, you don't have to touch the wheel again," jason's voice was barely above a breath, words uttered as he shut the door after you got settled.Â
he hoped you hadn't heard.Â
he hadn't even known why he said those words. he didn't mean them. he didn't know you, and he didn't want to know you.Â
you were tim's friend, not his.Â
ïčâïčâïčâïč
the front of your hood burnt the bottom of your thighs.Â
how you ended up in the meadow on the outskirts of town was beyond you.Â
jason was perched beside you, arms folded as he gazed at the over grown grass.
"this place is quite far from town," your voice drifted into jason's ears alongside the gentle breeze that swayed the grass.Â
he nodded, his eyes fixed ahead.Â
you left it at that, following his gaze ahead. there was peace in the view. an endless expanse of green that contrasted with the cut of the sharp blue sky.Â
"i come here quite often," he responded after a while of silence, turning to gaze up at you.Â
"peaceful," you added. you didn't feel the need to add more, he understand what you were implying with your words. "do you ever go sit in the field?"
he shook his head, "i like to watch from here,"
you pushed yourself off the hood of your car, feet landing on the road below. rocks crunched under the sole of your shoes, dust settling into the ankles of your jeans. "well then, let's go,"
"no," he shook his head, shifting against the hood. he looked down, knowing that if he continued to look into your eyes he would give in. jason felt himself wanting to give him, wanting to do whatever you wanted. and it was terrifying him.Â
you rolled your eyes at his response, "come on, jason,"
he fixed his gaze back ahead, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. it wasn't that he didn't want to â god, he fucking wanted to. he couldn't allow himself to. you were dangerous.Â
you took his silence and nodded slowly. "well, i'm gonna go and enjoy myself. and you can stay here, loser,"Â
you smirked at him, nudging his arm before you turned around and took off running into the grassy area.
the sun cut down through the wind, warming your shoulders. you weren't gonna let jason's reluctance stop you.Â
jason watched you run, watched the way your arms swung by your side. his body subconsciously pushed off the hood, moving to follow you into the sun. you felt like his sun, and he couldn't help but want to orbit around you.Â
he let out a soft huff, his nails biting into his palm for a moment.Â
"fuck," he muttered under his breath before he took off running after you. it felt good, but he wouldn't admit that out loud to you. it was scary how natural this feeling was for him, how easily this path to you opened for him to chase.Â
it was scary how fast jason caught up to you. the head start you had was diminished in seconds. he kept a steady pace just behind you, not yet matching your pace, just watching.Â
the smile you flashed over your shoulder was blinding. jason almost tripped over his feet at the sight. your teeth beaming with genuine joy, your tongue peeking out from behind the top row. and then your laugh. a breathless laugh from the belly that punched into his chest.Â
"tag!" your hand reached back to swat at his arm, while you stumbled over the grass in the process. you righted yourself and cut immediately to the left.
you took off sprinting again in the opposite direction. the melody of your laugh continued to fill jason's void, and he followed without a second thought.Â
he chased after you, breath barely puffing out of his chest. he wanted to prolong this moment for as long as he possibly could, to preserve this memory in locket and wear it around his chest â he didn't even know if he would see you again after this.Â
all he was supposed to do was to fix your car, as per tim's instructions. that was all. it was only a favour. nothing more. yet, it felt like everything to jason in this moment. how quickly his life had been changed within a couple of days was something he was unable to comprehend.Â
his arm circled around your waist, lifting you up into his chest and spinning you around to carry your momentum. you gasped through a shriek, legs kicking into the air at how suddenly you were airborne.Â
"got you," his chest rumbled against your back. his other hand latched onto your thigh to steady you back on the ground.Â
"jason, oh myâ" your hands gripped his arm as the world suddenly spun off it's axis. your foot caught in a hole, your body stumbled forward. the ground was approaching faster than you could process, than you could react. your eyes shut as you braced yourself for impact. you could practically feel your body hitting the ground, the grass catching between your fingertips and sticking under your nails. you were already cringing at the thought. that was gonna be a pain to get out later.
only, you didn't hit the ground â not really. your bottom did, but not as hard as you had anticipated. the back of your head was cushioned, along with your upper back. you realized it was jason by the way his knees thudded against the dirt, bracketing your thighs. jason was practically straddling you. his hand crunched beneath your head before the arm around your upper back pulled you up, hovering your body a few inches off the ground.Â
your eyes were wide and wild, gazing up at him.Â
he was so close.Â
again.
you had seen him up close before, the two of you had shared a few moments in a proximity that was closer than you should have been, but none of those times compared to this.Â
he was right there.Â
small freckles dusting his nose, blue irises that carried hints of green, and complete and utter perfection.Â
and for, jason, god he was speechless. it was instinct on his end, really. his hands moved on their own â thrumming with the desire to protect you. he would let his arms take the brunt of any pain if it had meant you would never see harm.Â
was he that pathetic? that you had managed to have him under your thumb within such a short time of knowing you? clearly, he was.Â
your fingers instinctively curled into the collar of his shirt, keeping him close. your chest was expanding with breaths that never quite sat right in your lungs, leaving you more dizzy than anything else â or was that because you were close enough to smell jason's natural musk?Â
jason lowered your body slowly â hand slipping from under your head, arm uncurling from your upper back and letting you rest on the grass. the green blades framed your head like a halo. angel. you were his angel.Â
he followed you down, unable to put space between your bodies. his hands rested beside your head, further bracketing you beneath him. his eyes roved over your form in concern.Â
"you okay?" he murmured softly. he checked for injuries, anything, he angled his head to gaze at your ankle â the reason why you had fallen in the first place. it looked fine to him, thankfully.Â
you nodded slowly, lips parted in slight shock, eyes still transfixed on his face.Â
"need you to say it. are you in any pain?" he repeated, gazing back into your eyes. "does your ankle hurt at all?"Â
"i'm okay," you swallowed thickly. "my ankle is fine."Â
he accepted your answer, visibly relaxing. "good."
"sorry," you blurted out, anxious from how close he was. from how you could count each and every single one of his eyelashes as they were attached to his eyelid.
"for what?" his voice was barely above a whisper. the breeze flowed through the grass, kissing over your cheeks and sending hair fluttering across your forehead. he brushed the strand back, memorizing the texture under his thumb. he knew why you were apologizing, and it was unnecessary. though, he recognized your words are more instinct than a genuine apology.Â
your brain blanked, subconsciously pulling him closer by the collar. closer. closer. it wasn't close enough.Â
jason followed willingly. it would agonize him to deny you right now, to deny himself.Â
his head dipped down, the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his shaky breath fanned across your lips.Â
"angelâŠ" he whispered, eyes squeezing tightly. it was as if the darkness behind his lids could stop him, stop his desire for you. stop the fire that was spreading up his neck â one that could only be extinguished with the press of your lips.Â
he wanted it so badly, wanted you. he knew you would taste good under his tongue, that you would mold perfectly with him. his fingers dug into the ground, denting the dirt with the force of his restraint.Â
and when your hands slid up from his collar and onto his neck, jason knew he was done for. he was gone. completely at your mercy just by the touch of your fingertips. his neck burned at the spots where your skin met his. he was ready to carve his heart out of his chest and hand it to you with his own hands. his chest plating armour, his protection, his walls that had shielded the parts of himself that he refused to show the world melted instantly with a flash of your smile.Â
"jayâŠ" your voice was barely above the wind in his ears, but it cut through nonetheless, grounded him back to the moment where your chin was tilting up towards his mouth.Â
oh god, no
he cleared his throat and slid onto his back beside you. the clouds, bright and blinding against the warm blue, were the most interesting thing jason could look at right now. though his eyes were desperate to settle back onto you.Â
he wouldn't give in. not yet at least. maybe not ever. you would never be his.Â
a spiked ball made it's way down your throat, forcing, shoving, tearing down any words that were about to leave your mouth. the pressure between the two of you was bordering on unbearable.Â
you were so close to kissing him. so close. his distance was necessary. you never should have gotten that close to jason â close enough that you had felt the cool air from his nose brush your cheeks. though, feeling him pull away stabbed your heart deeper than you cared to admit.Â
"hey, jason?"
he hummed in confirmation
"what were you doing under my car for so long?"Â
"what do you mean?"
"well, it was the valve that was leaking right? you said that's under the hood. why were you under my car for as long as you were? you were also inside, like under the steering wheel. what was that?"Â
jason remained silent. he didn't have a good enough excuse that didn't make him sound like a fucking idiot. after finding the initial cause of your car problems, he found another, and then another. and then it turned into him fixing whatever he could with the equipment that he had on hand â anything to keep you in the shop a little longer. just a little longer.Â
"you know, just stopping some fluid leaks, making sure nothing was rusting. the oil pan gasket is down there, and your transmission," he kept his eyes trained on the sky, hand resting under his head. the same hand that was under yours. the same one that was just gliding through your hair and oh how he wanted to grab onto the strands andâ "oh, and your exhaust. that needed to be touched up. i actually put some paste on there so it should be good for now, but you'll need to come in again soon for me to actually fix itâ"Â
"jason,"Â
"yeah," his own rambling had caught him off guard, but the way his heart was practically beating out of his chest was getting increasingly harder to ignore. his heart was still beating wildly out of his chest from almost kissing you.
"what the hell does any of that even mean?"Â
"basically, you had more work that needed to be done than just the valve,"Â
"what?" you sat up, your lips jutting out in a exasperated pout. "why didn't you tell me? you have to let me pay you."Â
"like i said earlier, i owed tim," he responded, propping himself on his elbow to face you. the sun floated just above your head, bathing you in its ethereal glow. the rays caught on your hair, glittering the wild strands that were mussed from the grass.Â
"yeah but not for all of that,"Â
"well. if you wanna repay me so bad, then you can,"Â
you nodded in relief. "okay. how much do i owe you then?"Â
"i want youâ"Â
the shrill of your phone ringing in your back pocket cut jason off abruptly. in a way, he may have been relieved that he never got to finish his sentence. you. i want you. he wouldn't have been able to take them back, no matter how much he may have meant it.
too much. way too soon.Â
"hey," you pressed your phone to your ear. your fingers absentmindedly picked at the strands of grass beneath your feet.Â
"what time are you coming over?" tim's voice rang through the speaker. loud. jason cringed at the sound.Â
"huh?" you shifted, sitting up a little straighter. right. tim and you had plans tonight. dinner tonight at the manor, upon bruce's insistence. on days that you and tim had planned to hang out, you usually ended up in the manor. it was more comfortable for you guys rather than your shitty apartment.Â
"b's asking, alfred's already started on dinner," tim says, you cam practically see him shaking his head. "so, what time should i tell him? also, why is your location off. i tried to check if you were at home and it says 'location not found'"Â
"oh uh, i don't know. i'm on a walk right now, i'll be there in 'bout an hour?" you were distracted. jason was just laying there still, beside you, pretending not to listen but you know he was. the twitch of his nose when tim had mentioned bruce had given him away.Â
"''kay, perfect, see you, and fix your location," tim waited for your own farewell before hanging up the phone. you let your phone drop into your lap, falling back into the electrically charged quiet that seemed to continuously engulf yourself and jason.Â
"tim?" jason mumbled.Â
you nodded, a thick glob of saliva catching in our throat. "dinner at the manor tonight."Â
right. jason knew that. dinner at the manor tonight, as bruce had said in the family group chat.Â
he knew he had to drive you back, to let you go. you car was fixed now. it was over. your car was fixed, and you were gonna go back to your life now. the dream bubble, the rose coloured world that jason had been fantasizing with you was now grey.Â
but he wouldn't complain. he would let you go. and maybe, he would get to see you again.Â
ïčâïčâïčâïč
the manor had been bustling upon your arrival. you still felt like you were in a daze from your earlier encounters with jason.Â
he was⊠different. not what you had expected.Â
your first impression of him might have been skewered by tim, and the front that jason put up. the glares, the stone mask that he wore â you saw the softness that lay beneath it all.Â
you were currently at the dinner table â seated beside tim â though you could still feel the grass tickling your ankles and jason's steady weight on your chest. you had been so close to kissing him, barely a centimetre between you.Â
"so your car is alright then?" bruce's voice brought you back from your dream.Â
"hm? oh! yeah, it's all good," your shoulders squared, spine snapping straight. the smile that plastered across your face felt gooey. "jasonâ"
"âlittlewing?" dick's voice rang out in shock, his gaze fixed above your head. a lull settled over the room as the rest of the party's attention followed dick's. you slowly turned your head, your breath catching at the sight.Â
speak of the devil.Â
jason. he had stood in the entryway of the dining hall â the same navy blue jeans, leather jacket stretched taut over his strong form.Â
everyone's gaze were on him, but his were on you.Â
"jason! what a pleasure," bruce smiled, standing in greeting.Â
"why are you here?" tim blurted out.Â
"for dinner?" jason deadpanned.
"yeah, but why?"Â
"i'm part of the family, aren't i? do i need a reason to show up for family dinner?"Â
"how did you know this was happening,"
you elbowed tim hard enough that he flinched. his fork clanged against his plate at the force of his knee hitting the table.
"i'm in the groupchat, dumbass," jason's eyes narrowed at tim, a scowl forming across his mouth.Â
"âyes! you are, no you don't need a reason, and we are so happy you're here," bruce's voice cut in quickly, breaking the squabble. his tone directed at tim. he stood up as well to welcome jason into the room.Â
"come sit, littlewing, alfred already set up a seat for you," dick's words barely registered in your mind. jason had looked different, smaller, younger. dick's hand patted the space next to him, across from you, the only empty seat. until now, that seat had always remained empty â set up with a plate, cutlery, and a glass â but empty. now you knew why.Â
he took his spot, sliding comfortably into the seat and letting dick clap his shoulder in friendly greeting. jasons eyes shifted from dick, to bruce, and then to you. darker, pupils dilated, head tilted slightly to the side as he took in your appearance again. outfit less casual, your hair done in a way that he could tell you put effort into â though he thought your hair would have looked nice regardless how you wore it.Â
jason's gaze was hungry. devouring, though it wasn't because of the food that was being served in front of him, but because of you.Â
dinner continued without a hitch. the dymanic didn't change when jason arrived, it molded around him â like he had always been there.Â
the conversion flowed between everyone, changing constantly from someone's interjection. the only thing that didn't change was jason's focus on you. when he spoke, when he wasn't speaking. it wasn't the whole time, but it was enough for you to notice it. to feel it burning into your face from where he sat directly in front of you.Â
eventually, after the second course of dessert, you excused yourself to the washroom.Â
a break was needed.Â
while you had developed close relationships with all of tim's family members, they still managed to overwhelm you very easily.Â
the washroom was a moment of repreive in the chaos that was confined within the walls of the manor. you could still hear the arguments, the debates, the loud voices that knew how to speak above one another.Â
you took your time on the way back, slow measured steps that followed the dark lines of the mahogany flooring. you didn't hear the footsteps behind you, didn't sense the presence that lingered too closely behind you for just a second too long before wrapping an arm around you.Â
a large hand covered your mouth, the other pulling your body into the opened doorway beside you. once your back was against the wall, you realized.Â
jason.Â
he was close again. body pressed up against yours intentionally. he was warm in a way that was devastating â a warmth that you so desperately wanted to sink into, but you knew you couldn't.Â
"what are youâ" your voice muffled against his hand, palm sliding against your cheek and cradling your head.Â
"i should have kissed you earlier," his words cut you off, hanging in the space between your mouths. his gaze was fixed on your lips, centimetres away from yours. "i should have. i need to. been thinking about it since i met you, angel, fuck."Â
he was practically pleading. his whispered words were shaking between his lips.Â
please. please, let me kiss you.Â
"we⊠jason, we can't," your voice was just as soft, hands exploring up his arms and onto his shoulders. broad and thick under your palms. the desperation was burning the room, a fever beginning to heat up your spine.Â
"we⊠yeah," his forehead softly hit yours, eyes shutting tightly. his nostrils flared with restraint. his other hand tightened it's grip on your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer to him.Â
"they're gonna be looking for us, we need toâ"
"fuck. i can't. i'm sorry," jason murmured, his snapping open to gaze at you one last time, there was a hint of apology swimming in his eyes, deep and longing beneath the surface.Â
content âžâž popular . dick grayson x fem . reader , oneshot , fluff , crack , smau / high school au , 1.31wc đ đ đ
ăăThe bells ring obnoxiously in your ears, about to make them bleed if they didn't stop â you hum lowly under your breath as you walk out of the classroom, letting the fresh air hit you before you suffocate any longer in that room.
But there's another reason why you are the first to walk out of the class, the first to enter the hallway that's about to fill itself with even more students.
It's to avoid him.
Because you knew he would pick you up if you aren't fast enough, and eventually accompany you for the next agonising hours. And if you don't waste time like right now, the probability is higher that he will actually not find you at all.
"Hey, wait upâ!"
A shiver crawls down your spine. You hoped too soon â he already found you.
"That was surprisingly fast." you bite back a groan, pressing your lips together as you speed up your pace.
"Waitâ!" he calls out your name, eyes trailing after you.
While you hope for him to actually get the message and stop chasing you, he doesn't give up. You manoeuvre your way between the students, steps filled with care and bounce to make you faster.
Careful to not bump against anyone, you frantically search a spot to hide from him, sweat building on top of your skin because of the movements and anxiety to get away from him as soon as possible.
Although you are fast to round the corner, trying to blend with the people as soon as you are out of sight â Dick is a man built for the chase. He weaves through the crowded hallway and students with the ease.
Suddenly, he's a man on a mission, someone who tries to catch you as quickly as possible. He ignores the people around him, calling after him to talk about the party last night or the upcoming party today.
For all he cares, this is a talk for later because his priority one is you at the very moment. He instantly spots you when he turned the corner, eyes locked with your back and seeing how your pace quickened again, his lips curving into a grin.
Do you really expect to outrun him?
Someone who spent half his life performing acrobatics?
Just like you, he picks up the pace again and as soon as he closed the distance, he catches up with you â hand grasping your sleeve, fingers curling around your elbow gently to tug you back.
"Aren't you a fast one?" he pants slightly, amusement a vivid gleam in his eyes.
"Only when I want to get away from... someone." you breathe out and glance behind your shoulder, furrowing your brows slightly in annoyance.
Dick Grayson. In all his glory â not even breaking one sweat, but pretending to pant a bit to pity you. The boy, who has been chasing you since the start of the year for whatever reason.
"Get straight to the point. What do you want?"
He steps into your personal space while an earnest and confident grin forms on his lips. "Since you seem to in such a hurry, I thought I could walk you to the next class." he beams like the sun.
It sounds like a suggestion you could refuse but eventually, it isn't one because he would do it anyways. You twitch, frown etches deep into your face as you continued to stare at him.
"No, thanks." you still try to refuse straightforwardly.
"What?" his face drops into a puppy-eyes one, "are you going to keep treating me like a golden retriever?"
He was, and still is. In all seriousness and honesty and fairness.
You rub your temple to calm yourself down, pinching the bridge of your nose and breathing out again. "You disgust me." you comment at the innocent expression that is supposed to bring in guilt instead of disgust.
Unfortunately for you, it doesn't really faze him. Instead â it amuses him, as he begins to smile at you again. He doesn't try to defend his honour and lets out a delighted, easy chuckle.
"Disgust you, huh? This is a first." he repeats, voice lowered and a mere whisper, enough to make your skin prickle. "I like that."
"Okay, so. Don't word it like this, you make it very weird."
"Only if you donate some of your time to this sad and pathetic and lonely and apparently disgusting puppy."
"Eughâdid you just seriously say that?"
The deadpan turns into a grimace as you take one step back from him, not believing what your ears just took in. Yet that comment makes him chuckle again, the atmosphere between the two of you seems light and friendly, something that actually eases him after all the tension between social circles and drama among the popular students.
Until your time is cut short by a group of boys and girls, who approached him the moment the laid their eyes on him. Their smile and grin are bright, voice boisterous loud, talk long and boring.
"Dick, what's up manâ!"
It doesn't take long at all, only a few seconds pass before they're involved in a conversation. His friends drape their arms around Dick's shoulder while the girls hold a respectful distance, only chirpy giggles leaving their lips.
How should you leave? you blink, standing a few inches too close to the center of attention.
The infamous boy is in the middle of a laugh, responding to a joke his friend just made, but he isn't actually listening. His attention seems split, trying to perform the role of the social butterfly the charismatic Dick Grayson. The other half of attention is wondering how he can get out smoothly with you.
You sigh out and let your gaze flicker before they eventually land on one girl. Because she was undeniably pretty â beauty from another world even, on another level.
Warm and angelic smiles that has drawn anyone in who looked into her direction, radiating a soft yet bright aura, gentle and adorable doe eyes. She was dressed the modest, style casual and pretty fitting for her aura she emitted.
Head titling slightly, your gaze goes back and forth between Dick and the girl. If your friends told you right, that girl had a crush on Dick.
You couldn't help but twitch when your gazes clash, noticing how she was staring at you as well. You send her a little smile as soon as she notices how close you stood next to Dick.
Maybe you should leave him at that.
A hum leaves your lips while unfortunately finding yourself amidst the little group, eyes wandering to the open space.
Before you could make an attempt to slip away quietly and unnoticed, Dick doesn't let you â his instincts kick in and he doesn't even have to think about it. For him, it's a reflex as natural as breathing.
His hand subconsciously finds the edge of your shirt, fingers hooking into the fabrics before a firm but gentle tug pulls you back into his orbit. You yelp, quiet enough to not interrupt the ongoing conversation as stumble â back hitting his shoulder lightly.
"Woah there, princess," he murmurs, his voice equally quiet enough that it's almost lost in the chatter of his friends.
"Let go, Grayson." you hiss in annoyance, feeling how your eye starts to twitch because of him.
Dick doesn't pull his hand away though, barely takes in your demand. His grip softens ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt before his hand finds itself behind your lower back.
He turns his head slightly to meet your glare. His lips curve into a bright grin, brighter than the shine of the sun. You frown at that, corner of your lips weighing down.
authorâs note â bro this idea was a lot better in my head and i just added so unnecessary many elements that arenât even important imma kms haha âžâž
Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been a problem from the moment he appeared on the scene.
He was everything you werenât supposed to want: brutal, unrelenting, a storm wrapped in red and black leather who left broken bones and fear in his wake. He protected the streets in his own violent way, but he didnât play by the same rules as the Batfamily. He didnât pull punches. He didnât hesitate. And he especially didnât tolerate thieves who thought they could operate in his territory, even if their intentions were noble.
The first time your paths crossed, you were lifting a diamond necklace from a corrupt businessmanâs penthouse â the kind of man who funded weapons that ended up on the streets Jason tried to clean. Youâd been silent, efficient, already halfway out the window when the Red Hood dropped in like a thunderclap.
âNice try, kitten,â heâd growled, voice distorted through the helmet. âBut this cityâs got enough stray cats causing trouble.â
Youâd fought then â a blur of acrobatics and precision against his raw power. You were faster, slipping through his grasp like smoke. He was stronger, relentless, refusing to let you disappear into the night. In the end, youâd escaped with the necklace, but not before heâd left a bruise on your ribs and a strange, electric tension in the air between you.
From that night on, it became a chase.
Youâd plan a heist. Heâd show up. Youâd tease him with a smirk and a clever escape. Heâd growl threats and pursue you across rooftops, the city lights blurring beneath you both. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. But neither of you ever really tried to end it.
It was almost like a game.
A dangerous, addictive game.
The night everything changed started like any other.
You were on the roof of an old art gallery in the Diamond District, the wind whipping through your sleek black suit as you disabled the security system with a few careful flicks of your tools. The target was a stolen artifact â a ancient cat statue that belonged in a museum, not the private collection of a mob boss. Selina had tipped you off. You were almost done when the familiar weight of his presence settled behind you.
âStealing again, kitten?â Jasonâs voice was low, rough, like gravel under boots. âThought we talked about this.â
You didnât turn around immediately. Instead, you finished securing the statue in your bag, a small smile playing on your lips. âWe did. You talked. I listened. Then I decided I didnât care.â
You spun then, leaping gracefully to the next rooftop. He followed without hesitation, the chase beginning like it always did â exhilarating, heart-pounding, a dance of shadows and sparks. You were faster on your feet, slipping through narrow alleys and across fire escapes. He was relentless, cutting you off with calculated jumps, forcing you to improvise.
But tonight, something felt different.
The rain started halfway through the chase, slicking the rooftops and making every leap a little more dangerous. You landed hard on a wet ledge, slipping slightly, and Jason was there in an instant â catching your arm before you could fall, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.
For a moment, you were pressed together, rain pouring down around you, his helmet inches from your face. You could feel the heat of him through the armor, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his grip on your arm was firm but not bruising.
âYouâre going to get yourself killed one day,â he growled, voice distorted but still unmistakably his. âAnd Iâm not going to be there to catch you every time.â
You looked up at the blank black domino mask, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the chase. âThen maybe you should stop chasing me.â
He didnât let go. His hand slid from your arm to your waist, holding you there on the ledge as the rain soaked through both your suits. The city lights blurred below, the world narrowing to just the two of you â enemies, rivals, something neither of you had named yet.
âI canât,â he said, voice quieter now. âIâve tried. Youâre under my skin, kitten. And I donât know what to do about it.â
The tension snapped.
You kissed him first â impulsive, desperate, the rain mixing with the taste of him as your hands fisted in the front of his jacket. He froze for half a second, then kissed you back like heâd been starving for it, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other pressed into your lower back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was messy, urgent, full of all the frustration and want that had been building for months.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against your own, white eyes through the mask unreadable.
âI shouldnât want this,â he said, voice rough. âYouâre everything Iâm supposed to stop. But I canât stop thinking about you. Canât stop chasing you. Canât stop wanting you.â
You smiled, small and breathless, fingers tracing the edge of his helmet. âThen donât stop.â
He kissed you again â slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. The rain kept falling, but neither of you cared. In that moment, on a rain-slicked rooftop in the middle of Gotham, the line between enemy and something more finally blurred beyond recognition.
And for the first time in years, Jason Todd felt like he wasnât alone in the dark.
The days after that rooftop kiss were a strange, beautiful chaos.
You still stole. He still chased. But the chases ended differently now - with stolen kisses in alleyways, with his hands on your waist as he pressed you against brick walls, with whispered confessions between breaths.
He started showing up at your apartment after patrols, helmet off, armour scuffed, looking at you like you were the only real thing in his world. Youâd patch him up, fingers gentle on his scars, and heâd pull you into his lap, kissing you like he couldnât get enough.
One night, after a particularly long chase that ended with both of you laughing on a rooftop, he held you close, arms wrapped around your waist as the city lights twinkled below.
âI donât know what this is,â he admitted quietly. âBut I donât want it to stop. You make the night feel less heavy. Make me feel like Iâm more than just the Red Hood.â
You leaned back against his chest, smiling. âYou are. Youâre Jason. My Jason. The one who chases me across rooftops and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow. And I donât want it to stop either.â
He turned you in his arms, kissing you slow and deep, hands sliding under your suit to trace warm paths along your skin. The touch was possessive but gentle, full of all the want he didnât know how to put into words.
When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he whispered, âStay with me tonight. Not for the chase. Just⊠stay.â
You nodded, kissing him once more. âIâm not going anywhere.â
In the quiet dark of his apartment, with Jasonâs arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the rivalry that had defined you both finally felt like the beginning of something better.
Something that felt a lot like home.
a/n: I think I peaked at this.. Iâm feeling kinda down about my writing atm arghh I miss peopleâs sweet reblogs
your blog is soooo sweet!! i recently read your bullseye fics and i am in awe with how you write him. i was hoping for another smau fic? it can be about any!! but maybe ddba dex if u can? thank you so much and i love your fics!!<33
Passion
featuring: Benjamin Poindexter
warning: MDNI 18+, suggestive, dex threatening to off your coworker, both of you are slightly crazy
A/N: Awwww thank you so much, this is so cuteeđ„č These are random chats with dex, I hope you enjoy<33
.á You decide to launch Operation: Live the Teenage Dream! after a certain encounter with DAMIAN WAYNEâwhat started as a joke that amused you and irritated him slowly becomes something more when the âmissionsâ stop feeling like missions.
.á CONTENT: slow burn, bittersweet w a mix of everything, both of them are emotionally constipated tbh, its friends to lovers now, sorta proofread wc: 1.3k+
.á a/n: took a break from the angst </3 ima be real school is starting in less than a week, i probably won't be able to write as much anymore :') also tumblr wont let me use the dividers grr
School had been over for an hour.
Most of the students had already gone home. Without the usual busy crowds, the campus felt strangely larger and quieter. Too quiet.
You sat alone on the bench, one hand clutched around your bag as you lightly kicked your feet against the pavement. Your phone rested casually in your free hand.
Scroll. Refresh. Scroll. Refresh again.
You weren't even paying attention to the screen anymore. At some point in time, it had stopped being about entertainment. It was just something to do to fill the time. You glance at the time on your phone.
4:47 PM.
A soft exhale escapes you. Just a little longer.
âYou're still here.â The sharp voice cuts through your peaceful atmosphere so smoothly that your phone almost drops from your hands. Dang it. With a hand over your chest, you look up slowly and unsurprisinglyâit was Damian.
Still dressed in his soccer uniform, looking down at you with an unimpressed look. His gaze moves from you, to the bench you're sat at, then briefly to the time displayed on your phone. âSchool ended an hour ago.â
âI know.â you say casually, turning off your phone and slipping it into your skirt pocket. For a moment, Damian just stares at you. Like he was trying to figure something out.
âYou're aware of that.â He had initially assumed that you just lost track of time. âYep.â you nod. âYet you're still here.â He raised a brow. âAlso yes.â
Damian studies you again for a second, it's the same expression he has when he's solving an equation. Not because you stare at him during class or anything. âWhy?â You blink once.
âWhy what?â You furrow your brows at him. âWhy are you still here?â he clarifies. âBecause I feel like it.â you shrug. âAnd why not?â
His lips pressed into a thin line. There wasn't anything necessarily wrong about your answer. That was the problem. As far as he knows, most people had somewhere they needed to be after schoolâhome, practice, other extracurricular activities. Maybe even out with friends.
You didn't seem to be doing any of those things. And yet, you were still here.
âAre you waiting for someone?â You shake your head. âThen why stay here?â He couldn't wrap his head around it. Why were you wasting your time lingering here on purpose? âI just like hanging around.â
There it was again. Another response that explained everything and absolutely nothing simultaneously.
âWhy do you care?â You couldn't help but notice how weirdly he was acting. âI do not.â he answers instantly. Too quickly for you not to notice. âThen why are you asking me so many questions?â
âBecause every answer you give me creates even more questions.â Hm. Well, he wasn't wrong. It was easier to give vague answers than actually giving it some thought. âAre you leaving?â
âEventually.â Damian's eyes twitched so hard again that it might just pop out of his sockets. âEventually.â he repeats, closing his eyes briefly. âYep.â
âThat's not an exact time.â He opens his eyes again. âIt's close enough for me.â His stare sharpens towards you. You smile back sweetly. For some reason, it only makes it worse. Because every answer told him one thing. You weren't staying here because you enjoyed it. You were staying because you didn't want to be somewhere else.
The realization settles into his mind with an irritating sense of certainty. âThen what are you waiting for?â The smile on your face falters for just a second. âMaybe I just don't feel like going home yet.â The answer comes out lighter than it should. Like you've repeatedly practiced saying it to yourself before.
âWhy?â A soft laugh escapes you. âThere you go again.â His expression remains completely unchanged. âThat's not an answer.â You groan, leaning back into the bench.
âDo you ever stop interrogating people?â
âOnly when they actually provide useful information.â
âGod, youâd be terrible at making friends.â You try to make it sound like you're joking, because you could feel him picking away at the walls youâve spent years carefully building.
That wasn't supposed to happen. That wasn't the mission.
âYet here you are.â His response catches you off guard. Just enough for him to notice the way your eyes widened. Just enough for him to notice you don't have a comeback ready like always.
The silence stretches between the two of you. You hate it. You never let it get silent for this long.
âSo,â you clap your hands together, trying to distract him. Or yourself. âThis is getting dangerously close to becoming another therapy session.â Damian was quick to catch on. Of course. âYou're changing the subject.â
âI am!â you say with that exaggerated fake enthusiasm. âAnd because?â
âBecause I don't want to talk about it.â Your honesty surprises the both of you. Then, you point at him. âSee? Growth.â
âHow is that growth? You admitted to avoiding the question.â He rolled his eyes. âExactly. Usually I don't even do that.â The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. But close enough. âThat's concerning. Even for you.â
âThank you.â You smiled brightly again. âThat wasn't a compliment.â
âI'll take it anyways.â You push yourself off of the bench, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âAlright,â you beam, clapping your hands together again. âTherapy session #2 is officially over.â
âWe weren't in therapy.â You start walking through the school gates, while Damian follows you closely from behind. It doesn't take long for him to catch up, matching your pace with irritating ease. âRight. Tell that to the invasive questions.â
The two of you continue walking down the sidewalk. âYou make it sound like you enjoy being alone.â You kept walking, but Damian doesn't miss the way your expression falters for a split second. âI never said that.â
âYou implied it.â His gaze shifts away from you. For a brief moment, something unreadable crosses his expression. Then it's gone. Because being alone and lonely aren't the same thing. He knows the difference far too well. And he's starting to suspect that you don't.
Damian knows he didn't have to keep following you. He could've left, called his ride, or taken the bus stop you just passed a few blocks away. Yet, he keeps walking.
Except, you keep stopping. Not because you dropped something or had your shoelaces untied. Just because. A window display at a clothing store (It was displaying baby clothes??), a street performer, a dog.
The first dog was understandable.
The second dog was questionable.
By the third one even Damian became suspicious. (Damian stopped too.)
When the two of you have stopped for the third time, Damian slowly realizes that you're stretching out the walk. You were purposefully delaying. Again. âYou're doing it again.â
âHm?â You glance up from where you were crouching, enthusiastically cooing at a golden retriever who seemed more interested in a crunch leaf on the ground than either of you. âDelaying.â You blink. The dog sneezes, not in your face thankfully. âWow. What a bold accusation.â
âYou stopped to look at infant clothing.â
âIt was pink.â
âŠ
âAnd it had fuzzy bears on it.â
âYou don't even have a child.â A pause. âNot yet.â
Damian closes his eyes for a moment. Was this what he practiced his patience for?
âPlease never say that again.â You look amused, mainly because you managed to get Damian to say please. âWhy? I'm just responsibly planning for the future.â
âWeâre fifteen.â You only nod further. âExactly. Preparation.â He rolls his eyes. âYou're impossible.â Your grin only gets brighter. âYet here you are.â His glare sharpens. Did you just throw his words back at him? But to your surprise, he doesn't deny anything this time.
You finally check the time again.
5:31 PM.
It was getting late, and you've run out of excuses. (Would Damian mind if you started stopping for each cat instead of dogs now?) Nevermind. Much to your dismay, you should probably start heading home.
âI should probably get going.â you say, actually stopping in your tracks for a reasonable reason this time. You technically should've gotten home hours ago. âProbably.â
âYou didn't have to walk this far, yâknow.â you smile. And instead of getting the usual annoyed look that youâd grown fond of, Damian simply nodded. âI know.â
cowboy au sfw short drabble short ow ref romcom confession scene tooth rotting fluff jason todd has a southern accent fem reader jason todd as your favorite cowboy 8.9k words part one
a/n: next post is a nanami x reader soft angst-fluff fic !
The Texas heat had spent the entire afternoon baking the earth, leaving the scent of dry cedar, sweet alfalfa, and hot leather thick in the air. As the sun began its slow descent, bleeding a bruised purple and gold across the wide horizon, the aggressive humidity of the day finally gave way to a cooling evening breeze.
The only sounds for miles were the rhythmic, heavy thud-thud of Caesarâs hooves against the dirt trail, the occasional, low jingle of the bridle, and the steady, synchronized sound of your breathing as you were seated right in front of Jason, tucked securely between his long thighs on the massive Western saddle.
It was supposed to be a serious training sessionâhis final run-through before the rodeoâs big finale match next weekâbut the moment he had lifted you up onto the gelding, all thoughts of his own technique seemed to vanish.
Instead, he had spent the last two hours teaching you how to hold the reins, how to shift your weight, and how to find a rhythm with the horse⊠or rather, that was his excuse to keep you as close as humanly possible.
Every time Caesar shifted or picked up speed, you took it as the perfect excuse to lean back against Jasonâs broad chest, letting your spine melt into his solid frame as you wrapped your hands firmly around his biceps.
They were massive, stretching the fabric of his faded flannel shirt, rock-hard and radiating a comforting, steady heat. Slowly, deliberately, you slid your palms up and down the curve of his arms, feeling the thick muscle bunch beneath your touch as you squeezed them just a little tighter than necessary, a quiet, playful challenge, and let a small, knowing smile tug at the corners of your lips.
Above your head, you heard the deep, rumbling vibration of his chest before you actually heard his voice. âNow, sweetheart,â Jason murmured, his thick, slow Southern drawl dragging over the words like molasses. âI highly doubt youâre loosinâ your balance on a straight, flat trail.â
You didnât let go, instead, you tilted your head back, looking up at him, your smile widening into something distinctly mischievous.
From this angle, you could see the sharp, rugged line of his jawline, dusted with a dark shadow of stubble, and the way the dying sunlight caught the stark, silver-grey patch of hair right at his fringe. He looked intimidatingâa mountain of a man built for rough riding and hard workâbut the look in his blue eyes was entirely soft, completely captivated by you.
âOh, youâd be surprised, cowboy,â you cooed, your voice a playful purr. You nudged your shoulder back against his chest, holding his gaze. âThis trail is treacherous. A girlâs got to hold onto something sturdy.â
Jason cleared his throat, a sudden flash of heat darkening his tanned cheeks as he looked down at your hands wrapped around his arms, then met your teasing eyes. He knew exactly what you were doing. He wasnât dense, but the sheer and heavy weight of the puppy-love crush heâd been harboring for months made his heart hammer a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
âYouâre sâposed to be focusinâ on the reins, not usinâ me as a safety blanket,â he teased softly, though he didnât make a single move to pull away. In fact, he subtly flexed, his massive biceps shifting beneath your palms, giving you an even better grip.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes crinkling at the corners. âMaybe I like my safety blanket, itâs warm and it has a very nice heartbeat.â
A low huff of laughter escaped his nose, blowing a warm gust of air past your ear that made you shiver. âYeah, yeah. Loud and clear, sweetheart⊠but if you keep squeezinâ me like that, Iâm gonna forget how to steer this animal entirely. Youâre distractinâ the teacher.â
âAm I?â You tilted your chin up just a fraction more, your lips parting as your smile turned soft, intimate, and devastatingly flirtatious. âGood. That was the plan.â
The tension between you grew thick, heavy, and undeniably warm, lingering in the small space separating your faces. Jasonâs gaze flicked down to your lips for a split second before he looked back to the trail, his hands tightening on the leather to guide Caesar to a gentle halt under the shade of a sprawling oak tree.
The horse let out a long, shedding sigh, the scent of dust and animal sweat kicking up around you, sealing the two of you in your own private world.
Slowly, carefully, Jason brought his hands forward to adjust your grip on the leather reins. But as his hands hovered over yours, he hesitated as his fingers twitched, hovering just an inch above your skin.
You looked down at his hands. They were huge, scarred, and incredibly ruggedâthe hands of a man who worked himself to the bone as the skin across his palms and knuckles was thick and severely calloused, rough enough to snag on silk.
You could see the slight tremor in his fingers, a silent testament to the fear that always gripped him in these moments: the terrifying thought that his rough, violent world might accidentally bruise something as soft and precious as you.
âJay,â you whispered, your voice dropping to a soft, tender note that cut straight through the quiet evening air as you turned your hands over in your lap, palms up, waiting for him. âItâs okay.â
He swallowed hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. âI donât⊠I donât wanna scrape you up, darlinâ,â he admitted, his accent thick and heavy with a sudden, raw vulnerability that made your heart ache. âHands are like sandpaper. Ainât meant for touchinâ somethinâ so gentle.â
You smiled up at him again, a soft, reassuring expression full of affection as you reached up, gently brushing the tip of your finger against his stubbled jawline, tracing it down to his chin. âI like it when you touch me anyway, Jay. Plus, I love your hands.â
With a shaky, hesitant breath, Jason finally let his palms settle over yours as the contrast was immediateâhis skin was hot, rough, and violently unyielding against yours. But his touch was unbelievably light, as if he were handling something priceless.
He slid his fingers between yours, lacing them together, guiding your hands back to the leather reins while his chest pressed flush against your back as his heartbeat was a frantic thumping you could feel right through your spine.
He leaned down, his face burying into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed dangerously close to your sensitive skin as he spoke, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, heated whisper that sent a delicious shiver straight down your column.
âYouâre playinâ a dangerous game with me, you know that?â he breathed, his lips skimming your skin with every syllable.
The tension between you snapped taut, electric and heavy with unspoken desires. âIâm sâposed to be the teacher here. But youâre the one makinâ me forget every single rule I ever learned. If you keep lookinâ at me like that, we ainât never makinâ it back to the barn.â
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, a soft, triumphant smile on your face as you whispered back, âThen letâs stay out here a little longer.â
The canopy of the woods swallowed the last rays of the dying sun, plunging the trail into a cool, shadowed twilight. The air out here was differentâcrisper, smelling faintly of damp earth, pine needles, and the sweet, lingering musk of horse sweat as Caesarâs hooves made a soft, muffled crunch-crunch against the blanket of fallen leaves, a rhythmic backdrop to the sudden, heavy silence that had settled between the two of you.
But while the woods were cooling down, the space between you and Jason was practically boiling. The playful confidence from earlier hadnât dissolved; if anything, the shadows of the evening gave you a sudden burst of boldness as you shifted slightly, your hips pressing flush against his lap, and let out a soft, pleased sigh.
Every rise and fall of his chest pressed directly into your back, and the sheer heat radiating off him was enough to make your cheeks burn in the dim light, but you didnât shrink away. Instead, you tilted your head back, letting your hair brush against his collarbone, and smiled up at him with pure, unadulterated mischief.
Jason wasnât doing any better, for a man who could stare down a charging bull without blinking, he was suddenly wound tighter than a guitar string. Usually, the city girls who came around the rodeo or the ranch were polite, a little detached, or too timid to do much more than ask for a picture.
They certainly werenât turning around in his saddle, flashing him wicked little grins that made his head spin as he cleared his throat, the sound of a low, raspy rattle in the quiet woods, and shifted his weight.
His face was burning a deep, dark crimson that even the twilight couldnât hide, âJust⊠wanna make sure youâre secure up here,â he mumbled, his thick Southern drawl dropping an octave, laced with a nervous, boyish hesitance that completely contrasted his massive frame. âTrailâs gettinâ a mite uneven, sweetheart.â
âOh, is it?â you asked, your voice a silky purr. You leaned back just a fraction more, feeling the hard line of his chest. âI hadnât noticed. I felt perfectly safe. Though, maybe you should hold onto me a little tighter⊠just in case.â
Jason let out a shaky breath, completely flustered. Slowly, almost tentatively, he brought his right arm around your waist. His bicep was massive, a solid bar of pure muscle that pressed firmly across your lower abdomen.
The sheer weight of it was anchoring, trapping you against him, but he held you with an absurd amount of caution. He was paranoidâterrified that a sudden jolt from Caesar would send you slipping from the saddle, but even more terrified of how good it felt to have you right there as you placed your smaller hands over his massive forearm, your fingers tracing the thick veins that mapped his skin. âSee? Perfect fit,â you whispered, looking back up at him over your shoulder.
His heart was hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your shoulder blade, revealing the truth his tough cowboy exterior tried to hide: he was completely, utterly captivated, and entirely at your mercy.
He bit his lower lip, a nervous, shy smile tugging at his mouth as his blue eyes flicked down to your hands, then up to your eyes, utterly overwhelmed by the electric current humming between your skin and by the time the trail opened up to a small, secluded clearing, the tension had reached a delicious boiling point.
Jason guided Caesar to a halt near a massive, fallen oak log, seemingly eager for an excuse to get his feet back on solid ground before he completely lost his mind.
âLetâs, uh⊠letâs give the big guy a rest,â Jason murmured, his voice a little breathless as he dismounted as he reached up, his rough hands catching you by the waist to lift you down.
Instead of letting him set you straight on the ground, you lingered, keeping your hands resting on his broad shoulders as your faces were inches apart. You flashed him a slow, dazzling smile, your eyes locked onto his.
Even through your clothes, the heat of his palms seemed to scar, and he set you down so gently it was as if you were made of the finest porcelain. âThank you, cowboy,â you murmured, your lips brushing dangerously close to his jawline as you spoke.
Jason practically choked on his own breath, a dark flush spreading from his collar all the way to the tips of his ears. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat again as he turned to tie Caesarâs reins to a sturdy pine branch.
You watched him, thoroughly enjoying how much power you had over this giant of a man. He was so sweet, so fundamentally respectful, that your boldness was knocking him completely off balanceâand he was clearly loving every single second of it as Jason sat down on the thick log, the bark groaning slightly under his immense weight. He leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to regain his composure.
The silver-grey patch at his fringe caught the soft moonlight filtering through the trees as he looked up at you, his blue eyes dark and pooling with an affection so heavy it made your breath hitch.
Without a word, you walked over and claimed the space right next to him, but you didnât just sit as you swung your legs up, draping your calves comfortably across his thick, denim-clad thighs, deliberately claiming his space.
Jasonâs entire body went rigid for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes went wide, staring at your legs over his lap like he couldnât believe your audacity.
Then, a soft, helpless, incredibly shy smile broke through his rugged stubble as he shook his head, looking down at his boots, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest.
âYou are somethinâ else, you know that?â he whispered, his voice thick with a sweet, flustered awe. âMost girls from the city⊠theyâre careful around a guy like me. Afraid of the dirt... afraid of⊠well, this.â
âThen theyâre missing out,â you said softly as you leaned in close, wrapping both of your arms securely around one of his massive biceps, pulling it against your chest. You rested your cheek right against the hard curve of his muscle, feeling the scratchy, warm flannel of his shirt against your skin.
You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your smile turning soft and incredibly intimate. âI like âthis.â I like it a lot.â
âYouâre gonna spoil me, actinâ like this,â Jason teased softly, his voice trembling just a fraction as he looked down at you as he tentatively rested one of his massive hands on your ankle, his thumb making small, hesitant circles over your jeans. The sheer adoration in his eyes was dizzying.
âJust tell me about the ranch, cowboy,â you whispered, tightening your grip on his arm, nudging your shoulder into his side.
He swallowed hard, looking out toward where Caesar was softly snorting and stamping his hoof in the grass, trying to anchor himself. Slowly, the nervous tension began to melt out of his frame, replaced by a quiet, passionate warmth as he started to speak about the thing he loved most.
âWell,â he began, his thick accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket. âMy granddaddy started the place with just three mares and an old, broken-down barn.â
âTook years to break the soil, to make it somethinâ worth keepinâ. But thereâs a ridge right on the western edge of the property⊠if you stand there at dawn, the whole valley just opens up. Looks like God spilled gold all over the earth.â
You smiled, closing your eyes and just listening to the rumble of his voice vibrating through his bicep against your cheek as the scent of pine and his distinct aroma of leather, cedar, and tobacco swirled around you, intoxicating and comforting all at once.
âAnd the horses?â you asked softly, nudging your nose playfully against his arm, leaving a soft kiss against the flannel.
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through him, and you felt his grip on your ankle tighten just a bit, growing braver. âTheyâre a handful. Caesar there, heâs a sweetheart, but heâs stubborn as the day is long.â
âGot a little paint mare named Sarah Kate, too. Sheâs spirited, rebellious, and reminds me a bit ofâŠâ He trailed off, his voice dropping into a husky whisper.
You opened your eyes and looked up. Jason was staring down at you, his rugged face entirely soft, the shyness returning tenfold but overridden by a deep, simmering heat.
His handsâthose huge, heavily calloused handsâwere resting on his own knees, his fingers twitching as if he desperately wanted to reach out and stroke your hair, but was still too scared of his own rough skin as the silence hung between you, thick, heated, and heavy with everything he wasnât saying.
The cool night air brushed against your skin, but between the two of you, the heat was suffocating in the best possible way.
âReminds you of who?â you prompted, your voice barely a breath. You slid your hand up his arm, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his neck, your thumb lightly tracing his jaw.
You gave him a slow, encouraging smile. âSay it, Jay.â
Jasonâs blue eyes flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes, his chest expanding deeply against your side as he finally stopped fighting the pull.
âReminds me of you, darlinâ,â he breathed, his voice dropping to a raw, gravelly timber that sent a shiver straight down your spine. âBeautiful, stubborn, and keepinâ me on my toes so bad I can barely think straight. I swear, youâre gonna be the ruin of me.â
The cool night air seemed to still around the clearing, the gentle whinny of Caesar tethered nearby breaking the quiet of the woods as Jasonâs gaze lingered on you, the soft moonlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw and casting a silvery glow over the grey patch at his fringe.
The heavy, sweet scent of crushed pine needles beneath your boots and the earthy aroma of leather hung thick in the air, wrapping around the two of you like a velvet blanket as Jason shifted slightly beneath you, the dense muscle of his thigh flexing under your legs as his expression turned a fraction more serious.
He cleared his throat, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated right through his chest and echoed against your own ribs. âThat finale match⊠itâs only a few days off now,â he murmured, his thick Southern drawl dropping into a quieter, almost vulnerable register.
He looked down at his huge, calloused hands resting on his lap, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. âFellas from three counties over are cominâ in. Itâs gonna be a hell of a fight to stay on that saddle. Sometimes I wonder ifâŠâ
Before he could even finish the thought, you slid your legs off his lap and leaned in closer, cutting off his doubt before it could take root as you reached down and boldly grabbed both of his massive, rugged hands.
His fingers twitched in shock at the sudden contact, the rough, sandpapery texture of his severe callouses scraping against your smooth skin, but you didnât let go. Instead, you lifted his heavy hands and used them to mock-clap together in an enthusiastic, early celebration, flashing him a bright, dazzling smile.
âStop right there, cowboy,â you said, your voice full of playful, teasing energy as you hyped him up. âYouâre the best rider in this whole damn state and you know it⊠there isnât a bull or a bronc born that can throw you off.â
âYouâve already won it, so stop doubting yourself!â
A slow, breathless grin began to crack through his stubble, his blue eyes darkening with a sudden, intense warmth. The sheer puppy-love adoration he had for you flared up, making his chest expand heavily under his flannel shirt as he let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sent a delicious shiver right down your spine.
âIs that right?â he teased, his voice dropping into a husky, playful rumble. He squeezed your hands back just a fraction, incredibly mindful of his own strength, though his grip was solid and grounding. âYou got that much faith in me, sweetheart? Well now, that begs the question⊠what exactly do I get if I win that match?â
You let go of his hands and hummed softly, tapping a finger against your chin as you faux-thought about it, letting the silence stretch out between you as the lingering, heated tension in the air grew so thick you could practically taste it. Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head up to look him dead in the eyes, a smug grin playing on your lips.
You slid your arms up his chest, feeling the rock-hard definition beneath the fabric, and wrapped them securely around his thick neck, pulling yourself close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
âIf you winâŠâ you whispered, leaning in until your lips were fractions of an inch from his, your breath fanning across his mouth. âIâm going to give you a kiss.â
Jasonâs entire body went dead rigid beneath you. His breath hitched sharply in his throat, his eyes widening for a split second before burning with a sudden, fierce heat as his massive biceps flexed against your sides as he fought the overwhelming urge to pull you flush against him.
He swallowed hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing as he stared at your mouth, completely caught off guard by your boldness.
âNow, donât you go playinâ with a manâs heart like that,â he breathed, his thick accent wrapping heavily around the words. He leaned a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly, demanding whisper.
â... On the lips or the cheek?â
You offered him a teasing smile, tightening your arms around his neck just enough to drive him crazy. âThatâs a secret until you actually win.â
A loud, breathy scoff escaped his nose, and the tense, electric spell broke into a warm, genuine laugh as Jason raised one of his massive hands, the rough callouses gently scratching against your scalp as he affectionately ruffled your hair, messing up your strands.
âYouâre a mischievous little thing, you know that?â he chuckled, shaking his head as he stood up from the log first. He towered over you in the moonlight, a mountain of a man, looking every bit the rugged cowboy as you laughed, standing up after him, smoothing down your hair with a self-satisfied grin.
You felt entirely in control, thoroughly enjoying how flustered and sweet he was. But before your boots could fully grip the dirt, Jason stepped directly into your space as the sudden shift in his energy made your breath catch.
The shy, boyish hesitation vanished, replaced by the sheer, unyielding confidence of a man who handled wild animals for a living as he reached out and caught you by the waist. His huge hands completely engulfed your sides, the heat of his palms burning through your clothes as he effortlessly lifted you into the air. He didnât just set you down, though.
He held you suspended for a heartbeat, his face level with yours, his blue eyes locked onto your lips with a sudden, intense hunger that made your stomach flip. âYou like games, darlinâ?â he murmured, his voice incredibly low, a dark, gravelly vibration that resonated right in your chest.
He slid his hands slightly higher up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts through your shirt. âBecause if weâre talkinâ about secrets... Iâve got a few ideas about what I'm gonna do with that prize when I collect it. And I donât think youâre ready for âem.â
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, a sudden wave of heat rushing to your face as the tables had turned so fast your head spun. Your confident smile faltered, replaced by a wide-eyed, breathless gasp as your own heart raced.
You became acutely aware of how easily he lifted you, how small you were in his grip, and how utterly devastating he was when he stopped being shy. âJay! Heyâ youâre playing dirty now!â you stammered, your voice losing all of its previous swagger, completely flustered by the raw promise in his eyes as he let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle at your reaction, thoroughly enjoying the fact that he had turned the tables on you.
He hoisted you up onto Caesarâs back, but instead of putting you in the front, he set you down right behind the saddle. âBetter get your favorite lipstick ready then, sweetheart, âcause I sure as hell ainât losinâ now,â he whispered, leaning close to press a brief, burning kiss right to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
âThat prize is mine.â
Your breath hitched completely, your skin tingling where his lips had grazed you as you sat there, utterly dazed and blushing furiously in the dark, watching as Jason swung his long leg over the gelding, settling into the leather seat in front of you.
This time, he was the shield, and you were at his back.
âHold on tight now,â he murmured, turning his head just enough to flash you a devastating, crooked grin over his shoulder. âDonât want you slippinâ off. Unless you want another excuse to grab onto me.â
You bit your lip, still flustered but unable to hide the helpless, captivated smile stretching across your face. You didnât need to be told twice as you leaned forward, pressing your chest flat against his broad, muscular back, and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, hiding your burning face against his shoulder blade.
As your hands slid across his midsection, you could feel the rigid, iron-hard contour of his abs shifting beneath his shirt with every move he made as a deep, contented purr of a rumble vibrated through his spine and into your chest as Caesar started a slow, steady walk back through the dark woods, the lingering heat of your promiseâand his sudden, breathtaking boldnessâkeeping the both of you burning hot against the night chill.
The following days passed in a blur of anticipation, the memory of that moonlit clearing lingering in your mind like a fever dream. Every time you thought about the sudden, burning heat in Jasonâs blue eyes or the rough, calloused weight of his hands on your waist, your heart would do a frantic little dance against your ribs.
You had successfully turned the rugged, shy cowboy into a man on a mission, and today was the day he was set to claim his prize as the atmosphere inside the massive, indoor rodeo arena was electric, thick with the heavy scent of buttered popcorn, stale beer, trampled dirt, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline.
The air was a swirling vortex of noiseâthe booming, echoey rattle of the loudspeaker, the thunderous stomping of thousands of boots against the metal bleachers, and the distant, aggressive snorts of the bulls being loaded into the bucking chutes.
You were sitting squarely between your parents on the crowded benches, just a few rows up from the dirt floor, right where the action was closest as your hands were tightly clamped in your lap, your fingers nervously smoothing down the fabric of your jeans.
The sheer scale of the event was dizzying.
This was the grand finale, and the best riders from three different states were packed into the back, waiting to risk their lives on two thousand pounds of furious, bucking muscle.
Suddenly, the arena lights dimmed, replaced by a blinding, spinning array of colored spotlights that cut through the rising dust as the crowd let out a deafening roar as the commentatorâs voice boomed over the speakers, crackling with high-voltage energy.
âAlright, Texas! Welcome to the main event! The big show! The championship finale youâve all been waitinâ for!â the announcer yelled, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal ceiling.
âTonight, weâve got the meanest bulls, the baddest stock, and the toughest cowboys in the country ready to leave it all in the dirt! Letâs meet our finalists!â
One by one, the riders were introduced, stepping out onto the dirt under the heavy glare of the spotlights as the crowd went wild for each name, the commentator hyping every single player up to the absolute extreme, rattling off their hometowns, their winning streaks, and the terrifying names of the bulls they had managed to conquer.
Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your chest, your eyes glued to the tunnel entrance.
You were barely listening to the names being called, your entire body wound tight with a mixture of intense pride and a sudden, fierce protectiveness, âAnd next up into the arenaâŠâ the announcerâs voice pitched higher, practically vibrating with excitement.
âHeâs a hometown favorite, a man built like a brick wall and twice as tough! Riding out of Gotham County⊠letâs hear it for the one, the only⊠Jason Todd!â
The crowd erupted, the noise was absolute as a wall of cheering and whistling shook the very bench beneath you while Jason stepped out of the shadowed tunnel and into the bright, harsh glare of the spotlights.
He looked absolutely massive, a towering mountain of a man who completely commanded the space around him. The black protective vest strapped over his chest only emphasized the absurd, broad width of his shoulders, and the sleeves of his dark Western shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing those thick, powerful forearms and biceps you had been squeezing just days prior.
Beneath the brim of his low-slung cowboy hat, the stark, silver-grey patch at his fringe caught the artificial light, a rugged, distinct mark on an otherwise fiercely handsome face as he looked intimidating, a dangerous, unyielding force built for rough riding and hard work, but as he stepped further into the arena, his blue eyes began to scan the crowded bleachers.
He wasnât looking at the thousands of screaming fans. He was looking for one specific face as your breath hitched as his gaze swept over your section, and then, entirely by instinct, your eyes locked.
The moment he spotted you sitting there, the fierce, focused expression on his rugged face instantly softened. A slow, devastatingly crooked grin cracked through his dark stubble, his eyes darkening with that familiar, intense warmth that always made your stomach flip.
Right there in front of the entire stadium, Jason raised a hand to the brim of his hat, tipped it slightly, and gave you a deliberate, slow wink.
Then, keeping his eyes locked entirely on yours, he subtly tilted his head as his lips moved slowly, deliberately exaggerating the words so you could read them perfectly through the distance.
âCanât wait for my kiss, darlinâ.â
The thick, heavy Southern drawl practically bounced off his moving lips, a private, sizzling promise delivered in front of thousands of people as a sudden, intense wave of heat rushed straight to your face, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson as your heart did a violent flip.
You bit your lower lip, a helpless, breathless smile breaking across your face as you instinctively gripped the edge of the bench as the confidence you had maintained on the trail completely vanished under the weight of his public boldness, leaving you thoroughly flustered and utterly captivated.
âWell now,â your dad muttered from right beside you, leaning forward slightly as he squinted down at the dirt arena, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
âWho do you suppose he was lookinâ at? Boy looked like he was starinâ a hole right in this direction.â
Before you could even think of a lie, your mom leaned past you, using her elbow to give your ribs a sharp, knowing nudge as she had a massive, triumphant grin plastered across her face, her eyes twinkling with pure amusement as she looked at your bright red cheeks.
âOh, I think he was just checkinâ out the scenery, dear,â your mom said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm as she gave you another meaningful look, knowing damn well exactly who that wink was meant for. âIsnât that right, sweetie? Heâs got an awful nice view from down there.â
You couldnât even answer, your eyes flying back to the arena floor where Jason was now turning toward the bucking chutes, his broad shoulders squared and his massive chest expanding with a deep, confident breath as thelingering, heated tension of his promise hung thick in the air around you, and as the announcer started the countdown, you knew one thing for certain: that bull didnât stand a chance.
The heavy iron gates of the bucking chutes rattled violently as the pressure in the arena shifted from anticipation to pure, chaotic electricity. All around you, the bleachers shook with a deafening cacophony of sound.
Men with thick Texas accents were leaning over the rails, waving crumpled twenty-dollar bills and shouting over the din to place frantic, last-minute bets. âFifty on Black Out! That bull ainât never been rode for eight seconds!â a man a few rows back bellowed, his voice hoarse from beer and screaming.
âYouâre crazy, Wyatt! Toddâs got the left-hand delivery down to a science! A hundred says he stays on!â another roared back, slamming a heavy palm against the metal seating.
The air grew thick with the choking stench of kicked-up dirt, stale sweat, and the pungent, raw musk of an agitated animal. Down in chute number three, a massive, midnight-black Brahman bull named Widowmaker let out a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated right through the soles of your boots.
The beast slammed its massive, muscular flank against the steel pipes, sending a shuddering clang through the entire stadium and perched right on top of that furious mountain of muscle was Jason as the playful, devastatingly confident cowboy who had just winked at you was gone, replaced by a hyper-focused warrior. He was tucked down low, his massive thighs gripping the bullâs broad back, his heavy Western boots dug in tight.
His left hand, wrapped in leather and thick rigging rope, was clamped down like a vice. You could see the incredible width of his shoulders tensing beneath his vest, his knuckles white, those severely calloused hands putting every ounce of their legendary strength into the rope.
âWatch his head, Jason! Watch the spin!â someone from his pit crew yelled from the top of the chutes, spitting a stream of tobacco into the dirt.
The announcerâs voice cut through the madness, soaring over the roar of the crowd. âAlright, folks! This is it! The ride that decides the whole damn season! Jason Todd versus the unrideable Widowmaker! Pull that gate!â
The steel door flew open with a violent, metallic crash as the stadium seemed to hold its collective breath for a fraction of a second before exploding into absolute bedlam. Widowmaker erupted out of the chute like a freight train, launching all four of his massive hooves clean off the dirt as the bull twisted mid-air, a violent, bone-shattering contortion designed to snap a riderâs spine.
âHold on, cowboy!â your mom screamed beside you, completely abandoning her teasing demeanor as she gripped your fatherâs arm.
Your dad was already on his feet, his jaw set, his eyes glued to the chaos in the dirt and for the first four seconds, Jason was a machine as his massive biceps flexed, the thick muscles bunching beneath his shirt as he countered every brutal, jarring thrust of the bull.
The silver-grey patch at his fringe flashed under the stadium lights as his head snapped back with the sheer force of the movement. He looked unyielding, a force of nature matching the beast dollar for dollar.
But at the five-second mark, disaster struck as Widowmaker dropped his massive front shoulders and executed a brutal, erratic counter-clockwise pivot that caught everyone off guard.
The sudden, violent shift in momentum tore the rigging rope just a fraction out of Jasonâs grip as a collective, horrified gasp sucked the air straight out of the stadium. âHeâs loose! Heâs tracking right!â the announcer shouted, his voice cracking with panic. âTodd is losing his seat!â
Your heart violently stopped as the world slowed down to an agonizing, suffocating crawl. Jasonâs massive frame was thrown violently to the left, his center of gravity completely destroyed. His right leg flew out of position, dangling uselessly in the air as the sheer, terrifying force of the bull dragged him sideways.
He was slipping as you could see the raw strain on his face, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles looked ready to snap, his dark stubble drenched in sweat and dirt. âHeâs going down!â a man next to you yelled, throwing his hat into the air in frustration. âThere goes my money!â
It looked entirely impossible. He was too far gone, his body hanging at a devastating angle off the side of the spinning monster as the bull sensed the weakness, bucking even harder, throwing its massive head back to finish the job and trample the cowboy into the dirt.
Seven seconds as Jason was practically dragging against the bullâs flank, held on by nothing more than the raw, desperate friction of his calloused fingers locked into the coarse rope.
Then, in a spectacular, blind leap of faith at the absolute last microsecond, Jason didnât try to pull himself back upâhe used the bullâs own violent upward buck to launch his entire weight in the opposite direction.
It was a reckless, terrifying gamble that should have broken his arm⊠but with a burst of pure, unadulterated adrenaline, his massive thighs clamped back down onto the beastâs spine with the force of a hydraulic press as he snapped back into the center of the saddle just as the bull gave one final, desperate twist.
BUZZZZZZZZER!
The horn wailed through the arena, signaling the end of the grueling eight seconds but before the sound could even fade, Jason cleanly released his rope and threw himself off the back of the slowing bull, hitting the dirt in a practiced, heavy roll.
He scrambled to his feet, dust swirling around his massive boots, as the rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the roaring beast as the stadium went absolutely primitive.
Thousands of people slammed their seats, jumping to their feet in a unified, thunderous roar that shook the concrete foundations of the building as the air was filled with flying cowboy hats, spilled beer, and deafening cheers.
âHe did it! By the grace of God and a whole lot of grit, Jason Todd stayed on!â the announcer screamed, his voice completely drowned out by the ecstatic crowd. âA perfect ride! We have our champion!â
Your dad was cheering at the top of his lungs, throwing a fist into the air, while your mom was laughing and clapping beside you. But you were barely conscious of them as you were standing on the bench, your chest heaving, your hands trembling with a dizzying mix of relief and pure, uncontainable pride.
Down in the center of the dirt, breathing heavily with his hands on his knees, Jason finally looked up as he wiped a streak of sweat and dark Texas mud from his forehead, his chest expanding with massive, exhausted breaths.
He ignored the cameras, the flashing lights, and the judges rushing toward him as his blue eyes cut straight through the chaos, searching the roaring crowd until they landed directly on you.
As he saw you standing there, flushed and breathless, a wide, triumphant, and devastatingly crooked grin broke across his rugged face. He didnât say a word, but the burning, lingering heat in his gaze told you everything you needed to know.
The cowboy had won his matchâand now, he was coming to collect his prize.
The chaotic roar of the stadium became a distant hum as the judges and a swarm of eager reporters descended upon the center of the dirt arena. Camera crews shuffled frantically, their heavy lenses catching the glare of the bright spotlights as they crowded around Jason.
He was completely surrounded, drowned in a sea of microphones and congratulations, but his eyes kept darting back toward the stands, trying to keep you in his sight. âCome on, Elena, letâs go grab some of those jumbo hotdogs and a couple of cold sodas before the lines get longer than a Texas mile,â your dad grunted, his hand firmly taking your momâs arm as he began navigating the crowded steps.
Your mom resisted for a split second, casting a knowing, mischievous look back over her shoulder at you. âOh, but donât you want to wait forââ
âThe boyâs busy gettinâ his trophy, letâs go,â your dad interrupted mildly, completely oblivious as he dragged her away into the concourse.
You stayed behind on the metal bench, a soft sigh escaping your lips as the cool evening breeze from the arenaâs ventilation system brushed against your flushed cheeks as the air here still smelled heavily of fried food, trampled dirt, and the electric tang of adrenaline.
You slid your phone out of your pocket, your fingers flying across the screen as you opened a group chat with your friends back at school. âYou guys will literally never believe the hot cowboy Iâve been hanging out with,â you typed, a sudden, helpless giggle bubbling up from your chest.
You tapped your foot against the floorboards, a bright, goofy smile plastered across your face as the text bubbles popped up in response as every few seconds, you would look up from the glowing screen, your eyes tracking across the dirt to where Jason was still being pampered and complimented.
He looked entirely out of place among the city slickers with microphones, a towering mountain of a man who looked like he just wanted to escape the suffocating crowd. Even from a distance, you could see the massive width of his shoulders tensing beneath his protective vest, his biceps stretching the fabric of his dark Western shirt as he politely nodded at a reporter.
The distinct, stark silver-grey patch at his fringe stood out proudly under the harsh lights, dusted with a light layer of arena grime as you looked down at your phone again, biting your lip as you started typing out a detailed description of just how big his arms actually were.
âWell now, I surely hope you ainât textinâ some other fella after what I just pulled off down there.â
The thick, heavy Southern drawl cut through the stadium din like a sharp blade as your attention was violently swayed as you snapped your head up, your eyes widening in surprise. Jason had completely abandoned the media circus as he came jogging right toward your section, a wide, triumphant grin breaking through the dark stubble on his face.
Before the security guard near the rails could even blink, Jason gripped the top of the metal barrier with one massive, calloused hand and effortlessly vaulted his entire body over the railing in one smooth, athletic motion as the crowd nearby gasped and muttered, and out of the corner of your eye, you could see a camera crew quickly pivoting their heavy equipment, lenses zooming in on the two of you as they loudly wondered into their headsets who on earth you were.
Jason didnât care about the cameras. He stepped up into the bleachers, huffing and puffing from the sheer exertion of the ride, and immediately planted one heavy, dirt-caked boot up on the bench right next to you.
âYou were lookinâ so pretty up here, I just couldnât stay down in that dirt a second longer,â he panted, his chest expanding deeply against his vest as he reached out, his huge hand catching the back of your head, his thick fingers ruffling your hair with an overwhelming, affectionate fondness that sent a shiver straight down your spine. âLord have mercy, sweetheart, youâre a sight for sore eyes.â
You immediately clicked your phone off, completely abandoning your friends to give him your undivided, breathless attention.
You smiled up at him, your hands instinctively reaching up to play with the damp, dark curls at the nape of his neck, your fingers brushing past that beautiful silver-grey fringe.
âYou were amazing, Jason,â you congratulated him, your voice full of genuine, soaring emotion. âI thought you were going to fall for a second, but you were so stubborn.â
âTold you I wasnât losinâ,â he chuckled, his voice dropping into a husky, heated rumble. âHad a mighty fine incentive waitinâ for me in the stands. Couldnât go bitinâ the dust in front of my girl, now could I?â
âOh, so Iâm your incentive now?â you teased, your heart doing a happy little flip at the words my girl.
âDarlinâ, youâre the only reason I even held on for the past five seconds,â he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated devotion as he backed up just a single step, his teal eyes flashing with a sudden, playful burst of energy.
Before you could even ask what he was doing, his huge, rugged hands reached forward and securely grabbed you by the waist as the absolute heat of his palms burned straight through your clothes.
With a low grunt of effort, he effortlessly hoisted you completely off the bleacher bench, lifting you high into the air as a breathless, delighted scream escaped your throat as he began to twirl you around in a tight circle right there in the stands.
The world spun in a blur of stadium lights and cheering faces, but your hands immediately clamped around his broad shoulders. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, completely ignoring the thick layer of sweat, arena dust, and raw musk clinging to his skin.
Once the dizzying twirling finally stopped, you didnât let go as you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck and hooked your legs securely around his large, muscular waist, clinging to his massive frame like a koala.
Jason let out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated powerfully against your chest as he slowly tilted his upper body downward, leaning back slightly as if he were losing his balance.
âWhoa there, darlinâ... hold on tight, I might just drop you right into the dirt,â he teased, a wicked, boyish smirk playing on his lips as he tested your grip.
âYou wouldnât dare, cowboy,â you gasped, a beautiful, radiant smile breaking across your face as you squeezed him tighter with your thighs.
âNah, youâre right. I wouldnât,â he whispered softly, his playful demeanor melting away in an instant.
His expression turned incredibly tender, completely captivated by you as those huge, heavily calloused handsâthe ones he was always so terrified would scratch your smooth skinâsettled firmly against the small of your back, lifting your weight effortlessly, supporting you with an unbelievable, gentle reverence.
He held you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the entire crowded arena and down below, the scene was absolute chaos.
The lead sports reporter, a sharp-faced woman holding a microphone with the networkâs logo, stood frozen mid-sentence, her mouth slightly open.
âCut the B-roll! Get the camera up there, now!â the field producer barked into his headset, frantically waving his clipboard toward the bleachers.
Three separate camera crews moved in a synchronized, panicked scramble as heavy, shoulder-mounted lenses swiveled away from the empty winner's podium, tilting sharply upward to capture the towering champion cradling a mystery woman in the stands.
The red recording lights blazed to life. Boom mics were hoisted high on long metal poles, thrust blindly toward the bleachers to catch whatever private words were passing between you. The stadiumâs giant Jumbotron screen flickered, suddenly cutting away from the replay of the ride to display a massive, high-definition live feed of the two of you.
A collective, roaring gasp rippled through the thousands of spectators as they realized the rugged, notoriously closed-off Jason Todd was looking at someone like they were his entire universe but you didnât wait another second as you leaned down, closing the small distance between your faces, and pulled him directly into a deep, breathless kiss.
The moment his lips met yours, the entire world seemed to go completely silent as the flashbulbs of the camera crew exploded below in a rapid, blinding strobe, capturing every single angle of the embrace, but the glaring lights faded into nothingness.
His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and parting eagerly against yours with a raw, lingering hunger that had been building for months as he let out a low, needy growl against your mouth, completely losing himself in you.
His thick arms tightened around you, crushing you against his massive chest as he returned the kiss with a beautiful, unyielding intensity. It was slow, detailed, and utterly consuming as the rough texture of his stubble scratched pleasantly against your jawline as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his thumbs rubbing soothing, affectionate circles into your lower back.
He was completely unbothered by the fact that their faces were currently plastered across a sixty-foot screen for the entire state to see; in his mind, he was entirely alone with you.
When you finally pulled back just a fraction, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together. Down on the dirt floor, a reporter was frantically whispering into her microphone, âFolks, we are witnessing an unprecedented moment here at the finale... the champion has completely abandoned his trophy for a mystery woman in the stands!â
Jasonâs teal eyes were dark, pooling with a heavy, undisguised adoration as a soft, breathless smile broke through his stubble as he ignored the frantic camera operators shoving their lenses right against the safety railing just a few feet away.
âBest damn prize in the whole state,â he murmured against your lips, his thick Southern accent dragging over the words like a sweet, heavy promise.
He leaned up to press one more soft, lingering kiss to the tip of your nose, his eyes shining with a pure, giddy happiness. âLet âem take their pictures, darlinâ. I want the whole damn world to know youâre mine.â
You couldnât help the soft, breathless laugh that bubbled up against his lips, your fingers tightening in his dark curls. âOh, theyâre taking pictures all right⊠I think weâre currently the main event, cowboy.â
Jason finally glanced down over his broad shoulder, his teal eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the absolute circus below. The camera operators were virtually climbing over one another, shoving their massive lenses as close to the safety railing as they could manage without falling into the dirt.
Flashbulbs continued to pop in a blinding rhythm, casting sharp, dramatic shadows across the metal bleachers as the lead reporter was practically vibrating with excitement, gesturing wildly to her cameraman to get a tighter zoom on your locked hands.
âLet âem look,â Jason grunted, turning his attention right back to you, his expression softening back into that incredibly sweet, melting look reserved only for you as he adjusted his grip on your waist, lifting you just an inch higher to settle you more comfortably against his chest.
âThey can take all the pictures they want. Ainât none of âem getting a piece of this.â
âJason, your trophy,â you whispered, though you werenât making even the slightest effort to untangle yourself from his massive frame.
âThe announcer is still calling your name...!â
And it was true. Over the roaring stadium speakers, the announcerâs booming voice was sounding increasingly desperate. âUh... a spectacular finish tonight folks, and if we can get our champion, Jason Todd, back down to the center arena for the official presentationââ
âThe trophy ainât going nowhere,â Jason murmured, his voice dropping into that husky, intimate register that made your heart do backflips as he leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a brief, heavy second, inhaling deeply.
You could feel the rough scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, followed by the warm, lingering press of his lips against your pulse point. âBesides, I already told you⊠I got the only prize I care about right here.â
A cheer erupted from the section of bleachers nearest to you, a group of older roping fans clapping loudly at the sheer, unapologetic romance of it all as you felt a bright flush creep up your neck and into your cheeks, but looking down at Jasonâseeing the fierce, protective pride shining in his eyesâany lingering embarrassment completely evaporated.
He slowly began to slide you down his body, letting your feet find the solid metal of the bleacher bench, though he didnât dare remove his hands from your waist.
Even standing on the bench, you were only just eye-level with him as his large hands remained anchored on your hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing, affectionate strokes through the fabric of your clothes.
âYouâre really not gonna go get that giant piece of silver?â you teased, your hands resting flat against his broad, solid chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thudding of his heart beneath the protective vest.
âIâll get it when Iâm good and ready,â he chuckled, a boyish, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he reached up, his thumb gently wiping away a stray speck of arena dust from your cheek with an unbelievable tenderness.
âRight now, Iâm busy making sure my girl doesnât run off with any of those city slickers down there.â
âNot a chance, you big baby,â you smiled, leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to his chin. âI happen to have a thing for stubborn cowboys.â
Jasonâs smile widened, bright and triumphant, completely unbothered by the lens of a camera that was currently capturing every single second of your conversation for the giant Jumbotron above as he looped one massive arm securely around your shoulders, tucking you tightly against his side as he finally turned to face the media circus below, ready to claim his title with you right by his side.
[3+1]: three times bullseye wakes you up in the middle of the night, and one time you're waiting for him
pairing: benjamin "dex" poindexter x fem reader
word count: 2.6k
content&warnings: breaking and entering, threats of violence, swearing, blood/wounds, making out, partial nudity, highly suggestive, dex spinal scar :p, benjamin poindexter. lmk if i missed anything! proofread & may be crossposted onto ao3. like and reblog to support your authors ⥠thank you for reading! dividers by @.honeyluvsw
the first time, of course, is scaryâyou wake to a masked man in your apartment, in the middle of the night, pointing a gun at you.
"scream, you're dead. got it?" bullseye switches the safety off.
you nod, whisper out a yes. your lungs have stopped working at maximum capacity.
"give me your phone," he says plainly; oh god, you think, he's taking it so you can't call for help while he kills you. wait, do you throw it? orâ
"slide it over. on the ground. don't try to move, i can shoot without looking." he sounds less patient this time, though there wasn't much of that in his voice in the first place. gun still aimed at you, he picks it up, examines it.
"okay," he says, putting it in one of his multiple pockets. "you got a first aid kit?"
you nod, speechless, shaking, and that's when you see the way the fabric darkens around his left side. "holy shitâ"
he ignores you. "where is it?"
"in the bathroom," you respond, but your mind is moving a mile a minute. "oh my god, you're bleeding, i can't have a dead guy in my apartment!"
"your cat's orange," he deadpans. "your bedsheets are blue."
"what?"
"oh, i thought we were stating the obvious." you're going to throttle this man; now is not the time for jokes.
you swallow, clear your throat, hope your voice doesn't shake as you go into autopilot. "listen, um, bullseye, you should sit down. i'll get the kit, okay?"
he stares at you suspiciously, gun still raised as he sinks to the ground. "okay. but you try somethingâ"
"and you'll kill me, i get it. but seriously, something's wrong with you, so let me help, please."
he glares at you; his gloved fingers graze over the bloody patch lightly. "i know there's something wrong with me."
"oh, god." you're just realising what you said a moment ago. "that is so not what i meant!"
"i know." his voice is an agonised rasp as he repeats himself, and also really attractive. now who said that?
you rush into the bathroom to get the rectangular box, hands fumbling as you open it in front of him. the gun's still almost in your face. nervous, you tell him to take the top half of his suit off, and he obliges, but even with the most careful of movements, his breathing quickens painfully. now he's only in his mask, cargo pants and boots, head tipped back against the wall. blood leaks out of the wound just below his ribs, but it seems shallow enough that it can be sutured shut.
you rip open a packet of sterilised gauze; on second thought you put on a pair of gloves before you take one out. he sucks in a breath through his teeth when you press it against the wound, tensing up.
"iâyou need to hold it like that," you whisper, and his right hand comes up to cover yours. for a moment, it's strangely intimate, his gloved one absolutely dwarfing yours as he adjusts his hold on it with a groan, before he gives you the okay to let go. incredibly selfishly, you notice just how firm his body is, even now.
he's holding the gun in his other hand, and you jump at the click when he switches the safety back on and quietly puts it down on the ground beside himâit's enough to show that he's trusting you for now, but you're still not completely safe.
when his blood overflows the first piece of gauze, you hand him a second one and he nods in thanks.
but now you actually have to clean and stitch it up, and you're no professional.
you decide to start from the outside, dabbing at the dried blood gingerly; he remains stoic. by the time you get to the actual wound, however, his breaths come in shallow and fast, fists clenched. and when the needle finally breaks skin, you think you actually feel the way his heart rate speeds up. you're repeating i'm sorrys under your breath, hating that you're hurting him, even if he is a homicidal maniac with scarily accurate aim.
"it's fine," he murmurs when you're done, tone unlike anything he used before. "itâi should go."
you stand up from where you'd been kneeling between his legsâwhich, in hindsight, sounds a lot more sexual than it had beenâand dust off your pyjama pants, looking down at the large pile of bloody cotton and gauze.
"uh, yeah, you shouldâŠ"
you watch as he examines his gear before putting it back on, then holsters the gun across his chest again. he's so built, you think lazily as he stands up in front of you.
he's saying somethingâ
"huh?" you respond, only to realise he's holding out your phone to you. it's mortifying. "oh."
you take it from his hand as he walks back to your open window, then turns back.
"thank you," he says; if it'd been anyone else you'd have thought his voice was gentle. "and lock your window."
oh.
you really don't expect bullseye to come back again, not until he's already in your room, weeks later, swearing and apologising under his breath.
maybe you'd neglected closing the windowâjust to have something to think about before sleeping at night, okay? it's not a big deal.
this time, he's not as vigilant with the gun, although he's not as roughed up as last time, so you think he might be able to fight you if you try to do something. not that you were planning to, of course. and either you're extremely delusional, or there's definitely tension simmering underneath your interactions, the way your fingers brush against his gloved ones, or the look in his eyes when you catch him staring for a moment too long.
you only realise he didn't take your phone this time when it buzzes from your nightstand moments after you finish washing your hands of his blood. he looks at you enquiringly and you lean over to check; it's your ex-boyfriend. he's probably drunk, you tell him, and he says fuck that, like he's more important, and even though you've only met him twice and you've seen him more on the news than with your own two eyes, you think he might be right.
you offer him water, turning away respectfully when he pulls up the mask. he helps clean up after himself, so meticulous, you think.
"this won't happen again," he says when he's leaving. he's standing right in front of you, and for a moment you're stupid enough to think something will happen. he raises one hand cautiously to brush some hair out of your face; the smallest contact of his glove on your skin is enough to make you feel like a live wire. "and lock the damn window."
"you know i can't," you reply, entirely aware of how stupid how sound right now, and you think he smiles.
"okay, then."
the third time is when you finally get to see his face. you wake at the sound of his boots landing on the floor, and you're awake enough to register who he is, but not enough to realise that he'd already pulled his mask off.
it takes you a second.
he's pretty, for lack of a better word. his hair is messy, dark golden brown, and there's a healed scar dragging across his cheek (you could find home in there). he's not "perfect" in any way, but you think you've never seen something more beautiful. there's crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, something you hadn't noticed before, the slightest shadow of stubble on his jaw. you have to physically tear your eyes away from him.
"what?" he asks, when he realises you're staring. you shake your head, embarrassed, before looking over him for any injuries.
"i'm not bleeding," he inputs helpfully. "just need to hide out for a bit."
"oh?" you say, sitting up.
"task force's being a bitch."
"so the usual." you get out of bed, stretching lightly. "so, um, you want some, um, tea or something?"
you're awkward, this is new.
his lips twitch up at your discomfort; his smile is sharp, the kind to make butterflies erupt in your stomach. "sure."
it's oddly domestic, having a vigilante at your kitchen table like this. there's a pile of belongings on one side, a gun and gloves (his), phone and hand cream (yours). he's as quiet as you'd imagined; neither of you speak much until your phone lights up. you both look at it simultaneously, and you sigh. "it's him again."
"he do this often?"
"fairly."
another text. then another, thenâ
he reaches over and switches it off, placing it facedown. "why don't you just block him?"
"it's⊠weird," you say. "i know we're not together anymore, but it's kind of nice to have someone to turn to or think about. occasionally."
"so you're broken up, but not really."
"kind of?" to tell the truth, you haven't thought of him at all since bullseye's world collided with yours.
"you deserve better," he comments.
you lean forward, interested. "like who?"
maybe it's the lack of sleep making you so adventurous today.
he leans back, holding eye contact. the word stays between you, unspoken, heavy. after a moment, he changes his mind. "someone⊠nicer."
you know you'll regret it as soon as you say it. "you're nice enough."
"you don't even know my name."
"you know you can just tell me, right?"
there's a pause. you tell him your name, and he there's a self-satisfied half-smirk on his face. "i know."
you don't question it, and it's kind of nice that he cared enough to find out.
you can call him dex, he tells you. it's not his actual nameâyou'd askedâbut it's what everyone calls him. or used to.
"okay, dex." you like how it rolls off your tongue. (and he does too.)
then, when he's leaving, he looks at you like this meeting, like you had been a moment of weakness. "this was a mistake."
"no," you respond vehemently; it's the first time you've really gone against him since the two of you met. the fire in your eyes intrigues him.
"no?" he tilts his head to one side, amused. his mask is still in his hands.
"i'm a grown ass woman," you argue. "i know what a mistake is and what isn't."
"is that so?"
you stride up to him, pulling him down to your level by the front of his shirt. "yes, dex, it is."
his hands automatically come up to cup your face, mask forgottenâhe's not wearing gloves, you realise. are they still on your table? was he planning to leave them behind?âand his thumb smoothes across your cheekbone, gentle. you cannot imagine these to be the hands of a killer, though you've seen the carnage he's left in his wake firsthand. "you're going to regret this."
"don't careâ"
he kisses you. it's fast; you don't see it coming until it's already happeningânot that you mind, of course. your hands fly the back of his head, the nape of his neck. he closes the window with one hand (your body screams at the loss of contact) before it comes back to you again, thumbing at your jaw, then lower, finding your pulse point. you whine into his mouth; he grins into yours as he walks you backwards towards your bed. you let go of him long enough to sit down, taking the opportunity to finally catch a breath. he sinks down between your legs; this time, he's yanking you down to kiss him again, hand on your thigh like puzzle pieces fitting together.
"don't you dare regret this," he pants, leaning back on his haunches. you laugh, breathless; you know you won't.
you scream when dex pulls his mask off. the lower half of his face is covered in blood, the origin appearing to be his nose. he winces at the noise. "don't panic, it was just one good hit. nothing's broken."
you're clambering out of bed, already headed for the bathroom. "i still need to clean you up!"
"it can wait."
you pause at the sound of his voice. it's differentâdeeper, more intense than usual somehow. you can tell he's not in the mood to be bossed around.
"what?"
"c'mere," he says. not exactly an orderâbut you do as you're told. "you mind the blood?"
you shake your head, no. if anything, he looks good, in his natural habitatâcovered in the bloodshed he spends most of his time in. when he kisses you, you're already reaching back to unclip his holster; there's blood in (and smeared around) your mouth when he pulls back to unlace his boots, shedding the rest of his gear in quick succession until he's only in his boxers.
you're lying on the bed under him now, breathing hard. he places one hand over your heart, feeling the elevated pulse. "excited?"
you roll your eyes, propping yourself up on your elbows so he can kiss you again. when his knee slides between your legs, you let out a choked noise, and he takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, greedy. your hands pull at his hair in the way you know he loves, and he's letting out little whimpers almost subconsciously. he grinds down once, twice; he's the excited one, you think.
"how come you still get to keep everything on?" he demands, whiny. you like when he gets like this, all hooded eyes and swollen lips and everything that haunts him forgotten because he's so focused on you.
"just a sec, baby." you're about to pull your cami top off when one of his big hands reaches past yours and rips it down the front. you sit up, outraged. "dex, that was my favourite!"
you cut yourself off with a gasp when his teeth sink into your neck; he licks over the spot before moving lower, and his words are slurred, running into each other when he speaks. "mm, i'll buy y'one, no, ten more, m'kay? lemme have thisâ"
he doesn't even bother to finish his sentence before sucking a bruise into the space right under your collarbone; from the way he's holding you, you know there'll be marks from his fingers all around your hips and thighs. not that you mind, of course, not when he'll see them later and be almost possessive of them and of you.
he watches like a hawk, you beneath him, glassy-eyed and panting, voice hoarse. no one else gets to have you like this, no one but him. you're his, and his only, and in returnâ
"dex, you're mine," you breathe, fingers dragging oh-so-slowly down the scar on his spine. he shudders; a broken sound spills from his lips as he nods into your shoulder, blunt nails digging into your flesh.
it takes a second for him to regain composure before he looks up. there's a foreign glint in his eyeâhe's never seen you be this possessive of him, and he's not sure how to feel about it. proud? turned on? or maybe both. "that's right, baby, 'n you gotta take care of what's yours, right?"
his lips curve up into a self-satisfied smirk.
author says: i want him so bad hahaha i meannnn đ lmk what you think! requests are also open !!! thank you for the love on the other fic, i didn't expect this at all :3 !!
synopsis: toxic!ex!kal-el x reader, a little after your âfalling outâ he still canât seem to let you go. continuation of this
cw: toxicity, kal projecting again, drunk reader, insults and derogatory language hurled at reader,
a/n: im not proud of this one but im planning on making a ficlet to this đ maybe yearningâŠmaybe a begging apologyâŠor maybe another part of him being meanâŠ.who knows? i have another one jn the chamber guys, plus the ficlet will follow this and then more smaus, am i going too hard on this? yeah probably. will i overdo it. hell yeah
tagsâĄ: @twentytomidnight (hope you like this one gulp)
