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to-the-stars8 · 3 months ago

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The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/ Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Iceberg Lounge

You told yourself that the night was going well. Harvey degrading you to “Bruce’s hot nanny” had mostly faded from your mind. Key word, mostly. It had helped a little when he had gone all out. Harvey had shown up at the manor with roses, complimenting your dress, and holding every door like it was some kind of performance.

Now the two of you were at the Iceberg Lounge, tucked into a shadowy corner beneath dim lights. Harvey’s hand rested on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles—like he was trying to soothe you, or maybe himself. He’d been talking about work for the past hour, barely pausing to ask anything about you.

He was about halfway through a rant about some client when you finally cut him off. “So, how long have you known Bruce?”

Harvey squeezed your thigh, and it made you shift in your seat. He noticed. Of course, he noticed. He leaned in, like whatever he had to say next was meant just for you. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your gaze drifted toward the crowd of couples, their laughter and chatter floating in the air. For a brief moment, you wondered how many women Harvey had brought here.

How many nannies had he brought to the Iceberg Lounge?

The thought made you clench your jaw.

Harvey said your name, snapping you back into the moment. You smiled at him, brushing the tension away with a simple, “Nothing’s wrong.” It was a lie, but he was paying for dinner.

He eyed you suspiciously for another second before finally answering your question.

“Since we were teenagers,” He replied as he took his hand off your thigh. “We met at a party. In fact, that night we both found out that we had been hooking up with the same girl for months.”

“Oh,” Was all you could say.

Harvey furrowed his brows, smirking a little. “Why do you ask?”

You shrugged, reaching for your wine glass. “Curious, I suppose.”

Harvey sat back in his seat, eyes focused on you. It was clear he wasn’t letting this go, his gaze intense as he studied you. He ran his tongue over his teeth, his focus briefly flickering to the tea light at the center of the table before returning to you.

It made you feel more like you were in court rather than on a date.

“You’re upset about something,” He pointed out.

“I am,” You relented. You were starting to see why he won so many court cases. “I’m angry that all I am to you is Bruce’s hot nanny!”

Harvey drew back a little, surprised. Then, he started to laugh. “What would make you think that?”

“You tell me.”

Harvey sighed, putting his hand back onto your thigh. This time, you didn’t shift or give him a face. Instead, you leaned toward him, hoping that he would give you something that you could work with.

“You think I’m going to,” Harvey paused, trying to find the right way to say fuck and ditch. “Use you.”

You didn’t want to answer him right away, preferring to watch him squirm a bit. “Well,” You finally said. “I did hear the words ‘bagging Bruce’s hot nanny’ thrown about.”

“Oh God.” Harvey dropped his face into his hands, rubbing at his eyes like he could scrub the memory away. His voice was muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Harvey,” You began, but he stopped you.

“Not that it’s an excuse, but... I was drunk. I was stupid.” He looked at you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted forgiveness or to crawl under the table. “It was a joke not meant to be taken seriously." He studied your face then added, "Bruce called me out, if that helps. Said it wasn’t funny.”

He scoffed at the memory, shaking his head a little. His sincerity made you want to feel bad for him, but a little voice in your head told you to stay strong. So, you looked down your nose at him, like he was just another man who was paying for dinner. Truthfully, your hands itched to grab him and just be content with his apology.

“Harvey,” You said, voice firm. “I don’t mind this being purely physical, but I won’t be objectified. It’s disrespectful. It’s what losers do. I don’t fuck losers, Harvey.”

He sat there with his mouth slightly agape. For a few seconds he made a few sounds that sounded like words trying to form, before he closed his mouth again. Taking a breath, he composed himself into the DA you saw on TV. He sat up, smoothed over his jacket, and looked at you head-on. It was like a totally different person at that moment.

When Harvey said your name this time, it was heavy–Like he wanted you to hear him say it. Then, he opened his mouth again, and the words didn’t match how he looked. “I want to be serious about this.”

You felt a little relieved by that, which surprised you. “I think we can try that.”

“I wouldn’t mind the physical part, too, if we’re being honest.”

You wanted to be disgusted, but the sentiment caused butterflies in your stomach. Turning your head, you tried to hold back the little laugh bubbling up your throat. Once you recovered, you nodded. “Neither would I.”

The two of you laughed together, and, for the first time in a while, you felt sure of your feelings for Harvey. It wasn’t anything like love or dislike. It was… hopeful. You could work with hopeful.

Just as you were about to suggest that the two of you head to his place, you heard a familiar voice. By the annoyed look on Harvey’s face, he had heard it too.

Bruce.

“Oh, fuck me,” You muttered, turning around when you heard your name yelled across the dining room. Harvey chuckled, his hand squeezing your thigh before he pulled it back.

Bruce practically dragged his date across the room, a stupid smile plastered across his face. The woman glanced at the two of you, then back at Bruce, clearly not impressed. She whispered something into his ear, but he shrugged her off. When he sat opposite the two of you, she muttered under her breath as she stomped off.

“I totally forgot you guys were coming here,” Bruce exclaimed.

You shared a knowing look with Harvey. Turning to your boss, you gritted out with fake politeness, “Oh, really?”

It was a rhetorical question. Him forgetting would have been impossible because you had mentioned the date spot right before you left. Yet, he gave you a clueless, ditzy look–The one with glazed eyes and mouth slightly agape. It was truly amazing, you thought. One second, he was one of the most intelligent men in Gotham, then the next, he was a bumbling idiot.

“Your date left, Bruce,” Harvey pointed out, his tone dripping with ice. He was just as annoyed.

Bruce shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Eh, oh well. She was a friend’s date, I think. I don’t know. We’ve been to so many clubs that I’ve lost count.”

You sighed. “I think, Harvey, I should get Bruce home. It’s clear he’s too…”

“High. We took edibles,” Bruce corrected. “Maybe a little drunk?”

No, he didn't seem high or drunk, you thought. His moves were too fluid, like each careless hand wave was calculated.

Harvey looked disgusted with his friend, his gaze softening when he looked back at you. He leaned over, giving you a chaste kiss on the lips. “I’ll call you?” You tried not to show just how much you loathed his cologne as you nodded.

“No, I’ll call you.” You winked playfully, making him laugh.

“See you later, hun’,” Harvey said, throwing a couple of hundred on the table. Clapping Bruce on the back, he mumbled, “Get better, Bruce.”

You watched Harvey leave, only breaking your gaze when he disappeared into the elevator. Smacking Bruce’s arm, you whispered-yelled, “Get up.”

Bruce did as you asked, sluggishly following you toward the elevator. He stumbled more than once, mumbling an apology each time before attempting to straighten himself out. Eventually, you wrapped your arms around his waist, letting him lean on you just to get him walking in a straight line.

The elevator was taking forever to reach your floor, and the eyes of everyone in the dining room were starting to make you feel hot. Impatiently, you tapped your foot against the marble tile as you physically bit your tongue to hold back every nasty word you were thinking.

When the doors finally opened, you shoved past the people exiting, ignoring their angry remarks as you did. As the doors closed behind you, you took a deep breath and put your hands on your hips. Bruce leaned against the wall opposite, mumbling something to himself.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice sounding clearer now.

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. And then you saw it. His eyes weren’t glazed anymore, and his posture had returned to normal—like he was back in control. That’s when you knew: he had been faking it. Without thinking, you shoved him against the wall, the force making a dull thud.

“What the fuck, Bruce? Are you even fucking high or drunk," you screamed.

Bruce stared down at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment, before he finally spoke. “I can explain. I didn’t want you to get hurt. He’s…”

You cut him off, your frustration boiling over. “He wants to take me home, fuck me—is that it?” You spat, stepping closer, your voice sharp and accusing. “What if I wanted it, huh?”

He stared at you, expression unreadable, and you scoffed. You huddled into the corner of the elevator, turning your back to him for a moment as your thoughts swirled. You wanted to cry, to scream, to quit your job and move away to a different city. Bruce’s constant interference, his confusing behavior, it was all just too much. But this? This was insane.

You swallowed, biting back the tears as you muttered, “You get off on this, don’t you? You like having someone to control.”

There was a long pause. Then Bruce spoke again, his voice much darker now. “No,” he said, his tone low but firm. "You don't understand—"

"What don’t I understand?" You turned sharply to face him, your anger burning hot. "That you're crazy?"

Bruce's eyes flashed with a hint of anger, and then he snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "No! It’s not that." He took a breath before adding, almost reluctantly, “Harvey... Harvey made a bet with some of the guys at the country club. He bet that he could get you into bed with him on the first date.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, like the words hadn’t registered. But they had. It took you a moment to show it, but they had hit.

“A bet?” You began to laugh. “A fucking bet! That’s great.”

You weren’t even sure who you were more angry at—Harvey, for treating you like some kind of prize, or Bruce, for confirming it, for watching you walk into that date without saying a damn thing.

You shook your head, backing away from Bruce’s hand when he reached out. “You could have told me. You should have told me!”

You didn’t wait for him to speak. You pressed yourself against the side of the elevator, staring straight ahead at your reflection in the mirrored paneling. Had you always looked so fucking stupid? Here you were standing in one of the nicest places in Gotham in an uncomfortable red dress playing the part of a goddamn punchline. Blinking back the tears, you cursed quietly.

The elevator was taking too damn long.

“I’m so–”

“Don’t fucking say it,” you cut in, voice trembling. Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of him. “Please don’t, Bruce,” you whispered, choking on the last word.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable, and almost unbearable. You could feel him searching for the right thing to say, but there was nothing right about any of this.

Finally, barely above a whisper, he said, “You didn’t deserve that.”

The elevator dinged.

Perfect fucking timing.

You bolted the moment the doors slid open, heels clicking against the polished floors, fury and heartbreak carrying you forward. You didn’t stop. You didn’t think you could. Not even when you heard him behind you, following close, his voice calling your name.

You stopped at the end of the hallway, near the entrance. “Go home, Bruce,” you said, breathless. “I’ll get a taxi.”

Bruce stopped. He didn’t argue.

You walked out into the cold, into Gotham’s noise and neon nights, letting the crowd swallow you whole as you felt your heart break a little more.

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f1girliefics · 6 months ago

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The Final Waltz

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

Summary: After he was kicked from F1, he needed to put his focus elsewhere. And so, when a show asks him to participate, he becomes the new contestant on Dancing with the Stars.

The dazzling lights of the ballroom cast shimmering reflections across the polished floor, adding to the electric atmosphere of the finale night.

Your pulse quickened, not just from the excitement of competition but from the significance of this moment.

You and your dance partner, Daniel Ricciardo, had made it to the grand finale of Dancing with the Stars.

Daniel, the lively former Formula 1 driver, had been the wildcard of the season, winning over the crowd not just with his charm but with his determination to perfect every move you taught him.

“Think we can pull this off one more time?” Daniel’s voice brought you out of your thoughts.

He stood beside you, his dark suit immaculate, his familiar grin lighting up his face.

“That depends,” you joked, straightening your sparkly dress and posture. “Are you ready to keep up with me?”

Daniel laughed softly, a sound that somehow always helped your nerves.

The music swelled, and the routine you made just for this dance unfolded like a dream.

Every step, turn, and lift fell into place, a fulfilment of weeks of effort and trust.

The audience erupted into applause as the final pose was held.

After the dance, it was the nerves. Daniel tried his best to calm you.

"If we win, fantastic, but if we don't, great. My goal was to win but I'm just glad I got to experience this with you." he smiled at you which you returned as the last dance finished.

Now, it was time.

Time to call the winners.

Time to see if you failed or not.

You didn't like to lose and neither did Daniel. Racing was in your blood much like in his.

Just while he drove cars, you danced.

You barely registered the host declaring you the winner. Daniel hugged you so tight that you almost lost consciousness.

The glittering trophy was pushed into your hands, but the moment felt surreal, it wasn't until they requested an encore of your winning dance that you collected yourself.

As the opening notes played, Daniel extended his hand to you with a smile, his gaze steady and warm. That damn smile of his.

The two of you moved across the floor, the chemistry between you is unmistakable.

Near the end, after a final spin left you in his arms, he paused, his eyes searching yours.

He was looking for something.

“I didn’t think I’d find more than just a competition here,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crowd.

Your heart skipped, but before you could respond, Daniel leaned down and kissed you.

The noise of the ballroom faded away, leaving only the sensation of his lips on yours.

It was gentle yet confident, a moment of clarity in the whirlwind of the evening.

When he drew back, his smile reappeared, a vulnerability shining through. “You’ve changed everything for me. These weeks... I didn’t just learn to dance. I found something I didn’t know I was looking for.”

“I thought you were just here for the challenge.” You blinked back the emotion rising in your chest, whispering. You didn't want to cry.

“I was,” he admitted with a chuckle, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek. “But somewhere along the way, the real challenge became keeping my feelings for you to myself.”

The applause swelled, pulling you both back to the present. Daniel raised your hand in victory, his eyes never leaving yours, as the celebration roared around you.

The real prize, you realized, wasn’t the trophy shining under the lights, it was the man standing beside you, whose heart you had won one step at a time.

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fandomimaginez · 3 months ago

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What I think a relationship with Barbara Gordon would look like

#barbara gordon #barbara gordon x reader #batgirl #oracle #x fem!reader #dc #dc imagine #relationship aesthetic #aesthetic #moodboard

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gghostwriter · 11 months ago

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One Single Thread of Gold

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 2 Summary: The three times Penelope tries to solve a Spencer Reid riddle and the one time she (and the team) meet the reason behind all the changes Trope: Fluff! Just fluff and team banter! w.c: 4.0k a/n: For some reason, my earlier post on this disappeared dunno why. But this is a very self indulgent fic as reader’s background is basically based on the industry I work in. I had a lot of fun writing the team banter and I hope you enjoy it too! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated 💗

The first clue presented itself on a dull Wednesday night as the team, minus Hotch and Rossi, were leaving the bullpen after a full day of pushing papers. Penelope in all of her sunshine and colorful glory was buzzing about these accessories that she once spotted on a storefront window.

“I saw a pair of earrings and a matching necklace that would look so good with that top you bought the other day, JJ. You know, the blue one with those soft sleeves—they would look great with it. It’s tres boho chic.”

JJ smiled, opening her mouth to reply, but Spencer beat her to it.

“Did you know that boho chic was actually a response to political and social movements?”

“Wait, what?” Emily interjected.

He took her disbelief as a sign to continue on. “Yeah, yeah. There’s an article written about it in Vogue—softness and femininity historically appears in moments of political stress and war. Just like in the 70s with the hippie and anti-war movement that defined their style as a generation.”

They all piled into the elevator and turned to face the boy genius like he grew another head. For all they knew, this could be a clone and a very bad one at that. The Spencer Reid that they knew had absolutely no interest in the realms of fashion.

Penelope was the first to break the silence. “Vogue?”

“Kid, what gives? Just the other time, you didn’t know how many shoes a woman owns and now you’re some kind of expert?” Derek asked with both eyebrows raised.

“Did not knowing activate some kind of button that made you want to read about it?” Emily added on, feeling like she was in some kind of TV prank show.

“What?” Spencer licked his lips, nervous with all the attention on him. He felt like he was about to slip something up that he had been keeping to himself for a while now. A hidden precious gem that was you. “I—I like to read.” A believable excuse except his voice went up an octave, giving him away.

The three women shared a look.

“But you read academic textbooks and classic literature,” JJ stated.

Penelope added on. “Not fashion magazines.”

He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I don’t discriminate when it comes to reading. If it’s interesting—” he shifted his weight one side to another, thinking that the ride down on the elevator seemed to be taking slower than usual. “—I’ll read it.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. She was no profiler but she could smell a lie from a mile away way. That wasn’t the whole truth. Dr. Spencer Reid was hiding something.

“Okay, see you tomorrow!” he squeaked out as he ran out of the elevator once it hit the lobby.

She turned to the three profilers, stunned with the boy genius’ erratic behavior. “Huh, did anybody else get the feeling that Spencer was hiding something?”

“Maybe, but the kid does read a lot. Maybe he just ran out of books.” Morgan shrugged.

The other two profilers tilted their heads and slowly nodded in agreement. It wasn’t far off on something Spencer would do. He did once pick up a pamphlet in the airport to read as mentioned before to her by Derek, granted it was for a case but still, Penelope couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else.

So when she arrived home that very same night, she propped up her laptop and got to digging. Boy Genius was hiding something big and Little Miss Oracle of Quantico can find anything with her tech skills. She’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, once and for all.

———

Spencer was glad to be coming home to your presence. Having spied the lights still on from the outside of the apartment, he took the steps two at a time, excited to see his 2nd favorite person after his mother—you.

“Spence?” You called out, having heard the mahogany front door open. “Is that you, baby?”

“Hey, love. I missed you,” he deposited his satchel to the nearby sofa and ran to give you a hug.

You burrowed yourself into his arms. All the muscles in your body relaxing as you caught a whiff of his cedar wood perfume—the same scent you’ve gifted to him during the early stages of dating. “I missed you too. How was your day?”

“Better now with you,” his words coming out muffled as he refused to detach himself from the embrace. “Actually, I almost slipped up today.”

You extricated from his arms to give him an inquisitive look. The slight scrunch on your nose and raised brows made his heart flutter. How expressive, free, and trusting you were. It reminded him of your first encounter. How you teasingly asked him if he was a serial killer when he offered you a ride home in the pouring rain and how you easily accepted regardless.

“Yeah? Did any of them catch on?” you probed as you pulled him by his belt loops to the direction of the bedroom.

He laughed, finding your aggression cute. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe we should schedule dinner with them sometime,” you coyly suggested as you slowly started to unravel his tie. “I mean, we’ve been together for over a year now and I have moved into your apartment, under the guise of watering your plants while you’re away. Which is a lie, by the way—”

“I have plants!” he protested. His hands divesting you out of his sweater, bringing to view his favorite silk set in deep purple that accentuated your skin and the blush on your cheeks.

“—that I brought over, Spence,” you quipped back. “But don’t worry, I won’t spill how the intelligent FBI agent fooled naive me into moving in with him.”

There was a glint in his eyes that sent shivers down your spine. “Love, I wouldn’t exactly call you naive—” his voice going an octave lower. “—not when you’re looking at me with those tempting eyes of yours.”

Giggling, you leaned in for a kiss, one that he quickly took over. His calloused dominant hand wrapped around the back of your neck, effectively caging you in while his other cradled your cheek—a stark contrast to the other. Kissing Spencer had always felt like a religious experience that you never want to part from.

Reluctantly pulling away, you caught glimpse of his need for you. His hazel eyes now dark as ink, nostrils slightly flared, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and his dominant hand dug into the fleshy nape of your neck. It made you feel desirable, like the goddess that he would call you when he’s on his knees tasting nectar from the source.

The discussion of inviting the team out for dinner was long forgotten. No other words were spoken as you pushed him on the bed—only the cries of his and your name and moans of ‘yes’ echoed well into the night.

***

The second clue was uncovered when Spencer walked into the cold windy bullpen with new black cardigan adorning his lithe body. It was non-descriptive to the untrained eye but for fashion enthusiast Penelope Garcia, she knew what those four white lines on the sleeve meant—luxury label and priced well above their pay grade.

She narrowed her eyes. The Spencer she knew wouldn’t dare spend his salary on anything besides limited first edition books. Something was truly up and she planned to get to the bottom of it as her initial online search turned up nothing.

“Reid, that’s a really nice sweater,” she complimented, throwing in her bait.

He smiled. The thought of who gave it to him warmed his heart. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks Garcia.”

Her sparkly pink kitten heels clacking on the floor as she came closer. “Can I see it?” she innocently asked.

The request threw Spencer off the loop but thought nothing of it as he shrugged and handed it to her—still warm from body temperature.

Her squeals caught the attention of the other profilers filling into the office.

“What is it, baby girl?” Morgan deposited his bag on the table and stationed himself beside her. “It’s Reid’s new sweater. Are you seeing something I’m not seeing?”

Garcia rolled her eyes. This was why females are considered more observant that their sex counterpart. Her chocolate thunder was a profiler but how could he not notice what she was deducing?

“Huh,” Emily surmised. “Based on the fibers, it’s definitely not polyester. Possibly a 100% wool, what do you think, JJ?”

“It says here on the tag—100% virgin wool,” she read out loud. “That makes it very expensive, right Garcia?”

The colorful tech analyst smiled. Her girls could never let her down. “Right you are, girlfriends! But it’s not only that, this—” pointing at the four stripes on the sleeve. “—this is a signature Thom Browne detail. Their prices go up to at least 600 dollars—” they all turned to Reid who seemed clearly agitated. “—now why does our boy wonder have a piece that could buy at most five cute heels?”

With his vast intellect, he couldn’t think of a way to weasel out of this impromptu interrogation. He couldn’t very well say that it was a gift now could he? If he did, that would lead to another hard hitting question ‘from who?’ He raked his hand through his curly hair, taking the same path as yours did just earlier as you gave him a kiss goodbye.

When you gifted him the cardigan from your last New York business trip, he really thought nothing of its material equivalence, besides feeling grateful and loved. It was proof that you paid attention to even the littlest details about him.

“Hey Spence, I got you something,” you looked up at him with sparkling eyes. The first thing you had done when you got home was run into his arms. A simple act that healed his aching heart from missing it’s other half.

You reached into your luggage, enthusiastically pulling out the black clothing wrapped in tissue paper like some magician pulling out a rabbit from a hat. “Here you go!”

“A new sweater!” He exclaimed.

You rocked on your heels, looking bashful as you explained the reasoning behind it. “I noticed you fidgeting when you wore the cardigan JJ gifted you last Christmas, the polyester fibers used on it must have been really itchy so I got you a new one—” your eyes widened at how your explanation could be taken the wrong way. “—not that her gift wasn’t great! No, it was very cute! It’s just—I want you to be comfortable and protected during your cases in cold states. Polyester is a good insulator of heat but wool is still the best.”

He loved how unabashed you rambled about your interests. That was one of the first things he piqued his notice. How you liked to share your knowledge about the fashion industry that you work for but never coming across as stuck up or snobby, you just genuinely wanted to educate anyone who had a wrong perception of the billion dollar commerce. Admittedly, he was one of them but hearing you rave about it’s nitty-gritty details and socio-economic movements changed his mind. It also helped that a beautiful and intelligent woman, such as yourself, was educating him.

He pulled you in for a kiss, stopping all the worries that ran through your head. “I love it. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing at all, baby. I like taking care of you. Just like how you take care of me,” you reasoned. “Plus I got it on sale courtesy of the magazine connections.”

A tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. It was Penelope with an eyebrow raised at the subtle smile that graced his face while he replayed the moment in his head.

“Okay,” Morgan drawled. “What’s got you smiling, Pretty boy?”

“Nothing,” he squeaked out, turning to see Hotch make his way across the office. Spencer hurriedly collected his things and started to move even before their unit chief could call their attention.

“We have a case,” Hotch announced.

The remaining BAU members all looked at each other, silently communicating about Reid’s irregular demeanor, before piling into the conference room for another grueling scene of murder.

“He’s been acting weird,” Garcia rushed out. “Definitely hiding something. What do you think, Em?”

Emily nodded. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“A girl?” JJ guessed.

“Yes, must be a special one for him to keep secret for so long,” Garcia surmised. “Do you think he’ll hate it if I go further digging around to find out who she is?”

“Further?” Emily clarified.

JJ laughed. “Probably, let’s wait for him to volunteer the information. Okay, Garcia?”

She sighed, shoulders drooping, before nodding in agreement.

***

The third clue was quite literally handed to Penelope Garcia on the jet after a case when she accompanied the team.

“Cold Alaska is so not good for my skin,” she grumbled as she rummaged her bottomless bag for her favorite hand cream. “I love going with you all on trips rather than being stuck in my own tech cave but the weather wasn’t it.”

Morgan chuckled. “Aw c’mon baby girl, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy our time together?”

“You, my sculpted hunk, and the fireplace were the highlight,” Penelope turned to the other female profilers. “My beauties, do any of you have lotion? I think I lost mine.”

Before JJ or Emily could even utter a word, a tube made its way to her lap courtesy of her seat mate, Dr. Spencer Reid.

“Reid, since when do you carry lotion?” Emily inquired.

He shrugged. “Hand cream has it’s benefits besides from moisturizing the skin, it also provides an additional layer of protection. Depending on it’s properties, it can also repair and undo damage.”

The females all shared a look. This was another unexplainable behavior from their resident genius.

“We know that,” JJ stated. “We just thought you didn’t.”

His brows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, besides from the fact that you’ve never shown interest about skincare before, isn’t it a stereotype for men not to know? Unless—” Emily slyly smiled and nodded at Garcia to continue.

“Unless you have a girlfriend that we don’t know about,” Garcia bounced on her seat.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Spencer’s eyes widened in alarm. He didn’t realize he was walking into a trap before it was too late. “What makes you say that?”

They laughed.

JJ started. “Besides from you suddenly being knowledgeable in fashion—“

“—or having a pricey sweater you’d never buy for yourself—” Emily added on.

“Or, or—“ Garcia reached out to touch his hand. Which made Spencer react with a high pitched call of her name. “—having a shea butter lotion with rough hands!” She waved the tube up in the air. “Plus, this is half empty. So either it’s not working which I doubt since this is a good brand or you keep this in your bag for a special someone to use!”

Derek chuckled. “Baby girl, you could be a profiler at this point.”

“Oh tell me something I don’t know,” she quipped back. “So Reid, want to tell us the truth?”

He sighed, finding no escape. “Yes, yes I have a girlfriend.”

The girls all shrieked with laughter and their own corresponding questions of who is she? How did you meet? How long has this been going on? What does she do for a living? Is she pretty? Oh I bet she is!

“Looks like that cat is out of the bag,” Rossi nonchalantly stated.

Four sets of eyes turned to look at one of the BAU founders. “Rossi, you knew about this and didn’t tell me?” Garcia gasped, a hand to her chest at the thought of betrayal.

He laughed. “I caught them on a dinner date once and our boy wonder over here—“ nodded in Reid’s direction. “—begged me not to out him yet, said he wanted to be the one to tell the team the news but that was like what, six months ago?”

“Six months ago?” Emily repeated.

“Wait, wait. Hotch, don’t tell me you also knew?” Morgan asked.

The unit chief smiled. “She was added to Reid’s emergency contact last February.”

“February? That’s almost a year ago!” JJ sputtered out.

The tech analyst turned to glare at the youngest member of the BAU. “Reid, you better start spilling all the details or so help me, I will stalk all your digital footprint when we land until I find out who she is, where she lives, and what her deepest darkest secret is.”

“What about hearing it all from her, instead?” He rubbed the back of his neck. The secrecy had gone on for so long and there was no time like the present to introduce his chosen family to his chosen partner—hopefully until the end of time. “She wants to treat you all out for dinner tonight.”

All four nodded vigorously as they watched him pull out his phone and send a quick text to which you readily replied and agreed to.

“My man,” Derek sighed. “Can’t believe you got a girlfriend without me being your wingman.”

“Answer me at least this, is she pretty and does she make you happy?” Garcia asked. No matter how nosey she may be, she only wanted the best for Spencer and if the recent lightness and smiles were all caused by his mystery girlfriend, she already approved.

“The prettiest,” Spencer gushed out. “She’s my own personal sunshine.”

The three girls melted into their seats. Their youngest was all grown up waxing prose over his lover.

“She makes you sappy too,” Derek teased.

***

[EXTRA - When the mystery was uncovered]

Spencer had never felt any more nervous that this moment as he, with the rest of the team minus Hotch and Rossi, wait for your arrival. He sat with his back to the restaurant entrance and his cardigan laying on the empty seat beside him as a reservation mark. His eyes had been going back and forth to his idle phone and to the conversation the team was having.

Morgan noted his state of distress and chuckled. “You okay there, lover boy? She’s still coming right, your mystery girlfriend?”

“Yeah, yeah. She said she was on her way 9 minutes and 24 seconds ago and based on the route and traffic, she should have been here 45 seconds earlier. Just worried that something might have happened.”

Penelope leaned in, picking on her bubblegum pink choice of drink as she did. “You know, if you just told me her name I could have tracked every movement by now and you wouldn’t be sitting here worrying.”

“What—no Garcia, I don’t want her tracked plus she didn’t want you to know everything about her even before meeting her,” his voice going up an octave in your defense.

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. I mean we don’t know a single thing about her—”

“We do know she exists and you’ve been together for almost a year now,” Emily interjected.

“Actually, it’s been more than year—one year and 124 days to be exact.”

“Buttercup, all I’m saying is we don’t even know how she looks—” Garcia gasped, having spotted a passerby on the window and what she was wearing. “Oh my gosh, that maroon coat is to die for and that textured leather bag—I wonder if I could track her down and ask where she got it.”

“Oh she’s pretty,” JJ noted.

Derek smirked. “Baby girl, tell me if you plan to ask her ‘cause I wouldn’t mind asking for her number.”

The tech analyst’s eyes further widened as she noted the attractive woman going inside the restaurant.

“You weren’t kidding about that coat, Garcia, it looks really nice,” JJ appraised.

Emily squinted her eyes, taking note of the garment in question. “It looks high quality, probably vintage and—is she going near us?”

“Oh gods, she is! Act natural, act natural!” Penelope chanted as she repeatedly slapped Derek’s arm.

The stranger stopped behind Spencer. “Hey handsome,” your melodic voice was a siren that called to his every being. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Penelope’s jaw dropped as she took in Derek’s flustered reaction.

“Me?” He pointed at himself, getting picked up in such a public setting was new even for him—the ladies man of the BAU.

You laughed. “Well, you too but I was more of talking to this lover of mine—“ you bent down, kissing your boyfriend’s cheek. “Hey, Spence.”

A series of gasps were heard all around the table.

The youngest stood up and turned to give you a soft kiss on the lips. “Hey, Y/N. I was starting to get worried.”

“I missed the train, sorry I forgot to send an update,” you explained as he helped you into your seat.

Promptly seating back down, he angled his body to yours—all attention on you as if you were the only one in the room. And in a way you were, with how molten his doe eyes stared, alternating between yours and your painted lips that begged to be kissed.

He always felt breathless when you were near. It was as if he found his very own Aphrodite to worship here on earth. Spencer was no believer of fates or destiny but he would pray and light a candle if he needed to, just to keep you his. Your intelligent mind complimenting his, your outgoing personality that draws anyone in, and your face that could launch a thousand ships.

Those eyes that could read the deepest crevices of his fiber of being. Those cheeks that begged to be caressed by his calloused hands. Those soft lips that deserved to be kissed and devoured until you, in turn, were as breathless as he was. He suddenly wished you both were anywhere else but here—specifically in the confines of the apartment where he was free to express his love, devotion, and adoration until you scream his name and beg him to stop. His hand, having found it’s way to your thigh, squeezed the flesh three times—communicating his promise to have your hair laid around you like a halo as you lay under him, bare and writhing with need.

The blonde on the other end of the table cleared her throat, cutting through the tension.

“Okay, Spence,” she smiled. “Mind introducing us to your girlfriend?”

He brought your hand to his lips, leaving a series of sweet kisses on your knuckle. “This is Y/N, my girlfriend. Y/N, this is the rest of the team. Morgan—“ he gestured to each one. “Emily, JJ, and Garcia.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” You exclaimed. “So sorry we’re only meeting now. We wanted to stay in our little bubble for as long as we could plus this handsome FBI agent—” you nudged Spencer’s shoulder. “—wanted to keep me to himself. But where’s Aaron and Dave?”

Emily whispered under her breath. “Aaron? Dave?”

“They had prior commitments, love. They did send their regards and Rossi wants to invite you to the next gathering at his mansion,” Spencer explained.

“Love?” Penelope squeaked out. This was really starting to feel like Twilight zone for the team members.

You nodded. “I’ll definitely plot it on my calendar. Now, I heard you had some questions for me?”

“How’d you two meet?” JJ asked.

“When was the first date?” Emily inquired.

Penelope brought out a pen and paper. “What’s you social security number?”

Derek snorted at that. “Do you have any other siblings?”

Spencer’s eyebrows raised further and further up with each question while your shoulders shook with laughter.

“She has all the time in the world to get to know each of you,” Spencer laid out. “No need to make it sound like an interrogation.” He was wishing to keep you forever, if you’d let him.

You smiled as you caressed his cheek, having caught on to the veiled meaning behind his words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #my own fics

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literary-dolly · 12 days ago

Text

pride & prejudice

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 11.3k warnings: ANGST, pining, enemies to lovers, violence, violence against reader, arguments/fighting, alcohol, murder

When you first meet Jason Todd he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him. (Loosely inspired by the book/film Pride & Prejudice)

Winter

“Honestly, I can’t wait for you to meet him, I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

More often than not, it was endearing to hear Babs talk about her boyfriend. You would think that Dick Grayson had hung the stars in the sky the way she sang his praises. It almost made you sick, the way her eyes would get moony as she practically recited poetry about his charms, his kindness, and occasionally, his body.

She was right though; you and Babs had been friends for as long as you could remember, it was absurd that you were yet to meet her long-term boyfriend. Phone calls and photos hadn’t really been enough to capture a true image of him, who he was and what he stood for. Babs meant the world to you, however, and you were determined to meet the man who had crashed into it so suddenly.

‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch.

It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.

Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.

This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.

“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.

“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”

So much for a good first impression.

You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.

Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.

Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”

In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”

Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.

Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.

“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”

Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.

“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”

As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.

Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.

Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.

“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.

“Fine.”

“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”

“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”

You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.

“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”

“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.

“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”

Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”

“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”

“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”

“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”

“I said I don’t want a fucking –”

Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”

“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.

“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”

“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”

You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.

When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.

It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason��s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.

The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.

The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.

Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”

“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”

“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.

It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.

The only word to describe the walk back is painful.

It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.

Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.

“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”

Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.

Then he turns and walks away.

You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.

Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.

As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.

To never see Jason again.

Spring

It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.

Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.

The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.

Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.

Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.

You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.

“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.

Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.

“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.

“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.

“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.

“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Is that so?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.

Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”

“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.

It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”

You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.

“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”

He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.

“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”

He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”

“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.

“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”

You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.

“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.

“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”

The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.

“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.

The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.

“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”

He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.

“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.

“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”

“I would like that.”

And with that he’s gone.

You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.

You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.

“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.

“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”

You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”

“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.

You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.

“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”

“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”

“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”

There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.

“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”

“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”

The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.

“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”

It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.

You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.

“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”

Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.

“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”

The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.

“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”

The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.

You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”

“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”

“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”

“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”

You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.

Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.

Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.

“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.

You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.

“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.

It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.

You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.

Summer

If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.

It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.

You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.

You’d run into Jason a few times.

It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.

Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.

Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.

You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.

It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.

To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.

Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.

Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.

It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”

“What?”

“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.

“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.

Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.

“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”

“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”

“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”

“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”

“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.

“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”

“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”

The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.

“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”

“Well, Dick, for starters –”

“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”

“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.

“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”

The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.

Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.

He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.

“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”

And then he disappears inside.

Autumn

All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.

You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.

It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.

Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.

“What did you want to –”

“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.

“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.

Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”

Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”

You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”

“How come you’re asking me and not him?”

“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.

Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”

“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”

“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”

You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.

“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”

“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.

“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.

“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”

“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”

It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”

Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”

“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”

Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.

It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.

You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.

Winter

Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.

Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.

Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.

Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.

Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.

Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”

As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.

“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”

From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.

“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”

Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.

You grimace at the thought.

All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.

Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.

You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.

It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.

If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.

“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.

“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”

It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.

“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.

It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.

It’s Jason.

Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.

You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.

It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.

Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.

“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”

The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”

If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”

You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”

“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.

You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”

Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Spring

You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.

You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.

“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.

“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”

You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”

“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”

“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.

“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”

“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”

“I know you do, baby, I know.”

This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷‍♀️

also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd fic #red hood fic #angst #dcu #dc robin #dc fanfic

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kitkatscabinet · 3 months ago

Text

Early Morning Meetings

Summary: your brothers have no boundaries, guess it’s time to teach them a lesson.

Pairing(s): Platonic Batfamily x fem! reader, Kyle Rayner x fem! reader.

A/N: 18+ nsfw themes, minors evaporate! Published on my phone so unedited.

You've always been a light sleeper, even before you'd been inducted into the bat brand of paranoid lifestyle that had you jumping at shadows, living in Gotham would do that for a person.

The second you hear the slightest clatter of movement, you're up, eyes flickering open as you're already mid-roll off your bed. Beside you, Kyle sleeps on, blissfully unaware of the potential intruders in your apartment. A slight pout on his face as he unconsciously reaches for the body no longer sleeping beside him.

There's a creak, the whine of the broken cabinet door you'd yet to fix alerting you to the definite presence of an intruder. Cursing, you ran a hand down your face, reaching for the bat you conveniently kept at the side of your bed.

Phone in one hand with Oracle on speed dial and bat in the other, you swing your bedroom door open. You step out into the kitchen, winding the bat back over your shoulder ready to rain down hell, only to groan at the sight of two of your brothers.

Not wanting to wake Kyle, you close the bedroom door quietly before slumping into the seat beside Tim. Damn that man and his ability to sleep like the dead.

"Hello people who don't live here." You groaned, "And by that, I mean what the fuck are you doing in my apartment at..." You blearily blink the sleep from your eyes, swearing when your phone light blinds you, "2:18 in the fucking morning!"

"Having breakfast." Dick hummed through a mouth full of dry cereal, his silhouette illuminated by the still-open fridge door. "You're out of milk, by the way."

"I know, you finished it yesterday. And close the fridge you animal, you'll ruin my groceries."

"A baseball bat? Really?" Tim squinted in judgement.

"Oh, I'm sorry, the next time suspicious individuals break into my home at fuck ass o'clock, I'll get the Glock I keep under my pillow."

Tim eyes you warily, slightly hesitant. "You don't actually have one of those, do you?"

"Of course not", You scoff, interrupting Tim's premature sigh of relief, "I've got a colt - Dick seriously, close the fridge door!”

“I can’t see though.” He whines and you stare at him in sheer disbelief.

“Turn on the fucking lights?” One of the world’s greatest detectives your ass.

The sound of a door swinging open catches your attention and you nearly apologise for waking Kyle when you notice it’s not your bedroom door opening.

"What the fuck guys, it’s 2 in the morning." Jason’s voice is husky with sleep as he yawns, trudging into your kitchen and planking down beside you like nothing was wrong.

"Jason! What the fuck are you doing here?" You can practically feel the oncoming aneurysm. Why had you wanted brothers again? Maybe you could go back in time and convince Bruce the Wayne’s were a single child household. That could be nice.

"I was sleeping in my room." He groused.

"It's not your room, it's a guest room, and guests are supposed to let their hosts know they're here!" You hissed. Fingers twitching as you fought the urge to reach across and strangle the little shithead.

"Am I not a guest? Ergo, my room."

"Ergo." Tim mocked, barely dodging the spoon Jason had taken from Dick's hand mid-bite and thrown at Tim.

"Jason!" Three voices sing out in varying levels of despair.

Dick looks at the leftover contents of his bowl appraisingly, shrugging before tipping the ceramic back like a drink. Predictably, bits of cereal fall over his face and the floor you’d just fucking mopped yesterday.

“Murder is illegal and you love your brothers very much.” You whisper to yourself under your breath. Tim surreptitiously scoots his chair away from you.

"Baby?" A groggy voice called out, and you would have smiled at how cute your sleepy boyfriend was as he stumbled toward you, burying his face in your neck, if it weren’t for the laser focused stares of your younger brothers.

“Kyle?!” Dick choked.

“A Lantern?!” Tim moaned in despair.

“Don’t start this game with me Timothy. You won’t win.”

“People?” Kyle mumbled, finally looking up with sleepy eyes. “Baby, why are there people in our apartment.”

“Our?” Dick’s falsetto voice was honestly a little impressive.

“Because my brothers are animals that don’t understand boundaries.” You told Kyle, ignoring Dick’s ongoing stroke.

“Isn’t he unemployed?” Jason muttered with narrowed eyes, to which you flip him the bird.

“So are you fuckface! Also, I’m literally a millionaire.”

“So what he’s your sugar baby?”

“Please don’t call me that.” Kyle weakly moaned.

“He’s unemployed? How’s he going to help support you?” Dick was tugging at the roots of his hair now.

“Um wow? The 1950s called, they want their brand back.” You scoffed. "Besides, unlike you and Jason, I have no interest in cosplaying being poor. Kyle and I are both living on daddy’s money.”

Tim holds his hand up for a high five, which you grant, as Jason groans. “Please don’t ever call Bruce daddy again.”

“Oh I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable, Jason?” Kyle snorted against your neck, still draped over the back of your chair and hugging you as he left you to deal with your family’s bullshit.

“Stop touching my sister Rayner!” Dick was practically vibrating now.

In response Kyle reached up and squeezed your tits, causing all three of your brothers to start screaming once again as you smack his hands away. He’d definitely regret that when he woke up fully later, but for now your brother’s horrified reactions had given you an idea.

It’s a terrible one, but your head’s starting to pound a little and you’re beyond cranky and tired and you just want them gone.

Fuck it. You pull your shirt off, leaving you in just a pair of Green Lantern underwear.

Predictably, they scatter like rats, with Dick slamming into the still open fridge door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Jason screams as he stumbles blindly toward the window, Tim screeching about his eyes as he falls backward off the chair.

“You’ve all got about three seconds to get the fuck out of my apartment or risk witnessing me fuck my boyfriend right on this table.” You warned, already pulling a startled Kyle into a bruising kiss.

You moan loudly and obnoxiously, smirking in victory when your apartment is vacated in less than 10 seconds.

You may have just signed Kyle’s death warrant, but you’d make it up to him now, and later.

Kyle wakes before you. He’s never up before you. In the first few months of seeing each other he’d been convinced you didn’t sleep.

Frankly it’s only your love of garlic that has you beating the vampire allegations.

He’s awake before you and that means something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Turning his head to the side, his soul nearly vacates his body at the sudden sight of blank white eyes and a terrifyingly familiar black cowl.

He blinks and the bat spectre is gone. Kyle doesn’t fall asleep again. He doesn’t want to even blink for fear of suddenly seeing a bat shaped apparition.

You sleep on blissfully unaware. Even while Kyle becomes increasingly convinced he’s being menaced. You don’t even stir, because the presence of your dad isn’t a threat but a comfort.

Kyle wants to cry. You’re so lucky he loves you enough to put up with your psycho family.

He blinks and he swears he sees the afterimage of a looming Batman standing at the foot of the couch.

Ok so maybe, he loves you enough.

#x reader #batfamily x reader #platonic batfamily x reader #fem reader #female reader #kyle rayner x reader #kyle rayner x female reader #dc x reader #batfam x batsis #platonic jason todd #platonic dick grayson #platonic tim drake

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the-kr8tor · 2 months ago

Text

Sleeping Beauty

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem! Reader/ Red Hood x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.5k

Synopsis: Jason sees you unmoving on the floor, his worst fear almost brings him to the edge.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), established relationship, lovestruck! Jason, CW food mentions, one suggestive joke, CW anxiety, CW blood and death mention, fluff!

A/N: I don't know if this trope has been done before for him but it's too perfect for Jason!

Navigation

Jason Todd Masterlist

*I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms and copy pasted on any AI software*

Jason feels lighter as he pulls his bike towards the driveway, the shared driveway that he can't wait to shovel snow off of its pavement once winter comes. He can't even fathom that he wants to do such a thing when he doesn't even like winter, or shoveling snow for that matter. But the mundanity of the act has him feeling normal, feeling like he's just another person bringing takeout to a normal home with its very normal façade, a regular door and even more regular windows. It's a…good feeling, a warm one that brings him hope for whatever the future holds.

For once he doesn't feel like the red hood in the quiet street that's filled with equally normal houses with their normal families residing inside. For once he can just be Jason Todd, not a vigilante, not a gun for hire or anything in between. There's no blood coating the soles of his boots as he steps around the freshly poured concrete that you've etched yours and his initials into and inside a crudely drawn heart. “It's tradition,” you said with a shining smile. He smiles at the sight of it, remembering how much you giggled while you drew it on the wet concrete like you're etching his and your names on a tree.

The house isn't as grandiose as the Wayne Manor, but just like the manor, it's home to him.

Jason pats for his keys, noticing the lack of weapons on his person that he's so used to that it's second nature for him to check them. He has no weapons on him, except for a small knife you've given to him as an anniversary present that you said brings out his eyes as a joke. He always brings it wherever he goes. When some people would have their loved ones pictures in their wallet, Jason has this as a reminder of you. Whenever he's nervous or worried, he runs his thumb across the leather handle, letting the small notches in it ground him. The blade never pierced flesh nor will it ever be marred by blood since it's a reminder of you. On his driveway, he's just someone who's just bringing home takeout after hauling boxes upon boxes of things into the new home.

Bruce and his brothers helped with the big move at first, but with the bat signal raised up high in downtown Gotham, they had to go before Jason could even repay their help with greasy takeout. When he tried to come with, Dick stopped him with a strong hand on his shoulder, saying that he should let them take care of the situation. For once, he's happy to oblige. He smiles at the thought of not having that sense of urgency anymore. The weight inside his stomach slowly fades in time, it weighs like a boulder, pleading for him to don the suit and rush towards the signal with his guns. But as he looks up at the starry sky, the bat signal flickers out completely— another mission accomplished. If not then Oracle would've called him for backup as a last resort. Since his phone is as silent as the street that he now lives in, he exhales shakily, fists furling and unfurling out to rid him of that awfully familiar weight.

The people of Gotham are in safe hands while he's out here with you.

Grabbing the plastic bags of warm noodles and dimsum, he fishes out the ring of keys inside his pockets. As he walks quietly on the cobblestones, the doormat that you've chosen greets him at the door. It has the cliché ‘Welcome!’ sign on it, for once he likes clichés.

After a bout of reminiscing and smiling to himself like some love sick fool, he unlocks the door with a click. Silence hangs in the foyer, the queen sized mattress is still standing against the wall, waiting to be carried upstairs. He makes a mental note to haul it upstairs lest the two of you sleep on the floor tonight.

The scent of lavender wafts around him, for sure coming from a scented candle that's lit somewhere. The smell coincides with the scent of his old books that are temporarily placed on the dinner table while the pieces of his bookshelves are still in its box. A soft smile appears on his lips at the thought of you two struggling to put it together as he crosses the shared space with silent footsteps.

“Sweetheart, I'm home.” Jason calls out in the dimly lit home. He's met with the quiet ticking of the wall clock. The lack of lights makes his skin stand on edge, especially when you always had the old apartment lit back when you two still lived downtown. And you always reply back to him the second he enters the place, always quick with a first aid kit in hand or a peck or two.

“Hey, where are you?” He asks the air as he toes off his shoes, placing them neatly beside yours. “They didn't have the chicken you wanted but they did give us extra fortune cookies.” Still nothing on your end. “Babe?”

Honing in on the faint groans of the house, he concentrates, ears twitching and picking up nothing that could involve you. There's no light clacking of your footsteps, nor your voice as you mumble a song that's stuck in your head.

“You could be upstairs,” Jason tells himself to avoid the awful biting feeling. First he'll sweep the whole downstairs, an old habit. Looking towards the kitchen, he finds it eerily empty. Save for the warming kettle that looks like you left on the stove with the fire still on. Your mug and his own are sitting beside it, the tea bags are as dry as a bone inside the ceramic. The kettle shrieks just as he places the takeout on the counter, shutting the stove off, he has an awful feeling gnawing at his chest. Worry slithering from the back of his head down to the pit of his stomach.

Jason's hand doesn't tremble as he takes the knife from his pocket, brandishing the blade as he stalks his own home. Heart pounding in his chest, rattling his ribs and blood flowing in his ears. His mind draws the worst, your blood sticking to the new couch, ichor dripping all over the walls. Then a struggle, a lamp knocked down, glass shards everywhere— a gun to your head. And your screams, yelling for him before you're shut up for good.

He fights those thoughts as he enters the living room, boxes littered around while you're nowhere in sight. The grip he has on the knife tightens, the handle digging harshly into his palm.

Just as he rounds the corner, he sees your feet sticking out from behind the couch, laying on the carpeted floors— unmoving.

Eyes widening and frantic, heart plummeting down to his stomach, his worst nightmare comes to life. Jason stands there for a moment as if he doesn't trust his own eyes, frozen at the sight. Then he inhales, waking himself back to reality, walking closer until you're in his sight.

You're curled around a couch pillow, eyes closed, body relaxed. Looking like how he left you— an oversized shirt, and a pair of comfortable sweats. There's no drop of blood on you, but that doesn't always mean you're alright. Jason kneels, a shaking hand reaching to feel for your pulse. The second his index feels the light thump of your heartbeat, he exhales loudly in relief.

“Oh thank fuck.” He almost drops his whole body on you from the sheer relief. Tucking the knife back inside his pocket, you stir in your sleep. “Gave me a fucking scare.” Whispering, he grasps your bicep gently, not waking you up, but just to feel your warmth. Making sure that his cruel mind isn't playing tricks on him again.

“Mm-hmm.” Mumbling, and as if you're sensing his presence above you, you crack an eye open. Meeting with his bright emerald eyes that seem to light up in the dim room, relief swimming in the shining embers. “Hey,” your voice crackles with sleep. “I fell asleep.”

“You did.” Chuckling breathlessly, Jason carefully cleans the gunk from the corner of your eye. You feel how clammy his palm is against your cheek, hand gravitating towards his nape, nails scratching mindlessly at the scruff. “Was the floor more comfortable than the couch?”

Craning your neck towards the plump green couch, you scrunch your nose. “I didn't want to ruin it.”

“Babe, c’mon, why did we buy it then?” He pokes your cheek, and you grab his wrist, acting like you're about to bite it as he plays tug of war with you. “We're bound to ruin it anyway.” he winks, and you pause, flustered as you pull at his finger to take a gentle bite that has him laughing.

“It looks too perfect, and the floor is nice and cold.”

“I should adjust the thermostat then.” Before he could move away, you tug at his hand, wordlessly inviting him to rest on the floor beside you. With a fond smile, he obliges.

When he lies down with a groan, you immediately turn towards him, hand grasping at his collar to pull him closer. “There, you look like you need the rest.”

“Why?” His thumb traces the side of your face. “Do I look that tired?”

Shaking your head, you fight a yawn. “No, you look like you've seen a ghost, Jay. Are you okay?”

Sniffing, Jason cups your cheek, feeling your warmth ebb through his palms. “I just thought… nothing, it's stupid.”

Your brows furrow, concern prevalent on your face. “Your hand's cold, and you're breathing heavily. It's either our house is haunted or you carried the mattress up by yourself.” Palm placed on his chest, you feel his quick heartbeat that's slowly steadying under your touch. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Just tell me what to do.” Voice shrinking, you pat his heart. “Do you want me to stay like this?”

Nudging your nose with his own, Jason closes his eyes, lashes fluttering as he breathes you in. You smell like his cologne and the lavender candles you lit. You're breathing, alive and holding him gently. “Please stay.” That's all he wants.

“Okay, I'll stay.” Whispering, you move closer, chest to chest, fingers moving strands of hair from his eyes. “And whatever it is, it's not stupid.”

Humming, his lips brush along the space between your brows, then he traces down to the bridge of your nose. Kissing you softly like a fallen flower petal grazing along your skin.

Smiling through his affectionate kisses, you brush his hair away from his eyes again, giggling when the strand falls back down on his eyelids. “You need a haircut.”

Eyes half lidded, green peeking through, the corner of his lips curls into a light smile. “Do you want to do it for me?”

“Me?” You gasp out, and he throws his leg over yours, embracing you as if his arm over your waist wasn't enough. “I might ruin your hair, Jay bird. I don't trust my hand eye coordination when it comes to scissors. Especially with your nice hair, I might end up giving you a mohawk.”

“I could rock a mohawk.” You grin at the thought. “Your coordination is fine, babe.” Blowing his bangs off his face for emphasis, he draws hearts around the plush of your bare hip. “You did hit me with an encyclopedia dead on.”

“That was one time!” Mouth agape and feigning offense, you lightly smack his chest, scars peeking above the hem of his shirt. Scars that you've lovingly traced with your lips and fingers. “I thought you were a burglar! And in my defense, it was dark out, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He chuckles, a palm cupping the back of your neck, placing affectionate pecks over the corner of your eye. “You got me good though, hit me right on my noggin.”

Laughing, you bite your lip at the memory. “I'm sorry, good thing you were wearing your helmet back then.”

“Yeah, good thing.” Keeping you close, his muscles relax even more, the fear that encapsulated him is just a dull ache in his stomach now.

Your knuckles brush along the curve of his jaw, the same worried look returns to your pretty face. “Jay—”

“I thought you got hurt.” Blurting it out, he frowns at the recent memory. “The house was dark and you left the kettle on. Then I saw you… and I—” inhaling, he gives you a strained smile. “I feel better now though, you don't have to worry too much.”

“Oh, Jason.” Lifting yourself up by your elbows, you gaze at him softly as he holds onto your waist like it's his lifeline. “I didn't mean to—”

“It's not your fault, that's just how my mind works I guess. Seriously, it's fine.”

Taking his hand, you place his palm right on your beating heart. “Worrying is part of my job, handsome.” You beam at him, staring fondly and leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I'm sorry for leaving the kettle on. I promise to not forget next time, and I promise to keep the place lit. And then whenever I take a nap, it'll be on our too perfect couch.” He sighs, eyes gazing up at you with reverence as he nods and pulls you down towards him. “I'll try to lessen your worries.”

“Thank you,” tugging you down, he hides his face on the crook of your neck. Arms wrapped around you like a cocoon. You rest on his chest, cheek pressed right on his heart as you rub reassuring circles all over his clavicle. “I don't mind you sleeping on the floor. Your poor back might feel it though.” You can feel his smile against your skin.

Moving a smidge away, you grin at him, eyes shining with mischief. “Yeah, I might need a massage actually.”

“From me?” He raises his brows, a smirk playing on his lips. “I would but I don't trust my hand eye coordination.” Pinching your sides, he lets out a quiet laugh.

Giggling, you poke his cheek playfully. “You don't need that to give a massage though.”

“Maybe for shit massages.” The chorus of laughter echoing from the living room drenches the whole house in warmth. “Say please?”

You roll your eyes, moving down to press a brief yet saccharine kiss right on his smiling lips. “Please?”

“You really want that massage huh?” He pats your cheek, then his hand crawls to your nape, gently kneading. “Do you still want that massage even if I didn't get you your orange chicken?”

Tilting your head, you shake your head with a grin while squeezing his cheeks together. “I'd say that it's a good bargain.” You were on the floor for a second, then the next you're lifted up, legs wrapped around his hips as he carries you. “Jason!” Squeaking and grinning, you wrap your arms behind his head for leverage.

“What?” He asks innocently, mirroring your giddy smile as he brushes his lips against your cheek. “I'm going to give you that massage.” It's a ruse to get you off of the harsh floor, but you let him when his hold is much more comfortable than the floor.

“Better be a damn good massage then.” You say before you're dropped on the couch, bouncing gently as you stare up at him lovingly.

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#the kr8tor's creations #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x reader #jason todd fluff #red hood fanfiction #red hood x reader #red hood fluff #jason todd x fem! reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x you #red hood x fem!reader #fanfic #x reader #cw food mentions #cw anxiety #cw blood and death mention #red hood fanfic

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