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notsodelirious · 5 days ago

Note

I think I’ve been listening to Preybirds by Rabbitology too much, this definitely inspired this request. Could you write a piece with Jason Todd and a “guardian-esque” reader? All of these omens and warnings, and one night, Jason crumbles. His guardian, his watcher, appears before him.

I actually didn’t know this song before you sent this request but honestly I love it sm—I hope this fic does it justice <3

synopsis: Jason knows there’s nobody behind him in the mirror, but he feels like somebody’s watching him

notes: rated teens for canon typical violence and Jason just generally being sad

tags: pre-relationship, loneliness, hurt/comfort, heavy mentions of Dick and Roy (+ a little Lian), guardian angel!reader, gn!reader, wc: 2.4k words

also massive shoutout to @arkham-prince for being my beta reader for this one <3

onwards <3

He saw you in everything.

Saw your shadow beside his. Caught glimpses of you in the reflection of windows. Your melancholic gaze in a raven’s eye.

He saw you in everything.

And he never realised. Every time he looked back, took a second glance, you were gone—his shadow walked alone and birds flew off with a soft song in their throats.

Not that he was too concerned by it—it was his mind, playing tricks on him: it had been a long day, he was tired, that fear gas might not have completely left his system.

There was always another reason, something else to be blamed—because it couldn’t be you. Blaming you would be ridiculous.

It was never you.

He didn’t believe in you.

There was no reason to.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The apartment was still—empty and cold, it was the place Jason called home. It was nothing more than a shoebox really, a kitchenette in one corner, a small bathroom in another, and a mattress and a full-length mirror.

It wasn’t even one of his properly equipped safe houses. He just lived there. It was his.

I’m already hurt.

He sat in front of the full-length mirror, his shirt between his teeth as steady fingers held the curved suture needle, piercing skin and threading it closed.

He was so engrossed in his work, he barely paid attention to you, sat on his windowsill, barely visible behind his own reflection. A silhouette more than a figure.

“I mean seriously hurt—one day you won’t come back from this.”

Below, a man yelled, something about being disrespected, not being looked at right. You peered your head out, carefully balancing on the window.

You’re going to fall out, he thought to himself as his eyes flicked up to you but he focused back down on himself, starting the third stitch. He couldn’t be paying attention to you.

You slipped off the windowsill, reaching up to turn the blinds down, enough that the orange lights of Crime Alley streaked across his rotting floorboards—you didn’t cast a shadow.

You weren’t tangible to change anything like light. Or fate. So you just stood, staring at his own reflection.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse this time around.”

Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t even hum. He just slipped the fourth, then fifth stitch into his wound.

“Add another stitch.”

He did. Not because he listened to you. He just wanted to be sure. He wanted the wound to heal fast and efficiently so he could get back to stuff.

He… he wanted-

He glanced behind him.

Empty. Like his apartment had always been. The lamppost outside cast long streaks of orange light across his floor.

He was alone.

He was.

He didn’t see you again, not for a long while.

The next time he did was in a puddle under the neon signs of Gotham’s Red Light District.

The air was cooler now that October was rolling around and bringing its dreaded chill with it. It would be fine for a couple more weeks before his thin apartment walls would start to fail him and he’d be spending most of his time… elsewhere. It was fine.

Everything was fine.

“You know, your brother’s been feeling pretty lonely.”

His heavy boot landed in the puddle, making your reflection ondulate and fade out. He kept walking down the street—nobody came out to bother him. Nobody other than a curious fox, who’d poked its head out of an alley to stare at him.

He stared back.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing with you.”

You swung your legs as you sat perched a top one of the dying fluorescent signs, the logo of a dying club.

Jason stepped backwards as the fox stepped forward, nose twitching.

“It’s better than freezing.”

It’s not even that cold out.

He thought to himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glanced around—the streets were empty. He didn’t look up. There was no need to. Nobody was up there.

The street was empty—save for him, and the fox.

He was alone.

“You know his apartment has heating,” you said as you leaned forward.

Don’t touch the lightbulbs, he thought.

“Or at least he should do—you know he forgets to pay the bills sometimes.”

He does.

He stared down at the shadow you cast on the glistening pavement—darkness where it should have been a glistening of pinks and blues.

The fox growled and yipped but Jason didn’t move back again—even if he got bit, he was wearing most of his vigilante attire. Minus the helmet, which had been tucked away in a hideout, for the time being.

He was being a little more lowkey.

God knew why.

It was getting a little cold. His cheeks stung.

The fox’s ears pinned back before it dashed away.

“Do you think he’ll have leftover ramen in his fridge?�� Jason mumbled softly. He looked up over his shoulder.

Nobody was sat perched on the neon sign.

The streets were empty.

It was just him.

Again.

You’d always appear when he was sure he didn’t need you.

There was no reason for you to have joined him on the rooftop. He was just sitting on the parapet of a random building, taking a break from patrol. It was a quiet night.

Gotham didn’t need him.

Concrete crumbled beneath his leather grip, which he occasionally dusted off before returning his grip to the ledge—it wasn’t a tall building by any means, maybe a couple stories high, but he didn’t want to slip. It would hurt like a fucking bitch.

“You know he’s worried.”

The cold made the hairs on the back of his neck stand—in his full getup, it was the only part exposed to the November air—which felt pretty stupid in retrospect.

Why would his only exposed skin be his neck?

Seemed vulnerable.

Easy to slice.

He hummed as he looked out towards the city, dusting more debris onto his cargo pants.

“He’s called you twice now—you still haven’t answered him.”

Gotham didn’t glimmer like silver or gold—instead, all of the life buzzing beneath his gaze, the traffic and smog-filled skies looked more like buried quartz than anything precious. But from high up, it still shimmered.

“He just wants to know what you’ll be doing for Christmas.”

“That’s a whole month out,” he said softly. He tilted his head up, like he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the moon and stars, but the only light that shone emblazoned a bat across the heavy blanket of clouds.

“He’s still worried,” you said, cocking your head to look at him—he only caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. It was probably nothing—maybe a rat or something from the neighbouring building. His helmet did put a significant damper on his peripheral vision after all. There was nobody else on this rooftop.

It was just him and himself.

“Lian probably misses you.”

She has her aunties and uncles, he thought.

“Aren’t you also her uncle?”

He shrugged. He looked down at his feet. Saw yours swing beside his.

“She’d be better off without me.”

You didn’t have an answer for that. He wondered if you had the answer to anything. You didn’t answer queries.

You just spoke.

Is that what he needed?

Who knew what he needed.

Jason Todd: the fucking mystery.

“She misses you,” you said, so softly your voice had almost been drowned out by the wind. Your legs stopped swinging as you tucked your knees to your chest.

Or at least he assumed you did. He didn’t want to check. No, he couldn’t look—he didn’t want you to leave.

Above his head, a bird cawed. He recognised the raven for what it was when it circled above him before landing some ways away, on the building across the street.

He could have sworn he watched a beady red eye tilt towards him, look him up and down before the raven cried again.

“Gotham doesn’t have many ravens,” he mumbled, rolling his shoulders as he sat forward. He turned to you, “Does it?”

His throat closed up as soon as he realised his mistake.

The rooftop was empty. Nothing, not even a shadow where you had once been sat. Just

emptiness.

He didn’t know a sigh could leave from so deep within his soul. The cold settled in his bones again. He didn’t acknowledge the void behind his ribcage, just between his heart and his bones, that cracked open just a little further, seeping into the cavity of his lungs.

He wasn’t lonely—it wasn’t loneliness.

He was just…

Tired.

“Please.”

He hadn’t meant it.

He hadn’t meant any of it.

He knew he was cursed, diseased, but he hadn’t meant it.

“Please. Please.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt him.

He hadn’t meant to lash out.

It had simply all been building for too long and he was there and he had touched him, laid a hand on his shoulder and he snapped but he didn’t mean to.

“Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please-“

It had just been too much.

The constant everything.

The downpour the moment he stepped out of his apartment and the weird little crows that hopped along after him as he walked down to the corner shop.

He wasn’t one to believe in signs or omens or superstitions, he wasn’t one to believe in you, but maybe it’s why he snapped.

Maybe it’s why another man’s blood stained his hands.

Maybe it’s why he’d snapped his older brother’s wrist.

“I’m sorry—I promise. Please, I’m so- so sorry.”

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to.

But it didn’t matter what he meant: a man was dead and his older brother’s wrist was broken.

The blood on his hands still wouldn’t come off, caked under his nails, in the lines of his palms, between his fingers.

“Please-“

“Shh… hey…”

He ran his fingers through his hair, grasping at it, tugging it.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.”

The room was suffocating, too small even for his sole person, the small apartment studio more like a jail cell.

“He’s not that badly hurt,” you said softly, but he only closed his eyes in response, pressing the heels of his palms against his skull, “He’s healed broken bones before.”

But that wasn’t the problem was it? Healing wasn’t the problem. It was that he’d done it in the first place.

“They just startled me, I wasn’t thinking-“

“I know…”

The man had come out of nowhere. Jason had been so preoccupied with… nothing that he’d missed him, until it was too late, until the running footsteps had been right behind him.

Jason had barely turned that he’d buried a knife deep into the man’s chest, slotted just between his ribs, just where it was too late to call it an accident.

At the time he hadn’t even seen the gun or the bag of money on the guy—he hadn’t seen the relieved expression on his face, the realisation that he was losing his pursuers, the realisation that he was safe-

“I didn’t- I didn’t-“

Your lips were soft against his forehead—you were so warm. Against the chill of the apartment, your kiss was almost searing, too much to accept unexpectedly, stinging and retaliatory.

“I know you’re sorry,” you promised softly as you pushed his hair out of his face, neatly avoiding his hands—he could feel you hover, the tips of your fingers brushing against the back of his hands but you never pulled them away.

He wanted you here.

He needed you here.

He needed-

“Deep breaths,” you said—he heard you shuffling, felt your palm pressed to his chest, felt his erratic heartbeat against it. “They’ll forgive you.”

What if they never do?

He choked on an inhale but exhaled anyway on your count—before rinsing and repeating.

“They won’t blame you.”

He should.

Nightwing had been after a bank robber—it would have been an easy pursuit. It should have been an easy pursuit.

But the moment, he slid into view, the moment the glint of his knee brace caught Jason’s eye, he didn’t bother asking himself any more questions.

Maybe he should have.

Maybe he wouldn’t have turned his back on him if he’d spoken openly.

Maybe his brother wouldn’t have tried to catch up.

“I didn’t mean to.” He wondered if he looked pathetic, slumped against the wall of his apartment, crying to no one in particular.

“You should tell him that.”

He felt your body heat as you settled next to him, let him lean his head against your chest.

He was so pathetic.

It was ridiculous.

“Keep breathing.”

He dropped his hands when he felt yours in his hair, brushing back soft strands of black hair.

His eyes stayed closed.

They stayed closed as long as he cried, even as it softened to silent tears. They stayed closed as long as you held, as long as he whispered softly to him, spoke to him.

He hadn’t heard another person speak to him in so long.

He just wanted.

And you were.

Eventually, you pulled away, hands still on his shoulders when he instinctively leaned into your retreating touch. His face scrunched up, in the effort to not pull his eyelids open, to keep them shut, to let your warmth linger.

He didn’t fight it as you took hold of his hands and helped him up, didn’t fight it as you led him through his home, to his threadbare mattress.

He went willingly as you pulled him down to his knees, shed his jacket and his shoes as he listened to the sheets ruffle, to the soft sound of bare feet on the floorboard.

He blinked up to find his poorly lit ceiling, and the ring of black mould he had yet to deal with.

“Think you’ll call him?”

He felt you settle down beside him, your arm brushing against his, your foot brushing against his calf. It was surprisingly cold.

“Probably,” he mumbled, I owe it to him.

“He’d probably like that.”

He hummed.

With a sigh, he rubbed his face. The exhaustion weighed on him. He was so tired.

It was all tiring.

“You know,” he tilted his head a little towards you as you spoke. You pressed a soft hand against his eyes, then a warm kiss against his cheek. “You are worthy of help.”

His breath hitched—before he realised it, he’d turned to his side.

His heart leapt into his throat—he’d see nothing, barely a warm spot where you had once lain, the covers pressed and clean and-

You smiled back at him as you cupped his face.

“Oh hey look.” He met your eye, the small crease against it as your smile widened, “You finally believe me.”

He swallowed. Pressed his hand against yours, let his shoulders drop. Took you in, your face, your relief, your joy.

Just you.

He believed you.

“I do.”

once I started writing this one I actually had so much fun with it, love writing subtle keys and symbolism

more from me here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°) — for requests please check this post ✧˖° thank you

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notsodelirious · 7 days ago

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I would like to sit on Dick’s lap while I play pokémon

“Isn’t dark super effective against psychic?”

“Gardevoir has fairy typing now- have you picked up a pokémon game in the past 15 years?”

(but yes, you’re so right, I would love that so much)

#rae rambles ⟡

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notsodelirious · 8 days ago

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i need to crawl under dickie’s hoodie while he’s wearing it and have him carry me around when the world gets too much. that sounds like it would solve all my issues

being tired and finding him already laying in your bed so you just crawl into his hoodie to hide from the world </3

nonny, i so desperately need this you don’t understand 😔

#dick grayson x reader #rae rambles ⟡

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notsodelirious · 10 days ago

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you say that but continue to keep writing Roy like he's not sober.

what are you asking me to do here—like genuinely.

I’m not continuously writing Roy like he isn’t sober—I have one fic about him and his addiction and a single throwaway line in a dick x reader fic that about the reader’s addiction recovery; both of which were requests.

I find it pretty disingenuous that you’ve come into my inbox not once but twice as an anonymous asker just to what, tell me off for the sake of it?

Either way, there are two options: you can either try again when my inbox/requests open again and you can politely ask for a Roy fic, that has nothing to do with his addiction/recovery.

Or you can simply leave my blog and find work you enjoy reading.

However you cut it, don’t come into my inbox to berate me, thank you and good night

#i’m not removing the fic btw #unless anybody can bring up a nice a valid point as to why one of my fics is offensive especially to another group of people #i’m not trying to be antagonistic but don’t come to me telling me what i am and am not doing #rae rambles ⟡

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notsodelirious · 12 days ago

Text

synopsis: You come to your boyfriend with new dog ears and a tail and he likes them more than expected

notes: explicit, mdni (gonna start using the ao3 rating system because that’s much easier on my brain lol) + mentions of female terms for trans genitalia

tags: anal, toys, masturbation, puppy play, muzzles, ftm reader, puppyboy reader, wc: 1.5k

never beating the puppyboy allegations after this one @arkham-prince

also partially inspired by the Jaynal post from a while back

The first time you’d dressed up in furry ears and a tail, it had just been for fun—the subculture was really just a hop and skip away from your usual style and it was cute and freeing.

You never expected it to mean you’d find yourself on all fours on your bedroom floor, collared and muzzled, and whining pathetically as Jason’s gentle fingers stretched your ass open, all while he neglected your dripping pussy.

You’d shown Jason your new purchases, thinking maybe he’d call you adorable and kiss your cheek or maybe be a bit of a dick ask if you wanted kibble for tonight. You didn’t expect his eyes to widen and his breath to catch in his chest, the glass of water he was holding nearly slipping from his grasp.

You smiled teasingly, and before you could even ask, you were being crowded against a wall and being kissed silly, softer whispers and compliments slipping from Jason’s mouth as he made out with you, grinding his hardening dick against your hip.

Cut to being on your bedroom floor, naked save for the dog ears and clip-on tail, a pillow under your knees as you rested your head on your arms; you whimpered as Jason pressed deeper into your loosening asshole, his soft laughter and words of encouragement making you dizzy with giddiness.

“You’re such a good boy,” he mumbled as he pet your hip with his free hand, grabbing occasionally at your waist and thighs, “Being so loud for me. Having fun?”

You moaned openly as he slowly introduced a third finger past your rim—the muzzle wasn’t very good at muffling your sounds, just at making your words softer and mumbled.

“You’re so eager,” Jason continued, tone almost a little teasing as he made you keen and your eyes cross when he buried his fingers deep into you and curled them. Your pussy drooled and your small dick throbbed under the lack of attention—you didn’t care that you looked beyond desperate humping the empty air.

You were beyond desperate.

“Something you want?” You nodded eagerly, rutting back against his fingers when he slowed to talk to you, making your tail sway softly off the side of your hip. “Such a greedy pup, aren’t you?”

You wanted to speak up, protest, you weren’t greedy, he was being a tease! But you swallowed your words for a shamed whine instead.

He pulled his fingers out of you, much to your displeasure, leaving a mess of lube and sweat behind on your ass and thighs—he hooked his finger past your rim and tugged gently, pulling you open further a little, just to watch you writhe.

“I’ll get you something more, hang on.” You felt cold as soon as he stood and wiped his hand clean on a handkerchief before leaving to rifle through your closet. You tried to stay obedient and still, even as you began to tremble slightly.

And maybe you had been a tad overdramatic because Jason returned not minutes later, with a wide grin and a toy in hand. You preemptively whimpered when he presented it to you—it was one of your six-inch toys, red with an appropriate girth but more notably had a fat knot at the base.

“Come on, baby,” he said as he knelt to suction it to the floor before standing up, “Don’t you want to be a good boy?”

You whined again but nodded as you sat up, before crawling over to sit at his feet. He didn’t help you at all as he watched you raise yourself over the toy, only giving a sweet scratch between the puppy ears before letting you sink down onto the toy, delighting in the sight of your fucked-out face and the toy stretched your ass open further.

“You’re being so good,” he hooked his fingers into the cage of your muzzle, forcing you to look up at him as you panted behind the bars, “You like being a dumb puppy, don’t you?”

Your chest rose and fell heavily as you nodded, all while you began to grind down on the toy and knot, slowly working yourself open further, all while teary eyes stayed fixated on Jason. A mess of bodily fluids was smeared on the floor beneath you—you could already see the bruises that would appear on your knees the next day but you fucked on slowly speeding up instead of worrying, your soft whimpers turning into loud moans. All while Jason stood over you and just watched.

“Come on, baby,” he said, forcibly but gently shaking your head a little, “If you take that knot, you can touch yourself, okay? You can do that, can’t you?”

Your mind had gone too fuzzy to understand immediately, distracted by the waning and waxing pleasure radiating throughout your body, leaving you to blink up at him blankly before you finally nodded. You redoubled your efforts to sink down onto the fat swell of the toy, feeling your body stretch to accommodate the intrusion, parting your legs further to bring yourself down.

You rested your forehead against Jason’s hips as you eased it in—only to yelp when your knees slipped and your ass smacked the hardwood floor.

Your muzzle was almost immediately released as Jason knelt to cup your face

“Are you okay?”

You acquiesced easily as you leaned into his touch—it had stung on impact but your cry had been one of surprise more than actual serious pain and the knot was now tightly nestled inside your ass, stretching you open deliciously.

Satisfied with your answer, he stood, petting you between furry ears, letting you rest against his thigh again.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he said softly, “You’ve earned it—you’ve done so well.”

You don’t care how desperate you must have looked, with the way your hands flew to your dick and pussy, how quickly you’d stuffed yourself full and began stroking yourself. It was all so much, the mounting pressure in your belly as you rocked back onto your fingers and dildo, fast clit throbbing against your fingers.

Lost in your own haze, you barely even registered Jason’s fingers undoing the leather straps of your muzzle until your jaw was falling open for you to whimper pathetically, working yourself up on all on your own, pushing yourself closer to the edge.

You begged softly, voice breaking on every other word, the sound of your collar’s hoop ringing loud and clear in the emptiness of the room. It was just you and your desperation.

”Please, I wanna cum—I’ve, I’ve been good. I’ve been good, please- I’m… hmm-”

Jason didn’t reply as you pleaded, begged him to let you cum, as you grew closer and closer to the edge—until you finally came with a choked-off sob.

Tremors wracked through your entire body as you soaked yourself and the floor beneath you, embarrassed and fucked out whines leaving your throat; all while continuously touching yourself, riding out your pleasure despite the mounting shame.

You didn’t realise Jason had pulled down his zipper until he was pulling his cock from his jeans and stroking himself over your face, mumbling soft praises above you, “So fucking handsome, you know that? So fucking hot when you touch yourself like that.”

You didn’t answer, instead pawed at his cock with a wet hand, working his dick until he came all over your face, thick cum painting your face in white streaks. He smeared it across your face with a gentle hand, brushed his thumb against your lower lip, and huffing as he watched you part your lips to taste him.

“You did good, baby,” Jason said eventually as he tucked himself back into his trousers and knelt to your level again. He waited for you to wrap your arms around his neck before he grabbed hold of your waist to gently ease you off the toy still stuffed in your ass—he hushed you softly as you moaned uncomfortably, peppering your neck and shoulder with soft kisses. “Easy, you’re alright.”

“I… I did well?” your voice was hoarse as you attempted to speak louder than a whisper.

Jason just laughed softly, and kissed the top of your head, “The best.”

You couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy inside despite the slight embarrassment that lingered in your limbs. You let yourself go limp in Jason's arms, let him pull off all your accessories and place them away from the wet, passionate mess, before he carried you off to the bathroom.

He was gentle as he sat you down in the bath and washed you off, apologising when he had to wipe down sensitive areas that made you squirm, holding your hand gently when he was done washing you but you weren’t ready to move.

Eventually, he got you dried and tucked into bed, and with soft promises that he’d be back soon, he kissed you on the forehead before slipping away to clean up the rest of your mess. You watched him wash the toy in the en-suite bathroom and mop up your cum and excitement off the floor by the foot of your bed, heart rate rising from your own bashfulness and his quiet care.

Even if, in that moment, he wasn’t caring for you specifically, there was still something so intimate about watching him clean up after he’d made you lose your mind.

Eventually, you watched him disappear into the bathroom and heard the shower turn on—not 15 minutes later, Jason reemerged, naked and clean.

He dumped all the laundry in a pile in the corner of the room to be dealt with later and crawled into bed next to you. He lifted his arm for you to snuffle under before kissing your forehead.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” you mumbled, opening your lips when he tapped them with his index and popped a cherry into your mouth when had those gotten there? “Still a little embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” he said, waiting for you to chew and swallow before offering you another one and eating one himself, “You were cute and really fucking hot.”

“So you like the dog ears and the tail?”

“Fucking love them.”

So, no, we are not questioning where the muzzle came from—Jason was just well prepared *wink wink, nudge nudge*

this was written as a bit of crack-y thing, so not a ton of effort was put into it but i still hope you enjoyed and I promise to start posting requests again soon <3

smaller unimportant note: the closest subculture to what the reader is doing here is Kemonomimi and I want to highlight that for a lot of people this isn’t sexual—but the reader and Jason are adults and they’re allowed to do whatever they want <3

more from me here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°) — for requests please check this post ✧˖° thank you

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notsodelirious · 16 days ago

Note

Can you so a fluff version of jason Todd helping overstimulated trans masc autistic reader? That one was spicier than I thought it was going to be. But I still liked it. 😊

I changed my plans for this fic halfway through writing it so it’s not as fluffy as planned but I hope you still enjoy <3 (also I forgot to mention anything about the reader being transmasc because it just,, didn’t come up when writing it, forgive me)

synopsis: You’re attending one of Red Hood’s meeting, but arguments get a little heated and you’re not having the best time

notes: sfw, with a mild warning for language, canon-typical violence and comparing overstimulation to bugs

tags: established relationship, lowkey secret relationship, hurt/comfort, Crime Boss Jason, the reader is a financial manager?, autistic reader, gender neutral reader, wc: 3.2k

kind of a sister fic to this one with the same concept but nsfw <3

It was a routine monthly meeting.

Nothing new and nothing strange—the first Thursday of every month, like clockwork, you ended up in the dark and dingy room, with your papers and an energy drink and a very chewed pen that you nibbled on instead of dinner.

The old halogen lamp that hung above the table barely illuminated the meeting room, the pale white light casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls like a nuclear bomb had dropped. It flickered occasionally and you just shielded your eyes from it, as you waited for the meeting to start so you could leave.

Red Hood just sat at the head of the table, rocking precariously on the two back legs of his chair with his muddy boots on the table—not that anybody was going to tell him off for it. Even the other gang leaders had their heads down and their tails tucked beneath their legs, nervously twiddling their thumbs as Hood swiped his butterfly knife through the air.

One seat remained empty, but you didn’t know who it belonged to.

All you knew is that there was no clock and nobody was wearing a watch—you couldn’t tell the time but you were pretty sure it was past midnight, the original start time. People were getting antsy and shuffling about—you stayed completely stone still, half slumped over the table and shielding your eyes still.

It was so fucking white.

You were too tired to startle when the door slammed open and a frazzled gang leader stumbled in, before falling flat on his face, a knife protruding from his neck.

“It’s so rude to be late.” Red Hood’s sigh was distorted by his helmet as he slammed the chair back down onto the concrete floor and stood. “Truly a shame—traffic must have been terrible.”

You’d recognised him, at least before he smashed his nose on the way down and died—he operated towards the outskirts of Hood’s territory, he thought of himself as not quite in it but Red Hood obviously didn’t see it that way.

He had abused Hood’s three-strike rule far too much—the last strike being when word had gotten back to the head that some of the man’s pimps had been charging the girls more than 75% of their income.

Which was a far cry from Hood’s allowed 40%.

Anyway, it didn’t matter now because those pimps wouldn’t be seeing much of anything anymore until everything was put back under proper control.

Red Hood walked over to the body and kicked it over to pull his knife from the guy’s neck, wiping it off the dead man’s purple pinstripe suit before folding it up safely.

“Okay, people!” he started happily as he marched back to his seat at the head of the table. “Talk to me, who wants to start us off?”

He didn’t sit, in fact he kept walking around the table like a tiger gauging its prey. The knife was now nowhere to be seen but it didn’t make him any less intimidating.

“Nobody? Guess I’ll have to choose.”

He leaned over one of the women and even from where you were sat, you could see the sweat gather on the nap of her neck, her updo doing nothing but highlight the moist anxiety that pearled off her skin.

“How about you, Arabelle,” he said, his tone surprisingly easy-going even under the helmet’s distortion, “Want to tell us about how business is booming?”

Arabelle cleared her throat and tugged at her cufflink before straightening herself.

“Overall profits have gone up only 0.2% from the last two months, so growth has been pretty stagnant…”

As Arabelle continued through her explanation, Red Hood left his position behind her and paced around the table until he was back in his original seat, feet up on the table again.

Her report was overall very involved and detailed—but of course, you already knew all this because you had been tracking everybody’s finances.

Well, not you alone, but that was what you did—you received and collected everybody’s financial information, stats, profits and losses and stacked them all in records, comprehensible tables and charts. You kept a close eye on everybody’s expenses and made sure nothing slipped by you, even going as far as to prod in places and ledgers you probably weren’t supposed to.

But you were thorough in your job and you weren’t about to let the Boss down.

This of course meant that Hood was already aware of everybody’s financial reports—so this was less of an informative meeting for him and more of a performance.

He needed to physically intimidate the gang leaders every so often so they didn’t forget their place—maybe it was some sort of low-key humiliation ritual? Who knew—you didn’t care.

You were here for the numbers and to be a fly on the wall, not to actually participate.

The Boss already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

Arabelle finished her turn and somebody went right after her—Lincoln S. according to the roster and your corresponding spreadsheet so maybe you weren’t the most diligent when it came to last names, but everybody was accounted for and that’s what mattered.

His report was also pretty decent, although less detailed than Arabelle’s from what you heard over the incessant fuzz of that fucking incandescent light bulb. You could barely hear anything over the buzzing and the light and the fly that was somewhere in this damn near silent room—it all drove you insane. Not to mention it drowned out the actual words of Lincoln Whatsit, whose voice had this annoying quality of thick spit to it.

Like he hadn’t had a glass of water in ages and his saliva had congealed to the roof of his mouth, making every word feel physically sluggish and slurred.

If it weren’t for the boss’s keen attention on the speaker, and the sheer lack of anything else, you would have repeatedly slammed your head into the table just to get that awful static out of your ears.

It was grating, like somebody was swirling cotton lint against your eardrums, incessantly, over and over and over again. Like splinters under your nails or a bug in your hair or the damn tag that kept brushing against your fucking neck and the asshole who kept chewing and smacking his gun as the meeting went on and the fucking lightbulb was still buzzing-

You rubbed your eyes as you noticed Lincoln had finally stopped talking and another woman took it as her cue to start talking. Her voice was far less annoying to listen to—it was far easier for your eyes to follow her breakdown but still you didn’t want to be there.

You glanced occasionally towards Hood—his eyes were on the woman but you could have sworn you saw his head tilt a little when your eyes drifted up towards him. You tried to refocus, flipped through papers and chewed on your pen but the damage was done. You had reached your limit before the meeting had even started and now you were just a ticking time bomb for massive tears and a breakdown.

You wanted out so desperately.

Thankfully, your excuse came in the form of a lanky middle-aged white man with a wiry moustache and nervous hands.

You glared at him tiredly as he began his turn speaking, stuttering through the initial first few numbers, his top lip quivering as he looked up at you and down at his reports. You glanced down at your own papers.

Winston A.

Shit name but that wasn’t what interested you.

His numbers weren’t right.

You began following them.

And they weren’t lining up.

Not terribly wrong, just a couple of numbers rounded up or down here and there, a miscalculated decimal—and what you could imagine was thousands of dollars missing from the actual monthly profits.

All eyes turned to you as you sat up straighter and pulled the pen from your mouth. Winston almost faltered, his voice growing faint for a moment before he began talking louder, almost as if that would affirm his point more.

“Mr. Hood, our profits have been down 2% these past months-”

“They’ve been up 3%,” you interjected. Hood’s attention snapped towards you. You continued, “You failed to mention the increase in production and sales-”

You knew why they had failed to be mentioned—in the margins you had written where you had gotten all your numbers from: and none of his were from his own men—instead it was dock schedules and hidden ledgers and half crumpled inventory sheets. You’d hassled a lot of people to get the correct numbers, so it was no surprise that the false ones were being put forward.

“No, no they were mentioned here—maybe you should have paid better attention-”

“No, you said they were down 2% which means you must have left out the sale of the new heroin-”

“Our heroin sales haven’t seen an increase in six months-”

“Because you haven’t been including the new drug in your sale,” you pinched the bridge of your nose as you scrunched your eyes closed—everything was catching up to you a lot faster and even just stringing words together was becoming such a task, “You- You’re not-“

“You- You, maybe if you weren’t falsely accusing me, you wouldn’t-” even in his mockery, his voice was shrill and anxious.

You slammed your hands down onto the table—your chair clattered to the ground as you stood.

You didn’t flinch at the noise, you didn’t, but it was loud and painful and had your head swimming.

“I’m not,” was all you managed to grit out between clenched teeth—you looked down at Red Hood who had lowered his feet to the ground. “I’m not.”

“There’s no way you honestly believe this!” he cried out—you tried to take a deep breath to centre yourself but you could feel the tightness in your chest and heat flushing down your neck, “You’re going to believe a crying brat-”

“If all profits had been accounted for he couldn’t have possibly-”

“Throwing a pity party as soon as you lose an argument-”

“Shut up!” You stunned him into silence, long enough to slam your papers down in front of Hood and point towards the expenses, “If he were telling the truth, the losses would have been far higher not just a fluctuating loss from a smaller clientele—he’s been selling a new drug and then left it off his report so your cut would be smaller than his percent of his actual overall income-“

The concrete wall behind you shattered before you had even realised a gun had been fired.

Another shot fired and Hood was standing, the body of the once gang leader slumped over the table, a pool of blood spreading across the rotting wood. The gun slipped from his lax hand and clattered to the ground.

Hood said something but you didn’t hear it.

You couldn’t hear much of anything but the beating heart in your chest and the godforsaken ringing.

The lights were far too fucking bright again, and even just the movement of your shadow had your brain reeling, forgetting to process anything at all, turning the entire world into a confused smudge.

You flinched when somebody grabbed your shoulders—the Boss forced you to face him, even if your eyes didn’t reach his mask.

“Get out.”

You didn’t need to be told twice—you marched out of the room, leaving your papers, pen, and whatever other belongings you had brought with you and had bolted, never looking back even as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind you.

Not many people were about this late at night in Gotham—definitely not a couple of blocks away from the docks. But it wasn’t still-

You made the walk back to the safe house as short as possible—you didn’t want to linger out in the cold for longer than needed and you didn’t want to turn into a sobbing mess before you could reach safety.

It took everything in you not to snap the key and break down the door when your trembling hands wouldn’t let you unlock the door but once you were inside, all pretences fell.

You just about managed to lock the door as the waterworks began—you dropped your keys somewhere close to their designated spot, but really you were more preoccupied with kicking off your shoes and pulling the clothes on your back and getting rid of that persistent and constant stimulus of being touched and restrained.

You left a trail of clothes behind you as you began to sob harder, all the pent-up frustration and discomfort you had been sitting with for the past however long that godforsaken meeting had been finally bubbling over the edge and you’d just barely managed to slip into the closet before you truly splintered.

You’d never been a pretty crier—but even less so when you broke down in the dark of your closet, the sound of your own frustrated cries muffled by the clothes around you. You dug your nails into your forearms, when the stinging pain became the only thing that could actually rid you of the termites under your skin.

Distress was all you felt when you had finally reached safety.

You don’t know how long you cried for—it was incredibly hard to keep track of the time in a dark closet and no phone or watch.

You’d tired yourself out, left with nothing more than an aching sense of emptiness and a throbbing headache—your body had cramped up in the curled position you made yourself into, now fossilised without the energy to unfurl and crawl out of your hiding spot. You were uncomfortable but it was warm and quiet.

You heard the door unlock and the jiggle of keys before listening to it click shut—where you would have normally rushed to greet him at the door, you let your head shift before dropping it against the closet wall again.

You were so fucking exhausted.

You listened to the dim sounds of Jason moving around the apartment—surprisingly unbothered by his presence in your immediate vicinity.

It went on for a while—until the shuffling came to a stop, in front of your closet.

“You don’t have to come out now,” he said softly, “But I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You pushed the door open cautiously, ready to blink away the harshness of the main light only to find the bedroom completely dark, with just about enough moonlight to illuminate the far side of the room.

Jason was sat a couple of feet away, legs crossed and changed out of his Red Hood attire, swapped instead for a clean pair of boxers and a cotton shirt.

He wordlessly opened his arms and you scrambled into them.

You tucked your head against his chest as you sighed through your nose, easily wrapping yourself around his torso with absolutely no intentions of letting go.

It wasn’t as if he pried you off either—his hand was gentle on your back as he pet you slowly, letting the repetitive motion lull you. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your cheek and warm—so warm.

His entire embrace was comforting, more so than the dark you had been sitting in for god knows how long.

“Close your eyes,” he said softly and you pressed yourself closer to him to feel his voice echo in his chest, “I’m gonna stand up.”

You closed your eyes and buried your face against his neck, just before you felt Jason shift beneath you and lift you like you weighed nothing at all.

He brought you all the way over to the kitchen before setting you down on the counter despite your soft protests—he just kissed your forehead before disentangling himself, long enough for him to retrieve a glass of water for you.

You sipped on it slowly—dehydration was probably the main reason for the headache, you weren’t an idiot, and you were maybe a little grateful, but still sour that you had to leave Jason’s embrace for it.

“All your math was right,” he said quietly, cupping your face when you finally set the glass down—on a coaster so you wouldn’t have to hear it clink against the counter, “For the rest of them too—somebody else had been skimming off the top.”

You just nodded as you leaned your head against Jason’s shoulder—of course your maths was right: you’d even offered him the cut everybody owed him in a cute little note written in purple pen because you’d lost every single one of your other pens by that point and was running on fumes but same differences. Anybody who tried to offer a different answer wasn’t all that bright.

It had never worked out so you didn’t know why they tried.

“Were you hurt at all?”

You shook your head—he most likely knew this, you couldn’t see him simply dismissing you if he had known you were bleeding. But Jason was still an incredibly anxious person—which probably helped a lot more in the field than it did in your moonlit kitchen.

He rested a hand against the nape of your neck, simply holding you there as his thumb pressed against the base of your skull gently, enough to make you instinctively fall limp against him.

“What happened in there?”

You swallowed and even as the embarrassment welled in your chest, you were all out of tears to shed.

“Was too much,” you mumbled, “The light was so fucking bright and loud and then he started yelling at me and the guns were too much, I just-“

“Shh, okay, it’s okay,” he pressed his lips to your temple as his thumb brushed against the nape of your neck in small circles, “I’m sorry—we’ll change the meeting location next time. You can choose it with me.”

You don’t have to do that, you wanted to say but it actually sounded kinda nice. Not having to put up with the uncomfortable setting for longer than necessary.

“Ready to call it a night?”

You nodded as you hopped off the counter and went to refill your glass of water before shuffling after Jason back to the bedroom.

You set your glass down on the nightstand and waited for Jason to get settled under the cover before settling down on him, letting him tuck you into the warm bedsheets, shielding you from the gentle breeze that blew from the open window.

He made sure you were comfortable and settled before leaning back, wrapping his arms around your waist—you could feel him watching you as you took hold of one of his hands, brushed your thumb over callouses and scars, and fit your palm against his.

You’d always thought you’d known what peace was—sitting on a beach at sunset or reading a book on a rainy day. And you still cherished those small, picturesque moments.

But never had you thought that peace would be with him. Curled up on his chest, listening to his heart beat under your ear as you mindlessly traced to lines on his palm with the tip of your finger—never thought that peace was a quiet night curled up on your boyfriend’s chest as you listened to his breathing slowly even and slow as he slipped into a restful slumber.

You’d always known that it would be quiet and simple. But you never imagined it would be next to somebody else—next to Jason.

This got away from me a little lmao, but I still enjoyed writing it

more from me here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°) — for requests please check this post ✧˖° thank you

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