#kitchen aid hood

[themesbyjade]

Transitional Kitchen in San Francisco

With an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, medium-tone wood cabinets, granite countertops, a beige backsplash, a stone tile backsplash, and stainless steel appliances, this large transitional u-shaped porcelain tile enclosed kitchen image is ideal.

[allthegothihopgirls]

old ladies love red hood NOT because he helps them cross roads and seems like a charming young man. they love him because at the end of the night, when he's crouched over catching his breath, head in hands in what he thinks is an empty street, or hobbling down roads trying to get home quickly despite sustaining large injuries, he reminds them of their grandsons.

he gets invited into their homes, and knows better than to decline. he'll sit down and wait to be berated by the old lady at the other side of the kitchen who's putting together a quick meal for him. he'll take off the helmet, and that's when she starts, not telling him to stop what he does, but to take better damn care of himself. he'll apologise and promise, as he's fixing himself up with her first aid kit.

as he leaves she'll still be making firm, although loving remarks at him, but he smiles underneath the helmet because he's being treated like a man, not a hero, a villain, or any of the other inhuman titles he's picked up over the years.

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge. 

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go. 

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs. 

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.” 

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens. 

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before. 

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long. 

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?” 

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this. 

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion. 

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up. 

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works. 

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt. 

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.” 

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits. 

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily. 

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey. 

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least. 

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.” 

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?” 

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.” 

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing. 

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you. 

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago. 

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you. 

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it. 

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him. 

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?” 

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this. 

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking. 

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter. 

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room. 

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air. 

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it. 

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence. 

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

You stare at him incredulously. 

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer. 

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment. 

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him. 

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind. 

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck. 

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you,  “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it. 

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official. 

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

[sorryclarence]

Great Room Kitchen An illustration of a large country galley kitchen with a medium-tone wood floor and an island, recessed-panel cabinets, medium-tone wood cabinets, limestone countertops, a gray backsplash, and a stone slab backsplash.

[sanguineterrain]

window pains | jason todd

Summary: He's got a habit of coming in through the window. You want him to start staying... and using the door. 

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings/tags: injured Jason Todd (he's okay dw), angst, pining, mentions of Jason's death.

A/N: sooo.... i guess i'm a dc girlie now. just a reminder that every character i write will always be 18+!!! this is probably canon divergent but we make our own canon.

If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡

the divider

"Can't you enter my apartment like a normal person?"

"You know who you're talking to, right?"

"You're getting blood on my carpet, Todd."

It doesn't really matter. He'll come back and scrub it out as soon as his ribs are whole. And fuck if he's not good at getting blood out of surfaces. Jason Todd ought to start a housekeeping column. 

You catch his limp as he climbs over the windowsill. It almost topples him, but he gets to the couch before it does. He doesn't make a sound. 

That had freaked you out the first few times he'd stumbled through your window. Once, he came with part of a windshield wiper impaled in his shoulder. He'd lain on your couch so still and so quiet, you'd thought Red Hood had croaked in your apartment. Which would not have been a good look for you. Or maybe it would. Depends on who you ask. 

Sometimes you want to tell him to make sounds. To hiss and grunt and complain. To grab your wrist so you'll slow down as you pull thread through flesh. 

But it's not your place to request such a thing. You don't know where you reside in Jason Todd's life, but it's not somewhere where you can request to hear him hurt. 

Outwardly, his injuries aren't bad-looking. He takes off his helmet and tosses it somewhere under the coffee table. You offer a hand to help him lie down on the couch—he doesn't take it. 

"Jesus Christ, Jay." You suck in a sharp breath and peel back his bloody suit. "What'd you do?"

"Took a midnight stroll in the Botanical Gardens. Why, what'd you do?"

You frown, eyebrows pinching in the center of your forehead. Jason's stomach is mottled with purple and red bruises. There's a sticky gash right above his hip. A knife. Or a sword, maybe. Apparently, swords are commonplace in Gotham. 

"How'd they get you?" you ask. 

It's a rule-break. Jason's number one policy: don't ask questions.

You always do. Even when it was new, this… thing between you two, you'd ask. Who were they? Why did they hurt you? Did you hurt them back?

The last one, you always know the answer to. 

"There were, like, ten of them," he says. "Cut me some slack, will ya?" 

He has a cut across his lips. A ringed finger that caught on his skin, you guess. You wonder if he'd wince if you kissed him. If he'd wince at the pain or the kiss itself. If you'd know the difference. 

Rage suddenly cuts through you. It makes your hands careless, cruel; you pull the bandage around his waist too tight. Jason coils up slightly. 

"Jesus—ever heard of bedside manner?" he asks, looking at you through his lashes. 

"Ever heard of not breaking into someone's apartment and making them patch you up?"

"I don't make you," Jason says easily. "You wouldn't do it if you didn't want to."

That only increases your rage. Because he's right. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be. You'd have kicked him out four first aid kits ago if you minded. 

You yank down his shirt and pack up the kit. Jason shifts on the couch. A sliver of skin above his waistband is still exposed. You have to turn your head to force your gaze away. 

"No bandaids?" he asks. "All my cuts'll be exposed to the elements."

"You can put them on yourself." 

His cheek could use one. And his eyebrow. You're not in the mood. 

Jason doesn't say anything in response to that. You get up to put the kit back under the sink. 

"Can I crash here?" 

"Do what you want," you say, suddenly exhausted. Like it's you who just went six rounds with Gotham's scumbags.

You peek over the kitchen counter when you hear rustling and the couch springs squeak. Jason leans heavily on the arm of the couch, reaching for the window. You walk over and stand in front of him. 

"What're you doing?" you ask. 

"You want me to go," he says flatly. "So I'm going."

"I didn't say that, I said—"

"I can read between the lines." 

"If you could read between the lines as well as you think you can, we wouldn't be in this situation," you say. 

"What situation?"

You turn your head. "Nothing."

Jason steps towards the window. You block him again. 

"What is the matter with you?" you ask. "You're injured. Lie down."

"I'm not your responsibility," he says, glaring. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. And since you're allergic to using the door, you don't have a choice."

Jason's eyebrow rises. "Are you saying you'd physically prevent me from leaving?"

You lift your chin. "If that's what it takes."

"Hm. Can't tell if your confidence is stupid or brave."

"Lie the fuck down, Todd."

His lip curls. "I don't stay where I'm not welcome."

Sometimes you forget how young he is. Not that you're not also young, but, well… you don't feel your youth as acutely as other people your age might. It's something you two have in common. 

Here, in the gritty glow of Gotham, you are reminded that Jason Todd died once. Before he finished school. Before he fell in love. 

Your stomach churns every time you see that Y-shaped scar on his torso, strapped over him like a chain. 

"I didn't say that you're not welcome," you say. 

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to."

He sags against the couch and it occurs to you that he's as exhausted as you feel. 

"Can you just—" You touch his bicep. He winces even though there's no injury there. "Can you just lie down?" 

You stare at each other for another minute. Slowly, Jason lays down. His eyes are alert instead of heavy with sleep. Instantly, you feel guilty for making him think he has to be cautious around you. His hand curls protectively over his stomach. 

"Do you want a blanket?" you ask. 

He squints. "It's August."

"I know, I… I thought maybe the blood loss made you cold." 

"'M fine. Perks of being risen from the dead." 

You watch him get settled for a minute. He shifts his weight to his uninjured side and meets your gaze. His eyes are gray in the weak light. 

"You're tired of me," he says. 

Your head snaps up. "No, I'm not."  

"You are."

"I'm not tired of you, Jay."

You see it. The fear. He thinks this is the last time you'll let him in. He doesn't know you can't lock him out. You won't. 

You get up and go to get the kit from the sink again. Jason follows your movement the whole time. His face scrunches in confusion when you sit in front of the couch and unzip the kit. 

You pull out the tiny red bandaids. You'd bought them as a joke, initially. It had made Jason laugh and that had been reason enough to keep buying them. And then he let you actually put them on.

You peel the adhesive off of one and gently stick it on his cheek. He blinks at you, thick, dark lashes kissing the corners of his eyes. 

"I'm not tired of you," you say softly. 

"I'd be tired of me." 

"You keep this city safe. How could I be tired of Gotham's defender?"

Jason scowls and turns his head into the cushion before you can put the second bandaid.  

"I'm not its defender. The others protect this city a hundred times better. Nightwing does it with a smile on his face."

"I like that you go out there even when it's hard, Jay," you say. 

He doesn't respond. You lean in, so close that you can count the freckles on his neck. 

"Can I finish putting the bandaids on?" you ask. 

"I don't need 'em."

"You do. You need another on your forehead."

"It'll heal fine without it."

Your shoulders bunch like a cat on defense. You grab his cheek (gently, always gently) and his head whips to yours in surprise. 

"Jason Todd, I am not tired of you. I'm tired of the fact that you only come by when you need fixing."

He scowls. "I never asked you to fix me. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

"I don't want you to leave, I want you to stay!" you burst. 

Jason scoffs. "No, you don’t. I'll overstay my welcome real fast."

"Maybe I care about you on purpose!" you say, voice rising. "Maybe I didn't stumble through a window; maybe I walked through the door and bought the bandaids and learned how to stitch wounds because I wanted to."

He suddenly looks overcome by grief. The agony in his face startles you. 

"I don't know how to use the door anymore," he says quietly. "All I do is stumble through windows."

Your hand slips off of his cheek. Jason closes his eyes; they fly open when you stick the second bandaid above his eyebrow. 

"You can come in any way you want to," you say, face an inch away from his. "As long as you come back to me."

His gaze darts to your mouth. You don't kiss him hard. He breaks anyway.

You avoid the right side of his mouth entirely, not wanting to pull at his cut. Jason shudders into your mouth. You cup his pulse through his neck and it quickens.

His eyes are wet when you pull away. His chest heaves like he's been swinging through the city. 

"I wanna try to use the door," he says. 

You touch the bandaid on his cheek, humming. 

"Then I'll leave it unlocked." 

[natalievoncatte]

There was blood on the door. Lena swept back her jacket in a smooth motion and unholstered her Glock carry piece, holding it low ready as she stepped into the penthouse. The door slid shut behind her and locked itself smoothly. There was no sign of forced entry, meaning whoever came in walked right through her defenses.

She’d armored and fortified this place to the point that the entire building could collapse and she’d probably survive. Some of the materials that went into Lena’s security were not from Earth. Some of them were not from this dimension.

In times past, in good times, she’d have called Alex Danvers, to get the DEO up here for help or hopefully summon Supergirl to her aid. Now those options were off the table.

From its place of dishonor by her sofa, the broken glass in the frame gleamed at her, the time-frozen gazes from her and Kara in the photo staring into her soul.

More blood on the frame, smeared on the edge.

Lena rested her back to the wall and scanned the apartment. There was a clear trail of blood from the door through the living room. Whoever had been here, or was still here, had pressed a bloodied palm to the reader outside the door, leaned on the kitchen island, and picked up the photo, then returned it to its place and left a trail of blood drops to the other side of the penthouse.

To the bedroom.

Steeling herself, Lena press-checked her pistol and ignored the cold ball in the pit of her stomach, along with the screaming instincts telling her to call for her bodyguards and security and the police. She followed the trail of drops, that cold ball climbing its way to her throat. The bleeding got worse as the intruder approached the bedroom, where they’d pushed the door open, leaving a streak of rust on the white.

Lena knew in her heart what she was going to see before she swung the door open.

The gun fell from her hands and clattered on the floor.

Her sheets were streaked with dried blood, but Kara’s cape was as livid a crimson as ever. Fighting the rising gorge in her throat, Lena rushed to the bed, and let out a soft, strained sigh of relief when she saw Kara’s chest moving.

“Mother of God,” Lena breathed, her hands making a vestigial effort to cross herself, the gesture half remember from her earliest youth.

Kara was… a wreck. Her eye was swollen shut and claw marks raked her cheek, the wounds still open and oozing. She’d balled up the sheets and jammed them against a wound in her side, a deep gash that stained the torn material of her suit a dark bruised black.

The Kryptonian in her bed was unconscious, eyes lidded but not fully closed, and deathly pale. Lena reached out a tentative hand and pressed it to Kara’s shoulder and let out a shocked gasp.

She was cold to the touch.

Worst of all was her hands. Her knuckles were busted and split and bloody, palms covered in defensive gashes, crusted with crystals of dark blood.

Lena felt like she was going to burst, like her skin was suddenly three sizes too small. Images flashed in her mind- a defeated, broken Kara, begging her not to turn her back as she lay green-veined and poisoned in a cage at the Fortress of Solitude. Sanctimonius bitch Kara hovering just five feet off her balcony wall, glaring judgment and proclaiming her a villain.

Soft Kara, tending her hurts, holding her cheek in the palm of her hand, her touch always so soft and gentle and tentative, like Lena was some skittish bird.

That wasn’t all. Oh God, that wasn’t all. Kara clutched something to her chest, something she’d grabbed before collapsing in the bed and curled into herself.

Lena’s hooded sweatshirt, the one she used to wear to game nights and movie nights when she wasn’t feeling up to primping and preening, the one she stared wearing when being vulnerable around Kara started feeling like home.

Oh God oh Jesus what am I going to do?

She reached for her phone, then stopped. Kara had fled here from whatever did this to her for a reason. Lena set the phone aside, and assessed.

Kara was out cold. She didn’t seem to be actively bleeding but Lena didn’t dare move her. Instead, she settled for rolling Kara on her back, with great difficulty. She flopped over, boneless.

Lena found her first aid kid and began tending to the wounds.

Fuck, Lena thought. What if she had internal injuries? What if she wasn’t going to wake up?

She focused on what was in front of her. She began by cleaning the wounds, carefully and gingerly applying bandages where she could.

Her hands, oh God her poor hands. Lena wrapped the knuckles gently and pressed ice against them, leaving them testing on Kara’s chest. She dabbed at the wounds on her cheek and carefully taped gauze pads in place after applying antibiotic ointment.

Kara lay on the bed like some badly beaten Sleeping Beauty and she was cold. Her skin felt almost icy, the I only sign that she still lived being the steady but shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Lena grimace. She had to get her out of the suit. First she reclaimed her now ruined and blood-stained sweatshirt and then the ruined top sheet.

Kara’s boots came off, then Lena unclamped her cape and tossed it back from her shoulders.

It took almost half an hour to wriggle her out of the suit, and that was after she had to hunt for the hidden catches and zipper.

Kara lay on Lena’s bed like some wounded goddess out of a forgotten myth, or maybe one never learned.

God she was beautiful, and the sight of her in such distress was more painful than she’d ever admit. Lena felt sympathetic pains in her jaw, her sides, her hands as she imagined the blows that could have wounded her so, wondered what sharpness of blade or claw it took to mark her like this.

Lena spread the curtains, so as to give her as much light as she could. Nurturing light, healing light, but still Lena did not wake.

Finally she learned what did this. Some alien outside Metropolis. They’d stopped it, the creature, but it had taken Kara and her cousin and the other so-called heroes that the news were calling the League.

Lena’s lip was trembling.

She has her grievances. She had her hurts. She had her reasons, her self-righteous justifications and none of them fucking mattered right now because a beaten, broken Kara must have flown from one side of the country to the other to clutch Lena’s fucking hoodie.

“God,” she whispered, sitting in her side chair by the bed. “God what have I done.”

Kara had held them off, she knew. Kept her from being arrested, protected her even after she’d done something awful. New visions flooded her mind, every barb she’d slung and every insult she’d hurled, every word of her explosive raging rant at the Fortress.

She’d killed her brother for this woman. Killed not the man who’d hurt her but the boy, too, the one who treated her like a human being and a sibling, at least for a time. The only family she had.

(The only family you have is lying on that bed and you have to help her)

She was helpless. Kara would either pull through or she wouldn’t. If she didn’t, sooner or later Alex would walk in here and put a bullet through her head and Lena didn’t think she’d mind all that much.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me?” Lena asked. “We could have been great together, you know? We could have been what my brother and your cousin should have been. We could have built a better world.”

Kara said nothing, just breathed.

“I could have told you my secret, then,” said Lena. “I could have held you and touched you and had you. I could have loved you, God damn it. Do you have any idea what you fucking did to me? You gave me the sunrise back and you were too much of a Goddamn coward to let me have it.”

Kara’s hand moved, fingers curling around nothing. She let out a soft sigh but didn’t move.

Lena fought it as hard as she could, fought it for hours. Eventually she had to do it. Gravity, quantum entanglement, call it what you will. She laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling beside her battered sleeping beauty.

“I’m sorry,” said Lena. “I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry for what I did, I’m sorry for what we lost. It wasn’t worth it, Kara. Nothing was ever going to be worth it.”

She was still pale, cold, even when she rolled onto her side and threw her limp arm over Lena’s body.

Whatever made her move had not shaken her loose from her slumber. Kara curled on her side, chill hand resting on Lena’s flank. Another soft sound escaped her slack lips and she twitched.

The sun was going down.

Lena had to call for help. She knew what would happen. Alex would storm in with her self-righteous fury and judgment and fling accusations and then leave, taking her sister with her.

Worse, she would give Lena that look. The one that filled her with such rage and regret, that look not of judgement or even anger but sorrow, because Alex knew. She didn’t have to say it, it had been dripping from every word and deed directed towards Lena since the falling out began.

Alex knew that Lena was in love with Kara. That was the truth of it, the secret she held so hard to her heart that it had slipped her fingers and everyone had seen it but the two of them.

She loved Kara with every piece of her, every cell, every muscle fiber, every neuron, every bone. It lived in her and coiled in her and it had subsumed her soul until it couldn’t be carved out without making her hollow. She’d tried. When she’d hurt Kara she had only wounded herself even deeper. It had been like swallowing a draught of acid and expecting it to burn another.

She didn’t know what to do. She was helpless. Kara might be dying and Lena had never told her.

“Kara,” she said, shaking her. “Kara God damn you wake up, wake the fuck up! WAKE UP!”

Kara didn’t respond.

With a shriek of rage and pain Lena sat up.

“Please!”

Nothing.

Lena finally did it. She snatched the phone from where she’d dropped it and called.

It all happened as she predicted, save one thing. When Alex stormed in with a sub machinegun in her hands, she stopped and raised a fist, ordering her team to stop outside the door.

Lena was kneeing by the bed by then, half mumbling a prayer and stroking Kara’s cold hand.

Alex did not address her. She began barking orders. Stasis pod, medivac.

Bring the Luthor.

Lena sat in the back of an armored van in a daze. She let herself be led around like a trained pet and somehow ended up sitting in a chair outside a medbay room, while a now cleaned up and properly bandaged Kara lay on a bed beneath sunlamps.

“She’s in a Kryptonian healing trance,” said Alex. “If a Kryptonian gets hurt badly enough their body shuts down and goes into a kind of hibernation. She must have used almost all of her reserves to get back to your apartment.”

Alex glared directly into her eyes.

“To see you one last time.”

Lena swore her defiance in silence, but it lasted no longer than it took her to think the oath before the tears started.

“I have to go. The DEO is working with Superman’s little Boy Scout club to keep the thing that did this to her contained.”

When Alex left, Lena stood up and walked into the room.

Kara did not look regal. She didn’t look angelic. She looked vulnerable and small, like a woman a year or two older than Lena with a black eye and stitches in her cheek.

Lena knew the sun lamps would burn her, but she relished it, looked forward to feeling her skin sting and redden. She deserved it.

“Kara,” Lena whispered. “Please wake up.”

Nothing.

��Wake up.”

Nothing.

“Darling, wake up for me, please. Just give me a smile, a wink, squeeze my hand. Anything. Please. Please.”

Kara stirred.

“You can’t go yet,” Lena murmured. “I need you to stay. I need you to wake up so I can say—”

Kara’s eyes were open.

“I love you,” Kara whispered. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

Lena half coughed, half sobbed and lunged across the bed, ignoring the lamps, the bright lights, everything but Kara. Everything but the kiss.

“Don’t you ever scare me like this again,” Lena choked out.

“Turn the lights off,” Kara whispered. “Get on the bed. I don’t need lamps. I need you.”

“Kara, the things I did,” Lena began.

With a weak, shaking hand, Kara pressed her finger to Lena’s lips.

“There’s nothing we can’t fix if we’re together. Nothing.”

Lena reached over, doused the lamps, and climbed in with her. Kara was finally warm again, though she grimaced when she moved, tucking herself into the crook of Lena’s shoulder.

“I will always come back to you,” said Kara.

Lena held her close and closed her eyes, and for the first time in months she slept without tears.

[urdreamydoodles]

Bat-Family x Fem!OC

You hurt yourself doing home renovations

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne (aged up), Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Selina Kyle & Kate Kane

Jason Todd aka. Red Hood

- You sit on the edge of the couch, dabbing at the scratch on your hand with a wet cloth. It’s a minor wound, nothing that warrants his concern, but Jason storms into the room the moment he hears you mutter a soft curse under your breath. His eyes dart to the crimson bead on your skin, and his jaw tightens. The roughness of his life has taught him to be wary of even the smallest injuries—too many scars bear the weight of things ignored. “What the hell happened?” he growls, crouching in front of you with a mix of panic and frustration. You tell him it’s nothing, just a mishap while sanding the baseboards, but Jason’s hands cradle yours as if you’ve just survived a war.

- His gaze softens as he takes the cloth from you and begins cleaning the wound himself. “You’ve got to be more careful,” he mutters, though there’s no real anger in his voice. Jason is a man of contradictions—fierce and tender, wild yet protective. The edge in his tone is not from annoyance but fear. You’ve seen him stare down criminals without blinking, yet the sight of your blood makes him falter. He cleans the wound with precision, a soldier’s efficiency honed by years of survival, but the way his fingers linger on your skin speaks of something far gentler.

- “Why didn’t you call me?” he asks after wrapping a bandage around your hand. You smile, brushing a stray lock of his dark hair from his forehead. “It’s just a scratch, Jason.” He scowls at your answer, but there’s no mistaking the way his shoulders relax now that you’re patched up. “Still,” he says, leaning back against the couch, “next time, just yell for me. I don’t care if it’s a papercut.” There’s something in his voice—an unspoken plea not to shut him out, not to leave him in the dark about even the smallest things. You nod, knowing it’s not worth the argument.

- Jason stays close to you for the rest of the evening, insisting you rest while he finishes the work you started. You watch as he moves around the room with surprising competence, muttering to himself about how you were using the wrong tools. It’s a rare sight, this domestic side of him, but it warms your heart to see him so invested in your safety and happiness. He pauses occasionally to glance your way, as if to reassure himself that you’re still there, still whole.

- Later, when the house is quiet and the renovations are forgotten, Jason pulls you into his arms. His embrace is fierce, almost desperate, as if he’s trying to shield you from the world. “You scared me,” he admits softly, his breath warm against your ear. You don’t apologize—you don’t need to—but you hold him just as tightly, grounding him in the moment. In his arms, you feel the weight of his love, raw and unyielding, and you know that he would do anything to keep you safe.

Dick Grayson aka. Nightwing

- When Dick first notices the faint cut on your hand, he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he watches you from across the room, his blue eyes narrowing with concern. You’re trying to act as if nothing’s wrong, but he knows you too well. In a flash, he’s by your side, taking your hand in his with a featherlight touch. “What happened, beautiful?” he asks, his voice soft yet probing. You tell him about your home renovation mishap, expecting a lecture, but Dick only smiles—a small, knowing smile that says he’s already forgiven you for worrying him.

- He leads you to the kitchen, rummaging through drawers until he finds the first aid kit. “You really have to stop being so stubborn,” he teases, his voice light but tinged with genuine concern. As he cleans and bandages the cut, he peppers you with questions—what you were doing, why you didn’t call him, whether you’ve been taking breaks. It’s not interrogation; it’s care disguised as conversation. Dick has always had a way of making you feel like the center of his world, even in the smallest moments.

- “You know,” he says, his tone turning playful as he finishes wrapping your hand, “this could’ve been avoided if you’d just let me help you in the first place.” You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your smile. Dick thrives on these moments of banter, using humor to ease the tension. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “Promise me you’ll be more careful next time, okay?” His voice drops to a whisper, and the sincerity in his eyes leaves no room for argument. You nod, your heart fluttering at the intensity of his gaze.

- Later, Dick insists on finishing the renovations himself. You protest, but he silences you with a quick kiss and a mischievous grin. “I’ve got this,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. Watching him work is a sight to behold—his movements are graceful, almost acrobatic, as he tackles the task with ease. He hums a tune under his breath, glancing over his shoulder every so often to make sure you’re still watching. It’s in these moments that you’re reminded of how effortlessly he blends charm and competence.

- By the end of the day, Dick pulls you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You scared me for a second there,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, even if it’s something small.” You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I’m fine,” you reassure him, but he only tightens his hold on you. In his embrace, you feel the depth of his love—a love that is warm, unwavering, and as bright as the man himself.

Tim Drake aka. Red Robin

- Tim notices the faint injury almost immediately, his sharp eyes catching the way you wince as you flex your fingers. “You’re hurt,” he says, his tone calm but edged with worry. He takes your hand gently, inspecting the cut with the precision of someone used to analyzing details others might overlook. “How did this happen?” he asks, already piecing the story together from the scattered tools and sawdust nearby. You try to brush it off as nothing, but Tim is relentless in his quiet concern. “It might not look bad now, but even small injuries can get infected if you’re not careful,” he says, his words tinged with the wisdom of someone who’s seen too many situations spiral out of control.

- He disappears briefly, returning with a medical kit he seems to keep on hand for emergencies. “Sit down,” he instructs, his voice soft but firm. As he cleans the wound, his movements are careful, methodical, and surprisingly tender. Tim has always been meticulous, and this moment is no exception. He doesn’t say much as he works, but his focus speaks volumes. To Tim, taking care of you is not just a responsibility; it’s a privilege, one he approaches with the same dedication he gives to his mission.

- Once he’s done, Tim leans back, scrutinizing his handiwork with a small nod of approval. “You should’ve called me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s no accusation in his words, only a quiet plea. He knows you value your independence, but the thought of you tackling something dangerous without him makes his heart ache. “You don’t have to do everything alone,” he adds, his gaze meeting yours. In his eyes, you see a vulnerability he rarely shows—a fear of losing you to something as mundane as a careless accident.

- Tim insists on helping you finish the renovations, his logical mind already planning the most efficient way to get the job done. “I think we can sand the rest of this by hand—it’ll be safer,” he suggests, his tone laced with gentle compromise. As you work together, you notice how easily he shifts between precision and lightheartedness, cracking a joke here and there to keep the mood light. Tim thrives in collaboration, and you realize that even in these small moments, he’s teaching you how to lean on him without losing yourself.

- That night, as you sit together in the quiet of your newly finished space, Tim pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours. “You scared me today,” he admits, his voice steady but full of emotion. “I know it wasn’t a big deal, but it reminded me how much I care about you.” You smile, brushing a hand through his dark hair. “I’m okay,” you assure him, and he nods, though his arms around you tighten slightly. Tim’s love is deliberate, thoughtful, and profound, and in his embrace, you feel the unyielding strength of his devotion.

Damian Wayne aka. Robin

- Damian is not one to panic, but when he sees the faint streak of red on your hand, his emerald eyes darken with barely concealed concern. “What happened to you?” he demands, his voice sharper than intended. You try to downplay it, explaining that it was just a mishap with the wood you were sanding, but Damian is already at your side, inspecting the wound with the intensity of a detective. “This is unacceptable,” he mutters, shaking his head. His hands hover over yours, hesitant, as though he’s afraid of making it worse.

- Without waiting for your permission, Damian retrieves the first aid supplies. His movements are quick, almost impatient, but the way he handles your hand is unexpectedly gentle. “You should have called me,” he says, his tone betraying more frustration than he likely means. Damian is used to control, to being prepared for every eventuality, and the idea of you hurting yourself while he wasn’t there unsettles him deeply. As he bandages your hand, he doesn’t look up, his focus entirely on the task. “You’re too important to be so careless,” he adds softly, his words a rare glimpse into his guarded heart.

- Once your hand is tended to, Damian crosses his arms, regarding you with a mix of exasperation and worry. “You will allow me to assist you with these renovations,” he declares, leaving no room for argument. There’s an almost regal quality to his insistence, as though protecting you is a duty he’s sworn to uphold. Despite his brusque demeanor, you can’t help but smile at his determination. Damian notices and narrows his eyes. “This is not amusing,” he says, though the faintest hint of a blush betrays his embarrassment.

- As the two of you work side by side, Damian’s intensity softens, his perfectionist tendencies blending with a genuine desire to help. He critiques your technique—more out of habit than necessity—but his commentary is laced with a subtle warmth. “You’re quite capable,” he admits begrudgingly after a while, though his pride won’t let him praise you outright. You tease him about his reluctance, and for a moment, his usual stoicism gives way to a rare, quiet laugh.

- Later, as you rest, Damian sits beside you, his hand brushing against yours. “You frightened me,” he confesses, his voice barely audible. “I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt.” His words are heavy with sincerity, each one a testament to the depth of his feelings. You lean into him, and though he stiffens slightly—still unused to such open vulnerability—he doesn’t pull away. Damian’s love is fierce and unyielding, a shield against the world, and in that moment, you know you are his greatest treasure.

Barbara Gordon aka. Oracle / Batgirl

- When Barbara sees the bandage on your hand, her sharp mind immediately begins piecing together what happened. “What did you do?” she asks, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity. You explain the accident, expecting her to tease you, but instead, her brows furrow in worry. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asks, wheeling closer to examine your hand. Her fingers are cool and steady as they trace the edges of the bandage. “You’re not supposed to get hurt during DIY projects, you know,” she quips, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

- She insists on rechecking your handiwork, her years of experience as Oracle making her hyper-aware of potential oversights. “You did a decent job,” she admits, though she redoes the bandage with the efficiency of someone who’s patched up countless injuries before. As she works, she peppers you with questions—not out of distrust, but out of a need to ensure you’re truly okay. Barbara’s care is thorough and practical, but beneath it lies a tenderness she rarely shows so openly.

- “You’re way too stubborn,” she says with a mock sigh, sitting back once she’s satisfied with the bandage. “That’s one of the things I love about you, but it also drives me crazy.” You laugh, and the sound seems to ease some of the tension in her shoulders. Barbara has always been quick-witted and resilient, but when it comes to you, her usual composure gives way to a vulnerability that’s as beautiful as it is rare. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful,” she says, her tone softening.

- Barbara insists on helping you finish the renovations, her technical expertise shining through as she devises clever solutions to the challenges you were facing. “You know, this would’ve been easier with the right tools,” she teases, handing you a screwdriver. Working with her is effortless, her confidence infectious as she guides you through the process. She shares stories from her own DIY adventures, her laughter filling the room as she recounts her less-than-perfect attempts.

- Later, as you sit together in the glow of your completed work, Barbara reaches for your hand, her touch light but reassuring. “You scared me today,” she admits, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I know you can take care of yourself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.” You squeeze her hand, offering a silent promise to be more careful. Barbara’s love is a beacon—strong, unwavering, and endlessly supportive—and in her presence, you feel both cherished and empowered.

Stephanie Brown aka. Spoiler

- When Stephanie notices the makeshift bandage on your hand, she’s by your side in an instant, her blue eyes wide with concern. “What did you do this time?” she asks, her voice playful but edged with worry. You try to wave her off, but she grabs your hand gently, examining the wound with a detective’s scrutiny. “This doesn’t look too bad,” she says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But seriously, you’ve got to stop giving me heart attacks.” She pulls you into the kitchen, where she starts rummaging through drawers for the first aid kit.

- As she cleans the wound, Stephanie’s chatter fills the room, her words a mix of gentle scolding and humorous commentary. “You know, I could’ve helped. I’m pretty handy with a power drill, believe it or not,” she quips, her tone light. But when she wraps your hand with fresh bandages, her touch is soft, and her expression turns serious. “I’m not mad, just… be more careful, okay?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. You nod, her sincerity grounding you in the moment.

- “Alright, that’s enough sitting around. I’m taking over,” she declares, jumping up and grabbing the tools you were using. Despite your protests, she flashes you a grin. “Relax, I’ve got this. Besides, someone has to keep you from getting into more trouble.” Watching Stephanie work is a mix of chaos and charm. She’s not the most precise, but her enthusiasm is infectious, and she makes sure to include you in the fun.

- She pauses occasionally to glance your way, her laughter bubbling up as she shares a joke or a story from her days as Spoiler. “Remember the time I tried to fix that chair and ended up breaking two others?” she asks, giggling at the memory. Her energy fills the space, making even the mundane task of sanding wood feel like an adventure. “See? I’m a professional,” she teases, flexing her arms dramatically.

- Later, as you both collapse on the couch, Stephanie wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “You scared me for a second there,” she admits, her voice softer now. “But I’m glad you’re okay.” She presses a kiss to your temple, her lips warm against your skin. “Next time, we’re doing this together, deal?” In her embrace, you feel the full force of her love—bright, unyielding, and as unpredictable as the woman herself.

Cassandra Cain aka. Orphan

- Cassandra notices your injury before you can even explain it. Her sharp, observant eyes catch the way you cradle your hand, and she’s beside you in a heartbeat. “You’re hurt,” she says simply, her voice calm but laced with concern. She takes your hand gently, her movements careful as she inspects the wound. You assure her it’s nothing serious, but Cassandra shakes her head. “It matters,” she says softly, her gaze meeting yours.

- Without another word, she retrieves the first aid kit and begins cleaning the cut with meticulous care. Cassandra doesn’t need words to convey her feelings—her touch says everything. There’s a tenderness in the way she handles your hand, a silent promise to always protect you. She works quickly but gently, her focus unwavering. “Done,” she says finally, a small smile tugging at her lips.

- Cassandra gestures toward the tools you were using, her expression curious. “Show me,” she says, nodding toward the project you’d been working on. She listens intently as you explain, her attention wholly on you. When you offer to continue, she shakes her head. “Together,” she says firmly. Despite her quiet nature, Cassandra’s presence is commanding, and you find yourself nodding in agreement.

- Working with Cassandra is seamless. Her movements are fluid, almost dancer-like, as she takes on tasks with a quiet confidence. She doesn’t speak much, but the moments of shared silence are comforting, her steady presence grounding you. Occasionally, she glances your way, a faint smile playing on her lips as if to remind you that she’s there.

- That evening, as the renovations come to an end, Cassandra sits beside you, her hand resting lightly on yours. “You scared me,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.” Her words are simple, but the weight behind them is profound. You squeeze her hand, and she leans her head against your shoulder. In her quiet way, Cassandra shows you a love that is deep, unwavering, and unspoken yet always understood.

Duke Thomas aka. Signal

- “Whoa, what happened here?” Duke’s warm voice pulls you from your work as he notices the fresh bandage on your hand. He steps closer, his amber eyes narrowing in concern. “Please tell me you didn’t try to wrestle a piece of wood or something,” he teases, but the worry in his tone is evident. When you explain what happened, Duke shakes his head with a small laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?” he says, taking your hand to inspect the injury.

- Duke grabs the first aid kit and sits you down. “I’m no Alfred, but I think I can handle this,” he jokes, his touch careful as he replaces your bandage. As he works, he talks you through the process, his voice steady and reassuring. “You really scared me for a second,” he admits, glancing up at you. “Next time, just call me, alright? I’m good with more than just a Batarang.”

- After patching you up, Duke insists on helping you finish the renovations. “I’m not letting you do this alone,” he says, his smile warm and determined. Watching Duke work is like watching the sun—bright, energetic, and full of life. He tackles the task with a blend of skill and enthusiasm, cracking jokes to keep the mood light.

- Duke is a natural at making everything feel like a team effort. He hums under his breath as he works, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you’re okay. “You know,” he says, pausing to wipe some sawdust from his hands, “we make a pretty good team.” His grin is contagious, and you find yourself smiling despite the day’s chaos.

- As the day winds down, Duke pulls you into a gentle hug. “Don’t scare me like that again,” he says, his voice low but full of emotion. “You mean too much to me.” His arms around you are strong and comforting, a reminder of how deeply he cares. In Duke’s embrace, you feel the warmth of his love—steady, protective, and as radiant as the man himself.

Selina Kyle aka. Catwoman

- Selina’s sharp eyes catch the bandage on your hand the moment she walks into the room. “What did my beautiful troublemaker get into this time?” she asks, her voice a silky purr. Before you can respond, she’s at your side, lifting your hand gently to examine it. “Tsk, tsk. And here I thought you knew how to handle yourself,” she teases, though the concern in her gaze is undeniable.

- She retrieves a small first aid kit from her bag—because of course Selina Kyle is always prepared. “Hold still, darling,” she says as she carefully unwraps and replaces your bandage. Her movements are precise and practiced, her touch light but firm. “You’ve got to be more careful,” she says, her tone soft but firm. “If you’re going to get hurt, at least let me be there to enjoy the show.”

- Selina insists on finishing the work you started, her feline grace evident in every movement. “This isn’t so hard,” she says, her lips curving into a playful smirk. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t picture myself as the DIY type.” She works efficiently, pausing occasionally to flash you a sly grin. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

- As the work continues, Selina’s humor keeps the atmosphere light. “You know,” she says, leaning on the edge of the table, “you could’ve just bribed me with a good meal, and I’d have done all of this for you.” Her laughter fills the room, a sound that feels like a reward in itself.

- Later, as you sit together, Selina wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You’re too precious to be getting hurt over something so mundane,” she says, her voice low and sincere. “Promise me you’ll call me next time?” You nod, and she smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Selina’s love is like her—mischievous, passionate, and fiercely protective, leaving you feeling utterly adored.

Kate Kane aka. Batwoman

- Kate notices the bandage on your hand the moment she walks in. “What happened?” she asks, her tone direct but laced with concern. When you explain, she frowns, crossing her arms. “You should’ve called me,” she says matter-of-factly, though her sharp gaze softens as she steps closer. “Let me see,” she says, her voice quieter now.

- She examines your hand with the precision of someone who’s had far too much experience patching people up. “It’s not bad,” she says, though her expression remains serious. As she cleans and rewraps the bandage, her movements are efficient but gentle. “You’ve got to be more careful,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind.

- Kate insists on taking over the renovations, her military training shining through in her methodical approach. “Step back,” she says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ve got this.” Watching her work is mesmerizing—each movement deliberate, each decision calculated. Despite her no-nonsense demeanor, she glances your way occasionally, her lips curving into a small smile when she catches your eye.

- As the day progresses, Kate softens, her dry humor breaking through her usual stoicism. “You’re lucky I like you,” she teases, smirking as she adjusts a crooked frame. “Otherwise, I’d be charging you for this.” Her laughter is rare, but when it comes, it lights up the room.

- That evening, Kate sits beside you, her arm draped casually over your shoulders. “You scared me today,” she admits, her voice low but steady. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.” She presses a kiss to your temple, her touch lingering. Kate’s love is steadfast and unyielding, a protective shield that makes you feel safe and cherished in a way only she can provide.

[webshood]

Jason's thing about being able to see into the future, except it only shows slightly useable information.

It's going to rain around Thursday, so he should wear a coat or carry an umbrella with him, except it's almost always raining in Gotham and most gothamites can detect when it's gonna rain by vibes alone.

Poison Ivy is going to scape from Arkham, but he only gets four minutes of pre knowledge about it and by the time he finished putting his suit, she's already out.

Stephanie will have an emergency while they're patrolling together, but he has no idea of when, so Red Hood is just carrying around pads and tampons whenever Spoiler is nearby.

His kitchen aid over mixed his batter and his brownie will end up flat, as the brownies are already on the oven.

He will face some sort of danger in two weeks time, which just happens to be during Damian's birthday party and he's on edge expecting something to happen, just for Damian to get mad at him, because he's on edge, and they fight over it.

[mystellenia]

romantic tension with abby

summary: in the warm glow of abby's bedroom, after a day of shared hobbies, you contemplate your deepening feelings for her and hope that perhaps she feels the same

content: friends (to lovers???), sfw, literally nothing else

notes: wrote a part two :p i need to write more fluff bc there is such a shortage AND especially with abby. this is like so domestic like in the way that there's no extra interactions. like this is literally how me and a friend would act after a day of painting!! just sleepy and tired zzzzz

(wc 0.7k)

the setting sun cast an orange glow on abby's bedroom where the two of you lay on her floor, bathing in the heat radiating from her large window. you'd just finished painting birdhouses for the married pair of sparrows that frequented the birdseed abby had set out. they would dance around each other and sing their chirpy harmonies and then take turns pecking at the various seeds from the feeder, so abby thought it necessary to handmake them houses in her shop. 

this was one of your many duet activities of abby's "grandma hobbies," as you called them. you two had fed the ducks down at the lake, gone through an entire coloring book, built lego sets, and done nearly a dozen puzzles—one of which was glued and framed in abby's kitchen. 

you guys spent every free moment of time together, and counted down the time until you could when one was busy. you were the closest of friends, but lately you found yourself wanting more—or at least thinking about how it would be if you were more. coming home to each other instead of making the fifteen-minute drive any time you wanted to see her. being able to actually tell her when she looked so pretty it made you hold your breath instead of chewing on your lip. 

she shifted next to you, bending her legs at the knees and pulling you out of your thoughts. "i should probably wash the brushes before the paint dries on them, right?" 

you almost tell her she shouldn't so that you could lay with her a little while longer, but you give in. "yeah, you should." 

she sits up to stand, grunting as she lifts her body weight and moving to the crafting cloth where your birdhouses currently sat drying. you sat up and leaned against the foot of her bed, watching as she so delicately readjusts the cloth so that it doesn't smudge your paint job. 

scrubbing your hands down your face, you push up off the bed and move to grab a sweatshirt of hers to change into, taking your paint-covered tank off and slipping the sweatshirt over your head. it sat baggy on your body with her being bigger than you are just about everywhere, and you threw the hood over your head and dropped onto the right side of her bed. 

she returns with her hands patting on her sweats to dry them off. seeing you in the bed, she comes to sit next to you, with you on your back and her laying on her side to face you. 

"you wanna just stay the night?" she says, her voice lifting at the end as if it were a question and not a declaration. "it's too late to go home alone." 

"yeah, i think i will," you respond. you remember the origami book she bought at the farmer's market last saturday. "only if we make paper cranes until our fingers bleed from paper cuts tomorrow," you grin, turning to look at her and see she's already looking back at you. 

"okay. i have lots of band-aids," she jokes. 

you chuckle, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, sheepishly smiling at the other while holding eye contact. 

"can we also get those berry pastries from the cafe? and make those butterflies we saw on pinterest?" you ask, your cheeks still kissing your eyes. 

"yeah, i'll wake up early to get them for breakfast," she nods. "and i only got that book so we can make things together—we can make whatever you want." 

in place of a response, you slip your fingers between hers and tightly squeeze her hand, ignoring your frustration with the uncertainty of her feelings for you. 

the tip of her nose pinks a bit before she opens her mouth. "good night. we need brain power for making cranes." 

you turn onto your side as well to face her, your noses nearly touching. "good night, abby," you grin, high on the feel of her skin on yours and the way she's looking at you.  

you fall asleep with a smile on your face because your close friend, abby, may just like you, too. 

@picklesarenice69 @abbyandersonsrightbuttcheek

yayyy i’m back :3

click here!! oh and here too!! ˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶

[littleredgun]

Worship - Part One

18+ - better not see any of you minors knocking around here.

Warnings for all chapters: Established relationship, female reader, pet names, swearing, guns, violence, restraints, chloroform, knives, death, blood, angst, fluff, SMUT, soft Jason, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size difference, size kink.

I do not own any of the characters in this fic and GIF is not mine, credit to the owner!

My work is not to be translated, copied / posted anywhere else!

Part Two

Jason worshipped the ground you walked on.

His soft, loving side was only reserved for you.

You were a delicate flower and he was an icy river.

May God have mercy on the sorry asshole who hurts you.

Nightfall settled over Gotham, illuminating the skyline Jason loved so much. The rain pelted down on this helmet and the wind blew through his jacket, making him shiver ever so slightly. He couldn’t wait to get home. Home to you.

Jason had met you, ironically enough, on patrol.

You were stupid enough to walk down alleys alone at night and he stopped you getting attacked by smashing the butt of his gun against the creeps temple, he was dead before you could open your eyes. And man, oh man were you a sight he could get used to, even with a bust lip and your blouse torn. When you opened your eyes you breathed “Red Hood”. He gave you a ride home without saying a word and walked you into your apartment. It was cosy. Something he’d expect from a girl who looked like you.

“Thank you”, you whispered, standing awkwardly in your kitchen. Again, without saying a word, he removed his helmet with a shaky breath and gently lifted his hands to your jaw. His stomach flipped at the sheer size difference between the two of you, one hand was the size of your whole face. “Got a first aid kit?”. Those were the only worlds he could force out. You nodded sheepishly before pointing to the bathroom. He moved swiftly and found it under your sink, rummaged through it and was back in the kitchen. In that time you had managed to change into an oversized t-shirt and some shorts and were sat waiting prettily for him to return.

You were going to kill him, he was sure of it. You somehow looked even smaller. “This is gonna hurt, I’m sorry”, he muttered. He took some disinfectant and a cotton ball and gently placed it to the cut on your lip. You inhaled a sharp breath through your teeth before replacing his hand with yours on the cotton ball. He stood and watched you dab the cut, shifting nervously. “So, you just gonna stand there or are you gonna tell me your name?”.

Jason was take back by the sudden comment, he attempted to keep his cool. “You know my name”. You chuckled and placed the cotton pad in the trash. “No. I know your vigilante name. I don’t know your real name”. Without thinking you grabbed two cups and began preparing two cups of coffee. “I can’t tell you that, sweetheart”.

“Oh yeah? Then why’d you remove your helmet? I know what you look like now”. Ah shit. He hadn’t of thought about that. With a heavy sigh he answered, “Jason”. You hummed quietly before speaking. “I prefer Jay. Jason makes you sound like an old man”. He laughed. Really laughed, for the first time in months. “Alright. Jay it is”. Your eyes scanned over him, his eyes crinkled when he laughed. You watched him lean against your kitchen counter and only then did you realise how big this man was. He came through your door sideways. You told him your name. “But people call me Little”. Jason furrowed his brows. “Because I’m small”. His lips made a silent oh..and the rest was history.

That was a year ago. Almost every night since then he’d appear at your apartment door. Countless nights were spent sat on the couch talking, playing games. He told you about his encounter with the Joker. How he died and came back, he showed you his scars. You cried like a baby that night, your fingertips tracing the pattern of each mark on his body. You told him about your father dying when you were young and your mother choosing her boyfriends over you.

Anger consumed him, but he pushed it aside. That was the night he kissed you. Made love to you, told you how madly in love he was with you. He loved each and every part of your body, lips and tongue dancing across your skin, heated whispers and purple marks littered your body. He’d stayed in your apartment ever since, and by God did you worship that man.

[ghoulie-67-baby]

Softly now - Good Omens

Summary: Your anxiety has been raging all day, one accident at home makes you snap.

Warnings: Anxiety, depression, panic attack, anxiety attack, angst, crying, blood/wound.

Pairing: Ineffable husbands x Human!reader.

Word count: 1,674.

To say today had been challenging was an understatement. Nothing particularly bad had happened. The mix of work and anxiety had me in a spiral, wanting to go home and curl up away from the world. After finishing my shift, I trudged home in the pouring rain, the sound of droplets on my hood keeping me grounded. I knew Crowley wouldn't have had any issue picking me up but it felt like a burden and my head was telling me he'd be annoyed if I asked. So I settled for the walk in the dingy weather.

Dodging puddles, I yanked my coat collar around my throat, shivering as raindrops trickled down my face, leaving tear-like streaks on my cheeks. Luckily the bag containing my laptop and books had been miracled by Aziraphale to stay waterproof and protected by any weather. Despite the calm look on my face, the bustle and noise of the streets had my eyes darting around. My heart thundered in my chest as the bookshop came into view, looking as beautiful as ever. I sped up, gasping as people barged into me in their rush.

With clenched, freezing hands, I shoved open the heavy wooden door and huffed out a sigh, slamming it behind me and locking out the world. My forehead reacted against the hardwood as I flipped the sign to 'closed'. I knew nobody would be in the shop, especially if Aziraphale had anything to do with it.

After a few minutes of unmoving silence, I wandered to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. A good cup of tea made everything better. There was no sign of the angel or demon as I walked through our home so I settled for one cup. Moving around the familiar space, my mind zoned out and I was set on autopilot.

I jumped out of my head as the sound of shattering filled the room. Shards of delicate, precious china scattered over the floor the beautiful flower pattern ruined. Anger and irritation flooded through me as I glared at the mess. Tears gathered in my eyes as I rushed to clean it, guilt crawling up my spine.

With trembling hands, I gathered some of the shards together to throw them away whilst trying to ignore the feeling rising man my throat.

"Love, let me take that from you." I froze as the Angel's voice floated through the silence. I hadn't even noticed him arrive home. With a quick shake of my head, I walked to the bin to throw them away but flinched as a large shard sliced my palm.

"Oh Y/N, you've cut your hand now." He tutted, reprimanding my stubbornness but I couldn't look at him. Instead, I trudged to the sink, rinsing the gash with a hiss and wrapping it in a towel. A warm hand rested against my icy shoulder as I watched the blood run down the drain.

"Darling, you need to let us help you." Crowley followed not far behind the angel with a disapproving look on his slender face. I watched silently as he unwrapped the bloody towel and grabbed the first aid kit to clean it properly. By this point, Aziraphale had cleaned up the remainder of the cup and droplets of blood from the tiles.

"You should really be more careful Love," The angel stood making hot chocolate, concern painting his face. I nodded silently, biting back a sob as tears filled my eyes. My chest began to heave as the demon bandaged my palm.

Only when a tear splashed on his hand did he realise the streaks on my face and the heads of my breaths as my good hand clutched the countertop, knuckles turning white. I stared straight ahead at his jacket, frustrated with myself. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging the tears to stop but it only worsened as waves of anxiety and guilt crashed over me.

Crowley caught me by my elbows to steady me as the first sobs escaped, swaying as my senses erupted with overstimulation. With ringing ears, I tried to listen as he spoke but words seemed to bleed into each other.

The only clear sound was my wails and whimpers as I tried to breathe, the room closing on me. Embarrassment filled me as I clawed at Crowley's chest, pulling him as close as physically possible so I didn't feel like I was sinking. Slender fingers passed me to chubbier ones as the blur of beige of Aziraphale's jacket came into view.

"Softly now, Love," he whispered into my ear. My breath caught in my throat as I cried into his chest which I had all but fallen into. The hum of his voice vibrated through my body as his fingers traced patterns on my back, the other hand smoothing down my hair. I couldn't help but feel bad for cuddling him when he was warm and soft and I was cold and soaked but he didn't seem to mind.

Warmth flowed over me and I looked down to find myself in Crowley's black sweater and Aziraphale tartan pyjama pants. I hummed thanks to the angel as my sobs died down into silent tears and hiccups. I clenched my fingers into his waistcoat, knees trembling and head pounding with such ferocity that I felt nauseous.

"Now, Love, whatever managed to get you in this state?" His voice was gentle, ringing softly in my ear, the definition of angelic.

"Rough day is all." My voice was exhausted and small as I muttered against his chest.

"Did something happen, Darling?" I shook my head, taking note of the pissed-off tone in his voice. "You know I'll be the first to punish them if you need me to."

"Nothing happened, 'just been a bad day." I drew patterns on his chest. "All day I've had this niggling feeling in my chest and small things have built up and then when the cup smashed it was just the last straw." I trailed off, new tears dripping off my cheeks. "Didn't mean to break it Azira, just lost focus and-" His soft hushing cut me off as his fingers scratched gently at my scalp.

"You don't need to apologise, Love, as long as your okay." The relief that overtook my system was ridiculously strong and deep down I knew he wasn't really fussed about the cup but I needed to hear it. "It's just a cup. It is replaceable whereas you are not." I dismissed the flush on my cheeks as I pulled away from his chest, looking up at him. Sparkling blue eyes stared down at me with a soft smile as I rubbed my thumb over his cheek.

"Why don't we go and get comfortable whilst our angel finishes that drink, Darling?" I nodded, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's cheek before taking Crowley's hand and following him to the bedroom.

Flinging his sunglasses on the bedside table, he sat on the edge of the bed. Serpent eyes looked up at me expectantly and though I tried to stop it, my bottom lip trembled. His arms stretched open for me and I fell into them with a cry of anguish.

His slender arms wrapped my legs around him so we were chest to chest, hands holding me tightly around him as I cried into his neck. My cry in the kitchen had been one Of pain, panic, anger and frustration at myself and the world. But this one was relief, pent-up emotion and overwhelming gratitude to my two celestials. I let myself into him, neither of us paying mind to my echoing wails or the tears that soaked his collar. Not even the way my cries shook both of our bodies.

Somehow, none of these things annoyed the demon who merely dismissed it for comforting me. Once I settled down, I lay boneless against him, head on his shoulder and body slouching whilst I caught my breath. I shifted my head to look up at him with puffy, tired eyes. My shaking hand rubbed his cheek, thumb grazing his cheekbone as he smiled down at me, letting his eyes flutter shut.

The shuffle of slippers at the door brought us back to reality but I didn't want to shift. Three steaming cups were placed on the nightstand before the bed dipped beside us.

"Feeling any better Darling?" The softness in the demon's voice caught me off guard for a second. I hummed out a yes, not having the energy for a better response, blinking tiredly as the world finally slowed down.

"Let's hop into bed whilst Crowley gets changed, Love." I nodded, crawling off his lap and flopping dramatically in the middle of the bed, beside a pyjama-clad angel. The fresh hot chocolate was placed in my hands once I sat up. I smiled as the heat seeped into my skin, sighing in delight as the sweet liquid ran down my throat. The two chuckled and Crowley climbed in beside me, gulping down his drink, mostly to appease Azira. The heat didn't bother him, it had no effect against hellfire.

A comfortable silence filled the room as we finished our drinks, basking in each other's company for a few moments. Rather quickly my eyes began to feel heavier. The cup was slipped from my grasp as I wiggled down under the covers, Crowley pressed reassuringly against my back.

"Hey Azira," I whispered, tapping his shoulder hesitantly. "Will you read to me?" The uncertainty dissipated immediately when he broke out in a smile and miracled a book with the flourish of his hand.

"It would be my pleasure, Love, do cuddle down and relax." The three of us got comfortable and I held Crowley's hand that draped over my waist as Aziraphale's voice floated to my ears, and the story began.

All three of us knew I wouldn't last long but he still happily read, knowing it would calm me and I might rest properly. And rightfully so, writhing minutes I had drifted off beside my two favourite beings.

[orbweaverspidergirl]

Chapter 3: i never doubt it at 4 am

summary: Orbweaver, Gotham's one and only spidergirl. A hero for only a year, she's easily recognizable from her brown spider suit, and six-eyed mask. But, without the mask, she's Nicole Lawson, the "unwanted" daughter of Bruce Wayne. She didn't mind it, not too much, but after the death of her mother and the exposure of her identity, her life is in shambles.

tw: slight yandere? it's only one line, and I'm not sure if someone would call it yandere, but I do think I'll take it too the platonic yandere spectrum. I do plan on increasing it, but it will not be hardcore.

Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

You’ve come to the conclusion that you dislike bringing vigilantes to where you live. Your house was a mess, and you were worried that they could easily see your address, but you suppose every nighttime hero knows Gotham by heart at this point. You were just really glad your mom had the night shift at the hospital tonight. 

“How you feeling, Hood?” You ask, carrying the bleeding out man into your living room. 

“Good as ever, Spidey.” He grunts, falling onto the couch. He landed on pillows piled up around the couch. “You sure as hell have a lot of these on here.” 

“My mom likes the aesthetic of it, says it looks pretty.” You smile under the mask and grab the first aid kit from on top of the fridge. Red Hood looks around the room, it’s tasteful, he decided. You had a fireplace in the middle, unlit, and there were photos of what he assumed was you and your mom. But there was something that made him look at you specifically, you looked so familiar to someone he knew.

“Eyes off the wall, Hood.” You’re in front of him now, and he’s sure you’re scowling. You throw the med kit at him, and he catches it quickly. “I’m sure you can patch yourself up.” You sound monotone, and he knows he fucked up when he sees you flipping down photos or turning them around on the wall. 

You were mad, understandably so. You knew that you took the man to your house, but you thought he would at least not look around! It’s like an unspoken rule of being a hero! You look at the man still on your couch, and you make sure there’s no blood on the floor. Your mom would actually kill you, and it would be your blood instead. You could feel her wrath from miles away, and you shiver. 

There’s a knock at your kitchen window, and you see a blue figure. “Nightwing…” You deflate, upset at the prospect of more of them coming into your living space. You debate whether or not you should let him in, but he is waving, and you would feel bad. You walk to the window and unlock it, damn your good conscience. 

“Dude, how the hell are you going to get into my window?” You hear Red Hood laughing in the background.

“Real smart of ya’, Nightwing!” Nightwing puts his foot through your window, obviously struggling, and you can’t help but laugh. 

He reaches an arm out for you to drag him in, “Spidey please,” he whines, and you give him a tug. You could do the funniest thing and just drop him, you think, but you decide against it, and pull him in. He almost trips over your sink, but you hold him up just in time. 

“You’re heavy as hell, bro.�� He elbows you and Red Hood cackles in the background.

“You’re just as mean as him.” Nightwing glances over at the man on your couch and you just shrug. He walks over to the couch, and wallows over Red Hood. You can hear the two arguing, almost like siblings, and for a moment, you wish you were over there with them. Your phone rings, alerting the three of you. 

"Hey Spidey, your mom’s calling you.” Red Hood looks at your phone, a photo of the orange cat meme pops up, and he tosses it to you. “Nice photo, by the way.” You can feel him smirk under the mask and you flip him off.

Nightwing looks between the two of you, “Wait, what photo? Red, what photo?” You ignore him, answering your mom and walking into your room. 

 "Hey mom, you called?” You close the door behind and take off your mask. Your hair is frizzy, and you feel sticky and sweaty. 

 “Yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way home.” She doesn’t care to ask why you’re up so late, it’s practically the norm. You would stay up late for her as a kid, waiting for her to come home. You were always a mama’s girl. 

“Okay, I can start cooking something for you?” You put her on speaker and change out of the body suit into a ‘My Chemical Romance’ slide off shirt, and you put on a pair of old shorts. 

“Thank you, baby. I’ll be home soon.” You put your spider mask back on.

“Love you, mom.”

“Love you more.” The call ends and you leave your phone in the room. You slam your door closed to alert the heroes that you’re back. They look up at you like deer in headlights and you start to feel suspicious. 

“If any of you broke something, I’m kicking you both out.” You feel them analyze your clothes, but you go back into the kitchen and preheat the oven. 

“Someone had an angsty childhood.” You flip him off again.

“Says the one who speaks like they’d be a part of an emo-boy band.” Nightwing chuckles, shoving Red Hood.

“She got you there, man.” You can practically feel the glare being sent your way, and you laugh. This wasn’t so bad, you thought. They were annoying, sure, but you didn’t feel so lonely for once, and that was nice. 

Their temporary stay ended, and eventually the house was all to yourself, until your mom was home, of course. You laid on the couch, ripping off your mask and sighing in relief. You hated having to wear that thing for so long. You look at the and the memory of flipping the pictures of you and your mom came back. All of them were flipped, except for one, and you do a double take. It was a photo of you and your mom when you were younger. You were about six in the photo, and she was holding you close. There were bubbles flying around, and in the back, you could see a picnic table. You thought for sure you turned every photo around, so why wasn’t this one?

Dick and Jason stood on top of your house, and the night was quiet in Gotham, for once. The air, however, was tense. “You really think it’s her?” Dick asks, his voice strained with worry. 

“Yeah, you dipshit. I don’t randomly go around calling everyone my sister.” 

Dick frowns, “Well yeah, but Nicole? You think our Spidey is Nicole?” 

“I know she is! That photo is her and her mom! It couldn’t be anyone else, Dick!” Jason scorns, turning away from his brother. 

Dick tiredly groans, “Fuck.” He playfully lays his head on Jason’s shoulder. “What the hell are we going to do?” 

A/N: My inbox is open! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for reading.

[chvoswxtch]

Could you do something with Frank where his s/o is just trying to comfort/take care of Frank after a mission and he just snaps at them? His s/o was having a really rough week and wanted to make themselves feel better by taking care of Frank. S/o leaves and turns off their phone to be away from him for a bit and he panics after he realizes what he did? Ending in fluff of course be my heart can’t handle sad endings 😂

Ps. Absolutely love your writing

thank you so much for the request nonnie! you know I love some good angst. but, as requested, I did give this a nice ending for you. a bit of a...flirty ending if you will. 😏

warning: swearing, lots of angst, slight mentions of blood and violence, allusions to spiciness word count: 3.4k

[part two]

really bad week.

Frank let out a heavy exhale as he shut off the scalding hot water in the shower, watching through hooded lids as translucent streams of red disappeared down the drain. He was exhausted, completely overstimulated, and there wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t ache. 

The job had been harder than he’d planned for. The information he was given was bad, and he didn’t realize it until it was too late. Frank knew how to think quickly on his feet, he’d been trained to do that, and he normally excelled at it, but it didn’t stop the rage he felt towards his ignorant informant. The anger was like poison in his bloodstream, spreading further throughout him with every injury and minor inconvenience, and it followed him home. 

It wasn’t until he stepped into your shared bedroom with a towel draped low across his hips that he realized how quiet the house was. Frank stilled, ears perking up as he listened for a sign of your presence. You were there to greet him the second he got home, and you normally either joined him for a shower or waited with a first aid kid to tend to his wounds. 

But Frank didn’t hear the patter of your feet on the hardwood floor coming to him.

“Baby?”

Silence. 

Frank quickly dropped his towel and slipped on a pair of boxers, swiftly making his way down the hallway towards the living room. His dark eyes darted back and forth around the space before his feet carried him into the kitchen where you normally waited. 

But you weren’t there.

Frank made his way back into the living room, instantly going rigid when he noticed your keys were still on the entry table. Pulling back the curtain, he swore under his breath seeing that your car was still in the driveway. Rushing towards the bedroom to grab the pistol he kept in his nightstand, he grabbed his phone and furiously dialed your number. 

He held the phone between his shoulder and ear, checking the clip and cocking the hammer of the gun as he made his way around your home, checking every room carefully. The endless ringing coming through the line filled him with dread.

“C’mon baby, pick up. Pick up.”

The sound of your chipper voicemail had Frank swearing again, tossing his phone onto the bed as he dialed your number again and put it on speaker so he could get dressed. 

“Pick up the goddamn phone, Y/N.”

Frank nearly kicked the door to the bathroom off the hinges when he got your voicemail again. Where the fuck did you go? Why did you take off without saying anything? You never did that. You always told Frank when you were leaving, even if you were just stepping outside to check the mail. You knew how important it was for him to know where you were at all times.

Had he missed something when he came home? Did you say something to him about leaving? But where would you go without your car? Why would you-

Frank abruptly paused his incandescent pacing as realization spread like ice through his bones, completely freezing him in place. 

“Fuck.”

You had opened the door to greet Frank before he even made it to the front steps, your soft hands delicately searching Frank’s face and torso for injuries, gently trying to coax him out of his clothes, offering nothing but pure kindness and compassion to help in any way you could.

You just wanted to help. You always just wanted to help. As guilty as it made him feel to come home to you bloody and broken, you always swore that you didn’t mind putting him back together. You promised that you loved taking care of him. You assured him that it wasn’t a hindrance, but that it gave you peace of mind, because you knew no one would take care of him like you would, especially not himself. You even confessed to him that it made you feel better to do it.

“You always take such good care of me, Frankie. You’re always protecting me. I can’t protect you back, but I can take care of you. Being your healer gives me a sense of purpose. It makes all the noise fade away. It makes me happy, baby.”

You just wanted to help him, and he’d been a fucking dick. 

He snapped at you. 

He yelled at you. 

And when he closed his eyes, he saw the fear in yours, and it made him shudder. 

Frank helplessly dialed your number again, rushing to the living room to grab the keys to his truck, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans as he went into full blown panic mode.

“Fuck, sweetheart. C’mon, pick up the phone. Pick up the phone for me honey, please.”

Frank never meant to raise his voice at you. He didn’t mean to let his anger get the best of him in front of you. You didn’t deserve the way he had treated you. All you were trying to do was help, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He was completely depleted physically, impossibly frustrated, and his entire body throbbed with pain. 

But that wasn’t an excuse for him to snap at you like he had. 

“Would you fuckin’ quit? Goddamn, I been home two seconds and you’re already up my ass. Just fuckin’ back off. I don’t need you followin’ me around, bein’ all fuckin’ needy and shit. I can take care of myself, I don’t need you. Stop bein’ a pain in my goddamn ass and just let me fuckin’ be.”

Frank slammed the door to his truck shut as he forced his key into the ignition, clenching his jaw tightly and flaring his nostrils angrily as he glanced at himself in the rear view mirror.

“You’re one sorry son of a fuckin’ bitch, you know that? Fuckin’ asshole.”

Frank recklessly backed out of the driveway and peeled off down the road, nearly breaking his phone screen as he harshly pressed his thumb against your contact again. But this time when he dialed, it went straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!”

Frank sent his phone flying into the dashboard as he gripped his steering wheel with one hand, dragging his other palm down his face and quickly running it through his still damp hair as he tried to focus. You didn’t take your car, so you had to be on foot, which meant you couldn’t have gone far. But where would you go?

He drove around your neighborhood for nearly an hour, eyes frantically darting around the road and both sides of the street with the windows down. Every second that passed that he couldn’t find you filled him with more and more trepidation to the point where he felt nauseous. His hands shook despite the tight grip on his steering wheel, but he couldn’t tell if it was from anger or from fear.

What if he had fucked up too bad? What if he couldn’t fix this? What if he came home and you were gone for good?

Frank swallowed the lump forming in his throat as the image of your terrified face flashed in his brain again. He never wanted you to look at him like that. He never wanted you to be afraid of him. He felt absolutely sick with guilt that he had scared you so badly that you had run. When Frank drove by the park at the end of the street for the twenty-seventh time, he quickly hit the brakes and put his truck in park. You had brought him to this park a few times before to have a picnic. You liked to watch the kids play, and see all the pretty flowers when they started to bloom. Frank quietly shut his truck door and pocketed his keys as he walked over towards the playground, and he immediately stilled once he saw a shadow on a swing illuminated by the moonlight.

You.

Your back was to him as you sat on the swing, leaning your head against the set of chains that your hands were loosely wrapped around. Frank normally would’ve smiled at the fact that your feet didn’t even reach the ground, but right now it just broke his heart, because it reminded him of how small and delicate you were. He approached you cautiously, and the closer he got, the more he was able to see the gentle shake of your shoulders and hear your quiet sniffles, and his heart shattered all over again.

“Baby?”

Your spine instantly stiffened as his voice cut through the silence of the night. You never reacted to him that way. Even when he surprised you by entering a room without a word when you were too distracted to hear the heavy thud of his boots, you never jumped or got startled, because you knew it was just him. You were never afraid of his presence.

Until now.

When you didn’t respond, Frank slowly made his way around to the front of the swings, keeping a good distance between you and himself so that he didn’t frighten you anymore than he had. He couldn’t see your face from where he stood above you. Your head was tilted downwards, and your hair covered your face like a curtain. He was momentarily grateful that he couldn’t see the look on your face. He wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

“Sweetheart?”

Silence.

Frank’s fingers twitched at his sides. He didn’t know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do; rush forward and pick you up into his arms, hug your head against his chest, kiss your forehead and run his fingers through your hair as he apologized over and over. He just wanted to fix it and make it better. But he wasn’t sure if you even wanted him to touch you right now, and that hurt worse than a bullet to the skull.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Frank took a few more cautious steps forward and knelt down in front of you, still trying to keep enough space between you both to make you more comfortable.

“Honey…I’m…I’m sorry. I’m real fuckin’ sorry. I didn’t mean to-I shoulda never raised my voice at you like that. I didn’t mean to, baby. I swear.”

Nothing.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment as he fought back tears that threatened to build along his waterline. He clenched his fists tightly, trying to keep his voice calm and even as he pleaded with you.

“Y/N…please talk to me. Please, baby. Just…say somethin’. Yell at me, hit me, hell take this fuckin’ gun and empty the clip right in my fuckin’ chest. Just…somethin’.”

“I’m not gonna do that, Frank.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper as it hit his ears, and Frank hated how small and broken it sounded. He watched as you lifted your head slightly, tucking your hair behind your ears as you sniffled, still refusing to look at him. 

Frank thought he’d had his heart broken before, but that was nothing compared to seeing the pain on your face beneath the glow of the moon. He nearly broke down in tears seeing your puffy eyes and reddened nose, and the lingering hurt that was carved into every feature on your face.

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

“What? What are you talkin’ about?”

Frank’s dark brows knit together in utter confusion at your apology, cocking his head to the side in complete disbelief.

“I just wanted to help. But…you’re right. I need…I need to back off. I…it’s too much. I’m too much-”

“Hey, stop it. That is not true-”

“Yes it is, Frank. You said it yourself.”

Even though your voice was more firm with anger behind it, there was no denying the ache that dripped from your words. Frank closed his eyes for a moment as he let out a heavy exhale through his nose, quickly shaking his head in rejection.

“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean a goddamn word I said earlier. Alright?”

“Frank-”

Frank moved closer on his knees toward you, shaking his head quickly as he stared into your teary eyes.

“I didn’t. I swear…on Maria and the kids. I was…I was in a bad mood when I came home. I was frustrated, and I was hurtin’, and I took all that out on you, and that wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, you understand me? Nothin’. I was not upset with you. I do not think any of that. I…I lost my temper, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll never be able to apologize hard enough, and I’ll never forgive myself for scarin’ you like that.”

Frank wanted nothing more than to reach for you when your bottom lip started to tremble. He watched as you lowered your head, toying nervously with the bracelet around your wrist as you refused to look at him.

“You were so mad…”

The fear in your fragile voice would’ve brought Frank to his knees if he wasn’t already on them. He closed his eyes as a remorseful tear slipped down his cheek, swallowing thickly as he tightened his jaw and inhaled sharply.

“I…I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. Please…please tell me you know that.”

“Hurt me? I didn’t think you were going to hurt me, Frank.”

“I scared you-”

“I wasn’t scared of you, Frank. I was scared that you were mad at me. I thought I upset you…and that you didn’t want me there.”

Frank’s eyes flew open as he stared at you incredulously, lips parting as he began to shake his head quickly.

“Didn’t want you there? Baby, why would you say that?”

“Because you said you didn’t need me.”

As fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, Frank moved even closer on his knees until yours were pressed against his chest, fighting to keep his hands by his sides as he shook his head furiously.

“I didn’t mean that. I do need you, honey. I love you. You are the one goddamn good thing I got, and I don’t ever wanna lose you.”

“Promise?”

Frank hated that he had to make that promise to you. He hated that he had fucked up so royally, that you were even questioning it. But he would make that same promise until his lungs gave out if that’s what you needed from him.

“I promise, baby. Please forgive me, honey. That’ll never happen again, I swear.”

“I forgive you, Frankie.”

“Can I touch you, is that alright? Let me hold you, sweetheart. Please.”

Frank sighed in relief when you leaned forward to wrap your arms around him, instantly wrapping you up in his own arms as he held you protectively against his chest. A soft giggle slipped past your lips as you wiggled in his grasp.

“Easy, big guy. You’re crushing me.”

“Shit, sorry baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. How did you know I was here?”

Frank cupped your jaw in his large hand as he searched your face, giving a slight shake of his head.

“I didn’t. Been drivin’ ‘round for hours tryin’ to find you, sweetheart. You weren’t answerin’ your phone, and then it started goin’ straight to voicemail. I thought…I was assumin’ the worst.”

A sheepish expression coveted your features as you nibbled on your bottom lip nervously.

“I…turned it off. I’m sorry, Frank-”

“Don’t be. You just…scared the shit out of me, baby. I thought…thought somethin’ happened-you can’t do that to me, Y/N. You can’t just leave like that. You need space, I’ll give it to ya, but you gotta let me know that. I gotta know where you are, sweetheart. I gotta know you’re safe. I…I swear I’ll never snap at you like that again, but you gotta swear to me you’re not gonna run off on me like that again. Please.”

“I’m sorry…I wasn’t thinking. I was just…upset and-”

“I know, baby. I know. S’alright. I got you now, yeah?”

Leaning your face into Frank’s palm, you wrapped your hand around his wrist as you stared into his eyes and nodded your head slowly. A sad smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you swallowed thickly.

“I didn’t mean to run. It’s just…I had a really bad week, and I missed you so much. And you always…just being near you makes me feel better. I thought you were upset with me…and didn’t want me there…and I just…that made me feel even worse-”

A furrow formed between Frank’s brows as he looked at you, lips parting slightly as he wiped your cheeks with his thumbs.

“What happened that made it bad?”

“Just…stuff with work.”

“Why didn’t you call me, baby?”

“Because I hate bothering you with my problems when you’re away. It was stupid anyway-”

“Hey, it ain’t stupid if it hurts your feelin’s. And you never bother me, sweetheart. You can call me anytime, no matter what time it is, or what it is. I wanna be there for you as much as you are for me. I can’t stand the thought of you bein’ upset and feelin’ like you can’t come to me. You need me, you call me. You got that?”

Instead of answering, you pushed yourself off the swing so that you could climb onto Frank’s lap, burying your face in his chest as he tightened his arms around your body. He pressed a soft kiss to your head, gently rocking you from side to side on his lap when you clung to him even tighter.

“I love you, sweetheart. You know that, yeah?”

“I love you, Frankie. I’m sorry-”

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for. I’m the one that’s sorry. Will you let me take you home, baby? Been a week without you, just wanna lay down and hold you. Can I do that?”

Frank slowly rose up off his knees when he heard your muffled yes, keeping both arms wrapped around your waist securely as you locked your legs around his back. As he reached his truck door, you pulled back to stare into his eyes curiously with a tilt of your head.

“Why is there a gun in your jeans?”

“I’m just happy to see ya.”

A light smile appeared on your lips as you rolled your eyes with a shake of your head.

“I’m talking about the actual gun.”

“Ouch. Ya’know how to kick a guy when’s down, huh?”

“Frank-”

He cut you off with a gentle kiss as he pushed your back against his driver’s side door, trapping you there between it and his body. Brushing his nose against yours softly when he pulled back, he brought one of his hands up to tuck your hair behind your ear as he gazed at you.

“Told ya, baby. Wasn’t sure what happened at first. Thought I might need it.”

“And what were you planning to do with it?”

“Didn’t get that far. Just knew I had to find you, and wasn’t gonna let anyone get in my way.”

“So, what…you were gonna threaten the whole neighborhood to find me?”

“I’d wage war for you, sweetheart.”

The strength in Frank’s gravely voice and the intensity in his eyes confirmed his words. You knew he wasn’t lying, and it suddenly occurred to you just how far Frank would go to protect you. Gently grabbing onto the back of Frank’s neck, your lips parted slightly as you stared into his dark brown eyes.

“You’re…probably really…tired-”

“Wide awake, darlin’. You tired?”

Frank held your gaze, and you could see a flame starting to dance in his eyes. You knew that look, and it spread heat throughout your lower half that was trapped by his hips. Giving a slight shake of your head, you lightly fisted the collar of his shirt in your free hand, unable to tear away from the hunger in his eyes.

“Can I take you home, sweetheart? Show you how much I need you?”

“You can take me right here, Frankie.”

A low groan reverbated in his chest and it made you shiver. He leaned in to delicately brush his lips against yours, grabbing onto your hips tightly.

“Hate to wake up the whole neighborhood at this hour.”

“You really care about that right now?”

A sharp gasp fell from your mouth as Frank pushed his hips further against yours, allowing you to feel just how badly he needed you.

“Said hate to, baby. Didn’t say I wasn’t gonna.”

tags: @day-dreaming-goddess @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

Thinking about disabled AK!Jason tonite with a disabled s/o

Let's be fr this man could/should be an ambulatory wheelchair user but he won't because he doesn't know that's a thing and wouldn't think he deserved it. If you're an ambulatory wheelchair user maybe one day you manage to lovingly bully him into just TRYING it and it is life changing

He uses his ambulatory energy to do Red Hood shit nbd

if he doesn't use a wheelchair he's got at least 2 braces--shoulder and knee

Baby has chronic pain, arthritis, chronic migraines from being beaten

Missing some teeth too

take this boy to your neuro or your ortho!!!! he is totally unaware he does not need to live like this. better living through chemistry

let's get him some therapy too

you WILL have to go to his drs appointments with him. mans WILL freak the fuck out for ANY medical procedure, has very serious medical abuse trauma. if he can see how your drs help you he is much more likely to go if he can see that you are benefiting from your providers and that they haven't harmed you

if you're scared of drs he will FULLY stand behind you. probably not that healthy tbh but he gets it

having a special Migraine Protocol for each of you (it's basically just a snack and a drink, blue light filter glasses, a sleep mask with headphones for that special Migraine Playlist)

make your own pain scales and talk through frequency of pain bc when you have constant or near constant pain it fucks up your ability to quantify it so making your own pain scale is helpful (he probably uses shakespeare plays or authors. like a 5 for jason is twilight, because you can see some problems but it's fun and fluffy but when you start looking closer OH NO SO MANY PROBLEMS)

pain meters on a wall near the kitchen so you can know what you're working with

CBD patches

the AK suit is basically a giant brace/mobility aid so you help him figure out how to adapt it for his red hood persona, how to make it lighter and allow for greater ROM

will remind you to do physical therapy

resistance bands ALL OVER THE HOUSE

learning bodywork techniques

AT LEAST once a week using a special oil or lotion to work into some of his bigger scars to make the tissue more mobile

giving him a back/neck/scalp/face massage

after a while obvi that's a lot of trust he's putting in you

NOT deep tissue. don't hurt him more. you can have effective therapeutic massage without hurting a person

trager work involves basically shaking a limb and letting the weight of the muscle do all the work but it feels weird the first time and he'd just start laughing at you

specially if you do his glutes

but it feels really nice so he stops laughing and it does help his lower body pain

putting magnesium lotion on each other's neck and shoulders

start to ask each other "are you angry or in pain?"

hand massages

teaching him to stop pushing through the pain

one of his knees is basically bone on bone so you always know when the weather is changing

if u both have bad knees u just don't even when the weather is changing. take some pain meds, use your topical pain reliever of choice, prop those joints up and snuggle in bed. watch a youtube series or he can read to you

heated blankets as heating pads supremacy

occasionally he'll be in pain and the kind of pain where you feel like you're going insane, so as a distraction he will go online and buy a bunch of weird pain-relieving gadgets and you'll spend a week trying them out

(sometimes his pain fog shopping spree is blind boxes, or nail polish, or statement shirts)

all of his siblings know to come to your place if they get beat tf up because your medicine cabinet is UNreal

you're about to give cass or steph a Controlled Substance Pain Reliever and you pause "this is technically drug dealing, isn't it? dOn'T teLL rEd hOOD" jason is literally patching them up right next to you

soft blankets

reminding each other it's ok to take it slow

he's constantly tearing into the other rogues for not having ADA accessible lairs (except Ivy who successfully argued that the plants make it ADA accessible which will do. FOR NOW.)

[hiveworks]

Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ As a webcomic publisher and service provider run by LGBTQ+ staff, Hiveworks takes pride in supporting LGBTQ+ creators and sharing unique stories that resonate with our community. We host dozens of comics with diverse casts of characters, all free to read right now.⁠ ⁠ Here's a spotlight on just a few of our queer titles!

Ride Or Die by @marsoid

After finding a car once owned by his mother, Lucky and his childhood-crush Vick are launched into the world of street racing in an effort to learn more about her. But what they don't know is something's lurking under the hood of the car, something fueled by revenge...and gasoline. It’s Christine meets Ghost Rider meets Fast and Furious but gayer!

Alice and the Nightmare by @mishacakes

Alice and the Nightmare is a comic heavily inspired by Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. It follows the story of Alice Heart as she attends the prestigious Phantasmagoria University, where Wonderlandians like her train to enter and collect the dreams of sleeping humans. The comic features magic, dark fantasy elements, and plenty of sweet tea time treats!

Nix of Nothing by @mleelunsford

Nix of Nothing is the story of Nix, a demigod, who was given the opportunity to live however they wish. But with some unknown divine force targeting them, their life has suddenly become a lot less free. Now they need to travel across a strange land full of danger and mystery to try and find peace once again. The main character Nix (and the author) are both non-binary, and the comic will also feature many more LGBTQ characters!

Lies Within by @byelacey

Lysander lacks direction in his life… though he seems to be the only one who doesn’t mind. He’s content to live rent-free under his sister’s roof, get high, watch monster movies, and canoodle with Simon, the new neighbour who moved in a few months ago. When Lys is attacked one night by a strange intruder in his kitchen, it’s soft, quiet Simon who comes to his aid. In the process, he exposes Lys to a deadly secret: Monsters are real, and they’re tired of living humanity’s shadow.

[fluentmoviequoter]

One More Favor

Pairing: Titans!Dick Grayson x fem!reader (most of this fic takes place in/around Titans 1x2)

Summary: When Dick takes Rachel out of Detroit, he needs help, but he'll have to call in a few favors first.

Word Count: 5.0k+ words

Warnings: POV changes (that hopefully make sense), fluff, a little bit of angst, descriptions of injuries/self-harm (reader cuts her arm open to remove a tracker), several descriptive fight scenes, guns?, spoiler for Titans.

A/N: This is my first Dick Grayson fic, and I actually wrote it several months ago and just got around the editing it. Dick may be OOC, but I hope you enjoy this and please let me know what you think!

Masterlist | DC/Dick Grayson Masterlist | Request Info (OPEN)

Gotham City - 4 Years Ago

The heavy door creaks as it is pulled open, warm air blowing out into the cold rain. You step inside, dropping your umbrella in the overflowing bin and wiping your shoes on the mat. Shivering slightly, you run your hands up and down your arms, attempting to warm up.

“Hi, Alfred,” you greet as you look over at him, your smile dropping at the solemn look on his face. “What happened?”

“Master Grayson left last night. He left you this,” Alfred answers as he hands you an envelope, your name written in Dick’s handwriting across the front.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” you ask, tears welling in your eyes.

“I’m afraid not. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you, Alfred. I’m going to go home,” you say as you pull the door open and step out, waiting for the door to close behind you. You take a deep breath and start running, not even thinking about the umbrella you left. As your tears mix with the rain on your skin, your heart feels about as warm as the Gotham City air.

Fremont, Ohio - Present Day

“Where are you taking me?” Rachel asks, spinning one of her rings on her finger as she looks out the window.

“To see an old friend. She can help us,” Dick answers, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

An hour later, Dick checks his phone while he waits in the car as Rachel goes into a truck stop. He tracks her through the window as he dials a number he hasn’t called in years. It rings several times, and he thinks he won’t get an answer.

“Hello?” A voice asks as the line connects.

“Hi, Alfred, it’s me.”

“It’s been a long time, Master Grayson.”

“I know. This is a one-time thing; I need a favor.”

Omar, Ohio – Present Day

You enter the diner, sighing as you fall into a booth. Looking up at the television mounted in the corner, you see a story about yet another murder in Detroit. It’s almost as bad as Gotham City these days. 

“How’s my favorite customer today?” Dan asks as he walks to the booth, his apron still on.

“I’ll bet you say that to all of your customers,” you counter with a smile, your hood still pulled over your head.

“I most certainly do not. What can I get you today?”

“Just some tea, please.”

“You need to eat.”

“Will you let me pay?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“I’m not letting you give me free food every day, Dan. Just tea.”

“Fine,” Dan sighs, returning to the kitchen and passing your order to a waitress.

The bell above the door chimes as it opens, a few sets of footsteps echoing as the door closes. You pull your hood up further, turning to face the back corner. Kelsey, Dan’s only waitress at this hour, drops off the mug of tea and a book, smiling at you as she walks away. She’s been lending you books since you first visited two months ago. You slide it closer, shaking your head as you read the summary: a vigilante who gets a new partner. Sounds familiar.

Benton, Pennsylvania – 3 ½ Years Ago

You take a deep breath before you dig the knife into your arm, making a shallow slice from the middle of your forearm up to your elbow. After you drop the knife into the hotel bathroom sink, you grab a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit and dig around, gritting your teeth as you ignore the pain. When you finally see a glint of silver, you grab it and pull. The tracker makes a ‘clink’ sound as it falls into the sink and goes down the drain. You sigh as you pick up the pre-threaded needle and start on the stitches. Good luck finding me now, Bruce.

Norwalk, Ohio – Earlier Today

“If the police are looking for me, is it smart to be on an interstate?” Rachel asks.

Dick sighs, knowing she is right. He pulls off at the next exit, getting on a small Ohio state route and heading south. They drive for about thirty minutes before coming to a small diner, claiming to have the state’s best chicken and waffles. Dick is ready for a break, so he doesn’t fight Rachel when she asks him to stop. They walk into the diner, and Dick looks around, planning escape routes and scanning for trouble. The waitress and the cook both say hello as Dick and Rachel sit by the window, the kitchen and the door visible. Dick looks at the only other customer, a girl in an oversized sweatshirt leaning over a book and nursing a mug of something.

“I’m Kelsey. What can I get you, folks?” Kelsey smiles as she approaches their table.

“Chicken and waffles, please,” Rachel orders.

“Coming up, and for you, sir?”

“Just coffee,” Dick answers, smiling.

Dick watches as the cook takes the order from Kelsey before nodding toward the girl in the booth. Kelsey walks over and starts talking to her, but Dick can’t tell if it is a friendly conversation or a ‘you need to leave’ conversation. Kelsey’s shoulders drop as she turns around and walks back to the kitchen pass-through, shaking her head as she speaks to the cook. A plate and a mug slide onto the counter, and Kelsey carries them over to Dick and Rachel, telling them to let her know if they need anything.

“What are you looking at?” Rachel asks.

“I’m trying to figure out what’s going on over there,” Dick answers, gesturing across the restaurant with his chin.

Rachel looks over and cocks her head slightly, “Kelsey’s happy but a little worried, the other one is really hard to read.”

Dick nods, sipping his coffee as he looks up at the television screen. His heart drops as Rachel’s picture appears on the screen, but it is gone before he can say anything. Dick looks toward the kitchen, but no one is there. Turning his head, he sees the cook talking to the other customer, sitting at the booth with her. Kelsey and the cook stand, and the cook returns to the kitchen as Kelsey walks toward their table.

“How is everything?” Kelsey asks.

“Great. Those were definitely the best in the state,” Rachel answers.

“Need anything else?”

“Just the check,” Dick answers, reaching for his wallet.

“It’s been covered,” Kelsey assures before clearing the table.

“By who?” Dick asks, eyebrows furrowing as Kelsey smiles.

The girl in the booth looks up suddenly, leaning to look out the window. She stands and moves toward Kelsey, telling her something before walking out the back door, the book she had been reading abandoned at the booth. Kelsey whispers something to Dan before turning quickly to walk back to Dick and Rachel.

“Someone is here for her,” Kelsey says to Dick, gesturing toward Rachel, “there’s a room through the kitchen with a back door.”

Dick and Rachel stand quickly, following her through the kitchen. They all freeze at the sound of gunshots, then begin moving again.

“Why are you helping us?” Dick asks.

“Favor for a friend,” Kelsey answers as she opens the back door. “Be careful.”

Dick nods as he ushers Rachel to stand on one side of him, gripping his gun in his other hand as they slowly round the building. The girl in the sweatshirt, who Dick really needs a new name for, is standing in the parking lot, a pipe falling from her hand and three unconscious men sprawled on the ground around her. She looks up before dropping her head, putting her hands in her pocket, and walking away. Dick hears one of the men groan and decides to leave before they come to. Rachel keeps asking him if he knows the girl, and the only answer he can supply is, “I don’t think so.” Maybe he should make it his new catchphrase.

Gotham City – 4 Years Ago

You enter your apartment and grab your backpack, dumping its contents out on the floor before you run around and grab what you consider “essentials”: an extra pair of shoes, a change of clothes, cash, a fake ID, a sweatshirt, a blanket, and the letter from Dick. You slide the letter into the protected laptop pocket of my backpack, promising yourself you will read it someday, but not right now. You put on your best pair of sneakers, comfortable and warm clothes, and a jacket with a hood before walking to the ATM, emptying your account, and ditching your card before boarding a bus to Princeton. As you watch Gotham City fade behind the bus, you cry because you lost a part of yourself, and you know it would hurt too much to see reminders of him. So, you leave.

Glen Easton, West Virginia – 2 Years Ago

You check into the small motel with cash and a fake ID, grateful you can sleep in a real bed for once. You find your room and collapse against the small mattress, setting your backpack beside the bed. You open it and pull out a change of clothes before showering. The letter from Dick is still in the computer pocket, unopened. When you think you are finally ready to open it, you get scared about what is inside it and change your mind.

You retrieve the sweatshirt from the bottom of the backpack and put it on. Then you order a pizza and turn on the TV. The sweatshirt is the only thing that provides you comfort after leaving Gotham City. You left everything that tied you to that life, except the sweatshirt, and nights like this make you wish you had realized Dick was going to leave and chased him.

Omar, Ohio – Present Day

“Why are we driving around in circles? I thought you were taking me somewhere?” Rachel asks.

“I’m looking for the girl that helped us,” Dick mumbles as he looks across the street.

“Oh,” Rachel says with a smile.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve felt different since you saw her in the diner.”

“She just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

“Someone you knew. Seems like a lot more emotion than simple acquaintances.”

“Fine, we were best friends. We did- some stuff together and we were super close,” Dick said, failing to find a way to explain their vigilante activities.

“You did stuff together?” Rachel repeats incredulously.

“Not like that,” Dick huffs. “We just- she was my best friend, and I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Why?”

“I left.”

“You left her?”

“I didn’t leave her; I left the life I had then.”

“And by extension, her,” Rachel scoffs. “Why haven’t you called her?”

“I tried, once. Her number had been disconnected and I didn’t know her new one. Or if she even wanted to talk to me.”

“Surely you know someone who would’ve stayed in contact with her. Call them.”

Dick sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He does know someone.

“Right now,” Rachel adds, “I can feel your sadness and it’s bumming me out.”

Dick pulls over, pulling his phone from his pocket and typing the number. “It’s me again. I need one more favor,” he says when the line connects.

“Of course, Master Grayson,” Alfred agrees.

“I’m looking for,” he glances at Rachel, who is listening intently, before finishing, “her. I was wondering if you had a new number for her. Or know where she is?”

“Master Grayson,” Alfred says sadly, “we haven’t seen her in four years.”

“Four years?” Dick asks, eyes widening.

“Yes, sir. She left right after you did.”

“Did you give her the letter?”

“I did. She ran out of the manor, literally, after I gave it to her. We have not heard from her since.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“Last we knew she was in Benton, Pennsylvania. But that was nearly three and a half years ago. I’m sorry, Master Grayson.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick says before hanging up.

“Sorry,” Rachel says quietly, “I shouldn’t have made you call.”

“Not your fault,” Dick assures her before pulling out. He slams on his brakes and backs up, turning into an alley and parking.

“What?” Rachel yells, gripping her seat.

“I think she’ll go back to the diner, they seemed to know her. Enough to give us free food on her behalf.”

“That’s what you think happened?” Rachel asks sarcastically.

“You’re the one that read their emotions.”

Rachel sighs before agreeing, “You’re right. She’ll go back.”

They find a small motel and get a room for the night, leaving their stuff in the room before returning to the diner. Entering, Dick and Rachel look around but only see the cook and a different waitress. 

“Welcome back,” the cook, who introduces himself as Dan, greets.

“Hi, Dan. We’re looking for the girl who was in here this morning. She was wearing a grey sweatshirt, reading a book, and left quickly out the back door,” Dick explains.

“Yeah, I know her. Why are you looking for her?”

“She helped you. That’s why you’re so nice to her, if not a little protective, isn’t it?” Rachel asks.

Dan’s brow furrows as he answers, “Yes, she helped me.”

“We’re not trying to hurt her or get her in trouble or anything. She helped us this morning and we’d like to repay the favor,” Dick promises. “Could you at least give us her name?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dan answers. “But she’ll probably come back here in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Dick and Rachel say together.

The following morning, Dick checks out of the motel and drives to the diner. They both look to the booth where she sat yesterday as they walk in, frowning when they see no one there. Kelsey smiles as she greets them and takes their order, exactly as they had yesterday. Dick spins his mug around as he watches the television, trying to keep himself from staring at the door.

“Dick,” Rachel whispers a few minutes later. She gestures toward the counter, where the girl is now sitting, wearing the same sweatshirt as yesterday.

Before Dick can do anything, Dan’s voice fills the diner. “All three of you need to get somewhere safe. Everyone in town is talking about some secret service agents asking about you folks.”

“All of us?” The girl in the sweatshirt asks.

“You know how these people feel about cops, but they’ll come in here eventually and you don’t need to be here,” Dan says.

“11 North Country Road 29,” the girl in the sweatshirt calls as she stands, “you got that?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Rachel answers, practically dragging Dick to the front door.

Dick gets in the car and speeds toward the address, hoping that the girl in the sweatshirt will meet them there. And give them her name. He parks between the house and a row of trees, where the car is hidden from the road. The back door is unlocked, and Dick sweeps the house before ushering Rachel in. Several minutes later, the back door opens again, and the girl in the sweatshirt walks in, coming face-to-muzzle with Dick’s gun. Her hands are raised as he lowers the gun.

“Sorry,” Dick apologizes as he holsters it.

“Not a problem. I’d give it a few hours before leaving,” the girl says, moving past them.

“Thank you. For yesterday and right now,” Rachel says.

“Least I could do. I’ll be in the back room if you need anything.”

Rachel waits until she is out of earshot to turn toward Dick and ask, “She really reminds you of this girl doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Dick sighs. “That obvious?”

“Your shame is practically choking me. Why did you hurt her?"

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s not an excuse, Dick.”

Rachel walks toward the back room, determined to find a way to help Dick get over his hurt.

Omar, Ohio – 2 Months Ago

“Take your hands off the girl,” you demand as you enter the dark room.

Three men turn toward you, one raising a gun as the others take a step closer. You see a girl tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth, blood everywhere, and fear in her eyes. 

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, sweetheart,” the man with the gun growls.

“Right back at ya,” you say, taking a threatening step toward him.

The two other men charge toward you. You catch one of their fists as they throw it toward you, twisting him in front of you to encounter the brunt of the other man’s hit as he throws it. Their shared momentum knocks them both to the floor. You slide across the floor, elbowing the third man’s knee as you grab his hand, flipping his wrist so the gun falls to the floor. You pick it up and level it at his temple.

“One more time: let the girl go,” you demand slowly.

One of the men on the floor throws a knife, which spins in the air and nicks your arm. You glance toward him before swinging the gun and taking three shots, taking out one knee on every man. As they groan in pain and roll on the floor, you untie the girl and ask her where to go. She directs me to her father’s diner.

“I’m looking for Dan,” you say as you carry her through the back door.

Dan comes running, grabbing his first aid kit as he sits beside her. “Your arm needs attention?” he asks as he points to your scarred forearm and the small bloody patch from the knife.

“No, I’m all good. Thank you.” You begin to stand, but he stops you, refusing to let you leave until you eat something.

“You’ll never pay here. Come back anytime,” Dan says when you leave an hour later.

Omar, Ohio – Present Day

“Sorry about him,” Rachel says as she walks into the back room.

“It’s completely fine.” The girl in the sweatshirt laughs softly, her hand playing with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rachel says as she sits in a chair across from her.

“How long have they been looking for you?”

“About a week. Since they killed my mom.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rachel shrugs. “Just so you know, the guy I’m with, Dick, he’s a cop. And he’s not usually this weird.”

She laughs again, looking up long enough that Rachel can see her face.

“You remind him of someone he used to know.”

She shakes her head before changing the subject. “You’re Rachel, right? I’m assuming you can do something, otherwise, they wouldn’t be looking for you.”

“I can feel what other people are feeling. There’s something inside of me, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Rachel, you can learn to control it. It’s obvious you’re a good person.”

“I tried to read your emotions at the diner yesterday,” Rachel admits, “but you have a lot, and they were overlapping.”

“A lot has happened to me in the last few years. I don’t even know what I’m feeling all the time.”

“They’re clearer now. You’re sad and regretful,” Rachel says quietly.

“I don’t care that you’re looking, Rach. The more you use your powers, the better you’ll get at them. And you’re dead on.”

“Sometimes, when I touch people I can see some of their memories,” Rachel explains.

The girl in the sweatshirt smiles. “You don’t even know my name.”

“What’s your name?”

She extends her hand and answers, “Find out.”

Gotham City is cold in winter, and the freezing rain is not helping the temperature issue. Robin is fighting behind me, our backs touching as we take down the last of the numerous bad guys.

“Nice work,” Robin says as he smiles at me. “But you’re cold, stop touching me.”

“Oh? I am cold? Your Kevlar is practically frozen,” I respond sarcastically.

He pulls me into his side, pressing the button on his belt to turn on his cape heater.

The setting changes: a large door opens, and an umbrella is placed in a bin, destined to be forgotten.

“-left last night. He left you this.”

An envelope trades hands, and a name is written on it. The door is opened and closed, then running in the rain gives way to stressed packing and boarding a bus. The same envelope is unopened years later, a new scar appears on a forearm, the same backpack is stashed in a motel, and a sweatshirt is the most prized possession.

Omar, Ohio – Present Day

“It was you,” Rachel says, her eyes wide as her hand slips from yours.

“What was?” you ask.

“You’re the girl Dick left, the one he’s feeling so guilty and sad about.”

“He what?”

“He saw you in the diner and was reminded of a girl he used to know. He said they ‘did stuff together.’ You don’t look like that girl; you are that girl.”

“What did you see?” you ask, confused about how exactly her powers work.

“I see some of the most important things in your life. I saw you fighting with Robin and then learning that someone left. You’ve been on the run since then, haven’t you? And the sweatshirt means something.”

“What do you know about Robin?”

“I know who he is. I know what he went through. I think you two should talk.”

A noise outside causes you to stand suddenly. “Stay here.”

You walk out, seeing Dick holding his gun as he moves toward a window. You move to the other side of the room, by another door, and stand against the wall as the door is kicked open. A hand holding a gun comes inside; you grab the wrist and slam it down against your knee. The gun hits the floor and slides away. The man raises both hands to your shoulders, pushing you backward and into the wall. You form a fist and slam it up into his chin, his head snapping back as his grip on you loosens. While you fight him, Dick takes on a second man who enters the house.

Dick moves behind the door, grabbing the man’s shirt collar and flipping him to the floor. He attempts to get information from him but comes up empty. Slamming his fist to his nose repeatedly, Dick doesn’t stop until the man loses consciousness. He looks over and sees the girl in the sweatshirt standing from the floor, wiping blood from her nose.

“That was impressive. You two could be partners,” Rachel says as she walks in, smirking as she looks over at you.

Dick opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, telling them, “You two should get out of here while you still can.”

“I’m not leaving,” Rachel says, crossing her arms. “Not until you two talk.”

“About what?” Dick asks.

“Rachel,” you warn.

“She’s right. We do need to get going.”

“Show him.”

“Either we need to leave, or I need more information,” Dick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A phone rings in the back room, and you walk away to answer it, releasing a breath as you realize it was Kelsey.

“What was that about?” Dick whispers.

“You two have to talk before you never get a chance again,” Rachel says.

“Someone broke into your house and assaulted several officers,” you say as you return, “the police are calling a nationwide manhunt for you, Rachel.”

“I am not leaving without you,” she says, stepping toward you and grabbing your hand. 

Her eyes fall to the sleeve before she glances up at you and pushes the sleeve up. You push it back down quickly and look away from her.

“I can’t go with you,” you say sadly, shaking your head.

“You can if you want to,” Dick offers, “you’ve been a huge help.”

You look toward Rachel, who only nods as she squeezes your hand.

“Just tell him,” Rachel whispers.

You take a deep breath before you look up and pull your hood down. “Hi, Dickie.”

Dick’s eyes widen as he takes a hesitant step forward.

“Rachel said I remind you of someone,” you say. “I thought-“

Dick cuts you off by rushing forward and hugging you tightly. You return the hug, gripping him tightly and burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I left,” Dick whispers.

“It’s okay.”

“Tell him everything else,” Rachel encourages from beside you.

You squeeze Dick one more time before pulling back and saying, “I left Gotham City after you did. Alfred gave me the letter and I just ran. I’ve been in a bunch of small cities since then, but nowhere as long as here. I saved Dan’s daughter from some kidnappers and just stayed for some reason.”

“Alfred said he didn’t know where you went after Benton,” Dick says.

“I cut my tracker out in Benton,” you explain, pulling your sleeve up and exposing the scar.

He reaches forward and gently runs his fingers up the scar. “Tracker?”

“Right. Bruce told me he sedated you when he gave you yours, something about you being too excited about being in the bat cave.”

“He put a tracker in me?”

“He put trackers in all of us.”

The phone rings twice before silencing. “That’s our cue to leave,” you say.

Columbus, Ohio – 1 Week Later

“How’s your arm?” you ask as you enter the room.

“Healing quickly,” Dick answers, smiling as he looks up at you from the hotel bed.

“Looks good,” you say, gently holding his arm, “yours probably won’t scar.”

“Pizza’s here,” Rachel calls as someone knocks on the door.

Dick answers the door and gets the pizza while you and Rachel get drinks from the mini-fridge. You all sit on the small couch as you eat, and you can’t help but think of old times. The following morning, you, Dick, and Rachel load into Dick’s car and drive toward Covington. 

“Are you going to tell him?” Rachel asks as we wait in the car while Dick goes into a police station. 

“Tell him what?’

“That you still love him.”

“I-“

“I can feel it. I could feel it when he was Robin and when you found out he left, in the safe house, and right now.”

“I don’t know, Rach.”

Dick sighs as he gets back in the car. “I got the description of the woman who broke into the crime scene.”

“Where to now?” you ask.

“Arcade. 5 miles north,” Rachel answers.

You laugh lightly as you shrug at Dick.

“An hour,” Dick says as he puts the car in gear.

“And a half,” you and Rachel correct together.

You give her some cash before you and Dick find a seat where you can see the entire arcade.

“You’re good with her,” you say as you steal a fry from his plate.

He playfully swats your hand away before moving his plate closer. “So are you,” he agrees.

You watch Rachel for a moment before looking down at your sweatshirt sleeve.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, his hand landing on your arm.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod, still looking down. “This sweatshirt is the only connection I’ve had to you for the last four years.”

“What?”

You extend your arm toward him, watching his face as he grabs your wrist and looks at the sleeve, his initials and a small Robin messily embroidered on it. 

“You kept it?” he asks.

“Of course, I did.”

“Mine’s in the trunk of my car,” he admits, smiling as he looks back up at you.

“Really?”

“You think that I’d leave it after all the hard work we put into them? I couldn’t leave it behind; it felt like leaving you behind. I tried to call you.”

“I left my phone; didn’t want Bruce to come after me.”

“Why does Rachel keep telling you to talk to me?”

You laugh before answering, “There’s something I haven’t told you and she wants me to.”

“What?”

“That I’m in love with you,” you whisper, looking into his eyes.

Dick is silent as he stares at you, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said any-“

Dick pulls your wrist gently, slamming his lips to yours. His other hand raises and wraps around the base of your neck, pulling you closer. You move your hands to his waist, pulling yourself closer to him as you kiss him like he’s your source of life.

“I take it you told him,” Rachel says, suddenly standing on the other side of the table.

Dick pulls back, smiling at you before saying, “Shut up, Rachel.”

“I’m out of money.”

Dick pulls a fifty from his wallet, handing it to her and smiling in gratitude as she walks away. She nods and returns the smile.

“I love you,” Dick says.

“I love you,” you respond, stealing another one of his fries.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. I wanted to find you but had no idea where to look.”

“Rachel was right. We could be partners. Again.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Grayson,” you smile before kissing him again.

“You didn’t read the letter did you?”

“I couldn’t,” you admit, shaking your head, “hurt too much. Why?”

“I wrote it to tell you I loved you. I wanted to take you with me but was scared.”

“I guess I should read it then, because I love you, too, Dickie.”

You and Dick watch as Rachel walks toward you, a tall woman with bright Magenta hair on one side and a green-haired boy on her other side. 

When they reach the table, Rachel says, “This is Kory and Gar. They have some interesting stories.”

“This feels familiar,” you mutter to Dick as you stand up.

“I’m gonna need a bigger car,” Dick says as he wraps his arm around your shoulders.