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julymusings · 1 month ago

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melting | 18+

take one look at you, you’re heaven’s incarnate; what is this spell, baby, please show some mercy.

or; after a long, grueling patrol, jason comes home to your sleeping figure laid temptingly on display for him. [3.1k]

jason todd x f!reader; SMUT‼️ CW: soft sex😛somnophilia/free use(prev. consent implied), thighjob, unprotected p in v, cockwarming. + a lil biting; needy touch starved jason😈😈 but then fluffy; based on ask!!; can you tell i'm ovulating.

It’s almost dawn when Jason climbs in through the window of your shared bedroom, tossing his gear bag on the ground and landing after it with barely a sound. His limbs are heavy and bone-tired from the last five hours spent beating up criminals on the street, and he wants nothing more than to plant face-first into bed and pass out for the next twelve hours. The ceiling fan whirs on the highest setting in your bedroom, and the cool current is a welcome change from the dry summer heat outside. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the haphazard shower he took at the safe house where he peeled off his suit and stashed it away in his bag.

He slides the window shut as his eyes adjust to the darkness, making sure to draw the blinds to keep the sunrise from disturbing his sleep. And then he sees it.

Right there, on display like an oil painting in a museum, blankets pushed aside, your naked form lies draped across the bed like a marble sculpture in a museum. You’re lying on your side with your back to him, which only accentuates the dip of your waist before it rounds into the curve of your waist, like the perfect handle for him to grab onto and squeeze until you make that high-pitched gasping sound you always do when he grips you with the promise of purple and red stains the next morning. His gaze traces down your body leaving a burning trail in its wake until he lands on the plump lips of your perfect cunt that peek through your thighs.

His heart speeds up in his chest, a burst of adrenaline and anticipation coursing through him. He dares to take a step closer, though he knows that the closer he gets, the less control he’ll have. What was the agreement? Right— wearing pajama bottoms meant you didn’t want to be disturbed, but anything else was fair game. He can count on one hand the number of times he has felt compelled to do this— he much prefers you awake so he can hear the sound of your pleading moans begging for more, feel your nails sinking into his skin and clawing down his back when your release is too intense to bear. But tonight, after the debilitating patrol he just endured, after you so kindly put your perfect body on display for him, he needs this release— needs you.

Jason takes off his shirt and tosses it on the foot of the bed, with the rest of his clothing quick to follow. The clink of his belt buckle, the ceiling fan static; all are drowned out by the roaring blood rushing from his head and straight to his dick. He feels desperate—pathetic, even, with how much his body trembles as he gingerly crawls onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you around and wake you. He kneels over you and rests a hand on your hip. The feel of your warm, soft skin punches out a shaky breath from him, and he drags it down your figure, following your body’s dips and valleys down to your thigh. He gently grips the skin tighter, groaning lowly at the feeling of your soft body moulding to his touch. His fingers trail back up, tracing the slit of your pussy with his middle finger. You hum lazily in your sleep. He slips his finger between your lips and runs it up and down, circling your entrance and stopping just before he reaches your clit. He leans down and brushes feather-light kisses up your arm, inhaling your scent and savoring the warmth and growing wetness.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers into your shoulder.

His dick is fully hard now, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He loves this feeling, loves you and the heat of your body, enough to get lost in it for hours. A sigh escapes your sleepy lips when he circles your slick entrance again, and your hips move forward. His finger slips out of you, covered in your essence. Jason pants, already breathless as he spits in his hand and strokes his cock with a mixture of his saliva and you. He gives himself a few pumps and presses his tip to the juncture of your thighs.

He pushes it in, biting back a groan at the feeling of your soft thighs encasing him. He fucks himself between them, captivated by the sight of it slowly slipping in and out. His hand jumps from your hip to the bed, and he fists the sheets between his fingers, clenching his jaw so hard it might pop. Though he keeps his thrusts slow, your silken skin feels so good around his dick, and he can feel pearls of precum dribbling from his tip, which his strokes smear against the inside of your thighs, painting you with him. His length is sliding against your pussy, gathering more of your slick. He pulls himself out far enough for his head to drag against your folds, and you moan softly in your sleep. Jason peeks at your face; your brows are drawn tightly together, teeth pressed a fraction of an inch into your bottom lip as your hips start moving back and forth of their own volition.

You want more, and he’ll gladly give it to you. But he knows that if he gives in too quickly, he won’t last more than a minute before he’s spilling inside you, and he needs this to last. The visual itself in his mind—finding his release in your warm pussy, pumping his hot come inside you and watching it leak out of you and all over your thighs, dripping onto the bed and ruining the sheets—he’s throbbing between your legs. He needs to pull away from you completely so that the image alone doesn’t make this end before it has even started.

He lets out a pained whimper, leaning back into a kneel with his hands fisted so hard into the sheets that they’ve turned a stark white. His breathing is labored, and his cock aches from the deprivation of you. His entire body is clenched so tight it hurts, bringing tears to his eyes.

But then, you move. The loss of him, hard and heavy, and rubbing against your lips, makes you whine. You turn over in your sleep, pressing your thighs together tightly to abate your need, and your back hits the bed, baring to him your full face, your tits your stomach. Jason curses under his breath when your knee falls open and reveals your wet, leaking pussy practically begging for him to fill it with his cock

He can’t stop staring at you, though. You are so beautiful, he thinks. And you’re all mine. And I’m all yours.

Jason adjusts himself so that he’s kneeling over you, caging you between his legs. One hand finds the bed right beside your head to hold him up, and the other comes to cup your face. His thumb lightly traces your cheek, and he lowers himself to brush his lips against your forehead, then moves lower to your lips, and then continues, blazing a trail down your throat with his mouth, his hand following suit.

He kisses down to your breast, all around your nipple, before finally using the flat of his tongue to press into it and mimic a similar sensation on the other with his thumb. He keeps his touches feather-light, enjoying the way your body unconsciously responds: the faint moans that get stuck in your throat, the sharp breaths that escape from your lips. Your body twitches when he takes it into his mouth and sucks, and your back arches slightly off the bed, but he releases you before you can get too worked up.

His cock is heavy and aching, and his whole body feels hot with an urgent need to be inside you. He takes it in his hand and pushes the tip between your lips. He slides it down to your entrance to feel your wetness before dragging it back up and pressing his head to your clit. Your hips jump at the sensation, and it only pushes him harder against you. A groan escapes him at the same time as a breathy whine blows through your lips.

“I know, baby,” Jason mutters quietly. “'M gonna take care of you.”

When he slides into you the first inch, his entire body shudders. Your sleeping figure twitches as he withdraws to his tip, then thrusts in further. Slowly, he continues, pulling out and pushing back in a little further until his hips are flush against yours. He’s holding himself up on two trembling arms with raggedy breathing, and you’re sleepily, mindlessly grinding against him.

He whispers your name into the darkness, and his voice is so soft, so enamored with every part of you. With the way your hair spills perfectly over your shoulders, your fluttering eyelashes, and velvety lips that are drawn into a pout as you search for a pleasure only he can give you. Your body, your nipples that have hardened to stiff points against the night air, the fading teeth marks on your shoulders, the red and purple love bites scattered over your hips. Enamored by how much you love him, enough to not only give your body to him like this, but also to trust him with it. He remembers the first time you were in his bed, when he was so nervous about messing this up, about losing control and scaring you away. And how you cradled his face in your hands and kissed him all over, whispered those four words against his lips, and he knew he was forever gone for you—

I trust you, Jason.

Then, he starts to fuck you— really fuck you, with slow, deep strokes that send shockwaves through his entire body. He pushes your legs out a little wider so he can fuck you even deeper and angles himself just so, in the way that always makes you throw your head back and squeeze him until he sees spots— and that’s exactly what you do. You clamp down on him hard, and he whimpers brokenly, dropping his head to rest next to yours. Your breathing is much heavier now, tiny whines escaping from your throat with each breath.

What started as long, hard strokes has turned to shallow, messy rutting, with Jason reduced to simply grinding his hips against yours. He buries his face into your pillow to muffle the embarrassingly desperate moan that comes from you gripping him so tightly. It’s so good, but he needs more. He speeds up the movement of his hips, keening into the pillow because he’s so needy it hurts, but it still isn’t enough.

But he can feel the pattern of your breathing change, feel your heart rate increase, and he knows that you’re both on your way there. He pushes himself up on one hand to hover over you, and lets the other hand slide under your lower back and lift it by a few inches. He drags his cock out, all the way to the tip, and thrusts it hard back into you. Your head falls back with a sharp gasp. He does it again, and your legs tremble, eyelids fluttering as you begin to stir. He keeps going, both of you close to coming and moaning through your half-asleep pleasure.

Your legs are practically quaking now, and your back arches of its own volition as your cunt leaves a creamy white ring around the base of his cock. Jason’s hand slides around to your front and his thumb rubs circles over your clit. All it takes is one more thrust and your eyes flutter open, hands fisting into the sheets and mouth falling agape with a silent scream.

“Jason,” you gasp, followed by a loud, broken moan as you come. Your walls clench and contract, and his forehead drops to your shoulder with a choked gasp as he follows right behind you. Your cunt spasms around him and he finishes inside you with hot, sharp bursts of come.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. He rides out his orgasm with wet, sloppy thrusts, and you keep grinding against him throughout yours; all the while his pressure remains even and firm on your sensitive clit.

“Baby,” you whine. You’re stuffed so full of him, you can feel him in your bones. But he’s still coming; it leaks out of you and drips down your thighs, around his balls, onto the sheets.

He moans into your neck as the spurts of come begin to die down, and his thrusts slow. You’re out of breath, breathing heavily into his hair when it’s over and still trembling from aftershocks. Your hands release the sheets and slide up to wrap around him. He does the same with your waist, holding you so tight, as if you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. One of your hands finds his hair, and you scratch at his scalp.

“I thought I was having a very vivid, very good dream about you,” you joke quietly, still panting.

Jason chuckles into your neck. His breathing is rapid, and your hearts beat frantically against each other.

“I missed you,” he breathes, so quietly that you wouldn’t have heard it if his lips weren’t moving right against your skin.

“You have a nice way of showing it,” you mumble back, tired but still feeling giggly and fucked out.

You use your grip on his hair to pull his head up to yours. His eyes are shiny, gazing at you like you’re a sight to behold. You guide him to your lips, capturing him in a kiss so sweet his body feels like warm honey is seeping through it.

He keeps kissing you as he turns to lie on his side next to you. He hugs you tight, pressing your back against his chest. He cradles your jaw, and you make a soft sound when his dick brushes against that spot inside you.

“I love you,” you whisper into his mouth, but it gets lost in a sigh when he sucks on your bottom lip.

You’re in love with the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against you, inside you. So you hold him tight, not letting him leave you, staying intertwined, living on stolen breaths and drunk on the afterglow.

He breaks the kiss to pull the blanket over your damp, sticky bodies.

“Can never get enough of you,” Jason says into your hair, sounding utterly wrecked.

Your hands settle over his, drawing shapes on the arms wrapped around your torso. “You’ll always have me,” you say softly.

And when you wake again a couple hours later, worked back to the brink with his hands on your hips and him groaning whispers of praise and declarations of love into your hair as he fucks you again, this time from behind, your hand reaches up behind you to thread through his hair and push your lips to his. You moan into his mouth when his thick cock fills all the space you give him, dragging along all the right spots.

“Baby,” he whispers, mouthing along your jaw and down your neck, across your shoulder.

You sigh dreamily when he nips at your ear.

“Feels good?” He asks.

“Faster,” you moan, tipping your head back to fall on his shoulder.

He tightens his grip on your hips and fucks you faster. The sound of his skin slapping against yours rings in your ears.

“’S that better, baby?” Jason croons, and you can only moan in response.

He grins into your hair and wraps one arm around your waist to keep his grip on you, while the other slips between your legs to rub your clit. He does it hard and fast, and pain melds with pleasure in the short moment it takes for you to break once more. You shudder around him, quieter and more relaxed than the first time, but your body is set alight all the same. You roll onto your stomach, pulling him along with you, deaf to his confused protests. Your mind is tunneled on feeling, gone completely blank except for the feverish desire to have him harder, deeper, more.

He gets the message and follows you. Your salacious noises are buried in the pillows and your back arches, pushing your ass against him as he pumps into you through his own strenuous moans. His weight is heavy on top of you, but it only feeds into your desperation to be surrounded by him.

“So—ugh—so good, baby,” Jason slurs into your skin, his voice rough and guttural from where sleepiness meets euphoria.

The chain hanging from his neck taps against your back with each of his thrusts before following the length of your spine when he kisses his way down each vertebra. You feel the cool metal scraping back up when he licks his way back to your neck, tasting the sweat that beads along the column.

His palm slides up your side to grab a handful of your breast, which he squeezes and kneads with a searing grip.

“Gettin’— fuck.” He buries his face in your shoulder, letting his words turn to unintelligible whines.

“Jay,” you whimper. “I’m—I need—”

“Me too,” he groans. “T-touch that pretty clit for me, honey.”

You reach between your legs to find the swollen, sensitive bud of nerves. Your cunt flutters and drips your arousal around him. His cock makes a wet, squelching sound as he fucks you harder. His rutting gets more erratic until he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and comes again with a final slam of his hips. The pressure in your core builds and builds, and it reaches its crescendo when you feel the sting of the bite and his warmth spilling inside you. You arch into him with a loud cry and come all over his cock, just in time for your body to give out and collapse on the sheets. Jason goes down with you, going limp atop your back. The weight is welcome and grounding.

The two of you lie there for some time, enjoying each other’s heaving breaths that fill the silence as you float back into your bodies. You must drift off again, because the rest of the early morning is hazy and you only recall brief flashes of sensation; sticky come from now and before spilling out of you when Jason lifts himself up, something warm and damp running over your thighs and your center.

And when a warm weight settles in at your side, and your forehead is ghosted with a kiss, whispered into your skin is something that sounds like thank you.

is it unrealistic that reader stays asleep through all that😭tbh idc i like that she stays asleep until right before her orgasm i think it's hot. and anyway why am i worried about a fanfiction about a superhero vigilante who was resurrected from the dead by a magical immortality pool being realistic! get a grip girl!

anyway. this was fun to write because i just like the idea of obsession + devotion + complete trust w someone & writing that manifestation in somno. idk. i rlly put my hole heart and soul and julussy into this lmfao

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edward-munson · 10 days ago

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bring me to life | E.M.

Summary: Eddie has had many dark days in his life. Until he meets you. Until he starts sharing his days with you– filled with late-night drives, shared smoke sessions, and laughter that feels like safety.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x f!Reader

Warnings: Smut (protected p in v), oral, mentions of drug use, hurt/comfort, fluff

Word count: 10.2k

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Eddie had only set his eyes on you once. When he put on a show at the cafeteria in front of the entire school. When Jason Carver called him a freak, you couldn’t help but snort at Eddie's demeanor. Your reaction made him snap his head directly at you with a sly smile. You've never exchanged glances after that.

He likes to sit on the bench in the middle of the woods, where he usually gets to sell his shit. It's his spot for that, no one ever goes there unless it's for buying. At least that's what he always told himself. It's just him and the trees, this time. The weather is slicing cold. Whenever he breathes, the fog leaves his mouth dramatically. He's looking at his lunchbox, his trembling fingers tapping incessantly against it.

He doesn't want to use it. He swore to himself he would never try anything else rather than weed. He's done it before and it didn't feel good. Well, he wasn't supposed to mix drugs with alcohol, but he was too overwhelmed that week and he needed to cool off. His friend offered him LSD and he didn't deny it at the moment.

Eddie never used it again. He preferred weed. But now, everything else just feels irrelevant. He's almost failing school again, the town thinks he's a major freak. Not only just a freak, a cult Satanist who apparently likes to summon demons or whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. His name is stained. People look at him weird. Chrissy doesn't even acknowledge him anymore, even though they had dated in the past. It's been only a year. Now she's dating Jason. He huffs– of course. They're perfect for each other.

He opens the lunchbox and picks up the plastic bag. It's ketamine. He knows he's not supposed to overtake it. He knows only a small amount is enough to get him to feel numb. It's the numbness that makes him get through the days. His friends, Jeff and Gareth, have no idea what goes on in his head. He never tells them. Eddie never tells Wayne. Or Dustin. He doesn't think it's going to make any difference anyway.

His hands still shake as he raises the plastic bag and looks at the Special K. He only ever sells it. He's never even tried it. Eddie knows it's easier and faster to kick in if he injects it, but he would rather just snort it. He licks his lips, feeling his blood rushing and his heart racing.

He just wants to feel peaceful. He just wants the numbness.

Until his thoughts are interrupted by a rustling sound among the trees. You suddenly appear, but you don't see him right away. He hurriedly shoves the plastic bag into the lunchbox and closes it, trying to nonchalantly pretend he wasn't about to take Special K. You're wearing headphones, holding a book in your hands, completely unaware of your surroundings.

Eddie watches you carefully, amused to see the way you're so distracted that you still don't notice he's sitting right across from where you take a seat. He doesn't say anything at first, but he doesn't want to scare you, so he wiggles his fingers in front of you. You're startled at first, quickly pulling your headphones off and placing your book over the table.

"Jesus, you scared me."

He huffs a small laugh "Sorry, didn't mean that."

You close the book and pause the tape in your walkman, glancing up at him.

"You okay?"

There's something about him that is intriguing. He seems too loud, too smooth and too confident at school. The moment he leaves the door, he's a whole different person. You have never talked, but you have noticed it before. The way he tries to avoid social interaction even with his friends. The way he seems to always be too distant, always smoking a cigarette looking into nothing.

He shrugs. It's a lie of a shrug. Nothing about him is okay. You look at him for a long time, eyes narrowing a little like you're trying to read a language he doesn't speak anymore.

"You're not" You point it out.

"I didn't know anyone would be out here. I come here when I want to be alone" You say a little shyly.

"Same" He says in a low, rough voice.

You nod, as if you understand it. You pull the sleeves of your hoodie in discomfort, like you're trying not to feel awkward.

"Want me to leave?" You ask, trying not to stare into him for too long.

He opens his mouth and then closes it.

"No, stay" He mutters.

You nod again, and silence fills the air. It stretches for several minutes, you don't know exactly what to say and he's not in the mood to talk. Even though he tries to make sense in his head why the hell you are still sitting here, even though you asked if he wanted you to leave. You were never like the other people who glare at him. You don't judge him or look at him differently, even though you don't know each other well. You're genuine, and you don’t see him as broken.

You don't know what he carries in the lunchbox, but he seems to be staring at it so intently that it makes you wonder just why the hell he's doing that. You don't ask him, though. But somehow, for the first time, he doesn't feel numb. He feels seen.

You offer him to listen to the music in your walkman, he shades your music taste and you start an argument about it. It's not a fight, it's just a conversation. It makes him get so distracted that he forgets what he was supposed to do minutes before you got there. He laughs when you say things so naturally. Eddie looks so much more like the person you see at school, even though you know people don't actually like him.

Eddie left the woods with you on his side, he offered you a ride to your house, a place you share with Robin. You invited him for dinner because you knew he was having a hard moment before you stumbled upon him, but he denied it. You had offered him to have dinner with you too many times, you tried to convince him it was fine, that Robin wouldn't mind. He didn't want to. He didn't feel welcome.

He started inviting you to smoke weed with him in his bedroom instead of spending his time alone. At first, he's kind of nervous to have someone else inside of his personal space, but he wanted company. He wanted you to make him company. It was the first time you were actually witnessing him having fun after so long.

He glances up at you with a crooked little smirk "You ever smoked before?"

You raise an eyebrow at his question "What kind of question is that?"

He shrugs "An honest one. Could go either way with you."

You toss a Froot Loop at him. It bounces off his chest and he catches it midair with his mouth, triumphantly.

"Well?" He coaxes.

You hesitate just a second too long "A few times. Nothing major."

He grins as if that was the answer he'd been waiting for and reaches under his bed to get a wooden box that looks too beat up, with Metallica sticks that are faded and almost peeled off at the sides "Wanna get a little high with me?"

You chew on a rainbow-colored loop thoughtfully, then nod "Yeah. Okay."

"Cool." He says it casually.

But there's a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Excitement, maybe. Nervousness, definitely. You shift on the bed, bouncing your feet as you watch him roll the joint slowly, with a care you didn't expect, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips while he focuses.

"You do this a lot?" You ask.

"Not as much lately" He licks the paper to seal it, and the action suddenly makes your stomach flutter "But… sometimes. When the noise gets too loud upstairs."

He is referring to thoughts in his mind, and you understand what that means. And the only way to make it easier is to read a book in the middle of the woods. Or to spend time with Steve.

Shit, Steve. You were supposed to meet him earlier that day and you completely forgot about it. You wince when you think about him, about the way he must have been worried at first, and then probably mad after calling your place and finding out you were not there.

He lights it and takes a slow drag, then hands it to you without ceremony. You take it between your fingers, inhale cautiously, feel the slow warmth spread down into your chest. It's smoother than you expected. Softer.

"See? "You're a natural" He says with a grin while watching the smoke leave your lips.

You exhale toward the ceiling and give him a lazy smile "I think I'm just trying to impress you."

He laughs and leans his head back against the dresser with a satisfied sigh "Shit. You already do."

There's a long silence after that, but not awkward. It's quiet, intimate. The kind of silence that makes everything else fade out, like the hum of the fridge down the hall. He feels weird after saying something like that out loud, and curses himself for talking too much.

You take another hit and pass it back, his fingers brush against yours.

"Y'know, you being here... it's kinda weird" He says as smoke curls out of his mouth.

You glance down at him, surprised. "Weird how?"

He shrugs, his eyes moving to follow the trace of smoke "Just– I don't usually hang out with people like this. In here. It's my little cave, you know? Most people don't stick around long enough to see it."

You look around his messy room, his bed is unmade, there are faded posters on the wall and too many guitar picks spread on his night stand. Somehow, you're glad they weren't condoms.

"I like it here" You say honestly.

His eyes flick to yours and his brows crease "Yeah?"

You nod "It's… you."

He looks away again, suddenly shy, and hands you the joint "Be careful. Say things like that and I might start thinking you mean it."

"I do mean it" You say quietly, taking another drag. "I'm not here out of pity, Munson."

He grins without looking at you after a beat of a moment passed "Yeah, well. You'd have to pity yourself too, being seen in this disaster zone."

You laugh, curling up tighter on the bed, starting to feel the high settling inside of you "You're not that much of a disaster."

"Oh, I absolutely am" He says as he climbs the bed and dramatically flops down beside you with a sigh "I'm a walking tornado of long hair, bad decisions, and emotional damage."

You nudge him with your knee "You forgot 'kind of sweet sometimes when you're not looking.'"

He goes quiet at that. Eddie turns his head on the pillow to look at you, a soft look in his eyes "You think I'm sweet?"

"You say that like it's something impossible" You reply.

He stares at you for a second like he's not sure what to do with that. Then he looks up at the ceiling "Shit. I'm so high right now."

You laugh, and the sound makes his eyes flick back to you again, like he can't help it. He reaches out, like instinct, and gently tugs on the hem of your sleeve.

"Thanks for being here tonight" He says a little quieter.

You nudge your foot against his "Thanks for asking me."

You just lie there, even though the joint is nearly burned out, just side by side. Not touching, but close enough to feel each other's warmth in that moment. He keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye.

And you pretend not to notice.

You really needed to have a conversation with Steve at this point. You've been turning down every invitation to go out with him. Either it was something you had to do, or simply because you wanted to stay with Eddie instead. But it wasn't fair to him, even though you didn't have anything serious going on. You slowly became distant, like you were avoiding him, and he started to notice the way you kept giving him excuses.

And you didn't know why, you didn't know how. It felt like a magnet kept pulling you back to Eddie.

You get inside Benny's, sliding into the booth across from Steve at the same spot you've always been to. The sunset crosses the table and catches the rims of his sunglasses, as he pushes them up into his hair. He's already got your order waiting, the same as always. That used to mean something. At least to him.

You sit down and smile at him and he does the same. Although, there's something different about the way his lips curl and it makes your stomach flinch.

"Hey, you made it" He says gently and you nod.

"I did" You pick the fries and dip them in your favorite sauce.

"So, how's Eddie?" His voice is light, somehow.

You blink "Eddie?"

"Yeah" He leans back in the booth, arms crossed, but not in a mean way. He just seems closed off "The guy you've been with every day for the last, I don't know, three weeks?"

Your heart does that uncomfortable flip with guilt, mostly. But also something else, something you're not sure how to name yet.

"I didn't realize it was that obvious" You murmur.

Suddenly the fries didn't seem very appetizing for you anymore.

Steve just gives you a half-smile "You forgot to meet me the other night. Remember?"

Your stomach turns again.

"Oh god. Steve, I'm so sorry. I completely spaced, I thought it was next Thursday."

You didn't space, you were getting high with Eddie that day. Or maybe you did space a little bit.

You cover your mouth with your hand and sigh.

"Shit. That's not like me. I didn't mean to–"

"I know you didn't. I know" He says quickly.

You look at each other as silence between you sharpens, as he looks down at his own dish for a moment.

"I'm sorry I've been a shitty friend" You reach out for his hand and Steve glances up at you with a small smile on his face.

"Yeah you were, a little bit" You scoff and swat his hand away, ripping a chuckle from his mouth.

"I'm gonna have to make it up to you, don't I?"

He tilts his head, rubbing his chin theatrically. You roll your eyes "Yeah, pretty much. But don't worry, I won't be mean."

You both chuckle as you look at each other for a moment. He reaches for your hand again and you take his hand, your fingers grazing his skin. The softness of his hand has always been one of your favorite things about him. It made you feel wanted, it made you feel safe. But maybe it could still make you feel safe, even if not in the same way as before.

"So, Eddie…" He drags, stealing a few fries from your plate.

"What about him?"

"You two are pretty close" He says nonchalantly, like he can see there's more to it than you'd ever admit.

"He's a good friend, it's nice to have someone as crazy as he is around" Your voice almost – almost – sounds like syrup. Like it gives off something more.

Steve hums and starts bombing you with questions about Eddie, your friendship, your small encounters in the woods. Where you listen to music, where Eddie spends his time judging your music taste all the time.

He listens to you ramble and notices the way your eyes sparkle with affection when you talk about the metalhead.

You get a ride back home with him, you wish you could invite him inside and stay with him for the rest of the night. But it didn't feel right anymore. Something inside of you kept screaming back saying that it wasn't what you really wanted. Not with him, at least. So you give him a kiss, the last one. It makes his stomach flutter and his heart race, but he knows it's temporary. He knows it's not what you really want.

Steve knows he's not the one you want to kiss, and he also knows this was never meant to be something.

That day, you were all invited to Reefer Rick's house party. Eddie picked Robin and you, told you to stay with him at all times and demanded you don't take any drugs from anyone. You both nodded, giggling at the mother-like figure, amused. You spent the whole night together, drinking and smoking his weed.

He had never felt more alive before. He missed his friends, he missed playing in the band. He had distanced himself because he didn't feel like himself anymore. It only happened because of you. Because you showed up before he made a decision that would change his entire life.

You're lying on the grass, chatting, laughing and making jokes that don't make sense. Whenever Rick showed up offering something different you would make a fuss about it and mock Eddie for telling you to not accept drugs from strangers. A few things changed that day. You had become closer, he and Robin became best friends.

He had finally gotten to know Steve, realizing the former jock wasn't a douchebag anymore. He was kinda nice, and funny. He was really close to the teens and that seemed to have made a difference.

It was the first time he actually got inside your house. He slept on the couch, woke up early– before you two. Made you breakfast, watered your plants. Eddie made you listen to the radio he usually likes to listen to. He made fun of yours and Robin's music taste. He even forgot he was hungover from drinking and smoking weed. Things seemed to have been pretty decent for him, he forgot why he was so upset in the first place.

But you noticed that crack between reality and fantasy he had suddenly created after you started hanging out. You noticed the subtle change of humor out of nowhere, the way his eyes would momentarily flick from happiness to sadness when no one was looking. You wanted to pull him aside and actually ask him how he was feeling, what was intriguing him.

You know he's not exactly the town's favorite person, you know people liked to scrutinize him in order to see if he was actually a devil worshiper. He's fucking far from that.

You would see the way Eddie would drop his gaze every time he and Steve were together. Like he was less important, like he wasn't worth being a friend. As if he was the outcast who people pitied. He didn't wear fancy clothes or colognes, he didn't have expensive cars. He didn't have a beautiful face and a good reputation. He wasn't a girl's magnet, and god– he had never wanted that anyway.

But you would never notice the way he looked at you when you smiled or laughed. Or when you made him breakfast or dinner. Or when you made stupid jokes just to make him laugh. The way he called you "sweetie" all the time for a reason, and maybe he knew he would never actually have you more than just a friend.

He couldn't stop looking at you. At school, he had to ground himself, otherwise he would spend the entire break in the cafeteria just gawking at you. He did it like a fucking hawk. When you would leave school with Steve or Robin, he would wonder what you were doing that day. Whenever you spent the days apart from him, he just stared into his bedroom wall thinking what it would be like to just sleep you.

And he means sleep, not sex. Obviously, he wanted to have sex with you, he's miserably in love with you and it hasn't even been that long since you've actually met each other properly. He's head over heels for you and he feels lame for that.

Because why on Earth someone just like you, would want to have anything to do with him?

The answer he doesn't know is: everything. Your eyes would always look for him at school. You would always check if his van was parked, even thought he'd told you Wayne also uses it every once in a while. You keep checking the woods, and when you see him sitting on that bench, your heart would start racing.

It was ridiculous. It felt like you were 12 years old. It felt like you had never been there before. And you did, once. It wasn't the greatest thing to ever happen to you though, but you had been in love before. Probably not like that.

You didn't know, but this one was ravishing. If you two weren't together, it was like the world just didn't function.

And when Eddie sees you with Steve? God, he just wished the ground beneath his feet would just open and swallow him. He got nothing compared to the former jock. Nothing.

Little did he know, you weren't sleeping with Steve anymore.

You were helping him wash his van. It was a spring afternoon, the sun was burning upon your heads. He didn't put on sunscreen and you know he was going to get sunburned, he was just too stubborn.

"Lift the hose a little more, so I can get the dust off" He asked, stepping onto a plastic chair.

He was wearing only shorts, and his body was covered in tattoos that stretched from his neck down to his waist, even across his stomach. You had rarely seen him shirtless before, and it made you feel flushed. Your cheeks burned, but you weren't sure if it was from the sun.

As he scrubbed the top of his van, you held the hose up.

"Sweetie" He says, pulling you out of your thoughts "You're almost soaking me!"

You look at him as water sprays from the hose, nearly drenching him. You giggle and splash water into his face with your arm. He scoffs, quickly steps down from the chair, covers his face, and drops the sponge he was using.

"You menace... You're gonna regret that!" His tone is playful and you laugh at him, your hand moving to cover him with water again "You're lucky it's hot!"

He steps toward you and you squeal when he wraps his arms around your waist.

"Eddie, no! Eddie–" He easily pulls the hose out of your hand and soaks you. You feel the goosebumps from the coldness, but it feels refreshing to be wet.

You try to snatch the hose from his hand, but he's stronger than you. The more you attempt to rip it out of his grasp, the more he holds you. Water sprays wildly as you both tumble slightly off-balance, landing in a puddle of water.

His arms wrap around you instinctively to keep you steady, and when the laughing starts to die down, he notices he's still holding you. Still flushed from the sun, from the chase, from something else that hasn't been said yet. He doesn't let you go. He doesn't want to let you go.

Eddie locks his eyes on your lips, it lingers there. He swallows harshly, feeling his heart thumping against his chest, his ears ringing. He hesitates, like he always does when something matters. He doesn't want to ruin things between you, he doesn't want to lose you. You're the only good thing that happened in his life. Well, Robin too. And maybe Steve. But you, you're different.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly on your waist, his breathing is shaky, but he doesn't move. As if he's afraid of messing it up, as though kissing you might burn him. But you do it first. You don't overthink it, you lean in and press your lips against his. Slowly and gently. His breath catches in his throat and he holds back the urge to grunt, he doesn't want to sound greedy.

And then he melts into it. His hand slides up to your back, into your wet hair, and his mouth moves against yours like he's been waiting a thousand lifetimes for this. He kisses you like you're both made of glass, careful to not break the moment. You have to pull back to catch your breath and he's staring at you like you just remade him entirely. Like he's in another universe.

"Holy shit" He whispers, ripping a giggle out of you.

"Yeah."

You look into each other like the rest of the world doesn't matter. But the hose splashes water across both your feet and you laugh, leaning your forehead against his. You feel the way he squeezes your waist like he doesn't want to let go of you, not yet.

Eddie pulls his van up on your driveway and kills the engine. His fingers grip the wheel a little too tight for his liking, because he doesn't want to let go of you, not yet. He's afraid that, if he does, you won't ever come back. And he doesn't want you to slip away from him.

His jaw tightens and his lips press together firmly. You unbuckle the seatbelt and turn over to look at him.

Your shirt is still clinging to your back, damp from the hose, and your hair is a mess. Eddie's fingers drum against the steering wheel like he's trying to keep himself calm.

You look at him and he's already looking at you.

There's a faint blush on his cheeks, the kind that doesn't match the usual bravado he carries around. His curls are still damp, one of them is stuck to his jaw. He looks half-boy, half-wrecked, like that kiss cracked something open he's not ready to put into words yet.

"You want me to walk you to the door?" He asks quietly, wincing at the question immediately.

What kind of question is that? You don't ask someone, you just do. He thinks.

You smile "You trying to be a gentleman now?"

He shrugs bashfully "Maybe I just want a reason to stay longer."

The sentence sits in the air between you. It's soft, but heavy at the same time. Your stomach keeps fluttering at the sight in front of you.

"I don't have to go in yet" You say simply.

He looks up at you, surprised. Then his whole face softens, like you just gave him the answer he needed.

"Okay. Cool. Yeah. Okay" He breathes and you chuckle at his nervousness.

You sit there like that, just… being. Your left hand rests on his bare knee and he hesitates. Should he take your hand between his and just leave it there?

"Can I ask you something?" He says suddenly.

You nod.

"Did you want to kiss me before I kissed you?"

"I kissed you" You correct, smiling.

He grins, looking down "Right, that. You know what I mean."

You squeeze his hand gently and he seems more flushed than before "Yeah, I did."

He glances at you through his lashes, something flickering in his eyes, something that's not just attraction. Something deeper. Something like relief.

"Good. That's good" He gives you a soft, but timid smile.

You both just stay quiet again. The sun starts dipping into the horizon, behind the tress, casting an orange glow in the sky. Eddie eyes you a little nervously, before scooting closer to you. Your legs both separated by the gear shift knob. You tilt your head and purse your lips, anticipation bubbling inside of you for what's about to happen again.

He lifts his hand and cradles your face, smacking your lips together a little too tenderly. When his lips part, yours follow, and your tongues meet in a soft sweep. It's tender and intimate this time, it's the kind of kiss that makes your heart squeeze and your lungs forget what air is like. His fingers tighten slightly along your jaw, digging into your skin.

He exhales into your mouth, a quiet sound that sends goosebumps trailing down your spine. You shift a little closer, and your knee brushes his.

He pulls back just a breath away, his lips still hovering over yours.

You can still taste the bubblegum he had earlier, right after having lunch. His breath hits your skin and it's like you're frozen in time. Eddie, on the other hand, seems frazzled. As if his mind had been working to funcion ever since he noticed his feelings for you.

He walked you to your door, kissed you again, waited until you locked it and walked to his van. It took him a couple of minutes until his soul came back to his body and he finally took in what just happened. He drove back to his trailer with a smile on his lips that wouldn't slip away, his cheeks started to cramp.

That night, he laid in bed and close his eyes. He saw flashes of the day he spent with you like a movie. His skin shivered at the thought of you under him in his frontyard, all soaked and smiling. Your face a little sunburned. At the thought of your lips against his in a wet kiss.

He groaned and shoved the pillow against his face. He was fucked up, he knew that.

~•°☆

He suddenly became absent. After your kiss, at least. You wouldn't see him that much around at school, and when you walked to the spot in the woods, he wouldn't be there. Jeff and Gareth were seeing him less and less as well, and it left you wondering what could've happened. You didn't feel intimate, for some reason, to ask him what was happening. Steve said he hadn't seen his friend either, and neither did Dustin.

Eddie didn't want to tell anyone how bad he had been feeling. He didn't own anyone explanations of his whereabouts. Something inside of him just bloomed when he saw how close you and Steve were. How he would hover around you during class breaks, how you would crack at whatever the fuck he'd be telling you.

He felt as though he'd been used. Like you felt sorry he probably had only kissed one girl in his life.

You started to feel worried about him, about his well-being. It didn't take you more than a week to finally follow him when you saw him leaving school. He wasn't driving that day, so you tried to hurry your way up to his trailer and actually wait for him. You had met Wayne before- he liked you, he wouldn't mind if you waited there. He knew Eddie can be quiet and often shut everyone out.

You waited for him. You've waited for several hours, you had to tell Robin where you were because it was getting too late. Wayne had to leave for work, it was already 1 a.m. when he left. Eddie arrived an hour later. You were glad he wasn't driving, because he was drunk. He tripped over the steps of the trailer before getting in, not seeing you first until you almost gave him a heart attack from your yelling.

"Where the hell were you?" You asked, your voice too loud, stunning him the moment he closed the door behind him.

He dropped his keys, clutching his chest and squinting his eyes "Jesus Christ."

Eddie looked at you through his hazy eyes, his body unbalanced from the whiskey he had.

"What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?" He slurred.

"Wayne" You roll your eyes "Where were you, Eddie?"

You help him walk to his bedroom, where you had been only once, and sit him down on his bed. His body was completely uncoordinated because of the alcohol. You help him remove his shirt and his jeans, not caring if he was almost naked in front of you.

"Eddie–"

"Why do you care? You all pity me! You all feel bad for me, I can take a fucking hint" He lashes out all of a sudden and it startles you "You feel bad for me, you feel sorry for me. Poor Eddie must have never kissed anyone in his life, so maybe I'll kiss him just so he can die a satisfied, not a virgin-kiss man!"

"What?" Your voice trips and you feel the tension and the pressure building up in your chest "I have never felt bad for you, Eddie. Not once in my life, not even when I didn't know you!"

He chuckles, putting on his shirt but it's inside out. The label of the fabric is in the front. He almost stumbles over his backpack and he curses when he can't even put his pants on.

"Let me help you" You offer, but he lifts his hand up in denial.

"I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help. I'm a lost cause and a fucking failure! Why did you even kiss me in the first place?"

He didn't make any sense and it stung. Because he thought you only kissed him out of pity.

"Because I wanted to, you idiot! You're not a failure, Eddie! Don't let what other people say get into your head, please. You're a nice person, you're kind, you're funny. You're special, you make us laugh, you make us have a good time. We love being around you, I love being with you!"

Eddie slumps down onto the floor, his back hitting the foot of his bed. He shoves his face into his hands, his arms on top of his knees. He starts crying, and it surprises you because not once in your life did you see him cry in front of anyone.

He sobs and he's not even ashamed, his chest rumbles from the weeping. You bend down, placing a hand over his hair, pulling the strands of his bangs out of his face. He doesn't look at you, he's not even sure he wants to look at you.

Because he's afraid of seeing that face. The face of someone who feels bad for him.

"Eddie... Please look at me."

He doesn't. He shakes his head and cries into his hands. He starts rocking back and forth, mumbling incoherent words you can't make out.

"Eds, it's me" You place your hand on top of his, carefully trying to pull it back. Trying to bring comfort to him.

But he's shocked when he hears his nickname roll out of your tongue. You've called him that before, he always liked it. He always liked the way you called him that. But it's different this time, it hits deep within.

He lifts his head up and meets your eyes. Your caring, loving eyes. His eyes are bloodshot red and puffy, just like his lips. His cheeks are flushed and wet, there are still tears streaming down his face. He leans into your touch, your thumb swiping away his tears.

"I've never felt sorry for you. I've never felt bad for you, I don't see you as a lost cause or a failure, or anything for that matter... Eddie, you're the most important person in my life. You're the most genuine person I know..."

He sniffles and diverts his gaze. He thinks back to the few times he saw you hanging on Steve's neck, even after he had met you. He lets out a huff, looking down at his knees.

"I'm sure you feel the same way about Steve. But the only difference is that he's not a fucking loser."

You pull back only a few inches, scanning his features. Is that jealousy? Was he jealous of Steve the whole time? But you were not even together.

"You're not a loser. And I love Steve, he's my friend."

He laughs this time, and even though his face holds that weird laugh, he still manages to cry.

"Who fucks their friend?"

It comes out bitter and his tongue weighs a hundred pounds for saying that. You raise your brows, scoffing.

"We're not hooking up anymore, Munson. And we've always been friends, even then."

Eddie feels like a bucket of ice had been dropped on top of his head. He should've known. He hasn't seen you around each other like that anymore, but maybe he refused to believe that. Maybe he wanted to believe he wasn't interesting enough for you. Maybe he wanted to see what felt right for him.

But he was wrong.

"I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry, sweetie" He starts crying again, and this time, you pull him in for a tight hug "I'm a fucking mess."

"It's okay, Eds. You're not a mess, stop saying things like that."

You rest your chin onto his head, your fingers curl between his hair and he tries to ease his anxiety, but it only worsens when he thinks about the things he wanted to do until you showed up.

"You're going to hate me, sweetie. You're going to hate me when I tell you what I was about to do that day we met. You'll want to leave me, I know you will."

You glance at him and see the way he's looking at you. He's afraid. He's fucking afraid. He's desperate to get it all out of his chest, to get it over with. Because you deserve to know he was getting worse and worse.

"Eddie, I would never do that" You place a kiss on the back of his hand and he softens "No matter how bad it is. I'm always here."

He tried to hold back the tears that kept soaking his shirt. He stuttered the words out, he rambled and the whole time he told you about it, he couldn't stand looking at you.

"I just– I thought it would be a distraction. I'm so fucking tired of being judged for doing nothing" He mumbles in his crying and you stroke his hair.

"I never told you what I was doing out there in the woods the day we met."

He doesn't look at you when he speaks, and you go still.

"I had it in my lunchbox. Special K. That's what they call it, right? Ketamine."

You don't say anything. Not yet.

"I wasn't… I wasn't gonna do anything dramatic, or permanent, or anything. I just…" He shakes his head, feeling his jaw clench "I wanted to not exist for a while. Just float away and feel nothing. Like the weight would finally shut up."

Your heart aches for him.

"I didn't even think it through. I just took my lunchbox and went there. The woods would be quiet enough, far enough. No one would see me wreck myself."

He gulped, trying to focus his eyes on something else.

"And then you showed up. Headphones on, reading a fucking book like you were walking through Narnia."

You try to smile, but your throat is too tight.

"I remember thinking…" Eddie lets out a shaky laugh "God, I remember thinking 'of course this beautiful girl just waltzes into my overdose like it's a goddamn indie movie'."

You press your hands quietly over his and he doesn't pull away.

"I didn't take it. Because you looked at me like I wasn't invisible. You waved, you smiled. You sat down and just… stayed."

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

"I never thought anyone would" His voice breaks again "Not after all the shit with Chrissy. The town, the hiding. The guilt, the loneliness. I didn't think anyone should."

"Eddie" You whisper, tightening your fingers over his hand "You didn't deserve any of that. None of it was your fault."

"I know" He says quietly "Now, I do, sort of. But back then I was so tired of trying to prove I wasn't poison."

His words hit you too strongly. You don't see him like that, you never did. Not even back then at the cafeteria, not when you saw him hurrying out of the school to be alone.

"I'm really glad you didn't take it" You whisper.

"Yeah. Me too."

You take both of his hands and kiss his knuckles. Your eyes glued to his brown red-rimmed ones that are still glassy. Eddie watches your gentleness and sighs, trying to compose himself. You drop your hands for only a moment, pulling him closer to you for a hug. You cried for him, you cried with him. You couldn't help but feel bad for him because he deserved more than just pain.

"You have me. You have your friends from Hellfire, even Robin. And mostly, you have your uncle. Just promise me you won't ever do that."

"Shit, sweetie. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to bring you into this mess."

"Don't apologize, I'm glad I'm here with you now. We'll get through this, together. I'm always going to be here for you" Your voice is low, gentle and caring.

You hold him up, help him change his clothes and sit him on his bed. After that, you head to the kitchen to make him some tea. The warm drink helps calm him down; he stops crying, and the stress seems to dissipate.

It was almost dawn when you both went to bed and just laid there. You kept smoothing his hair while his head rested on your shoulder. His arm was wrapped around your waist, and his cool, ringed fingers grazed your skin underneath your shirt.

It was the first time you actually slept with him like this, and it felt so good.

You spent the entire weekend together. You took him to your house and you watched movies with him, while Robin stayed at Vickie's. He didn't want to leave you. He kept clinging to you as if you were to disappear. He snuggled against your neck, placing kisses over your skin. You danced to the songs playing on the radio even if they were metal songs.

Eddie wanted to know more about you. He asked about your situationship with Steve, and you told him you ended things only a few weeks after you had met him. He giggled quietly, he knew why. He just couldn't believe it. And maybe you knew that too, but played cool just to see what his reaction would be.

After the weekend, when you told Robin how it went, she couldn't stop gasping. Because she noticed the way you would turn down Steve's offer to have sex every time he had the chance. He asked Robin a few times if you were seeing anybody else and just didn't want to tell him, she said no. When she finally realized the way you and Eddie became too close, she figured it all out.

"Oh my God! You had a crush on him!" She said loudly and you furrowed your brows "You're so slow, Jesus."

"It wasn't a crush, I just liked being around him!"

"Exactly. Because you have a crush on Munson" She pointed at you playfully with a smug face.

"... Maybe"

Your cheeks blushed and she giggled, giving you a hug.

Steve met Eddie at The Hideout for a few drinks. The metalhead himself invited his friend out, he wanted to become closer. He wanted to fit in, he wanted to give himself a chance. Steve might have looked at him differently in the past, but he's grown fond of him.

The former jock mentioned your fling, the way you would give him excuses every time. And all those times you denied his invitation were the times you spent with Eddie. It clicked right then and there. He put two and two together.

Steve laughed.

"Robin would tell me she was with you. Guess I figured why" Steve said, taking a swig of his beer.

Eddie felt a leap in his heart, a tug in his chest. A warmth that kept spreading across his face.

"Sorry I stole her from you."

"Nah" Steve shrugged "It was never serious. And I can see how happy she is with you. And how much you have changed since you met her."

He couldn't fight the grin. Eddie wasn't sure you had a crush back then, but it all makes sense now. Back then, it was just a friendship for him, surprisingly.

"She really likes you, man. We all like you" He bumps his shoulder against Eddie's, a lipped smile on his face.

They've been sitting in comfortable silence for a while.

And then Steve says it, not like an accusation, or even a joke. But with a careful tone that lands too soft, which surprised Eddie.

"So… you kissed her."

Eddie doesn't answer right away, he just drags his head back against the wall behind him with a low groan.

Steve smirks "I'll take that as a yes."

"Shut up" Eddie mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

Steve watches him playfully "Was it good?"

Eddie exhales, like he doesn't have another option but to tell Steve "It was… yeah. Yeah, it was more than good."

Steve nods once and smiles, tapping him on the thigh. He takes another sip from his can "You love her?"

Eddie blinks "That's… I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

Eddie groans "I hate how smug you sound."

"I am smug. I knew from the second you started showing up to hangouts late, and looking all... floaty."

"Floaty?"

"Yeah. You had that look. Like your heart was full and your brain had left the building."

Eddie shakes his head "You're the worst therapist."

Steve shrugs. "Maybe. But I'm not wrong."

The metalhead figdet with the hem of his sleeve, staring down at the floor. His friend doesn't say anything either, letting the quiet stretch a little longer.

"I'm actually scared" He says.

Steve furrow his brows and becomes more serious "Of what?"

"That I'm gonna ruin it. Or that I already have."

"You didn't" Steve says without hesitation. "You were honest. You let her in, and that's the hardest part."

Eddie doesn't answer, but his shoulders unroll at ease.

"Hey" Steve adds, nudging him with his foot "For what it's worth? I'm glad it was you."

Eddie looks up at him, a little startled "What?"

"With her" Steve clarifies, like it's obvious "You were a mess, but you still showed up. You care. That's the only thing that matters."

Eddie stares at him "You're really gonna let me off the hook that easy?"

Steve smirks "No. You mess it up, I will kick your ass. But until then… yeah. I'm rooting for you."

Eddie lets out a slow, shaky breath, and nods. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he lets himself believe it.

I like her too. I like her a lot. I actually love her. He wanted to say.

He felt a strange sensation inside him that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was happiness. It was acceptance. He was no longer alone.

~•°☆

You would show up at school with Eddie tangled in your arms. He didn't care that people gave you the weird looks, the glaring. He also didn't want to cause a commotion, so he would only stop by to kiss you during class breaks. He would sit with his friends at the cafeteria and throw you a few glances. Whenever he did that, your heart would race and you would feel your legs numb.

Oh, the young love.

Eddie started pulling you into the janitor's room. Lock the door behind him, dig his fingers into the small of your back, kiss you with lust. His tongue would do things to you. Not only when you kiss. He always slips his tongue across your skin, licking your pulse point, then leaving a spit trail until he reaches your ear lobe. He bites into the spot and rips a moan out of your mouth.

He didn't know how he would make it to the other classes without busting in his pants. Maybe he became an expert at putting weird thoughts into his head. He would lose his boner immediately after thinking about Mrs. Click. Worked every time.

Eddie takes you on simple dates. He's not fancy, he doesn't like fancy. When you say you want something like that, he does it only to please you. But you never bothered going to a simple diner or a cafeteria. Or bowling. Or karaoke. Or even The Hideout. You always have the most fun there, either way. You'd drink until you feel tipsy, get home and just spend the rest of the night kissing.

He takes his time with you. He wants to fuck you, he wants to make love to you. He wants you in all honesty, but he doesn't want to ruin it. Even though you've done it before. Multiple times. With Steve. He can't compete, but he doesn't want to compare himself to another man. He knows you like his tattoos, he lets you kiss them all over. He feels smug every time you look at his bulge and your eyes flicker with pleasure.

Robin is once again out. You had just arrived from Rink-O-Mania after too many attempts at standing on your feet and failing every time. You're both laughing too hard, talking about your day. Something snaps in your head and you lead him to your bedroom, and he thinks "finally".

You being the one to lead it to sex is something interesting to him. You push him onto your bed, straddling him. You spread kisses all over Eddie, all over his tattoos. You take his shirt off, your mouth lingers on his sensitive spot between his sternum. He shivers when you press your tongue flat on his skin.

He pulls your hair carefully, almost lifting his body to feel you even more. One of your hands goes down to his jeans, unbuckling his belt and unzipping the fabric. His heart is hammering and he almost can't hear anything. He's too stunned, he's too fucking stunned. Your fingers graze his boxers and stroke his cock through the damp material, making his lips leave a grunt. You keep stroking him up and down, your mouth finds his and he latches onto you. His tongue swipes against yours in a way that makes your core heat up even more.

You're soaking for him, your jeans are almost stained with your slick. You lower his boxers and finally pump him, feeling his thick cock around your fingers. Your fingers slip against his hardness, his tip leaks with precum incessantly, and the more you stroke him, the more he groans against your lips. He thrusts against your hand, he whimpers against your mouth.

Eddie is already a fucking mess and he really loves it. He doesn't care if he's loud, if he's greedy. He takes off your shirt and your bra, his thumb pressing your nipple in circles, rubbing your skin keenly. His fingertips dig into you as you bring him to the edge of his bliss. His cock twitches between your hand and you chuckle against the kiss. You pull back and give him a peck before making your way down his body, a coil inside his stomach kicks in as he glances at you.

Your eyes never leave him, even when you wrap your lips around his dick, but he can't hold back the moan. He throws his head back onto the pillow with a gruffed mumble, his hand flying down your hair as he pulls it back. You slide down his length, his tip reaching the back of your throat carefully. You almost gag on it and he buckles his hips forward.

When you finally adjust to his size, you suck him off, pulling your head up and down while you stroke him. He's whimpering and moaning and groaning, whispering your name and rolling his eyes to the back of his head.

"Fuck, sweetie. This is so good–" He rasps under his heavy breathing.

You lock eyes with him, bobbing your head, licking his wetness and gently sucking his tip. Your cheekbones hurt but you love the feeling of getting him off. He pushes your hair to the side so he can have a better look, his hips buckling to meet your throat. Eddie is about to explode, but he wants to last longer. He wants to cum with you, he wants to cum inside of you so bad.

He pushes you back, hissing when the air hits his soaking cock. There's spit everywhere and he twitches at the sight. He glances at you, there's lust in your eyes, your lips are plump and red. Eddie pulls you into another kiss, not giving a fuck of tasting himself in your mouth. He turns you over and spreads kisses over your chest and your breasts, sucking on your nipples.

He grazes your skin between his teeth, his tongue rolling on it. You find yourself grinding against him, his warm cock pressing your thighs. He hums against your damp skin, tracing your stomach until he reaches for your jeans. He pulls it off along with your panties and he huffs.

"So perfect. So beautiful, sweetie" He muses you, his rough and calloused fingers trace your inner thigh gently.

He spreads your legs open and eyes you. The moment you lock eyes with him, he gives you a sweet, but sly smile before diving into your core. His heart beats too fast and he feels his hands trembling a little bit, but he tries to avoid thinking about that. He kisses your clit, ripping a moan out of you, your hips rolling in response. He repeats the action and uses two fingers to open your slit. Your legs immediately tend to close against his head and he chuckles, but his cock responds to it as well. You're breathing quickly, your hand lands on his messy curls.

The finally licks up a stripe of your pussy, sending shivers down your entire body. He presses his tongue against your clit and rolls it around your sensitive spot.

"Eds, this is so good" You whine, pulling a fistful of his hair.

He keeps grinning, licking you up, pressing his tongue flat onto your slit, sliding against your slick skin. You feel the tip of his tongue against your entrance, moaning his name every few seconds, a jolt of electricity running between your legs.

"Your pussy is so good, sweetie" He mumbles, eating you eagerly.

He takes in every drop of your juices, he tastes you. Eddie sucks your skin and pulls his head back with your clit between his lips and you cry out. You roll your hips against his face, his nose nudges your clit every time he licks your entrance. He slips two fingers inside of you, making you gasp. Making you feel breathless. He pumps in and out of you, with his rings still on his fingers, the cool metal touching your skin.

You can't hold back your moans, your hand pulls his hair back and Eddie groans against your skin. He savors your wetness with everything within him. He curls his fingers inside of you, just the way you like it. There's something different about him, even though you've fucked Steve before, something about Eddie makes you wet.

You're about to cum when he notices the way you start clenching around his fingers, so he retreats. You whine at the absence of him in your core, and you feel hot when you watch the way he sucks on his fingers. His eyes closed, his brows furrowing, his throat roaring.

"Fuck, you are so hot" Your voice comes out hoarse with pleasure.

Eddie latches onto you again, his lips smacking against yours. He slips his fingers between your pussy and starts stroking you, his hips rolling against your thigh so you can feel his cock. You can't stop moaning his name and he loves every second of it.

You only break apart when you open the drawer to pick a condom. He's still kissing your neck as you unwrap it.

"Do you mind?" You ask, holding the material in front of you.

"Fuck, no" He picks the condom from your hand and doesn't even waste another second putting it on himself.

You would have done that, but he's more greedy than ever and you don't mind it.

He straddles you, kissing you and your skin until he's on top of you. He grips his cock and aligns himself into your entrance, pushing carefully for you to adjust to him.

"Holy fucking shit" He groans, his biceps contract and he can barely support his own weight.

You kiss him again, heaving as he pushes further into you until there's nothing left. He's balls deep into you. His thrusts are slow at first. He can't hurt you. Eddie holds one of your legs up, he grips on your skin and starts thrusting faster. He digs his head on the curve of your neck, his breath hitting your skin. He grunts over your ear and you clench around him.

"Please, fuck me baby" He begs.

It's the first time he calls you that.

The pounds faster, his hand now slipping up to the curve of your breast. His thumb holds you in place as he comes back and forth. He starts to regret not tying up his hair. It's all sweaty and sticking to his skin. His cock slips in and out of you, his balls slap against your skin just as his hips.

"Yes Eddie, just like that" You shudder under him, your hands scratching the skin on his back. Your nails are digging into him.

He doesn't care at all.

He looks at you, he takes in the sight of you in pleasure. You roll your eyes when he snaps his hips into you once. He does it again, and again. His cock twitches and he knows he won't last much longer.

"I need you to look at me, sweetie" He asks. You struggle to open your eyes and when you do, you grind against him.

Your clit strokes against his skin and it's enough to take you out. You feel the pressure building up the most he splits you open, the more the tip of his cock hits your sweet spot.

You lock eyes and everything changes. He begins to lose strength when he feels the climax reaching its peak. But he doesn't stop, he keeps his eyes on you the whole time. You crease your brows and bite your lips.

"Cum with me, Eds" Your voice is like honey to him and he nods.

He pounds you roughly, not fast. It's about the way he does it, not how quick it is. It's perfect, it's enough for you to widen your eyes and leave a brutal moan. It's so loud, he smirks. Your legs tremble under him and you start shaking.

"Good girl."

He whispers. And another wave of pleasure immediately crashes and it's stronger this time. Your eyes roll and you convulse to his cock that's twitching inside of you. He's groaning "fuck" a hundred times a second, he shudders on top of you and almost collapses. He sputters inside the condom and falls limply beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.

You both turn on your sides to face each other, his chest is still rising unevenly, but he's not feeling exhausted. He's thriving. There's a slight stunned kind of peace that follows a moment he never thought would happen.

There's a soft beat of silence. He's watching you like he's still trying to make sure this is real– like he's not convinced he didn't dream the whole thing. His eyes are wide and soft, still a little dazed, like he's memorizing the shape of your face. You reach up slowly, fingers brushing through his hair, and gently tug at the strands that have fallen into his eyes. His bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat, curling just slightly at the ends.

"Your hair's a mess" You tease in a whisper.

He smiles, a real one, lazy and crooked and too full of affection "Yeah? You gonna sue me?"

You hum, brushing your thumb across his temple "I might. For emotional damage."

He huffs out a laugh "You're really here."

"I am."

He lifts his rough hand and trails his fingertips on your bare arm, as if he's drawing a path there "I'm glad you didn't leave me that day."

You nudge your forehead against his gently "I wanted to stay. I want every part of it, every part of you."

He goes still for a moment, before feeling the burning sensation in his core, like the last piece of armor has finally dropped. Like this is what it feels like to be safe. And when his eyes close, and your fingers are still tangled in his hair, you know that whatever this is, it's real. Not just the sex.

And to him, you're the best part of his day. You've brought him to life again– and this time, he feels like life it's finally worth living.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x y/n #joseph quinn fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fics #eddie munson

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dollfacefantasy · 9 months ago

Text

WHICH ONE TO CHOOSE?

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader x chris redfield x carlos oliveira

summary: at a halloween party, you and your boyfriend play out a little fantasy with chris and carlos.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, anal, blowjobs, face fucking, foursome, cnc, praise/degradation, intoxication/alcohol, pre-planned roleplay scenario

wc: 4.2k

a/n: it's a little messy but i hope you guys like this one. it's set in an au where re characters are allowed to experience happiness <3 anyways comments, reblogs, and asks are always appreciated.

kinktober slot: day 26 - cnc

Holding Leon's hand tight in your own, you drag him along the cement pathway leading to Rebecca and Billy's front door. Their yard is decked out like it is every year you've been to one of these things. Cobwebs sprawl across the arch ways while purple and orange lights glow in each window. Skeletons hang by the doorway and loud music thumps from inside.

Pushing open the mahogany surface, you stretch your free arm above your head and announce your presence.

Rebecca who's standing near the entryway hears the call of your voice and turns to greet you. A smile spreads across her lips as she takes in you and Leon together.

"There you two are. I was starting to wonder if you couldn't make it this year," she says.

"Pfft. Please, the year we miss one of your parties is the year Leon's horrible driving has taken us out on the way here," you joke, earning chuckles from her and Billy who's come up from behind her.

Leon, in contrast to them, shakes his head before wrapping his arm around your neck and pulling you closer to him.

"Don't encourage her," he tells them with a suppressed smile.

Rebecca playfully rolls her eyes and waves him off. The song switches in the background, going from something low and quick to the slower melody of Eyes Without a Face.

"Really though, it's great to see you both. You guys look great," she praises.

"Thank you," you beam at the compliment, smoothing out the blood-spattered, white dress that covered your figure. Glancing up at Leon, you pull his Jason mask down over his features so that the looks are complete.

"You and Billy look super cute too," you continue as your eyes scan over their simple matching doctor and nurse outfits, Rebecca being the one in the doctor's white coat and the tall man behind her in the little hat with the red cross on it.

She thanks you in return, and the two of you chatter on while you migrate into the living room to join the rest of the party. The usual crowd spans across the main part of the house, from the couches near the fireplace to the bar set up in the kitchen. While you yourself are not a government employee, you'd become friends with almost everyone here who is over the course of your relationship with Leon.

You prance over to Claire and Jill sitting on the sofa first, giving the younger woman a big hug over her shoulders from behind before reaching for Jill and bringing her in too. Claire returns the embrace by covering your forearm with her palm while Jill pats your bicep in acknowledgement.

You take in their costumes too. Claire has ditched her red jacket for the night and instead dons a black sweater with bat wings attached to the back. Jill, on the other hand, looks like she just got off of work, but you suppose soldier could technically be a costume.

"How are you guys? Oh my gosh, Jill it's been so long since I last saw you," you gush.

They give the usual small talk responses, checking in on you as well. Their eyes flit to Leon a few feet behind you with brief waves.

"Have you been keeping him in line?" Claire teases with a smile.

You nod proudly and lean back, wrapping your hands around his arm. "You know it," you chirp.

The small group of you banter back and forth for a while, catching up, talking about plans for the future. Even though these are Leon's friends, you're often much more talkative with them than he is. It's an arrangement that works for you both. You never mind taking the weight of socialization off his shoulders.

After the conversation with Claire and Jill runs its course, the two of you head to the bar. Your hips sway to the pulsing of the music playing while Leon rests a hand on the curve of your side. You and him traverse through the gathering of less familiar faces, friends of friends or newbies you hadn't acquainted yourself with yet. When you reach a clear area on-looking the kitchen, you immediately spot Chris leaning against the wall with a drink in hand. A generic wolf mask sits next to him on the counter, the costume he'd already abandoned.

You dart over to him with a smile on your face, ready to hug him as soon as you're close enough. He startles a little from the sudden contact against his chest, but once he sees it's you, your happiness infects him and softens the look in his eyes. His large palm lands on your back, giving you a few small pats.

"Hey you," he says.

"Hey yourself," you respond and pull back.

He nods at Leon and looks between the two of you.

"Cute costume. You supposed to be Leon's helpless victim?" he teases.

"Mhm," you hum with a nod.

You're about to say something else, but the man in the kitchen who'd been making a drink with his back towards you turns around.

"Carlos?" you say when you catch sight of his face, your smile morphing into a grin.

He wears a similar expression and rounds the counter to be closer. You spring against him with more enthusiasm than you had for Chris, and he returns the sentiment with a crushing grip.

"Oh my god, I didn't know you were gonna be here!" you say.

You hadn't seen Carlos in a while, longer than you hadn't seen Jill. He only came to these things when he was in the area, which wasn't all too often these days. Leon wasn't the closest with him either, but you always thought he was so fun. He was outgoing and funny, charismatic with the perfect level of charm. Plus, it didn't hurt that he looked like a god. To put it in simple terms, you had a little crush on him. Nothing too serious but definitely enough to trigger involuntary butterflies in your stomach when you saw him.

"I think Leon wanted it to be a surprise," he says with a little smirk.

You glance at your boyfriend. He nods at you with a knowing look, still watching you in the other man's arms.

Even without words you know what it means. While your touchy behavior would have been an absolute no with any of your past partners, Leon didn't share that same possessive outlook on the matter. He enjoyed watching you be all over others only to be the one that got to take you home. He liked when his friends like Chris or Carlos lusted over you, trying to cop a feel during a hug or speaking as if you're available for the taking. It just prodded at some primal part of his brain that he didn't have control over. None of it ever upsets him. He doesn't get jealous, he gets horny.

That aspect of his personality was why Carlos's appearance was a surprise for you. Tonight after the party, you and your boyfriend had already made plans with Chris, but obviously now, Carlos was going to be involved too, and that was more than ok with you.

You press your cheek to his chest and tighten your arms that are already wrapped around him.

"You look so good. You totally need to visit more often," you say to the bulky man against you.

He chuckles, giving you another small squeeze in return. "For you, I would," he teases, his hand grazing over your ass as he lets you go.

A giggle trickles from your lips, and you follow him back around the counter to the main part of the kitchen. From here, you get a good look at his body. He's muscular as ever, his tight white shirt only accentuating that mass. In your excitement, you hadn't noticed his costume which was similar to yours. White fabric with red dye flicked across it. Only he had some face make up too. You guessed a zombie or something in that vein.

He catches your stare. "You really missed me, huh?" he asks teasingly.

"Of course I did," you say, "Now are you gonna pour me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?"

He laughs and grabs a few nearby bottles, pouring a mix into a black cup for you. Passing it into your hands, he watches you take the first drink.

Things would only get better from there.

Over the next few hours, you get yourself buzzed. You gulp down each drink you're handed with joy. The smile gracing your features grows hazy, your eyes become cloudy and your voice gets extra giggly.

Suddenly, you're super touchy. Your hand lands on the forearm of whoever you're speaking too. Sometimes it trails up a bit, teasing the bicep of the person. You bite your lip more and nod emphatically at points that probably don't deserve it. Leon keeps an eye on you, but so do Carlos and Chris.

After a while, you migrate over to the open area closer to the speakers. You dance to the blaring music, your body bobbing around to the pulsating beats. Even though Leon had never been one for dancing, he holds your hips and grinds up against you from behind. You feel his breaths on your neck and the tip of his nose brushing your jawline.

The song switches over to something with more guitar rather than synth, and a firm set of fingers wraps around your wrist. The mysterious force tugs you to them, but becomes a lot less confusing when you look up and see Carlos smiling down at you.

"Mind if I cut in for a second, Kennedy?" he asks.

Like he's supposed to, Leon stares him down before tersely shaking his head. This was all part of the game of course. Everyone had to play their part to earn the high score with you.

You giggle and lean into him, your head resting against the plush muscles in his chest. He starts swaying the two of you to the music. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon move to the wall where Chris is standing. Carlos keeps you focused though, grabbing your chin and turning you back towards him.

He guides your movements. His hips roll against yours in deep motions. One of his muscular arms is wrapped around your back while the other sits in the position to hold your ass. Both feel so good, like live wires resting against your skin.

You dance with him. Your arms rise up and drape around his neck. You follow his movements, letting him take you through the sequence with ease. it makes your head spin. Not only the thrill of being with someone else, but the feeling of your boyfriend watching on.

All the excitement swirling with the liquor leaves you feeling kind of dizzy as the song ends. You stumble back from Carlos. He reaches for you, trying to make sure you stay up right and don't go crashing down on your ass in front of everyone. That isn't part of the plan.

"'m fine," you say, "Just gotta go to the bathroom real quick."

Waltzing away, you snake around the furniture without any grace and make your way to the hall that leads to the rest of Billy and Rebecca's home. You find the door to the bathroom easily, but opening it doesn't come with the same lack of difficulty.

Before you can process what's happening, someone is right behind you. Your hand rests on the cool knob. A little shudder goes through you at the feeling of the weight against your back.

"Are you sure you're ok, princess? You look a little wobbly," rasps Carlos directly into your ear.

"I'm fine," you say again, this time with a little more whine in your voice.

"I don't know... you look like you're barely standing on your own," he murmurs in your ear, "I think your boyfriend would want me to look after you."

His hands slide around on your waist. They coast up over your ribs to cup your breasts through your dress. You pant at the touch, your skin breaking out into chills.

"No... I don't, 'm fine. I'll be right back..." you say. Your voice sounds airy and distant. The movement of your hands match as they fruitlessly try to push his hands down.

He chuckles, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling beside your head. Pulling you backwards, his back lands against the wall and your body presses into him. His arms close around you in a tighter circle.

"Cute girl like you... I just don't think you should be left alone," he teases.

You whimper and squirm your hips, pushing them back against his pelvis. He lets out a soft groan at the sensation and keeps you right there.

"Look at you, just asking for someone to take advantage," he whispers.

You're about to turn your head to look up at him, but before you can, a new set of fingers nudges your chin upward in their owner's direction. Chris stares into your eyes, smirking at how helpless you look.

"He's right, sweetheart," he chides, "You're lucky you have us watching out for you."

His voice is husky as he leans closer. You can feel his breath fanning over your face.

"The way you were prancing around out there, showing yourself off in your little dress... anyone could've followed you back here. And who could blame them? Who wouldn't want a taste?" he continues.

His fingers skim your thighs and ghost over the space below the white hem. They toy with the fabric, teasing the idea that they'll peel it upwards to reveal the lacy panties you wear underneath.

Another pathetic noise trickles from your lips because you want him to. God, you want him to. You'd let them both ravish you right there in the middle of the hall. One holding you in his strong arms while the other pumped his dick in and out of your slick cunt.

Carlos noses at your jaw. His lips graze over your pulse point while his hands grope your breasts with more intent. There would be no mistaking his touches as accidental now. He grabs at them through your dress, pinching at your hardening nipples over the barrier.

You rock your ass back against him again. "Guys... we can't..." you babble as heat floods your body.

"Why not, princess?" Chris asks. He presses his front against your thigh, letting you feel his swelling bulge.

Your legs squirm and drift together. You try to squeeze your thighs for some friction, but he knocks them back apart with one of his knees.

"Leon... I'm with Leon," you breathe, doe eyes looking up at him with all the desire in the world.

"Oh, Leon, huh?" Carlos croons, "Would Leon have a problem with the way you’re rubbing up on me? With the way your pussy is dripping for Chris."

You whine and bite your lip before speaking. "It's not," you whimper.

"It is, baby," he says. One of his hands starts to slither South. "You're telling me that if I slipped my fingers under your dress and into those pretty panties, that I wouldn't feel you completely soaked for us? Is that what you're saying?"

Before you can defend yourself further, someone clears their throat from the end of the hall.

All of your heads snap in that direction to find Leon standing there, stiff as a board. He has his arms crossed; though, almost immediately they shift to rest on his hips. He looks like a disapproving parent staring at the three of you with disapproval all over his features.

Still, his harsh expression doesn't conceal the outline of his stiff cock in his pants.

"I don't think that's appropriate, guys," he says, "Feeling up on my girlfriend while she's telling you she has me?"

"It's not like that, Leon. We're watching out for her. Making sure she doesn't get into trouble. We're doing you a favor," Carlos grins. His hands drop from your breasts to your waist, but he makes sure to give the area a squeeze to let you know he's not done.

"Mhm. You know how she gets when she's been drinking," Chris says to him.

"I mean look. She may be saying no, but her body was just about begging for us," Carlos adds.

Your boyfriend hums in acknowledgement and watches with the same unyielding eyes. "Still don't think this is the place to deal with it," he says.

They both huff out laughs. "Probably not," Chris agrees.

"Some privacy would be best," Carlos continues.

You stand there, trying not to squirm as they talk like you're not even there. None of them look at you nor directly address you. The conversation is between them, deciding your fate. You just wait to be handed your sentence.

"Maybe we should head back to our place. Make sure the booze didn't get to her too much," Leon proposes, as if it was entirely his idea he thought of in the moment.

"Sounds good to me," Carlos says, patting your hip before boosting you forward.

"Same here," Chris grins.

You stumble over to your boyfriend who takes you under his arm. He looks down at you as if he's disappointed, though you can see the desire in his eyes. The two of you snake back through the hall and toward the front door.

"Were they bothering you, sweetheart?" he asks like he's truly concerned.

"Mhm," you hum and nod against his chest.

Your pair keeps walking, waving at Rebecca and Billy and giving them brief thank you's before walking back outside into the brisk October air.

Like you planned Chris and Carlos wait a little before following your path. None of you wanted to make it too obvious what you had planned for the rest of the night.

Each of you makes it back to your and Leon's house in record time it seems. He drives you and himself while the other two trail on their own. They enter through your front door only a few minutes after you and your boyfriend settle on the couch.

After that feels like a blur. There's hands all over you. They pass you around from one lap to the other. Your clothes fall to the floor piece by piece until you're left bare. They talk but rarely to you. The voices and touches all swirl together in one big mess until the three of you land in a collective position.

Leon looms above you, his piercing eyes locked onto your face. His hips roll against your center. He pumps his cock deep between your soaked velvety walls with each precise thrust. His hands cradle the back of your thighs, keeping them spread apart so that you can't shut him out. He grins down at you.

"You might think it's too much, baby, but she clearly doesn't," he teases, "So, so wet."

"I'm not even in your pussy, and I can feel that. Such a messy girl," the voice behind you says.

Chris sits below you. His warm bulky thighs support the parts of you Leon's hands can't. Your back rests against his chest while his strong hands play with your nipples. His dick is buried snug inside your ass. He's not moving, thank god. The stretch is enough to nearly reduce you to tears.

"She's messy up top too," the man above you adds with a grin, his thumb swiping away some spit that had dribbled from the corner of your mouth.

Carlos had your head between his palms. He kept a firm grip on you as leverage to rock his hips, sliding his length into the plush wetness of your throat. Deep groans and sighs leak from his mouth as his head falls back.

You whine around the girth of his shaft, but you can't squirm. There's so much going on. Even though you're in a relatively simple position, it feels as though you're tangled up with the three men surrounding you.

"No backing out now, baby. This is what you wanted," Leon taunts as he thrusts.

"Such a little slut. Your boyfriend isn't enough for you, huh?" Chris teases, nipping at the shell of your ear.

You whine louder around Carlos as he fucks your face, but he takes no mercy. He doesn't slide out to let you defend yourself. He slides as deep as he can, nestling your nose against the thick dark hair that curls above the base of his cock.

"Sounds like a yeah to me," he chuckles.

A soft gagging noise echoes from your throat and your eyes water. He holds his position for a few seconds longer before pulling back to give you a few moments to breathe. You gasp in a few breaths. Your head spins with the return of sufficient oxygen. But you still feel hazy from the two cocks inside you, one unmoving and keeping you constantly full, the other rocking back and forth, striking every little spot inside you.

"Leon," you cry. Your head falls back on Chris's shoulder, "Too much."

He smirks at your repeated protest and keeps going. "Nope. You can handle it, babydoll. You wanted to play with other guys, so I'm letting you."

Chris's fingers rub at your clit, causing you to tighten up around Leon. He hisses from above, but it only makes him move faster. The harder thrusts rock you on Chris's length. He grunts from the added stimulation and keeps the rough pads of his digits twirling around your sensitive little nub.

"That's right, sweetheart. Just relax and take it," he mutters in your ear.

Carlos strokes your cheek while jerking his cock right in front of your face. You watch as precum pearls at the tip, dripping from the slit in sticky beads.

"Fuck... you're pretty, so fucking cute," he mumbles from above you.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. The urge to squirm becomes more pronounced. Your clit throbs under Chris's tender fingers while your walls clamp down on your boyfriend.

"Wanna cum," you whimper desperately.

"What happened to too much? Thought you said no more?" Carlos mocks.

"Don't care. Just wanna cum now," you cry. Your lip juts out into a quivering pout as you feel the pleasure growing more intense and spreading from between your legs all throughout your body. Tears dew at your waterline, making your lashes shimmer.

"Again? So greedy," Chris tuts from behind.

But in front, Leon nods with self-satisfaction all across his face. "You can cum, angel. Go ahead. Just know it won't be the last one."

You whine at the idea. You wanted release so bad, but you were already so overstimulated. It's not like you had any control over it though. You were climbing to the peak fast, and there was no way of going back down. Watching Carlos stroke himself to the sight of you getting your insides rearranged had your tummy fluttering with the urge to let go.

You try to hold it. Try to prolong it a bit more so that they're closer and cum with you. But at a certain point, you can't hold back anymore. Your back arches off of Chris's chest, and your whines fill the air. You shudder in his arms, quivering between him and Leon. Release crashes over you, wave after wave. It feels like the euphoria will never end when Leon finally groans and bursts inside you.

His cum floods your insides, filling you up just how you need it. He tilts his head back and sighs as the feeling seeps into him. As you're feeling the added effects from his high, Carlos reaches his. He moans nice and loud before painting your face with white streaks. The warm sticky liquid lands on you in patternless blotches.

You whimper but not in protest. It was what you wanted. The only thing that would make it better is Chris filling up your other hole too, but he stays hard and still, not giving in just yet.

Your boyfriend comes to a halt with his thrusts and slowly pulls out. Some of his cum leaks out as his length leaves your cunt. You whine at the empty feeling.

"Hush," he murmurs as he steps back. He catches his breath from a distance, but he knows none of you are done. Even with him and Carlos temporarily spent, they'd get it back up soon enough. "So needy. You still got one of us inside you, and you're complaining."

"Easy thing to do is to just give her what she wants again," Carlos says, "You and I could switch since Redfield seems comfortable."

Your boyfriend nods, looking between you and the other man.

"Sound good, baby?" he asks as if you actually get a say, "Carlos will put another load in your pussy, and I'll let you actually swallow mine this time around."

Even though your cunt aches with all the pleasure it's endured and your jaw feels sore from taking a dick in your mouth for the last however long... you nod. Despite what you said, you hadn't had enough. You really didn't know if you ever would.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy imagine #chris redfield x reader #chris redfield smut #chris redfield imagine #carlos oliveira x reader #carlos oliveira smut #carlos oliveira x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil imagines #ch: leon kennedy 💌#ch: chris redfield 💌#ch: carlos oliveira 💌

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clockwayswrites · 13 days ago

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DoMAYn Day 5 Ch 3, P 1

posting from the highseas! Masterpost

Bruce closes Leslie’s office door behind him as he steps in. She doesn’t even look up from the reports that she’s going over as she waves for him to take a seat. He does so, folding his hands as he waits for her to finish.

“Jason’s reflexes are slow, but there is already some improvement. He’ll need physical therapy to recover, and he might not recover all of the way. Also, we’ll need to get him in for an MRI and an EKG as soon as possible,” Leslie says. “Danny claims that he pulled Jason out quickly, but Jason’s been dead for months. We have to assume that there might be issues.”

“Right,” Bruce says as he rubs at his face.

“You have your own tests to run too,” Leslie points out, as if Bruce could have forgotten.

Despite the obvious, Bruce nodes. “Dick is on his way in. I’ve called in some help to check Jason’s grave without disturbing it. We’ll run DNA as soon as we’re home. But Leslie, even if he is a clone…”

“I know.” Her words are short but not unkind. “But your family deserve to know the truth, even if it won’t change how much you’ll love him.”

“Hn.”

“Don’t ‘hn’ me,” she says. “You’ll need to keep the wounds on his hands clean, but it isn’t awful. He’ll likely develop some bruises, but that is easy enough. The real challenge will be his mental state. I know that you don’t—”

“Leslie.”

“No, Bruce,” she snaps back. “You ignoring your own mental health is one thing, but this is your son—or at least close enough—who remembers dying. He needs the help of a professional. I don’t care what story you spin for the press, but find someone who can help Jason handle the fact that he died six months ago.”

Bruce takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and nods. “I will.”

“You better.” She says it like the treat it is.

“What about Danny?” Bruce asks, in part to change the conversation.

Leslie crosses her hands on top of her desk. “You are not Danny’s legal guardian.”

“Leslie.”

“Yes, Bruce?”

Bruce sighs. “I know you’ve noticed the same things I have about the boy.”

“You’re not his guardian, Bruce.”

“He pulled my son out of his own grave! He was there so that Jason didn’t have to come back alone. And he is scared,” Bruce says, temper barely in check. “He is scared. Worse, he’s confused by the fact that we care that he’s scared.”

Leslie’s chin dips as she sighs. “I know. His behavior is worrying.”

“Then let me try to help,” Bruce insists. “Let me try to pay back a little bit of what he’s done for me. If nothing else, for Jason. You’ve seen how attached he is to Danny.”

“Like a baby goose imprinting,” Leslie agrees with another sigh. She clicks open new files on her computer. “As I’ve said, his pulse and blood pressure are both worryingly low. Despite this, his reflexes are sharp. Mental acuity is a little low, but it’s late and he has every right to be tired. Also he’s a little dehydrated and could use a good meal or seven. He’s pretty much underweight for his age and height, but without records, which from the sound of it don’t exist, I can’t say if that’s a big issue or just how he’s growing. He wouldn’t let me take blood.”

It’s nothing unexpected, and Bruce nods, “Do you think that stems from him being a meta?”

“Maybe,” Leslie says even though she clearly means ‘no’. “My gut says it’s more than that. A kid doesn’t end up that confused over an adult caring about them unless they don’t have adults who care at home. There’s not enough there for me to make a report on, though. I mean, not outside of being in the middle of Gotham at this time of night, but that’s not exactly unusual around your lot. I assume you have someone looking into his home life?”

Bruce nods. “Barbara is on it.”

“Good. Keep me informed,” she says and stands. “And for now, take them both home, feed them a warm meal, and make sure they rest. I don’t care if they have to be put in a room together to keep Jason calm, you make sure that they rest, understood?”

“Understood,” Bruce agrees. It’s nothing he wasn’t going to do anyways.

“Good. I’ll be over at breakfast to get new data. With all the unknowns, the more we can track Jason’s progress the better,” she says.

Bruce stands. His hair is only messed up further as he runs a hand through it. “Thank you, Leslie.”

“Thank me by getting Jason therapy. I mean it, Bruce.”

Bruce just gives another nod and shows himself out of the office.

#dp x dc #dead on main

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spiritgutz · 4 months ago

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TWO TIME HEADCANONS

i am obsessed with this freak and need to dump my thoughts

WARNINGS: brief mentions of blood (involving two time's wings) and cults, two time being two time word count: 914

authors note: i'm extremely rusty with writing and i quite literally never use tumblr. please forgive any mistakes i've made as i try to get the hang of this 🙏

First of all, Two Time is absolutely enamored by you. The two of you are practically connected by the hip. It may seem a bit much, but they just feel so drawn to you! Why wouldn't they want to spend every waking moment by your side?

Very touchy. Their hand is usually almost always on some part of you in public, most likely on the small of your back or simply holding your hand.

They would likely refer to you as their "guardian angel."

You'll catch them staring a lot pre relationship with that signature smile on their face.

Glances turn into full-on staring, innocent touches seem to last longer, your personal space seemingly becoming shared between the two of you.

In all honesty you probably catch on fairly quick to their habits.

From across the cabin you could feel eyes trained on your frame. Most would find this unsettling, but you honestly didn't mind. You didn't move to find the source, nor acknowledge it for that matter.

However Chance, who you had just been talking to, seemed more focused on something behind you rather than conversing. You tilted your head in confusion before twisting your body around to discover the distraction. Ah, that suddenly made a lot more sense. Settled up on the second floor, Two Time gazed down at you while their arms rested on the wooden railing. Their smile seemed to grow the moment your eyes locked with theirs. Chance would address you, asking something along the lines of "Are they bothering you?" In response you would only wave your hand dismissively. Their behavior, albeit creepy at times, didn't bother you. It was almost...endearing.

As stated by the devs, Two Time is a little "insane in the membrane." But this doesn't mean that you love them any less!!

They can and will talk to you about the cult and the Spawn as a whole.

Speaking of that, Two Time would love for you to be a member of the cult someday! They won't force you by any means, but that doesn't mean they won't try and persuade you.

Sometimes you'll catch them watching you while you sleep. They'll just..stare at you. They almost act like a cat in that regard.

They sleep almost completely still minus the subtle rise and fall of their chest.

You might just end up staring at them instead. They look so peaceful when they're asleep, so serene.

I'd like to think that Two Time naturally runs colder than most people. Their hands would be like ice cubes.

PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE GIVE THAT CULTIST A HUG!!! WARM THEM UP RIGHT NOW!!!!

Two Time will melt if you touch their hair. I'm not arguing about this I am correct and anyone else is WRONG /lh

One of their favorite things is when you comb your fingers through their hair as they lay on top of you after a round is completed. It makes them feel safe

The two of you have totally fallen asleep on the cabin's couch before

If you're an active participant of the games(?), Two Time will always put your safety before theirs. A killer is trying to attack you? They’re using their body as a shield to protect you.

As much as they want to keep you safe, you're very against their methods. Your heart sinks whenever you see their wings burst from their back.

Sat on their bed, your hand gently trailed down from Two Time's shoulders, to their back, to just below where their wings had sprouted from their back the round prior. Their shirt still had remnants of dry blood, just barely blending into their black top.

You hadn't meant to get in the way. One moment you were assisting with a generator, and the next you were almost another victim of the masked killer, Jason. You surely would have perished right then and there if Two Time hadn't grabbed you by the arm, pulling you behind them as they took the blunt of the attack.

As you relived the events again in your head, a shuddered breath left the cultist sitting in front of you. Snapping out of your daze, you muttered an apology. You didn't want them to be hurt, to have put their life on the line for you.

"The Spawn would be pleased in knowing you're safe."

Two Time spoke, tilting their head back and smiling your way. It was pained.

Deep down you knew they would do anything for you, but you couldn't help but feel guilty. Even "The Spawn" seemed to encourage Two Time's efforts despite the pain that came with it. So wordlessly you shook your head.

You leaned forward, placing a soft but fleeting kiss just in-between their wings. Their posture stiffened at your actions, almost making you wonder if you had upset or even worse, hurt them. But they soon relaxed, releasing a sigh of contentment. You took notice of the way their face blossomed in color.

A wave of silence washed between you two. However as your finger traced shapes along their shoulder, your partner spoke up again, although a bit quiet.

"Perhaps they would be pleased with my safety as well.."

Their muttering, that small revelation—it brought a smile to your face. Carefully you leaned in and placed a kiss on their cheek, causing them to chuckle. They're devoted to The Spawn, but to you as well. Even if it conflicts, they'll try and make you happy <3

#forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox #forsaken two time #two time x reader

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icarusignite · 3 months ago

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My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd headcanon #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #dc comics #dc universe #batfamily #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #batfam #jason todd imagine

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jasmines-library · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, I love your Batfam work! Is there any chance you could do a whump/angst one of batsis being kidnapped by a villian(you can choose whoever you want) and she’s tortured for days with it being broadcasted to the Batfam while they try to track the footage. I feel kinda bad but can you do maybe some head trauma md severe burns? Maybe she has to be put in a medically included coma or smth because of the damage? Also is there any way you could include Barb and Duke along w/ the four robins? If not that’s totally cool! Sorry for the long request but I hope you have a great day!!

Anonymous Requested: batfam x batsib reader whos the youngest and newest robin and is just really goofy and doesn’t take anything seriously (ex: them blaring “who’s the (bat)man” on the comms during patrol [that songs stuck in my head i had to mention it]) and something happens, maybe their first close encounter to death or a run in with the joker and they just become a shell of who they were and stuff

Jokes On Me

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: My god im so sorry this literally took me forever to write, thank you so much for being patient. I've been trying to write this all week but just couldn't sit down for long enough to finish it.

Warnings: Torture, blood, burns.

Word Count: 2.5k

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

“Y/N, turn that shit off.”

Jason grumbled at you over the coms. You had been blasting some wretched song that you’d found on the internet over and over again and it was beginning to drive him mad.

“Nope.” You said, popping the ‘p’ loudly.

“Seriously.” Dick deadpanned. He had found it amusing at first, but it was now beginning to test his patience.

Agitated, you sighed and turned off the music. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Jason expressed gratefully, turning his eyes back to the road he was patrolling. The night was cool and quiet besides the odd dog walker or couple returning from an evening out. It was one of those nights where patrol would end early and he could return home to take a warm bath and read a book before turning in for the night. Or so he thought.

You were rounding the corner, humming that tune that was still stuck in your head when his laughter ricocheted across the walls. You stiffened, eyes widening and hands fumbling for your weapon as your breath hitched. No amount of turning and craning your head allowed you to catch a glimpse of the dreaded figure, and you thought for a moment that perhaps it had just been a trick of your mind, or one of your brothers playing a cruel joke on you as payback for winding them up earlier. But then you heard it again, only this time to your left. You clutched your weapon tighter, eyes scanning the area with a new found sense of urgency.

“Wing…” You whispered into the coms so quietly that you were surprised he heard it.

“What now?” He somewhat snapped.

“We have a problem.”

Dick’s heart sank through the floor, his ears pricking up and his demeanour changing completely. “Where are you? What’s the matter? He was trying to let his panic show, but you hadn’t been patrolling as a vigilante for very long, and while you were well trained, you lacked the experience to deal with something big on your own. And from your tone of voice, he could tell that you were in some deep shit.

Jason worked his legs harder to push himself to reach the direction he had seen you head off in. Albeit it seemed even his hardest wasn’t enough.

When he stepped out of the darkness, the first thing you noticed were his eyes. Wide and bright, easily mistakable for a cat’s as they flashed in the darkness; wild. Rabid. As he emerged fully with that infamous twisted grin splayed out on his face, you felt like a cornered animal; a deer in headlights. You froze, unable to move despite how your heart screamed at you to run as it pounded, trying to break free from your ribcage.

“He’s here…” A mere whisper sliding over your tongue, so fragile that you weren’t even sure if you had actually said it aloud. Jason had heard it.

“Who?”

The Joker was circling you now, dragging out his strides in lazy circles. You should have fought but in that moment all of your training had drained out of you, along with the colour in your face. He smirked, leering down upon you as you tried to keep your trembling hand still. He pouted in mockery and at your silence, Jason repeated his question to you, but you never got the chance to respond.

“Oh…Just an old friend, Jay-bird.”

“Joker.” Urging his body to move faster, Jason grit his teeth.

Dick paled. “You leave them alone.” Dick spat. It tried to be a command, but the effect was lost somewhere in transmission.

The joker pursed his lips, tilting his head as he analysed. One of his hands had found his way to your jawline and he trailed it with a cold, gloved hand. You wanted to lean away, to run and find your brother but you knew that now he had you in his grasp there was no point in even trying. “And why would I do that? They’re right in front of me. I could just…snatch them up.”

“Don’t you dare!” Dick was frightened now. “Y/N, you stay there as long as you can, okay? You fight. We’re coming, you hear?”

The Joker frowned at you. “D’you hear that? Big brother birdy coming to the rescue. How sweet.”

His grip on you tightened. “Too bad you’ll be long gone by the time they get here.”

With one swift motion, he had thrown you harshly to the side, your head colliding with the wall with a sickening crack.

The two boys skidded to a halt just a second too late. You were already gone.

Your head hurt when you woke up. Your eyes squinted against the sterile light. They did no favours to your pounding headache. With a groan, you tried to twist, to roll over and soothe the crook in your neck but instead all that happened was the jinging of a metal chain. You craned your head and spotted the thick chain that had been wrapped around your wrist, confining you to the chair. Struggling, you tugged on them, trying to free yourself only for them to rattle and scrape against your skin.

“Yeah, that’s not going anywhere, birdy.” The joker chided.

You glared at him through narrowed eyes, trying to mask the thumping of your heart. The joker grinned wildly at your frightened complexion.

“It was such a shame that Grayson and Todd didn’t get to you in time, but it was far too easy to catch you, little bird: you completely froze.” He snapped his fingers to emphasise his point. “Didn’t batsy teach you better?”

“Don’t talk about them.” You snapped.

The joker raised his hands, palms facing toward you in surrender: taunting you as if you were the one with the power in the situation. “Touchy subject I see. Too bad.”

He gestured above you to an incessantly blinking light. “Smile for the camera, you’re live.”

Babs had been monitoring the street cameras when the computer beside her flickered to life. She had been searching for any sign of you ever since Dick and Jason came flying through the grandfather clock. Everyone was on edge.

The moment the screen flashed on, her eyes perked up to watch it, alarmed. She hadn’t turned it on. And there were very few people who could bypass the caves system. So when she saw a small frame curled up in a chair she knew immediately what was up.

“Duke…” she called to the dark haired boy who was trying to help decipher your whereabouts. “Go and get B.”

It did not take long at all for everyone to gather around in the cave. Duke was fast, and everyone dropped what they were doing to race down: even Alfred had taken his leave from his duties to see.

It was almost like some sick irony because as soon as they were all there, you began to scream. A guttering, perfect scream that cut that through them like a knife: unclean and pinging into them messily again and again.

The joker had taken a knife to your left thigh, his smile dripping with malice as he watched the camera, somehow knowing that at least one of them would be watching.

Your face was contorted in pain, twisting in agony as tears rolled flatly down your cheeks from fearful eyes. Damian felt sick, his stomach churning. Jason wanted to leave. But all of them were stuck watching. Barbra was tapping away, trying to locate the signal from the video to no avail.

“I hope you’re watching this Batsy…” He moved round to trail your face with the edge of the knife. You whimpered. “I’ve got your little bird here and I must say, you need to work on their training. They were far too easy to catch.”

Bruce felt his jaw tightening and Tim had to place a hand on his arm to remind him of his place.

“Anyway I thought we would play a little game… how long can little y/n survive for. I wonder if it’ll be any longer than our very own Jason Todd.”

Jason twitched.

“I’m testing you here, Bat. Tick Tock.”

The transmission cut to black.

It seemed hopeless. Even though they had been searching for days, they were no closer to finding you. And to make matters worse, they could see you. Not long after the first transition ended did it start up again. It had been lifestreaming since then, and although they had tried to block it from their minds, it was hard to ignore. Especially when your agonised screams ricocheted throughout the halls.

You looked like hell. Dark bags occluded under your eyes and there wasn’t an inch of your skin that wasn’t marred or stained with drying blood. The burns were worse. Damian could still hear the scream you let out when the joker first brought the hot poker to your skin. It had bubbled and blistered as the skin peeled away; you had thrashed against your restraints violently. Tim was certain that they were going to get infected if they didn’t reach you soon.

It felt as if they had searched everywhere. Dick and Jason had even asked around to see if anyone had heard anything, going as far to talk to the Jokers closest associates in Arkham, but even if they did know, nobody said anything. Duke had even gone as far to go back to the area to use his powers to see if he could trace anything, but nothing seemed out of place; they had hit a brick wall. That was…until a small light appeared on the monitor. Babs had managed to trace the signal to a small building on the outskirts of the city.

They were suited up in minutes, making a beeline for the building. They stormed it, recklessly taking down the Joker's goons before Batman chased wildly after the Joker, his face stony and his fists burning with anger. The other four boys chased down the winding corridors, flinging open the doors until they found one that was locked. Tim wasted no time, picking the lock with ease he peeled it open. His breath hitched when he saw you.

Your face was gaunt, hanging low by your chest. Your suit was torn and there was less of it on your body than there was ripped away. You looked so fragile as your chest heaved sporadically.

Jason nearly had to take a step back. This place reminded himself too much of his own encounter with the Joker not too long ago. But he pressed forward, fighting his instincts. He had to be strong. Instead of turning back, he kneeled in front of you, whispering your name. His hand came up to cup your face. You flinched away.

“It’s okay kid. It’s us.” He tried to reassure you, but you shrank back into yourself.

“We’re so, so sorry kiddo.” Dick tried placing a gentle hand on your arm before moving to work on the cuffs around your wrists. “We’re going to get you out.”

You said nothing, just continued to stare at the black space before you, and Dami wasn’t sure if you even knew they were in front of you. But when Jason moved away from you to help remove your restraints, your fingers latched onto him and you squeaked in protest.

He sighed shakily. “Don’t worry kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian twisted from where he was guarding the door. “We need to leave.”

Dick nodded bluntly, finishing with the last of the locks. “I’m going to have to pick you up, okay sweetheart?”

You barely registered what he had said. Everything had grown numb, you nodded anyhow. Moving his arms underneath your legs and slipping one arm behind your back, Jason began to lift you. He nearly recoiled when you cried and whimpered with the way your wounds jostled as he sprinted out of the building to get you back to safety.

You were yet to say anything since you came home. You had been back a few days and your wounds were healing up nicely thanks to Alfred’s handywork, but the air was eerily silent around you. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been communicating with them; you spoke to them with gestures or writing but no one was used to not hearing your voice. The stark contrast between your loud and bustling personality and you now was unsettling. No one wanted to push you too far but the manor was beginning to grow lonely.

It was one particularly rainy night when you finally spoke. You were curled up in a large armchair by the window in the library, sinking back into the plush leather as you watched the raindrops race down the glass. Jason had been watching you from afar, contemplating whether to talk to you or not when he walked over.

“What are you up to?” He asked you, making sure you knew that he was there before he spoke.

You gestured toward the window,then to the half opened book at your feet and shrugged.

“I see.” He nodded, taking a seat on the armchair opposite you. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Jason wasn’t much of a talker. He knew more than anyone what you were going through, which was why it was nice just to know that he was willing to sit with you, just so you knew that he was there if you needed him. It made you feel safe. But you also couldn’t help but feel guilty, and frustrated with yourself for being in a place that made him feel as though he had to do that.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Jason had to do a second take. His heart swelled. “What for?”

You sighed. “This. When I saw him…i-i froze. If I had run then this would never have happened.”

“Shh. This isn’t your fault.”

“But-”

“I promise, Kid. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You nodded, looking away from him. But then you furrowed your brows and turned back to him. “How did you do it? How did you deal with this, Jay? Every time I close my eyes he’s there.”

“I guess I don’t, really. Or sometimes it feels like I don’t. I still get scared sometimes. I still see him in my dreams. But over time it gets easier. I had people around me to help me. And so do you, kid. We’re here. We’ll always be here.”

Jason shifted to brush away a rogue tear and you leaned into his touch and then wrapped your arms tightly around his middle.

“I’m here. Always. We’ll get through this together.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

BATFAM TAGS

@aestheticdaisies @hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff @alicedawitchbish

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

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standamianwayne · 8 months ago

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yandere!batfam/damian’s twin!reader

okay so! in these neglected!reader fics Dick is almost always the one who’s like trying to reach out the most. because of this, personally(!) i feel like he’s the kinda guy who just wants his family to be whole so he kinda takes up the position of like father+brother combined (eldest child syndrome lowkey). he kinda becomes the most present figure in the twins’ lives and i think it goes double for reader tbh.

like breakfast lunch dinner Dick is right there with her and yaps her ear off. i think that where Bruce is the kinda dad that wants you to finish what you start, Dick is the kinda brother that’s like “if you don’t wanna do it, then don’t” ykwim? wanna do ballet? he’s at every recital. hate it? well, it wasn’t for you anyways! any practice, game, show, concert, he’s there. and if you decide you absolutely hate whatever it is, he’s there for you too!

just like general supportive older brother, but turned up juuuust a smidge. i feel like in the yandere aspect, he’s not really the type to go try and murder someone. sure he might hurt someone, but he’d at least want to avoid murder. it’s more like he’s gonna try and keep her home/with him as much as possible. like where are you going? it’s family game night! when did we start family game nights? don’t worry about it! now come on, it’s monopoly.

jason, on the other, WOULD probably kill someone. buuuuut i think it’s more so if she get physically hurt by someone would he be pushed to murder. emotionally? he’ll probably just beat them up and threaten them. but if they put their hands on her? mmm yeah you’re dead. sorry!

i feel like jason, who’s literally died and come back to life consumed by rage, would see reader as the opposite of himself. as good, where he is bad. and i think that on one hand he wants to push her away, to not taint her with the darkness that consumes him. but on the other hand, he’s had so much taken from him, seen death at every corner, even met the man face-to-face. can’t he be selfish just this once?

so, in the early hours of the morning, before the sun comes up and his duty as Red Hood is done for the night, he seeks her out. he comes back to the manor, climbing through her bedroom window. she’s still asleep and he just stands there, listening, watching, reminding himself that she is alive and so is he. he doesn’t touch her, he can’t— can’t poison her good with his bad. so, he settles for observing. maybe one day he can work up the courage to speak with her, seek her comfort. but for now, he’s content with simply existing around her.

tim is also an observer in like a borderline stalker kinda way. makes everybody download life360 but he watches her location like a hawkkkk. also gifts her a phone that’s totally safe i swear! don’t mind that any texts from an ex or someone that you have bad blood disappear right after you get them. they probably just unsent them!

he’s like Dick in that he tries to convince her to stay home often. but his way of doing it is… different. you wanna go for a walk on this street? actually there’s footage of a robbery that took place near there recently, probably not safe. wanna go to a friend’s house? um, according to their school records, they got detention in 5th grade. that’s a bad influence, girl! don’t worry, we can play mario kart or something instead!

with duke i feel like, compared to the others, he’s the closest you’ll get to a regular brother. he’s the closest in age to the twins and he joined the batfam after damian in canon. he’s also very kind and soft(?) so it’s unlikely he’s gonna go full stalker and/or killer over his sister. don’t get me wrong, he could kick ass if needed. but when it comes to reader, he’s mostly just trying to bond with her. watching movies in his room, sneaking out to get ice cream together, even at the ‘Wayne Galas’ he’ll stick by her side.

duke is veryyy caring and passionate, plus i feel like he’s sympathetic as well. so when you need comforting, he’s probably the best to go to. cause he won’t be the kind to go find whoever made you upset and ‘talk to’ them. instead, he’s gonna comfort his sis! unless it was someone who physically hurt her, then he’ll probably pay them a visit. but he’s not gonna kill them, i just can’t see him doing that.

next up the batgirls 😛 just as a note this is all my interpretation of the characters. if you think it’s ooc, no you didn’t ❤️

also does anyone have a preference of using third person (she, her) or second (you, your)? i might switch to ‘you’ when i write the batgirls so its not confusing, but if anyone has a preference, let me know!

and thank you all so much for the love on the first part!!!! i’ve never uploaded fanfic before so this is so new to me 😅 but i appreciate it sm! love yall! ❤️

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ihrthoney · 8 months ago

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[ typing this laying in bed forcing myself to sleep but my brain wants to write so headcanon format it is. ]

thinking about ak!jason who has no idea that after his ‘death’ that you went insane looking for him. but you were no detective, you weren’t in the police field, you were just jason todd’s girlfriend.

but you damn well did everything you could, from begging bruce, to sneaking into offices, looking for nightwing, anything.

you taught yourself to use a gun to search places alone. jason would scold you for doing such a thing for him but you didn’t care, not when you knew he was alive.

you didn’t know.. but your gut feeling told you he was. a body was never found, nothing. you refused to believe it.

“you didn’t find anything? no pieces of his suit? no blood? nothing!?” you screamed and cried at batman, desperate, grieving.

“i’ve looked-“

“no! you didn’t! because if you did look everywhere you would’ve found something! all this technology and you still couldn’t track the location?”

“it’s not that simple.”

“right, because you aren’t the greatest detective in the world”

you tried to distract yourself with work but it was no use, not when you came home opening the spare bedroom door to your mess of a room. papers everywhere, maps, pictures, you would’ve seemed insane to any normal person.

you were exhausted, too many dreams of him in front of you but that’s all it was. dreams.

one night, you felt someone push your hair behind your ear. instantly, like jason taught you, you grabbed the knife under your pillow and went to slash at the intruder but the knife made a thud as it hit the floor.

a hand, gently, wraps around your wrist.

you blink your eyes awake, taking in the person in your home.

jason.

no. it’s another dream.

“you’ve gotta be quicker than that, sweetheart.”

you don’t speak, still taking in what’s going on. the light from the moon just barley shows his face.

“hey don’t cry baby, it’s okay.”

you back away, unable to take another hallucination.

“no.. this isn’t real. you can’t be here. i haven’t found you yet.”

“i’m right here, baby.”

shaking your head, you back into the corner of your bed, making yourself as small as you can.

“no, i have to find him. i have to find jason!”

“look at me, sweet girl.”

you can’t tear your face from your arms, so he softly pulls your face up with both hands, wiping your tears,

“i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere ever again.”

the closer he is, the more you notice the difference in his features.

the j on his face, the scars, but his eyes,

his sweet beautiful eyes still look at you with love.

“i’m so sorry.” you give in, real or not, you hug him.

he hates it, after everything he’s been through he can’t take the affection. but for you? for you he’d do anything.

so he lets you cry into him, squeezing him tight, even if he can’t be the jason you loved, he holds you all the same.

sobbing into his chest, “i tried so hard to find you”

“i know you did sweetheart, i saw the room. but it wasn’t your job to find me.”

“don’t say that, you’re the love of my life. i would rather die than stop looking.”

“you did good.”

“i didn’t. you still had to find me.”

“i’d climb out of my grave and crawl back home to you, i’ll always find you.”

“please don’t let this be a dream.”

“i’m right here.”

he holds you until the sun rises, rocking back and forth slightly. he’ll tell you about it all later, for now, he just wants you close.

edit: i will be making this into a fic later ;p

#ᝰ honeywrites #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #arkham knight #arkham knight x reader #arkham knight x you

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cumtastiics · 8 months ago

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EMPTY PROMISES / prequel. ft. g/n reader + batfam #TW :: death (of reader's mother!), neglect :p

LET'S READ SOME MORE! prequel (here) ch. 1 2 3

your mother was the most important person in your world. she was everything you knew—your protector, your comfort, the one who made you feel safe and loved. she was the heart of your home, the one you could always count on.

and she still is, in a way. the memories of her remain, haunting and bittersweet, lingering in your thoughts like a shadow that follows you everywhere.

but she isn’t in this world anymore. she’s gone, taken too soon.

you still remember the day, you were just a child then, still small and innocent, walking home from elementary school.

when you opened the door, the stench hit you immediately—a putrid, acrid smell that seemed to seep into your very bones. it was overpowering, filling your nostrils and choking your breath. for a moment, you stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. the smell was so strong, so overwhelming, that it made your stomach churn and your chest tighten. something was terribly wrong, but your young mind couldn’t process it.

“mama?” you called out, your voice soft and uncertain. it wasn’t like her to not greet you when you came home. she was always there, waiting, ready to give you a hug, to ask about your day.

but that day, something felt different. something felt terribly wrong.

“mama? i’m back home,” you called again, a little louder this time, though still hesitant. but no answer came, and that silence, that unbearable quiet, was more terrifying than any sound.

you stood at the door, unsure whether you should step inside or run away. the house was eerily still. it wasn’t like your mother to not respond, to not be there. but then, as you stepped further into the house, you saw it—her.

your mother was there, but not the way you expected.

there, on the floor, she lay in a pool of blood, lifeless, her eyes vacant and empty. the sight was more horrific than anything you could have ever imagined. you couldn’t understand it, not fully. she was the one who held you when you cried, who kissed your forehead at night and tucked you in. how could she be... gone?

the blood that surrounded her was thick and dark, a stark contrast to the softness of the home she had always made for you. the horror of what you saw was too much for a child your age to process. you had never even heard of such things happening.

it was the kind of image that no child should ever have to witness—the kind of pain that no one should ever have to endure. and yet, it was the memory that would define you, the moment that would haunt you for the rest of your life.

the world you lived in, the one that had revolved around your mother would never be the same.

it wasn’t long after that till bruce took you in.

he was different from your mother, he was straight-forward, and hardly spoke to you. maybe it was the first week only where he had bothered to make any effort to speak with you, but after that he stopped.

from his point of view, he never forgot about you, he was just… busy. busy is the word.

from your point of view, it was obvious neglect. you had tried to stay positive, but it was hard. alfred would tell you that bruce was busy, and surely he’ll make time for you.

he wasn’t right.

you learned at an early age that promises in the manor that were made, were almost always broken ones.

you learned that promises, no matter how sweet and caring they may sound, were just words.

meaningless, stupid words.

you would sit in your room, wondering if bruce would talk to you today. alfred, with his kind eyes and patient nature, would bring you meals and check in on you occasionally. he was the closest thing to a father figure you had now, but even he couldn’t fill the space your mother had left behind.

the manor almost always quiet, or at least the empty part your bedroom was a part of, was. that was, till jason died.

the manor was almost a mourning place, full of regret.

it was then, when bruce and the rest of them, who barely knew a thing about you, forgot you.

a/n: zooweemama i let my friend read draft and she kept making mama a girl behind you jokes

taglist //// @foggyv-oid @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @ghostdoodlen @luxuryz3 @soriansick @degenerates-posts @kore-of-the-underworld @toast-on-dandelioms

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2b4st4r · 6 days ago

Text

His Angel

Jason Todd x Reader

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

MINORS DNI

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Words: 13,727

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Warnings: Female reader, slight angst, violance, abuse, SMUT. Pet names, p in v, eventual smut.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Summary: In the gritty underbelly of Gotham, Red Hood—Jason Todd—lies bleeding out from a gunshot wound when Y/N, a compassionate nurse, stumbles upon him. Defying better judgment, she brings him to her apartment, tending to his severe injury and discovering his true identity.

masterlist

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The biting New York City air did little to staunch the crimson tide seeping through Jason’s gloved fingers, blooming across the tattered fabric of his Red Hood armor. Each shallow, ragged breath sent a fresh wave of agony through his abdomen, a searing reminder of the bullet lodged deep within. The world swayed, a kaleidoscope of blurred streetlights and the distant wail of sirens. He stumbled, knees threatening to buckle, his vision narrowing to a pinprick. With a guttural groan, he reached up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated, and tore off the suffocating crimson helmet. The cold air rushed against his sweat-slicked face, offering a fleeting, meaningless relief. His eyes, wide and unfocused, stared up at the indifferent sky for a long moment before they fluttered closed, and he collapsed, a heap of dark kevlar and spent rage.

The alley reeked of damp refuse and something metallic that made your stomach churn. You were just trying to cut through, a shortcut that now felt like a very bad idea, when your foot snagged on something yielding. With a yelp, you stumbled, nearly falling headlong into a pile of overflowing trash bags. As you righted yourself, your gaze landed on the dark, unmoving shape at your feet. Panic flared, cold and sharp, until a glint of red caught your eye, and then the stark realization of what, or rather who, lay before you.

It was Red Hood. Or what was left of him.

Your breath hitched. The blood was undeniable, a dark, spreading stain against the grimy concrete. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, overwhelming urge to run. But something held you rooted, a flicker of an instinct you hadn't known you possessed. He was just a man, bleeding and broken.

Dropping your messenger bag, you knelt, your hands hovering uncertainly over his armored form. The metallic scent was stronger now, coppery and sickening. He was heavier than you’d imagined, a dead weight that seemed to mock your efforts. You fumbled with the straps and clasps of his armor, your fingers clumsy with a mix of fear and urgency. Piece by painstaking piece, you managed to divest him of the heavier plating, revealing the stark reality of the wound. It was worse than you thought.

With a groan of effort, you managed to hoist one of his arms over your shoulder, grunting with the strain as you tried to drag him. It was slow, agonizing work, a desperate, inch-by-inch shuffle through the alley. Your muscles screamed in protest, but the fear of leaving him there, bleeding out in the cold, spurred you on. Somehow, you managed to maneuver him out of the alley's shadows and onto the quieter backstreets, each step a testament to sheer will. Cars whizzed by, their occupants oblivious to the grim struggle unfolding on the sidewalk. You kept your face down, your body hunched, trying to make him less conspicuous, though it felt like an impossible task.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached the relative safety of your apartment building. The elevator ride was agonizingly slow, each floor a testament to the precariousness of your situation. You prayed no one would step in, that no curious neighbor would ask questions. By some miracle, you made it, wrestling his unconscious form through your apartment door and collapsing onto the living room floor, both of you gasping for air – you from exertion, him from the relentless grip of his injury.

You wasted no time. The immediate danger of the street was gone, replaced by the suffocating urgency of the wound itself. Your hands, still trembling, moved with a newfound purpose as you peeled away the remaining pieces of his Red Hood armor. Each buckle and strap seemed to fight against you, but you worked methodically, driven by the expanding crimson stain on his side. When the last of the hardened plates clattered to the floor, you saw the extent of the damage. His black shirt was soaked, clinging to his skin in a grotesque second skin. With a grimace, you carefully cut the fabric away, revealing the raw, angry wound beneath. It was a bullet hole, jagged and unforgiving, just below his ribs.

Your breath hitched again, this time not from fear, but from a sudden, stark realization that made your stomach clobber. With the shirt gone, the mask-tan faded from his face, and the harsh lines of his jaw and chin were fully exposed. Jason Todd. The name, whispered only in hushed tones and frantic news reports, echoed in your mind. This wasn't just some vigilante; this was the "dead" Robin, the one who'd supposedly come back to haunt Gotham as the Red Hood. A cold dread settled in your gut, quickly followed by a surge of something akin to awe. He was real. And he was bleeding out on your living room floor.

Calling an ambulance was out of the question. You knew the drill. Even if they treated him, his identity would be compromised the moment he hit the hospital. He’d be arrested, locked away, and the fragile balance of vigilante justice would be thrown into chaos. No, this was on you. You weren’t a nurse, or a doctor, or anything close, but you’d taken a first aid class in college – a requirement for your old summer camp counselor job – and suddenly, those forgotten lessons flooded back.

"Okay, okay, deep breaths, Y/N," you muttered to yourself, your voice a shaky whisper. You rushed to the bathroom, grabbing the cleanest towels you could find, a bottle of antiseptic you usually reserved for scraped knees, and a roll of medical tape you kept for emergencies that never seemed to arrive. Back in the living room, you knelt beside him, your movements more deliberate now.

His skin was clammy, pale beneath the faint stubble on his jaw. His breathing was shallow, punctuated by soft, almost imperceptible groans. You pressed a clean towel firmly against the wound, trying to stem the flow, and he flinched, a low sound rumbling in his chest. "I know, I know," you murmured, your voice surprisingly steady. "Just hold still. I'm going to help you." You poured the antiseptic onto another clean cloth, wincing in anticipation of his reaction, and began to gently clean the area around the bullet hole. He tensed, his head rolling to the side, but he remained unconscious. The smell of blood and antiseptic filled the air, a grim perfume in your usually quiet apartment.

The air in your apartment hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something metallic that made your stomach churn. You stood, swaying slightly, looking down at the still form of Jason Todd. Your hands, slick with his blood, trembled as you finally lowered the last of the makeshift bandages. Against all odds, you’d done it. The bullet, a small, mangled piece of lead, lay on a discarded paper towel, a grim trophy of your frantic surgery. You’d used a pair of sterilized tweezers from your emergency kit, your breath held, and the memory of the extraction made your own skin crawl. It had been messy, horrifying, but it was out.

He was still unconscious, but his breathing, though still shallow, was steadier now. The ragged edges of his gasps had softened, replaced by a more regular rhythm. You had cleaned him up as best you could, wiping away the worst of the gore from his torso and face, leaving him pale but no longer covered in his own vital fluid. His face, even in repose, held a certain hard-won weariness.

Taking a shaky breath, you backed away, the metallic tang of blood clinging to your hands, to your clothes, even to your hair. It was a smell you knew all too well, one that always brought a wave of nausea. This was why you’d gone into nursing, not surgery, not emergency medicine. The thought of being knee-deep in this kind of trauma every day was enough to make you queasy. Your current role, while challenging, rarely involved this much visceral horror.

You stumbled towards the bathroom, your limbs heavy, feeling as though you’d run a marathon. The moment you stepped into the shower, the hot water beating down on your skin felt like a blessing. You scrubbed furiously, lathering shampoo into your hair again and again, trying to wash away the lingering scent, the phantom stickiness of blood that seemed to cling to every pore. Even after you were clean, wrapped in a towel, the faint, coppery scent seemed to linger in your nostrils, a constant reminder of the life-or-death drama that had just unfolded in your living room.

The lingering scent of antiseptic still hung in the air as you stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your still-damp hair. Your eyes immediately went to the living room, to the figure still sprawled on your rug. He was unnervingly still. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over you. Was he still breathing? You watched for a long moment, until the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest reassured you. He was alive. For now.

His armor lay in a dark, discarded heap, and his bloodied clothes were a stark contrast to your carefully cleaned apartment. He couldn't stay in those. You needed to find him something clean, something inconspicuous. Your mind immediately went to the back of your closet. Your ex-boyfriend, Mark, had a habit of leaving things behind. Annoying at the time, but now, a surprising stroke of luck. He was roughly Jason's size – tall, broad-shouldered.

With a final, lingering look at the unconscious vigilante, a strange mix of trepidation and a nascent sense of responsibility swirling within you, you padded silently to your bedroom, leaving the living room in a hushed silence.

A low groan escaped Jason’s lips, the sound raspy, unfamiliar. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that echoed the searing pain in his abdomen. His muscles felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive. He forced his eyes open, but the world was a blurry, unfocused mess of muted colors and indistinct shapes. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the bitter taste of blood, the burning in his gut, and the cold, unyielding concrete of an alleyway.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp, excruciating jolt of pain ripped through his side, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. He fell back, a gasp escaping him, his mind slowly, painfully, piecing together the fragmented memories. The bullet. The desperate struggle to breathe. Tearing off his helmet. Then… nothing.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The ceiling was white, unfamiliar. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral. Not an alley. Not a hospital. A sudden, cold dread gripped him. Was he captured? But the bed beneath him was soft, not the cold steel of an interrogation table. And the pain, though immense, felt… managed. Bandaged.

He slowly, carefully, moved his hand to his abdomen. There was a thick, firm dressing wrapped tightly around his midsection. He could feel the distinct absence of the bullet. Someone had pulled it out. Someone had helped him.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in the soft lamplight, the framed pictures on a nearby dresser, the general lived-in feel of the place. It was an apartment. Someone's apartment. But whose? And why had they helped him? He was the Red Hood, a dangerous vigilante, a known quantity to the police and the underworld alike. Most people would have left him for dead, or worse, called the authorities.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes again, trying to marshal his strength, trying to make sense of his impossible situation. He was injured, vulnerable, in an unknown location, at the mercy of… whoever had brought him here. The thought gnawed at him. He needed to be alert, to figure out who his samaritan was, and what they wanted. He just needed a little more time to clear his head, to fight through the pain and the fog of unconsciousness that still clung to him.

The soft padding of footsteps approached from the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Jason’s eyes snapped open, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through the lingering haze of pain. Instinct took over. He wasn’t safe. He was vulnerable. His gaze swept the room, landing on a heavy, ceramic lamp on a side table. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the fresh wave of agony that shot through his abdomen. He snatched the lamp, its cool, smooth surface a surprising comfort in his trembling grip, and stealthily, painfully, moved to the corner of the living room, pressing his back against the wall, weapon raised.

You stepped out of your bedroom, a pair of Mark’s old sweatpants and a faded t-shirt clutched in your hands. A small, hopeful sigh escaped your lips. At least he’d be comfortable. The living room was quiet, perhaps too quiet. As you rounded the corner into the main space, a sudden blur of motion, a flash of something dark and solid, made you gasp.

Before you could react, a vice-like grip was around your throat, pressing hard, cutting off your air. The lamp, heavy and cold, was pressed against your temple. Panic flared, hot and sharp, and your hands instinctively went to his arm, clawing at the strong muscles. You couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.

"Who are you?!" a voice, raw and gravelly, rasped close to your ear. It was Jason. His face was inches from yours, pale and etched with pain, his eyes wide and wild, reflecting a deep-seated suspicion. "Why am I here? What do you want?" His grip tightened, and black spots danced at the edges of your vision. You gasped, a small, choked sound.

He watched you, his gaze piercing, searching for answers in your terrified face. Then, a sudden, involuntary wince pulled at his features. His grip faltered, a tremor running through his arm. A deep groan escaped him, and he leaned heavily against you, his strength visibly ebbing. The weapon clattered to the floor, forgotten. The raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Hurts," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, the fight draining from him as quickly as it had appeared. He swayed, his knees buckling.

Your hand immediately went to his arm, no longer in fear, but in support. "Hey, hey, easy!" you gasped, your own throat aching. "You’re still hurt. You just had surgery, remember?" With considerable effort, you guided him, half-carrying his dead weight, towards the now-stained couch. He collapsed onto it with a muffled grunt, his head falling back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut. His breath was ragged again, short and shallow.

You rushed to your bathroom cabinet, pulling out the strong painkillers you had for your occasional migraines. You fumbled with the child-proof cap, your fingers clumsy with urgency, and then poured a glass of water. "Here," you said, pressing the pills into his hand. "Take these. They'll help with the pain." His fingers, still trembling slightly, closed around the small capsules. He swallowed them without a word, his gaze fixed on you, still wary, but now laced with a flicker of something else: dependence.

You watched as Jason swallowed the pills, his Adam's apple bobbing. His shoulders, previously hunched in aggressive tension, began to relax almost imperceptibly as the medication started its work. The harsh lines of pain around his eyes softened, though the wary glint in their depths remained.

"Here," you said softly, holding out the folded clothes – Mark's old grey sweats and a faded black t-shirt. "Your clothes are... well, they're pretty shot. And you don't want to be bleeding all over my couch."

He took them slowly, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. His gaze flickered from the clothes to your face, a question in his eyes that he didn't voice. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to reconcile the woman who'd just had him in a chokehold with the one now offering him clean clothes and pain medication.

"Thanks," he rasped, his voice a little clearer now, less strained. He didn't move to change immediately, instead holding the clothes in his lap. "Why'd you help me?" His voice was low, careful, still laced with suspicion. "Most people wouldn't. Not... not someone like me."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe, a small sigh escaping your lips. "You were bleeding out in an alley, Red Hood. What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?" You paused, then added, a hint of weariness in your tone, "And frankly, I didn't think calling an ambulance was going to end well for you. Or for me, for that matter."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift that showed he was processing your words. "You know who I am." It wasn't a question, but a flat statement.

"Yeah," you confirmed, meeting his gaze directly. "Pretty hard not to. The news has been talking about you for years. Jason Todd, the 'dead' Robin, the Red Hood..." You trailed off, a strange mix of awe and discomfort washing over you. It was one thing to read about him, another entirely to have him, bleeding and vulnerable, on your couch.

He shifted, a new tension entering his posture despite the drugs. "And you just... brought me here? To your apartment?" He looked around, taking in the small, cozy space, clearly assessing it, searching for any hidden threats or motives. "Why risk it? You could be in serious trouble."

You shrugged, though the thought had certainly crossed your mind. "Someone needed help. And I had a few basic first-aid skills. Besides," you added, a faint, dry humor entering your voice, "I don't think you were in any position to argue." You knew you were pushing it, but a part of you couldn't help but challenge his aggressive demeanor.

A faint flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps just grudging acceptance, crossed his features. He didn't respond immediately, just sat there, clutching the clothes, his gaze still fixed on you, trying to decipher your intentions. The pills were clearly starting to dull the sharp edges of his pain, but the ingrained caution of a vigilante, especially one like him, was proving harder to dislodge.

You held out the clothes, and he slowly, almost hesitantly, took them from your grasp. His eyes, though still guarded, seemed to hold a flicker of something new – a mix of exhaustion and a dawning comprehension.

"You can change in the bathroom," you said, gesturing towards the door you'd just come from. "I'll... give you some space." You paused, then added, your voice softer, "Look, I know this is a lot. For both of us. But you're safe here. And you're free to stay until you're back on your feet. No questions asked, no calls to anyone. Just... get better."

His gaze sharpened, searching your face for any hint of deceit, any hidden agenda. The offer was so simple, so straightforward, it almost felt like a trap. But your expression was open, devoid of guile. He simply nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. He pushed himself up from the couch, wincing but managing to stay upright this time.

He moved towards the bathroom, a slight limp in his stride. As the door clicked shut behind him, the apartment suddenly felt strangely empty, the tension momentarily replaced by a quiet hum.

The apartment settled into a quiet hum, the kind that only truly descends at night in a city that never sleeps. You moved through your routine, each action a little slower, a little more deliberate than usual. The dishes from your quick, solitary dinner were washed, the lights dimmed. The shower had helped, but the phantom scent of blood seemed to cling to your senses, a persistent whisper of the evening's events.

As you changed into your pajamas, your thoughts drifted. Would he still be here in the morning? The question echoed in your mind, followed by a torrent of others. What would happen when he was fully recovered? Would he just disappear, a ghost in the night, leaving you with a surreal memory and a lingering sense of unease? Or would he say something? Do something? You were harboring a notorious vigilante, a man the world thought was dead. The enormity of it all settled over you, a heavy blanket of responsibility and apprehension. You knew you had done the right thing, the human thing, but the implications felt vast and unknown. Sleep didn't come easily.

The first rays of morning light, pale and tentative, filtered through your living room window. You blinked, slowly emerging from a fitful sleep. The apartment felt… different. Quieter, perhaps, or just more aware. With a soft groan, you stretched, the aches from your impromptu rescue mission a dull throb in your muscles.

You swung your legs out of bed, the silence of the apartment almost deafening. Taking a deep breath, you walked out into the living room, your gaze immediately drawn to the couch.

He was still there.

Curled on his side, in Mark's too-big sweats and t-shirt, Jason Todd was a surprisingly peaceful sight. His dark hair was a mess, falling across his forehead, and the tension that usually etched his features was softened by sleep. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was the only sound in the room. He looked vulnerable, almost fragile, a stark contrast to the fearsome figure of the Red Hood.

A strange warmth spread through you, chasing away some of the lingering anxiety. He was still here, and he was sleeping. That had to mean something. A small smile touched your lips.

"Right," you murmured to yourself, a plan forming. "Breakfast." The clinking of pots and pans would be a familiar, comforting sound, a small piece of normalcy in a truly extraordinary morning. And maybe, just maybe, the smell of coffee and pancakes would be a welcome change from antiseptic and fear.

The scent of brewing coffee was the first thing to permeate the haze of sleep. It was a familiar, comforting aroma, entirely out of place with the throbbing pain in his side and the lingering confusion in his mind. Jason's eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. He was still on the couch, wrapped in clothes that weren't his, a vague memory of a sharp, accusing voice and a soft, kind one warring in his head.

Then, another smell hit him: something warm and sweet, mingling with the savory sizzle of frying bacon. His stomach, which had been a tight knot of pain and anxiety, rumbled in protest. He hadn't realized how truly hungry he was until that moment.

He pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the pull in his abdomen. The pain was still there, a dull ache now rather than a searing fire, thanks to the pills. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, testing his weight on his feet. He was weak, unsteady, but he could stand.

He followed the enticing smells into what was clearly the kitchen. You were there, humming softly to yourself, your back to him as you flipped something in a pan. The morning light caught your hair, making it gleam. You were wearing a comfortable-looking t-shirt and sweatpants, completely oblivious to his presence.

He watched you for a moment, the picture of domestic normalcy so jarringly out of place with his usual world of shadows and violence that it almost felt unreal. The tension in his shoulders, a constant companion, eased ever so slightly.

"Smells good," he rasped, his voice still a little rough from sleep and disuse.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a small shriek as you spun around, spatula still in hand. Your eyes, wide with surprise, landed on him, then quickly softened with a mixture of relief and a hint of a smile.

"Oh! You're up," you said, a hand pressed to your chest. "You scared me! I didn't hear you get up." You gestured vaguely with the spatula. "Pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Figured you'd be hungry."

He just stared at you, a ghost of a frown on his face. He was still assessing you, still on guard, but the rich, inviting aroma of breakfast was slowly, surely, winning him over.

You watched him, a faint smile playing on your lips. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, or perhaps more accurately, a predator momentarily disarmed by the scent of pancakes.

"Go on, sit back down," you urged, gesturing toward the couch. "You're still recovering. I'll get you a plate in a sec. And don't worry about the couch right now; I'll clean that up later. I'm just sorry you had to sleep in that mess."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking to the stained cushion, before turning and slowly making his way back to the living room. As you turned to finish breakfast, you could hear the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved around.

Jason re-entered the living room, the offer of food a powerful lure despite his lingering unease. He didn't sit immediately, though. Your words about him "still recovering" resonated. He felt it – the deep ache in his side, the exhaustion that pulled at his muscles. But there was also a prickle of curiosity, an urge to understand his surroundings.

He moved with a quiet stealth, the habit of a lifetime. His eyes scanned the room, taking in details he'd missed in his pain-addled haze the night before. The bookshelves lining one wall were packed, not with weapons or schematics, but with well-loved novels and textbooks. A comfortable-looking armchair sat by a window, a soft blanket draped over its back. On a small table, a few framed photos showed a smiling woman with bright eyes, sometimes with friends, sometimes with family. His gaze lingered on a particularly candid shot of you laughing, your head thrown back. It was a stark contrast to the terrified expression he'd seen when his hand was at your throat.

He noticed the small, personal touches – a half-knitted scarf on the coffee table, a stack of art books, a ceramic mug with a quirky design. This was clearly a home, lived-in and cared for, utterly devoid of the cold, sterile efficiency he associated with medical facilities, or the stark, utilitarian spaces he himself usually inhabited. He even glanced down at the discarded remains of his Red Hood armor, lying in a dark, ominous heap by the door. It looked almost out of place now, a relic from a different world.

A faint clinking from the kitchen signaled your return. He quickly moved back towards the couch, not wanting to be caught "exploring." He settled back down, trying to appear nonchalant, but his mind was still racing, piecing together the fragments of this bizarre new reality. The smell of breakfast was getting stronger, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, his hunger outweighed his paranoia.

You reappeared from the kitchen, a plate piled high with fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. The aroma was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the sterile scents that had filled the air hours before.

"Here you go," you said, a small smile on your face as you handed him the plate. "And why don't you just sit in the armchair over there for a minute?" You gestured with your chin to the comfy-looking chair by the window. "I'm just going to quickly tackle this." You nodded towards the blood-stained couch, a determined glint in your eye.

He took the plate and mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly. His eyes, still assessing, followed your gaze to the couch. He moved stiffly, but complied, settling into the armchair. The cushions molded around him, surprisingly comfortable, and the warmth of the coffee mug seeped into his hands. He watched as you walked over to the couch, a spray bottle and a clean cloth already in hand.

You knelt, your movements efficient and practiced. The spray bottle hissed, releasing a clear liquid onto the dark stain. Then, with firm, circular motions, you began to blot and rub. The crimson began to lighten, then fade, disappearing into the fabric of the cloth you held. You worked quickly, methodically, changing out cloths as they became saturated, until, remarkably, the evidence of the night's bloody drama was almost entirely gone.

Jason's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes, usually so quick to pick up on inconsistencies, now narrowed in a new kind of suspicion. He hadn't seen anyone clean blood like that before, not with such ease, such thoroughness. It wasn't the kind of quick wipe-down an average person would attempt. It was too precise, too effective. Most people panicked, smeared it, made it worse.

How did she know how to do that?

The question echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent. It wasn't just the fact that she'd helped him, or that she knew who he was. It was the calm, almost professional way she handled the aftermath. It hinted at a past, a skill set that didn't align with the seemingly ordinary apartment, the cozy domesticity, or the nervous tremor in her voice when he'd first confronted her. His guard, which had momentarily softened with the promise of food and a warm place to rest, subtly clicked back into place. This woman was more than she seemed. Much more.

You stepped back, surveying your handiwork. The bloodstain was gone, completely absorbed into the cloth you now held, leaving behind only a slightly darker patch on the cushion where the dampness lingered from the cleaning solution and the vigorous scrubbing. Even the faint, tell-tale copper scent was gone, replaced by the mild, clean smell of the stain remover. A small, satisfied smile touched your lips as you looked over at Jason.

"There," you announced, gesturing to the still-damp spot. "Give that a few minutes to dry, and then you can have your seat back."

His eyes, however, weren't on the couch. They were fixed on you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "How do you know how to do that?" he asked, his voice low, lacking its earlier raspiness but still sharp with suspicion. "Clean blood like that, I mean."

You met his gaze, that small smile still playing on your lips, though a hint of weariness crept into your eyes. "I'm a nurse," you replied simply. "A pretty new one, actually. Still, we learn a few things about… biological cleanups. It's mostly just knowing the right products and acting fast." You shrugged, a subtle gesture that belied the controlled chaos of the previous night.

Jason's gaze lingered on you, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "A nurse," he repeated, almost to himself. "Why'd you become one?" The question was direct, probing.

You offered a small, polite smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, you know," you said, shrugging lightly. "Wanted to help people. Always felt like a good fit." The words were smooth, practiced, a standard response. But the forced pleasantness in your smile, the subtle tension around your mouth, didn't escape his notice. He saw the lie, clear as day. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift, but he'd spent years learning to read the tells in people, to spot the cracks in their composure. He grunted softly, acknowledging your answer, but the silent question remained in his gaze.

You quickly changed the subject, a slight nervous energy entering your movements. "Anyway," you said, gesturing vaguely around the apartment, "you're welcome to stay here for as long as you need to recover. Seriously. No rush."

He just gave another noncommittal grunt, his eyes still on you, searching. The offer was generous, almost baffling, but his years of paranoia had taught him to question every kindness, every seemingly altruistic gesture. He took a bite of a pancake, the maple syrup a sweet burst against the blandness of his pain.

You glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, your eyes widening in alarm. "Oh, no!" you exclaimed, a sudden burst of energy propelling you forward. "I'm going to be so late!"

You quickly moved to the sink, rinsing your plate and mug, your mind already racing through the day's schedule. "I have to go to work," you said, almost to yourself, turning to face Jason who was still slowly eating his pancakes, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. "Look, just... make yourself at home. There's food in the fridge, the TV works, feel free to use the shower, whatever you need." You gestured vaguely around the apartment, then back towards the kitchen. "There are clean towels in the linen closet, just help yourself."

You rushed into your bedroom, a flurry of motion as you pulled on scrubs and tried to tame your hair into a quick bun. Your mind was already at the hospital, picturing the overflowing waiting rooms, the demanding patients, the endless charts. This was not how you'd envisioned starting your workday, not after literally pulling a bullet out of a vigilante in your living room just hours before.

The frantic scramble out of your apartment was just the beginning of a truly brutal day. The hospital hummed with its usual chaotic symphony: the insistent beeping of machines, the hurried footsteps of nurses and doctors, the low murmur of worried families. You were immediately swallowed by the tide of urgent care. Code blues blared, demanding your immediate attention, pulling you from one room to another, your brain a constant whirl of vitals, medications, and patient histories.

Mrs. Henderson in Room 3 complained relentlessly about her lukewarm soup, even as you juggled a crashing blood pressure in Room 7. A new admission, a cyclist hit by a car, arrived in a flurry of paramedics and gore, demanding every ounce of your focus as you helped stabilize him. You barely had time to gulp down lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste a stark reminder of the exhaustion seeping into your bones. Each moment was a delicate balance of critical care and emotional support, of sterile procedures and comforting words. The metallic tang of blood, a phantom from your morning, seemed to cling to the air around you, a constant, unwanted reminder of the secret you carried. Your feet ached, your head throbbed, and by the time your shift finally, blessedly, ended, you felt wrung out, utterly depleted.

The drive home was a blur of traffic lights and weary sighs. Your mind, though tired, raced with a single, pervasive question: Would he still be there? The thought had been a persistent hum beneath the chaotic symphony of your workday. A part of you hoped he'd be gone, the surreal events of the morning relegated to a bizarre dream. Another, smaller part, felt a strange pull, a flicker of curiosity, even concern.

As you fumbled with your keys, unlocking your apartment door, a knot formed in your stomach. The silence that greeted you was profound, different from the quiet hum of your waking home. It was the silence of an empty space. You stepped inside, your eyes immediately sweeping the living room. The armchair was empty. The couch, now impeccably clean, was clear. No discarded clothes, no sign of the makeshift bandages. He was gone. A wave of something akin to disappointment, quickly followed by a strange sense of relief, washed over you. Of course, he’d left. What else would a vigilante do?

The silence of your apartment was a heavy blanket after the ceaseless clamor of the hospital. You kicked off your shoes by the door, the small thud echoing loudly in the quiet. Your scrubs, particularly the left sleeve, bore the tell-tale, slightly sour scent of a patient's unexpected contribution, a harsh reminder of the long, grueling shift. All you wanted was a hot shower and the blessed oblivion of sleep.

Just as you straightened up, a sharp, insistent rap echoed through the door. You froze, every nerve ending screaming in protest. No one ever knocked. Your neighbors just texted. Dread coiled in your stomach as you peered through the tiny peephole.

It was Mark. Your ex. His face, usually annoyingly handsome, was contorted with a familiar blend of frustration and self-importance. He hadn’t changed, not really. Your stomach tightened. You considered pretending you weren't home, a tactic you'd perfected over years of dodging his unexpected appearances.

You backed away from the door, holding your breath, hoping he’d give up. But then the knocking escalated, becoming a furious, relentless pounding, punctuated by his muffled, angry shouts. "Y/N! I know you're in there! Open up! We need to talk!"

Just as the cacophony reached its peak, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the hallway. Jason. He emerged from the living room, a ghost in the dim light, looking far more alert than he had any right to be. He was still wearing Mark's sweats and t-shirt, a subtle bulge under the fabric hinting at the bandages beneath. His gaze, however, was sharp, immediately assessing the situation, settling on your face, then on the shaking door.

A small, involuntary smile touched your lips, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through your exhaustion. He was still here. Despite everything, he was still here. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, before your attention snapped back to the relentless pounding. The sheer audacity of Mark, the unending noise – it grated on your last nerve.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, you swung the door open, blocking the entryway with your body. "What do you want, Mark?" you bit out, your voice low and tight with irritation, deliberately keeping the door open just enough to show the immediate kitchen area, shielding the living room from his view.

Mark, mid-rant, stumbled forward, caught off guard by the sudden opening. His eyes, already narrowed with anger, widened slightly as he took in your disheveled appearance, the faint stain on your sleeve. "Finally! I've been ringing and knocking forever! What the hell, Y/N? We need to talk about..." He stopped short, his gaze now fixed on something just over your shoulder, something beyond the kitchen. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion, then suspicion, clouding his face. He leaned forward, trying to peer around you. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice suddenly hard.

"It was just a friend, Mark, they left," you said, trying to push him back gently, but he was a stubborn, immovable force. You hated how easily the lie came, how he seemed to swallow it, momentarily distracted by his own self-importance.

"A friend?" he scoffed, pushing against the door, trying to force his way in. "Don't lie to me, Y/N. I know when you're lying. And even if it was, what the hell are you doing letting people in when we need to talk? You always put everyone else first! Always! What about my feelings, Y/N? What about what I need?" His voice rose, sharp and cutting, echoing in the small hallway. "You think you can just ignore me? After everything? After everything I did for you? You wouldn't even have this apartment if it wasn't for me! You'd be nothing without me!"

He loomed over you, his eyes blazing, a familiar rage twisting his features. The smell of his cheap cologne, the aggressive set of his jaw – it all brought back a wave of suffocating memories. You felt the familiar exhaustion drain away what little fight you had left. Your shoulders slumped, and you just stared at him, too tired to even formulate a response, too bone-weary to push back against the tide of his verbal assault.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. A shadow, silent as a ghost, detaching itself from the living room. Jason. He was standing just out of Mark's direct line of sight, hidden by the angle of the kitchen counter. His presence was a stark contrast to Mark’s loud, aggressive display. Jason's head was slightly cocked, his gaze piercing Mark, then you, then back to Mark. His hands were clenched into fists, though he remained still. He was a coiled spring, a predator watching a weaker one try to assert dominance. You could feel the suppressed fury radiating off him, a low thrum in the air.

Mark, oblivious, leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that was even more menacing than his shouts. "You think you're so independent now, don't you? This little job, this little apartment. You're nothing without me, Y/N. Go on, try to deny it. You think you can just discard me? We're going to fix this. You're coming back with me. Now." He reached out, his hand closing around your arm, his grip bruising.

"No, Mark," you said, your voice surprisingly firm despite the tremor in your hands as you pulled your arm away from his painful grip. "Just... no. It's over. Please, just leave."

His face contorted, the anger morphing into something uglier, a sneering contempt. "Leave? You think it's that easy? After everything I've done for you?" He took a step closer, his breath hot and stale against your face. "You ungrateful little..." His hand shot out, backhanding you across the face. The force of the blow sent a jolt of pain through your cheek and made your head snap to the side.

Before you could even register the shock and sting, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows behind you. A hand, strong and swift, shot out and clamped around Mark's wrist, stopping his follow-through in mid-air. Mark yelped in surprise and pain, his eyes widening as he was wrenched backward with unexpected force.

Jason stood there, a silent, menacing figure. His face, still shadowed in the dim hallway light, was a mask of cold fury. The borrowed clothes did little to diminish the aura of danger that radiated off him. His grip on Mark's wrist was like steel, and Mark, for all his blustering aggression moments before, now looked small and genuinely terrified.

"She told you to leave," Jason's voice was low, a dangerous growl that vibrated through the small space. "Maybe you didn't hear her the first time." He didn't raise his voice, didn't need to. The sheer intensity of his presence was enough.

Mark's eyes darted from Jason's face to the obvious bulk and hard set of his jaw, then down to the hand that held his wrist in a vise-like grip. His bravado instantly evaporated, replaced by a stammering fear. "Who... who the hell are you?"

Jason didn't answer, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. A low grunt escaped Mark as his wrist protested. Jason simply stared at him, his gaze unwavering, a silent threat that spoke volumes.

Jason didn't release Mark's wrist. Instead, he twisted it, not violently, but with enough deliberate pressure to elicit a sharp, pained cry from your ex-boyfriend. Mark stumbled, his face paling, his eyes wide with genuine terror.

"Leave," Jason repeated, his voice still low, but now edged with an unmistakable, lethal calm. "And if I ever see your face near this apartment, or Y/N, again, you'll regret it. Every single bone in your body." His grip tightened one last, agonizing time, then he shoved Mark backward, sending him sprawling to the hallway floor.

Mark scrambled to his feet, eyes still fixed on Jason with a mixture of fear and disbelief. He didn't say another word, just turned and fled, his heavy footsteps echoing down the stairwell until silence, profound and absolute, returned to the hallway.

You stood there, breathing heavily, your hand instinctively going to your stinging cheek. The adrenaline that had surged through you was now receding, leaving you trembling. You looked at Jason, who stood unmoving, his back to the door, his chest rising and falling slowly. The raw, contained power radiating from him was palpable.

He turned then, his eyes finding yours. The anger in their depths had not fully dissipated, but it was now tempered with a different kind of intensity – a protective, unwavering gaze that held no judgment, only a deep, quiet concern. He took a step towards you, then another, until he was close enough to reach out. His hand, the same one that had just effortlessly tossed Mark aside, gently brushed your cheek, his thumb lightly touching the reddened skin where Mark had struck you.

"Are you okay?" His voice was softer now, rough with concern.

You met his gaze, the warmth of his thumb on your cheek a stark contrast to the lingering sting of Mark's blow. A soft smile, a little shaky, touched your lips. "I'm fine," you murmured, the words feeling oddly inadequate, yet true in the face of his unexpected defense. The silence stretched between you, a fragile, intimate bubble in the wake of the storm. In the quiet, beneath the surface of the lingering adrenaline, something shifted, a tiny spark igniting in the space between you. His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, held a surprising tenderness.

You broke the spell, pulling back slightly. "How are you feeling?" you asked, gesturing vaguely to his side.

He let out a low chuckle, a dry, almost rusty sound. His gaze drifted to your left sleeve, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Better now that the pain meds are kicking in. Though," he paused, his nose crinkling almost imperceptibly, "you, on the other hand, smell like you've had a rough day."

You laughed, a short, tired huff of air. "Tell me about it," you said, glancing down at the offending stain on your scrub top. "Some poor guy came in from a bike accident. Took a nasty spill. Head injury, the works. He was pretty disoriented, and well... when he came to, my sleeve apparently became his target practice." You wrinkled your nose in distaste. "You can still smell it, can't you? It's why I wanted to take a shower so bad. Just couldn't get the scent out of my head."

He actually managed a small, genuine smile then, a fleeting glimpse of humor that softened the hard lines of his face. "Occupational hazard, I guess." His eyes still held that lingering concern as they flickered back to your cheek. "You sure you're okay, though? That was quite a hit."

You touched your cheek, a faint pink blush still visible. "I've had worse," you lied, though the sting was a sharp reminder. "Comes with the territory of working in an ER, sometimes. People get stressed, they lash out." You sighed, the exhaustion washing over you once more. "He's not usually like that, not really. Just... when he gets cornered, he turns into a real piece of work." You trailed off, realizing you were telling a vigilante, a complete stranger, far too much about your personal life.

He didn't press, didn't ask for details, just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Some people don't know when to quit," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Or how to take no for an answer." There was a quiet intensity in his tone, a depth of understanding that went beyond mere sympathy. It felt like he was speaking from experience.

The silence that followed was different this time, comfortable even. It wasn't the wary, assessment-filled quiet from earlier, but a shared moment, a mutual understanding forged in the crucible of unexpected violence. You found yourself looking at him, truly looking, noticing the subtle shifts in his expression, the way the light caught the dark strands of his hair, the surprising warmth in his eyes despite their inherent guardedness. He wasn't just the Red Hood, the urban legend. He was just Jason, hurt and tired, but fiercely protective.

"Well," you finally said, breaking the quiet spell, "I really do need that shower. And then maybe, just maybe, I can finally get some sleep." You gave him another tired smile. "Feel free to raid the fridge if you get hungry. And no more violent confrontations while I'm gone, okay?" You tried to keep your tone light, but the memory of Mark's fear-stricken face was still vivid.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "No promises," he said, the words dry, but his eyes held a flicker of something almost akin to amusement. "But I'll try to keep the peace."

As you turned to head for the bathroom, you felt his gaze on your back, a silent, comforting presence in your quiet, extraordinary apartment.

The next few days unfolded in a strange, yet comforting rhythm. Jason stayed. For now, at least. He was a silent, watchful presence in your apartment, a stark contrast to your usually solitary evenings. The initial wariness between you slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet understanding, forged in the crucible of a shared secret and an unexpected act of kindness.

You continued your demanding hospital shifts, returning home each evening utterly drained, only to find him either reading one of your forgotten paperbacks from the shelves or quietly watching something on TV. He kept to himself, never demanding, always seeming to anticipate your need for space after a long day. You'd find a fresh mug of tea waiting for you sometimes, or a blanket folded neatly on the couch for when you inevitably collapsed there. Small gestures, but they spoke volumes.

He rarely offered details about his life outside your apartment, and you, in turn, didn't pry. You talked about your day at the hospital, the ridiculousness of bureaucracy, the quiet triumphs of helping a patient recover. He would listen, his gaze steady, occasionally offering a dry, insightful comment that made you realize just how observant he was. You learned that he preferred his coffee black, that he had a surprisingly soft spot for old sci-fi movies, and that he could spend hours just staring out the window, a distant look in his eyes.

One evening, you found him attempting to stitch a tear in his Red Hood jacket with a needle and thread he’d somehow acquired. He was surprisingly clumsy, his large hands ill-suited to the delicate task. Without a word, you took the jacket from him, sitting beside him on the couch. Your fingers, accustomed to suturing wounds, worked deftly, repairing the tear with precise, even stitches. He watched, fascinated, a rare, unreadable expression on his face. When you handed it back, he simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the small intimacy.

Another time, you were struggling to assemble a flat-pack bookshelf. He appeared, silently took the instructions, and within an hour, the sturdy unit stood assembled, a testament to his quiet efficiency. There were moments of shared laughter too – over a particularly bad movie, a ridiculous patient anecdote, or a dry, sarcastic comment from him that caught you off guard.

He was still guarded, of course. The shadow of his past, the burden of his identity, was always there, a subtle tension in his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes. But with each passing day, the walls around him seemed to soften, if only imperceptibly. The quiet moments stretched longer, the comfortable silences grew deeper. He was no longer just the injured vigilante you had saved; he was Jason, the quiet, observant man who now shared your living space, and in some unspoken way, a piece of your unexpected life.

The turning point came on a particularly stormy night. Rain lashed against your windowpane, a relentless drumming that drowned out the city's usual hum. You were curled on the couch, half-asleep, while a documentary played softly on the TV. Jason was in the armchair, seemingly engrossed in a book, but you'd caught his eyes drifting to you more than once.

A sudden, violent crack of thunder split the air, making the entire building shudder. You yelped, startled, and instinctively flinched, pulling your knees closer to your chest. The power flickered, plunging the apartment into momentary darkness before the lights struggled back on, dimmer than before.

You let out a shaky breath, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping you. "Okay, that was loud," you mumbled, trying to brush off your reaction, but your heart was still thudding. Thunderstorms had always made you jumpy, a silly fear you’d never quite outgrown.

Silence followed, save for the continued roar of the rain. Then, the distinct creak of the armchair. You looked up to see Jason standing over you. His face, usually a study in controlled neutrality, held a hint of concern. He didn't say anything, just reached out, very slowly, and without touching you, simply offered you the book he’d been reading. It was a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

"Distraction," he murmured, his voice a low rumble above the storm. His gaze was steady, understanding. It was a small gesture, but the quiet consideration in it, the way he'd noticed your lingering unease, chipped away at the last of your defenses.

You took the book, your fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through you, a warmth that spread beyond your fingertips. The air between you hummed with a different kind of electricity than the storm outside. You looked up at him, a genuine smile, soft and unguarded, gracing your lips. "Thanks, Jason," you whispered, the informality of his first name feeling suddenly intimate.

He didn't move away. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of you, closer than he ever had before. The faint scent of old paper and something uniquely him – clean laundry, a hint of something metallic from his gear, a subtle earthiness – filled your senses. His eyes, usually so wary, held a quiet intensity as he looked at you, truly looked, seeing past the nurse, past the woman who’d saved him, to something deeper. The unspoken tension, the undeniable attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface of your interactions for days, was suddenly palpable.

He reached out again, his hand hovering for a moment, then gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the fading pink mark left by Mark's slap. His touch was feather-light, yet it grounded you, a silent promise of protection, of care. Your breath hitched, and you leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When you opened them, his face was closer, his gaze locked onto yours. The storm outside raged, but in your small living room, a profound stillness settled, heavy with unspoken feelings, ripe with the promise of something new.

The days that followed that stormy night were infused with a new, quiet intimacy. The spark that had ignited between you and Jason blossomed into something tender and warm, a fragile bloom in the unexpected shelter of your apartment. He still didn't speak much about his past, and you respected that, but his presence became a comfortable, cherished part of your routine. He’d often watch you while you cooked, a silent, attentive observer, or offer to help with chores, moving with a surprising gentleness for someone so outwardly formidable. Nights often found you both on the couch, the book from that stormy night still nearby, sometimes reading, sometimes just existing in comfortable silence, the occasional brush of shoulders or an accidental touch of hands sending a quiet current through you both. The subtle tension was still there, but it was now the tension of unacknowledged desire, not of suspicion.

He was healing, visibly. The limp became less pronounced, the stiffness in his movements eased. The color returned to his face, and the haunted look in his eyes softened, replaced by a guarded but undeniable peace. You knew, deep down, that this quiet idyll couldn't last forever. He was a creature of the night, a protector, a shadow. Your apartment was a temporary harbor, not a permanent home for him.

The morning he announced his departure was a crisp, clear one, a sharp contrast to the storm that had brought him to your door. You were in the kitchen, making coffee, when he appeared in the doorway, fully dressed in his now-repaired armor. The sight of him, so suddenly complete, so definitively himself again, sent a pang through your chest.

"I'm leaving today," he said, his voice low, steady, but with an underlying current that you now recognized as reluctant finality. He didn't look at you directly at first, his gaze fixed on a spot just over your shoulder.

Your heart sank, a cold weight in your stomach. You'd known it was coming, but knowing didn't lessen the ache. You turned, clutching your coffee mug, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Oh," you managed, your voice a little breathy. "Right. Of course."

He finally met your eyes, and in their depths, you saw a flicker of something akin to regret, a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken connection between you. "I'm... better now. Thanks to you." His gaze was intense, searching. "You saved my life. And you didn't have to."

You offered a small, sad smile. "Anyone would have done the same." You knew it wasn't entirely true, not for him, not for the secret you now shared.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing directly in front of you. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions. His hand reached out, slowly, and cupped your cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, just as he had after Mark's visit. This time, there was no pain, only the warmth of his skin against yours, a silent caress that spoke volumes.

"I'll be back," he said, his voice a low, firm promise that resonated deep within you. It wasn't a question, or a casual remark. It was a statement of intent, delivered with a quiet gravity that left no room for doubt. His eyes held yours, a silent vow passing between you.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand instinctively rising to cover his, holding it against your face. "Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Be careful out there, Jason."

He nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible squeeze of your hand. Then, with a lingering look that held a universe of unsaid things, he dropped his hand, turned, and walked out the door, disappearing as silently and swiftly as he had arrived. The apartment was quiet once more, but it was a different kind of quiet now, filled with the echo of a promise and the tangible presence of a bond forged in blood and unexpected kindness.

He was true to his word.

The first time he reappeared, it was late, just as you were drifting off to sleep. A soft tap, tap, tap on your living room window made you jump. You found him there, a dark silhouette against the moonlit glass, a small, almost shy wave as you pulled back the curtain. He slipped in, silent as a shadow, and the comfort of his presence immediately filled the space.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, "I'll be back" became a consistent rhythm in your life. He started showing up every other day, sometimes three times a week, a familiar knock on your window or a soft scratch at your fire escape door. He’d arrive, sometimes fresh from patrol, a faint scent of city grime clinging to his armor, other times clearly injured. Those were the nights he didn't even bother with the window, just a quiet key in the lock you’d given him, a silent plea for help as he limped into your living room, seeking the familiar solace of your care.

You became adept at patching him up, your hands moving with a practiced ease over bullet grazes and knife wounds. But it wasn't just the physical healing that deepened your bond. It was the emotional unburdening that slowly, painstakingly, began to unfold.

One night, after a particularly rough patrol that left him with a deep cut on his arm and a scowl etched on his face, he paced your living room like a caged tiger. He cursed, a low, guttural string of expletives, detailing a botched bust, the stupidity of the criminals, the endless, futile fight. You simply listened, offering a quiet antiseptic wipe, a steady bandage. When he finally slumped onto the couch, exhaling a ragged breath, the sheer frustration and anger radiating off him were palpable. You just sat beside him, offering a hand to squeeze, a silent anchor in his storm. He didn't say thank you, but the way his grip tightened around yours, a desperate, human need, spoke volumes.

Then there were the lighter moments. You discovered his surprisingly dry wit, a dark humor that often mirrored your own. You’d develop inside jokes – a particular type of terrible coffee you both hated, the ridiculousness of a certain news anchor, or the "squirrel conspiracy" in your local park. You’d find yourselves laughing, truly laughing, the sound echoing through your small apartment, chasing away the shadows.

He'd start sharing snippets of his day, not just the brutal parts. He'd talk about a frustrating encounter with a pigeon (which you then dubbed his "arch-nemesis"), or the bizarre street performers he'd encountered. You, in turn, would recount the absurdities of hospital life, the endless parade of bizarre ailments and demanding patients. These were the conversations that truly knitted you together, building bridges across the vast chasm of your disparate lives.

Sometimes, for the sheer hell of it, he'd just stay over. Not always sleeping in the armchair or on the couch. There were nights you'd wake to find him on your bedroom floor, a silent, comforting presence, or occasionally, when the unspoken pull became too strong to ignore, tangled in your sheets, a heavy arm draped possessively over your waist, the quiet rhythm of his breathing a lullaby against your ear. In those moments, the Red Hood was gone, replaced by Jason, the man who was slowly, utterly, letting himself be known. You saw him angry, happy, tired, vulnerable, all the emotions he shielded from the world, revealed only to you.

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the distant hum of the city, a quiet backdrop to the comfortable silence that had settled between you and Jason. He’d slipped in through the window moments ago, shrugging off his leather jacket, the faint scent of ozone clinging to him. You were on the couch, lost in a book, and he’d simply sat down beside you, closer than usual, the familiar weight of his presence a comforting anchor.

Your fingers traced the words on the page, but your awareness was acutely tuned to him. His breathing was soft, even. The casual brush of his arm against yours as he reached for the remote to mute the TV sent a jolt through you. The silence deepened, charged with an unspoken electricity that had been building between you for weeks, simmering just beneath the surface of shared jokes and quiet conversations.

He turned his head then, his gaze finding yours. His eyes, usually so guarded, were softer in the dim lamplight, a vulnerable warmth flickering in their depths. Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle shift in the air. Time seemed to warp, stretching out, elongated by the intensity of the moment.

He lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, and gently cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed over your skin, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second, then opened, locking onto his. The unspoken question in his gaze was clear, mirrored by the desperate longing in your own.

His face drew closer, inches shrinking to mere centimeters. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the subtle shift of air as he inhaled. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the delicious anticipation. Then, his lips, soft yet firm, finally met yours.

It was a tentative touch at first, a hesitant exploration, but then it deepened, a surge of pent-up emotion erupting between you. His hand moved from your jaw to thread into your hair, tilting your head, deepening the kiss. Your own hands rose, instinctively finding purchase on his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. The scent of ozone and something uniquely him filled your senses, overwhelming everything else.

The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, a fiery confession of weeks of unspoken desire. His body pressed against yours on the couch, the solid weight of him both thrilling and grounding. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer still, lost in the intoxicating rush of sensation, the shattering realization that this was real, that this was happening.

His lips trailed from yours, leaving a burning path down your jaw, to the pulse point at your throat. A soft moan escaped you as he nibbled gently, then trailed back up, his breath hot against your ear.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, sending a shiver through you. "God, Y/N."

The air was thick with unspoken words, with raw, undeniable need. The world outside, the city, the storms, his life, your life – it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, entwined, breathless, on the cusp of a profound and utterly life-altering moment.

Without a second thought, you shifted, straddling his lap, the soft fabric of your clothes rustling against his. A low groan rumbled in his chest as your body settled against his, molding perfectly to his hard frame. His hands, no longer tentative, found purchase on your waist, pulling you closer still, eliminating any last sliver of space between you.

His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, a burning trail of open-mouthed kisses, each one sending shivers through you. You tilted your head back, exposing more of your throat, lost in the exquisite sensation. He nipped gently, then sucked, leaving a faint, stinging heat that you knew would blossom into dark, tell-tale marks. You threaded your fingers into his thick, soft hair, tugging gently, letting out soft whimpers and moans that were barely audible above the frantic beat of your heart.

"Good girl," he rasped against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "So soft. You feel so good." The words were low, a wicked counterpoint to the sweetness of his touch, a dangerous edge of possession that thrilled you to your core. He continued his assault on your neck, his free hand slipping under your shirt, the cool brush of his skin against yours sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

You arched into him, a silent plea for more, your fingers tightening in his hair. The scent of him, raw and intoxicating, filled your head, blurring the edges of reality. Every nerve ending in your body was alive, humming with a delicious, aching need that mirrored his own.

His hands, warm and eager, found the hem of your shirt. With a fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. The cool air brushed against your heated skin for a brief moment before his gaze, dark and intense, swept over you. He then moved to your bra, his fingers surprisingly deft as he unhooked the clasp, pulling the lace away with a soft whisper of fabric.

Your breasts spilled free, and his eyes lingered for a delicious moment before his head dipped. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your sternum, his breath hot against your skin, until his lips reached your stomach. He kissed the soft expanse, his tongue flicking lightly, sending a jolt through your core. His hands moved, strong and possessive, to your waist, his fingers digging in lightly as he held you captive, pulling you even closer.

Then, he moved higher, his mouth closing over one of your breasts. A gasp tore from your throat as his lips latched on, suckling gently, his tongue flicking at your nipple. His other hand went to your other breast, thumbing and teasing the peak, eliciting a low moan from deep within your throat. The sensations were overwhelming, a delicious fire spreading through your veins.

You arched into him, a desperate, guttural sound escaping you. Your hips began to move instinctively, grinding against his core, a silent, primal rhythm of desire. His breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he responded to your movements, deepening the kiss, mirroring your urgency. The world outside the apartment, the lingering thoughts of work and stress, vanished, replaced by the all-consuming, intoxicating pleasure of his touch.

He pulled away from your breast, a low, ragged breath escaping his lips. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, locked onto yours. You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward, pressing a fierce, hungry kiss to his mouth, pouring every ounce of your longing into the contact. His lips parted under yours, allowing your tongue to trace the seam, a silent invitation.

As the kiss deepened, your hand, almost with a will of its own, slid down from his shoulder, past his hardened stomach, until your fingers brushed against the denim of his pants. With a soft click and the rasp of metal, you found the zipper and slowly, deliberately, pulled it down. You could feel the immediate, eager response of his body beneath you, a hard, pulsing warmth that pressed against your core.

A low groan vibrated from his chest, a primal sound of pure need. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "God, Y/N," he rasped, his voice thick with unfulfilled desire. His hands, still gripping your waist, tightened, pulling your hips even more firmly against his. "You have no idea what you do to me." His words were rough, honest, brimming with a vulnerability you'd never expected from him.

You whimpered softly, pressing yourself closer, the friction a delicious agony. "I think I might have an idea," you whispered back, your voice just as breathless. Your hand slipped inside his opened pants, closing around him, feeling the heat and the rigid strength. A sharp intake of breath from him, a soft, helpless sound, was all the answer you needed.

Your touch sent a shiver through him, a ragged gasp escaping his lips. His hips instinctively bucked against yours, a silent plea for more. "Y/N," he groaned, his voice thick with raw desire. He pulled his mouth from yours, trailing hot kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, his body pressing into you with insistent urgency. His hands, still on your waist, lifted you slightly, adjusting your position, deepening the connection between your bodies.

You whimpered, lost in the overwhelming rush of sensation, your hand tightening around him. The friction, the heat, the sheer intensity of the moment was all-consuming. Every nerve ending in your body sang with electric anticipation. He shifted, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest, and then, with a controlled thrust, he pressed into you, a perfect fit that made you gasp.

You arched your back, a soft cry tearing from your throat, as the exquisite pressure filled you. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you flush against him as he began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly intensified. Each thrust was met with a moan from you, a desperate, hungry response that drove him further. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling his head back, your eyes meeting his. In their depths, you saw not just desire, but a profound vulnerability, a raw need that mirrored your own.

His breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest as you continued to grind against him, your hand a firm, knowing grip around him. He was thick, straining against your touch, hot and hard and achingly ready. You moved your hand up and down, a slow, deliberate rhythm that intensified the delicious pressure building between your bodies.

He dipped his head, his lips pressing a searing kiss to your stomach, while one of his fingers, warm and calloused, slid between your legs, gently probing, finding your entrance. You gasped, your hips instinctively arching into the touch, a silent invitation. He pushed in slowly, carefully, stretching you open, his thumb brushing against your clit with each deliberate movement. You whimpered, a soft sound of pure need, as he added another finger, then a third, slowly, expertly preparing you. You were hot, wet, and utterly responsive, grinding against his fingers, your legs feeling weak and boneless as the pleasure intensified, spiraling higher and higher with every touch.

Just as the pressure intensified, coiling deep in your stomach, just as a soft whimper of impending release was about to tear from your throat, he pulled his fingers out. The sudden absence was a sharp, exquisite frustration, and a raw whine escaped you.

"No," you gasped, your eyes flying open to meet his. "Jason, please."

He looked down at you, his eyes dark with a wicked blend of desire and control. A low chuckle, rough and throaty, vibrated in his chest. "Easy, angel," he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. His hands, firm and possessive, moved to cup your hips, pulling them even closer. Your underwear, already pushed to the side, was no barrier as he pressed his rigid tip against your slick, aching entrance, teasing you mercilessly.

The agonizing tease sent a fresh wave of fire through you, a desperate ache building with every brush of his hard tip against your swollen flesh. You whimpered again, a breathless plea that was half-moan, half-sob. Your fingers tightened in his hair, a silent demand. He watched your face, his eyes dark with a primal intensity, a silent question in their depths.

"Please," you gasped, your hips instinctively bucking against his, desperate for the release he was withholding. "Jason... now."

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of raw, unleashed desire that sent a thrill straight through you. "My angel," he breathed, the words a rough caress against your ear. With a sudden, deliberate thrust, he pushed deep inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat, pure, unadulterated pleasure exploding through your senses. He was everything you'd imagined and more – full, hot, and utterly perfect. You cried out, arching into him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as you possibly could.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that quickly escalated. Each thrust was a primal declaration, driving you higher and higher. You met him with equal fervor, your hips grinding against his, lost in the intoxicating friction, the desperate race towards oblivion. The sounds in the room were raw, guttural – your gasps and moans, his ragged breaths, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. The world outside the apartment, the city, the dangers, his past, your past – it all faded into a meaningless hum. There was only this, this raw, explosive connection between two broken souls finding solace and fire in each other's arms.

He moved faster, harder, pushing you to the brink. You were breathless, your vision swimming, the pleasure a blinding wave consuming every inch of your being. He buried his face in your neck, his lips hot against your skin as he whispered your name, a broken, desperate plea. You felt the delicious coil tighten in your stomach, drawing tighter and tighter, and then, with a shattered cry, you convulsed around him, pure, unbridled pleasure tearing through you.

A moment later, with a guttural roar, he followed, his body tensing, pushing deep one last time as he poured himself into you. He collapsed onto you, heavy and spent, his breath ragged against your ear, his body trembling with the aftershocks of release. You held him tight, your fingers still tangled in his hair, both of you breathing heavily, the silence in the room now thick with the aftermath of shared ecstasy.

You whined softly, a sound of profound protest, as he slowly, reluctantly, slipped out of you. The sudden emptiness was a cool rush, and you felt a warm gush leak onto the bare skin of your thighs. He groaned, a sound of deep satisfaction mixed with a lingering ache.

He shifted beneath you, his body still trembling slightly. You pushed yourself up, your muscles pleasantly sore, a light flush rising to your cheeks. He was now stretched out on the couch, his chest still heaving, a satisfied, almost languid expression on his face. Without a moment's hesitation, you settled back down, but this time, you lay on top of him, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

His arm came up, circling your waist, pulling you close against him. The scent of him – sweat, sex, and that uniquely Jason scent – was intoxicating, a new comfort. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the powerful rhythm of his breathing beneath you.

"Still think I smell bad?" you murmured, a teasing note in your voice as you looked up at him.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "Definitely better than vomit," he conceded, a faint smile playing on his lips. He ran a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers in the damp strands.

You laughed softly, the sound feeling light and free. "That's high praise from you, Hood."

"Mmm." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "This," he murmured, his voice a little rough, "this is better than any damn mission."

You burrowed deeper into his embrace, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the aftermath of passion. It was a warmth of connection, of shared vulnerability, of a bond that had been forged in the most unlikely circumstances. You talked then, about nothing and everything. You recounted another absurd patient anecdote from work, exaggerating for his amusement. He, in turn, told you about a particularly stubborn stray cat he’d been trying to catch for weeks, a story so mundane for him, yet so endearing in its telling. You laughed, easily and freely, the sound echoing softly in the quiet apartment, filling the space with something real and new.

The quiet morning on the couch was merely the first brushstroke in the masterpiece of your shared year. The "almost every other day" visits soon blurred into just "every day." Jason, the phantom of the night, slowly, irrevocably, became a permanent fixture in your life. More moments like that first, raw intimacy followed, each one deepening the connection, weaving your lives together until the threads were indistinguishable.

He moved in gradually, almost imperceptibly. A toothbrush appearing next to yours, then a few spare shirts in your closet, then a duffel bag that somehow always seemed to be full. Soon, the scent of his particular brand of aftershave mingled with your shampoo, his heavy boots by the door a familiar landmark. Your small apartment, once a solitary sanctuary, now hummed with the comfortable presence of two.

He still disappeared for his nightly patrols, but the anxiety of his absence was always tempered by the certainty of his return. You'd leave a light on, a warm meal in the oven, and he'd slip back in, sometimes battered, always tired, but with a softening in his eyes that was reserved only for you. You learned to read the subtle shifts in his mood, the slight tightening of his jaw when a patrol had gone wrong, the quiet hum of contentment when it had gone right.

He kept the pet name, "angel." It became your special secret, whispered against your skin in the dark, growled in frustration when you teased him, murmured in triumph when he got home safe. It was a constant reminder of the night he’d called you that, when he’d been so vulnerable, and you had shown him a kindness he hadn't known existed.

There were countless small moments that built the foundation of your love. Early mornings, just before your shifts, where he’d make you coffee, strong and black, just the way you liked it, even if it meant getting up earlier after a long night out. Quiet evenings spent side-by-side on the couch, not talking, just existing, the warmth of his leg pressed against yours a constant comfort. Late-night discussions about everything and nothing – the absurdity of Gotham's villains, the nuances of your hospital dramas, dreams you hadn't dared to voice to anyone else. He listened, truly listened, his intense gaze unwavering, offering dry wit and unexpected empathy.

You saw him angry – a simmering, dangerous fury that he usually kept caged, but sometimes, after a particularly brutal night, it would flash in his eyes before he’d rein it in, turning to you for silent grounding. You saw him happy, a rare, genuine smile that transformed his usually serious face, especially when you managed to surprise him with his favorite obscure comic book or a perfectly cooked steak. You saw him vulnerable, moments when the weight of his past seemed to press down on him, and he’d seek comfort in your arms, his head buried in your neck, a silent acknowledgment of the pain he carried.

You had inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else – a shared look that conveyed entire conversations, a muttered phrase that would send you both into fits of laughter. He taught you how to properly throw a punch (just in case, he'd said, a serious glint in his eye), and you taught him the names of constellations from your living room window.

Sometimes, for the sheer hell of it, he’d just stay over. No patrol, no mission. Just you, him, and the quiet comfort of your apartment. Those were the nights filled with a blissful normalcy that you never thought possible. They'd wake tangled together, the morning light soft on his face, his arm heavy and protective around you. Breakfasts would be slow, lazy affairs, filled with the aroma of coffee and the easy banter of two people deeply in love.

A year. A year of unexpected solace, of quiet understanding, of a love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of places, between a healing vigilante and the nurse who’d patched his broken body and, unknowingly, his wounded soul. He was your Jason, and you were his angel.

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