Sober Thoughts | Steve Rogers/Captain America X Stark!Male Reader

You Don't Know Pt 8

Steve Rogers x Reader (GN)

Series Summary: Steve Rogers and his pretentious “know it all” attitude is getting on your last nerves. Neither of you know what to do about it. 

Warnings- Idiots, light swearing, nothing serious rly

Word count- 3k

Author's Note- I am so sorry for the long ass wait! School happened, and a new job, and spring break (which wsnt honestly a break) and I’m still working on seeing writing as not a chore?? Any ways, the next thing posted will be UtLM <3

Chapter 8/?

Series Masterlist

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BeeBeeBEEEEP! BeeBeeBEEEEP!

Steve had, arguably, the most annoying alarm in the entire goddamn world. He groaned softly, still half asleep, and slowly opened his eyes as the frequency of the beeps got quicker. His hand flopped over and clumsily quickly shut off the alarm, not wanting it to get loud.

He groaned and wiped the sleep from his eyes as his vision came back into focus, reality slowly hit him, and the memories of last night slowly trickled back into his mind.

You, having a nightmare. Coming into his room. Crawling into his bed. Crying. Being held by him. Him not hating the fact he held you. In fact, it was actually kinda nice--

His eyes shot open, the memories acting as the chilling feeling of a bucket of water being splashed over him. His heart beat quickly as he glanced at the other side of his bed. You had shifted out of his arms, curled into a small ball, and had the blankets pulled up to your face. You looked like you were trying to take up as little space as possible.

He slowly sat up in bed, not wanting to wake you up since it was barely 5 in the morning. He leaned over to study your face for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to calm the rapid beating of his heart. You looked so relaxed, brows twitching slightly in a scowl as your lips parted with a soft huff. 

The sudden feeling of this all being wrong flooded into his mind.

He was the Captain, after all! Team leader! What would be said if people found out you slept in his room?? There might be rumors, hell, the way people talked in this place was CRAZY! Steve couldn't--

Couldn't believe himself.

He turned away from you, guilt flooding his heart. He swallowed thickly, staring at a rogue sock on the floor.

That's what he had done, wasn't it? Assumed you were sleeping around with Bucky. When did he start assuming his teammates did that! Why- why would he care! God, he was a jerk… You had just wanted help. You had found comfort in Bucky and he ruined all of that because he was jealous. 

No, he wouldn’t let himself stew in his own guilt, that wasn't fair in the slightest. He forced himself to look back at you. It was obvious you were still asleep, with your face relaxed and soft puffs of air falling from your lips. Your hair is a mess all over the pillow and the blanket tightly gripped around your body. Steve could see the outline of your fist clutching the sheets to your chest, so relaxed yet still so tense. He was beginning to believe you never actually fully relaxed.

He swallowed thickly, feeling awkward about the current situation. There was no way he could move you out of his bed. For one, he didn't want to risk waking you up, the dark spots under your eyes were proof enough sleep like this didn't come often enough. Secondly, though you were sleeping like a rock, movement like that would most definitely startle you awake… and a punch/kick/flail wasn't what he wanted to deal with at the moment. None of the Avengers were heavy sleepers. It was something that got trained out of recruits fairly quickly, and it unfortunately wasn't on purpose.

He could only imagine what you were going to say about the fact that you’d spent the night in his bed. Steve blinked and looked around his room, the curtains showing just a smidge of light as the sun promised to rise. Steve had never felt this way before, the odd feeling of time moving too fast yet painfully slow. His breathing felt too loud and also dead silent all at once. Worried he’d wake you, yet also wondering if he should be the one to wake you.

“Jesus,” Steve thought to himself, feeling a headache coming on, “when was the last time I thought this hard this early in the morning??”

He rubbed his temples as he quietly pushed his part of the blankets off his body. Steve knew he should leave you, let you wake-up without having him hovering there. He should talk to Bucky, he's dealt with this all before...

“Ok, Steve, you've got some choices here. I could either stay with them, still asleep and wait for them to wake up on their own…” Steve considered, soundlessly blowing air from his mouth, “Or, I could get up, talk to Bucky, and hope that that dumbasses advice could help me not say something stupid the second they woke up.”

Decision made, he silently got out of the bed. It creaked slightly- since when did it creak??- and he winced. Holding his breath he glanced back at you, you hadn't even stirred. As silently as he could, he tiptoed out of his room. Pausing momentarily to toss his sock into the laundry hamper where it should've been.

For the first few steps, he kept his pace light until he decided he had put enough distance between himself and the room to walk normally. He quickly trotted down the hallway, going straight for Bucky’s room. He was a little surprised that Bucky’s door was ajar, and when he pushed it open, he was very surprised to find his friend already sitting up in bed, his phone in his hand.

“You’re… up?” Steve asked, voice slightly gravely with sleep.

“... yes?” Bucky mumbled back. He yawned and ran his hand over his face, "Haven't made it to the gym yet, though.”

Bucky eyed Steve for a split second, and a look of slight realization appeared on his face. Steve wasn't really hiding how frazzled he felt. That, and his entire world felt slightly off kilter. 

“They had a nightmare, huh?” Bucky asked in a soft voice, knowing immediately what had happened. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, pushing back his brown locks out of his face with a loud sigh.

“Uhm, yeah,” Steve mumbled, standing in the doorway and scratching his forehead. He didn't know what else to say, he felt a little grateful that Bucky had recognized it all, at least.

It was clear from his body language that he was nervous. Steve Rogers didn’t get nervous very often - except for in situations just like this one. When he was a flopping fish out of water.

Bucky had seen that look on his face plenty of times, whether it was when he was talking to an attractive person, having to give his pre-serumed self a pep-talk, or when he was about to do something stupid. Though, since the serum, Bucky had seen it rarely

And the current situation was exactly all that - Steve was in unfamiliar territory.

Steve Rogers’ love life, or lack thereof, was complicated. He had always been single, as Bucky knew very well.

The whole serum, the war, being frozen, getting thawed out and waking up in the 21st Century… Steve hadn’t had a whole lot of time or chances to pursue someone.

And, of course, Bucky also knew that the one woman Steve had been in love with had been Peggy Carter. And, well, yeah, that didn't really go far.

“Let me guess,” Bucky said, leaning back and resting against his pillows. “They came into your room, you let ‘em get into your bed, comforted them until they fell asleep, and now you’re in here at,” he squinted at his phone, “nearly 6 in the morning lookin’ like an animal trapped in a cage ‘cause you had ‘em cuddling against your chest all night.”

Steve winced, shifting uncomfortably in the doorway and folding his arms across his chest.

“Something like that,” he grumbled, running his tongue over his teeth and looking at a spot on the floor.

He was silently praying that Bucky wasn’t going to tease him for this, and instead actually give him some good advice. He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing as his teeth worried his lip. He tapped his foot once, then twice, then quickly.

“What should I do when they wake up?” He finally asked, glancing at Bucky. “What am I going to say?”

Bucky studied Steve’s face for a moment, taking in his friend’s worried expression and nervous body language, before he sighed deeply.

“First, you’re gonna calm down. And sit down, you’re makin’ me feel nervous,” Bucky finally said. “You’re gonna sit down, you’re gonna breathe, and then you’re gonna remember that they had a nightmare and are probably goin’ to be embarrassed about crawling into your bed, so you’re gonna stay calm and be nice.”

Bucky was more protective of you at this moment, purely because of how similar their nightmares were. He saw you as a kid sibling, and, sure, Bucky would tease you a bit, but he wouldn't let anyone else hurt you. And he sure as hell wasn't about to let Steve do something stupid that resulted in you getting caught up in the crossfire.

Steve relaxed a bit and released the breath that he was holding. He knew that Bucky was right, and it was probably a good idea to stay calm.

His shoulders sagged slightly, and he let his arms fall to his sides, his hands sliding into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Right,” he agreed in a strained voice, forcing himself to relax.

“I’m calmer. Sitting down.” He said, lowering himself into one of Bucky’s chairs, sitting a few feet away from the bed.

“How should I bring it up when they wake up, though?” Steve asked, looking over at Bucky. “Should I not bring it up at all? Should I bring up the nightmare, or should I just wait for whatever they'll say?”

He was nervous again now that he was sitting down and had nothing to distract him from his tangled thoughts. And he was worried about what you would think - what you would say - when you woke up in his room, without him there.

Bucky sighed again. The man in front of him was the same Steve Rogers that was trying to enlist in the Army time and time again, even though he wasn’t physically able.

But when it came to people, specifically people Steve wanted to impress, Steve was absolutely clueless.

“They normally never talk about it. But if they do, just wait for them to bring it up,” Bucky said, as if it was as obvious as the sky being blue. “Wait and see what they say first, and then go from there. If they start it, they're probably expecting to talk about it. And if they dont… then they're too embarrassed to mention it.”

Steve nodded, processing the advice.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can see them being embarrassed about it. They normally act so tough."

He paused for a moment, thinking about the way you normally were around him. The way you always had a sarcastic remark and a smart comment on your lips, the way you bickered with him. He could definitely see you being embarrassed about crying in front of him.

He suddenly sat up a little suddenly, a thought crossing his mind.

“Do people normally do that?” He asked curiously, looking over at Bucky. “Have a nightmare and go to-” He paused, unsure of how to define your relationship. Not friends, colleagues really. Enemies? No, as much as you riled him up, you weren't an enemy, “... their mission leader/coworker/roommates room for - for comfort, or whatever?”

Steve mumbled his last few words, each syllable sounding stupider and stupider as his brain tried to make sense of it all.

Bucky chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Yes, Steve,” Bucky said in a tone that made it sound like Steve was a complete idiot. “People have been doin’ that for a long time. I think it’s an older-than-the-stone-age idea, actually.”

Steve pursed his lips slightly in annoyance at Bucky’s mocking comment, but he didn’t say anything, his face turning a brighter shade of pink.

He was a little offended, but still had half a mind to admit that he may actually be an idiot when it came to, well, anything more than simple cordial relationships.

“I don’t know.” He mumbled under his breath, folding his arms defensively over his chest again. “The nightmares I've dealt with have been with you, and you weren't exactly the ‘crawl-into-bed-and-cry’ type-”

Steve's huffy reply was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang that echoed from down the hallway, followed by a string of muttered curses from none other than you.

Steve winced as he heard the banging, it sounded like an end table being knocked over. Probably the one against the wall of the hallway that had a few knick knacks on it. He shared a glance with Bucky before they both spoke at the same time.

“They’re awake.” They said in unison, both of them grinning slightly and chuckling at the synchronization.

You had already changed out of the shirt and pants Steve lent you and had found your tank top and shorts you had previously been wearing. Your confusion, then embarrassment, then absolute dread that had plagued you the moment you woke up not  in your own bed fueled your swift escape. 

In your attempt to tiptoe back to your room, you had cut the corner a smidge too close. The vase of lego flowers didn't fall to the floor! But the cheap plastic picture frame (that no one had even taken the stock image out of??) tumbled off onto the floor.

Steve had to muffle his sudden laugh when he heard you cursing loudly. He masked it with a light cough, your words didn't even make much sense. It reminded him of a middleschooler who learned the word “fuck” for the first time.

He cleared his throat, standing up straight as he caught Bucky’s eye. The two of them exchanged knowing looks, both holding back another bout of laughter.

After the sound of readjustment came to finish, and a couple more muttered curses traveled in the air, it went silent again.

Bucky looked over at Steve, his shoulders starting to shake with restrained laughter.

“Real graceful in the morning,” he snorted, glancing at Steve. Bucky took a deep breath, shaking his head in amusement and running his hand through his hair.

Steve tried to wave it off, keeping his face neutral and uncaring. But, the thought of you being like a baby deer that just learned how to work its legs made him grin.

He couldn’t help it. It was funny to him, you were being so loud! You were only ever purposefully loud.

“Yeah, definitely graceful,” he laughed quietly, his lips tilting up into a boyish smile.

“You alright?” Bucky called out, craning his head as he tried to look down the hallway. He swung his legs off his bed with a soft grunt, stretching as he stood.

"... fuck off, Barnes!" Your voice carried from down the hallway. Followed by the sound of your door slamming shut. Yeah, you were fine.

Steve rolled his eyes, not surprised in the slightest. Of course you shouted back at Buck. Why would he expect anything different from you?

He could practically picture the look on your face as soon as the words left your mouth. Your scowl, your narrowed eyes. If you had said it to Bucky's face, Steve could picture you crossing your arms tightly, the muscle in your jaw flexing as you tried not to make another snippy remark, and your foot impatiently tapping the ground…

“You know,” Steve murmured to Bucky, still holding the image in his mind, “You really shouldn’t rile them up in the early morning.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Whtever, theyre fine.” Bucky groaned as he stretching his arms up,  rolling his shoulders nd stretching his neck as he walked around his bed to Steve. “They just cussed me out and even that still got you smiling like a dumbass,” he scoffed, raising an eyebrow at Steve. “Jesus, you’ve got it bad, Steve. Even I can see that.”

“Shut up,” Steve quickly mumbled, his smirk falling into an annoyed frown.

Of course Bucky knew. The guy had been his best friend for decades, he knew almost everything about him. Including his taste in partners.

“I don’t like them,” he protested, but his words sounded weak even to his own ears.

Bucky simply shot Steve a pointed look at his weak protest.

“Because you totally weren’t just sitting there with a dumb smile on your face while listening to them swear at me from down the hallway…” Bucky mutters under his breath, "But, yeah, you don't like them."

“I don’t.” Steve repeated, a bit more firmly this time, but even to his own ears he still didn’t sound too convincing.

Steve was stubborn. He was stubborn to a fault. But he’d be damned if he didn't get this sorted out!

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But, well, that stubbornness plagued both Steve and you for the next few months.

And, to be clear, the next four months.

You and Steve really didn't... bicker much anymore. Sure, you avoided him slightly for the first week or so, but after that, things mellowed out.

It seemed silly to completely avoid your captain, so a quick thirty second applolofy from steve followed by  just as awkward “yeah dont worry bout it” from you wrapped the fiasco up pretty swiftly

You also got Bruce to make you some pills that would just knock you out every night. Can't have nightmares if you're unconscious! Bruce exasperatedly corrected you, they correct your brain's REM cycle so the consolidating and analyzing of memories does not happen in the active consciousness… or, well, whatever the hell that meant. They honestly just felt like you took a melatonin and some benadryl every night.

Though you both acted cordial, neither you nor Steve acted on your other feelings. You reserved yourself into thinking Steve barely tolerated you. Steve thought similarly. His feelings were reinforced when you spent those few weeks in Bruce's lab doing sleep tests with a bunch of doctors.

So, you both pushed those feelings away.

You were determined to keep those feelings away, much to Natasha's dismay. Steve was the same, but more blatant denial… much to Bucky's frustration. 

It wasn't until one afternoon, while everyone was gathered for a meeting, you walked into the room followed by someone else. They were around the same height as you, another agent you had worked with before, and a certain captain couldn't stop staring…

Pulse 💗

Summary: Bucky can hear your heartbeat through the wall, and he can tell everything isn’t alright.

Pairing: Bucky x gn!Reader

Words: 600 (exactly 600, holy moly)

Warnings: None really, just mentions of anxiety and adhd. Wrote this within an hour, sorry if its bad

A/N: Self indulgent fic alert! This goes out to all my peeps who struggle with ADHD/anxiety. It sucks, but hang in there!

Divider credit: @saradika

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” you called, not looking up from the papers on your desk.

A brief second passed, and the door creaked open. A cautious Bucky peeked his head in.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked.

You suddenly became aware of your leg bouncing 70 miles an hour, and forced yourself to stop. 

“Yes, why?” You replied, ignoring the urge to get up and walk around.

“Well, I—” he hesitated, and brought his hand to rub the back of his neck, “I was passing by and I heard your heartbeat going really fast—super hearing and all that,” he awkwardly chuckled.

“120,” you stated, glancing at your watch.

“What?”

“My heart rate is 120 right now.”

“That’s pretty high for just sitting,” he responded, having a hard time hiding his concern.

“Well, y’know, anxiety,” you breathily laughed, but it wasn’t that funny.

“What are you anxious about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Nothing.” You sighed, lowering your pen and facing him. At this point he was now in your room, perched in front of your door.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Seriously, I’m kinda freaking out over nothing right now.”

“C’mon, you’re always telling me I’m valid for having concerns, you are too.”

“No, I mean there is literally no singular thing I’m anxious about right now—it’s just physical anxiety, the general feeling that I’m going crazy, or dying, I don’t know, both I guess. That sounds so dramatic. I really am fine. I mean, I’m not fine, but I am, yeah?” You rambled on and on, and cursed yourself when you noticed your leg had started bouncing again.

“I don’t think you’re okay, do you want me to bring you to Dr. Cho?”

“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t think there’s much she can do. The worst of this should pass in thirty minutes anyway, it’s just my meds.”

“Oh.” 

You could tell Bucky wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if it was polite.

“I have ADD. ADHD, whatever you want to call it. So I take medicine so I can focus on certain tasks, like these reports. And it does help me focus, but it’s also a stimulant, so it also gives me a lot of anxiety, which is totally awesome!” You scoffed.

“Why do you keep stopping your leg from bouncing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to annoy you.”

“If bouncing your leg makes you feel better, it doesn’t bother me.”

“I feel like I’m embarrassing myself,” you whined. 

Beep.

You looked at your watch.

“Oh, look at that, 126!”

“Do you—would…would a hug be something that would help you? Calm you down?” He offered, casually putting his arms out for emphasis.

“Sure, Bucky,” you smiled, and stood up to meet him halfway. You knew it wouldn’t fix it, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Bucky wrapped you in a big embrace, and you were shocked by how warm and teddy-like it was. You gave a small sigh, and rested your face in his neck, knowing you weren’t going to be the first to let go.

He held onto you for longer than you expected, just calmly swaying together in your room. 

To your dismay, he eventually let go of you. You were about to thank him and return to your work, but he gently grabbed your wrist and brought your watch to his sight. 

“107. Good, but I think we can do better than that,” he sweetly smiled, and wrapped you back up into his arms. 

“It might take a while.” You mumbled into his shirt.

“As long as it takes.” He cooed.

A/N: Should be either A) studying for a history exam I have tmw, or B) writing my stupid essay that the rough draft is due tmw, but I wrote this instead bc I’m procrastinating  HELP ME

Sweater town

The Love Letter | Steve Rogers/Captain America x Male!Reader

A/N: Another Steve Rogers fanfic because he is a cutie. This one is way shorter than my first fic and not the best writing I've done admittedly. Anyways, enjoy!

P.S. Stream Short n' Sweet by Sabrina Carpenter 💋

The Love Letter

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Y/N, too afraid to verbally confess his feelings for Steve, gives him a love letter instead

Warnings: Sad

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Natasha stared bewildered at Y/N, aggressively punching the boxing dummy in the team's training room. With each continuous whack, growing strength with each successive hit, the dent in the dummy's torso grew larger. Natasha observed that he only acted this vehemently if something was bothering him. The last time this occurred was after a botched mission that resulted in numerous accidental deaths and tonnes of paperwork. As Y/N began winding down from his strenuous training, Natasha approached him, already having a slight idea for the cause of his trouble.

“It’s Steve isn’t it?” she abruptly asked. 

Y/N glanced towards her with a questioning look. “I’m sorry?”

“You like him, but you’re too scared to tell him.”

Y/N stared at her, trying to maintain a look that conveyed he was completely unsure as to what she was on about. However, he soon cracked under the pressure of her intense piercing gaze and gave her a resigned look. Sighing, he said, “Was I that obvious?”

"Y/N, we all see the way you ogle him." Y/N's jaw slightly clenched at his obliviousness to his obvious crushing. "The whole team knows, and I wouldn't be surprised if Steve himself did too."

Y/N let out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair. He always hated Natasha’s cunning observational skills. But he was aware this time his long-term crush was exposed at his fault. “I just don’t know how to tell him. I mean, what if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Natasha lightly placed her hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re not going to ruin anything by telling him. There’s nothing wrong with being honest. Plus, there could be the chance he likes you also.”

Y/N’s head shook slightly. “I’m not sure how to tell him without completely embarrassing myself in front of him.”

Natasha’s expression turned deep with thought. Then, the metaphorical light bulb lit up in her head. "Maybe you should write him a letter. That way nothing you’ll say will be misconstrued. It's the most objective way to say your feelings for him, Y/N."

Y/N glanced towards Natasha, unaware if she was serious or saying everything in jest. "Wouldn't it be easier if I sent him a text message?"

Natasha shook her head. "Letters are more romantic. Plus, Steve is old-fashioned. I'm sure he'd appreciate it more than some lacklustre text."

As Natasha left the training grounds, Y/N began thinking deeply about her suggestion. He never imagined telling Steve about his feelings, let alone confessing through a handwritten letter. The worse that could occur, he thought, was that Steve would reject him and the entire trajectory of any friendship they had would completely change beyond recognition. However, the idea of Steve being whisked away by anyone else was enough to fill him with dread. He couldn't have a repeat of his emotions during Steve's brief fling with Sharon Carter. Tear-dampened tissues filled his room the week he heard the news – he reached a new low during that time. After his shower in the gym's adjacent locker room, Y/N began devising what he would say and how exactly he would say it.

Walking back to his room, Y/N made a brief detour to one of Tony's several printers scattered around the compound to grab several sheets of paper. He was already anticipating the inevitable drafts that would end up in his garbage bin. As he sat on his desk, cracking his knuckles before putting pen to paper, he hoped whatever monstrosity he would conjure would convey his feelings in a way that Steve would fully reciprocate them.

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After three hours and several tossed crumpled balls of paper in his garbage, Y/N finally created what he thought was the best thing he had ever written. Skimming through it again, he started thinking otherwise and that it was actually really bad. The letter read:

Steve,

I've been thinking a lot lately, and I finally decided I needed to air it out. Natasha suggested writing you a letter, and honestly, I was hesitant at first. But the more I considered it, I realised it was the only suitable option for this situation. I know you're not the type for overly grand gestures, so I'll keep it simple.

Ever since we met, I've been admiring you. Not just for the reason that you're Captain America, but also for what I've seen in who you are as a person. Your kindness, bravery, strength, and dedication amongst many more of your qualities are things I've come to deeply respect. Over time, these feelings I felt for you have grown from something more than admiration – something I never expected.

I've tried to hide it, but I'm not sure I can anymore. I like you, Steve. I really like you a lot, as more than a friend. I know you've been through a lot, so I don't want any of this to complicate you any further. I just needed to tell you how I feel. I value the friendship we have, and I don't want this to negatively change that.

I understand if you don't feel the same way. If you'd prefer it, we could both pretend I never wrote you this. But if there is a chance you feel the same, maybe we could both see where this goes. No pressure, no expectations – just honesty.

Y/N

After rereading it for the fifth time, Y/N decided this was the best it would get. If Steve hated it, then so be it. Y/N put the letter in a sleek dark brown envelope from a stationary set he bought earlier from a high-end arts and crafts store. Since it was for Steve, he had splurged on whatever he could in hopes it would convey the seriousness of his feelings.

As Y/N walked towards Steve’s room, a feeling of severe anxiety washed over him, causing him to fidget with the letter between his fingers. The outcomes of the letter-sending were so polar that he wasn’t sure if his feelings were worth the chance. On one hand, Steve would feel the same and both would live happily ever after. On the other, Steve would downright reject him, their friendship would be destroyed, and the awkwardness would find a way to infiltrate its way into the team, getting in the way of their world-saving. 

Steve’s door came into view, and the urge to turn around and leave became stronger for Y/N. Before Y/N could back down, he heard footsteps descending the hallway’s corner. After quickly slipping the letter under the door frame, Y/N ran in the opposite direction. Whatever was to ensue after was up in the hands of whichever deity was out there.

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The team assembled for dinner shortly after Y/N’s letter made it to Steve’s room. As he sat in his designated spot beside Natasha, his hands started becoming clammy, and his head became nauseous with worrying thoughts. Steve has yet to arrive at the table. Coughing lightly, Y/N turned towards Natasha. 

“I did it, Nat.” Y/N quivered softly. 

“Did what, Y/N/N?” She said in between her chewing.

“I sent him the letter. Earlier this evening, I sent him the letter. God, I can’t believe I listened to you.”

Natasha turned her head, eyes wide in disbelief. Before she could respond, Steve walked into the dining room. The team greeted him, including Y/N whose voice wavered slightly upon seeing the man he so recently confessed his feelings for. Steve’s eyes wandered around the table until they stopped on Y/N. The two looked at each other, and Y/N’s stomach churned. He tried to read Steve’s expression, but it was indistinguishable. As his heart pounded, his hands trembled under the table. 

Natasha slightly nudged Y/N with her elbow. “Relax, Y/NN. Just see how he acts.”

Y/N nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. As Steve approached the table, he pulled the chair directly in front of Y/N, sitting down with a small smile. “Hey, everyone,” Steve greeted, his voice soft and supple, smiling brightly at the team. 

Y/N managed to contort a crooked smile in return. “Hi, Steve.” His voice wavered once again and his cheeks blushed. He looked down towards his plate in hopes no one noticed.

As the team continued with their conversation – Bruce and Tony bantering about lab tech, Thor sharing a story about Asgard, and Clint making sarcastic remarks near the table’s end – Y/N kept glancing towards. Steve looked relaxed, but every so often, his eyes would also meet Y/N’s, and Y/N’s stomach would be sent into a spiral of front flips. 

At one point, Steve met Y/N’s gaze and held it for longer than usual. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. He knew at that point that Steve must have read the letter. There was no other reason for the glances they shared with each other, and the slight glint of something in Steve’s eyes. He could already sense the inevitable conversation Steve was about to confront him with in the not-so-distant future.

Dinner continued, and eventually, the team started to disperse. As for Y/N, his heart sank as he remembered it was his turn to wash the dishes today. Today of all days. Even more troubling, Steve had volunteered behind to help with cleaning. Y/N already knew where this was going to lead. With one last glance at Natasha who offered him a reassuring smile, it was just Y/N and Steve left together.

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The kitchen was dead silent as the two men cleared the table, the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water from the sink being the only interruption. Y/N could feel Steve’s presence beside him – comforting and warm, but tonight it felt different. Heavy. He couldn’t conjure the courage to look at him, instead focusing on aggressively rubbing a stubborn stain on one of the plates.

Finally, after what like an eternity, Steve finally broke the silence. “Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying a certain softness that made Y/N’s heart beat faster. “About the letter…”

Y/N froze, squeezing the sponge in his hand hard. He knew this was bound to happen, but hearing Steve’s voice mention his letter still made him incredibly nervous. Slowly, he turned towards Steve, ready for whatever he was about to be hit with. “Yeah?” he managed to whisper, his voice barely managing to make it above a whisper.

Steve fully turned towards Y/N, setting down the dish he was currently drying and meeting his eyes. His expression was serious, and his blue eyes were holding a feeling Y/N couldn’t decipher – nervousness, maybe, or regret. “I read it,” he said quietly. “And I want you to know that I’m honoured that you trust me enough to share your feelings with me. I really am.”

Y/N’s heart clenched. He felt the impending doom through Steve’s tone. Y/N nodded slowly, attempting to keep his emotions in check. “But…?”

Steve took a deep breath, he turned away briefly before meeting Y/N’s eyes again. “But I don’t feel the same way,” he said, voice firm but soft. “I care about you a lot, Y/N, as a friend. I value our friendship and I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t see you the same way as you see me.”

Y/N’s felt his heart shatter, the pieces were spiralling into a million jagged edges. The pain was worse than anything he experienced. It felt worse than any gunshot or stab wound he ever endured. “I understand,” he said. It was evident he was trying to hold back tears. “I just thought… maybe…”

Steve’s hand hovered above Y/N’s. He hesitated before retracting it, unsure if Y/N wanted to be touched or not. “I really am sorry, Y/N. I don’t want to make this awkward between us. I value our friendship too much for that.”

Y/N could only nod again. His chest swelled with a numbing feeling. He then realised what the glint was in Steve’s eyes. It was pity. “Yeah, no I totally understand,” he muttered. He stared at the soapy water. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stupid – I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Steve said gently. “It was not stupid at all. You have every right to express your feelings. I’m just sorry I couldn’t give you the answer you were looking for, Y/N.”

Y/N could feel the tears pooling near the ducts of his eyes. The weight of the rejection fully settled on his shoulders. “Yeah well…thank you for being honest. I appreciate it, I guess,” he whispered, turning back to the dishes to hide the tears now streaming down his cheeks. He scrubbed at the plates more force than necessary, trying to channel to pain he was feeling towards his hands. 

Steve hesitated. It was clear he wanted to say more, but he could tell Y/N wanted him to leave. “I really am sorry, Y/N.”

Y/N couldn’t trust himself to speak again, afraid his voice would hint at the tears leaving his eyes. After a brief moment of silence, he could hear Steve’s footsteps retracting from the kitchen.

When he was sure Steve was gone, Y/N let out a shaky breath before letting his tears fall freely. He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white in an attempt to hold himself together. But it was to no avail. He slid down to the floor, back against the kitchen sink. The pain was too raw to hold in. As he buried his head in his hands, he sobbed and prayed that no one would walk in and see his miserable self.

He was fully prepared for the possibility of rejection. But everything in him was hoping Steve would feel the same. That the future he envisioned for both of them together would become real somehow. The heartache he felt was unbearable, and each breath he took was a struggle as he attempted to calm himself down. Was he not good enough for Steve? Was he not attractive enough? Y/N started internally beating himself, trying to find the reason he wasn’t desirable for the only person he could ever want.    

Minutes passed, maybe hours; Y/N wasn’t sure. Eventually, the tears started slowing down and his breathing became more shallow. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, taking a few shaky breaths before standing up. He knew he had to pick himself up and move on. But for now, Y/N could let himself wallow in his grief. 

As he walked back to his room, he couldn’t help but think if he could ever face Steve without breaking all over again. 

FIN

A/N: Sorry! Hope you enjoyed! Next one will be cute as fuck I didn't enjoy writing this one that much actually it didn't fill me with happy giddy feelings.

Tell Me A Story

Bucky Barnes x reader (male)

Summary: Drabble based on this prompt: One person has been on the waiting list to check out a library book for months. The other person has the long-overdue book. The two coincidentally meet one day at the library.

Warnings- Some swearing

Word count- almost 2k

Author's Note- I liked this prompt then hated it then liked it again lmao

Masterlist

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“I’m sorry, sir…” The librarian sighs with an apologetic smile as you walk into the library. They had been dealing with your incessance for the past month- or longer, “We still haven't gotten the book back yet.”

The fact that they recognized you upon entry might have been more off putting, but it made your day go by much smoother. Not needing to go through the whole process of checking if the book you wanted was here yet… you'd take that even if it meant being known as that guy.

You had taken maybe all of ten steps into the library, it smelled heavily of parchment, ink, and that vague people smell. And goddamn it was one of your favorite things ever. Though, it was unfortunately paired with one of your  least favorite phrases ever-  it’s not in yet.

“Oh are you shittin’ me?” You grumble under your breath, tugging off your gloves as you walk towards the main desk. Your face was chilled from the brisk late autumn/early winter air. There were flurries starting outside and all you fucking wanted was the stupid Hobbit book.

It was a tradition you didn't even realize you had started with yourself. Right after Halloween, you devoted the following week to rereading the Hobbit. It started after your second year in college, you read the book by recommendation from a professor and just kept rereading it at the same time every year since. By that point, you had seen the movie plus all of the Lord of The Rings movies, but the books had evaded you. 

“Any updates, at least?” You sigh out, leaning your forearms against the high counters of the librarians desk, gloves loosely clutched in your hand. Sure, you could probably buy the book in just about any store… but that would most definitely ruin the experience for you. It was silly to think, but there was something about borrowing it from a library, a book used and loved by countless others before you, and curling up on your couch to read it in just a week that was absolutely heavenly for you.

The librarian shook their head ‘no’, causing you to dejectedly sigh and steal a quick glance around the main room, “The person who has it checked out is very overdue, unfortunately,” they laughed as they pulled up the book information on the computer in front of them.

“Yeah,” you dryly chuckle, trying not to misplace your unhappiness onto the worker who was just doing their damn job, they were probably just as annoyed by the delay as you were, “It was already a week overdue by the time I went to reserve it.”

You pulled your lips into a thin lined smile, slapping the desk lightly as you took a step back to leave.

Maybe you should just go to the bookstore, bite the bullet and just buy the damn thing. Then your new tradition could be digging it out of storage every year along with all your holiday decorations and -- “Oof-!”

“Oh, ‘m bad, sorry,” a deep voice mumbled from behind you. 

You had been so lost in your own thoughts you hadn't been paying attention to anything around you, and you just backed completely into some random guy. Nice going, idiot.

“Sorry, man,” you quickly say back, swiveling around instinctively holding out a hand towards him to make sure he hadn't fallen or something.

But… god, there was no way he would've fallen. No matter how quickly you backed into him. The man was at least 6’ tall, broad shoulders and seemingly built like a brickhouse. It might've just been the hoodie/jacket combo that added to his mass, but something in you said that the clothes were just accentuating how much he actually had.

You didn't even realize you had been staring at the man, he was walking just a few steps towards your left to the book return spot, and you wouldn't have snapped out of your trance unless you caught a glimpse of the book he had.

The Hobbit.

… this mother fu-

“Hey!” The librarian said with a cheery grin, holding out their hand for the book instead of letting him drop it into the return area, “Looks like we do have it after all!”

The man doesn't really have a reaction as he hands them the book, seeming more confused than anything else. He glanced at you and gave you a slight smile - a smirk? Maybe?

“Y-you…” You started to mumble out, eyes locked on your prize as the librarian scans it.

“Been waiting for it long?” He asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he also watches his book getting checked in. There was a slightly embarrassed blush across his cheeks, or it could be from the cold perhaps. He swiftly pulled out his wallet to pay the overdue fee, which was probably a decent amount by this point.

“Just over a month,” you huff out, stepping to the side to let him pay as the librarian reads out the amount he owes.

You knew you shouldn't really say anything, you’d finally get the book you'd been looking for and could fulfil this little tradition you had, "Could've returned it sooner,” You mindlessly comment.

Immediate regret sinks in, you press your lips firmly together and stare sheepishly at the countertop. It was the holiday season and you were being pissy about an overdue book.

But the man didn't seem too put off by your comment, he just chuckled and gave a half hearted shrug as he tucked his card back into his wallet. It was a black card, you noticed.

So this fucker had basically infinite money and was still unable to return a damn book on time?

“I should’ve, you're right,” He admitted simply, glancing at you as he leaned against the counter. He was getting comfortable, almost like he was analyzing your moves the same way he’d analyze a book. It forced you to step closer to him to get the book checked out.

“But, in my defense,” He adds, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk on his lips. It was hard to see his face since he had a hat tugged over his head, but you could tell he had a light beard and longer brown hair, “I never have to deal with anyone else impatiently waiting for it.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but the realization that you finally had your book was lifting your spirits more and more. You couldn't help the softer smile that overcame you as you worked to get out your library card, the familiar worn out cover of the book filled you with a simple kind of warmth.

“Its… its just this stupid tradition I have,” you explain, holding your card under the reader while the librarian stamps the inner book cover, “I read it the same time every year.”

He nodded, almost reverently as if the book was just as important to him. Which, it might be, you don't know. You notice his lingering gaze on the book, “Good tradition.” He simply comments.

You also nodded, feeling a little less embarrassed by your attachment to the book. You were both quiet as you took the book from the librarian, you held it tightly. The worn cover felt familiar against your fingers and palm, still slightly warm since it had been hot potatoed between people. 

“You… you like the book, at least?" You finally mustered up the courage to actually speak directly to him. You hold up the book, taking a few steps away from the counter if someone else needs the checkout desk. The sudden feeling of sheepishness that had settled in your body was something you hadn't expected. Your heart beat a little faster, a little harder, and you were grateful for the book to hold onto so that your hands didn't fidget.

The man followed you, a bigger grin across his lips as he nodded enthusiastically, “Oh, yeah! It’s a great book. I- I’ve read it a bunch of times,” He admits, locking eyes with you.

He shifted on his feet a few times, maybe jitters that matched your own, or the chill from the outside as he tried to get his blood pumping again.

“I’m… I’m sorry for, uh, keepin’ it checked out for so long,” He mutters again, turning his head to look away from you.

You softly smiled, lightly tapping the book against his arm, not noticing the distinct sound of metal, “I know I sounded a little pissed, but it’s not really a big deal. I’m, uhm, sorry I overreacted.” You were still feeling bad. This man had been nothing but kind and you clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“You had the right to be pissed,” He snorted. There was a beat of silence between the two of you. You crossed your arms lightly over your chest, and he mirrored it a moment later.

“Uhm, what's- uh, what's that tradition you were talking about?” the man stuttered out. You would call it flustered, but you wern't about to get ahead of yourself.

“Uh, right,” You say, your voice was a little more airy than usual, “It’s, it’s nothing crazy,” You look down at the book in your hand, then back to him, “In college a teacher had me read it, and I just liked it so much I kept reading it in mid November, gets me in the holiday mood for some reason.”

The word November made the man suck in air through his teeth, he shoots you a sheepish smile, “I hope early December is good enough?” He teases.

“December is definitely fine, don't worry…” You trail off, looking at him expectantly for his name. This mystery man who had been harboring your book wasn't goin to stay a mystery to you for much longer.

“James- ah- Bucky. Everyone calls me Bucky,” He quickly offers, his smile growing a bit more. The way his eyes widened with excitement reminded you of a dog. He prompts you for your name nd when you tell him he repeats it back softly. Like he was testing how it sounded.

“...I like that name,” Bucky whispers.

Normally, the unrestrained smile on you face, the heat in your cheeks, and the butterflies in your stomach would make you recoil. But feeling them for Bucky felt more right than wrong. Hell, it didn't feel wrong at all.

And maybe that's why you felt bold. Maybe it was the relief of getting your book that prompted your next move… maybe it was the holiday spirit.

“It’d look a lot better in your phone,” You confidently say, for once your shaky voice didn't betray you. You hold out your hand, nodding slightly for him to give you his phone.

Bucky quickly pulled out his phone, not once taking his eyes off of you, like you'd disappear if he did. You had to bite back the laugh at how may times he nearly dropped his phone as he fishes it out for you.

Once you get it, you punch in your number and name. You hand it back to him, catching a glimpse at the time, which tells you you need to get going. You clumsily gave your excuse, waving to him briefly as you turned to make your way out of the library. With your back to him, you didn't need to hide the goofy smile that had been making your face ache the entire time. 

It wasn't until you were about a block away, huddled in your coat with your hands buried in your pockets to hide from the chill, you then felt your phone vibrate. Checking the message from the nameless number made your heart soar.

Youre right, it does look good. But the phrase “Want to grab coffee sometime?” might be better. -Bucky

Reblog if you stand against order, civilization, and goodness itself

Nightwing x Male! Thief! Reader

if you fetishize mlm/nblm relationships, get the fuck out of here!

synopsis ; nightwing and ur dynamic, as a small, not super skilled, thief that nightwing likes

warnings ; male! reader, cussing, mention of oral sex (no actual sex at all), banter,

note ; wish i wrote smth abt nightwing's GYATTT

words ; 1.3k+

Your teeth chattered in your jaw as you continued to shovel stacks of cash from the busted vault into your gym bag. Your eyebrows furrowed in frustration as you could feel your fingers going numb from the adrenaline rushing through your hands — Faster, damn it, faster!

The emergency lights flashed a red hue on everything you saw, and you couldn't hear anything but a pulsing in your head, and quiet and light steps behind you. Knowing who it was, you only sighed and remained tense, refusing to look your assailant in the eye.

"Really, s/o?" You winced at his disappointed tone of voice, already pissed at his audacity to talk as if — "As if you have the right to judge me, Boy Wonder." You spat out, frowning as you swivelled around to see Dick Grayson, a mere inch away from you. Your gym bag rotated around you on impact and caught itself on your shoulder. The impact and the shock alone were enough to make you take a step back — but not before Dick had slipped one of his batons behind the groove of your back, pulling you towards his chest by pulling on both ends of the baton.

"It's Nightwing now, actually." He corrected, seemingly unfazed by your resentful attitude. Your dynamic usually went this way; a small fight amongst rivals and old friends, with a mutual understanding that the other is off-limits. Looking down at your irritated face, Dick only grinned wittingly and nodded towards your bag full of cash over your shoulder, "I assume... money's tight?"

You could only laugh, feigning shock, "Oh, right, I forgot you don't know what it's like to be poor because your daddy's filthy rich." With a quick shove away from his suit-bound chest, you backed away from him and started immediately looking for exits.

Dick noticed and shook his head. "Hey man, he may be a billionaire, but he doesn't give me a single penny!" Dick stepped closer to you as you stepped back, cornering you. "Can you believe that?" He muttered, his perfect hair looking like a bright shade of red from your close-up point of view underneath the hue of the emergency lights.

You looked up at him, then looked down as you considered punching him in the stomach to get away. The vigilante began eyeing your bag, taking the chance and reaching for it when you were distracted looking for his weak points.

Acting quickly, you rip the bag away from him, bolting for a closed window jumping out of it and into another rooftop of a building. Glass had flown everywhere, some of it cutting you, and some of it landing inside your shoes. Dick laughed in slight annoyance as he saw you take off, not wasting another second and going right after you. "You can't run forever! I know this bank personally, s/o, they're getting their money back!"

You don't waste time looking behind you and flip him the bird over your shoulder, leaping onto another building with a running start. Midair, you feel a strong arm wrap grab your waist and fling you around in an unknown direction — just until you reach solid ground on top of a 24/7 diner. Not used to being in the fucking air you found yourself holding onto the superhero's shoulder's in a vice grip until you let go, finding the whole situation mortifying.

"Breakfast?" Dick looked at the bright Neon sign that was below eye level from his spot on the rooftop, grinning at you so coyly; he was serious.

"It's 4 AM, Dick." You say his name like an insult, rather than a title.

Dick, however, was unfazed, having heard that joke over a thousand times in his lifetime. "Well, yeah it's midnight, but I'm hungry and— Oh shoot! I'm short on cash... S/o? Do you happen to have cash?" Nightwing crossed his arms and hummed in thought looking around like a sailor looking for land.

You could only roll your eyes at his behaviour, knowing he was serious about using the money you stole to buy himself a chicken-fried steak and a stack of pancakes.

A normal person who was to look at this man's behaviour would have instantly known he was joking; you, however, were no ordinary man. For you have known Grayson for longer than you wanted to have known him, and a couple of years' worth of time spent with the acrobat was enough information for you to know; he fucked around, but man, did he love finding out.

You felt your shoulders drop in a "why-not" attitude, and you let out a long sigh, shrugging and gesturing to jump down from the rooftop of the diner.

With a pursed lip smile, Dick hopped down and opened the diner's front door, beckoning you inside eagerly. After you got down, you rolled your eyes at him but laughed anyway, finding the situation unbelievable. "Did you want a blowjob for your chivalry?" You joked, peeking over your shoulder to catch Grayson checking out your ass from behind you.

"Why; is that an offer?" Grayson ran his tongue over his bottom lip, rapid-firing his side of the banter. The hostess stood before the two of you, watching the exchange occur uncomfortably. Despite your public profanities, she couldn't care less, it was 4 am.

"Table for two?"

——————————————————————————————————

The air was calm in the diner, it smelt of coffee — which made sense, because how else would you stay awake at this ungodly hour? You were lucky that there was no one else here; a swarm of men and women alike would have crowded around the superhero sitting before you, had it not been empty.

As you scanned the menu briefly, you couldn't help but get a little distracted at the sight of the man before you. Stealing glances above the menu, you leaned back in your side of the booth and shrunk, trying to look as if you aren't staring at him just for the sake of staring.

"I know I'm gob-stoppingly gorgeous, but be careful, you might even fall in love with me with that look." Dick snorted, dropping the menu down on the table to reveal his shit-eating grin.

"Oh fuck off," You murmured, looking away for a second only to meet his eyes again. "... So what's the plan, Dick?" Your embarrassment was soon replaced with your focus on the important matter at hand. "Are you planning not to turn me in today? Plan to take me out to dinner like one of your girls?" His attention was now completely on you, his eyes carefully watching you as you got comfortable in your cushioned seat, balancing your head on your hands as you leaned forward.

"What do you want?"

Dick gulped. "Well, I... I want a huge stack of your house buckwheat pancakes and a soda float, if you please." His demeanour shifted completely as he transformed from sexy-man to child-patron when he waved his hand over to the waitress to get her attention and his order in. "And— What, a milkshake? A milkshake for the gentleman please— And fries!" He looked back at you, "can't have a milkshake without fries, am I right?"

You could only stare blankly at him as he conversed with the waitress across the room, "Dick, look at me." getting fed up with his indifference, you reached forward to grab his jaw lightly by the tips of your fingers, angling his face to confront you. You could feel your heart skip a beat as his dark blue eyes focused on you once again.

Your breath hitched, and you nearly forgot what you wanted to say. "... The hell do you want with me now that we're here?" You repeated under your breath, watching as one of his hands reached up to grab your hand on his face.

"Well,"

"Maybe I just wanted to waste some of your time, sweetheart."

HI, NEIGHBOR - PART ONE

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seems like a outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 7.8k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Okay, here’s a short three part series that I’ve been working on. Part 2– will be posted tomorrow. Hope you enjoy! 😚

NEXT PART! TWO

The streets of Gotham were unusually quiet that night, a stark contrast to the usual chaos that defined the city after dark. The absence of sirens, distant gunfire, and the ever-present hum of danger created an eerie calm that felt almost unnatural. For once, the city seemed to be holding its breath.

After finishing his nightly patrol, Jason Todd trudged wearily through the dimly lit hallways of his apartment complex. His steps were slow and heavy, the weight of the night's events still clinging to him like a second skin. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and his boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he approached the familiar, weathered door to his apartment. He unlocked it with a practiced flick of his wrist, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him with a soft click.

The apartment was silent, just as he had left it — or so he thought. As Jason tossed his keys onto the small, scratched-up table near the entrance, his sharp ears caught the faintest sound of shuffling coming from the apartment above. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to register in his keen, combat-honed senses. He paused, frowning slightly, but exhaustion quickly overtook suspicion. Late-night disturbances were nothing new in Gotham, and after the night he'd had, investigating a bit of noise was the last thing on his mind. With a tired shrug, he dismissed it as some insomniac neighbor moving around and made his way toward the worn couch, collapsing onto it without bothering to change out of his gear.

The night passed uneventfully, and for a while, Jason managed to find some much-needed rest.

By morning, however, peace was once again a fleeting concept. Jason was jolted awake by a series of sharp, repetitive banging sounds coming from the apartment above. His eyes snapped open, a scowl already forming as the noise continued, louder this time, echoing through the thin walls and ceiling. He groaned in frustration, pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it, hoping the racket would eventually stop on its own. But the pounding persisted, relentless and grating. His patience — already in short supply — frayed further with each crash. Annoyance quickly turned into something more pointed, an edge of suspicion creeping into his mind.

Pushing himself up from the couch with a low growl of irritation, Jason stomped toward the front door. Whoever was responsible for the early-morning commotion was about to get a piece of his mind — or worse, depending on how this encounter played out. With narrowed eyes and clenched fists, he yanked the door open and marched toward the stairs, determined to find out exactly who — or what — was behind the infernal noise.

Jason marched up the creaky wooden staircase of his apartment building, his boots thudding heavily against each step. The persistent noise from the unit above had frayed the last of his patience. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries or explanations — he just wanted the relentless banging to stop. His sharp, determined strides carried him to the door directly above his apartment, and without hesitation, he raised a gloved hand and knocked firmly — three sharp, demanding raps that echoed down the dimly lit hallway.

It only took a few seconds before the sound of footsteps shuffled behind the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal you, standing there, slightly out of breath, clearly in the middle of something.

Jason's eyes immediately met yours, locking onto your gaze. There was something about the way your eyes widened in slight surprise, shimmering with an openness that caught him off guard. For a fleeting moment, his usually guarded mind wondered who you were — how someone like you ended up living in a place like this. His gaze quickly shifted, taking in the rest of your appearance.

You were covered in paint — splatters of vibrant colors streaked across your hands, arms, and even a smudge across your cheek. The strong, sharp scent of fresh paint wafted from your apartment, filling the narrow hallway with its unmistakable chemical tang. It was clear you had been working on something creative, perhaps even in the middle of a project when he interrupted.

Despite your somewhat disheveled appearance, you held yourself with quiet confidence, though there was an undeniable flicker of apprehension in your eyes as you took in the tall, broad-shouldered man standing at your door. His intense expression, furrowed brows, and clenched jaw gave off an air of quiet menace — someone not to be messed with. You couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of intimidation under his piercing gaze.

But just as quickly as his eyes narrowed, something in his expression softened when he noticed the paint stains and the slightly sheepish look on your face. He exhaled slowly, reigning in his frustration. He didn't sense any immediate threat — just someone caught off guard.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. "Were you the one making all that noise downstairs?" His tone was still firm but lacked the edge it carried earlier.

Realizing the reason for his visit, your eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh! Yes, that was me— I'm so sorry!" you exclaimed, sincerity shining through your voice. "I was moving some furniture around to make space, and... well, I kind of stubbed my toe pretty hard." You gave an embarrassed laugh, lifting your foot slightly as if to emphasize your clumsy misfortune.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown off by your straightforward honesty. He hadn't expected such an earnest response. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a faint, reluctant smirk before he caught himself. His shoulders relaxed just a bit.

"Try to keep it down next time," he muttered, though his tone was far less harsh now. "Some people are trying to sleep."

You nodded quickly, still flustered. "Absolutely. I really am sorry... uh, I'll be more careful."

Jason gave a small nod of acknowledgment before turning to head back downstairs, leaving you standing there, still processing the strange encounter. As he descended the stairs, he couldn't help but glance back briefly, something about you still lingering in his mind longer than he expected.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you wandered through the slightly crowded aisles of Gotham's only halfway decent grocery store. The worn linoleum floor creaked faintly underfoot, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the bakery section near the front. You pushed your slightly wobbly shopping cart down the produce aisle, scanning a list scribbled in messy handwriting on a crumpled piece of paper.

Reaching for a bundle of fresh cilantro, you felt someone else's hand brush against yours. Startled, you snapped your head up, your eyes locking onto familiar, intense blue ones — Jason.

His expression mirrored your surprise, his brow furrowing slightly before recognition softened his features. He was dressed casually — a worn leather jacket over a dark hoodie, jeans, and scuffed boots that looked like they'd seen their share of rough nights. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he'd just rolled out of bed or finished something much more dangerous than grocery shopping.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, familiar rasp that sent a small jolt through your chest.

"Jason?" you blinked, still processing that he of all people was standing there in the produce aisle, holding a bunch of cilantro like it might explode. "Wow... this is unexpected."

His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. "Didn't think I shopped for groceries, huh?"

You chuckled, trying to ignore how warm his presence felt in the cool, air-conditioned store. "Honestly? No. You seem more like the 'survive on takeout and black coffee' type."

Jason huffed out a short laugh. "I am that type. But the takeout place near my apartment burned down... so here I am." He shrugged, tossing the cilantro into a small basket slung over his arm. "Figured I should try something that doesn't come in a greasy paper bag."

You smiled, still slightly amazed that this was happening. Jason. Grocery shopping. In the produce section, no less.

"What about you?" he asked, nodding toward your cart. "Stocking up for the apocalypse?"

You glanced at your half-full cart, piled with random essentials — pasta, canned tomatoes, bread, and a few vegetables that were probably going to end up wilting in your fridge. "Something like that," you admitted sheepishly. "I'm trying to learn how to cook... emphasis on trying."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Cooking, huh? Bold move." His smirk widened just a fraction. "Set off any smoke alarms yet?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to help the small laugh that bubbled up. "Only twice. But to be fair, I blame the stove... and maybe a little user error."

He chuckled, and for a moment, the conversation felt... easy. Comfortable. Like running into an old friend instead of someone as complicated and dangerous as Jason Todd.

A brief silence settled between you, but it wasn't awkward — just the quiet hum of the store and the occasional crackle of the overhead speaker announcing a sale in the bakery. You found yourself lingering, not quite ready to end the encounter.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting the basket in his hand. "Look... since you're apparently fighting for your life in the kitchen... if you need any tips, I'm... decent at cooking." His voice dropped a bit, almost shyly, as if admitting that was some deep secret. "Spent some time learning... helps clear my head."

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, warmth blooming in your chest. "You? Cooking? Okay, now I have to see this."

His smirk returned, this time softer. "Maybe you will."

Before you could respond, someone with a loud cart rattled past, breaking the moment. Jason shifted his weight and glanced down the aisle. "I should... finish this," he said, lifting the basket slightly.

You nodded, still smiling. "Yeah. Me too."

As he turned to leave, he hesitated for just a second. "Hey," he added over his shoulder, his voice almost casual, but there was something more behind it. "Don't burn down your kitchen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you shot back, grinning.

He chuckled under his breath and walked away, disappearing around the corner. You stood there for a moment longer, still feeling the lingering warmth of his presence, cilantro forgotten in your hand.

Maybe grocery shopping wasn't so bad after all.

The familiar creak of the apartment building's old wooden floor echoed faintly through the narrow hallway as you fumbled with your keys, juggling a paper grocery bag filled with supplies for your upcoming housewarming party. You were balancing it awkwardly on your hip, your keys stubbornly refusing to fit into the lock.

Suddenly, you heard heavy boots approaching, the steady, confident stride unmistakable. Before you could turn around, a familiar low voice cut through the quiet hum of the building.

"Need a hand?"

You twisted your head, already smiling. Jason Todd stood just a few feet away, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. His dark hair was slightly damp, like he'd just come back from a run or... something far more dangerous, knowing him. His piercing blue eyes glinted with quiet amusement as he took in your struggling form.

"Oh, hey!" you greeted, feeling a spark of warmth at the sight of him. "Yeah, actually. This door hates me."

Jason wordlessly stepped forward, his broad frame making the narrow hallway feel smaller. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he turned the key you'd been wrestling with, unlocking the door like it was nothing.

"Show-off," you teased, opening the door with your foot.

He smirked. "It's all in the wrist."

As you stepped inside, you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. Jason lingered just outside your door, as if unsure whether to leave or stay. For some reason, you felt a sudden burst of boldness, fueled by the lingering memory of your last encounter at the grocery store.

"Hey, wait," you called, setting the grocery bag on the small table by the door. "So... I'm throwing a housewarming party this Friday. Just a small thing. Nothing fancy." You shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I figured... you know, since we're neighbors... maybe you'd want to come?"

Jason blinked, clearly caught off guard. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something softer, though he masked it quickly with his usual guarded demeanor.

"A party?" he repeated slowly, as if testing the word out in his mind.

"Yeah," you said quickly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. "Just... food, drinks, maybe some music. Nothing wild. You could stop by if you want... no pressure."

He tilted his head, studying you in that intense, thoughtful way he always seemed to have, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious — or maybe why you'd bother inviting someone like him at all.

"You sure about that?" His voice was quiet, almost uncertain. "I'm... not exactly great at the whole 'social' thing."

You smiled warmly, stepping closer. "I'm sure. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't mean it."

Jason's eyes softened, his usual guarded mask slipping just a little. He hesitated for a beat, then gave a small nod.

"Alright," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "I'll... think about it."

You grinned, feeling lighter than you had all week. "Cool. It starts around seven. Just... come by whenever."

Jason held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he gave you a faint, almost bashful half-smile — something you were pretty sure he didn't do often — before stepping back toward the hallway.

"See you around," he murmured before turning and walking away, his boots thudding softly against the worn floorboards.

As he disappeared around the corner, you closed the door behind you, still smiling. Maybe — just maybe — Friday night was about to get a lot more interesting.

The soft hum of music played from a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner of your living room, mixing with the sound of friendly chatter and the occasional burst of laughter. Your apartment was warmly lit, cozy but alive with energy as your housewarming party kicked into full swing. The smell of fresh-baked appetizers and various snacks wafted through the air, blending with the faint citrus scent of the candle you'd lit to cover up the ever-present paint smell that still clung to the walls from your earlier projects.

You'd spent the last hour moving from one conversation to the next, introducing yourself to neighbors you'd only seen in passing before. Mrs. Alvarez from down the hall had already handed you a homemade flan "as a welcome gift," and a couple from the third floor was currently explaining the best late-night takeout spots in Gotham while sipping drinks from your mismatched cups.

"...But don't go to Big Lou's after midnight," the woman warned, wagging her finger playfully. "Unless you want to wait two hours or get into a shouting match with someone."

"Noted," you laughed, taking another sip from your drink, feeling pleasantly warm from the lively atmosphere.

As you chatted, your eyes kept flicking toward the door, half-expecting — or maybe just hoping — to see Jason Todd show up. You'd invited him on a whim, and though he'd seemed genuinely intrigued, part of you wondered if he'd decide it wasn't his scene after all.

You were just about to turn back to the conversation when there was a firm knock at the door. Your heart jumped a little, and you quickly excused yourself, weaving through the small cluster of guests toward the entrance.

Taking a steadying breath, you opened the door — and there he was.

Jason Todd stood there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark leather jacket, his eyes scanning the lively room behind you before settling on your face. He was dressed casually — dark jeans, a fitted black henley that stretched across his broad chest, and his ever-present boots that were still faintly scuffed from... well, whatever he got up to during the nights.

"Hey," he greeted simply, his voice low and familiar.

You smiled, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Hey... you made it."

Jason shrugged lightly, but there was something almost shy in the way his gaze lingered on you. "Told you I'd think about it."

"Glad you did," you said, stepping aside to let him in. "Come on in."

He hesitated for half a second before stepping through the threshold, his sharp eyes immediately scanning the room, taking in every detail like he couldn't help but assess his surroundings. You noticed the way his posture remained slightly guarded — not tense exactly, but aware, like he was ready for something to go wrong at any moment.

"Drink?" you offered, motioning toward the makeshift bar area set up near the kitchen.

Jason's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. "Sure. What's the strongest thing you've got?"

"Whiskey... maybe rum, if you're feeling adventurous."

He nodded approvingly, following you toward the small bar setup. As you poured him a drink, he lingered close, his presence warm and steady, grounding you amid the lively noise of the party.

"So," he asked after taking a sip of his drink, "met any interesting neighbors yet?"

You chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "A few. Mrs. Alvarez might be my new favorite person — she brought homemade flan."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Homemade flan? You're already doing better than me. All I got was a noise complaint the first week I moved in."

You laughed, imagining it vividly. "Yeah, I can definitely see that happening."

He smirked but didn't argue.

A comfortable silence settled between you as the party buzzed on around you. You found yourself watching him — the way he stood, grounded but still somehow restless, like he was unused to standing still for too long. Yet... he was here. With you.

"I'm glad you came," you said softly, meaning it.

Jason met your gaze, something warm flickering in his piercing blue eyes. "Yeah... me too."

For the first time all night, you felt like everything had fallen perfectly into place.

The weeks after your housewarming party passed in a blur of unexpected encounters, shared moments, and a growing connection with Jason that felt surprisingly natural — and effortless. What started as polite hallway conversations evolved into something deeper, something more meaningful.

It had been one of those long, restless nights where sleep felt impossible, and you found yourself wandering out of your apartment around midnight for some fresh air and maybe a cup of coffee from the 24-hour diner down the street.

Halfway down the dimly lit street, you spotted a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall outside the diner, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. His dark hair was tousled, and his expression was distant, his sharp gaze flicking toward the street like he was watching for something... or someone.

"Jason?" you called out cautiously, stepping closer.

His eyes snapped toward you, instantly alert — but when he recognized you, his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, pushing off the wall, his voice rough but warm.

"Couldn't sleep," you admitted with a small shrug. "Thought I'd grab some coffee." You paused, studying him. "What about you?"

Jason hesitated, clearly considering how much to share. "Same," he said finally. "Couldn't sit still."

A comfortable silence settled between you as the quiet hum of the city buzzed around you. Without a second thought, you tilted your head toward the diner. "Wanna join me?"

He arched an eyebrow but didn't refuse. "Sure."

The two of you slid into a worn booth inside the small diner, the smell of old coffee and greasy bacon lingering in the air. Jason ordered black coffee—strong and bitter, just like you'd expected—while you went for something sweeter.

"You come here a lot?" you asked, stirring your drink.

Jason shrugged. "Sometimes. It's quiet... and no one asks questions."

You smiled knowingly. "I get that."

Before you realized it, the two of you were deep in conversation — talking about everything and nothing. He shared small pieces of himself, stories laced with dry humor and a hint of something darker beneath the surface. You listened, fascinated by the way he let his guard down just a little more each time he spoke.

A week later, after another late-night coffee run, Jason surprised you by showing up at your door with a bag of snacks and an old DVD of some gritty action movie you'd jokingly mentioned you'd never seen.

"Figured you should fix that," he said simply, holding up the worn DVD case.

You grinned, stepping aside to let him in. "You brought snacks? Who are you?"

"Don't get used to it," he deadpanned, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

You ended up sprawled on your worn couch, a bowl of popcorn between you as the movie flickered across the screen. Jason's sharp commentary made you laugh until your sides ached — and you realized how much you liked seeing him like this, relaxed and at ease.

Halfway through the movie, you found yourself leaning against his shoulder, his warmth steady and comforting. He didn't move away — just shifted slightly, letting you settle closer.

Somehow, hanging out with Jason started to feel like second nature — like he'd always been there. So when he mentioned going to the small gym a few blocks away, you'd half-jokingly challenged him to a sparring match.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked with an arched brow, wrapping his hands in worn boxing tape. "I don't hold back."

"Neither do I," you shot back, stubbornly determined.

The "match" quickly became less about winning and more about seeing how long you could keep up. Jason was fast — terrifyingly skilled and precise — but he never hit harder than you could handle. His smirk only widened each time you landed a decent hit, his voice laced with teasing approval.

By the end of it, you were sweaty, exhausted, and grinning like an idiot.

"Not bad," he admitted, tossing you a water bottle. "For a beginner."

"Please," you panted, rolling your eyes. "You were totally struggling out there."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Keep telling yourself that."

Spending time with Jason became your new normal. He started showing up at your door with takeout on nights when neither of you felt like cooking. You dragged him to the farmer's market one Saturday, laughing at how completely out of place he looked among the cheerful vendors and fruit stands. He even let you rope him into helping repaint your living room after you'd complained about hating the previous color.

But more than that, you talked. Late nights stretched into early mornings, with conversations that were both lighthearted and deep. Jason opened up in small, careful doses — stories about growing up in Gotham, about loss, about survival. You never pushed, just listened — and he never judged you for sharing your own stories in return.

And somewhere along the way, you realized you weren't just friends — you trusted him, in a way you hadn't trusted anyone in a long time.

One night, as you stood together on the fire escape outside your apartment, watching the city lights flicker against the dark Gotham skyline, Jason glanced at you, something unreadable in his piercing blue eyes.

"You're... good company," he said quietly, almost like the words surprised him.

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly against his. "So are you."

Jason didn't pull away. Instead, his hand shifted just enough to intertwine with yours, his grip steady and sure.

And in that quiet, fleeting moment, the world outside seemed just a little less harsh — because, for once, you weren't facing it alone.

One night, you were making your way home from a late shift. The chilly night air bit at your exposed skin, making you tug your jacket tighter around yourself. The streets were unusually quiet, the typical city noise reduced to the occasional distant wail of a siren or the faint hum of passing cars on the main road.

Unbeknownst to you, high above, perched on the edge of a grimy rooftop, Red Hood—watched your every step with sharp, calculated focus. His patrol had brought him through this part of Gotham, the crime-ridden backstreets he knew too well. When he saw you, walking alone, his breath hitched for just a second.

"What the hell are you doing out here...?" he muttered under his breath, adjusting his tactical grip on the rifle slung across his back. His protective instincts kicked in immediately, though he told himself it was just a coincidence that he happened to be patrolling your area.

Then, movement caught his eye.

Three men emerged from a dark alley ahead of you — rough-looking, clad in mismatched street gear, eyes gleaming with malice. A fourth trailed close behind, circling like a predator. Jason's jaw clenched beneath his crimson helmet as he shifted into position, ready to intervene before things got ugly.

"Hey there," one of the thugs sneered, stepping into your path. "Bit late for a stroll, don't you think?"

You stopped cold, instinctively assessing the situation. They were armed — knives, possibly a concealed gun on the one hanging back. Typical Gotham lowlifes looking for an easy target.

"Not interested," you said flatly, your voice steady and calm.

"Aww, don't be like that," the second thug chuckled darkly, moving closer. "Why don't you hand over that bag... and maybe we can talk about letting you walk away."

Jason's finger tightened on the trigger of his grapple gun. He was already calculating his drop angle, planning how fast he could take them all down before they laid a hand on you—

Then you moved.

With explosive speed, you surged forward, your bag forgotten on the ground. The nearest thug barely had time to blink before your fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into a nearby trash can with a satisfying crash.

Jason froze, eyes widening beneath his helmet.

"What the—?"

The second thug lunged at you with a switchblade, but you sidestepped gracefully, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard. He yelped in pain as you delivered a brutal knee strike to his stomach, doubling him over.

The third thug cursed and charged, swinging wildly. You ducked, your movements fluid and precise, as if you'd done this a hundred times before. You kicked out, sweeping his legs from under him in a practiced maneuver. He hit the pavement hard with a groan.

Jason could barely believe what he was seeing. You moved like a trained fighter — better than most he'd seen in Gotham. Your strikes were sharp, deliberate, and efficient. No wasted energy. Every blow calculated for maximum impact.

But the fourth thug — the one with the concealed pistol — was already drawing his weapon, snarling angrily.

Jason didn't hesitate.

CRACK!

A warning shot from his dual pistols echoed through the alley, and the gun flew from the thug's hand as he yelped in fear, clutching his wrist. Before he could react, Jason dropped from the rooftop like a shadow of death, landing with a heavy thud that made the ground tremble.

The thug staggered back, eyes wide with terror.

"Oh sh—"

Jason's fist smashed into his face, sending him crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

The sudden silence rang louder than the gunshot.

Breathing hard, you slowly straightened, eyes still sharp, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Only then did you realize who had taken down the last guy. The familiar crimson mask gleamed faintly in the dim streetlight.

"...Red Hood?" you breathed, still catching your breath.

Jason took a deliberate step closer, towering over the fallen thugs. His gaze locked onto you, unreadable behind the visor.

"You," he said, his voice low and edged with curiosity. "Where the hell did that come from?"

You shrugged, still on guard but calming down. "Self-defense class," you quipped lightly, wiping your hands on your jacket. "Really intense classes."

Jason snorted softly. "Yeah. And I'm the Commissioner of Gotham." His voice was rough but laced with something almost... impressed.

You sighed, realizing there was no point in playing it off. "Let's just say... I've had some training," you admitted carefully. "Didn't exactly plan on using it tonight."

He stepped closer, folding his arms over his broad chest. "That was more than some training," he said slowly. "You moved like you've done this for years. You could've taken them all — if he hadn't pulled the gun."

Your lips twitched faintly. "I would've figured something out."

Jason shook his head, still processing what he'd just seen. "You shouldn't be out here alone," he muttered, glancing around. "This area's bad news."

You met his gaze evenly, undaunted. "I can handle myself."

He tilted his head, considering you. "Yeah... I can see that."

A tense silence settled between you, thick with unspoken questions. Jason's mind raced with possibilities—Who trained you? Why didn't you ever say anything? What else are you capable of?

Before he could voice any of them, you bent down and retrieved your bag, shooting him a small, teasing smile.

"Thanks for the assist," you said lightly. "Guess I owe you one."

Jason shook his head, that faint smirk returning beneath his helmet. "You held your own just fine."

As you started to walk away, he called after you.

"Hey," his voice softened slightly, "Next time... don't wait until they're that close."

You smiled over your shoulder. "Noted."

Jason watched you disappear into the dark street, still stunned — and, for the first time in a long while, genuinely intrigued.

Water dripped steadily from the distant stalactites, the only sound besides the hum of advanced tech running tirelessly throughout the cavern of the Bat Cave. Jason sat rigidly in the main command chair, his fingers tapping the edge of the desk as he replayed the same grainy surveillance footage for what felt like the hundredth time.

It was you, frozen mid-fight, delivering a flawless spinning back-kick to a knife-wielding thug in a dark Gotham alley. The camera caught the brutal efficiency of your movements — precise, controlled, and undeniably lethal. No wasted energy, no second-guessing. Jason watched again as you effortlessly disarmed another attacker, snapping his wrist before sweeping his legs out from under him with near-mechanical precision.

"Play it back again," Jason muttered, his tone sharp, though mostly at himself. His mind needed to make sense of what he'd seen that night.

"Still obsessing over that fight?" Tim Drake's voice broke through the cavern's quiet as he descended the spiral staircase in his casual gear, a cup of coffee in hand. "You've been staring at that footage for hours."

Jason didn't look up. "I know what I saw."

"Okay, what exactly are we looking at?" came another familiar voice — Dick Grayson, still half-suited in his Nightwing gear, sliding down the metal railing with practiced ease. "Because I'm pretty sure I heard you mumbling something about 'this doesn't make sense' when I walked in."

Jason finally tore his eyes from the screen and gestured toward the frozen footage. "Him. My neighbor. You've met him. He's just... some guy. An artist." He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Except apparently, he's not. Look at this."

Dick leaned in with a curious frown, eyes narrowing as he took in your movements, replaying the fight in slow motion. "...Okay. That's not 'just some guy.' That's serious combat training. Where'd you get this?"

Jason sighed, crossing his arms. "Street cam footage from last week. He was walking home, got jumped by four armed guys... and wiped the floor with all of them." His voice dipped with something like frustration — you hadn't even seemed rattled afterward.

Tim sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Military? Ex-special forces maybe?"

Jason shook his head. "No. His moves are too... precise. Calculated. He wasn't just fighting to survive — he controlled that whole fight like he'd done it a thousand times." His voice dropped. "And the weird part? He doesn't even know how he did it."

Both Tim and Dick turned to Jason in confusion.

"What do you mean 'doesn't know'?" Dick asked, crossing his arms. "He was there, right?"

Jason ran a hand down his face. "We're... friends. He told me afterward he didn't even think — he just... reacted. Like his body took over. He was just as freaked out as I was."

Tim frowned. "Muscle memory maybe? Could be PTSD-related... something buried in his subconscious."

Jason leaned back, scowling. "Maybe... but you don't just accidentally know how to fight like that."

Before anyone could respond, a sharp voice cut through the cavern from the far shadows.

"He was trained by the League of Assassins."

The three of them turned as Damian Wayne emerged from the darkness, arms crossed, his green cape brushing lightly against the cavern floor. His expression was cool and unreadable — sharp, calculating.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Of course you'd say that."

Damian's gaze didn't waver. He stepped forward, eyes locked on the paused footage like he was evaluating a soldier on the field. "His movements are too deliberate. Too precise." His voice was cold and matter-of-fact. "He didn't hesitate. He struck with maximum efficiency. No wasted motion." His tone dropped lower. "That is League of Assassins combat."

Jason scoffed, waving him off. "He's not with the League, Damian."

"You don't know that," Damian shot back sharply. "Perhaps he doesn't know that." His green eyes gleamed with suspicion. "It wouldn't be the first time the League trained someone, erased their memory, and left them as a sleeper agent."

Dick held up a hand. "Let's not jump to 'assassin sleeper agent' just yet," he said evenly, though his expression was thoughtful. "But Damian's... not wrong. His fighting style looks like League training — fast, lethal, precise."

Tim folded his arms, studying the footage. "You said he didn't know how he did it... if that's true, something could've triggered a buried memory or... conditioning."

Jason clenched his jaw, hating how much sense that made. Conditioning. That word sat uneasily in his chest. It could explain how you'd reacted so perfectly without even realizing what you were doing...

But he didn't want to believe it.

"He's not like that," Jason said firmly. "He's... normal. He doesn't even like conflict, let alone fighting."

Damian's voice turned cold. "Normal people don't fight like that. They run. They panic. He didn't."

Jason's fists clenched. "And maybe he just... had to. Maybe someone made him this way without his knowledge."

The cavern went quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the Batcomputer still playing the footage on loop.

After a tense pause, Dick spoke, voice softer now. "Jason... what are you going to do?"

Jason's jaw worked for a moment before he finally said, "I'm going to find out the truth... before someone else does." His eyes burned with determination.

"...And if you don't like what you find?" Tim asked cautiously.

Jason's gaze flickered toward the frozen image of you mid-fight, locked in a perfect strike. For a second, he hesitated.

Then he grabbed his helmet and strode toward the Batcycle.

"Then I'll deal with it."

His words were rough, edged with something protective... and personal.

Behind him, Damian watched with narrowed eyes, suspicion still lingering like a dark cloud over his mind.

The soft glow of your TV cast warm, flickering light across your apartment's living room. The familiar hum of the film's soundtrack filled the quiet space as the opening credits of a classic action movie rolled across the screen. You sat comfortably on the worn couch, leaning back with a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between you and Jason.

Jason had shown up earlier that night, casually knocking on your door with a bag of takeout and a familiar, easy smirk that somehow still felt a little guarded. It was something he'd started doing more often lately—showing up with food, an old DVD, or sometimes just himself. No excuses, no explanations—just there.

You hadn't questioned it. You liked having him around.

"Alright," you said, tossing a piece of popcorn into your mouth as the first action sequence began, "This better be as good as you hyped it up to be."

Jason chuckled, stretching his long legs out on the coffee table. "Trust me, this one's a classic. If you don't like it, I'll...I dunno, pay for your next takeout or something."

You grinned, pretending to consider. "Hmm... I could order something really expensive..."

Jason smirked, giving you a light shove with his shoulder. "Relax. You're gonna love it."

The movie played on, filled with intense action, sharp one-liners, and over-the-top explosions. The two of you traded commentary throughout, making jokes at ridiculous stunts or quietly appreciating the genuinely cool fight choreography.

But even as he watched the movie, Jason's mind was elsewhere — back in the Batcave, back to the footage of you moving with deadly precision during that alley fight. It had been gnawing at him since he saw it, refusing to let go. He hadn't been able to make sense of it... and something about you still didn't add up.

His eyes flicked toward you. You looked relaxed, entirely at ease — not like someone carrying the weight of a dangerous past. But Jason had been around enough people with secrets to know when someone was keeping something buried... even if they didn't realize it themselves.

Maybe... maybe he doesn't even know.

Jason cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. "Hey," he said casually, keeping his tone light. "You never really talk about yourself much."

You glanced over, surprised but not defensive. "What do you mean?"

Jason shrugged, picking at the label of his water bottle. "I dunno... like, where you're from. What you used to do before you moved here."

You raised an eyebrow, curious. "Why the sudden interest?"

He chuckled, playing it off easily. "Can't I be curious about my friend?"

That seemed to ease your suspicion. You smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch. "Not much to tell, honestly. I moved around a lot growing up. Never really stayed in one place for long."

Jason tilted his head. "Military family?"

You hesitated for a split second — just long enough for him to notice. "Something like that," you admitted, your voice a touch quieter.

He nodded slowly. "Must've been... tough."

You shrugged, eyes distant for a moment. "You get used to it."

Jason studied your face carefully. There was something about the way you spoke—like you were choosing your words carefully, even if you didn't realize it. You weren't lying, but you weren't telling the whole truth, either.

"So, what got you into art?" he pressed, shifting the topic just enough to keep things casual.

Your expression softened, clearly more comfortable with that question. "It was... an escape, I guess." You smiled faintly. "I've always liked creating things. Something about making something yours... it just feels... right."

Jason nodded, understanding more than he let on. He could relate to that feeling — creating something his, away from the chaos of Gotham, away from his past.

But still, the question burned at the back of his mind.

Who taught you how to fight like that?

He wanted to ask directly... but he couldn't. Not without raising suspicion.

Instead, he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world. "Ever... learn anything else growing up?" he asked, keeping his voice light. "Like... I dunno, martial arts or something? You seem like someone who'd be good at self-defense."

Your brow furrowed slightly, thoughtful. "Not really... I mean, I took a few classes here and there. My dad was... strict about that kind of stuff. Said I needed to know how to protect myself." You chuckled softly. "Guess some of it stuck."

Jason nodded slowly, processing every word.

He could hear the truth in what you were saying—but also what you weren't saying. The way you'd said "strict" hinted at something deeper. And the way you'd fought in that alley... that wasn't something you picked up from a few self-defense classes. That was instinct. Trained instinct.

But maybe... maybe you didn't even know how deep that training went. Maybe there were things about your past that even you didn't understand yet.

Jason shook the thought away when you nudged him playfully with your elbow.

"Why all the questions?" you teased lightly. "You writing a biography on me or something?"

He smirked, shrugging. "Just curious... you're an interesting guy."

You laughed. "You're calling me interesting? You're the one who shows up randomly with takeout and action movies like you've got nothing better to do."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe I don't."

The conversation drifted back into something more comfortable, more familiar, as the movie rolled on. But even as the night stretched on, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to your story — more than even you realized.

And he was going to figure it out... one way or another.

Suddenly, Jason's phone buzzed in his pajamas pocket, breaking the moment. His brow furrowed as he pulled it out, seeing Dickhead flashing across the screen. Dick didn't call for casual reasons—this was serious.

"Hold on," Jason muttered, rising from the couch and walking toward the kitchen. He pressed the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Jason, listen to me." Dick's voice was sharp and breathless. "You need to get him out of there. Right now."

Jason's stomach twisted, his grip tightening on the phone. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Damian," Dick hissed. "He... he called in the League of Assassins. He's trying to prove your friend is connected to them. He thinks he's hiding something—"

Jason's blood ran cold. "What? How the hell did he—?"

"You know how," Dick cut him off, voice strained. "He still has influence over some of them. Jason... they're already in Gotham. They might already be there."

Jason snapped his head toward the living room where you were still sitting, oblivious to the conversation. His mind raced. He couldn't believe Damian would go this far—calling in the League was a line you didn't cross, especially not for a personal vendetta.

"Jason," Dick urged, voice low and urgent. "Get him out. Now."

Jason shoved the phone into his pocket and stormed back toward you, his face set in a hard, determined expression.

"We need to leave. Right now," he commanded, already pulling on his jacket.

You blinked, confused by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "What's going on?"

"No time to explain," Jason growled, grabbing his gear from where it rested near the door. "You're in danger. We have to go."

Before you could react, the distant sound of something sharp slicing through glass reached your ears. Jason's eyes flicked toward the window—his instincts screaming.

Too late.

The window near the fire escape shattered inward, sending jagged shards flying across the room. Two dark-clad assassins from the League of Assassins dropped soundlessly into the apartment like deadly shadows, their swords gleaming faintly in the low light.

Jason drew his twin pistols in a heartbeat, stepping protectively in front of you. His expression hardened into something lethal, sharp as a blade.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, voice rough and deadly.

The assassins moved without a word, circling like predators. Jason fired a warning shot, forcing them to scatter and take cover.

But before he could engage fully, something... changed.

You gently placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, stepping forward into the light.

"...What are you doing?!" Jason hissed, his eyes wide.

Your expression shifted — calm, focused, and entirely different from the confusion you'd shown earlier. You let out a slow, measured breath, your eyes cold and calculating as they locked onto the nearest assassin.

"Stand back," you said, your voice low and controlled. No panic. No hesitation.

Jason's mind reeled as you lunged forward, moving with the deadly precision he'd seen only in League-trained operatives. In one fluid motion, you disarmed the first assassin, twisting their sword arm with a vicious snap and slamming your elbow into their jaw with enough force to send them sprawling.

Jason could only watch in stunned silence as you seamlessly pivoted to dodge the second assassin's blade, catching their wrist mid-swing. With brutal efficiency, you wrenched the weapon free and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick that sent them crashing into the coffee table.

The sound of the apartment door being kicked open shattered the brief silence as two more assassins stormed inside, their faces hidden behind black hoods.

Jason snapped out of his daze, firing precise shots that forced one assassin to dive for cover. But his mind was still racing. What the hell was going on?!

Meanwhile, you advanced on the last remaining assassin with a cold, calculated intensity Jason had never seen in you before. You moved like someone who'd spent years mastering the art of combat — each step measured, each strike devastating.

The final assassin rushed you with a pair of twin blades, but you sidestepped their slash effortlessly, twisting behind them and locking their arm in a brutal hold. With a sharp twist and a sickening snap, they crumpled to the floor.

The room fell silent.

You stood there, breathing hard but steady, the light of the shattered TV casting strange shadows across your face. Your eyes burned with something... lethal.

Jason lowered his guns, still frozen in place, his mind spinning. His voice came out rough, disbelieving.

"What the hell... was that?"

You slowly turned to face him, your expression unreadable now. The facade you'd worn around him for weeks — the quiet, artistic, easy-going mask — had completely shattered.

"I was trying to avoid this," you muttered darkly, brushing glass off your sleeve.

Jason's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his guns again. "Avoid what?!"

Before you could answer, more faint footsteps echoed from the stairwell outside.

"They'll send more," you said grimly, already moving toward the scattered weapons left behind by the fallen assassins. "We have to go."

Jason stepped in front of you, his guns still raised, his voice harsh and demanding.

"Start talking. Now. Who the hell are you?*"

You stared at him for a long, tense moment, weighing your options. The flicker of recognition in your eyes told him everything: You knew. You'd always known.

"I'm not your enemy," you said slowly, your voice cold but steady. "But if we don't leave now... we both die."

Jason's eyes burned with a thousand unanswered questions — but the sound of reinforcements drawing closer snapped him back into survival mode.

This wasn't over.

But for now... he needed you alive.

die with a smile ❤💛

Devoured

Hi! I love your fics!

Can you do a Snobby!Rich!M!Reader x Jason Todd where Jason sees the reader at one of Bruce’s gala, boasting about how rich he (his dad) is. Jason thinks nothing of it at first until the reader starts coming up to Jason and bragging about how much richer he is etc. Eventually, Jason gets so fed up he takes the reader to his room where he fucks the shit out of the reader until the reader is begging and whining. Kinda like brat taming.

Jason Todd x Snobby Rich Male Reader

ficlet

Might have made the reader kind of an airhead, on accident. Hes also got some muscle, but in the “I only have muscles to look good” typa way.

Trying to stretch the writers muscle, since writers block has had me in a violent chokehold for weeks now. Not proof read for this reason, and because i have a major headache.

Jason rarely attended the various galas Bruce, or rather the Wayne name or Wayne enterprises, threw. He had only been dragged along because of a bet he had lost during their last patrol, meaning he had no choice but to go, since none of the others wanted to go to this specific gala. New investors were invited, which meant new money, which meant snobbier than usual rich folk.

It wasn’t hard to see you were new money when you arrived, from the way you carried yourself to the way you dressed. You didn’t stand out much amongst the rest of the new money folk, in expensive brands that cared more about the name than the actual design. But compared to the usual old money that normally attended Wayne galas, you stood out like a sore thumb. The way you were bragging didn’t help either, though, everyone seemed to be bragging, like some kind of measuring contest.

It only became a problem when you started bragging to him. You didn’t even seem to care that he was a Wayne, and definitely much richer than you. He found himself indulging your rambling and peacocking in the beginning, it wasn’t Jasons fault his type were cocky little brats who thought they were untouchable.

The way you fluttered around, chest puffed out, hand on your cocked hip as your lip pouted in a way that made Jason want to bite it. As you grew more tipsy your bragging went from cute to obnoxious, making a heady annoyance start brimming under his skin.

Jason felt what little patience he had left snap when you were so obnoxious as to pull up your Gucci shirt, your lips in such a cocky grin as you showed him the red diamond piercings in your nipples. Seeing the red against your flushed skin made his jaws clench, and before your next brag and boast could sputter out of you, Jasons large hand closed around your bicep and pulled you his way.

You stumbled as Jason lugged you up the many stairs inside the manor, up to the upper floors that were never open during galas, down the hallways and in through a door. There wasn’t much time for you to look around, or comment about the poor looking design, before Jason was upon you like a starved wolf upon a rabbit.

His lips were dry, and this close you could feel the scars carved against them. The noise that left you was borderline pathetic as his tongue slid between your lips, the thick muscle dragging against the roof of your mouth, before Jason truly started devouring you. Grasping uselessly at his suit jacket, you felt so unsure on your feet and dizzy, like you were about to collapse against him.

A sharp gasp tumbled out of you as Jason picked you up, his strong arms flexing like you weighed nothing. It clicked somewhere in the back of your mind that those muscles of his weren’t just for show. Not like you who only worked out and ate well to have the appearance the masses only dreamed of. As you were lost in your thoughts Jason threw you down on the bed, his strong hands grasping at your shirt and jacket, ripping the fabric down the middle, resulting in you whining and crowing in the way only a spoiled rich person could.

The breath that he huffed out was sharp and short, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours, so much intensity in them that you felt your spine straighten. “Ill buy you something better” he grunted as he ripped your pants and boxers, shredding the fugly fabric and throwing the strips off to the side like useless trash.

It was habit at this point that had you whining and complaining, even going as far as to roll onto your front and kicking your legs in a pitiful way, complaining the entire time about him not respecting you or your things, and how he was just some dumb musclehead that didn’t know anything.

Jason didn’t even have the energy to act like he was listening, watching as the muscles of your back flex and pull. There was no true definition for your build, no muscles built from hard work or a rough life, like you were some kinda kendoll with the perfect muscle to fat ratio and specialized trainers. But it did give you an amazing ass, round and perky, the sight of it making Jason drool with the need to taste.

Your next protest was completely cut off as Jasons rough scarred hands grabbed your cheeks, spreading them just far enough for him to bury his mouth between them. A high-pitched squeak that melted into a watery whine rang from you, as Jasons broad wet tongue buried itself in your hole. Burying your face into one of his pillows, you tried to silence the embarrassing noises, eyes prickling with unshed tears as Jason’s hand snuck under your hips to fondle your weeping hardness.

Jason pulled back with a wet slurp, his lips and chin covered in drool as he glanced up over the expanse of your back, seeing the way your head was ducked down and hiding. “I thought you were whining, come on, tell me how much you hate it” he purred, voice deep and hot, making your insides clench as it felt like honey running down your spine.

You lift your face enough to stutter out a few half thought out protests and fussy words, none of them actually making much sense. Behind you Jason smirked, knowing what little brain you had was struggling hard to piece together your usual bravado, which also allowed him to coat his fingers in lube and warm it up enough to not be too uncomfortable.

Once again, your words were cut off as Jasons slicked fingers slid inside you, Jason crawling up enough to rest against your back. He was much bulkier than you were, his scarred torso pressed against your own blemish free back, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress.

There were a few attempts to insult him, but the way Jason seemed to have expertly found your prostate, and how he kept rubbing against it, you found it very hard to form your lips to muster up any meaningful words. It all felt like too much, everything was too hot, too slick, too stimulating but also not enough, and Jason only seemed to enjoy your reactions more and more.

Through it all Jason made sure to press kisses against your shoulders and neck, the dirtiest but most delicious words mumbled into your ear, as his fingers twisted and turned in ways that had you tearing up. You didn’t even notice how he added more fingers, until Jason finally withdrew them completely and he sat back on his haunches.

It took more brainpower than you had at the moment to peek over your shoulder, your eyes shooting wide at his overly scarred torso, but also the weapon he was rolling a condom down onto. As if sensing your thoughts Jason crawled back on top of you, rubbing himself against you as he reassured you that it would fit, you just had to be good.

The comment about your behavior made you sour, scrunching up your brows and sticking out your lip in a pout. Instead of scolding you, Jason just hooked an arm around your upper torso, turning you enough to kiss you, just to distract you enough to keep you loose and pliant for him to slide inside. The stretch had you whining, but it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as you thought it would, and soon Jason was seated fully inside.

It had never been Jason’s plan to go easy on you, but he gave you enough time to adjust before he started moving, drawing back before pushing back in with a strong thrust of his hips. Like his fingers Jason seemed way too skilled at finding your prostate, which made your arms give out and sending you crashing back into the mattress as his hips shoved against your own.

His tone was almost taunting as Jason lifted you up by the grip he had around your torso, his voice thick and mocking in a hot and fluid way, reminding you to breathe. It was only then that you realized you had been holding your breath, the air fucked right out of your lungs every time he shoved into you, and his fast and deep pace gave you no time to gasp air back into your lungs.

Tears blurred your vision as you panted and almost drooled, hands clawing and grasping at the sheets. You were sure you must of cum at least once, if not twice, but Jason gave you no time to bask in it or fully register it before the next jab against your prostate had you reeling.

The noises that left you might have been begs and pleas, for him to go harder, faster, for more, but you couldn’t have been sure. At some point Jason even started praising you, making sure to speak right into your ear, telling you just how good you were taking it, and wasn’t it just so much nicer to not be such a brat? A warbly whine left you in response, a full body shudder crashing through you, as you tumbled over the edge for what must have been the third time.

Jason seemed to finally have met his own end, a deep guttural groan ringing from his chest as you bottomed out, his eyes clenched and brows furrowed as he spilled into the rubber around his length. Part of him regretted not just taking you raw, but there was always next time.

You must have fallen asleep or passed out, as you were clean and in a pair of boxers when you next came too. You were even laying against Jason’s chest, one of his strong arms wrapped around your back to keep you pressed against him, ear against his pec, his heartbeat strong and even. A soft kiss was pressed against the top of your head, Jason muttering for you to go back to sleep.

And who were you to protest. Normally you would have started a fuss just because he thought he could order you around, but the way a deep satisfying exhaustion hung over you was enough to keep you quiet and compliant, for now. As you slumped back against him Jason just chuckled slightly, flipping to the next page in the book he was reading, his other hand rubbing up and down your back. Maybe you weren’t so bad as he had thought, Jason didn’t even mind your snooty attitude, since he gave him an excuse to tame the brat right out of you.