Hes So Pretty (cross Posted On My TikTok Coralwitchdream)

He’s so pretty (cross posted on my TikTok coralwitchdream)

the things i would do to be buried face first into jason todd’s massive tits.

Just for Today - Happy Lowman

Summary: When Happy turns up with a woman on the back of his bike, his mother is delighted

Warnings: swearing, speeding, lying (lol)

Note: 2.1k WHY DID WE NEVER GET TO MEET HAPPY’S MOTHER?! There was a whole episode where she was just chilling inside near a mess of pancake batter! This is always gonna be one of my favourite tropes. Also somewhere along the way did the fandom just headcanon that Happy was Hispanic? Or was it mentioned in SOA? I can’t remember seeing anything but literally every fic I’ve read has him as Mexican, rolling with it!

Happy glanced at you briefly as he continued his phone call. You had no idea who it was or what it was about but judging by his expression, which in honesty was subtle but spoke volumes for a guy like Happy, it was important.

You took the time to admire the gas station parking lot Happy had parked up in, it wasn’t much. The chance to stretch your legs was a welcomed opportunity. You had only been riding for two hours but for someone that wasn’t well versed at riding on the back of a Harley, your back was killing.

Happy snapped his phone shut and strode back to where you were standing by his bike, “We gotta stop in Bakersfield.”

“What’s in Bakersfield?” You stared up at him, squinting in the sun. He took his helmet from the handlebars and put it back on, you followed suit assuming you were about to take off again.

“My mom.” Was all he said before taking his seat and starting the engine. You couldn’t help the way you jumped at the noise, sure you were getting used to the sound now that you were around the club more, but you still had a way to go. Deciding to ignore Happy’s slight smirk you climbed on behind him, securing your hold around his waist.

“I get to meet Mrs Lowman? I hope she has embar- shit!” Happy speed off from the carpark, cutting off your teasing in the process, “asshole.”

Riding with Happy was… an experience. When you found out that it was him that was tasked with getting you to the San Bernardino charter, you had been hesitant to say the least. You’d even put up the argument that it was a waste of resources, sending him with you, and you would be absolutely fine driving your car down yourself. The club disagreed. It wasn’t safe, they argued. So take the scariest guy we have, you had mocked. You’d made it your mission on this trip to get him to crack a joke, a smile even. So far you’d had no success.

It wasn’t that you disliked Happy. You just hadn’t had much to do with him before. You’d never had a full conversation with the guy. He didn’t joke around like Juice and Tig. He didn’t tell you stories of ‘the old days’ like Chibs and Bobby. He was just there, always observing. Maybe he just hadn’t warmed up to you yet, you’d only come on as SAMCRO’s lawyer five months ago. It kept you busy, busier than you thought it would. But the compensation was worth it.

Happy rode fast, and what should’ve been a 90 minute ride to Bakersfield, definitely wasn’t. You soon found yourself cruising down the streets you could only guess Happy grew up in.

Pulling into the driveway of an older house with an immaculate garden, Happy cut the engine and signaled for you to get off before he followed. Shaking your legs out you took in your surroundings, “Did you grow up here?”

You were fishing for any morsel of information you could get about the man acting as your chauffeur, rolling your eyes when you received a grunt in response. Before you could push for a verbal answer the front door opened and an older woman hobbled out, excitement clear on her face.

Happy made his way to her immediately, gently taking her by the arm to keep her steady, “Ma, slow down.”

She slapped his hand lightly before reaching for his neck and pulling his taller frame into a hug. You smiled at the sight.

It didn’t take long for her to notice you standing back awkwardly, and she looked to Happy for an explanation.

He barely got your name out before she was walking over to you, arms wide open ready to wrap you up in a welcoming hug much like she had done her son.

Catching Happy’s eye over his mother’s shoulder you noticed his face was pulled into a scowl, you raised an eyebrow at his expression.

“Welcome, mija,” she pulled back to smile at your still surprised face, “Come in, come in! Lunch is still hot.”

She turned then and made her way back inside, no doubt to start dishing up the meal.

You walked a few steps to close the gap between you and Happy, “Your mom is the sweetest person.”

Happy nodded in response, the corner of his mouth curling up into an almost smile. He tipped his head to the house signalling for you to head inside. As the two of you walked in you whispered, “What’s her name?” In the rush of the initial meeting you hadn’t even thought to ask.

“Maria.”

As soon as you stepped through the front door you felt… welcome. The walls were decorated with an assortment of picture frames, each containing a different snippet of Maria’s life and loved ones, music was playing quietly from the radio, and a mouthwatering savoury smell filled the air.

You paused in the doorway to the kitchen as Happy stepped around you, gently moving his mother out of the way to get the plates she was trying to reach. Maria patted his arm affectionately, turning her gaze to you she motioned for you to take a seat at the table.

Soon a delicious looking soup was placed in front of you, and the Lowmans flanked you on either side, “Thank you, Maria. This smells amazing.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You might not like it!” She joked as you took your first spoonful, as expected it was delicious. Maria smiled as you voiced your praises.

As you ate quietly, Happy and his mom made small talk catching up, mainly about her health. As spritely as she was, you could see Maria was on the frail side. Happy obviously worried about her.

“You need home help, Ma-“

“I need no such thing, Happy. I’m fine.” She turned her attention to you, cutting off her son, “And what do you do for work, dear?”

You flicked your eyes to Happy briefly seeing his scowl at being interrupted, “I’m a lawyer, ma’am. The boring paperwork kind.”

“A lawyer! Smart girl, Happy. How did you two meet? You never said anything about a girl!” The smile was still on her face as you quietly choked on your mouthful of soup and Happy froze in his seat.

“No, Ma-“ The Son’s explanation was interrupted.

“You know, he’s never brought a girl home before. I worry about him. At home by himself.”

You and Happy locked eyes for a second, before he tried for a second time to explain, “Ma, it’s not-“

Again he was cut off. You had to let out a small giggle as he tipped his head back in frustration.

“You should’ve told me, mijo! I would’ve tidied the house up. Made a good first impression.” Maria looked ecstatic. She looked every bit the doting mom.

“Ma,” he placed his hand flat on the table top to make a point, “We’re-“

“We’ve only been together a few months.” It was you cutting him off this time. You could feel his glare as you stayed facing his mom, “I told him to tell you, but… you know what he’s like!” That made Maria laugh in agreement. Yeah, she knew what he was like. She raised the man. You however, had spent only a few hours with the guy, and that had been in silence on the back of his bike.

The home phone began to ring from the living room, Maria pushed herself out of her seat to answer it, leaving you and Happy alone.

You turned slowly to face him, “Okay-“

“What the fuck are you doing?” His glare hadn’t changed, his tone was accusing, but also curious.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know! It just came out. She sounded so excited, Happy.”

“Not your place.”

“I know,” you sighed, “You saw her, she just wants you to be happy. What do I say now? How the hell do I take that back?”

Your attention was pulled from the man beside you back to his mother as she returned to the table, still smiling brightly, “Julie from down the street. Wanting to gossip. Anyway, what were you saying, dear?”

You swallowed thickly, trying to work out how to break the truth, “Um, actual-“

“Met through the club,” Happy’s gravelly voice was doing the interrupting now, “She was doing some work for TM, went from there.”

You turned to him in shock. What the fuck was happening right now? Instead of meeting your gaze he focused his attention on the bowl of soup in front of him.

“I knew you’d find someone!” Maria grabbed your hand gently, drawing your attention, “He works so hard you know? Always working when I call. He needs someone to draw him away sometimes.”

That you knew. From your limited exposure with the club, you knew they were always working on something. Long nights, often without sleep.

Clearing your throat you nodded your agreement, “I try my best, ma’am. He can be incredibly stubborn though.”

Maria laughed knowingly while her son grunted beside you.

“I know all about that, dear! Keep at him. He gives in eventually.”

You let yourself relax with the current situation, “That’s good to know.”

After lunch and a million more questions about your relationship, which Happy had so kindly left to you to come up with answers for, Maria shooed you away to the living room to relax while she and Happy cleaned up. You had tried to protest but you had quickly learned where Happy got his stubborn trait from.

Sat on the couch flicking through an old photo album that Happy had tried to snatch away from you, only to be scolded by his mother much to your amusement, you found yourself tuning into the conversation between mother and son in the kitchen.

“She’s beautiful, mijo.”

Happy grunted.

“And nice! She’s exactly what you needed.” It was silent bar the splashing of water as the dishes were washed, “You be good to her.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ma.”

“I mean it, Happy. Treat her right. I want her around for a while.” A small smile found its way to your face.

“I know, Ma.” This is not how you saw your day going.

“Do you love her?” You heard him clear his throat awkwardly.

“Shit-“

“Language.”

“Uh, yeah. She’s great.”

You had to bite your tongue to stop the laugh that was close to escaping. You’d never heard Happy speak so softly with someone before.

“I’m happy for you, you know. She’s good for you. Bring her around more.”

“Maybe.”

Footsteps rounded the corner and Happy came to a stop in front of you, staring down at the photo album.

“You were the cutest kid,” you teased, “look at all your hair.” Lifting the book to show him.

“I was there.” He took the opportunity to take the book from you, snapping it shut and putting it back on the shelf, “We gotta hit the road.”

You pouted, wanting to spend more time getting all the juicy details of a younger Happy from his mom, but at his glare stood without argument.

“Heading out so soon?” Maria questioned as she joined the two of you in the living room.

“Gotta get to Berdoo.” Happy answered.

Maria sighed understandingly and turned to you, “See what I mean? Always working!”

Your eyes flicked to Happy briefly, seeing from his expression that he felt bad, “He has an admirable work ethic. I’m guessing he gets that from you, you’ve raised a good man, Maria.”

Maria pulled you into her embrace, “You’re too kind. Keep him in line won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Pulling back from you she turned to her son and repeated the action. It was almost comical, seeing a large man like Happy being pulled down to his mother’s height, “Remember what I said. I want to see her again.”

You should keep a tally of how often Happy responded with a grunt over a verbal response.

“Be safe on the roads won’t you? I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

The love between the two was clear. Happy was the apple of Maria’s eye.

They ended their embrace and Happy moved to stand beside you, taking you by surprise when he hooked a finger through one of your belt loops and tugging lightly, signalling it was time to head out.

“It was lovely to meet you, Maria. Thank you again for lunch.”

She waved off your thanks, “You take care, mija. I’ll see you next time.” She spoke with a wink.

She walked the two of you through the kitchen and waved as you continued out the door.

You waved back enthusiastically, “Bye!”

Happy led you down the path toward his bike, hand barely grazing the small of your back.

“I can’t wait til she’s my mother in law.”

“Put your fuckin’ helmet on.”

Jason but he wears this helmet 😼

The Alchemy I

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

warnings: slow burn, mentions of attempted sa for reader, depictions of blood and injury, mentions of standard gotham violence

Dear fuck, he’s as heavy as he looks.

You use all of your weight to pull him backwards towards the couch, almost giving up when you realized you’d have to lift him up off the ground to actually get on it.

Getting him through the window was enough of a hassle, challenging the difficulty of the decision to bring him in here at all. 

Thankfully you don’t have to think too hard on it because you feel his body stiffen up suddenly. He jolts upright, though clearly pained to do so, hand flying to the gun holster on his side.

You take a step back, hands out in front of you. “Hey, it’s alright.”

“Who are you?” His voice is interrogative. 

You put your hands down, “You’re the one who passed out on my balcony, I think if anyone gets to ask that question it’s me.”

He stares at you, white lenses bearing into your soul.

Okay, yeah. You tell him your name. He doesn’t move. “You just looked like you needed some help..”

His posture loosens a bit, and his hand finally leaves the holster.

He glances down at his abdomen, a sizable tear in his suit and a nearly alarming amount of blood. “You got any bandages?”

“Uh, I—yeah, yeah, I do.” You dart down the hall into the bathroom, shuffling through your first aid kid. You toss a few wraps into your arms, along with some antiseptic spray you suspect he’ll need. You grab your hand towel and get it wet under warm water. 

When you return, he’s moved himself onto the sofa, lifting his shirt up to assess the damage. You round the couch, seeing more blood than you’d have hoped for.

“Can I?” You ask, motioning to his injury. 

He looks up at you for a long moment. He nods.

You kneel down in front of him and replace his hand in lifting up the shirt. It’s a cut, it doesn’t look terribly deep, but still not shallow enough that he could just leave it.

You take the rag and dab it around the wound, trying to clean up the blood as much as possible without making contact with it.

He’s very still as you work, and you get the strong impression he’s watching you carefully.

You grab the antiseptic spray, shaking it. “This’ll sting.”

He grunts.

You apply the antiseptic thoroughly and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t move his gaze from you for a second.

You unwrap one of the bandages and place it on firmly, making sure there’s no bleedthrough.

And not that you particularly want to be thinking about this right now, but the man is noticeably ripped. Stacked like a house of cards.

You rip away your gaze and stand up, hands on your hips, taking a deep breath. You look at him—at his helmet.

You don’t know how you can tell, but he’s studying you. Trying to get a read on you, maybe. Regardless, you’re eager to escape the gaze.

You shovel the remainder of your supplies back into your arms and bring them back to the bathroom, calling out, “I didn’t take off your helmet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s a short beat. 

“Do I seem like someone that worries often?” 

You peek your head out of the bathroom door. 

You look at him. “You seem like someone that doesn’t worry enough.”

He snorts. “You’re not far off.”

You make your way back once you’re done, looking at the disregarded meal you’d been interrupted from. “I have pasta if you…eat.”

“I do.”

“I can go in the other room if you—”

He clicks the lock on his helmet, taking it off. He’s left with a second mask underneath, covering his eyes and nose. His dark hair sticks up from the helmet, a white streak poking out in the front. He looks younger than you would’ve expected. Cuter, if his jaw is anything to go by.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay then.

You grab a second plate out of the cabinet and scoop on the rest of the pasta from the pan.

You hand him the plate, avoiding standing too close. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

You turn back around as casually as possible after hearing the name, wanting to avoid letting your face give anything away.

This guy kills people, right?

You sit down in the armchair across from the couch, spooling the pasta on and off the fork. He doesn’t show the same hesitation in dining away that you do—you guess fighting crime would require some calorie exchange.

“You a nurse?” He asks after a few minutes. 

The question takes you by surprise. You hadn’t taken him as a small talk kind of person. “Huh? Oh, no, I’ve just taken a few first aid courses and stuff.”

He gives a short hum, thoughtful.

“What?”

“You’re good.” Hardly.

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You did enough.” He says, not leaving much room for argument.

He stands up at once, walking past you to the kitchen. Your gaze follows him silently. He puts his empty plate in the sink and returns to the edge of the living room.

He looks at you once more and pops his helmet back on followed by the click of the lock.

“I’ll see ya.” He says shortly, before ducking out the window.

You’re left alone, sitting in your armchair, plate of cold pasta forgotten on your lap.

That could’ve gone very badly. Maybe not your most thought-through decision to literally drag the Red Hood into your apartment, but hey. Maybe you’re exercising your ability to be an upstanding, helpful person. Or maybe you were just hoping to prevent a vigilante being found dead on your fire escape.

Regardless, you close the window after him, leaving it unlocked. Just in case.

You wake in the middle of the night to the sounds of footsteps in your living room. You shoot upright, immediately spotting the lamp light flooding in from under your door.

Creeping to a stand, you grab the baseball bat next to your bed and slowly walk to the door.

You creep the door open as quietly as possible, inching out half a step at a time. A nearby creak on your floorboards had you swinging blindly, only to have your bat get stopped midair. You look up to see Mr. Hood himself, blocking the blow of your hit with his hand. 

“Wow. You and a bat against Gotham, huh, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You let go of the bat and drown your face in your hands. “What is wrong with you?”

“Apparently that I don’t carry enough baseball bats with me.” He says coolly, inspecting your bat. Though he’s got to admit, your bat is probably a hell of a lot more useful than his. 

You drop your arms at your side. “If I’d known bringing you into my apartment one time was going to be considered a free pass forever, I might’ve thought twice.”

“If I’d known I was going to nearly be concussed with a baseball bat, I might’ve too.” Barely. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re still half asleep and it was not a very good swing.

He looks at you straight on for the first time. His helmet quickly drifts down and back up to your face just as fast.

You look down. T-Shirt, underwear, and…no that’s it. Not…ideal. You pull down on the unfortunately not at all oversized shirt, wanting to creep back into your room.

He turns his back, allowing you to do just that and scramble for some shorts to throw on. 

“Very gentlemanly of you.” You call out from your room, “And only thirty seconds after breaking into my apartment.”

“Okay, one, I’ve been here longer than that. In a non creepy way.”

“Right.”

“And two, I didn’t break anything. You live in the middle of Gotham and don’t lock your window?”

You reemerge in the doorway, “I live on the eighth floor.” 

He turns around to face you again, helmet in his hands. “Didn’t stop me.” No it did not. 

“Mm. So are you here specifically to judge my home security or was there something you needed?”

He takes a deep breath, “Actually yeah. I just need a place to rest for a minute.” 

“Rest from what?”

A series of gunshots echo from down the street.

“Next question.”

Concise.

You and Hood sit on the couch in the dark, per his insistence, because for some godforsaken reason, you have no curtains. It takes a few minutes for the silence to dissipate into forced conversation, which takes a few more minutes to fade into actual conversation.

“Can I be honest with you?” You ask him.

“Does it matter how I answer?”

“I don’t understand how you’re not dead.” You poke your head up, turning to him. “Are you human?”

He cranes his neck to look out the window, “Maybe getting shot at isn’t the worst thing that could happen tonight…”

You roll your eyes with a smile that you’re glad is hidden by the darkness. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You don’t have much in terms of self-preservation skills, do you?”

You ignore him as to not acknowledge that he’s probably right and roll through to your next curiosity, “Who the hell was shooting at you anyways?” Though, you don’t really expect an answer.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They got ‘til sunrise anyway.”

You tilt your head, “‘Til sunri—” oh. Yeah. Come to think of it, he does have two guns on him right now. At least that you can see. You squint blankly at the wall, “You know, I’m placing a lot of trust in the hope that you’re not just as bad as those guys.”

“Yes you are.” He nods, not doing anything to convince you that he is in fact a good guy. He hasn’t tried to harm you in any way though, so you guess that’s a good sign.

You tilt your head at him. “Do you get paid to do this?” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of people who would pay me not to do this.” 

You nod solemnly, mouth turned into an exaggerated frown. “So you have a day job?”

He looks over at you, “Do you always ask this many questions?”

“Are you always so dodgy about answering them?” You shoot back. If you’d thought for .5 seconds longer on that, you might not have said anything. But you feel comfortable here, in your apartment with a man whose face you’ve never seen, name you don’t know, and always has at least two loaded guns on him.

He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah. I am.” He looks over at you. “You live here by yourself?”

You look around at the empty apartment before turning back to him, “Seems that way.”

He shrugs, “Boyfriend could be out or something.”

“Well most people are asleep at one in the morning. Like I was. Remember that?”

“No.”

You sigh, curling up into a ball on your end of the couch, resting your chin on your knees. You’re quiet for a minute before piping up, “Do people actually break into apartments on high floors a lot?”

“Stupid people.” He pauses, looking over at the frown on your face. “Look, I’m in the neighborhood a lot. If I see somebody climbing your fire escape I’ll shoot them.”

You let a little smile out, “I’m thinking there’s other steps you could take before you get to that point.”

“If you want to waste time.” His gaze doubles back at you, “That was a joke, by the way.”

You bark out a tired laugh, “Yeah, I picked up on that, thanks.”

He removes his eyes from you, fixing on a set of pictures you have hanging on the wall.

Your eyes flutter and you move to rest your head on the arm of the couch. “Is this going to be a regular thing then?”

“You could lock your window.”

“Living on the eighth floor didn’t stop you, I can’t imagine a shitty lock will do much more.”

“If you don’t want me here, I won’t be here.” He says gruffly.

“If I don’t want you here, I’ll let you know.” You mumble, eyes closing.

You can barely make out a laugh from him, “Good to know.”

You’re not quite sure how much time goes by when he leaves, but you have a pretty strong feeling you’d fallen asleep. Your main indicator was feeling the blanket draped nicely over you that you could’ve sworn was on the chair across the room.

Maybe it’s ten o’clock at night and you’re sat on your kitchen floor, bawling your eyes out. Maybe you’re going to have to quit your job. Or maybe you’ll have to face a lawsuit. Maybe this is the worst day in the history of time. Maybe it’s about to get worse. 

The sound of your living room window sliding open has you startling into a rush, body panicking as if you’ve done something wrong and desperately need to cover the evidence. The past few weeks of sporadic visits leaves no question about who it is, and you just hope the kitchen island in front of you will be enough to convince Hood that you’re not in and he’ll leave.

But because today is today, that’s not how it goes down.

You can vaguely make out the sound of his footsteps approaching, a courtesy that you’re sure he incorporated on purpose.

“Oh fuck…” you mutter to yourself, wiping your eyes.

He rounds the counter, looking down at you. “Wha—what’s wrong?”

“Fuck. Nothing.” You say, standing up and adjusting your clothes. “Are you hurt?” He better fucking not be at only ten.

“No, I—why are you on the floor?” 

You roll your eyes, “I live alone, forgive me for assuming I would be given the privilege to cry on the floor in private.”

“Did something happen?” You’re trying really hard not to call him an idiot. 

You raise your eyebrows, giving a light nod. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

He shifts in his stance, “Do I need to talk to someone?”

You scoff, knowing damn well his version of ‘talk to someone’ does not include talking to someone. “Why are you even here so early?” 

“Wanted to stop by before I went out.” he says quietly.

You’re about to snap something at him again, but the burning in your eyes takes immediate priority. You wrap your arms around your middle and try to calm yourself down, with very little success. The tears fall easily and your shoulders start shaking as you look at the floor, letting the melancholy take over. 

It feels like much longer than it probably was, but sometime after the first few tears fall he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. This only makes you cry harder, sobbing against his armor. Your arms stay wrapped around your center, while his hands remain completely still against your back, though firm. You don’t realize it immediately, but he’s holding a good portion of your weight up, you’d for sure collapse onto the floor otherwise. You kind of wish you would. Sitting on the floor felt nice, maybe falling down on it will feel even better.

You slowly start to regain your breathing, the well in your eyes drying up again. He waits for you to stop completely and slowly pulls back from you, hands momentarily still wavering next to you like he’s ready to catch you.

It takes you a minute to notice, but his helmet is locked on to the finger-shaped bruises on your forearm. You awkwardly move your opposite arm to cover them, looking around your apartment with nothing to search for.  

He’s quiet for a long while, clearly thinking hard. “What happened?”

You sniffle, “Some asshole at my job.”

“Some asshole?” He doesn’t believe you. Rightfully so, but he has no business being able to tell that you’re lying about one single word in that sentence.  

“My boss. Was very intent on successfully hitting on me.” You exhale deeply, “His approach could use some work though, if I’m honest.”

His posture remains statue-like. “Where do you work?”

You look at him straight on for the first time that night, “What does that matter?”

“I’ll take care of it.” He says simply.

You wave him off, “It’s fine.”

He waits a moment before letting you know, “I’m being polite by asking, I’m going to find out either way.”

You plop back down on the kitchen floor, knees to chest. “Well, then do it the hard way.”

About ten seconds of him staring down at you in silence go by, before he sits down next to you. It’s a bit funny how he tries to shrink himself down next to you, you’re assuming because he doesn’t want you to get panicked again because this massive stranger is sitting next to you in your kitchen in the dead of night.  

You don’t look at him as he clicks his helmet off and sets it on the other side of him. It’s quiet for another minute when he holds his gloved hand out to you, and you’re not quite sure how you know what he wants, but you do. You place your bruised arm in his hand, letting him gently pull it closer to him and scan over it. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

Again, you don’t know how, but you can tell he’s asking how far things went. “I started screaming and it freaked him out. He let me go.” you say numbly. 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, bits of red making their way into your peripheral despite the discarded helmet. You turn slowly to look at him, finding him looking at you already.  

His face is more covered than it had been the first night, the same black mask covers his eyes but the lower half of his face is also hidden by a red mouthpiece. You’re in the lamp light and closer to him than you had been before and you’re counting out specks of green in his blue eyes. He lets you, to your surprise, and when you run out of emerald hues you take focus on his thick, dark eyelashes. Your gaze moves back ever so slightly to make eye contact with him and you tear your eyes away, zeroing in on the kitchen tiles. 

You sigh contemplatively, “I’m worried if you kill my boss it’ll be traced back to me and I’ll get pinned for it.”

He doesn’t laugh. But your delivery was a little dry in the wrong way so really it was on you.

“I’m not going to kill him.” he tells you, “I wouldn’t gamble with my pied-a-terre like that.”

Your head falls back, hitting the drawer behind you with a light thud. “Then why waste your time at all?” Maybe you should slow down with the snide comments.

He wants to, but he doesn’t call out the implied self-slighting in your words. “Maybe it’s a ‘me’ thing but I don’t particularly like men that hurt women.”

You let out a dry laugh. “In Gotham, it just might be.”

He sits with you on the linoleum tile of your kitchen until your eyes start to droop and he lightly corrals you to your bedroom before taking his exit through the window. You told him multiple times that he could go and you were fine, but he insisted that nothing important was happening in the city that time of night. You didn’t quite believe him though, because it was past midnight by the time he’d headed out.  

When you showed up to work the following day your boss wasn’t there. Wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after. He didn’t make an appearance again until the following Monday. And when he did show face, he did so with a neck brace and a cast on his leg. But once more, he absolutely refused to make eye contact or speak to any of the female employees. It actually became a whole thing when he wouldn’t give instructions or feedback to any of you, and insisted on having his secretary replaced with a man, who he then used as a middle man to speak to all of the women for him. HR got involved three times in the span of the next five days, and by the Monday after, he’d been fired.

So to recap: yes, no, no, undecided, and hard no. 

Maybe you’re really starting to like this Red Hood guy.

Hard yes.

You’re slightly on guard upon hearing a clattering on the balcony, though if the past few weeks have been any indicator, you’re not in much danger.

Your posture slumps as you peer around the hallway corner, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Good to see you too.” he grumbles, dropping onto the floor.

“Well, I have to imagine I’m a step up from the last person you saw.” You say, looking him up and down, seeing what sure as hell looks like a gunshot wound on his chest armor. “What happened to you? The Mad Hatter uses guns now?”

He groans, “Ah, I said something about him being a heartless fuck, and I guess he took it personally.”

You sigh, “Jesus Christ, Hood.”

He waves you off, “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

You scoff, “He tried to shoot you in the heart.”

“Yeah, well, he missed.” He grumbles, adjusting his position on the couch. 

You exhale sharply, “How do you know?”

“How do I know?” He tilts his helmet at you, exasperated. 

You throw your arms up at your side, “I don’t know! I’m not equipped for this scenario.”

He huffs, “Look, it’s fine, it hit my armor. It’ll probably just be a bad bruise.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t think there’s blood. Could you…” he vaguely gestures to his torso, but it's enough for you to get the hint.

You shake the panic out of your head, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

You help him shrug off his jacket as he strips off his armor, and you lift his shirt up as slowly as you can in case the injury is worse than he thinks.

You’re not shocked to see that he has scars, that’s kind of a given in his line of work. What you are shocked to see is one very long scar that lines directly up the center of his body. It’s a deep scar, too.

And, oh. The long scar extends further, splitting off into a fork at his collar. That’s—oh. Oh. Oh. That is an autopsy scar. 

You’re not sure what to do. You’ve never seen a living person with an autopsy scar—though you have to imagine neither have most people.

He clearly does not want to talk about it and you’re happy to let him keep the skeleton in the closet.

You avert your gaze back over to his diaphragm at the area of reddened skin.

“There’s no blood, but…” You inspect it a bit closer, “I think there’s going to be a bad bruise. You might end up with bruising on your ribs, you need to get that looked at.”

“I am.” He says shortly.

You stand up straight, dropping your shoulders. “By someone who went to medical school. Or has taken more than one anatomy class in their life.” 

He yanks down his shirt, standing, apparently too quickly, and wobbling. You catch his arm as he sways, attempting to steady him. “You should sit down.”

“Need to go back out.” He grunts, trying to pull away from you with little force.

“To get killed? ‘Cause you’re going the right way about it.” 

He tilts his head at you like he’s daring you to be so bold again. At least that's what it felt like. You sigh, gesturing to the couch, “Sit down.”

You didn’t expect it to work but he does as told.

You look around, unsure of what to do next. “Do you need ice?”

“What?”

“You’re hurt.” You say slower. “Do you need ice?”

He falters for a second, “No, it’s—no.” A couple beats pass before he adds, “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

It’s impossible not to notice that he’s staring at you. You feel hot under his gaze, not knowing what to do with yourself. You clear your throat, telling him to hang on for a second. 

You call out behind you as you walk to the kitchen, “Take your helmet off, it’s rude.” You grab the painkillers from their new easily-accessible place on the kitchen counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

It was a joke but when you come back his helmet is off and he’s just wearing his domino eye mask. His hair is extra tousled, the white streak barely visible in the mess of loose curls. You toss the bottle of meds at him, followed by the capped bottle of water. He catches them easily, downing more than he probably should have but he got shot tonight so you figure you’ll give him a break about it.    

You plop down on the couch next to him, honestly closer than you’d meant to. Your knees and shoulders lightly brush against one anothers, though neither of you make any moves to scoot over. 

You both look straight ahead at the wall, simmering in the amity. “So did somebody else deal with the Hatter or when you get shot do you just bounce back like a T-1000?”

He scoffs, “No, getting shot at is a bit of an inconvenience for me.”

“Wrong line of work.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “You’re telling me.”

You turn your head to him, “Why do you do it then?” 

He looks back at you earnestly. “Someone has to.” 

“Someone does.”

He tenses up a bit at that, breaking eye contact. “Not well enough.” 

Your head slowly lulls and drops into a rest on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen up a bit more before almost completely relaxing.

“So violence is the answer to violence?” you ask, not argumentative, just genuinely musing. 

Hood sighs, “Half-assed reform programs didn’t do anything, shitty ‘crisis interventions’ didn’t do anything, the cops sure as hell don’t do anything.” He shrugs under you. “You run out of options eventually.”

“And that’s why you took it upon yourself to intervene?”

“Mm. ‘When reason fails, the devil helps.’” He says, quite melodramatically, in your opinion.

“I-Is that—” you squint, shooting off of his shoulder to look him in the eye. “You spend your nights getting in street fights and shootouts and you spend your days reading Crime and Punishment of all things?” You gawk at him, “That explains a lot about your disposition.”

He shrugs with a shake of his head. “It’s a rough world. Can’t afford to be reading about Hogwarts.”

You pause, combing through your next words, “‘Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn’t calculate his happiness.’”

His eyes crinkle under his mask as he smiles, clearly pleasantly surprised that you know your shit. “Touché.”

You grin back, pleased with yourself. 

There’s a brief recession where your smiles both get caught in the flicker between on and off, where your eyes take the opportunity to scan over each other’s faces. 

You realize that this may be the first time you’ve seen him properly smile and it’s so magnetizing. So much so that you don’t realize you’re staring at his lips until your eyes snap back up to his and find that his are on yours.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he nudges you a bit with his shoulder. It does just enough to break the trance, giving you the cue to rest your head on him again. This time you allow more of your weight to lean against him and he actually seems relaxed for once.

 You glance at the clock on the wall without moving and realize it’s almost four in the morning. “I’m tired, Hood.” you mumble into his shirt.

“You don’t—” he falters for a moment, “You don’t have to call me that.”

You squint at him, “What should I call you then?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “J.”

“J?” you whisper, like it’s a grave secret. You guess it kind of is.

He nods.

“Okay.” Your cheek flattens against his shoulder. “J.” 

You nearly think you’re imagining it when you feel him rest his head against yours.

“You don’t know how to protect yourself?”

You roll your eyes at him, “You saw the way I swung at you with the baseball bat, what do you think?”

It’s only just after sunset, you could still see some purple-pink hues in the sky if you looked out the window. He’s started showing up before patrol some nights, saying he felt bad about waking you up at 3 am multiple times a week. So now, he mostly only drops in late if he’s a manageable amount of injured.

You stand in the middle of your living room together, after you’d made a joke about needing him as a bodyguard in Gotham. As it turns out, that was a one way street to him finding out that you’re useless in a fight.

“I was hoping you were having an off night because you just woke up, but now I'm concerned.” He says, grimacing.

You shrug, “I carry pepper spray.” 

He grumbles, displeased. “Put your hands up.”

You drop your head to the side and glower at him, “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows at you. Just do it. 

Alright, you’ll humor him. You put your fists up and he holds his hands open in front of you in kind. You throw a light punch.

“Come on, put your weight behind it.”

You do, hitting his hand harder. “Hood—”

He tilts his head forward at that, looking at you through his brows.

You inhale impatiently, “J, Why do we have to do this? I don’t have any illusions that I could knock you out and I can’t imagine you do either.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s not about knocking someone out, it’s about defending yourself. Gonna be a hell of a lot harder to hurt you if you’re throwing punches. Harder.”

You give a raised hum, “Not if they have a gun…”

“Well, we’ll work on that too.”

You groan, throwing a half-assed hit. “Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask before throwing another.

“Turn your body into it.” He corrects. “My, uh, my dad taught me.”

You hum, hitting him again. “Are you guys close?”

“You’re being nosy again.” He grunts amidst a hit.

“You’re being evasive again.” You shoot back.  

He drops his hands, taking your wrists in his, “Here, put your hands in front of your face when you shoot so you can block counters.” He tells you, adjusting your stance accordingly.

You make a face, “I’m confused, am I fighting a mugger or a kickboxer?”  

He ignores you, moving his hands around to give you different angles to hit at. 

You go at it for a few minutes, taking his critiques with reluctant concedence. “Alright, that’s good.” He says, relaxing his body.

You perk up, “We’re done?” 

“No,” he shuts you down before asking earnestly, “Do you trust me?”

Your brain hadn’t even fully processed the question before you nod, mumbling a ‘yes’. He takes a measured step closer to you, watching carefully for your reaction. You almost back up in surprise, angling your head up further to look at him properly. You give no objection, so he continues, “I want you to try to get me on the ground.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-scoff. “You’re twice my size.”      

He sighs, looking at you somberly. “Sweetheart, odds are you’re not going to be evenly matched against someone that wants to hurt you. You get ‘em on the ground ‘n you have the upper hand or it’ll give you time to get away.”

You throw your hands up at your sides, “I don’t—” You huff, “Fine, okay.” You try to trip him by sliding your leg behind his and kicking, but he blocks you expertly.

You, against better judgment, shove your shoulder into his side, though it does nothing to phase him, let alone knock him down. 

“You gotta get more creative than that.” He chastises with a tut. 

In response, you take a step back to reassess the situation. You try to maintain a poker face as you strategize in your head. You make a dive for his legs, wrapping your arms around the back of his legs and pulling hard to make him lose balance. You’re sure if he were actually trying for a damn you would immediately be done for afterwards, but it does make him wobble. You then throw all of your weight against him, pushing him backwards and causing him to hit the floor with a thud.

He probably allowed for gravity to come to your aid, but he lands on his back all the same. You land half on him, half on the carpet, your hand resting on his chest. He looks up at you nodding, “Good. That was good, sweetheart.”

You smile, quite proud of yourself, and start to stand up when he hooks his arm around the back of your knee and pulls you to the ground too, switching places with you. You hit the ground gently with a sigh, “Really?”

He has one hand rested next to your head to balance him in his place above you. He smirks down at you and lets a tussle of white hair hang over his forehead. “Can’t be getting cocky, sweetheart.”

You laugh sourly, “Coming from you?” 

You quickly push at the bend of his arm and use the distraction to adjust your position to wrap your legs around his center and push your arm against his chest in an attempt to rotate him off of you.

He counters you by pushing your shoulder down, holding you down to the floor. His opposite hand flies to pull your forearm away from his chest, pinning it next to your head, careful to avoid your hair. He moves so quickly that you have half a mind to think he acted on pure instinct. That, and the look on his face when the dust settles says that he hadn’t intended for you to end up in this position. 

Your legs are still wrapped around him and you’re too frozen in the moment to make any changes. He’s in no more of a rush to move, large frame towering over you. You feel his touch stutter against your shoulder, his eyes flickering across your face.

You gaze up at him, taking in the soft look in his eyes behind the mask. You think you can see more green than you did before. You unwrap your legs from around his waist and slowly start to sit up. He releases your wrist and eases the pressure on your shoulder. He leans back half as quickly as you move forward, stopping when you’re propped up on your elbows.

Your faces are only a few inches apart and it feels like your only option is to look down at his lips. You have a feeling he’s doing the same to you. The adrenaline of the hassle has long since faded but the rhythm in both of your chests remains quick.

He leans forward so barely, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. “J…” you say breathily, not sure what implication you’re aiming for.

He stills and this time you’re sure he’s looking at your lips. He blinks a few times like he’s trying to come back to himself and inches his face away from yours slowly. 

You let the hold in your breath release, disappointed more than anything. He eases off the floor to a stand and holds his hand out to help you up too. You take it with more of a frown than you’d meant to let out and rise to your feet.

“Let’s, uh…” He looks at the ground before taking a step back and putting his hands up again. “Let’s try some combos.”

You blink up at him for a second before raising your hands too.  

Alright, one step at a time.   

Headcanons.

Bruce headcanons:

Kissing

Jealousy

Sex now and then

Living together

The time of the month while he’s away

Who he listens to

Protective

Plus size s/o

Hispanic s/o

Wedding

Damian Headcanons:

Jealous/ Possessive

Drunk S/o

Royalty

Sex

Kissing

Galas

Meeting the mother

Pregnant [Part 2]

Falling for a villain

A poly relationship (Feat. Jon)  [NSFW] [Proposal]

Friends

Insecure because of a friend

Sex now and then

Talia kills you

Living together

Seeing you’re hot

Plant manipulating S/o

Sexual Assault

Making out

Plus size s/o

Crushing on a friend

Older crush

Gifts

Hispanic s/o

Dating Alfred’s niece

Dating Jason’s little sister

A Crush (feat. Jon)

Dancer

Nerdy S/O

Texan S/O

First time

Jason headcanons:

Sex now and then

Living together

A poly relationship (feat. Tim)

A poly relationship (feat. Dick)

Engaged

Daughter of the enemy

Pregnant

Plus size s/o

Jealous

Pop star

A poly relationship (Feat. Roy)

Can’t have kids

Short gf

Shopping

Fighting with the S/O

Journalist S/O

Smoker S/O

Dick headcanons:

Having a baby

Sex now and then

Plus size S/O

A poly relationship (feat. Jason)

Pop star

Dating

Not great at English

Jealous

Tim Headcanons:

A poly relationship (feat. Jason)

Sex now and then

Sick

Swearing

Deaf

Dating

Nerdy s/o

Batboys headcanons:

Period cramps

S/o Turned to a kid

Boys turned into kids

S/o has amnesia

How they smell

The talk

Stripper (+ Bruce)

What they listen to

Ran off with the baby (+Bruce)

Dating Kon-El/Superboy, having Batbrothers

Grandfathers

Baby girl

Freckles

Spicy

No sex for you

Losing their S/o at childbirth

Murder

Mixed

Rebellious daughter

Artistic s/o (feat. Bruce)

Spy (Feat. Bruce)

English(British) Accent (Feat. Bruce)

Your birthday

Student killer

Secret Stash

Overprescription

Australian accent

Self conscious (Feat. Bruce)

Losing their child in a crowd

Irish accent

Russian accent

Insecure violinist

Scientist

Shield agent (Feat. Bruce)

Childhood sweethearts (Feat. Bruce)

Dead and gone

Depressed and Anxious

Writer

Twerking

Tattooed SO

Skin condition

Singer

Kidnaped, being Damians S/o

Depression and self-harm

Anger issues

Graduating

Black belt

Male s/o

Sneaking out

Miscarriage

Waking up (Feat. Bruce)

S/o falls asleep anywhere

Afraid of the dark

Snacks

Cape thief

Ticklish

Sister s/o’s

Hacker