#gothic!reader

You didn’t even look up from the taxidermy crow wing you were carefully pinning open on your work table when the window slid up with that particular scraping whine only Jason ever made. Heavy boots hit the floorboards. A low, pained grunt followed.

“Before you start,” his modulated voice rasped through the helmet, “I’m fine.”

“You always say that right before I have to cut your favorite jacket off you.” You finally glanced over. The Red Hood was swaying slightly in your living room like a listing ship, one gloved hand pressed to his side. Fresh blood had already soaked through the reinforced weave between two plates.

He tilted his helmet. “It’s not that bad.”

You set the steel dissection pins down with deliberate calm. “Take it off. All of it. Or I start reciting Victorian mourning etiquette at you until you pass out from boredom.”

A beat of silence. Then the mechanical hiss of seals releasing. The helmet came off first—dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh split above his left eyebrow, the beginnings of a truly spectacular bruise blooming along his jaw.

He looked tired. Not just physically.

You didn’t comment on it. You never did unless he brought it up first.

Instead you pointed to the stool you kept specifically for these midnight surgeries. “Sit.”

Jason peeled the jacket away with a wince, then the armored undershirt. The gash along his ribs was ugly—jagged, deep enough that you could see the pale edge of fat before red swallowed everything again—but it wasn’t arterial. Small mercy.

He watched you the whole time you worked: iodine, saline, the curved needle you kept sterilized in a coffin-shaped case, black surgical thread. Your hands were steady. They always were when it was him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he muttered after the third stitch.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because if I don’t, you’ll bleed on my rug again, and the last time that happened the stain looked like a very judgmental nun. I’m trying to avoid thematic sequels.”

A short, rough laugh escaped him despite the pain. “You’re so fucking weird.”

“Says the man who brought me a jar of what I’m pretty sure are human finger bones last month.”

“They were suspected human,” he corrected, almost prim. “And the guy I took them off definitely wasn’t using them anymore.”

You tied off the last stitch, pressed fresh gauze down, and began wrapping. “You act like that makes it romantic.”

“Thought you liked morbid courtship rituals.”

“I like taxonomy and preservation technique and knowing exactly what kind of death I’m looking at.” You smoothed medical tape with more care than necessary. “Not just ‘here’s some war trophy, babe’.”

Jason’s mouth curved—small, crooked, real. “Noted.”

You stepped back, surveyed your work, then reached over to the cluttered shelf behind you. Among the glass domes of preserved moths, the row of antique mourning jewelry, the vial of what might or might not be river water from the Thames circa 1889, sat the newest addition: a small, stoppered bottle containing something dark and faintly luminous.

He’d brought it three nights ago without explanation. Just set it on your kitchen counter at 4:17 a.m., kissed your temple through the helmet, and left again.

You picked it up now and turned it slowly in the lamplight. “I still don’t know what this is.”

“Glowing algae from that Lazarus-adjacent pit in Bosnia,” he said casually. Like people just stumbled across bioluminescent resurrection pools on vacation. “Thought the color might match that weird lamp you keep in the bathroom.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy beneath the blood and bruising. “You said you liked things that shouldn’t be able to glow after they’re dead.”

God damn it.

You set the bottle down very carefully, stepped between his knees, and cupped the uninjured side of his face. Your black-lacquered nails looked almost blue against his skin.

“You’re still doing that thing,” you said quietly.

“What thing?”

“Acting like you’re allowed to be the untouchable rich boy who buys people’s affection with trophies and then leaves before anyone can ask for more.”

His eyes flickered—something raw and young flashing through the green.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Your thumb brushed the edge of the bruise. “You drop dead things on my table like offerings and then disappear for four days so I can’t ask why your hands were shaking when you gave me the last one.”

Jason swallowed. Didn’t deny it.

You leaned in until your forehead rested against his.

“I already know who you are, Jason,” you whispered. “I knew before the first time you bled on my floor. So stop trying to pay me off with weird little corpses and start letting me keep you alive instead.”

For once he didn’t deflect.

He just closed his eyes and let his forehead rest heavier against yours, breathing like it hurt more than the stitches.

After a long minute he murmured, “Next time I’ll bring you something alive.”

You huffed a tiny laugh against his mouth. “Don’t you dare. I’m not running a pet cemetery.”

“Too late,” he said, and you felt the shape of his smirk. “Already got one very alive disaster who keeps coming back here to bleed.”

You kissed him then—careful of the split lip, careful of the fresh gauze, not careful at all with the way your fingers curled into his hair and held on like you were daring him to leave again.

He didn’t.

Not that night.

Later, when the bleeding had stopped and the painkillers had started working, he sprawled across your velvet couch (black, of course) and watched you return to the crow wing with a kind of quiet fascination he rarely let show.

You felt his gaze like touch.

Eventually he spoke, voice low and rough from exhaustion.

“Found something else today.”

You didn’t look up. “Mhm?”

“Old silver locket. 1870s. Still has hair inside. Looks like it was cut after death.”

Your hands paused.

He continued, softer. “Figured you could… I dunno. Put it under glass. Or wear it. Or tell me why the hell people used to keep dead people’s hair like love letters.”

You finally turned.

Jason was watching you with that unguarded look he only wore when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were the strangest, most precious thing he’d ever pulled out of the dark.

You crossed the room, climbed onto the couch, straddled his thighs without putting weight on the stitches.

He let you.

You leaned down until your lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“Bring it tomorrow,” you whispered. “And stay long enough to watch me open it.”

His arms came around you—careful, warm, alive.

“Deal.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you that they never have seen your tattoos, whole sleeves of them that span down your arms; you make sure to have them covered when on base. And you shouldn’t be surprised either when they look at you like you’ve grown two heads—the jack-o-lantern kind. 

But the most surprising thing of the night is getting to the bar—decked out and looking as good as Morticia Addams—only to have Soap go all gooey eyed and start flirting. 

You’d thought the dress was mild—which in comparison to some of the other options in your wardrobe it is—and the corset and chains you put over it to accentuate your waist was more meant to make you look more put together, rather than to draw the eye there. The lace sleeves shadow your fully tattooed arms, shading them without hiding them how you usually do. Little daggers dripping red dangle from your ears, and your makeup is all smokey, save for the ruby red paint on your lips. 

Truly, like the queen of Halloween. 

But when you make your way through the crowd and up to their table, braced for rejection or just an odd sideways glance, you’re met with Johnny, who looks like he’s moments away from drooling himself dehydrated. 

His eyes linger on your waist, trace up your arms, and linger on your lips. You watch his fingers twitch, watch the way they itch to reach out but he maintains a cool, calm (relatively) control. 

“Aye, ye wee bonnie lass. D’ye need a drink? Ah’ll cover it if ye give me yer name?” 

If words could feel like whiplash, this would be the definition of that. What the hell does he mean? He invited you here. This is... 

Wait. 

They don’t recognize you. 

None of them recognize you. 

And it’s almost too entertaining, almost too comical that you can’t help but play into it—letting him puff out his chest and flex his bicep in a way that he thinks is subtle but lands like a bomb. And you play the role, quiet and simpering, slipping into the booth beside him and letting him flirt his way through two drinks. Ghost across the table looks on with glittering amusement—because of course that bastard has figured it out by now. Too damn observant that one. He and Price exchange knowing looks while you just let Johnny drone on and on about a mission that you were the lead intel officer on, like you’ll be impressed by his retelling of how he’d managed to diffuse an ordinance with less than four minutes. 

You had been impressed with him when he’d done it, it had been quite a feat, now you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing. 

He reads that as nervous interest and keeps going. 

“Ach, lass. Ye never told me yer name? Ah canny have that now that ah’ve talked yer bloody ear off.” 

And so, you tell him your name, watch his face pale, as Ghost and Price finally lose it. The latter slaps his meaty hand onto the tabletop and rattles the glasses. Gaz just stares on—mouth gaping—and you, well you grin, drink the dregs of your glass and speak. 

“This was fun. I should have come out the first time you asked.” 

pb. curtis.

- he would be a little bit scared when he first met you.

- after getting to know one another better, he would really fall for you.

- loves all your flowy dresses and darker outfits.

- as a greaser, he understands what its like to be made fun of for your outfits or hair, so its definitely something you both understand.

- if somebody’s making fun of you, he would not hesitate to call them out.

- he tries to pick you up gifts he’d think you like.

- don’t expect this boy to come dwelling in scary places with you! he’d freak out and probably pass out!

- overall, he’s super accepting of how you dress, and he’s mostly indifferent to it.

j. cade.

- unlike his friend ponyboy, he wouldn’t be very freaked out.

- i feel like he’d be into goth girls anyway, and all the dark stuff doesn’t phase him much.

- he’s honestly so in love with goth girls.

- if a goth girl asked him to jump, he’d ask how high.

- if anyone has anything to say, he’d probably knock their teeth out on the spot.

- he’d buy you just about anything you’d ask for, or steal it.

- overall, he’s head-over-heels for you, and he doesn’t care much about the goth stuff. he loves you for you.

d. winston.

- he’d be much like johnny, and not gaf about what you wear.

- a bad bitch is a bad bitch to him, regardless of style or anything.

- he’d follow you blindly to any freaky place you’d want to go.

- he wouldn’t be scared to show you off, and he’d defend you if anybody had something to say.

- expect some teasing nicknames, however.

- he’d steal you anything you’d find interesting.

- if he see’s you eyeing something, he’d get it on the spot.

- overall, he’s real good about it, and loves you regardless of what style you have.

d. curtis.

- he’s a pretty traditional guy, he wasn’t horrified by you, but he was a little surprised.

- he’d definitely be thinking about how pretty you are.

- as he get’s to know you better, the makeup and outfits draw him to you even closer.

- any money not spent on the boys would automatically be used to buy gifts for you.

- makeup, clothes, anything you find appealing.

- most people are scared of darry, so nobody would probably talk shit about you in front of him.

- but, if someones talking ill about you behind the both of you, he stands on business. (knocks a tooth clean out.)

- he really loves you for you at the end of the day, and doesn’t care about what anyone has to say.

sp. curtis.

- like his brothers, he’s a bit surprised, but he still finds you real pretty.

- he’s quick to make moves on you, and he doesn’t care what other people think.

- once you guys get together, he sticks to you like glue.

- would also get into a fight if someone had something to say.

- he’s quick to get pissy at girls trying to flirt with him, yet they talk down on you.

Your latest mark—an arms broker dumb enough to skim off Black Mask—never saw the Ace of Spades coming. It’s still quivering in the far wall like it’s got a personal grudge.

The window latch clicks open, quiet as a held breath. You don’t look up.

“You’re fucking late,” you say, sliding the Queen of Hearts into place without disturbing the tower. “Thought maybe the Bat finally chained your ass to the Cave.”

Red Hood slips inside, rainwater sluicing off the leather jacket, dripping from the rim of that red helmet. He doesn’t take it off right away—old paranoia dies hard—but he does nudge the window mostly shut with his boot.

“Had to lose Nightwing,” he mutters through the modulator. “Told the little bastard I needed new brake pads and a solenoid for the bike. He bought it. Mostly ’cause he’d rather chew glass than talk shop with me.”

You huff a laugh. “Fucking shocking.”

He stalks closer, boots deliberately heavy on the concrete so you always know exactly where he is. Consideration. Or maybe just the prelude to something messier. With Jason, it’s usually both.

You glance up. The helmet’s white lenses stare back, cold and blank, but you know the look underneath: half scowl, half something raw he won’t ever say out loud.

He reaches into an inner pocket, pulls out a slim drive, and tosses it. You snatch it mid-air without blinking.

“Shipment routes,” he says. “Penguin’s moving some nasty shit through the old Falcone docks over the next two weeks. Figured you’d want first blood.”

You roll the drive between your fingers. “You’re handing me this why, exactly?”

“Because if I hit it, Bruce will have my goddamn balls on a platter in under fifteen minutes.” His voice is flat through the modulator, but there’s heat under it. “If you do it, it’s just another ghost hitting the board. No breadcrumbs back to the family. Clean.”

You set the drive down and slide off the table, closing the distance until you can smell rain, gun oil, leather, and the faint metallic bite that always clings to him after patrol.

“You keep coming here,” you say, fingers brushing the edge of his helmet where the jaw guard meets cool metal. “Lying to your precious fucking Bat-family. Risking the whole damn thing. For what?”

He doesn’t answer with words at first.

Instead he reaches up, pops the hidden release, and pulls the helmet off with a soft hiss. Jason Todd’s face is tired, rainwater-dark hair sticking to his forehead, that white streak stark under the dim lights. His eyes—green, bruised, too fucking honest—are locked on yours.

“Because I’m sick of everyone looking at me like I’m one bad night away from burning it all down,” he says, voice rough and low. “Except you. You just look at me like I’m here.”

You hold his gaze for a long beat, then reach past him and yank the Ace of Spades out of the wall. You twirl it once, twice.

Before you can flick it again, he smirks—just a little, the kind that means trouble.

“Saw you on the news last night,” he says. “They’re still calling you the ‘Red Queen.’ Whole segment on how you left that broker gift-wrapped in playing cards with a bow made of razor wire. Channel 9 even ran a clip of your silhouette against the skyline—red suit, that spiked crown thing you wear when you’re feeling dramatic. Looked like you stepped straight out of a fucked-up fairy tale.”

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts. “I fucking hate that name. Red Queen? Sounds like a cheap casino cocktail or some dominatrix cosplay gone wrong.”

Jason’s smirk widens into something dangerously fond. He steps closer, backing you against the table edge until your hips bump the steel. One gloved hand settles on your waist; the other reaches up to trace the line of your jaw.

“It suits you,” he murmurs, voice dropping low enough that it vibrates against your skin. “Especially with that red suit hugging every goddamn curve and the crown—spikes and all—like it belongs to the evil queen in Snow White. Poison apple and everything. Ruthless. Beautiful. Untouchable. Makes people shit themselves just looking at you.”

You narrow your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning in until his breath ghosts your lips. “But I’m your asshole. And I didn’t come here for intel tonight. I came because I’m fucking tired of lying to them about where I disappear to. I just wanted to be here. With you. Without the rest of them knowing I’d rather be in this shitty loft than anywhere else in this goddamn city.”

Your breath catches. You hook a finger in the collar of his jacket and tug him down until your mouths are almost touching.

“Then stay,” you whisper. “Lie to them a little longer. Tell them the bike’s still fucked. Tell them whatever keeps them off your back.”

His forehead rests against yours for a second, eyes closed like he’s savoring it.

“Already did,” he murmurs. “Told ’em I was running diagnostics in the Narrows. They won’t look for me till dawn.”

You smile against his lips. “Good. Because I’m not letting you leave until the rain stops. Or until I get bored of you. Whichever comes first.”

“Fuck that,” he growls, and then his mouth is on yours—hard, hungry, tasting like rain and gunpowder and every bad decision you both keep making.

Somewhere in the Cave, eventually, someone will notice he’s gone too long. Questions will start.

But right now, in this shadowed loft above Gotham’s rotting heart, the Red Hood is just Jason, and he’s here because he wants to be—because you’re the only place he doesn’t have to pretend.

“Ach…bloody HELL, lass. Ye’ve got on too many layers.”

Johnny’s thick, Scottish brogue is more pronounced than you think you’ve ever heard it, and you let your head fall back onto your shoulders, giggling.

After that one time you finally went to the pub with the task force, he wound up asking you to dinner… had taken you to a nice pub, with a taco truck almost permanently parked in the lot. It had been fun—delicious too—but now back at yours, Johnny is struggling and his frustration is only growing.

“How many damn things must ye wear?”

He isn’t asking you, not really, more grumbling to himself as he finally gets the dainty belly chain wrapped 'round your waist unclasped properly—you had threatened him with castration if he ripped it off, and he had loosened his grip on it and searched for the clasp.

He’s on his knees before you—really it’s quite a sight—kissing your hip through the absolutely ridiculous number of layers covering your skin.

“Ye make it like a damned puzzle.”

Another chuckle escapes your lips and you take pity on him, helping with the straps and buckles.

The corset he doesn’t even give a chance—

“I’ll buy ye a new one—“

And he’s already ripping it free, snapping the clasps in the front with one long jolt of his paw, before you can protest.

“Johnny—!”

You squeak through a giggle, and he’s already got you down on your back, too tight pants being yanked down your legs. Your panties go with them in one fell swoop.

Clearly, the man has lost his patience.

“Feel like I need a damned instruction manual tae get ye naked.”

Your head falls back onto the pillows, shoulders shaking as you laugh, then arch when his big, strong hands press your thighs apart and he licks a long stripe through you. The groan that rumbles his chest is nothing short of filthy; as if your mouth were on him and not the other way around.

“Christ—“

He doesn’t come up for air until you’re shaking and that perfect eyeliner you worked so hard on is streaming down your face.