#selina kyle!reader

The rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham glittered like broken glass under the sodium lights. You balanced on the narrow ledge of the old Wayne Enterprises annex, the city sprawling beneath you in a haze of neon and violence. Your suit clung to you like a second skin—black latex and reinforced kevlar, accented with subtle silver claw marks that caught the light when you moved. Not quite Selina’s elegant catsuit, but close enough to mock the family legacy. Where your older sister danced through shadows with calculated grace, you hunted through them. Fluid. Unpredictable. A blade wrapped in ballet precision.

Tonight’s mark was a mid-level arms dealer who’d crossed the wrong people. Your people. You’d already left three of his guards unconscious in the stairwell, their necks bent at unnatural angles. The fourth was still twitching on the rooftop behind you, blood pooling from a precise strike to the femoral artery. You twirled the butterfly knife between your fingers, the motion effortless, almost rhythmic—like a pirouette with lethal intent.

The deal was going down below: crates of high-end ordnance changing hands under flickering warehouse fluorescents. You were about to drop in and ruin everyone’s night when a shadow detached itself from the water tower above you.

Red Hood landed with a heavy thud, helmet glinting, dual pistols already drawn. “Kyle’s little sister,” he growled, voice distorted by the modulator. “Didn’t know the family business extended to amateur hour.”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled, slow and sharp, tilting your head as rain traced down your mask. “Jason Todd. Shouldn’t you be brooding in a graveyard somewhere?”

He holstered one gun but kept the other trained on you. “This isn’t your score. Walk away.”

“Make me.”

The fight was immediate and beautiful in its brutality.

He came at you like a freight train—raw power, street brawling elevated by Lazarus Pit rage. You flowed around him. A leap, a spinning kick that grazed his helmet, claws raking across his chest plate hard enough to spark. He grabbed your wrist mid-twist, yanking you close, but you used the momentum, hooking a leg around his and flipping him toward the edge. He rolled, came up firing rubber rounds that you dodged with dancer’s precision, each movement a deadly extension of the rigorous training that had shaped your body into a weapon.

You laughed—wild, unhinged, the sound cutting through the rain. Selina would’ve scolded you for enjoying it too much. You didn’t care. Pain and chaos were the only things that ever felt real.

Jason caught you mid-air during your next leap, slamming you against the rooftop access door. The impact rattled your ribs, but you headbutted him, cracking his helmet visor. For a split second, you saw his eyes—green, furious, alive. Something electric crackled between you.

“Bring it on pussycat,” he snarled, pinning your arms.

You leaned in until your lips nearly brushed the edge of his helmet. “Always crawling back from the grave just to play hero-villain roulette.”

He hesitated. Just long enough.

You kneed him in the gut, twisted free, and drove an elbow into the side of his neck. He staggered. You could’ve ended it—slit his throat, left him for the crows—but instead you backed off, breathing hard, adrenaline singing in your veins.

The arms deal below erupted into gunfire as someone noticed the commotion above. Jason cursed and vaulted over the ledge, guns blazing. You followed because why the hell not? The two of you carved through the warehouse like a storm—his brute force and marksmanship, your acrobatic savagery. A bullet grazed your shoulder; you barely felt it. You returned the favor by hurling a guard into Jason’s path so he could finish the job.

When the last body hit the floor, silence fell except for the patter of rain through the shattered skylight.

Jason ripped off his cracked helmet, revealing sweat-slicked dark hair and that infamous white streak. Scars mapped his face like a roadmap of hell. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shoot you or kiss you.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said.

You peeled off your own mask, letting damp hair fall across your face. Selina’s sharper features softened in you by youth and something feral. “Takes one to know one, Todd. Heard you blew up a building just to make a point once.”

He stepped closer. The warehouse smelled of cordite and blood. Your heart hammered against your ribs—not from fear.

“You’re not like her,” he murmured, eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the fresh cut on your lip.

“No.” You closed the distance, grabbing the front of his jacket. “I'm better.”

The kiss was violent. Teeth and rain and pent-up fury. His hands—gloved, rough—gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as he lifted you onto a crate. You wrapped your legs around him, claws digging into his shoulders, drawing a low groan from his throat. He tasted like smoke and copper. You bit his lower lip, and he retaliated by fisting your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His mouth followed, hot and demanding, scraping teeth along your pulse point.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” he growled against your skin.

“Mutual,” you breathed, arching into him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving. The unhinged light in your eyes mirrored something dark and hungry in his. Two broken things who’d crawled out of their own graves—literal or otherwise—refusing to stay buried.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Jason pressed one last bruising kiss to your mouth, then stepped back, retrieving his helmet. “Next time you hunt in my territory, little cat… I won’t hold back.”

You smirked, licking blood from your split lip. “Promise?”

He disappeared into the rain like smoke. You stayed a moment longer, touching your bruised mouth, feeling the ache in your muscles like a lover’s promise.

Selina would disapprove. But Selina had never understood the joy of dancing on the razor’s edge.