#snkts

He holds out a mug of rich hot chocolate, the subtle scent of cinnamon and evaporated milk doing their best to entice. ❛ It ain't like dem winters up nort', but dere's a certain kinda charm down here, hein? ❜ He wiggles a nip of whisky in his free hand that appears almost by magic.

[ TXT : Claws ] Besides an escape plan? Blankets. Its fucking freezing down here for those of us without fur.

Seeing horrors was more normal to her than anything. Being in a lab was similar. Just something that happened. What was startling was the people coming in and checking in on her, bringing her comfort items, sitting with her. Logan was just an even more surprising case. Still she sent off her response to his concern.

If someone wanted to see all of Jeff's outfits he would be over the moon! Dressing up helps him related to people to not be as scary so just give him any reason. He will dress up.

these strings of coincidental meetings are beyond coincidental. they're carefully crafted, tapping into the winter soldier's robust arsenal of weaponry: the sort that sat beyond firearms and blades. the natural charm of their dimpled grin, or their giddy saunter as they approach him at the bar sectional, non-threatening and dripping warmth. their curls bob around their head, thick, maintaining a new sheen; their appearance is curated to find something weapon x would find pleasing, but not too pleasing.

attractive, but not suspiciously so. familiar, but not provocative of muscle memory. no one he knows, except as they presented themself in clean, middle-american dialect: jamie, nice to meet'ya.

the soldier claps their hand into logans shoulder, a very simple prosthetic fitted where their absent limb had been. the blocky false hand remains still, nothing more than a cosmetic accoutrement to create a sense of progression. ' look at this thing! my orthopedic doctor fitted me with it.. i was gettin' real irritated about all my shirts fitting funny. logan! come dance with me! ' their natal hand spreads warmly where it'd landed, cupping the wealth of muscle beneath. god, he was solid. ' come on, come on, please, i love this song. ' gingerly, they slip their palm across his forearm, furling into his fingers. the gesture is universally understood, gentle tugging toward the backline of their hips. put it here and dance with me. the dedicated flooring was spotted with couples swaying to the beat of the track, but not so populated they lacked space to join. ' and there's nobody i'd rather dance with. '

send ✍🏻 for my muse to write a personalized note to your muse.

He stood with his back to the wall, hand wedged into his suit pocket, and watching the milling crowd with an analytical eye. Two hundred in attendance, men in black tie, and elegant, colorful shimmering evening gowns, which sashayed across the marble floor of the art gallery. Waiters in tuxes delivered flutes of champagne and hor'dourves on trays, and a string quartet produced a rendition of a piece of Mozart. The richest men and women of Gotham made small talk over oil paintings, sculptures, and original art pieces, some selling for thousands of dollars. And Jason was bored out of his skull.

Jason hated the 'rich people make themselves feel good' charity galas as a kid, and he hated them as an adult. At least now, he had the prerogative to tell the snobby socialites and asshole billionaires to fuck off. Back when he was Bruce Wayne's ward, Jason didn't have the back bone to do anything but shuffle about in his expensive little suit and hide behind his adopted 'dad.' Nowadays, he attended on his own dime, for his own purposes, and had the literal, and financial, weight to throw around. And, he still hated them. They were so out of touch, selfish, making their fortunes on the backs of hard working men and women, blissfully unaware that they were at best parasites of society. He attended on minor obligation, for the information and the connections which served his vigilante enterprises. He was no longer Bruce Wayne's Ward, but his own open and coming venture investor, with chunks of stocks in every cutting edge company for weapons, technology, and programming. Jason split his life in three: Red Hood by night; Jason, random guy in Crime Alley by day; and whoever the hell this was, in-between. Jason Todd remained legally dead. He was reborn as whoever he needed to be to get the job done.

Then there was Dick Grayson, living son of Bruce Wayne, in a tux, wandering back over to him after charming grown women into giggles to nudge Jason in the side. "You see that guy over there?"

Instinctively, Jason followed Dick's gaze across the room to the 'snack' table (charcuterie was the fancy term), where a thirty-something guy in a white suit was fixing himself a plate of expensive cheese and crackers. Jason had noticed him, and his wide shoulders, as soon as he walked into the party forty minutes ago. He had been idly watching the guy for that long.

"What about him?" Jason grumbled.

"He looks your type." Dick grinned at him, again poking him in the ribs with his elbow.

Jason's jaw set and he glared.

"I'm just saying," Dick shrugged. "If you don't talk to him. I will."

Jason rolled his eyes and pushed off from the wall.

"Go get 'em tiger!"

"Shut the fuck up."

Jason, casually, crossed the room. Stopping to chat to a couple people he didn't care about, before naturally coming to the table. He got his own plate, selected an assortment of cut fruit, thin meats, and cheese, before catching up to the man enough to ask him, as if the thought had just occured to him.