#soft reader

your birthday always felt quiet. not lonely — just… still. like the world knew how to slow down just for you. the air had that weightless hum to it, a softness only june could give, and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t spending it alone.

this year, you had him.

elijah moore.

the one people called “smoke” — not just ‘cause of how he moved but ‘cause of what followed after. heat. tension. silence that filled the space like fog.

but not with you.

with you, he made noise in his own way. not loud. not boastful. but he stayed close. remembered things you forgot you told him. touched you like he meant it. and that meant something, especially from a man who spoke more with his eyes than his mouth.

you’d been with him for some months now — the kind of months that don’t pass like time, but like warmth. like heat lingering in the air after he kissed you, or the way his thumb would press into your lower back when y’all walked into a room. nothing over the top. just enough to feel it, deep.

you never said it out loud, but he already knew — you’d never been with anyone before. not all the way.

you weren’t scared of him. no, not even a little. it was everyone else you didn’t trust. the boys who only wanted what you wouldn’t give. but smoke… he waited. he watched. and when he looked at you, you could feel it — the way he undressed you without ever reaching for your clothes.

he never pushed. never asked.

until tonight.

you didn’t know what to expect when you walked through the door of his apartment.

you’d just come back from dinner. quiet place, low lighting, some jazz humming from the walls like background static. he let you talk most of the night, just watched you sip slow from your glass, his hand draped behind you on the booth like he didn’t wanna crowd you but still needed to be close.

you didn’t notice how tightly you’d held his hand until he pulled you inside with him.

the apartment smelled like something clean and faintly musky — like the cologne he pressed behind his throat and the fresh laundry you helped him fold last sunday, all mixed together.

“sit,” he said low, nodding toward the couch.

you blinked. “you makin’ me nervous.”

a smirk curved on the side of his mouth, slow, like smoke curling off a match. “good.”

you sat. not ‘cause he told you to — ‘cause the way he said it felt final. warm. like a promise.

he stepped away, back into the bedroom for a second.

you glanced around, trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t racing.

you could still taste the sweetness of the strawberry glaze from dessert on your tongue. still felt the weight of his eyes from across the booth, his thumb brushing soft against your thigh under the table.

and then he returned.

a black box in one hand. a single rose in the other.

he placed the rose gently in your lap, then kneeled down in front of you, opening the box with careful fingers.

inside:

a necklace — gold, dainty, thin, like it belonged to the skin more than around it. a small charm hung from it: the letter E.

you looked down at him, breath caught in your throat.

he didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.

“you mine,” he said, fingers brushing your collarbone as he lifted the chain. “this just make it official.”

you nodded before you could even think.

he leaned in, fast but gentle, lips brushing the corner of your mouth like he was still asking permission. your chest tightened. your thighs pressed together on instinct.

“that ain’t even the real gift,” he murmured, voice dragging low against your ear.

you swallowed hard. “then what is?”

his lips ghosted your cheek, a single breath before he stood again.

“come find out.”

your breath hitched the second you stepped into the bedroom.

candles, flickering low on the nightstand and dresser. sheets pulled back neat.

music hummin’ from the speaker in the corner, slow and sensual, bass steady like a heartbeat.

you turned to him, heart in your throat.

“elijah…”

he just looked at you, slow and sure. didn’t say a word. but his hands reached for your waist, and you let him touch you.

his fingers ghosted over the hem of your dress, dragging slow, eyes locked on yours like he was waiting for you to run.

but you didn’t.

you lifted your arms.

he pulled it over your head.

stood still for a second, breathing you in like something sacred.

you shivered. not ‘cause you were cold — ‘cause of how warm his hands were when they touched your skin.

he leaned down and kissed your shoulder.

then your collarbone.

then the curve of your neck.

he didn’t rush. he just let it build.

slow. soft.

like he was unwrapping a gift, not undressing a body.

you didn’t speak — couldn’t.

not when elijah was lookin’ at you like that.

your body was bare, barely lit by the warm flicker of candlelight. he hadn’t said much, but he didn’t need to. his silence was weighty. heavy with all the things you were finally ready for, and all the things he already knew.

his hand slid behind your neck. thick fingers curling gentle under your hair. your skin prickled under his touch, chest rising slow as he leaned in.

“you sure?”

his voice was low. like gravel. like smoke rising up from heat that never quite burned out.

you nodded. “i’m sure.”

he didn’t move at first. just stared at you — his thumb pressed to your jaw, lips barely apart like he was breathin’ in every inch of you.

“aight,” he said under his breath, kissing you soft. “then i’ma take my time.”

his mouth dropped to your neck again, this time lingering. tongue warm, breath hotter. he kissed slow, deep, like each part of you deserved to be remembered.

you whimpered the first time his lips grazed the top of your chest.

“sound like that again,” he muttered into your skin, one hand cupping your breast with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “i like that.”

your fingers tightened in the sheets behind you.

his tongue slid over your nipple, slow, then sucked.

soft at first. then harder.

your thighs clamped together.

“open ‘em,” he said without looking up. voice low. calm.

you hesitated. he tapped your thigh, firm. “spread them legs for me, mama.”

you obeyed.

the air kissed your inner thighs. you could already feel how wet you were — too much, too fast. it embarrassed you. you turned your head, biting your bottom lip to keep from whining out loud.

he noticed.

“why you hidin’ from me?” he said softly, lips dragging down your stomach. “nah, look at me.”

you blinked, slowly dragging your gaze down your body — and there he was.

on his knees. shoulders wide between your thighs. both hands caressing the outsides of them like he was anchoring you there. like he wasn’t lettin’ you go.

he kissed the inside of your leg.

then again.

and again.

your breathing shook. your hips rolled forward on instinct — desperate, wanting, already aching for him to stop teasing and start doing.

“mm.” he chuckled against your skin. “you greedy already, baby? barely even touched you.”

“‘lijah, please,” you whispered. you weren’t even sure what you were asking for.

but he knew.

his breath hit your center, then his tongue. one single, slow lick, long and deep, like he was already drunk off you.

your hips jerked.

he gripped your thighs tighter.

“keep still,” he said thickly. “take what i give you.”

then he dove in.

you didn’t know a man could eat like that.

like he ain’t have nothin’ else to do.

like this was his only job tonight.

like he was studyin’ you through his tongue.

his lips sucked hard on your clit, tongue flickin’ fast, then slow, then fast again — working you open like he already knew your rhythm. your moans poured out your mouth in soft, high cries, your fingers fisting the sheets.

“that’s it,” he said in between, voice rough. “give it to me. lemme hear you.”

you whined. back arching. thighs trembling against his shoulders.

then his fingers pushed inside. two of them. thick. slow at first. curling up till you screamed his name.

“‘lijah—fuck—!”

“that’s it,” he groaned, voice like thunder, deep in your belly. “ain’t even fuck you yet and you already singin’ for me. this pussy so damn tight…”

your head dropped back. he kept goin’. tongue, fingers, rhythm like he was tryna ruin you soft before he ever even got inside.

“feel good?”

you nodded fast. too fast.

“use your words, baby.”

“feels s-so good,” you stammered, legs shaking. “feels—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growled. “you takin’ it. don’t stop now.”

your orgasm hit like a wave — hard, sweet, fast — and he didn’t stop until you were gasping, shaking, hips grinding against his face like your body couldn’t get enough.

he licked you through it. slow, like a man proud of what he’d done.

and then he stood.

his lips and chin glistened in the candlelight. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching you with those same dark, steady eyes.

“now,” he muttered, voice deep with heat, “you ready for your real birthday present?”

you barely noticed when he started undressing.

you were too high off your first orgasm, too dazed by the way he licked his fingers clean like your taste meant something holy.

but then you looked up.

and there he was. shirt off. belt undone. pants loose around his hips.

he was thick. all over. chest cut deep with muscle, abs shadowed in the low candlelight. and when he pulled his briefs down, your breath caught in your throat.

he was big.

not just long — thick. curved just a little. veiny, heavy, already hard for you. your stomach flipped. you swallowed slow.

he caught your face. stared at you hard, just for a second.

“don’t get scared now,” he said low, walking toward the bed.

you didn’t even blink. “i’m not.”

he smiled once. slow.

“good.”

he climbed onto the bed, knee between your thighs, body over yours. his dick was resting heavy against your stomach now, warm and firm, pressed between you both like a quiet threat.

his hand slid up your side. slow. possessive.

“‘lijah…”

“yeah, baby?”

your hands reached for his shoulders. “want you to go slow.”

he leaned down. kissed your lips once, then again, and again — soft, then deeper.

“i got you.”

he meant it.

you watched as he reached down, lined himself up.

you felt the tip slide through your folds first — slow, wet, easy — then nudge right up against your entrance.

your breath stopped.

his eyes locked on yours. “keep your eyes on me.”

you nodded.

then he pushed.

the first inch burned. thick, tight, stretching you more than you’d ever imagined. your fingers dug into his biceps. you whimpered loud — your body trying to tense, but he stopped. held still.

“breathe, baby,” he whispered, brushing your cheek. “you takin’ me real good.”

you nodded again. deep breaths. legs open wider, even through the ache.

he kissed your jaw. your shoulder. your breast.

then moved again.

slow. deep. inch by inch.

you felt every part of him — the way his width stretched your walls, the curve pressing against that spot deep inside.

you cried out soft, and he kissed you through it.

“that’s it,” he muttered. “fuck… you feel that? how tight this pussy grippin’ me already? goddamn.”

you nodded frantically. didn’t even realize you were tearing up until he kissed the corner of your eye.

“still with me?”

“y-yeah,” you whispered. “feels so full—so big.”

“you takin’ it, though,” he growled. “takin’ me like you mine. that what you want?”

“yes,” you moaned, nearly sobbing. “i’m yours, ‘lijah.”

his hips snapped deeper. not fast — hard. just once. enough to make your mouth drop open and your back arch.

“say that shit again.”

“i’m yours.”

again.

“i’m yours, i’m—fuck, i can’t think—”

he gripped your jaw. firm. made you look at him.

“good,” he said low. “don’t think. just feel me.”

you couldn’t stop moaning. couldn’t stop clinging to him, crying out soft each time he pulled back and pushed in slow, like he was tryna bury himself deeper every time.

“doin’ so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, dragging his dick all the way out, then in again. “pussy tryna pull me in like it missed me.”

you were shaking now. legs wide, thighs trembling. you couldn’t speak — just whimpering, whining.

“damn,” he chuckled dark, voice hoarse, “got you dumb already? barely even fucked you yet.”

you nodded fast. “so good—feels too good—”

“you sound so pretty like this.”

his hand slid to your throat. didn’t squeeze — just laid there, pressure soft but firm.

your eyes rolled back. your hips bucked up.

“you like that?” he growled. “like when i hold you down like this?”

“y-yeah,” you gasped. “makes me feel… feel owned.”

he leaned in, tongue dragging slow up your neck.

“you are,” he breathed, hips grinding deep. “all mine, baby.”

you came again like that.

deep strokes. his hand at your throat. eyes locked. his name pouring from your lips like a prayer you couldn’t stop chanting.

he didn’t stop moving. not even after you came.

he fucked you through it. let you shake, let you cry, let you babble nothin’ but his name while your body milked him hard.

his rhythm got rougher then. deeper. heavier.

clap clap clap

his hips slammed against your thighs now. your legs spread wider, his chest brushing yours.

“look at you,” he hissed. “a whole fuckin’ mess. i ain’t even done with you yet.”

“‘lijah—i can’t—”

“yes the fuck you can,” he growled. “take all this dick. you wanted it.”

“wanted it,” you sobbed. “wanted you—just like this.”

he kissed your mouth hard. bit your bottom lip.

then his hips started to stutter.

“gon’ cum in you,” he warned. “gon’ fill this pretty pussy up real nice.”

you moaned out loud. “do it. please—please cum inside me.”

his voice broke.

“fuck—”

and then he came.

hips buried deep. groan low and heavy in your ear. his body shaking over yours, sweat dripping from his neck to your collarbone.

he held himself there. breath on your cheek. cock still twitching deep inside, warm cum filling you slow.

but he didn’t move.

he pulled back just enough to look at you — your face flushed, lips parted, body limp and used and overwhelmed.

then he smirked.

“we not done.”

your eyes widened. your legs twitched.

and you whispered:

“…again?”

he chuckled, slow and dark. kissed your throat.

“it’s your birthday.”

you didn’t even feel him slip out at first.

your whole body was floating — boneless, twitching, your skin hot and glazed with sweat. but then you felt the emptiness, the slow drip of cum leaking down the inside of your thigh, and your body clenched instinctively like it already missed him.

you blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising shallow. your voice was gone, but your throat was still raw from moaning.

he leaned over you again. brushed your hair out of your face. kissed the side of your head.

“turn over,” he murmured.

your lashes fluttered. “wha…?”

“you heard me.”

his voice wasn’t mean. it wasn’t cold either. it was low. final.

you rolled to your stomach slowly, shaky arms pulling you up on all fours.

your legs barely worked, trembling from the first round. but then you felt him behind you — his hands at your waist, firm and wide, pulling your ass back toward him like he’d never left.

he leaned down. lips at your spine.

“you look good like this.”

a kiss.

“all fucked out.”

another kiss.

“still open for me.”

you whimpered into the sheets, face burning.

his hands dragged up your back, slow.

then one came down — smack — a sharp slap to your ass, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you jolt.

“you still wet,” he said, voice darker now. “still drippin’ f’me.”

his dick slid up between your folds again — still hard, still thick.

he teased you with it, back and forth, tip just barely pressing at your entrance.

“you gon’ let me back in?”

you nodded fast. “yes—yes, please, ‘lijah—”

“nah.” he grabbed your throat from behind, just enough pressure to ground you. “say it right.”

“want your dick again,” you whined. “want it back inside—please, i need it.”

he pushed in slow, but deep.

you choked on your gasp. it felt even bigger like this — from behind, with your legs spread wide, your back arched, your pussy already sore and wet and raw from the first round.

he bottomed out with a growl, his grip tight on your hips.

“fuck… this pussy was made for me.”

you moaned loud.

his hips started moving — slow at first. each stroke long, dragging every inch of him against your walls.

smack

smack

smack

you could barely stay up. your arms gave out, chest sinking into the mattress, ass still high while he gripped your waist and pounded you from behind like he was tryna see what you were made of.

you whimpered with every thrust.

“look at you,” he muttered, voice all heat. “back here takin’ this dick like a lil fuckin’ toy. that what you want? be my toy?”

you nodded, drooling against the sheets. “yes—yes, i wanna be yours, use me, please—”

“mmhmm. already knew you was nasty.”

his hand wrapped in your hair and pulled your head back, your spine arching sharper, your mouth wide with a ragged cry.

“this how you wanted me to fuck you on your birthday, huh?” he growled, breath hot at your ear. “deep. rough.”

“mhmmmmm,” you whimpered. “can’t think—feels too good—”

he laughed once, dark and low.

“don’t need you to think. just take it.”

and you did.

you let him fuck you deeper. rougher. no rhythm now — just noise and skin and heat. your moans turned to gasps. his name spilled out again and again, your whole body shaking from overstimulation, your pussy clenching hard around him.

you came again, harder than before.

your body seized. legs shaking. tears pricking your eyes from how good it felt. how deep it went.

and he didn’t stop.

he chased his own release, his hips pounding you into the bed until he grunted through his teeth, held you tight, and came deep again — slow, thick warmth spilling inside you while he held you still and fucked it deeper.

it took you minutes to come back to yourself.

you collapsed to your side when he finally pulled out, your body limp and soaked in sweat and cum.

you felt him disappear for a moment. then return — a warm cloth between your thighs, his hand sliding slow across your lower back.

“you good?”

you nodded weakly. “i can’t feel my legs.”

he laughed softly. real soft.

“that mean i did it right.”

you blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes. his hand was rubbing your thigh, slow. grounding.

you whispered, barely audible—“you didn’t hold back.”

he kissed your cheek. “ain’t supposed to.”

you smiled.

his fingers traced the necklace he gave you, still resting warm on your collarbone.

then he said, softer this time:

“happy birthday, mama.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Wearing Thin

A story about what it costs to survive—and the one person who refuses to let you lose yourself trying.

pairings: randall kirkland x softangelgirlfriend!reader

synopsis: When kindness starts to look like a liability, you learn how to survive—you take less risk, give less away, stop reaching for people who won’t reach back.

She learns.

Randall is the one who notices first.

What starts as irritation turns into something sharper when the softness he couldn’t stand is replaced by something colder, quieter—something that looks too much like everyone else.

The argument that follows isn’t really about survival.

It’s about what she’s willing to lose to stay alive—and why he can’t stand watching her become someone she’s not.

CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, survival setting, loss of identity, behavioral change, being taken advantage of, self-sacrificing tendencies, moral ambiguity, arguments/conflict, harsh environment, implied violence/danger, anxiety, internal conflict, themes of survival, angst, soft randall (if you squint)

word count: 2.1k

a/n: thanks to the lovely anon who requested this!! i had so much fun writing this and love the idea of randall dating someone who’s like the complete opposite of him. love this concept and the idea of randall noticing her change before anyone else just stuck in my head. considering turning this into like a non plot series type thing, so think of this as like how they were before they got together type thing!

She says thank you too much.

Not in a way that draws attention, not in that bright, performative tone people use when they’re trying to be liked. It’s quieter than that. Automatic. Like it’s stitched into her, like she doesn’t know how to exist without softening everything around her.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

“I appreciate it.”

It slips out of her without thinking. For everything. Someone hands her a cup of water, she thanks them. Someone barely spares her a glance, she thanks them anyway, like acknowledgment in itself is something she owes something back for. Half the time, the people she says it to don’t even register it. The other half, they take it and give nothing in return.

Randall notices before he realizes he’s watching her.

And it bugs him.

Not because it’s wrong—he doesn’t care about that, doesn’t even know if it is—but because it doesn’t fit. Not here. Not somewhere that eats through people until there’s nothing left but what’s necessary. Softness like that doesn’t last. It gets worn down, traded off piece by piece until there’s nothing left to take.

Or it gets you hurt.

“You always like that?” he asks one afternoon, voice cutting in without warning.

She’s sitting off to the side, splitting what little food she has into two uneven portions. The bigger half is already gone from her hands, passed quietly to someone who hadn’t even asked for it.

She glances up at him, and there’s no embarrassment in it. No defensiveness. Just that same open, unguarded look that makes it hard to tell whether she doesn’t understand what he’s saying or just doesn’t agree.

“Like what?”

He tips his chin toward the empty space in her hands. “That,” he says. “Giving your stuff out like it’s unlimited.”

“They needed it.”

“So do you.”

She shrugs easy, like it’s not even worth arguing. Like her own needs don’t carry the same weight in her head. “I’ll be okay.”

Randall lets out a short breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh.

He shifts his weight against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Heard that one before.”

There’s no real bite to it. Not like there usually is when he talks.

She watches him for a second, like she’s actually thinking about it, like she might take it seriously.

“Still,” she says after a second, “thank you.”

He frowns at her like she said something that doesn’t make sense.

“For what?”

She tilts her head slightly. “For saying something.” Then continues softer. “For looking out for me.”

That throws him off in a way he doesn’t like.

He hadn’t meant it like that. Hadn’t meant it as anything, really. It was just… a comment. An observation.

“I didn’t say anything,” he shoots back immediately. “I made a comment.”

“It counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

She smiles anyway.

That… irritates him more than it should.

He looks away first.

“Whatever,” he mutters.

It’s small, but it’s real, like his intention doesn’t change the outcome for her. Like it counts regardless.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

It isn’t.

He doesn’t notice the change right away.

Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t care enough to name it.

At first, it’s small.

She hesitates.

Someone asks for help, and she pauses instead of moving right away. Just a second—but it’s there. Like she’s thinking about it now, running it through a set of rules that didn’t exist before. Sometimes she still steps in. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Then she stops offering.

Stops hovering near people who look like they’re struggling. Stops splitting what she has. Keeps to herself more, stops inserting herself into situations that don’t directly involve her. It’s as if she’s learned where the invisible lines are and decided not to cross them anymore. Like she’s finally figuring out how things work.

Smart.

That’s what it is.

Smart.

Her voice changes too, a little. Less extra. Less… her.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

The extra words disappear. The softness that used to round everything out gets trimmed away, piece by piece, until what’s left is efficient. Careful. Distant.

And eventually, the thank yous stop.

That’s what Randall notices first.

Not in some big, dramatic way. It’s just… gone. A beat that used to exist, a rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d gotten used to until it wasn’t there anymore.

She hands him something one day—he doesn’t even remember what—and turns away like it’s nothing.

No pause. No acknowledgment. No “thanks.”

Nothing.

He waits for it without meaning to. It doesn’t come. He catches himself almost saying something.

Doesn’t

Just watches her walk off, something in his expression tightening for a second before it disappears. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.

But it does.

Because once he sees it, he can’t stop seeing it.

It’s in everything she does. Or doesn’t do.

She doesn’t look at people the same way anymore. Doesn’t step in. Doesn’t react. Someone drops something right next to her and she just keeps walking like she didn’t hear it.

Someone asks for help, and she gestures vaguely toward someone else instead of stepping in herself. She keeps her food now—every bit of it—tucked away like she’s finally learned the lesson everyone else picked up years ago.

And maybe that’s a good thing.

Maybe that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But it doesn’t sit right.

Not because the behavior itself is wrong, but because it’s her doing it, and it looks… off. Like she’s wearing something that doesn’t quite fit, like it pulls in the wrong places.

Randall leans back against the wall one evening, arms crossed, watching her pass by like she doesn’t even register he’s there.

“Hey.”

“What?”

She pauses, but she doesn’t fully turn toward him. The distance is subtle, but it’s there now—something measured in the way she holds herself, in how much of her she allows anyone to see.

“When’d you start ignoring people?”

“I don’t.”

He lets out a quiet huff. “Yeah. You do,” he continues, flat. “Just watched you do it.”

“They’ll figure it out.”

“That’s new.”

There’s something different there. Not colder, exactly. Just… shut down in a way it wasn’t before.

“People said I needed to stop,” she says.

“Stop what?”

“Being stupid.”

The word sits wrong.

Randall’s expression shifts, something sharper creeping in.

“Who said that?”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she says, a little firmer now, though her voice stays level. “They weren’t wrong.”

He pushes off the wall then, uncrossing his arms.

“Right,” he says, tone flat. “So now you just don’t do anything.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She exhales, already looking annoyed. “I’m just not making things harder for myself anymore.”

“By what—acting like you don’t see anything?” he cuts in.

“By not being an easy target.”

“So this is you fixing it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You call this better?”

“I call it necessary.”

There’s no softness left in it.

“Necessary,” he repeats, pushing off the wall as irritation sharpens into something more pointed. “No. This isn’t necessary. This is you turning into everyone else.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” she shoots back, and finally there’s some heat in her voice. “They’re still alive, aren’t they?”

“Barely.”

“But they are.”

“And you think this is why?” he presses, stepping closer now, frustration creeping in around the edges. “You think acting like you don’t care is what’s keeping them alive?”

“It’s part of it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s what’s left after everything else gets stripped away.”

She exhales sharply, already looking like she wants out of the conversation. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Yeah, you are,” he counters, stepping into her path before she can move past him. “Because this isn’t you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I don’t have to. I saw who you were before.”

“Yeah?” she says, turning fully toward him now, something raw slipping through the cracks. “And where did that get me?”

It lands.

Not loud, not dramatic, but exactly where it needs to.

“Nowhere,” she continues, quieter but sharper. “It got me taken advantage of. It got me ignored. It almost got me hurt.”

“And this is better?”

“It’s safer.”

“Is it,” he asks, voice dropping, “or is it just easier?”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” he shoots back, something deeper threading through the frustration now. “I’ve seen what this place does to people.”

“So have I.”

“Then you should know better.”

“Know better than to survive?”

“No,” he says, the word cutting clean. “Know better than to lose yourself doing it.”

She lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s easy for you to say.”

That one sticks.

Because it’s not wrong.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though he already knows.

“It means you already know how to be like this,” she says, gesturing toward him. “You don’t hesitate. You don’t second-guess. You don’t care about people you shouldn’t. That’s how you survive here.”

Each word lands steady, deliberate.

“And I don’t,” she adds, softer now. “So I’m learning.”

Something twists in his chest, sharp and immediate.

“Yeah,” he mutters, jaw tightening, “and how’s that working out for you?”

“Better than before.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, stepping closer again, voice rougher now. “Because you look miserable.”

That stops her.

Not completely, but enough to crack something in the surface she’s been holding together.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in, not letting her pull away from it. “You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t help unless you have to, you don’t—” He exhales, shaking his head. “That’s not surviving. That’s just existing.”

She swallows, gaze dropping for a second before she forces it back up. “At least I’m still here.”

And that—

That’s it.

“This place already ruins people,” he says, quieter now, but heavier. “Don’t help it.”

He holds her gaze, something real breaking through the usual edge in his voice.

“Do you think I like being like this?” he adds. “You think this is something you should be aiming for?”

She doesn’t answer.

Because she doesn’t have one.

“I didn’t start like this,” he continues, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, pacing once like he needs to burn off the weight of it. “Nobody does. This place takes whatever you were and grinds it down until this is what’s left.”

He gestures to himself, something bitter flickering across his face.

“And you want to speed that up?” he asks, looking back at her. “You want to do that to yourself on purpose?”

Her expression shifts, just slightly.

“I’m just trying to survive,” she says, but it’s quieter now. Less certain.

“Yeah,” he replies. “So was I.”

The words settle between them, heavy.

“And look how that turned out.”

That’s what finally gets through.

She looks at him differently then, like she’s seeing past the surface of him for the first time, like she’s noticing what it cost him to get here.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she admits, and there’s something fragile in it now, something honest.

Randall exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

“You keep going,” he says. “The way you were.”

“That doesn’t work here.”

“It did,” he counters. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Barely counts.”

She lets out a small breath, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t keep being that person if it’s going to get me killed,” she says, voice tightening again, but not as defensive. “I can’t keep giving things away, trusting people, acting like things are normal when they’re not.”

“I’m not saying be stupid,” he says, more controlled now. “I’m saying don’t kill the only part of you that makes this place bearable.”

She goes still.

“Not just for you,” he adds, quieter.

Her gaze lifts back to his, something unspoken settling between them.

“You don’t have to be like me,” he says. “That’s not something you should want.”

A beat passes.

“Trust me.”

There’s something almost ironic about it, but neither of them acknowledges it.

Silence settles, but it’s different now. Less sharp. Less guarded.

She looks down at her hands, turning everything over, and for once he doesn’t interrupt it. He lets the quiet sit, lets her work through it without pushing.

After a moment, she exhales, her shoulders loosening just slightly.

“…Okay.”

It’s not a promise.

But it’s something.

It doesn’t fix everything, doesn’t magically undo the shift.

The next time someone asks for help, she still hesitates. It’s there, that pause, that instinct to pull back, to protect herself the way she’s been trying to.

Then, slowly, she steps in anyway.

Not like before. Not automatic.

But it’s hers.

Later, when she passes Randall in the hallway, she slows just enough to catch his attention, holding something out for him to take.

“Here.”

He takes it, glancing at her.

She starts to walk off.

There’s a pause.

It’s small. Uncertain.

“…Thanks,” she says, quieter than it used to be.

It’s quieter now. A little uncertain, like she’s still figuring out how much of herself she’s allowed to keep without it costing her.

Randall nods once, like it’s nothing.

“Yeah.” he mutters.

But he doesn’t look away as she walks off, watching her as she goes.

And this time, there’s no irritation in it.

Just something quieter.

Something that looks a lot like him making sure she doesn’t disappear into this place the way everyone else eventually does—even if he never says that part out loud.

It’s because he’s decided—quietly, without saying it out loud—that if the world tries to take that softness from her again, it’s going to have to go through him first.

The first thing Spencer noticed about the new profiler was that you listened.

Actually listened.

Not the kind where people nodded absentmindedly while waiting for him to stop talking. Not the kind where somebody humored him for thirty seconds before cutting him off halfway through a sentence.

You listened completely.

The BAU had gotten used to new members struggling to keep up with Spencer.

Most people got overwhelmed by him eventually.

You didn’t.

The first time it happened, Spencer almost didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I know statistically it sounds irrational,” Spencer explained quietly, fingers tapping nervously against the coffee cup in his hands, “but technically addiction recovery success rates improve significantly when the person feels emotionally supported rather than monitored because shame and surveillance often increase relapse behavior and...”(I just googled recovery statistics)

You didn’t interrupt him.

Didn’t glance at your phone. Didn’t look bored. Didn’t walk away.

You just sat there across from him in the tiny diner booth at two in the morning, still dressed in your FBI windbreaker after the case, chin resting against your hand while you listened carefully to every word leaving his mouth.

Spencer blinked.

“…and dopamine regulation eventually stabilizes after prolonged sobriety,” he finished awkwardly.

A soft smile spread across your face.

“That makes sense.”

That was it.

Three simple words.

But something in Spencer’s chest tightened anyway.

Because nobody ever said that.

Most people smiled politely until he stopped talking. Most people waited for the useful parts only.

But you listened like every word mattered.

And slowly, Spencer started realizing how little everyone else did.

------------------------

It started small.

Tiny things he used to ignore.

“Actually, geographically speaking...”

“Kid, focus,” Morgan interrupted quickly.

Spencer stopped talking immediately.

Later, during the meeting, he started explaining victimology statistics before Hotch cut in with: “We only need the profile, Reid.”

Not cruel. Not intentionally dismissive.

But dismissive anyway.

And suddenly Spencer couldn’t stop noticing it.

Every interruption. Every sigh. Every eye roll. Every moment someone walked away while he was still talking.

It was like once you showed him what genuine attentiveness felt like, he couldn’t force himself to accept less anymore.

So he stopped trying.

-----------------------

“The unsub is organized,” Spencer said, eyes locked on the file in front of him.

Morgan frowned slightly, a little shocked.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

No elaboration. No statistics. No thirty-minute explanation involving psychological studies from 1978. (shoutout to Superman 1978, one of my favs)

Just yes.

The room felt empty without Spencer’s voice to fill it.

JJ noticed first.

Then Emily.

Then Morgan.

Even Garcia mentioned it over the phone one afternoon.

“Okay, baby genius,” she said cautiously, “are you mad at us or something?”

“No.”

But the answer came too quickly.

And that scared her even more.

-----------------------------------

The withdrawal symptoms had been ugly.

Painfully ugly.

You remembered Spencer shaking in your bathroom at three in the morning, sweating through his shirt, with frustration and embarrassment in his exhausted eyes.

“I’m fine,” he muttered weakly.

“You’re lying,” you answered.

Spencer laughed bitterly.

“Profilers are annoying.”

“You are a profiler.”

“I only like one profiler, though.”

That made you smile despite the situation of everything.

And through every terrible night, every headache, every scare, every breakdown, you stayed.

You listened.

You never treated him like he was too much.

So eventually Spencer stopped settling for people who did.

----------------------------------------

“You’ve been acting weird lately.”

Morgan finally said it during a case briefing.

The room went quiet immediately.

Spencer didn’t even look up from the paperwork in front of him.

“I’ve been working.”

“You know what I mean.”

A long silence followed.

Then Spencer sighed and closed the folder in front of him.

“I assumed you preferred it this way.”

Morgan frowned. “Preferred what?”

“The shorter answers.”

Hotch looked up now.

Spencer continued calmly.

“Less talking. Less explaining.”

“That’s not true,” Emily said.

Spencer finally looked at all of them.

He didn’t look angry.

He just looked tired.

“You interrupt me constantly,” he started.

“You walk away while I’m talking. Half the time when I say something I actually care about, someone changes the subject or rolls their eyes.” Spencer shrugged lightly. “I just assumed eventually everyone got tired of listening.”

“That’s not...”

“It’s fine,” Spencer interrupted.

The same way they interrupted him.

Morgan’s expression changed.

“Reid...”

“No, it’s okay.” Spencer leaned back slightly. “You all like me better when I’m useful, I get it.”

JJ looked shocked.

Emily could only look down.

Garcia went silent over the speakerphone. Hotch looked guilty.

You watched from the doorway, hurt not for them but for Spencer, but also proud that he finally spoke his mind.

Because none of them even realized they’d done it.

That was the worst part.

Spencer noticed you first.

Of course he did.

You walked over slowly, putting a cup of coffee beside him, then put your hand on the back of his chair.

And Spencer leaned into your touch.

Like second nature. (tell them that it's human nature)

Emily watched both of you before an awkward expression made its way onto her face.

"He doesn't shut down when you're around,"

You looked at her, then looked down at Spencer beside you.

“Maybe,” you said quietly, “because I let him speak when he wants to and actually listen to what he has to say.

@boredpretty @simply-lovley44 @cocomilaa @stiflersbabymama @blcknebula

You were suspiciously patient and understanding, especially when he bailed last minute on plans. Sure, you’d meet him with a pout, but it’d disappear as quickly as it’d come and be replaced with a smile that must have been a trick of the light as it seemed... empathetic? Where was the upset? Shouldn’t you be fighting about him “not prioritizing you” enough? It’s what happened the last time he had a romantic partner. 

His partner had felt Jason wasn’t willing to put them over his work, which... He made what time he could for them, but there were lives at stake. He couldn’t be with them every second of every day like they attempted to demand, and they weren’t willing to compromise when the truth of his work remained hidden. 

His chest ached at the thought of losing you, knowing it would hurt significantly more than his last relationship. They were nice, mostly. But you. You meant more to him. You meant... everything. Something felt different lately, off enough that he felt it making home in his bones. 

Maybe he needed to come clean, maybe that was the honesty this relationship required. His heart raced as the thought settled, stomach churning. Would you still want him once you knew? Was he risking his safety, his family’s safety, your safety in vain? 

Jason mulled it over, knowing the other shoe may drop with this decision, but pleading with the universe that just this once it wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d be allowed to have and keep something good. 

You knew your boyfriend was the Red Hood.  

Jason, bless his heart, had certainly been trying to keep it away from you. But the more time you spent around him, the more little details you were able to put together. 

At first, the nights he was unable to spend time together made sense. He told you he worked graveyard shift most nights and his behavior and absences backed that up. 

Until he started canceling at confusing moments with vague excuses. The timing of his walk outs beginning to raise a flag in your mind. 

“Work thing, gotta go.” When his phone buzzed as your heads had just hit the pillows. 

“My brother needs me.” Two minutes into the TV show you watched together weekly. 

“I have a thing to do.” When you were about to be that thing. 

Jason went out of his way to make it up to you, finding alternate times to see and spend time with you, leaving you far more curious than upset. 

The curiosity increased when you noticed the influx of injuries he’d have after a night of cancelled plans. The dots didn’t begin to consciously connect until Jason had walked out on your movie night early, a murmured “work errand, sorry.” Leaving his lips as he parted. 

You were more concerned than anything, he’d been wanting to watch Pride & Prejudice with you for weeks after you’d read the book together; a re-read for him and a first for you, only to leave half an hour in? 

Your thoughts roamed as you snuggled into the hoodie, he’d purchased solely for you to steal, burrowing into the blankets on your couch and settling in for the new plan of a night to yourself. You wondered what errand could be so important to need urgent tending to. Maybe you’d ask Jason later, maybe you’d finally get your curiosities quenched. 

You’d just gotten comfortable, pulling out a project you’d been working on for fun and throwing the news on in the background when a story caught your attention. 

“Red Hood takes mustard gun to the face. Fresh off an Arkham Asylum breakout this evening, Condiment King stood off against Crime Alley’s very own Red Hood. It seems to have been Condiment King’s lucky day as he managed a hit on the rehabilitated crime lord, launching mustard directly at the so called “eyes” of his helmet. That’s bound to leave one hot dog of a bruise if you ask me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you processed the pun, it felt in poor taste given how much worse the situation could have been, especially if Red Hood had been without his helmet. The idea made you frown. You’d found yourself with a soft spot towards the vigilantes of Gotham for years, but along the way Red Hood had become your favorite. 

You admired what he stood for, the protection he offered women and children, the way he was willing to offer it no matter the cost. The other vigilantes seemed more black and white, you respected that Red Hood appeared to often understand the world was gray.  

You zoned back into the TV, focusing again on the reporter’s words. 

“Witnesses reported Nightwing ketching up to the scene shortly after, promptly taking down Condiment King and assuring he won’t be able to a salt anyone again anytime soon.” 

You groaned, turning channels so you wouldn’t have to listen anymore to the attempts at making crime more lighthearted. 

The night passed rather calmly for you, but the same could not be said of the streets. Checking social media and news sites revealed the Arkham breakout was much larger than merely Condiment King. 

And as you realized multiple heavy hitters were loose, you sent out a quiet prayer to whoever was listening that your city and its protectors would remain safe. 

Jason needed to see you.  

Adrenaline left his body wired, hands trembling and breaths labored. The night had been harsh to them all. Rogues left and right hellbent on freedom and destruction. Every Bat had taken far more hits than preferred throughout the night, but they prevailed without serious injury. Somehow luck was on their side with a swift recapture. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t frazzled.  

Going from a peaceful night in; snuggling his sweetheart, to getting two black eyes from fuckin’ Condiment King of all people was bound to leave a man off-kilter. Especially when the ante of it all was only upped from there. A night’s full of adrenaline catching up to him as the morning latened. 

Exhaustion ran bone deep, his knocks on your door muddled as if his blood had turned to molasses. The rush that got him through being patched up and taking a shower drained from his body and left Jason half asleep on your doorstep.  

He leaned against the frame, eyes blinking slowly as he heard the lock click before the door opened. 

“Baby?” There it was, confused voice still dripping gentle honey as your eyes met his. 

He was fading fast, Jason knew he’d be unconscious in minutes, but that was okay. He had proof that you were safe, and that was all he needed. 

You took Jason’s arm, guiding him inside and towards your bed. You’d seen him tired plenty of times, but never quite like this. This was exhaustion. His movements slow like you were trudging through quicksand, every step heavy as though the second you stopped moving, he’d begin to sink. 

It was worrisome. Clearly, his job was burning him out or something worse. You’d noticed the redness under his eyes, the way they were swelling in what would surely become two black eyes. What happened to him last night? 

Oh god. 

As you moved the blankets on your bed to open a space for him, your mind was stuck on an awful thought. What if he’d been caught in the Arkham attacks? 

Pushing Jason into place on your mattress was more than easy, once the opening was created a soft wind could’ve blown him down. He collapsed into the plushness, face immediately buried in your pillow and body going lax. It would’ve made you chuckle if you weren’t so worried. 

You removed his shoes before covering him with the blankets, tucking the sides in to secure him. Sitting beside him on the bed’s edge, you lifted a hand to run through his hair, delicately untangling any small knots and lightly scratching his scalp. 

A shaky breath left your lips, watery eyes locked on where Jason’s chest rose and fell. You could see he’d had a night, but he’d survived that night. He was here. he was safe. You just needed to get your anxiety to catch up with reality. 

You watched him sleep for half an hour before your body regulated, your heartrate lowering and allowing your mind to clear now that the fear was dissipating.  

Your fingers finally left his hair, trailing down to lightly caress over the side of his face that’d emerged from the pillow. Hovering over the swelling under his eye your brain whispered what happened, Jay?  

Did someone hit you? Why? How?  

A nugget of information from the previous night floated to the foreground. There was someone you knew had gotten hit in the eyes last night. 

Red Hood. 

Your hand slowly retreated, lowering to a stilted rest on his shoulder. It. It was absurd, wasn’t it? 

Except.  

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand nearest you, opening the internet and searching ‘Red Hood.’ Your hand left Jason’s body as you frantically searched at length, looking for evidence. The builds were damn near the same, Red Hood seemed only the slightest bulkier, your guess was an armor-padded suit. Articles highlighting injuries he’d received in the recent past aligned with nights he’d rushed away from you. 

And the most damning. A picture someone had managed to get of him without his helmet. 

He still wore a mask, but even in a far and grainy picture you’d recognize the love of your life’s face anywhere. 

Jason Todd was the Red Hood. 

You locked your phone, not wanting to stare at the image anymore and turned your gaze to Jason. You expected fear to roll in, knowledge fresh of some of the brutality he’d committed, but the longer you looked at Jason the more your shock calmed. 

He was a hero. A statement you figured he’d argue, but that’s how you’d felt about Red Hood for ages. Sure, his methods were unorthodox especially when he first debuted in Gotham, but he’d been trying to better the city every step of his way. He stood up for the underdogs, for Park Row and everyone in it that were constantly overlooked.  

You knew firsthand how much it needed that. Park Row, Crime Alley had been your home for a spell of time. The first ten years of your life had been spent struggling there. At your youngest and most vulnerable, you learned that life wasn’t always fair. Life wouldn’t always give people what they deserved, not when the cards were stacked against them. 

Park Row needed help, it needed a protector. It needed someone who would stand up and fight for and in it, that never seemed up Batman’s alley. 

But Red Hood? Red Hood was doing what needed to be done. Jason was doing what needed to be done. 

Heavens, he must be so tired, so unappreciated. Even if his methods seem to have calmed since the start, reports on him still labeled him as more violent than the rest of the Bats, treated him as more of a threat and a borderline villain at times. Like he was a ticking time-bomb. 

A frown twisted your mouth, disappointment setting in that others couldn’t see how wonderful your vigilante was. The shift to determination was easy, you’d just have to show him how appreciated he was. 

Jason woke up in darkness, disorienting him until his eyes adjusted to the surroundings. The weight of the comforter on him as familiar as the plushness of the pillow, your scent wrapped around him more fully than the blankets. 

He turned his head to the walls, pictures and posters of the things you love adorning them. A soft smile graced his lips, he was in your room, he was okay, he was safe. His eyes trailed along to the window, wanting to peek out and gauge the time of day. He was met with confusion as he saw a blanket pinned to the wall over it, blocking out most all the light. 

Jason lingered on the detail only a moment more before he sat up. He was in your room, where were you? He stretched as he stood, making his way out of the dark room and further into your apartment. The soft tones of you singing led him easily to you in the kitchen. 

“Good evening, sleepyhead.” You greeted over your shoulder, hands in the sink as you washed dishes, your tone was playful, but there was a glint in your eye he couldn’t quite place. 

“It’s evening?” His eyes flitted to the clock on the microwave, just after 6 pm. “Wasn’t sure with the makeshift blackout curtain.” He raised a brow. 

You looked away, but Jason came closer, spotting the blush on your cheeks. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were able to rest properly; my curtains didn’t make it dark enough.”  

The words came out sweet and simple. An easy care in them that had Jason’s cheeks reddening too. Your thoughtfulness never failed to make him flustered, knocking him giddy and disbelieving of what he’d done to deserve you.    

“Dinner will be done soon, too.” Jason recognized an out when he saw one, you were giving him the room not to reply directly to being taken care of, he appreciated it. 

He stepped closer, arms wrapping around your waist and leaning his head onto your shoulder.  

“Thank you.” It was weighted with everything he could be grateful for. When you let him in this morning and put him to bed, when you chose to care for him instead of making him feel like shit for leaving you, you cooking for him now and continuing to be kind. 

“Anything for you.” As you settled back into him, leaning your weight on him, Jason had no idea how deep that promise would run. 

It’d been a month since you’d discovered Jason’s secret. A month of showing him extra kindness, understanding, and appreciation. You were content to wait to talk about his vigilantism with him until he was comfortable sharing with you. You were letting your actions speak louder than your words anyhow.  

Making sure to give him praise on his character whenever he was around. 

“You have such a beautiful heart, Jay.” Said with a sincerity that threatened tears in the right moment. 

“Your mind is incredible, you’re so intelligent.” Said with an awe that spoke of true wonder. 

“You’re such a good man, Jason.” A promise, a vow of the truth the statement held for you. 

Making sure to care for him through blankets draped over him in his vulnerable states, enveloping him in the softness the outside world never would.  

Making sure to keep him well fed, showing your love through recipes passed down and long since mastered by your family. 

The final action that spoke of your empathy though was one utilized when Jason wasn’t around. You were helping cover for him. Disappearances made around your friends were easy for you to excuse. When he gave you an apologetic kiss and uttered to the group an “it’s work, I’m sorry,” you’d follow up with “he has a highly demanding job, I’m so impressed by how much of himself he gives.” Your confidence and understanding kept people’s opinions of him high, your appreciation seeping into the roots of their minds the more you spoke tenderly of him; to help people see him as you saw him. 

All in all, it’d been a great month of loving your boyfriend. 

Jason was going to burst. Anxiety filling him to the seams as he came to terms with what he’d need to do. He had to confront your relationship problems. Trying to figure out when all this good would be ripped away was eating at him like termites in the wooden home of his brain. 

All the praise, the home cooked meals, the soft blankets and somehow even softer greetings. The gentleness of your touch, like you thought he deserved to be held as something delicate. It was all too good to be true.  

Something had to be wrong. This was the calm before some sort of storm. Overcompensation for how badly you wished to break up, maybe. Jason couldn’t fathom another explanation for why you’d be treating him like this. Like something precious. 

The cruelty of whatever joke this was had self-doubt eating him alive. Itching beneath his skin and clawing its way out of him. 

“What’s wrong with us?” Jason blurted one night, watching you make a pot pie crust from scratch, you’d been prepping dinner for at least an hour and a half while he simmered and stewed with anxiety. His eyes were locked on your hands, covered in flour and dough as you pressed the crust into your desired shape. 

“I mean we’re a little strange as people, but I wouldn’t say anything otherwise.” Your lighthearted tone, still focused on the diligent work at your hands, did nothing to ease his worries. 

“No. What’s wrong?”  

The plea in his voice had you turning to look at him. His eyes were swimming with desperation; a broken shine to them that made you frown in concern. 

“Jay? What’s this about? I don’t think anything’s wrong, but I don’t believe you’d ask unless you thought there was.” Your hands were rinsed and wiped on a dish towel as you stepped closer to him and there it was again, that empathetic lilt to your being that made him feel so undeserving. 

The anxiety in his skin bubbled, a cauldron overflowing and exceeding containment, spilling over until no more was left inside. Every ounce of fear and worry splashed around him, rolling out in waves. 

“I don’t deserve this.” Rushed words, a harsh admission in light of your softness. 

“What do you mean?” Jason took a step back as you took one closer, he couldn’t let you touch him right now. Not when you’d slip in his mess and get swept away by the current, never to be seen again. You paused before moving back half a step, Jason found himself simultaneously weighed down by guilt and able to breathe easier. 

“I don’t... This is all too nice. You are too nice. All this care and consideration, it’s wasted on me. Why are you being so fucking good to me?” His hand flew into his hair, tugging at the strands as he tried to let the pain ground him enough to suck in a deep breath. 

“Jay, baby. You deserve all the good the world has to offer.” 

“I DON’T! How can that possibly be true? The things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt. You don’t know. That’s how you can be so fucking kind to me, because you don’t know what I’m hiding.” 

You nodded, seemingly undeterred by the panic Jason knew he was getting lost in. 

“Okay. So, tell me? I bet you I can still find kindness to give no matter what secrets may unfold.” 

That gave him pause. If anyone could look past what he’d done, it probably would be you. Hell, his family had forgiven and accepted him, and you hadn’t been through an eighth of the shit he put them through.  

“I’m. I’ve hurt people. I’ve done some ugly things, some I’m not proud of and worse, some that I am. Are you sure you want to know?” He needed to hear you choose this, choose him, his truth. 

“Tell me. Please.” It sounded more reassuring than afraid. 

“I’m the Red Hood.” As the words left Jason’s lips, he looked down to the floor. He couldn’t face the look in your eyes yet, the horror that he might find in them. The disappointment as you realized your boyfriend was a murderer. 

“Thank you for telling me.” That... didn’t sound horrified? It was almost... daresay, proud? 

Jason hesitantly lifted his gaze to your form, watching you turn back around, fingers dancing as they always did when you considered the next step in your cooking, a soothing hum befalling your lips. 

“That’s it?” That couldn’t possibly be the only reaction you had. He was expecting tears and anger and distrust. Even the worst case, being kicked out and never spoken to again, losing you entirely in the wake of this revelation. 

You faced him again and Jason stilled as he saw the peaceful look on your face, posture relaxed and no less welcoming than it’d been before. With the light hitting just right, there was an air of relief as well. It was as though nothing had changed. As though this information... wasn’t... new... 

Oh. 

“You knew.” Not a question, a fact. 

He watched as a guilty smile graced your lips, your legs shuffling where you stood and a breath of nervous laughter left your mouth. 

“Maybe a little.” The admission felt both damning and relieving. 

“I- What? How?” 

“Maybe we sit down for this one? I get the feeling your emotions are awfully overwhelming right now.” You started to walk to the living room, making grabby hands behind you to get him to follow. Jason’s lips upturned at the cute habit, steps aligning with yours as he geared up for this conversation. 

You placed yourself on one end of the couch, giving Jason the option of space if he still needed. He sat further than when he joined you for comfort, but within arm’s reach which was progress from the kitchen. You took a deep breath and began to explain. 

“Okay, so it was about a month ago, when you got injured by the mustard gun. You came over the morning after, exhausted and worried about me, which just had me worrying about you, so I got to more thinking than usual, and it started to connect.” 

“The way you frequently disappear at night and leave our plans, the injuries you end up with and the lack of explanation you tend to have for them. I thought for a minute that you were being abused at work. I suppose I wasn’t exactly wrong.” The laugh that left your lips came with a disbelieving head shake. 

“I started looking deeper into the vigilantes of Gotham, well, just Red Hood. He was the only one I needed to look at that morning. Once I had pictures, it was all too easy to recognize the man I love. I could recognize you anywhere. I could recognize you by touch alone, by smell; I would know you blind, by the way your breaths came, and your feet struck the earth. I would know you in death, at the end of the world.” 

You watched Jason’s eyes light up, some of his anxiety melting away at the familiar quote from a book you knew he favored despite the tears it’d brought you both.  

“You don’t have a problem with that though? My identity? The crimes I commit, the lives I’ve taken, the families I’ve destroyed.” His voice trailed off at the end, quieter as shame clouded his gaze. Beneath it there was a desperation that screamed of a little boy’s fear. A young one’s need to be accepted with open arms and loved unconditionally. 

“Jason, my love. You’re a hero. You have done more to save this city than I’m sure anyone gives you credit for. I don’t have a single problem with what you do nor what you’ve done to look out for our city, our home. You’ve been cleaning up in the ways you felt were needed. How could I fault you for that?” Your eyes locked with his, hands coming up to cup his face and reaffirm how genuine your words were. 

“I love you. I love what you stand for. I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you do, everything you are, and everything you will ever be.” You promised.   

For a moment, Jason sat frozen, looking at you as though his whole world view was changing before his eyes. Given his earlier insecurities, it very well may have been. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?” A whispered curiosity uttered after moments of silence. 

“I was waiting until you were ready. It wasn’t my secret to force out of you. I figured you’d share eventually, and until then I just wanted to care for you. I wanted someone to show you some damn appreciation, and I was more than content with that being me. That’s why I’ve been doing more for you, because you deserve it with all the hard work you do to clean this city up and keep her safe.” Your thumb stroked over his cheekbone, your touch matching the ease of your words. 

Your head tilted slightly; lips downturned as you continued to speak. “I’m sorry my behavior left you so uneasy, it was never my intent for my compassion to scare you.”  

In the seconds of quiet after, your heart rate picked up, this was going to be it huh? The moment when yet another partner confessed you were “too much.” That your affections were overbearing, your intensity frightening and something they weren’t willing to match. That it’d be better if this ended. 

You’d accept Jason’s will if it were the case. You’d let your heart be sliced open, bleeding out from every cut so long as it would make him happy.  

You moved to pull your hands from his face, feeling as though your permission was already being revoked. He caught them with his own, holding them sweetly. 

“It wasn’t that it scared me. You could never scare me. It was that... It felt far too good to be true. I have a hard time believing that good things can happen to me without being ripped away.” Jason’s admission made your heart ache, longing for him to receive only the best from the world and to know that he deserved it. 

“Jay...” He released hold of you to briefly put one hand up, asking you silently to wait a moment before speaking. When you kept quiet, he returned to his full hold on you. The light grip reassuring and soothing while you anticipated his next words. 

“Sweetheart, you are the best thing that has happened to me in this and any lifetime. I am terrified of losing you, that’s what I’m scared of. I don’t want you to be ripped away like so many things I’ve tried to love before, and I don’t want you to leave. I fear that I would not survive a world where I no longer had you in my life. That’s where my panic came from, that’s why I was afraid to reveal my identity. I didn’t want to lose you.” Vulnerable eyes turned down to look at your combined hands. The feeling of his thumbs soothing over your skin providing as much assurance as his words. 

You waited a handful of extra breaths to see if he had more to say, but it seemed no further words were making themselves known. 

“You are the love of all my lives, Jason Todd. I’ll be here for as long as you let me.”  

“That could be a long time, ya know?” 

“I’m counting on it.” 

Snuggled against Jason’s chest on the couch, dinner long since forgotten, a thought came to mind. 

“So, you’re the Red Hood.”  

“We’ve covered that, yes.” 

You gave him a light nudge with your shoulder. “Hush.”  

A brief chuckle before his lips pressed atop your head. 

“So, you’re Red Hood. I know you work closely with the rest of the Bats, and you wouldn’t work closely with people you didn’t trust, not on this. You only trust a handful of people beyond me, and I know I’m not a vigilante. Since you’re all Gotham based, they must be around here too. The only people in the state that you trust are your family. Ergo, the rest of the Bats are the other Waynes, no?”  

“And they call Batman the “world’s greatest detective.” 

“Holy crap, that means they call Bruce that. Brucie Wayne the greatest detective. Oh my god.” You sat up, turning to face him with excitement. 

“Hang on, I didn’t confirm your theory.” 

“You didn’t deny it either!” Your finger pointed in his face, Jason leaning in to nip at it and making you both laugh. 

“Don’t distract me! I’m totally right!”  

“No comment.” 

You leaned over to reach for your phone on the coffee table, Jason gripping your free arm to keep you from toppling over in your excitement. You smiled appreciatively at him before doing an image search on Gotham’s vigilantes. Looking closely at the pictures with what you knew only solidified your belief that much further. 

“Would you... want to meet them?” 

Your gaze snapped from the phone to look at Jason’s face, a nervous smile graced his lips, and his eye contact wavered as he waited for you to process. 

“You want me to meet the Bats?” A light test of the waters, dipping your toe in. 

“I want you to meet my family.” A hand taking yours, pulling you further in with a promise of security. 

“Same thing.” A grin born of playfulness and safety.  

“I’d love nothing more, Jay.” Left your lips whispered, excitement so encapsulating that it need be forced into something serene lest it overtake your entire being. Jason nodded, like he understood how deeply you were feeling before pulling you into a kiss. The unspoken words the kiss provided promised that he did, in fact, understand.  

And the deeper the kiss found itself, the more it felt like an oath he always would. 

꩜mechanic!Vi who takes off her leather jacket and hands it to you despite, the chill in the night air

꩜mechanic!Vi who is wearing a white vest top underneath that hugs her perfectly, leaving nothing to the imagination, her pierced nipples visible through the thin fabric

꩜mechanic!Vi who wipes the dirt on her hands of on her shirt as she works

꩜mechanic!Vi who offers to teach you about cars at a more appropriate time

꩜mechanic!Vi who refuses to be payed, but asks you out instead, writing her number in sharpie on your hand like a cheesy rom-com

꩜mechanic!Vi who gets close enough to tell that she smells like an intoxicating mixture sweat, whiskey and cherries

꩜mechanic!Vi who winks as she leaves, forgetting her jacket with you

꩜mechanic!Vi who’s thighs stretch her pants obscenely as she straddles her bike and dons her helmet

꩜mechanic!Vi who mimes at you to call her as she speeds off into the night

꩜mechanic!Vi who thinks about you all the way home

꩜mechanic!Vi is reminded the next morning that she left her jacket with you

꩜mechanic!Vi who waits all day for a text or call, heart swooping every time she gets a notification

꩜mechanic!Vi who gets teased all day by Jayce because of how distracted she is

I think this is part one of (likely) many

I am a Vi smells like cherries truther

𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐