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thedragonkween · 17 days

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Flinging myself headfirst into Duneposting after a whole month of absence because I am not immune to Sand Daddy.

Mercurial — Stilgar x Reader (Rated M)

Mercurial. If you had to put it in a word, it would be mercurial. He’s a mercurial man. Even if the word doesn’t feel quite right. Doesn’t do justice to who he is. What he is. He’s stoic with a blade in his hand, swift and pitiless — but joyless too. You see it up close when he presses a crysknife to your throat, the assurance: “I will make it quick,” hardly out of his mouth before you land a blow that gives your Lady the opening she hardly needs; knocks the breath from him. He’s cautious in the wake of the Lady Jessica’s defence, calm, but not cowed when she sends him to his knees and Paul takes aim from the cliffs.

He calls for peace, and eyes the thin red line he’d left on the soft, defenceless tissue of your throat with an expression that’s almost rueful. Thick brows knitting, a twist to his mouth. An acknowledgement of his hasty judgement or the loss of precious moisture, you can’t tell. You stay close to his back as bidden while he leads your group through the passages and noise and fury of Sietch Tabr. You stand at a handmaid’s distance while the Naib drinks Lady Jessica’s tears from his fingertips and you look away, the picture of discretion, the cut on your neck stinging as you swallow.

He’s reasonable with his people, you come to learn, in the days and weeks and months that follow. Days and weeks and months of sand and heat and sunburn and stares and waiting, waiting. He’s patient and receptive, attentive even, to their views, their concerns, their fears. He’s jovial when he wants to be, quick to undercut tension or words of warning with a joke, a broad, curving smile or a clap to the back or shoulder.

He’s devoted. To his people. To Paul. You see this up close too, the way the startling blue of his eyes sometimes ignites and burns with the light of a fanatic. A believer. A flame that steadily builds and consumes, fanned by the whispers and rumours and the feats of your Lady’s son. Feats that cause a tremor in the foundations of your own beliefs. Feats that occasionally stop you sleeping.

So, yes, mercurial. His moods seem to rise and fall like the dunes of Arrakis themselves, shifting underfoot until you’re not sure what territory you’re treading in. When your Lady bids you, you retreat from your duties by her side, from fetching her whatever scant water you can lay your hands on and hovering a hand by her elbow as her belly swells and swells. She bids you to go and learn, and you do, while she whispers to the child growing within her. And that occasionally stops you sleeping too.

You learn at Stilgar’s knee, side by side with Paul, squatting in the sand like children. You learn how to sandwalk, mirroring the Naib’s steps — graceful, almost, for a man who has been sharpened so, for a warrior — the way the point of his foot traces a half moon in the sand to break up your rhythm. You learn how to lie in wait beneath the sands themselves, to tuck yourself away beneath the grains and become invisible to unfriendly eyes.

You learn how to fight, to fight their way, and try to ignore the feeling that flushes through you each time he bests you, plants you into the sand once more, on your back, his blade tucked against the scar he’d given you. The one you’re not sure if you’ve forgiven yet. You meet his eyes above his crysknife — as you had all those months ago, when he’d promised he’d make it quick — and they’re as blue and endless and unfathomable as the sky that frames him. He delivers a soft swat to the back of your thigh that’s almost playful.

“Your legs, use them,” he tells you, “they are where you hold your strength.”

He whets the blade with his own blood when he sheaths it. Leaves you staring up at the great blue nothing.

Paul takes to his teachings like a fish to water. Stilgar looks at you strangely when you say as much, so you reshape the phrase, clumsily: like muad’dib to sand, which earns you a small shake of the head and one of those broad, curving smiles, like the crescent of a twin-moon. He’s pleased when you master whatever trick or skill he’s trying to teach you — more so with Paul than with you — and short, bordering exasperated when you falter. Barks and corrects and mutters to himself in Chakobsa. His lessons are neither kind nor unkind, but practical, necessary.

You go on that way. Some of Stilgar’s teachings, the ways of the Fremen, become second nature to you, the feel and sound and smell of spice-rich sand almost as familiar as the wet, dark, black soil of your homeworld. You go on to become an adequate student, not his best, but adequate. You go on ignoring that pink, flushed feeling you get each time you manage to please him, when that rich, low voice tells you better, better, that was well met, aywa? You go on ignoring the things you feel whenever you find Stilgar and the Lady Jessica standing together, talking quietly. You turn your eyes away demurely, and retreat soundlessly into the caverns of the Sietch, wandering until your feet carry you, exhausted, to the cool stillness of your yali.

It goes on that way. Lessons and sparring and serving and sand and heat and sunburn and waiting, waiting. Until Paul returns to Sietch Tabr with a familiar figure in tow. You break away from your Lady’s side, from the gathering crowd before you can think. Your feet lighter and quicker in the soft sand than they’ve ever been — short strides, on the balls of your feet, like you’d been taught — all thoughts of decorum forgotten. Gurney Halleck’s stern and storied features break open in a smile. He raises his arms to meet you. You fling your own around his neck, and the warrior-minstrel lifts you clean off your feet, sturdy and familiar even as the smell of smoke and stale sweat stings your nose. So much like before. So much like your time on Caladan you could cry with it. You don’t, careful not to waste the water.

He puts you down gently. You see Paul’s smile as you bring Gurney’s hand up to your cheek, tuck your face into his dirty palm: a gesture of greeting, friendship, family, that’s as ingrained in you as the wet, dark, black soil of home. A home before Caladan. A home you know you’ll not see again.

“My girl,” Gurney says, voice warm beyond belief. He glances behind you, and you remember your manners. Your place. Bow your head and step smoothly to one side as your Lady sweeps forward to greet her old warmaster. You look down at the sand beneath your feet, not really seeing it, lost for a moment among the shifting, infinite grains. Some instinct in you draws your gaze up — and meeting Stilgar’s eyes in that moment feels the same as when his blade had met your skin. That same all-encompassing, piercing shock. The Fremen Naib does not look away. And something strange burns in your blood at the expression on his face. That bearded jaw not quite set. Those thick brows not quite pinched.

You break first, looking down at the sand and letting the curtain of your hair hide the heat in your cheeks, as pink and glowing as sunburn. You’ve done nothing wrong, but you feel as if you have.

Later, you sit with Gurney and Paul as night falls on the sun-warm Sietch. Gurney reaches out occasionally as he speaks, to touch Paul’s shoulder or your own. You resist the urge to curl into him, as warm and content as a cub, or a pup as he would say. Though you know the old warmaster would not mind, you also know how the gesture might be misconstrued. You can still feel Stilgar’s eyes on you. From the corners of your perception, you see his figure moving through the common ground. That quick, straight-backed warrior’s stride, moving without pause to speak low into the ear of the Lady Jessica, her hand passing in slow rhythmic movements over the swell of her stomach. You keep your eyes on the sand, tracing tiny patterns into its surface. Stilgar withdraws, and you give into that sick hollow ache behind your ribs, tipping your head to the side, forehead coming to rest on the solid ledge of Gurney’s shoulder. You close your eyes and let the contact warm you even as the chill of being watched prickles over your skin.

Stilgar is nowhere near jovial when you face him at your next sparring lesson. There are no quips. No light remarks. He’s relentless, joyless as he pushes you to the very brink of your endurance. Your muscles burn. You drip with sweat. You pant as his blows become increasingly difficult to parry, suddenly as close to tears as you have been since you arrived at the Sietch and unsure why. You blink the moisture away furiously — and it’s a mistake. Stilgar sweeps your legs clean out from underneath you. You land hard, a sharp sound knocked free from your lungs. He’s over you again in the next breath, bullying his way between your legs, all solid heat and ragged breath and strength. You kick, you thrash, you flinch, he holds, and all the blue in his eyes blurs as tears boil over your lashline, sliding down your temples, into your hair.

You don’t see the crysknife being unsheathed, but you feel it, pressed down once again over the neat little scar on your throat. You swallow a sob, and the motion tightens the press of the blade. Almost enough to cut. More tears fall and your vision clears just a little, enough to see Stilgar’s expression tighten, full mouth twisting and parting as he tchs at you. “Ai, tears now? You waste my teaching, and now you would waste your water too?”

It would have hurt less if he’d have opened your throat again. And suddenly you’re so angry, angry beyond belief. It comes from a deeper place than you knew your anger could go. Not since before. Not since you’d been ripped from your home. You drive your feet into the sand, pressing and twisting with all your strength. It’s enough to unbalance him, and in that split second his eyes grow wide and round. It would be comical if not for the circumstances. If you weren’t grasping for his wrist as he throws his arm out to try and steady himself, the arm holding his crysknife. You lash your body around with the movement, teeth gritted in a snarl as you roll and grapple, sand sawing in the air. You wrench the hilt of the crysknife from his grip. Press your body down with all your might. You place the blade as he had done, right above that soft, defenceless hollow of the neck, where the sweat collects.

For a moment all you do is stare at each other. You’re acutely aware of the breadth of him between your legs. Those strong, dark features. The blunt, broad curve of his nose. The creases around his mouth. The moment trembles on along the edge of the blade, sharp and thin and deadly in your hand.

“Aywa, aywa, you see?,” Stilgar wheezes. He delivers another swat, weaker this time, or perhaps gentler, to the back of your thigh. “This is where you hold your strength.”

The silver in his beard. The scruff of his hair. The startling blue of his eyes, pupils blown and burning with… something.

Your can still feel the tears on your face. You swallow furiously, painfully, and watch him track the way your throat works. A stray droplet slips down to your jawline, and you stifle a flinch as Stilgar’s hand comes up to catch it. The feel of his bare skin on yours, rough and warm, even for a moment, is…

Stilgar brings his fingers to his lips and in an instant, you’re back in the quiet brown shadows of the Sietch, all those moons ago, standing at that discreet handmaid’s distance while the Fremen drinks your Lady’s tears. Only now, beneath you, the Naib’s expression is different. Somehow softer and darker all at once. You can only wonder what your own face is doing. You can only wonder what he’s thinking as he drinks your tears in. Stilgar lingers, seemingly savouring the taste, holding it in his mouth, holding your gaze, and after several long, heavy moments, he draws his hand away and lets it hover between you. Like an offering. Your lips part of their own accord.

The urge to taste the salt, of his skin and your own frustration, is so keen that it feels like thirst, throat and stomach and chest, all of them, aching. Your grip on the crysknife tightens and softens, tightens and softens. You feel your head drop slightly on the hinge of your neck, mouth dipping close to the moisture he offers like you’re about to take a sip from a cup. Stilgar watches you all the while, eyes burning, burning.

“To share your water,” he tells you, voice rumbling low and smooth, you feel it as much as you hear it, “this is no small thing.”

You know that. You know what he’s offering. And you lift the crysknife from his skin and watch his eyes widen and settle once more, taking you in, something almost like satisfaction in his face when you whet the blade with blood from your own wrist and return it to its sheath for him. Your hand lingers on the firm span of his abdomen. It feels indecent. Unbecoming of a handmaiden of House Atreides. You don’t care.

You don’t look away either, and in an eternity that fits between three ragged breaths his fingers find your mouth, that warm broad palm briefly cupping your jaw. Your open for him, slow and hesitant as he slips two fingertips over the swell of your bottom lip. Fighting a shudder, you curl your tongue over the intrusion, done so gently it barely feels like an intrusion at all. Stilgar makes a soft low noise, a half-sigh at the back of his throat. You taste salt, you taste saliva, rich in a way that’s distinctly not your own, and you’re deliciously conscious of the feel of your own mouth, soft and plush and wet around the flesh and bone of him. You see the furrow deepen between those thick brows, the blue of those eyes swimming in front of your own like a desert mirage. You give his fingertips a soft suck. Then —

The world flips, you land back in the sand, and for one heart-stopping second you think you’re about to feel the sting of his crysknife again — but no, you just feel him, his fingers slipping free as he presses you into the sand once more. Blue eyes, blue sky. They’re the last things you know before that inevitable, invisible pull takes hold and he meets your mouth with his own.

It’s a mess at first. A sound slips its way free of your chest, right into Stilgar’s open mouth. He kisses you hard and deep, kisses you like a man dying of thirst. If you weren’t crushed between him and the sand, you’d reel at the sensations — each hot, damp press, the scrape of his beard, the smell of his skin. So much sensation you could keen with it. On sheer reflex, you reach out with your tongue — he meets you with his own, and you revel in it: the stark, warm reality of this man’s weight on top of you, the taste of him, that you wanted one another in the same senseless way — the so much of it. It burns in your chest like a breath held for too long.

It occurs you, in some dim muddled way, how exposed you both are. That anyone could walk by and find you both tangled in the sand this way. You wrench your head to the side to say as much, manage to pull in one delirious gasp of air, only for Stilgar to immediately guide your mouth back to his with his fingers on your jaw — still damp with your own spit. You want to be revolted but can’t be. A part of you wants to cling on to the anger you’d felt earlier. The painful sting that he’d raised. Only you cant find it. Can’t grasp it. Soothed to some distant nothing by every soft, slick, measured sweep of his mouth on yours.

It’s still a mess. And wet too. Stilgar seems to be making it deliberately so: you swallow saliva — your own and everything that he’s determinedly sweeping in with his tongue. An overflow of moisture, so sacred. So scarce. Your hands, which at that point had been clutching uselessly at his shoulders, slide up to take two handfuls of thick dark hair. You just want to hold on, to feel it, keep him close. When that’s not enough you tangle a leg around his own. You use your grip to steer him deeper into the kiss, and Stilgar’s low grunt of satisfaction rumbles right through you. His hand slips from your jaw to cradle the back of your arched neck, shifting restlessly between your thighs. It feels so good you ache from it. Want to whine for it.

With one final searing kiss, Stilgar pulls away, but he doesn't go too far — not when you’re gripping his hair to keep him close. You drink in dizzy little sips of dry, hot air as he presses his forehead against yours, shudders against your mouth. Close like this, you can’t see his expression, just the finer details of his skin, smell the desert-earth and salt of him, feel his breath and the thud of his heart. Close like this, you can see the slick state you’ve made of his mouth — and want more of it. Close like this, his silhouette is backlit by the merciless burn of Arrakis’ sun. He withdraws a fraction more, far enough that he can look you in the eye but close enough that you feel his breath as he huffs.

“I thought you might cut my throat,” he tells you.

It’s almost a shock, having his voice close enough to taste. For a moment, all you can think of is dragging him back in for another kiss. The urge to arch up into his weight.

“I still haven’t ruled it out,” you murmur, knowing the softness in your gaze, in your tone, says otherwise.

“Aywa, and I would deserve it too,” he hums, amused. Then abruptly, he’s all serious eyes and focus once more. Mercurial, you think again with something dangerously close to fondness.

“Gurney Halleck,” he says. It’s a question, even if it doesn’t sound like one. You stifle a smile.

“He’s my friend. And my mentor,” you say.

“Mm,” Stilgar leans in close. Noses at a soft spot of skin beneath your ear. “Your protector?” Your thighs clench.

“Only when necessary,” you manage.

Stilgar grunts. “No longer,” he says.

You find his hand and coax it up to your face, holding it there for a moment before you tuck a kiss into the centre of his palm. Another gesture. Another offering. Stilgar’s face doesn’t shift a millimetre, but you think you can detect the subtle shift of light in his eyes. With a visible effort, he extracts himself. Draws himself back to his feet, to full height, suddenly looking less like the man who had been rolling in the sand with you and every inch the stoic Fremen Naib. He stands straight-backed, shading you from the sun, the sky bringing out all the searing blue of his eyes. A god to you, for half a moment.

“I will come to you tonight,” he tells you.

His blade already bloodied and sheathed, he takes his leave of you. Leaves you shivering and burning, staring up at the great blue nothing once more.

#bark bark #woof #this was so good po thank you for sharing #your writing is gorgeous!!#dune part two #dune 2 #stilgar x reader

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thedragonkween · 18 days

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Guard Dog

jason todd x fem!reader

aka don’t fuck with jason’s girlfriend

4 in 1 blurbs

warnings: mildly creepy guys, standard protective bf methods

Jason’s good at shutting people up very quickly. You’d almost call it a talent.

He shuts you up with a kiss when you get stuck in a rant, or with a hug to calm your worried rambles.

And when you’re in an incorrigibly teasing mood, he’ll throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to your bedroom to really shut you up.

With other people though, he has…different methods.

You sit atop your kitchen counter, trading lazy kisses in between giggles with your boyfriend. He stands in front of you, hands massaging your thighs as he leans in for another. You happily oblige.

You break off the exchange to lay a series of sweet kisses on that spot under his jaw.

His head tilts back, letting out a groan so low you nearly miss it. “Sweetheart…” he warns.

“Sorry…” you resign with a sheepish smile.

A knock at the door bursts you out of your shared reverie. You press a kiss to his knuckles and hop down to start setting the table.

Jason gets the door, greeting the pizza guy with a nod as you shuffle around the kitchen. The delivery guy hands him a receipt, asking for a signature.

Jason uses the door as a surface to sign, giving the delivery guy an apt view into your apartment, where he sees you getting out plates in the kitchen. More noticeably, he sees you in your boyfriend's shirt, which rides up just a little bit when you stand up on your toes to reach the top cabinet. The lift of the shirt exposes the bottom of your underwear, though it falls back into place again just as quickly.

Now, lucky for this guy, Jason’s facing the door and does not see him checking you out in your own home. Unlucky for this guy, he has wildly misread the vibe of your relationship. Or at least your boyfriend.

“Man, how do you get anything done around here?” He jests.

Jason looks up at him, and the pizza man’s eyes tear away from your legs to meet his hard gaze. It does not take him long to realize his mistake.

“Try again.” Jason behests, arms crossed in front of him.

The pizza boy’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head, stuttering. “I—uh, I said have a good night.”

“Mhm.” He grumbles.

The pizza guy hands Jason the box with shaky hands and scuttles back down the hallway.

Thankfully, you didn’t seem to notice the exchange, but even so, your boyfriend still glowers down the hallway after him.

“Jay?”

His attention snaps back to you, demeanor changing instantly. “Yeah, baby?”

You’re sitting in your usual spot at the table, his chair empty and waiting just around the corner from you.

“Come sit.” You say, with eyes that might as well be hearts.

He gives a reassuring nod and kicks the door shut behind him.

You and Jason are sitting on the floor in his old room at the manor, your legs thrown over his. You lean up against his bed, asking him about posters on the walls and trinkets on the shelves.

His knee is propped up and your arm dangles across it, his hand in yours. He plays with your fingers and periodically leans forward to leave a kiss on them.

You’d just woken up less than an hour ago after spending the night post-gala, and it’s a peaceful, if not unusually quiet morning.

Dick shouts your name from another room, audibly booking it towards you. Yeah. That’s more like what Jason remembers.

He grumbles some annoyances, dropping his head against your intertwined hands.

Dick bursts into the room, clearly incredibly excited.

“What’s up, Dick?” You ask, calm as ever. Jason lets an unseen smile creep up, head still down.

Dick’s practically jumping up and down, “You gotta see the shit that Tim just found in the cave!” His face drops as he directs his gaze to Jason, “You’re not invited.”

“Thank God.”

Dick ignores him and grabs your wrist, yanking you up from the floor. This is one place where he differs from Jason—he’s not always quite so aware of his own strength.

His grip doesn’t hurt really, but it’s firm enough that you imagine there’ll be bruise marks there later.

“Hey.” Jason calls out, nodding his head to where Dick is holding your arm. “Ease up.”

Dick follows his gaze and immediately loosens his hold, apologizing to you before pulling you along once again (this time much more gentle).

You grin at Jason as he tugs you out the door, him returning it with an endeared smile as he watches you go.

Fuck he loves you.

Jason had a decent break from his night job for once, and was happy to let you drag him out to a bar for a little date. You’d been linked at the hip for most of the night, his hands maintaining their ever present home on your waist and yours resting on his thighs as you tell him about your hectic day.

He’d usually prefer to stay in bed with you for as long as possible when he gets time off, but you’d looked so excited asking him to go out with you—he never stood a chance.

You look up into the mirror as you wash your hands, a strand of hair falling into your face as you do. You push it back behind your ear and smile to yourself, recalling the several times Jason had wordlessly done the same throughout the night as you rambled.

You make your way back to the bar, smile immediate on your face when you see your boyfriend. It gets replaced rather quickly though, when a man slides in front of you, cutting off your view of him.

“Hey there.”

You have to take a step back because of how close he decided to stand to you. He looks sober (enough) but wildly overconfident in whatevers about to happen.

"Let me buy you a drink, pretty thing."

Jason calls you pretty thing sometimes. It makes the blood rush to your cheeks and an inescapable smile creep up on your lips. When this guy says it, it makes you literally frown.

"Oh no, I'm okay, my—"

"You seem like a dirty martini kinda girl." He expertly ignores you, clearly trying and failing to make some kind of innuendo there.

Jason's sitting back against the bar, watching the interaction carefully. You still can’t see him, but he’s close and you can rest comfortable knowing he’s looking out for you.

With that reassurance, you don’t play this out quite as carefully as you would if you were alone.

"Look, I don't want a drink from you, thanks."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say to him because his face contorts quickly to mock-disgust that you figure is really just embarrassment.

“Hey, don’t be a bitch just ‘cause—”

You try to sidestep around him, thoroughly done with this interaction, but he grabs your upper arm harshly, pulling you to an abrupt stop.

Jason stands up real quick, yanking the guy backwards by his collar before you can even process what's happening.

Now, you know that Jason is an objectively intimidating guy. There's not many people that will come face to face with that absolute unit of a man and still decide to keep on trying him. However, you tend to forget that when you're so used to your gentle giant that only ever speaks to you kindly and touches you softly.

But his intimidating status becomes very apparent when the guy spins around, looks up at Jason, and immediately takes four steps back. He actually almost bumps into you in the process, not doing anything to tame Jason’s acute distaste for this man.

"Listen to me—back the fuck off before you get hurt."

“She—”

“I don’t give a fuck. Leave.”

The guy hesitates.

“Now.” Jason adjusts his posture to stand at his staggering full height, clearly with no qualms about putting him back in his place.

That does it for him, the man stumbllng away with half-committed mumbles of “whatever” or “something something lame anyway.”

Jason watches him until he walks out the door, before turning back to you.

He delicately takes your upper arm in his hand, pulling your sleeve up to search for bruising. But as harshly as he had grabbed you, it didn’t have the time to cause a bruise before Jason intervened.

“What’d he say to you?” Jason asks, brow furrowed as he inspects your arm.

“Nothing very interesting.” He looks at you mildly.

You smile and comb his hair back from his forehead, “Don’t worry about him. I’m good.”

He lets your arm go, and exchanges it for holding the back of your head, planting a kiss on your forehead.

You take his other hand and guide him back to your seats.

“Besides,” You look over his shoulder and let out a little shocked gasp. “Guess who just walked in.”

He gives you a questioning look before his face slacks, eyes widening in realization.

“No…” And you smile so brightly it almost makes up for what's coming his way.

You redirect your smile over his shoulder and give a wave to the door. Jason swigs down the rest of his drink, hand finding your waist once again.

“Jaybird!”

Jason’s still exhausted from patrol last night but he’d insisted on going with you to the bar to meet your friends. You’d tried to convince him that it was okay to stay in and rest tonight, you’d be fine. But it was a losing battle.

You suspect it has something to do with him not liking when you go out in Gotham at night, especially when you’re drinking.

So he hangs out in the background of the buzz, with you sat in front of him, in between his legs.

You’re talking it up with Roy, who’s been making jokes about how Jason’s “moody ass” tricked you, “the ray of sunshine” into this relationship somehow.

You laugh, taking a sip of your drink. “Right, ‘cause you and Kori were in love at first sight.”

"Oh, fuck off." Roy jeers.

He doesn't say it with the cadence of a joke, but it is.

You know he's joking, he knows he's joking.

Jason, who very well may have been tuned out of the conversation up to that point, does not seem to know he's joking—or he doesn't care.

You don't need to look behind you to know that your boyfriend is in defensive mode, though the look of regret mixed with amusement on Roy's face gives a solid hint.

You hold your hand out to block Jason his path as he moves forward. He lets you stop him, though you're certain he could get past you without so much as blinking, no problem.

"Right. My bad, forgot your guard dog was here. Don't fuck off." Roy backtracks, hands up in front of him.

Jason just rolls his eyes, slouching back down. You reach behind you for his hand, giving it two squeezes. You know he’s tired, so much so that he almost punched his best friend for making a typical joke.

“Five more minutes, okay?” You say softly over your shoulder.

He nods at you blearily, and ducks his head down to rest on your back. You adjust your posture a little bit to make it more comfortable for him and continue on talking, his hand still in yours.

If he hadn’t fallen asleep so quickly, five minutes would’ve been five minutes, but instead it became something more like fifty.

He goes through patches where sleep isn’t always so welcoming, a phase he’s been in for the past couple of weeks. You’d been waking up to find the bed half empty, your boyfriend resigned to doing research on cases in an attempt to at least be productive while he’s awake.

You can’t protect him in the same ways that he protects you—you’re not a fighter or necessarily “intimidating.” But you can protect him like this, in these little ways. Letting him nap on you, making him close the case files and rest with you, holding his hand throughout the night so that when he inevitably has nightmares, he knows immediately that you’re still with him. That he’s safe.

So if he can get some much needed sleep while only costing you a stiff back tomorrow, you’ll happily take that deal as many times as he needs.

#op I love this so much you have no idea #my day was made #I’d gladly read all the million other ideas you have #thank you so much for writing!! 💕💕💕#Jason is indeed prime guard dog material #jason todd x reader

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thedragonkween · 21 days

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Dune: Part Two (2024) dir. Denis Villeneuve

#dune part two #amazing gifs for an amazing movie

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thedragonkween · 26 days

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Happy birthday!

Hello and thank you so much!! I hope life is treating you wonderfully 🥺💖🫶🏻

#answered #nuvoleincielo

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thedragonkween · 28 days

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Inktober Day 10

#jason todd

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thedragonkween · 29 days

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Lord Sesshomaru + text posts and stuff

#lord sesshomaru #✨✨✨

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thedragonkween · 1 month

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It is an absolute TRAVESTY that BD-1 is never given the option of having one of his customizations be a poncho that matches cal's

UR SO RIGHT WHAT THE HELL

(donation doodles! // tip jar)

#losing my mind #cal kestis #bd1 #jedi fallen order

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thedragonkween · 1 month

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YES. BODYGUARD JASON TODD.

He's used to being looked over, just seen as meat & muscle (he doesn't mind, it's part of the job) but you're the first "job" who actually sees him, talks to him, makes him laugh 🫠 he doesn't know what he'll do if someone actually tries to put their hands on you 🙂

hiiii aud thank you for the scrumptious jaybird thoughts <3 so begins my bodyguard!Jason agenda!

bodyguard!jason todd x gn!reader. fluff, pining, and tension so thick you could cut it with a batarang.

All fics are reblogged to @sanguinelibrary

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"Y'know, I think you just keep me around to carry your bags."

You grin over your shoulder where the Red Hood trails behind you, always five paces behind. Your takeout bag is in one hand, your new shirts in another. He wears a red mask over the lower half of his face, like always. Only seeing his eyes used to unnerve you, but now it's a comfort, finding his gaze in a crowd.

"That's not true. I also keep you around for something nice to look at," you say.

He tilts his head. Your belly flutters. "Flattery will get you nowhere, trouble."

"Flattery got me outside of my hotel, Red."

He sighs. "Tricking the hotel concierge doesn't count."

You laugh. "Sure it does. I think it does." You stick your arm out. "Will you walk next to me?"

"You know my rule."

"But you can easily cover me if you're next to me! And I'm so good at ducking. See?"

You duck and straighten a few times in a row to demonstrate. A few people stare. You ignore them. Hood's eyes crinkle in a way that tells you he's smiling.

"Mm, incredible technique. Wonder who taught you that. A ruggedly handsome bodyguard, perhaps?"

"Always hungry for the credit," you say. "Despicable."

"Ain't I?"

You turn around and stop. He stops five paces behind. You take a step forward. He takes a step back.

"I wanna see your face when we talk," you say, face pinched.

"Not in public, trouble. It's for your safety. You know that."

"Can't you come a little closer?"

None of your friends are like this with their personal guards. A moment from a friend's birthday party resurfaces when she'd given you an odd look.

It's almost like you'd rather be with him than us. You know he's just doing his job, right?

Hood stays exactly where he is. "This is the ideal spot for covering you. Now, c'mon. Thought you wanted to shop."

You sigh and let your arms flop to your sides. He must be nervous today. You can't imagine why.

"Fine. Be that way."

You hurry ahead. Hood doesn't lag behind. Stupid long-legged bodyguard.

"You can be mad at me as long as you stay safe," he says.

You turn again, about to really bitch about how strict he's being. But his proximity stops you short. He's inched closer, so close that you can properly see his eyes.

"This close enough for you?" he asks.

Hood's eyes are warm in the light, mossy and rich. His lashes and brows are dark and thick. Once or twice, you've seen a splash of freckles across his nose. The bridge of his nose is crooked like it's been broken one too many times.

Dear God, you yearn to know him.

Your stomach does more flips. Hood watches you, half-lidded.

"What're y'doing, trouble?"

His voice is soft, the way it gets when he's trying to smooth over a tiff between you. You can't figure out why he does that. You always get over it. And so does he. He has no choice.

"I'm looking at you, Red," you say.

"Yeah? What're y'lookin' at me for?"

"'Cause I want to."

He blinks. "Me? Not much to look at."

You look at each other for another minute. The want bubbles up again, spills out of your mouth before you can stop it.

"Please walk next to me," you say. "I need to know you're there."

He leans in to speak, black curl tumbling over his forehead. He smells sweet, like apples and spice. You almost appreciate the danger in your life because it keeps you in the Red Hood's line of sight.

"Wha's the matter? Y'nervous? I'm right here."

Oh, you're nervous, alright. Just not in the way he thinks. The way you ought to be.

You turn around. For your sake and his.

"Not nervous. Just... just... never mind. You pick where we go next, Red."

"It's your day. 'M just the driver," he says.

"If you won't walk next to me, the least you can do is pick where we go."

"The least I can do, huh?"

It's clear he isn't going to choose. So you watch him instead. You turn the corner and sneak glances over your shoulder. You don't care much about shopping anymore anyway. It's only an excuse to go out. To be alone with him.

Your answer comes. It's only for a split second, but you catch it anyway. He taught you to notice things after all. Says it could be the difference between living and dying.

You immediately change course. Hood follows you easily, and you breeze through the bookstore's entrance. You sneak a look to gauge his reaction. He's looking around, but that could just be him clocking the exits and obstacles. You grab his hand. He looks at your joined hands, then at you.

"Feeling lost?" he asks.

"No. Just trying to keep you present. Nothing’s gonna happen in a bookshop, Red."

That crease in the middle of his forehead returns. "'S my job to plan for the worst. Keeping you safe is the only thing that matters."

"Not the only thing."

His eyebrows rise. "Whaddya talking about? 'Course it is."

You look at your joined hands. This is bad. This is really, really bad. You'd might as well pull your heart out of your chest and let Hood carry that too.

You start to walk, fingers slipping out of his. Hood doesn't try to rejoin them.

He stays closer in here, close enough that you can talk quietly and smell his apple pie scent.

"What do you like to read?" you ask.

Hood glances at you. "Clocked that about me, did you?"

"I was taught by the best," you say sweetly.

He hums. Doesn't joke or laugh. Just makes a soft sound. It's not often you render him speechless.

"I loved Frankenstein as a kid. The devotion he has to a monster..."

Hood disappears for a moment, lost in his head. You take his hand, heart be damned.

He looks at you again. His eyes are wild. Sometimes, it seems like they glow.

"Someone's devotion to our monstrous parts is something we all want," you say. "I love Frankenstein."

You spend more time in the bookstore. Hood attracts a few stares, like always, but you're left alone. He carries your shopping without complaint, without strain, and you wonder if your friend was right, if this is just a job.

You buy a special edition of Frankenstein under his attention. Then you turn around and hand him the book. He keeps it under his arm.

"Ready to head back? Y'hungry?"

"That's for you," you say.

"Hm? What is?"

"The book. It's for you, Red."

Silence. The second time that you've stunned the words out of him. You're on a roll.

"Y'don't have to do that," he says, gentle as can be.

"It's a present for you. A thank you."

Hood shakes his head. "You don't need to thank me for protecting you. Just doing my job."

"I'm thanking you for being my friend. Because... you are, right? My friend?"

This time, Hood's eyes on you are heavy. You wonder if he can see your heart beating, see your belly fluttering, see the real reason why you get nervous around him.

"Yeah, trouble," he says, book cradled to his chest like it's precious cargo. "I'm yours."

#this is so amazing!!#Made my heart flutter a lot #your writing is so pretty op thank you for sharing 🥰#jason todd x reader

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