#Red Hood X reader

[movrningstxrs]

imagine dating JASON TODD, and the two of you were on your way home after a cozy, lowkey date night at batburger. you were both laughing, discussing the latest drama and gossip happening in his family—what do you mean dick got blacklisted from his local supermarket for buying up the entire cereal aisle?—stomachs full of french fries and milkshakes as you guys turned the corner to take a shortcut through an empty alleyway.

this being gotham, of course a sketchy-looking fellow soon emerged from the shadows, brandishing a knife and threatening you and your boyfriend to hand over your wallets.

“sure, man. take whatever you want. just don’t hurt her,” jason implored, taking a few cautious steps forward as he held out his wallet.

“that’s right. just hand over the money, nice and quietly, and you lovely folks will be right on your way,” the man chuckled.

“please, don’t hurt him!” you could be heard pleading behind jason, anxiously clutching your bag to your chest.

“don’t worry, dollface. so long as your boy toy here doesn’t make any sudden movements, we’re peachy.”

“not you, you idiot,” you scoffed in disgust. “him!”

before the would-be mugger could register what happened next, pain suddenly exploded from his jaw, and white dots clouded his vision as his body fell to the ground with a deafening thud. the knife in his hand was promptly kicked away before jason grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and lifted him to match his height.

“let me make one thing clear,” your boyfriend began to explain with a seething glare. “i’m not trapped in this alleyway with you. you’re trapped in here with me. and if it was just me, i’d call it a day after that punch. but you threatened my girl, so now i’m gonna have to kick your ass.”

“jay, be careful! we don’t have any more bleach at home to clean up your jacket if his blood gets on it.”

“no promises, babe!”

REBLOGS and COMMENTS are greatly appreciated

[sugugori]

I think Jason is the type of wedding guest to only look at you throughout the entire reception. And oh, if you’re a bridesmaid, you’re in trouble because he’s locked in on you everywhere you go. You in your pretty dress, hair styled perfectly- even when you cry at the exchanged “I do’s”, you look so pretty. And as the groom and bride are reciting their vows- and your eyes start to well up with tears, you turn your head in search for the pair of pretty bluegreen eyes to find them already watching you. This look he’s giving you, it almost knocks you off your feet- the intensity of it. You feel caught in his gaze. He looks absolutely gone, like he’s just realized something you haven’t yet. His eyes, usually so guarded, now full of awe and devotion as he mouths “I love you”. Meant for you and only you.

[fear-is-truth]

𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 𝑫𝑨𝑫 .ᐟ

𓂃 ꒰ headcanons.꒱ gn!reader x jason (est. relationship) + fluff ⌗ ( 💌 let’s chat ! ) ⋆ ( m.list ) ࿐ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝

· ❥ 𝐚/n : very rushed; i was sick when i wrote this

first & foremost, jason todd is girl dad through and through. the moment he holds her for the first time, he recalibrates everything—speech, sleep, temper, priorities—without even realising he’s doing it.

he won’t dilute language for her sake. no sing-song voice, no “whoops-a-daisy!” crap. he speaks to her like a small, reasonably intelligent civilian. when she babbles near-nonsense in response, he nods seriously:

“interesting take. but you’re still not eating crayons.”

when she starts talking, she parrots him with terrifying accuracy. says “bullshit” in perfect context. he side-eyes you like “that might’ve been you” but it was 100% him. he starts substituting in dumb phrases like “holy fork” and “crud nuggets” which somehow sound even more offensive in his voice.

his gut wrenches every time he sees her hurt. no matter how small the injury, how quick the recovery .

“it’s okay to cry, you know.” “m’ not crying.” she sniffles hard, mouth twitching. he takes a breath, carefully brushing dirt from her elbow with the sleeve of his shirt. “…good. because if you did, i might have to start too.” her bottom lip quivers. then she throws her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder while he holds her.

he gives her choices. always. because no one gave him any. ‘pink cardigan or the baby blue one? park or zoo? sandwiches cut into triangles or squares?’ she doesn’t know why the questions matter—not yet—but she answers anyway. and he always listens. even when she changes her mind five seconds later.

when she gets scared of the monster under her bed, jason grabs a crowbar from the hallway closet, locks himself in her room, and puts on a full performance. loud bangs, snarls, curses, all muffled through the door. she waits outside clutching your hand, wide-eyed. when he opens the door, slightly sweaty:

“we’re clear. monster’s in pieces. bedtime.”

absolutely watches disney movies with her. you once catch him mouthing along to i’ll make a man out of you with perfect accuracy.

her room is stocked full of high quality toys: watercolor paint sets, pop-up books, wooden animal figurines, everything he would’ve killed to touch when he was little.

when she gets sick, even the most minor of colds send jason into a tailspin. not outwardly though; outwardly he’s calm & reassuring—but he looking up symptoms and staying up beside her bed with one hand on her forehead, watching the rise and fall of her breath like it might stop at any second.

if you’re out for the day, he sends you hourly photo updates: her sitting in her booster seat, her eating grapes, her mid-nap with a book across her lap.

insists she learn how to throw a punch and memorize your phone number before she enters kindergarten.

she mirrors his sarcasm & sass too well.

you and jason have developed a “tag-team” parenting style—he picks up on your cues instinctively. if you’re too tired to argue with a picky toddler, he just whips up grilled cheese without a word and makes her think it was your idea.

and if she’s crying—inconsolably so—you both sit beside her and jason lets you do the talking. she always opens up eventually, even if it’s just, “i didn’t wan’ the poor banana to break.” (???)

she looooooves curling into him. a six-o kind of love, paired with matter-of-fact trust. she’ll press her forehead to his cheek while holding her sippy cup. tug at his sleeve when she wants to sit in his lap.

her vocabulary is way beyond her age. not just because of books; she mimics his cadence. jason once commented she was “morally opposed” to cauliflower. days later, she informed the pediatrician she was “philosophically anti-broccoli.” this had you laughing uncontrollably.

bedtime isn’t “lights out,” it’s literature hour! jason reads her stories with perfect enunciation and blunt dignity. she grows up on peter rabbit, winne-the-pooh, madeleine, and eventually segues to aesop’s fables, abridged dickens. the sound of pages turning becomes part of her core memories.

as her vocabulary progresses in a rapid fashion, jason still reads to her every night without fail: brontë. shelley. woolf. austen. he edits on the fly when needed, replacing death with long naps and violence with “stern talking-tos.”

four years of age, your little girl is already quoting jane eyre in front of her classmates.

she wins the spelling bee every year!

she told her entire kindergarten class that her daddy is an actual zombie, which resulted in an email from her teacher, regarding “concerns about her vivid imagination.” jason’s only response is, “technically, that’s not inaccurate.”

she loves all of her uncles, but it’s clear that uncle dick is her favourite. she likes him so much it’s borderline treason. jason pretends to be grumpy about it but secretly finds it endearing how much she adores his brother.

he can’t stand the thought of her going hungry. she’s never missed a meal, but he still packs too much in her lunchbox when it’s his turn. carries snacks in his glove compartment, keeps fruit cut up and ready in the fridge, just in case. he remembers what it felt like to open the fridge and find nothing but condensation. his little girl won’t ever know that.

꒰ ⠀· ❥  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[unmillion]

꩜ Jason Todd who doesn’t sleep. Who has a knife under his pillow just in case. Who only sleeps on the left side of the bed since it’s closer to the doorway. He never explains any of it. Any of the cold sweats—waking up in a jolt that woke even the mice in your walls. The occurrence seemed to be every blue moon when your relationship started—only nights in which the two of you weren’t wrapped up in each other. When life seemed as if he was a civilian, living a life that he had watched from passersby on nearby streets was when those thoughts creeped in. 

 He didn’t deserve this. Out of all people, Jason Peter Todd didn’t believe he deserved this. A family. A person to come home to every night—someone who would wipe the sweat off of his forehead when he would toss and turn in the darkest of hours. 

 Whatever he did to deserve this—to deserve you, he would change himself just to keep whatever slipping grasp he had on it. He stopped sleeping with his gun in his nightstand and removed the knife from under his pillow. His hand still automatically reaches for it if he gets woken up, patting the sheets and only finding empty space. Maybe he could make himself deserve this life. Deserve your hands intertwining with his down the street or have your fingers making a mess of his hair when he finally drifts off. 

 Maybe he could deserve you. Your laugh, the way you look at him. All of those small stolen moments that have led up to how the two of you love each other now. The quiet glances and featherlight touch. 

 Jason Todd is determined to deserve your love. Little does he know, your love is relentless no matter how much he changes himself for you. You would have loved him anyways—because that’s what Jason needs. 

Love.

taglist: @amiratheangel @vivian-555

[wingfleur]

thinking about jason todd leaning down to hear you when you talk.

if i’m being honest, i feel like he does it often. sometimes, it’s because it’s a little too noisy where you’re at, and other times, it’s because you’re a little too soft-spoken, which makes it hard to hear you. overall, it’s because jason is just too damn big for his own good, so, most of the time, he just can’t hear you and has to lean in close so you don’t have to repeat yourself again for a third or fourth time.

it happens like this: he’ll be standing next to you with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused raptly on something going on in front of him. maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s a movie being watched on the couch by your friends— whatever it is, jason is locked in, jaw set in concentration as he focuses on what he’s seeing. then, when you quietly add commentary, his brows will twitch and he’ll mindlessly turn his head to the side, prompting you to say whatever you said again. it’s autopilot for jason— like it’s programmed into him already.

he doesn’t move all at once, either. his head turns first, then his body follows, but his eyes? oh, those fall to you last. his pretty blue eyes (that also flicker with this mysterious shade of green sometimes) stay trained on what’s in front of him for a few seconds longer. in comparison to the rest of his body, it’s almost as if they’re on a delay.

it’s only after he mumbles a quiet “hm?” to get you to speak again does he finally look at you, hinged at the hip with that white tuft of hair he has hanging in his face. all he’s met with in return is the lack of an audible response and the sight of you staring up at him in awe, your jaw slack and your eyes wide. whatever you were saying is clearly lost on you now, and jason realizes that, but it’s not a big deal. it would never be a big deal. you’re just nervous, and luckily for him, jason loves making you nervous.

“i didn’t say anything,” you lie unconvincingly, throat hoarse from this sudden bout of dryness that’s seemed to set in. you whip your head back towards the tv and jason snorts at your reaction, standing back up to full height with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

“yeah, okay,” he replies, doing nothing to hide the amusement in his voice. “whatever helps y’sleep at night.”

# — navigation

[literary-dolly]

pride & prejudice

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 11.3k warnings: ANGST, pining, enemies to lovers, violence, violence against reader, arguments/fighting, alcohol, murder

When you first meet Jason Todd he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him. (Loosely inspired by the book/film Pride & Prejudice)

Winter

“Honestly, I can’t wait for you to meet him, I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

More often than not, it was endearing to hear Babs talk about her boyfriend. You would think that Dick Grayson had hung the stars in the sky the way she sang his praises. It almost made you sick, the way her eyes would get moony as she practically recited poetry about his charms, his kindness, and occasionally, his body.

She was right though; you and Babs had been friends for as long as you could remember, it was absurd that you were yet to meet her long-term boyfriend. Phone calls and photos hadn’t really been enough to capture a true image of him, who he was and what he stood for. Babs meant the world to you, however, and you were determined to meet the man who had crashed into it so suddenly.

‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch. 

It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.

Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.

This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.

“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.

“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”

So much for a good first impression.

You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.

Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.

Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”

In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”

Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.

Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.

“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”

Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.

“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”

As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.

Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.

Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.

“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.

“Fine.”

“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”

“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”

You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.

“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”

“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.

“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”

Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”

“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”

“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”

“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”

“I said I don’t want a fucking –”

Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”

“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.

“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”

“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”

You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.

When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.

It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason’s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.

The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.

The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.

Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”

“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”

“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.

It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.

The only word to describe the walk back is painful.

It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.

Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.

“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”

Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.

Then he turns and walks away.

You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.

Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.

As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.

To never see Jason again.

Spring

It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.

Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.

The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.

Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.

Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.

You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.

“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.

Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.

“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.

“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.

“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.

“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Is that so?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.

Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”

“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.

It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”

You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.

“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”

He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.

“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”

He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”

“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.

“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”

You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.

“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.

“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”

The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.

“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.

The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.

“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”

He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.

“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.

“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”

“I would like that.”

And with that he’s gone.

You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.

You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.

“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.

“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”

You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”

“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.

You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.

“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”

“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”

“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”

There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.

“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”

“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”

The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.

“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”

It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.

You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.

“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”

Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.

“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”

The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.

“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”

The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.

You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”

“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”

“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”

“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”

You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.

Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.

Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.

“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.

You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.

“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.

It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.

You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.

Summer

If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.

It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.

You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.

You’d run into Jason a few times.

It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.

Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.

Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.

You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.

It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.

To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.

Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.

Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.

It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”

“What?”

“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.

“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.

Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.

“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”

“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”

“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”

“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”

“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.

“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”

“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”

The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.

“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”

“Well, Dick, for starters –”

“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”

“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.

“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”

The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.

Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.

He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.

“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”

And then he disappears inside.

Autumn

All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.

You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.

It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.

Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.

“What did you want to –”

“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.

“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.

Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”

Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”

You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”

“How come you’re asking me and not him?”

“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.

Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”

“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”

“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”

You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.

“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”

“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.

“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.

“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”

“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”

It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”

Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”

“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”

Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.

It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.

You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.

Winter

Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.

Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.

Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.

Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.

Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.

Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”

As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.

“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”

From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.

“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”

Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.

You grimace at the thought.

All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.

Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.

You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.

It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.

If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.

“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.

“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”

It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.

“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.

It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.

It’s Jason.

Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.

You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.

It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.

Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.

“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”

The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”

If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”

You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”

“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.

You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”

Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Spring

You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.

You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.

“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.

“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”

You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”

“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”

“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.

“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”

“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”

“I know you do, baby, I know.”

This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷‍♀️

also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

THE ITCH- J. TODD

day twenty five of the june bug masterlist

pairing: boyfriend! jason x fem! reader

word count: 1k

summary: when you cant stop itching your bug bites, jason does the only thing left he can think of- tying you up.

warnings: this is all fluff but lots of sexual tension, innuendos and flirting, pet names etc

“You can't scratch bunny or it's just gonna get worse.” Jason scolded you as he sat you down on the bathroom vanity, frown etched on his face.

You didn't care. You had to itch.

You were completely swollen, covered from head to toe in bug bites. They coated your arms and legs, even places you don't even know where possible for them to reach.

You glared at him as he went over to the bathtub, turning the handles as water began to flow. Itching your arms again, nails scratching the skin until blood drew.

You didn't even know how this was fucking possible. You had practically smothered yourself in bug spray, inhaling it for this exact reason- you knew how bad of a reaction you got from those thirsty bloodsuckers.

“I have to itch.”

“If you keep itching I’ll have to tie your hands together.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on your lips at the thought. “Sounds kinky.”

He rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair before adding the oatmeal bath treatment to the running water, an attempt to soothe your wounds. 

It was torture, really- being forced to sit and not scratch.

Which is exactly how you ended up in that oatmeal bath with your hands tied together by soft rope.

“I’m gonna kill you.” you grumbled, staring blankly ahead at the wall in front of you as Jason chuckled behind you, dragging a washcloth across your back.

“Kinda hard to do that when you’re tied up, isn’t it?”

“I’m creative, I can find a way. Or multiple. Say Jay, has anyone tried to drown you before?”

He rolled his eyes, scrubbing a bar of soap across your skin, attempting to soothe your bites. You hated that it felt good.

“I’m doing this for you, silly.” he stated, as if he was scolding a five year old for restrictions on the cookie jar.

You huffed. “I can wash myself.”

“I know you can sweetheart. And you can be as mad at me as you want, but you’ll be thanking me later when you aren’t scarred .”

Well, he did have a point there. Still, you tried to flick him with water, though it became difficult with your hands literally tied. When he was satisfied with your soak, he helped you out of the bathtub and began to rub you dry with a soft towel from the linen closet.

It smelt like him.

You tried not to stare at him too much as he knelt down, drying your legs and thighs.

You could get used to this sight more often.

You were the only person Jason Todd had ever knelt too. And you wanted to keep it that way.

“Are you sure this can’t be sexual?” you asked coyly, biting your lip as he looked up, a little gleam in his eye as he lifted your leg up to rest on him, planting a gentle kiss to the skin.

“When you’re not tempted to itch, I’m sure something could be arranged where you’re all tied up for me.” he murmured, his words making your breathing hitch.

“What if I want to scratch you instead?”

His eyebrow raised. “Might be difficult to do so if your body is tied.”

You swallowed. “M-my body?”

He smirked. “I have some tricks up my sleeve.”

Holy fuck he was so hot.

You were so lost in thought you didn’t even realize he had grabbed hydrocortisone and had started applying it to the welts. “Cmon my little prisoner let’s get you to bed.” he cooed, slipping your hand into his, tugging you over to your bedroom.

“How long am I your prisoner?” you asked meekly, clenching your thighs together. He shrugged, back turned to you as he searched for a clean set of pj shorts for you to wear. It appeared tonight there would be no top for you. Which was honestly a blessing in disguise, because of how hot and sticky it was.

“However long I want you to be.”

“So forever?” you asked, lifting your legs one at a time, leaning against him for balance as he slid the fabrics up your legs.

“Something along those lines.” he laughed.

“Ya know, if you’re my prisoner that means I can make you do whatever I want to do.”

You pursed your lips together. “Is that so?”

“That is so.”

“And then what would you have me do?”

The tickle of his breath had you jump as he slipped behind you, tucking your hair onto one shoulder- leaning down to whisper into the other.

“Oh I can think of a lot of things sweetheart. But that’s for another time. For now, you’re going to sleep.”

You grumbled incoherently, letting him guide you over to your bed, the cool, plush sheets feeling nice against your itching skin. “Do I have to sleep like this?” you whined, curling into his chest like a cat as you stretched, feeling the rope began to loosen.

He hadn't tugged it too tightly, an indicator that you could break free at any point. Still, you kept your hands loosely tied as you let him codle you, pulling you in closer as he teased you, planting a kiss on the top of your head as you started to doze off.

He murmured something like a sweet dreams prisoner as he stroked your arm, gently soothing the itch- letting you drift off to sleep.

[red--pirate]

Some kind of draft

Fic credit: @morverenmaybewrites

[movrningstxrs]

“my boyfriend wants to show you his books, and you better say they’re cool,” you demanded while glaring at the camera. an amused jason could be seen in the back as you made way for him to take center stage. “go, babe.”

“hi,” your boyfriend awkwardly greeted before showing off the two paperback books in his hands. “so this one is ‘frankenstein’ by mary shelley. i know we all dreaded reading it in high school, but i really relate to frankenstein’s monster, and the story’s pretty good if you just give it a chance. plus, it’s a pioneer for the science-fiction genre, so that’s cool.”

you could be seen behind jason making threatening gestures with your hands, almost as if to say, ‘leave a nice comment, or you’re getting blocked!’

“and this one is ‘pride and prejudice’ by jane austen. another oldie but a classic,” jason said with a nonchalant shrug. “the writing’s beautiful, and i love elizabeth’s character because she reminds me of a certain someone. probably one of my favourite books of all time and just a really good comfort read.”

he turned to see your face quickly morph into heart-eyes and a sweet smile.

“good job, honey. that was a great presentation,” you praised before giving his cheek a loving kiss.

“oh, and i’m also part of a book club. we meet at the community center in the bowery every thursday evening. new members are always welcome,” jason off-handedly added.

“and new members are always welcome,” you sharply reiterated, glancing at the camera with a scary scowl and furrowed brows. “see you thursdays.”

gothambaddiexoxo commented: this man was written by a woman lol singleasapringle commented: girl, where can i get myself a boyfriend like this 😭 birdzofprey0 commented: sooo does everyone in this book club look like him or?? asking for a friend

inspired by this video here. REBLOGS and COMMENTS are greatly appreciated

[adddddiiii]

Thinking about sleepy Jason Todd...

He was dead weight on top of you — warm, heavy, completely unbothered as he dozed against your shoulder.

“Jay,” you whispered, nudging him. “You’re crushing me.”

A sleepy grunt. No movement.

You tried again, shifting beneath him. Big mistake. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “You’re my pillow.”

You huffed, fingers threading into his messy hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jason let out a slow, satisfied sigh, completely content. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, voice fading into sleep. “Y'know, baby, pillows don't talk."

[pearlfull]

party on u ( part of u knew )

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SYNOPSIS: 〝 You know that I've been waiting for you. 〞 Batboys x Reader. ⋆˚࿔ A/N: Heavily inspired by Charli XCX and the devastating edits to this song lol. Dick's is the most literal interpretation of the song. Jason's weird. I love Tim Drake. Yearning bro. I'm taking requests + commissions! More details on that soon. Help a college girl save for car repairs<3

ᯓ★ DICK GRAYSON.

IT WAS SOMETHING UNSPOKEN YET PRESENT. You weren’t just friends. But you didn't call it love either.

It started with shared takeout food.

Shaky laughter while pinning you on the ground during training. Late night text messages. Sleepless nights spent on the same couch. Dick's hand laced yours in the dark, and he tried to match your breath's rhythm as you fell asleep on his chest, fingers curling into your sleep shirt.

Eventually, there were white tulips he brought after work and Bruce was asking about you.

He was always careful with you.

Because he'd done the song and routine before. Been left with the kind of bruises in places you couldn't see.

There were nights when he'd leave before you woke. He'd left you coffee on your nightstand like it was a consolation prize. And you let him. Let him stay his welcome way too long, and then let him disappear for a couple days. Maybe it was stupid, but it was better than nothing.

wonderboy i didn’t want to miss you tonight i already do when you’re still in the room

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not out of anger, not resentment. Still. It was on purpose. On both ends.

You'd stop asking if he wanted you to pick up candy for him at the grocery store and he had stopped asking when he could see you again. Maybe he had thought if he pulled away it would go away.

The invitation felt like a test. An unspoken, come if you still care. Or come so I know you haven't stopped.

It's his birthday, and silver balloons litter the hallway, and Donna laughter is already ringing through as you step in, and Roy's throwing gummy bears into Wally's glass.

You're wearing something that made you feel braver than you were, black fabric clinging to your hips--looking through the crowd with a tight chest.

His grin was the center of the room. His bright blue eyes found yours, and he didn't come over. His pupils were blown.

Kept staring, almost comically. Wondering if whether he still had the right to do that, even though he'd invited you. And you came. And he had worn that cologne you'd mentioned you'd loved, and even had tried to make his hair fall nicely. He kind of felt like a thirteen year old boy getting ready for his first Sadie Hawkins dance. It was wracking to feel like that again.

But maybe he was remembering just how much he'd hurt you by staying so close and never choosing.

You crossed the room slowly. Talked to Donna, and let Roy grab you a drink.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Dick's balcony's always been cold. Maybe he'd overstepped by draping his jacket over your pretty shoulders.

(But neither of you cared, and the lining was so nice!)

“I didn’t think you’d ask.” Your voice doesn't come out quiet, and you're surprised by its steadiness.

Dick looked down at his shoes. “I didn’t know if I deserved to.”

Your smile was glossy, close lipped. “You don’t get to disappear and then expect me to ask you to show up. It's mean.”

“I know.” A beat. “Uh, when I was halfway, I could pretend I wasn’t scared.”

“Were you?”

“Terrified.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I know that seems like such a shitty cop out. The whole, commitment phobe thing. But I still wanted you to come tonight.” Dick stopped. Cracked his knuckles. “I’ve missed you.”

“I don't believe in love that waits.”

Dick's brows are knit closely. “I know.”

“I'm not gonna be waiting.”

“I don’t want you to. I'll meet you where you are. Sorry I didn’t sooner.”

His breath clouds in the air. His voice cracks as he adds, “I get why you stopped asking.”

“Didn’t want to keep asking for something that wasn't fully ours.”

“That’s on me.”

“You were scared?”

“Still kinda am.”

He shifts beside you, steps closer. Adjusts his jacket, so the collar doesn't look rumpled. Dick's fingers brush the side of your throat.

Inside, he doesn't reach for your hand. Just walks close. As close as you'll let him. Close enough that it’s obvious.

You walk back to your car. Your phone lights up.

wonderboy thanks for coming beautiful you didn’t have to

you don’t thank me happy birthday 💙

ᯓ★ JASON TODD.

JASON IS ALWAYS AROUND. Your brother's second shadow. Not because they're attached at the hip. Roy is one of the few people that lets him stand beside him without flinching.

Initially, he barely acknowledges you.

He'll grunt a greeting when you grab a glass of juice, nods from across the kitchen. He always leaves his bike helmet on the counter tile like it's a centerpiece. It smells like gunpowder and iron, and you definitely think it says way more than he ever does with his mouth. Gun oil. Boots on the carpet. Pride and Prejudice folded in his back pocket.

You were studying journalism at university. Doing some stories. Freelance. An open notebook tucked under your arm. You asked questions too fast sometimes--half Harper nature--about everything, about nothing.

And Jason didn’t like it. Said so.

“Why do you talk to people like you’re digging for something?”

“Cause people lie.”

He didn’t say anything after that.

It was Roy’s fault! He left his phone out on the sofa. You didn’t care to look, but the cracked screen had some picture of you and Roy. Jason sent it.

jaybird when was this is she dating someone?

roy tf do you care lmao don’t be fucking weird

jaybird just asking.

roy that’s my sister.

jaybird shut up.

You noticed him staring more after that.

One time at breakfast, you spilled coffee on the edge of your sweater sleeve, cursing under your breath. You didn’t think he was even awake. Jason was slumped at the table over a bowl of cereal. His hoodie pulled up like he hadn’t slept at all. He passed you a paper towel before you even asked. Didn’t even look at you.

Later, your old press badge was pressed against the counter. It was lost for weeks. Bent but clean.

“You found this?” you turned to Roy, eyes glittering.

Roy rubbed his mouth. “Huh?”

Jason starts asking you things. Small things.

“Where’d that article of yours go? The vigilante case?”

“Sleep last night?”

He asked them like it didn't matter, like he didn't already know the answers. His fingers drummed while waiting for your replies, and he seems to drink in every single thing you say.

An interview that went south. A CEO with yellowed teeth called you doll. You bit your tongue till it stung.

Jason's in the garage, with a wrench.

“[Name], you okay?”

“I'm fine, Jay.”

“Don't lie.”

You set your leather bag on the hood of your car.

The wrench drops. “Wanna go hit something?”

You blinked. Slowly. "Sorry?”

“Gym. Pads. Gloves. I'll hold them for you.”

A smile stretches and he swears he feels like he's being lit from the inside. The way it's just for him. “Is that your version of like, a hug?”

“Take it or leave it.”

Roy didn’t pick up tonight. After a date that made your head ache, where the guy with a cheap haircut only spoke about himself, forgot his wallet, you stood outside alone. Cold.

Jason showed up instead.

His hoodie half-zipped, breath fogging in the air, from jogging, car parked across the street, his white streak a little matted. Green eyes scanned your face, and he grabbed the heels dangling from your fingers.

Your purse slipped off your shoulder, and Jason took it mid slide too.

He held both all the way home in his lap as he drove.

You let him walk you to your building, and the air had seemed to have hit you harder this time. Jason still had your bag and heels, and the space between you seemed to buzz.

The stairwell was bright, and the front light hummed over your head. Your throat was tight as you croaked out a "Thank you", softly and every word you wanted to say seemed to taunt you as you realize you rather liked his green eyes, and the golden rings inside them.

He seemed to notice your observation, and his eyes fell to the floor, the corners of his lips lifting so slightly. So, you let your hand fall between you, barely. So his could brush against it. Fingertips, then your pinky hooked his.

He turned his hand, observing the way they fit. Held it tighter, tighter than you expected.

ᯓ★ TIM DRAKE.

YOU'VE ALWAYS LIKED QUIET. Which is a good thing, because you have little else but that in a gas station working a graveyard shift. It's mostly peaceful. As peaceful Gotham can get. Little customers. No noise. Just you, and the fluorescents and the freezer that groans when it turns on.

Sometimes, you leave the counter to stand under the overhang light.

You see him for the first time at 3:24 AM.

The red and black suit. The insignia. A cowl that didn't cover his lips. Red Robin.

He doesn’t say anything. Just lands on the roof like he belongs there. Kinda freakish.

He was gone before you could look again.

The second time he shows up, he taps on the bulletproof glass with a gloved knuckle and gestures to the vending machine near the left of the entrance.

"It ate my dollar," he says.

You blink. "For real?"

"Swear on the mask."

Pretty big swear. So, you open the door. He's taller than you thought he would be. And younger. Same age, or around from what you can make of him.

You slide an energy drink and a bag of chips across the counter. "Next time you save the city bird boy, ask for some change."

He laughs. And you hate how much you like the way his lips curve.

He comes back after that. Not every single night. Although, that'd be fun. But it wasn't enough for you to expect him.

He never buys anything from you. He leans against the counter and asks how your shift was, and you hand him a bottled water and piece of bubblegum. He asks about the books you read behind the register.

"Jane Eyre?" he'd asked with a raised brow. "Sort of a dramatic choice for a Tuesday."

"Says the guy in a bird costume."

He laughed again. Now you hated how familiar it sounded.

But you didn't think much of it. Not until the week Tim stops coming to class.

He was in your study group. Quiet. He had the most gorgeous smile you think you'd seen. All toothy and boyish, despite the dark circles shadowing underneath his eyes.

You liked him more than you meant to. Still do. You swore not to, because there was something about him that seemed like if you reached out, he'd disappear like smoke. And it was getting ridiculous. You'd worn a skirt to class and curled your hair and hoped he'd notice. Forming a crush on someone because he had asked you how your day was and always helped look for your pen underneath your seat during lecture. But he was always noticing things. Listening to you, and he said your name like it was a secret that you both shared.

When he misses study group, then class, then that dumb open mic night you invited him to, you tell yourself it's nothing.

But then Red Robin shows up that same night, again.

He's chipper. "Long night?"

You let the silence stretch, doodling on some scratch paper.

He tilts his head, rocking on his heels. "Have a bad shift?"

"No," you say slowly, "Just kinda missing someone."

The mask twitches. You don't notice.

He starts coming around regularly.

You talk. About stupid shit, important stuff. Your morals. His commentary on the mayor.

You mention how sometimes you wish had a different life. How you want to graduate university already.

He's quiet as he nods, locking eyes with you.

Then he says, “I think you’re doing way better than you think.”

That's not fair to you. Because that sounds like something Tim would tell you over text casually. It makes your stomach twist and you wonder if you're falling in love with a mask, a voice, because he reminds you of someone else.

And he doesn’t even know that.

Tim knows.

He talks to you at night with a different voice, he holds himself differently and pretends that he’s not the same guy who used to try to make jokes clumsily to make you laugh. He loves your laugh.

He watches you watch him and says nothing.

If he tells you, it’ll ruin the quiet connection you’ve built. The thing he keeps crawling back to when the city’s too heavy.

[rainydaygotham]

Imagine “borrowing” the left glove of your man’s super suit for a bit while he’s napping and stitching a small band of embroidery thread around the ring finger. The thread is colored only slightly darker than the original color of the fabric. It was so inconspicuous that no one who wasn’t looking for it would notice. In fact, it takes your vigilante fiancé about a week to find it himself.

He has to do a little double take, momentarily forgetting what he was doing in favor of inspecting his hand. It’s not an accidental loose thread or anything, it’s an intentional alteration to his uniform, meant to be there. And it’s very clearly supposed to be a wedding ring, so he knows exactly how it got there. He just doesn’t know when. Oh, hopefully he hasn’t been oblivious to your handiwork for long. The thought of you thinking he knew about it and just didn’t care was agonizing. He cares, baby! He cares so much you wouldn’t believe.

It makes him giddy. You’ve marked him. What an adorable thing to do.

He was planning to get the ring tattooed onto his finger already, so he wouldn’t lose the real one out in his dangerous life of fighting crime. But even that would be under his gloves, invisible to anyone on the streets of the city. This, however, announced it loud and clear: sorry, but this vigilante is taken.

When he makes it back from the mission that night, he finds you lounging in your shared bedroom. You’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing on your laptop to notice him creeping in yet, so he gets a moment to just admire you. To his delight, he recognizes the fabric that clings to your body as one of his shirts.

You finally realize he’s there, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream,

“Hey Babe, was it a good night?”

“You want to marry me~” he croons.

“We are literally engaged,” you shake your head in fake-exasperation.

“I found your little gift,” he gives you the clue to why he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“Oh,” your smile gets bigger, “that.. I take it you like it?”

He takes your head in his hands, thumbs gently brushing the tops of your cheeks, “it’s perfect,”

He presses a cute little kiss onto your nose. He laughs as you open your eyes and whine about having expected a real kiss. Well, he’ll just have to give you one of those too, then… or maybe a few…

[fromdove]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Old Friends

Your Character Settings: AFAB, Jason Todd's childhood friend, civilian, famous author

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

“When the cops told me they’d be sending over a bodyguard, I didn’t expect them to send in a superhero,” you said, setting down the frog-shaped pitcher on the coffee table. 

You then took a seat directly facing Red Hood. Tall. Bulky. Vigilante. Alleged colleague of the Bats if you were going by the giant red bat logo across his chest. He looked almost comical on your thrifted loveseat, but he kept his knees together and folded his hands politely over them, as though that would help make him look smaller. 

“I was told you were getting death threats,” he said. 

“Authors get that kind of mail all the time.”

“But it got worse, right?”

You shrugged. “I can deal with that type of thing, I called the cops for a different matter.” You gestured at the envelope on the table.

Red Hood examined the contents. They were photos of a shattered library window, specifically, the Jason Todd Collection, which was a library that doubled as a shelter full of secondhand sofas and couches and two bathrooms. It’s been around for three months and completely owned and funded by you. 

“I’ve heard about this place,” he said. “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you think so because I want help finding the son of a bitch that broke in and beat up the people sleeping inside.”

“I’m pretty sure the cops already dealt with that.”

“They said they were going to deal with it, but a few officers took some pictures and didn’t even bother interviewing the victims.”

“I understand your concern for the victims and I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to ensure that you were safe. It’s not exactly a secret that you own the Ja…” he paused briefly before continuing, “that you own the shelter. An attack on the place could’ve been a way of getting your attention. The shelter was attacked after your latest book release, correct?”

Your growing temper simmered and you reclined on your armchair. He was right. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from.”

“Ma’am–”

“Don’t call me that, makes me feel old. Just call me by my first name.”

He hesitated before saying your name and, “your new book’s controversial.”

“Yeah. Not everyone’s happy that I brought back a character from the dead. He was a fan favorite so half of my readers were happy to see him again, but the rest think that resurrection cheapens the plot.”

“I think you foreshadowed Hector’s return pretty consistently.”

“You read my books?”

He tilted his red helmet and you could feel him smiling under that thing. “I like love stories.”

“That–Jason!”

His whole body stiffened, but then a giant, furry thing emerged from behind his loveseat and started sniffing his shoes and thighs. 

You sighed. “That’s Jason. He usually hides in my room when I have people over. C’mere, boy.”

Instead of running to your lap like he always did, your seventy-kilogram, stranger-fearing rescue folded its legs and laid its heavy head on Red Hood’s boot. 

“Huh. That’s never happened before.” You eyed the hero suspiciously. “Can you talk to animals or something?”

He chuckled. “No superpowers, I’m afraid, guess he just likes me.” He bent down and gently rubbed the dog’s head. 

Your throat rumbled lowly with mild jealousy. It took you a whole year before Jason would let you approach him without peeing.

Red Hood then asked, “So…Jason?”

“What?”

“Was that always his name?”

“No. According to the shelter that found him he never answered to a single name. When I got him, I refused to just call him dog or it, so I reinforced the name Jason.”

“...you named him after Jason Todd?”

“Yes, I did.” You crossed your arms. “Now, can we please discuss the reason why you’re here?”

“I didn’t mean to get on your nerves, I was just–”

“–curious, I know.”

“You must’ve really cared for this Todd.”

You thought of Jason, beaming as he handed you a cheeseburger, laughing at a joke you told him, and you smiled. “He was my best friend.”

Red Hood said nothing.

“He died a few years ago. He was the smartest person I knew and he… he didn’t even get to finish high school.” You exhaled and looked at your bookshelf. “I want the world to remember his name, even if it’s just from the dedication pages in my books and a small library.”

***

Red Hood made himself comfortable on the rooftop overlooking your apartment. You may not have cared about several death threats but he did, and he wasn’t about to leave you alone unguarded.

“So this is where you’ve been,” a sing-song voice interrupted his thoughts.

Jason clicked his tongue.

Nightwing wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Heard everything from Babs. I can’t believe you approached her as Red Hood before you showed up as Jason.”

“Go away, dickhead.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Tsk.”

“She’s really cute, are her books any good though? Never found the time to read, well, anything. But Babs said–”

Dick’s words merged with the city’s usual background noise as Jason continued to watch you behind your balcony door.

He watched as you knelt down to help Jason the Dog slip into a red hoodie before pressing a tender kiss between its eyes.

He then opened his phone and scanned your weekly schedule. You were too reckless. You left a lot of your things out in the open. What if a freak found your planner?

He made a mental note to install some cameras when you leave to get groceries tomorrow.

Disclaimer: The image of Red Hood used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It's by Dexter Soy and was lifted from: https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/h0iavp/cover_from_red_hood_and_the_outlaws_20_by_dexter/

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Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[mixingandmelting]

May I request smth like batboys + bruce reacting to their fem!reader gifting them these couple hoodies? 🥺🥺🥺

Bruce:

He smirks and raises an eyebrow. It was one thing to own couple-coded dresswear, but an actual couple’s outfit?

“’Somebody’s problem’?” A mix of amusement and affection underlies his voice as he pulls out the one that’s obviously meant for him and keeps it at arm’s length away.

“What? It’s true! Everyone can agree I’m not the problem ninety percent of the time.” He simply snorts, the teasing tilt and grin a dead give away that you were bluffing.

Eyeing you for a second, he goes back to taking in the sweatshirt. The softness of a mix of polyester and cotton with words sewn in the middle. It’s as if you’ve physically given a part of yourself, warm and soft that he can stay engulfed all day. And the very thought of it is enough to make his heart flutter faster.

It was enjoyable to say the least, when he wore it while staying in the Batcave the next day. While comforted at the thought that you’re with him, it was hilarious to see how everyone does a double-take at it and becomes the hot topic of the week.

Dick:

The second he sees them; he instantly falls in love and nearly squeals.

“What? No. What? Stop. You didn’t” He holds one of the sweatshirts next to his face, his lips stretching into a wide smile.

To think you’d get matching sweatshirts. Is this your way of claiming him? Or telling others, you’re his?

“Well, they were on sale and looked cute-“

“Cute?” His eyes wide, his lips in the shape of an “o” as if you personally offended him. “Just cute? These are more than cute.”

Then, clenching the sweatshirt in his hand, you yelp when he pulls you close and starts twirling you in the air.

“Dick! Put me down!”

“Not until you know this is one of the best things you could possibly give me.”

He was an absolute pain for the rest of the week, rotating between the two sweatshirts every other day (yes, both even if yours is a tight fit) and annoying everyone from making the sign for people to ask so he can brag about them nonstop while reminding you to wear whatever one he’s NOT wearing whenever the two of you head out. 

Jason:

Oh? Oh. Oh-

It slowly dawns to him what exactly he got and, as soon as it clicks, his cheeks flush while the corner of lips curls up into a grin.

You’re cute. So cute. So damn adorable he might die all over again because of it. It’s obvious that they are, the signs clear as day with one in your size, the other in his.

So many thoughts pass through his mind: the fact that it’s a first for him, you wanting to keep you and him tied together, people within and outside of each other’s circles noticing the two of you are a couple. It’s giving him the butterflies, the good butterflies that makes him want to kick his feet.

“…Well? Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” He gulps, trying to tame the excitement and happiness that threatens to bubble out and lose his composure. “Yeah, I really like it.”

“Like” was a big understatement. On top of getting to go around and show off he was yours; he had fun scaring off every person that tried to hit on you as the sweatshirt gave that needed extra push and paired well with his protective-boyfriend-glare.

Tim:

It’s his birthday. Christmas. Both.

Nonstop, his thumbs brush over the fabric of both sweatshirts.

“Where did you get them?” He asks, his eyes glued and unable to look away.

“Online. Couldn’t resist after seeing some of the couples on TikTok wearing them, you know?”

Oh, don’t worry, he knows. What he doesn’t is how you were able to pull this off behind his back, without him even noticing. He may be busy day and night, but he still keeps tabs on you (you know, him being a vigilante and all doesn’t make him the safest person to really date – er, that’s his excuse anyways).  

Then there’s your indirect confession that you pretty much think about him as much he thinks about you, regardless where he and you are. And that’s-

“Tim? You okay? You look like you have a fever.”

The two of you argue over who’s the one that’s problematic. It’s him who ends up, begrudgingly, being “Somebody’s Problem” though he didn’t mind as much after cuddling with you for a whole day with a kiss stamped on his cheek.

Duke:

Only two words: Hell. Yes.

“And it’s for the two of us?” His eyes sparkling and continuously glancing between you and the gift you gave him.

“That is the idea.”

“Wherever, whenever?”

“If you want to…?”

“At school, on dates?”

“You do realize we go to school that requires a uniform-“You huff and raise your hands up at the look he gives you. “Yes, okay, sure. At school and on dates.”

He winces then turns sheepish, rubbing the back of his head apologetically. He didn’t mean to get this worked up, never having thought or needing a couple's merch. He was fine that he got to be with you. It’s once you give him the sweatshirt, he realizes why so many couples buy them or matching anything in general.

He insists that he wears the other only for you to somehow convince him to wear the sweatshirt with “Somebody”. It takes time to get used to, a bit bashful when his family, Bat and biological, and friends teases him though it was nice to hear from strangers you both made a perfect couple.

Damian:

“What’s this supposed to be?” Despite the heavy judgement in the (rhetorical) question, the corner of his lips continuously twitches.

Common fabric. None of the letters are the same size, and worse, in Comic Sans – they’re not cute; it’s tacky at best. Ugly is what he wants to say and he can if he really wants to. There’s only one problem that stops him: you. Two sweatshirts in similar shades including the thread forms the words, there’s no doubt they were meant to be worn as a pair by a certain pair of people.

Add that to him battling every single person to stay away from you twenty-four-seven, it does a lot of critical damage to him seeing you willingly got something to show you people you’re his.

Suddenly, he scowls, placing a hand over his heart that pounds hard against his chest.

“…Damian, do you not like it? I can always return it and get something el-“

“Who said that I didn’t like it?” He ignores your confusion, keeping the sweatshirts out of your reach out of worry you’d actually take it away from him.

He does give you an earful later after realizing which one was meant for him while putting it on with you, wearing it regardless.

[fablehaven-rulez]

cycy8fy9gufy8fu9vipv0ig8yddy9fyfuofpugllflufdiyjgzjgzkysdogxkjxdkgylrstu

/pos

The Things You Say

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.��

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.