nicverse

[nicverse]

just yes

I know everyone tries to make it cutesy but this is exactly what will happen if Jason Todd ends up having a crush on you:

-stares holes into your head across the room. You’re just trying to exist and he’s looking at you like he’s about to smash his head into a wall if you don’t look back

-avoids you. But gets MAD when you do the same

-will try (and fail awfully) to act cool and detached bcs he thinks his feelings will go away if he does that, also is really, really mean to you bcs he wants you to hate him (spoiler: you do NOT hate him)

-won’t let you help him with his injuries/wounds/mission goes FERAL when you don’t let him help you

-will kill in jealousy 85% chances

-over all acts like he was let out of a psych ward recently

-has no game but will give you devastating yearning and cruelty ^^

[nicverse]

HELLL YEAAAAAAHHHH

STUFFED

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Words: ~12k

Plot: You're not exactly sure when teasing turned to tension or when tension turned to need tonight. All you know is that your knees hit the floor fast and willingly.

A/N: Hiii, besties 🥹 I'm so sorry if it felt like I fell off the face of the Earth. I swear I didn't die (sadly lmao), but life's been a whole ass shitstorm lately. every time I sat down thinking "yup, I'm gonna lock in and finish a WIP" (yes, the same ones holding me at gunpoint at this point), the universe just said "lol, nope" 🫠 and don't even get me started on sleep because I don't know her ✋🏻 I've been running on fumes, caffeine, and the occasional mental breakdown lately 😩 BUT I'll try to wrap up the Roy and Dick ones I already started and get those out to you soon, pinky fucking promise 🥺 and I'm sorry for the delay in answering your asks too, I've had the energy of a damp dishrag lately so my brain has been MIA right along with my will to function 😩 I've seen some absolute bangers sitting there and I can't wait to giggle and kick my feet over them when I finally get my shit together 🤭

anyway ✋🏻 I love you, besties 🖤 thank you for sticking around and checking in on my chaotic ass. you guys seriously mean the world to me 🥹

P.S: I'm sorry this is once again a very long one-shot, but I needed the comfort (and the filth), and I fully took it out on Jay and his girl 🥺 hope you won't mind me projecting all over the place with this one 🏃🏻‍♀️

There's just something about the way he always looks at you. Half lidded eyes, a lazy smirk like he already knows exactly how wrecked you're going to be by the end of this. It's not even about control with him—though, let's be honest, he's very good at that too—it's about how easy it is to fall apart.

Jason loves watching you wreck yourself on his dick before he even fucks you. You're on your knees, lips stretched tight around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you take him deep, gagging when he presses against the back of your throat. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding you, ruining you as he grunts, watching your messy, desperate struggle to please him.

And you are desperate. The way you bob your head, working your tongue under his shaft, flattening it against the thick vein along the underside, the way you hollow your cheeks, humming just to hear him curse under his breath, the way your thighs press together because you can't help it.

"Fuck, baby, look at you," he groans, voice ragged, a smug smirk pulling at his lips. The bastard. "So damn pretty with your mouth full. Gettin' me all wet, huh?"

His grip tightens in your hair when you try to pull back for a breath, forcing your nose right back into the skin at the base of his cock. You choke on it, sputter around him, and his abs tense with a low, filthy groan.

"That's it, baby. Take it. I know you can."

His voice is all need and heat, that low rasp that always gets your thighs rubbing together just from the way he talks. And fuck, he's so thick, it always feels like your mouth is stretched to the limit around him. Heavy on your tongue, velvety soft skin dragging along your lips every time he rocks his hips. Precum smears warm and salty against the back of your throat with every shallow thrust, leaking so much you swear he's teasing you on purpose.

You can't tell if you're more drunk on the weight of his dick in your mouth or the way he sounds, like he's two seconds from losing it and fucking your throat until he's spilling every drop straight down it.

Your hands are trembling against his thighs, fingers digging into the muscle as you breathe through your nose, spit pooling in your mouth while you let him use you. And Jason? He looks fucking wrecked. Head tipped back, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he's trying to keep it together but failing. His hips roll forward slow, fucking your mouth with lazy, unhurried thrusts, savoring every single second.

And you love it. His praise, his dick, the way your jaw aches and your throat burns and your heart flutters every time he guides you back down with that big, rough palm. You love how messy he lets you get, how greedy he lets you be. And yeah, maybe you also love how hard he gets just by watching you ruin yourself on his cock.

"Messy little mouth," he mutters, looking down at you. "You like it like this, huh? Like bein' full of my dick, doll? Bet your panties are soaked already, aren't they?"

You blink up at him, teary eyed and flushed, and the softest little whine bubbles from your throat around his cock and fuck if that doesn't nearly snap his restraint clean in half.

"Jesus Christ," he groans, head tipping back for a second, fingers flexing in your hair. "Such a good fuckin' girl for me."

Your whimper vibrates around him, and he feels it. He sees how desperate you are, how your pussy is probably dripping already. And it is. Jason chuckles, tugging your head back until his cock slips free, leaving you gasping, saliva connecting your lips to the tip in a little string before it breaks.

"God, I should film this," he pants, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Let you watch how dumb you look fuckin' your pretty mouth on my dick. You'd love that shit, wouldn't you? Fuckin' droolin' like a desperate little thing."

Then he's pushing back in, slow at first, but deep, watching your lips stretch wide around him, the corners of your eyes welling up as your jaw quivers, throat tightening in reflex when his dick slides right past that soft, choking point. He groans again—deep, possessive—and this time there's no teasing in it, just raw hunger.

The soft, wet sound of it, the messy little gasps and wet clicks when he fucks into your mouth makes his cock twitch. His hips roll forward slow, controlled, but there's nothing soft about it. He feeds you his cock in slow, thick strokes, watching your lips strain, your breath stutter as he starts fucking your mouth. You moan, choked and needy around him, and he feels it vibrate down his shaft, feels it all the way in his gut.

Your eyes flutter, tears spilling over when his hips snap forward just a little sharper, his balls brushing your chin. His dick is a fucking mess—slick with your drool, precum smeared along the thick vein on the underside, shining every time he drags it back over your tongue. Spit strings from your lips when he rocks out, then sinks right back in, wet and heavy on your tongue.

"Shit, yeah... there she is," he rasps, eyes blown wide with lust as he takes in the sight of you—glassy eyed, panting, wrecked just from sucking his dick.

It's filthy. Sloppy. And he fucking loves how your spit coats him, how you're gagging just a little, nose scrunching when the head hits the back of your throat again. Loves the little shivery sounds you make when your jaw is stretched to the limit, lips swollen and slick.

But just when you're choking a little sweeter around him, eyes glassy and tongue flicking against the underside of his cock, he tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you off with a wet pop. He groans, jaw clenched like it physically hurts to stop. Because fuck, he'd love nothing more than to stuff your throat full and blow his load right down it, watch you swallow every drop while you blink up at him, all pretty and ruined, but he'd rather cum inside you.

"C'mere."

Before you can respond or process what's happening, Jason's got you on the couch on all fours, back arched, ass in the air, completely at his mercy. You don't even notice him sliding your panties down until they're halfway down your thighs, the fabric sticking just a little from how wet you are. He hums behind you, one big, warm hand squeezing your ass before he slaps it, the other dragging the lace the rest of the way down.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters when he feels how soaked they are before he even touched you. "You're already drippin' for me."

Then his hand slides in, rough fingers gliding right through your puffy folds, and your moan is needy and breathless and embarrassingly loud. The way he touches you isn't fast or hard, but it wrecks you, sends heat crawling up your spine like fire.

His hands spread you wide, thick fingers dragging through your dripping pussy before he moves higher, teasing over that tight little hole with slow, lazy circles.

"You ever let anyone touch you here before, pretty girl?" he murmurs, almost mocking as he presses the pad of his thumb against it, not quite pushing in.

But he knows the answer. Doesn't matter what you say, no one's touched you like he does. No one's ruined you like this.

You whine, pushing back against him, but he chuckles, pulling his hand away completely, leaving you empty, aching. Then his cock is there, heavy, dragging through your slick, getting nice and messy before he taps the head against your clit, making you jerk.

"God, you're so fuckin' wet," he groans, giving your ass a sharp slap, watching the ripple with hungry eyes. "What, all that just from suckin' my dick?"

He lines himself up, teasing your entrance, pushing in just the tip before pulling back out, making you sob. "C'mon, baby. Beg for it."

You do, because you need him. Because you're dripping down your thighs, desperate, clenching around nothing as you push your hips back, trying to take more.

But your brain isn't working anymore, not really. Not when he's talking to you like that, not when you can feel the fat head of his cock nudging at your entrance, dragging back through your slick, over and over again.

"Jay," you gasp, your voice high and wrecked and so fucking needy. "Please, I—fuck, I can't—"

He grins behind you, slow and smug. His hand comes down hard on your ass again, then smooths over the sting with a lazy rub, palm kneading over the soft curve before giving it a squeeze that's just shy of mean.

"You can't what, pretty girl? Think? Breathe? Speak full fuckin' sentences?"

"Jay," you gasp, brain melting the second he grinds the head of his cock against your soaked little hole again. He's right, you can't even form a full sentence, just raw, needy noises spilling out as your fingers curl into the couch. "Please—please, fuck, I need it—I need you—"

He groans at the sound of your voice, all soft and shaky, fucked out already when he hasn't even given it to you yet.

"Yeah?" he mutters, rubbing slow, lazy circles around your entrance with his cock, just barely dipping in, never deep enough to satisfy, just enough to tease. "What do you need, baby? Gotta use your words."

You whimper, dropping your head down, back arching as you try to fuck yourself back onto him. "Need you inside," you cry out. "Need you to fill me up—please, I can't—need it so bad, Jay, please..."

"Goddamn," he mutters, watching you shiver under him. His hand grabs your hip tight, holding you still, making sure you can't get it until he gives it. "You're so fuckin' cute when you beg. My pretty desperate girl."

You're trembling, mouth open, eyes stinging with how badly you need it. He's still teasing, still giving you just the tip, still watching you fall apart like it's his fucking job. And it kind of is.

"Jay—" your voice cracks, ruined and raw, your whole body shaking with pure fucking frustration. "Just fuck me already."

He freezes, then laughs, one of those full body chuckles. "Oh, now you've got a mouth, huh?" he teases, cock twitching at your entrance. "So fuckin' needy you forgot your manners."

But he gives in, finally, because you're soaked and shaking and clenching around nothing, and he can't take it either. Jason grunts, grabs both your hips, and in one slow, deep stroke, he sinks in, splitting you wide, bottoming out until his thighs press flush against yours.

"Fuck," he groans, voice wrecked as he grinds in deep, letting you feel every thick, pulsing inch. He leans over you, one hand curling around your neck, the other slipping under you to toy with your soaked clit. "That's it, baby, takin' me so fuckin' good. Lemme hear you."

And when you cry out, back arching as he starts to move, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, his voice turns soft, almost sweet.

"There you go," he purrs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, thrusting deep, hitting that spot that always makes your legs shake. "That's my good girl."

Then he bites down—hard—right where your neck meets your shoulder, making your breath hitch and your pussy clamp down around him. The sting of it sends sparks across your skin, but before you can whimper, he licks the spot tenderly, his tongue wet and warm as he soothes it.

He doesn't stop moving. His hips roll into you in deep, wet thrusts, his cock sliding in and out with ease, coated in your slick, every inch of him drenched and glistening. You can hear it, that messy slap of wet skin on skin every time he fucks you harder, chasing the little fluttering squeeze of your cunt around him. He's soaked already, every thrust a wet, obscene slide that leaves your skin sticky and your body buzzing.

Jason can feel your body responding to everything—every twitch, every clench, the way your hips push back like you're chasing more even when he's giving you everything. He knows your pussy better than anyone, knows just how to angle his hips to make you sob, and it's got his head spinning.

You're so soft, warm, and so fucking tight, and the way you squeeze around him every time he hits that spot has him gritting his teeth, sweat prickling at his temples. His fingers rub tight circles over your clit, relentless and greedy, matching the pace of his thrusts, just rough enough to make your thighs start trembling beneath him.

He watches you fall apart and thinks it's the prettiest sight he's ever seen. Your flushed back, your open mouth, the way your hips keep pushing back to meet every thrust even when you're already shaking.

And underneath it all, one thought claws through his brain on repeat: mine. His thrusts get rougher, hips slapping against your ass with filthy, wet smacks. You can't even brace yourself properly, so your fingers claw helplessly at the couch cushions, trying to hold on while he fucks you through the next wave of pleasure building low and tight in your belly.

Jason leans in close, chest heavy on your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That's it, baby, just like that."

Your legs shake, your whole body is humming, every nerve ending lit up like he's fucking you raw with nothing but praise and dick. He knows exactly how to wreck you, how to draw it out, how to keep you right on that edge.

You sob against the cushions, voice muffled, brain barely able to string thoughts together. It's too much but it's not enough at the same time. You need more, need him, need all of him.

He bites your shoulder again, then licks over it, soothing the sting, voice warm and ragged against your skin.

"Takin' it so fuckin' good for me, doll. You're perfect like this, y'know that? Lettin' me fuck this tight little pussy, lettin' me fill you up."

Your moan breaks in your throat, choked and high pitched, your body jolting with every hard thrust. His hand is still on your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles that make your thighs shake. You can't even think, you're just trying to stay upright while Jason pounds you into the couch.

"Look at you," he mutters, breath hot against your ear, "clutchin' the fuckin' pillows like they're gonna save you. So fuckin' messy for me."

You're so fucking close, and you know exactly why. Because sucking his cock gets you soaked every time, and you're still worked up from earlier, from how deep he fucked your throat, from the way he moaned for you while you gagged on him. And now he's splitting you open, stuffing you full of the same dick you were drooling over a few minutes ago.

Every stroke makes your pussy clench tighter around him, needy and hot and soaking him all over again. His dick is drenched, sliding in and out of you so easy, wet and loud and filthy, stretching you open until you're gasping with every thrust, stuffed full of every inch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans when you clench around him, "you feel that? You hear that shit? You're so fuckin' wet for me I can't even think straight."

Your pussy flutters around him at the praise, and he grunts, deep and desperate, his hips stuttering just slightly when he feels it. Christ, he loves how you always melt when he talks to you like this.

"Shit—squeezin' me so fuckin' tight. You gonna cum for me like this, huh? Gonna let me feel you lose it?"

You don't even mean to moan like that, but God, it just rips out of your throat, high and desperate and raw when it hits you all at once. Your back arches, mouth falling open, gasping around broken little sobs as your orgasm crashes through you.

Your clit throbs hard under his touch, and your thighs tremble like they might give out. You're soaked, dripping around his cock, creamy slick coating his shaft every time he fucks back in. It's messy. So fucking messy. You can feel it on your skin, on your thighs, between them, wet and warm and filthy, just how he likes it.

"That's it, baby," Jason groans, still right at your ear, his voice gone hoarse, "that's my girl. Fuckin' look at you."

He groans again when your pussy clamps down around him, pulsing with each wave of release. He feels every flutter, every slick, tight squeeze, and it drags another low, wrecked sound from his throat.

"Goddamn, you're so fuckin' tight when you cum."

You're barely breathing, still twitching under him, and that's when he finally lets go, hand slipping from your clit, the other loosening from around your neck. You collapse against the couch cushions, boneless and wrecked, lips parted around soft whimpers.

Jason pulls back a little, straightening up behind you so he can watch—hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into your skin as he fucks into you slow, deep, wet. His eyes are locked on the way your pussy stretches around his dick, swollen and soaked.

"Fuck," he mutters, " I could watch this pussy fuckin' swallow me for hours."

He gives your ass a hard slap, watches the way it jiggles, then spreads you wider just to see it better: his glistening cock sliding in and out of your fluttering hole, dripping with slick and still twitching from how hard you came.

"You feel that? Still fuckin' twitchin' around my dick. You're not done, doll, are you?"

You moan again—loud, needy—your voice cracking as you look over your shoulder at him, lips slick with drool, eyes glassy and blown wide. You're still trembling from your orgasm, still dripping around his cock, and yet you're pushing back into him.

You fuck yourself on him clumsy, desperate, your thighs shaking with the effort, the angle messy, sloppy, obscene. The way your ass bounces back against his hips with each weak, greedy thrust is downright pathetic.

"Jay..." you whimper, breath hitching, "More. Please. Need your cum, baby."

Jason lets out the filthiest moan you've heard tonight, low and guttural and fucking wrecked. His hands tighten on your hips as your pussy flutters around him on purpose, squeezing him with every word, every plea, and he feels it.

"Yeah?" he pants, "you want it that bad, pretty girl?"

You nod frantically, bottom lip trembling, moaning as more drool slips down your chin.

He breathes out a broken, "Jesus fuckin' Christ," right before one hand slams flat between your shoulder blades, pushing you down hard into the couch cushions.

Your cheek presses into the fabric, the friction grounding you even as your thoughts spiral. Then he starts to move, fucking into you deep and fast, no more teasing. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, the rhythm so unforgiving that you can't do anything but take it. His cock drives into you again and again, stretching you wide, splitting you open, dragging slick noises out of your body that make him groan every damn time.

He watches it all, can't even look away—the way your cunt stretches for him, how soaked you are, how your folds cling to every inch when he pulls back. You're gripping him so tight, and he feels every flutter, every greedy little squeeze when your pussy is trying to drag him right back in.

And fuck if he doesn't give it what it wants, rolling his hips slow, deep, just to see the way your wetness sticks to his cock when he slides out, messy and obscene. Every sound, every little tremble of your thighs, just pushes him closer to the edge, makes him slam back in harder, deeper.

"Fuck," he mutters, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his chest as he keeps pounding into your soaked, twitching hole. "You hear that shit? Hear how wet you are for me, baby?"

You're moaning nonstop, mouth slack, drooling on the cushion beneath you as your eyes roll back, voice going higher and more broken with every thrust. His cock feels so deep, so thick and hot and heavy inside you, and your pussy is fluttering again, slick gushing around him, your body already trying to give him another orgasm.

And Jason can feel every spasm, every wet pull of your pussy as you squeeze him tighter. His grip on your back tightens, holding you down, keeping you right where he wants you.

"You want my cum? Huh, doll? Gonna fill this pretty pussy up, make it drip outta you just so I can push it back in with my dick. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You let out the filthiest sound yet, sobbing through your moans, nodding, choking on a little gasp when his dick hits that spot that makes your toes curl. Jason groans again, sharp and strained, wrecked by how good you feel around him—hot, soaked, clenching, and he knows he's close.

He can't take it anymore, not when you're dripping around his dick and begging for his cum like that, so fucked out and sweet and needy he can barely think.

He slides a hand up your back, rough palm dragging along your spine until it curls around the back of your neck. Not tight, not mean, just firm, because he needs to feel you, keep you close, keep you his. He tugs you back gently but without room to resist, until your spine is arched against him, until your ass is flush to his hips and your back is pressed to his sweat slicked chest.

"C'mere, baby," he pants against your ear.

His other arm wraps around your waist, locking you in place, and then he's using his free hand to finger your clit again, fast and messy, rubbing tight little circles over that swollen bundle of nerves, making you jolt with every pass of his fingers. He doesn't stop fucking you, not even a little. His hips keep snapping up into you, hard and fast and so deep, fucking you through every shake and sob that escapes your parted lips.

You gasp, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering open just enough to look up at him, and he looks fucking wrecked.

Dark hair a mess, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening on his neck, his eyes burning before he kisses you. Sloppy. Wet. Filthy. His lips crush against yours, tongue sliding in deep, moaning into your mouth like he needs the taste of you to survive. The kiss is all teeth and spit and desperate little gasps between breaths, your mouth falling open for him over and over again as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the way your walls pulse around his cock.

You can't even kiss him properly. You're so wrecked, all you can do is moan into him, lips twitching and trembling, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as your clit throbs under his fingers.

Jason groans into your mouth, biting your lower lip, sucking it between his teeth for a second before licking over the sting like he can't stand to be gentle, can't stand not to devour you. But you don't want him to.

And the whole time, he doesn't slow down. His cock is soaked, sliding in and out of your tight, dripping pussy like it's his fucking job. Each thrust gets filthier, wetter, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, your slick making obscene noises with every move.

"Fuck," he pants against your lips, hips grinding up into you with a sharp snap, "You're gonna make me lose it, baby. You feel that?"

You whimper, arching into him, legs trembling, so close to breaking again, so close you can barely speak. Your whole body is trembling, legs shaking, fingers gripping his arms while Jason keeps fucking into you from behind, every inch of his cock dragging through your soaked, fluttering walls. You're making the sweetest little wrecked sounds under your breath, lips swollen and spit slick from that last kiss, eyes glassy with need.

"G-God, Jay—"

It comes out in a gasp, all breath and slur, barely coherent. "Y-you—fuck—you feel so good..."

He groans, lips brushing your temple as he keeps moving inside you, hips slamming up fast and needy.

"Yeah, doll?" he pants, voice wrecked, shaky from how tight and hot you are around him. "You're fuckin' meltin' around my dick, huh?"

You nod like your brain is not even wired right anymore. "Y-yeah... fuck, yes, yes—please, fill me up, Jay, please, I need it, need your cum, baby, please—"

Jason grits his teeth with a sharp hiss, dick throbbing deep inside you at the sound of your voice, all broken and begging and gone. His messy, needy girl, so dick drunk she can't even think straight. That high little whimper in your throat when he grinds in just right, when he presses his fingers harder over your clit, making your pussy spasm around him? He fucking lives for it.

"Shit," he breathes, hand still moving over your clit in tight circles, his hips slapping against your ass. "Fucking love when you sound like that, baby. You hear yourself? Can't even talk, huh? So fucked out, so pretty like this. Mine."

You're babbling, hips twitching, tears prickling in your eyes, your moans pitchy and wrecked as he hammers into you. His rhythm is getting sloppy, the pace stuttering, every thrust a little deeper, a little rougher, desperate.

And then, your orgasm hits like a wave. Your clit throbs under his fingers, your pussy clenches around his cock and you cry out loud, sobbing his name as your walls spasm and flutter, so wet and tight and pulsing around him that he nearly loses it right there.

"F-fuck—"

Jason's whole body jolts, hips jerking as he buries himself deep to the hilt, one last shaky thrust before he lets go. He cums hard, cock twitching, thick ropes of hot cum spilling deep inside your cunt, filling you up until you can feel the heat of it dripping down your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged against your skin.

"Jesus—fuckin' hell, baby," he gasps, still twitching faintly inside you.

Your thighs are shaking, your breath is stuck in your throat. Your mind is completely blank except for the feel of his cum dripping out of you and the way he's keeping you pressed against him.

His breath is hot against your shoulder when he finally moves again, mouth brushing lazy kisses along your damp skin. He's still buried deep inside you, cock thick and twitching, your cunt swollen and soaked from how hard he just fucked you.

His arms wrap around your waist, keeping you snug against him. "Good, pretty girl?" he mumbles against your skin, voice warm and all fucked out.

You nod, your body still trembling a little as you sink back against him. "Mhmm," you manage. "So good."

Your hips shift instinctively, a tiny grind back against his dick and fuck, he gasps. You both feel how sensitive he is, how your sore, fluttering pussy tightens just a little around him, slick and warm and still dripping with both your cum.

"More, baby," you whine breathlessly.

"Jesus," he hisses, teeth catching your skin as his fingers grip your waist tighter. "Don't fuckin' do that, doll. Gonna make me lose it."

But you can't help it. Your body is greedy for him, always has been. Even now, with your thighs trembling and your cunt already stretched wide, full, aching, you want more. You always want more with Jason because it's never just the size of him or the way his dick hits so deep you see stars.

No, it's the way he touches you like you matter, the way he learned every part of you. The way he's been obsessed with your pleasure since the very first time he had you moaning under him, soaked and begging.

You grind again, just a little. Another tiny roll of your hips, needing the drag of his cock against your raw, oversensitive walls and he groans, low and guttural, like you're torturing him. You are.

His dick twitches again inside you, still hard, still so thick and perfect, nestled deep in your wet, clenching heat. You're throbbing around him, your slick walls fluttering with every breath, hugging his cock perfectly. Even after all this time together, even after countless nights of being fucked dumb by this man, there's just something about him—his hands, his mouth, his voice, the way he praises you, how he looks at you like he's still stupidly in love. And he is. That's why Jason never stops making you feel wanted, safe, loved, never stops making you feel good.

And right now? Your body wants more. You gasp when you bend forward again, both hands bracing against the couch cushions, your body practically melting back into position. Jason's still buried inside you, hot and thick and so deep, and even that small shift has your pussy clenching hard around him, slick and sensitive. He groans behind you, his head tipping back for just a second like he's trying to breathe before his eyes drag down your back to your ass, spread wide, twitching a little, glistening. And he can't stop looking at it.

You're leaking, dripping around his cock, messy and swollen and so pretty he wants to sink to his knees just to watch. His hands tighten on your waist, and then one drags down, fingers gathering a smear of his cum from where it's pooled at the base of his dick. He knows what he's doing before he even lets himself think about it.

"God, baby," he breathes, voice all heat, "look at you."

And then he slides that slick finger up between your cheeks, slow, dragging it over that tight little hole, and the noise you make? That sweet, sudden moan from deep in your chest? God, he nearly fucking loses it. You tense instantly, pussy clamping around his dick, and he groans.

"Shit," he mutters, voice rough and breathless. "You like that, baby?"

You whimper, high and needy, and push back against him, just like you did earlier, ass pressing into his hips with this desperate little roll. "Y-Yeah..."

He doesn't think, just moves. One slow push of his finger, just the tip, just enough to feel that tight resistance give under him. And fuck, the way your whole body shudders, how you arch for him, legs trembling, he watches the reaction ripple down your spine and groans.

"Yeah, doll?" he asks again, softer, coaxing, even though his cock is throbbing inside you, twitching at how soaked and warm you still are. "That feel good?"

You nod, whining, voice fucked out and breathless as you try to rock your hips again, his cock dragging against your still pulsing walls, his finger teasing in just a little deeper. You look fucking wrecked, needy and messy and glowing under the low light, your body begging for more like you can't even help it.

And Jason? He's about to lose his shit. He knows he's thought about this. Late at night, in the shower, on those long patrols where he can't stop remembering the way your ass looks when you're bouncing on top of him while you're taking his dick.

He's thought about it so many times—just touching, just teasing, just wanting to see how you'd react—but he's never done it. Never dared. Because the last thing he'd ever want is to push you too far, make you feel like you owed him anything, make you uncomfortable. That's never what this is about.

But the way you're moaning? The way your body shivers when he slides his finger in a little deeper and starts gently moving it in and out, just barely? Christ. You're soaking him again, your pussy fluttering and greedy, trying to pull him in deeper, walls so warm and wet and perfect.

He pulls his cock out almost all the way, just to watch, just to see how you clench, how his cum leaks out of you in slow drips. And then he pushes back in, slow and deep, both of you moaning, because he slides in so easily, snug and slick and tight all at once.

Jason doesn't even get the chance to move—doesn't get a chance to pull his hips back, set a pace, nothing—because the second he's buried inside you again, you start fucking yourself back on his cock like you've lost your goddamn mind.

You gasp, hips rolling, clumsy and desperate, grinding down until you're taking every thick inch of him with this slick, messy slide that makes your body tremble. His cock stretches you open, dragging over every spot inside you that makes your legs shake and fuck, it feels so good you don't even care how wrecked you sound.

And then there's his finger. You'd never thought you'd be into this. Not with the way your exes treated you, like your body was some puzzle they couldn't be bothered to figure out, all selfish hands and no patience, making you feel like it was your fault when it didn't feel good. They'd never cared. Never tried. They'd barely been able to fuck you right, much less... this. But Jason?

Good fucking lord. Jason touches you like he wants you to come apart, like your pleasure is his favorite thing. Like making you feel good is some kind of fucking art form, and he's been studying for it his whole life. The way his finger works into your ass, slow and careful, his hand steady on your hip while you fuck yourself back on his cock? The way he moans every time your pussy tightens up around him?

Yeah, you're never gonna get enough of this man. He groans behind you, rough and wrecked, his thumb pressing into your hip, holding you steady even though you're grinding back on him so desperately it's making his thighs tense.

"Jesus, doll... fuckin'—look at you," he rasps. "So goddamn greedy. You just can't help yourself, huh?"

You moan, loud, pitching forward a little on shaky arms as your walls flutter around his cock—and his finger. And it's filthy, the way your ass clenches down around him every time his finger rocks in, the way your sloppy pussy grips his dick so tight it makes him groan through his teeth.

He swears under his breath, head dropping forward as he watches you bounce back on him. You're so fucking insatiable, and it's driving him fucking insane. The noises you let out? These desperate, whiny, punched out moans every time you push back and grind down? Yeah, the neighbors are definitely complaining tomorrow. Not that it's the first time.

And not that Jason gives a single fuck. Because right now, he's got his perfect girl fucking herself on his dick, soaking him, whining for him, moaning like she wants the whole goddamn building to hear. And all he can do is hold your hip tight, finger your ass slow, and praise you for it.

"Who would've fuckin' thought. My pretty girl, so goddamn desperate to get both these holes stuffed full."

His words make you clench—around his cock, around his finger—and he feels it, the way your pussy flutters and grips him tight.

And fuck, his dick? Soaked. You're creaming all over him, slick making a filthy, messy ring at the base of his cock every time you grind back down, every time you fuck yourself onto him. His skin is slick with it—yours too—and you're both a goddamn mess.

He watches you get sloppy with it, sees how your thighs tremble, how you whine under your breath but you're still so fucking needy. Still chasing it like it's the only thing you want. And it fucking is.

Jason grins as he gives your hip a tight squeeze. "Maybe lemme fuck you, baby," he mutters, "really fuck you."

And he does. One slow pull back, his cock dragging over every swollen, soaked ridge inside you before he sinks in hard, hips smacking against your ass with a sound so sharp it makes your breath hitch.

His free hand holds you tight at the waist, steadying you. The other one is still teasing your ass, finger working slow inside you until Jason shifts his grip, spreads his fingers wider across your hip. His thumb hooks just above the curve of your ass, spreading your cheeks a little more, just enough for him to tilt his head down, let a thick bead of spit drip right between them.

It lands warm on your skin and you shudder, a broken moan punching out of your throat as your pussy clamps down around his dick, squeezing him so hard he swears under his breath.

"Fuck, that's it," Jason groans, snapping his hips forward again, his cock splitting you open on a wet, filthy slide.

And God, the way you take him, slick and swollen, your cunt clenching so tight it drags over every vein on his dick. The sound of skin slapping against skin, thick and obscene, bounces off the walls, the couch creaking under you both.

The sight of his cock sinking into your messy pussy, slick dripping down his balls, that obscene little stretch every time he pushes in? Yeah, that's about to break him.

"Jay—fuck—don't stop, baby, please..."

Your voice cracks every time his hips snap forward and you don't even know if you're making sense anymore. At this point, it's just a string of yes, please, more, fuck tumbling out.

"P-please... feels so g-good..."

Your words come out all stuttery, cracked at the edges, spilling out between breathless little whines every time his cock slams deep, every time his finger works a little further inside your ass.

"Look at you," he pants, voice low and rough, "so fuckin' pretty like this. Can't get enough, huh, baby?"

He can't believe how desperate you are right now—how you're dripping down his cock, pussy fluttering around him—and all it took was his spit slicked finger easing deeper in your ass while he fucks your cunt open, dragging his cock over every spot that makes you whimper.

You're a goddamn mess. Sweaty, clenching, rocking back into him like it's all you know how to do. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you back to meet every hard, punishing thrust.

And fuck, seeing you like this? Head tipped forward, moaning for him, mouth hanging open as you babble out wrecked little pleas between gasps? He's fucking losing it and fast.

"Goddamn, baby," he breathes, hips snapping forward hard enough your whole body jolts, "fuckin' takin' it like my good girl... so fuckin' perfect for me."

He means it. Means every word because even after all this time, even after all the ways he's had you, the way you fall apart for him like this, the way your pussy grips his dick so tight, soaked and swollen and perfect, you're his. All his.

"Y-Yes—right there, fuck—"

Your voice breaks on a moan, high and sharp, and then you fall apart. It hits you fast and mean, your whole body tensing before it shudders, legs shaking under you as your pussy clamps down around Jason's dick, hot and pulsing and so fucking wet. Your walls flutter, squeezing him in desperate, spasming little aftershocks, slick gushing around him with every twitch of your hips.

And your ass? Fuck, your ass clenches around his finger, tight and perfect, your whole body so wound up you're gripping him everywhere. Jason moans, rocking his hips in slow, deep thrusts just to feel your puffy walls milking his dick desperately.

And shit, the way you're shaking, gasping, whining his name like you need him even after cumming that hard? Jason's right on the edge. Because fuck if it doesn't tear him open every single time, seeing you fall apart for him like this, knowing it's his dick, his hands, his praise wrecking you.

His stomach tightens, hips grinding in deep as his own orgasm builds hot and thick in his gut. "Fuck—"

It rips out of him right before his hips jerk forward, burying his cock deep inside you. You feel the hard throb of his dick as it twitches deep in your cunt and then hot, thick spurts of cum flood your spent little hole, warm and sticky and so much.

You gasp, a whiny little "God, yes—" tumbling past your lips as your walls clench down around him, sucking every drop.

His whole body tightens with every slow, dragging spurt of cum—your pussy fluttering around him, sucking him in deep—and you keep moving, pushing back in tiny, shaky little rolls of your hips, fucking him sloppily through it, milking him for everything he's got.

"Jesus—" he hisses between his teeth, hips giving a few messy, uneven thrusts before he finally empties the last thick pulse inside you.

And when he eases his finger out of your ass, slow and careful, you shudder all over, whimpering.

"Shhh, doll," Jason murmurs, leaning over your back, his mouth finding your sweaty skin in soft, soothing kisses. "It's okay. Breathe for me, yeah?"

You nod, cheek squished against the couch cushions because Christ, you can barely hold yourself up—body limp, legs trembling, everything hot and heavy and soaked. And he stays there with you, wrapping his arms around your middle, his lips brushing over your shoulder, your spine, anywhere he can reach, soft kisses pressed into every inch of damp skin while his palm rubs your side.

"Good girl," he whispers, voice soft against your skin.

You whimper, soft and breathy when his dick twitches inside you, your body giving a little involuntary shudder and Jason hums, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he slowly pulls out.

You moan at the feeling, wrecked and overstimulated, your pussy fluttering around nothing and Jason lets out a soft, breathless chuckle behind you.

"Don't do that, doll," he murmurs, giving your hip a gentle squeeze. "Or I might fuck you again."

"Don't even joke right now," you mumble, your voice hoarse and so, so wrecked.

He huffs a soft laugh and then flops down on the couch beside you, big arms reaching for you, easing you into his side with a gentleness that makes your heart clench. He tugs you right against him, hooking one of your shaky legs over his hip, his palm splaying warm and steady over your thigh.

You bury your face against his chest, nuzzling into the warm skin there as you try to shift your leg off him, murmuring, "Jay, I'm dripping..."

And you are. You can feel it. His cum, thick and warm, leaking slow from your sore, fucked out pussy, sticky between your thighs.

Jason snorts, "Yeah, well, I don't give a fuck, baby. We'll wash up."

His hand slides up your back, rubbing soft, slow circles between your shoulder blades. "Just relax for me."

You do. Little by little, your body melts against his as he keeps holding you close, kissing your damp hair, your cheek, the soft skin of your temple, his thumb rubbing soothing strokes over your spine while your heart finally starts to slow.

You can't help the way your thoughts spin, soft and hazy, floating on that warm, fucked out high. Because God, this side of Jason? The soft, tender, sweet aftercare, the way he holds you? You love it so fucking much.

You hadn't expected this when you first got together. Like, you'd figured he'd be good in bed just from the way he'd kiss you—obviously—figured he'd wreck you six ways from Sunday. But this? The way he takes care of you after? The kisses, the soft touches, the whispered praises while he helps you come back down? You didn't think he'd have it in him. But fuck, does he ever.

You're still shivering. A little from the way he fucked you open, your body wrecked and overstimulated, and a little from the chill hanging in the air now that the sweat is cooling on your skin but Jason clocks it instantly.

He doesn't even give you a chance to blink before he's shifting under you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist as he hauls you right on top of him, chest to chest, your legs falling limp around his sides.

"Jay—" you squeak, breath catching in your throat, giggling when your weight settles on him.

You're basically a rag doll at this point, and even if you wanted to fight him on it... yeah, that's not happening.

You manage a weak little swat at his chest, your palm making a soft thud against his damp skin. "God, you're impossible."

But you don't move. Fuck, you melt against him, burying your face right into the warm crook of his neck because well... it's Jason. Human furnace. Walking radiator. His arms are snug around you, broad chest rising and falling beneath yours, heart beating steady like a drum.

Your pussy is still dripping, a slow, sticky slide between your thighs, but you don't care, and he sure as hell doesn't either.

Jason huffs a soft breath, his arms tightening just a little, his hand splayed across your spine. "I love you so fuckin' much, pretty girl," he mumbles against your temple. "You're fuckin' perfect, you know that?"

You hum against his skin, brushing your nose along the line of his neck before tilting your head up just enough to catch his eyes and a soft, cheeky smile tugs at your lips. "You literally said I'm a pain in your ass this morning."

Jason snorts. Real, genuine. His chest shakes with it as his hand glides up your back. "Nah, I was just teasing, baby."

He ducks his head a little, lips pressing against your forehead. "You're perfect."

And the way he looks at you—eyes soft and open, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips—God, it's like you hung the fucking stars in his sky.

You can't help it. The giggle bubbles right up out of you. And Jason's heart? Shit, it fucking stumbles because this? This is everything to him. You, soft and smiling in his arms after he's spent himself inside you, still trembling a little but safe, his. He can't get over it. Can't get over you.

The way you trust him with your body, your heart, the way you laugh like that? He's so gone for you it's not even funny. You shift against him, a lazy little scoot that drags your slick skin over his, until you're close enough to reach his lips. And without even thinking, you lean in, pressing soft, sleepy kisses right over that stupidly pretty mouth of his. Just a soft brush at first, barely there.

Jason blinks down at you, eyebrows lifting, mouth twitching at the corners, trying so hard to look unimpressed. That lazy, cocky drawl slips out, rough around the edges.

"Fucked you that good, huh?"

You nod, lips still ghosting over his, and your soft little giggle is muffled against his mouth. You don't even try to deny it—why would you? You know what you sound like. Wrecked, floaty, breathless.

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You little shit."

But his hand comes up, big and warm at the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair and when he pulls you back down, his mouth meets yours in a kiss that's nothing like the teasing.

It's deep. Hot. His lips move slow, but there's nothing soft about it, nothing casual about the way his tongue brushes against yours, slick and hungry, dragging a quiet moan from your throat before he swallows it down His tongue brushes against yours, a smooth, wet glide that makes you shudder all over again and your pussy, traitorous as ever, throbs.

God. You can feel it—your walls clenching around nothing, raw and slick, a slow, aching pulse right between your legs. You don't even care how sloppy it gets. The wet glide of your lips, the little sounds of your mouths working together, his soft groans when you suck on his tongue, your needy whimpers when he tilts his head and deepens it until you can't even tell where your breath ends and his begins.

You kiss like that for minutes. Long, drawn out, open mouthed kisses that leave you dizzy and boneless in his arms, your legs limp around his waist, your hips squirming without meaning to when his other hand slides down—grips your ass, big palm squeezing hard enough to make you whimper.

Your sweaty skin sticks where you press together, slick thighs half spread over his hips, your chest pressed against his warm, steady heartbeat. You finally break the kiss with a little gasp, your lips tingling, both of you breathing hard like you'd just run a mile instead of making out like horny teenagers on your couch.

You barely manage a soft, breathless, "Love you, Jay."

Jason doesn't even hesitate. He leans in, presses the lightest kiss to the tip of your nose—so fucking soft, like you aren't both a sweaty, fucked out mess on the couch—and murmurs, "Love you too, doll."

You smush your cheek right against his, nuzzling in like some sleepy cat while your arms drape lazily around his shoulders.

"Ready to go clean up?" he asks, voice low, lips brushing your temple.

You let out a pitiful little whine. "Nooo..." you stretch the word out, all soft and pouty, barely moving. "I'm tired..."

Jason lets out a quiet snort. "I'll carry you."

You nuzzle deeper into the curve of his neck like a stubborn little gremlin, mumbling, "Nooo..."

He huffs and smacks your ass with a firm slap that makes you squeak. "We're sticky as fuck, baby."

You pout against his skin, voice all sleepy and dramatic. "Don't care."

Jason scoffs. "Yeah, you absolutely do, pretty girl."

His hand slides up your spine, rubbing slow, soothing circles like that'll make you move somehow.

You let out a soft little huff, your lips still pressed against his jaw, and mumble, "Maybe..."

He shakes his head, biting back a grin. "Alright. Five more minutes, then I'm scoopin' your cute ass up and haulin' you straight into the shower. Yeah?"

You hum against him, all soft and small. "Yeah, okay."

He sits there, holding you close while your body melts against his—bare skin sticky with sweat and cum, hair damp, your soft little breaths warming his throat—and he feels it again. That quiet, bone deep thud in his chest because sometimes? He still can't believe it.

Can't believe you're this soft with him. This clingy and sweet and trusting, curling up in his arms and rubbing your cheek against his. And he never thought he'd have this, never thought he'd let himself want it, really. This messy, domestic, heart aching more he'd always told himself wasn't in the cards for a guy like him. But here he is.

Jason Todd. Sitting on a pink ass couch he didn't pick with the prettiest girl he's ever known sprawled on top of him like some warm, sleepy kitten while he rubs your back and breathes you in and feels his chest go all soft and stupid over how fucking much he loves you.

And maybe that shouldn't surprise him after everything. After all the shit he's been through—dying, for fuck's sake, coming back and crawling his way through hell and heartbreak and fights he never really won. After walking away from Bruce, from everything he thought he was supposed to be.

He really figured he'd be on his own for a good while. Not forever, but long enough that this? A girl who loves him like you do? Who calls him Jay, kisses the tip of his nose like he's worth something, falls asleep half draped over him since the first night you spent together? Yeah, he never fucking thought he'd have that.

Not until you came along—soft, stubborn, sweet as hell—and wrecked every single wall he built without even trying. Your stomach picks that moment to let out the loudest, most pathetic growl and Jason huffs a laugh right against your temple.

"Okay," he snorts, pressing a kiss there, "I think that's our cue for cleanin' up, baby."

But you just let out a soft, miserable whine and mumble, "But 'm comfy..." all pitiful, nose still nuzzled into his neck like you've got no bones left in your body.

He chuckles under his breath. "Don't be a brat," he says all fond even as his hand comes down in a playful smack against your ass that makes you squeak.

And before you can protest any more, he's already shifting under you, dragging both of you upright on the couch.

You cling, of course. Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your soaked pussy pressed right up against his abs as you bury your face against his shoulder with a sleepy little groan. And God, Jason swears under his breath because you're still fucking dripping on him, but does he care? Not even a little.

If anything, his big hands cup your ass even tighter as he stands, hauling you up with him, carrying you around while you're leaking cum down his stomach.

"Jesus, doll," he murmurs with a crooked grin as you hang onto him like a sleepy, clingy little monkey, "you're real committed to this whole limp noodle thing, huh?"

You hum against his neck, arms tightening around him and he huffs, heading straight for the bathroom with you wrapped around him, flipping the light on with his elbow, maneuvering around like he's done it a hundred times before.

When he finally tries to set you down so he can reach for the shower, you just whimper and cling tighter, legs squeezing around his waist.

Jason groans, amused. "You gonna make me wrestle you off, doll?"

Your answer? A sleepy little shake of your head as you smush your face against his neck again.

He lets out a low hum as he waits for the water to warm, shifting just enough to bury his face in your hair, arms full of you, one hand firm under your ass, holding you steady against him. And yeah, maybe he could be a little shit right now. Maybe he should be teasing you for clinging to him, but instead, his other hand just rubs slow circles up and down your back.

Because no matter how much Jason likes to act like he's all gruff and mean, you've got him so fucking soft for you it's honestly embarrassing. You sigh against his neck, nuzzling in, and he just holds you closer.

After a minute, when the steam starts slowly curling up around both of you, Jason reaches out with his free hand and checks the water with his knuckles. Warm enough.

"C'mon, pretty girl," he murmurs, giving your ass a gentle squeeze.

"Okay," you mumble softly.

He sets you down carefully in the shower, hands lingering on your waist as you wobble a little on unsteady legs before stepping in right behind you, arms slipping around you again.

"You okay, baby?" he murmurs against your temple.

"Yeah," you hum, leaning back into him, letting him hold you up.

"How's your throat?"

Your shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. You're still a little floaty—warm, wrung out, and sore in all the right places—and you're honestly not even sure how your throat feels right now, but you have to admit that it's kind of sore. And he knows it.

"I'm gonna make you some tea after this, yeah?" he says as his hands smooth over your stomach, big palms rubbing gentle circles over your skin.

You nod sleepily.

"Good girl," he praises under his breath, letting one hand linger on your belly while the other reaches for the body wash, keeping you tucked against him as you stand there, still a little shaky on your feet.

Jason works slow, steady, hands smoothing over your skin with that quiet, unhurried care that always makes your chest ache a little. He starts with your shoulders, massaging soft circles into your skin as he works the body wash into a light lather. Every so often, he dips his head and presses a sweet, warm kiss to your shoulder blade, your nape, the side of your neck, little soft touches that have your eyes fluttering shut, your muscles going loose under his hands.

"You're so fuckin' good for me," he murmurs, that low voice that's meant just for you.

You make a tiny sound, swaying a little on your feet again and Jason can't help the soft chuckle that rumbles low in his chest when your stomach lets out another grumble.

You squint over your shoulder at him, trying for a glare but ruining it with a wide, sleepy yawn.

He smirks, all soft teasing. "You tryin' to tell me somethin', pretty girl?"

"Shut up," you mumble, leaning back into his chest anyway.

And God, he fucking loves this. He keeps his hands gentle, working over your arms, down your sides, rinsing you off slow. Then he reaches for the shampoo, getting a little in his palm before carefully working it through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with this ridiculous, feather light touch that has your knees damn near buckling.

And it hits you again like it always fucking does. For a guy built like a walking brick wall, with hands big enough to snap a man in half, Jason's hands are always so fucking gentle with you. And maybe you should be used to it by now, but you're not, and neither is he.

Because while he washes you, Jason is watching every little twitch of your body against his, every soft sigh you let out, every sleepy little sway and all he can think is fuck.

This life you've built together? The late mornings, the soft kisses, the dumb arguments over who burned the damn toast, the fucking and the sweet aftercare and the way you crawl into his lap like you belong there? He wouldn't trade a goddamn second of it.

You cling to him like you always do—arms around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest while the warm water rinses the last of the soap suds off both your bodies. You press lazy kisses to his skin, right over his heart, and Jason huffs a soft laugh, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

"Real fuckin' clingy today, huh?" he teases, but he kisses the top of your head anyway.

You hum, nosing at his chest. "Mmhmm."

When the water finally cools, he reaches around you to shut it off, steps out first, grabbing a thick towel off the rack before holding it open. You blink at him, all soft and sleepy, and he smiles.

"C'mere, pretty girl."

You shuffle forward, and the second your feet hit the mat, he's wrapping you up tight, tucking you in like a warm little burrito. Then he grabs another towel, slinging it low around his waist before taking your hand.

You toddle after him, your damp feet making soft sounds against the floor as he leads you back into the bedroom. The big towel swamps your frame, your brows pinched in sleepy little furrows and your lips stuck in a soft pout, and Jason has to bite back a laugh.

God, you look so fucking cute like this. He gives your hand a little squeeze before letting go, walking over to the closet. You plop down on the edge of the bed with a soft huff, the towel still bundled around you while you watch him pull out a pair of panties, some fluffy socks, and one of his old t-shirts, the faded black one you always steal.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, glancing back at you when he turns around just in time to see you sitting there like the sleepiest little thing alive, bundled and pouting, blinking slow like a worn out kitten and his chest fucking squeezes.

He crosses the room, drops down to his knees in front of you, and presses a soft kiss to your knees before he starts unwrapping the towel.

"Stop lookin' at me like that," he mutters, all fake gruff. "You're gonna kill me, doll."

You giggle, kicking your legs a little as he dries you off gently, moving slow like you'll break if he's too rough. Once you're dry, he slips the socks on your feet, smoothing his hands up your calves before standing up again.

"Arms up, baby."

You lift them—barely—and he snorts, tugging the oversized shirt down over your head, letting it fall soft and cozy over your body before helping you into the panties.

"Perfect," he says, leaning down to kiss your temple. "Come on, let's feed your gremlin ass."

You trail after him to the kitchen, shuffling your feet, wearing his damn t-shirt like it's armor. And of course, the second you get there, he spins, grabs your hips, and hauls you right up onto the counter.

"Jesus, Jason!" you squeak, grabbing at his shoulders. "Why are you like this?"

He quirks a brow, all smug as he steps in between your legs, hands sliding slow over your bare thighs. "Like what?"

You huff, giving him the best scowl you can muster right now. "Stupid."

His grin pulls wide, and it's pure trouble. "That so?"

And before you can open your mouth to fire back, his hand tips your chin up, his thumb brushing soft over your jaw as he leans in slow, mouth ghosting over yours, just barely there until you let out a tiny, involuntary gasp. That's all it takes.

His mouth slants over yours, hot and hungry. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, licking into you like he's got every right and you don't even fucking fight it. You melt, arms sliding up around his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair as he kisses you deep and filthy, mouths moving messy against each other, your soft little moans swallowed right up.

You don't even realize how close your bodies are until you feel it. That slow, lazy grind of his hips, his dick getting hard again. You whimper, your thighs squeezing instinctively around his waist when the swollen head of his dick presses against your sore, aching pussy. The fabric drags right over your clit and you whine, trying not to melt on the counter even though you're wrung out and boneless.

"Jay—" you pant, breaking the kiss, your forehead resting against his.

"What?" he says all innocent, eyes sparkling like the bastard he is.

"You're such a fucking problem," you breathe, trying to glare but failing because your thighs are twitching and your cheeks are flushed.

You open your mouth—ready to tell him off, ready with something sharp—but you don't even get the chance before he bites the tip of your nose. Gentle, but still enough to make you yelp.

"Jason!"

And he's already pulling back, laughing under his breath as he adjusts his half hard dick through his boxers and strolls toward the fridge like nothing happened.

"Now you're just an asshole," you mutter, rubbing your nose with a pout.

"Yep," he tosses over his shoulder, already pulling out leftovers like he didn't just kiss you stupid and grind against your wrecked pussy.

He moves around the kitchen with way too much efficiency for a man who just fucked the soul out of you not half an hour ago. You watch him with your arms crossed over your chest, still sitting on the counter like the world's poutiest little menace, and every time his eyes flick your way, you hold his gaze, giving him your best scowl, but it only makes him huff a laugh under his breath.

He grabs a wooden board from the cabinet, starts piling on slices of ham and a few hunks of that fancy cheese you like. Not that he'd admit it, but he knows the brand by heart now. Cuts up some apples, tosses on a handful of grapes, throws in some sliced cucumber and those mini peppers you always snack on. He digs out your favorite crackers from the back of the cabinet, the ones he may have called "cardboard ass health crap" the first time you bought them, and he stocks them like it's his personal mission.

While the water heats on the stove, he keeps sneaking glances at you—your pouty little self, sitting there with your legs swinging, bottom lip jutting out, your damp messy hair falling into your eyes like some pissed off kitten.

God, you're a menace sometimes. Always have been. But you're his menace, so he never complains.

He makes your tea, stirs in the honey and a splash of milk the way you like it, sets it aside to cool and without a word, he crosses back to you. You blink when his arms slide under your thighs and around your back, lifting you right off the counter with ease.

"Baby—"

"Uh-uh," he hums, pressing a warm kiss right to your forehead. "Don't even start with me, pretty girl."

You go soft in his arms instantly, arms sneaking around his neck as you nuzzle your face into the side of his throat with a little huff. He carries you straight to the couch, sitting you down carefully before snagging the blanket off the backrest and wrapping it snug around your shoulders.

"Stay put," he murmurs, tapping your nose.

And before you can get all bratty again, he's already headed back to the kitchen, grabbing the plate, your tea, and a can of Coke for himself. Jason comes back with the plate and your tea, settling down beside you. You don't even have to move, he tugs you right up against his side with a little grunt, drapes his arm over your shoulders, and shifts you half into his lap until you're practically blanketed by his big ass body.

"Alright, c'mere," he murmurs, nudging your head to rest on his shoulder. He presses a kiss into your temple, voice dropping low and soft. "C'mon, baby. Drink for me."

You roll your eyes because of course he makes even tea sound like an order, but you lift the mug anyway, sipping slow. The second the warm liquid hits your throat, you melt with a soft, grateful hum.

Jason grins, smug as hell. "Yeah, that's my good girl."

You nudge his side with your elbow, and he chuckles, grabbing a slice of apple from the plate and holding it out for you. You take a bite right from his fingers with a little mhm, chewing happily while he just watches you.

And of course, because he's him, "Y'know," he drawls, casual as can be, "you got real fuckin' loud when I had my finger up your ass earlier."

You nearly choke on your tea. "Jason!"

He snorts, all shameless, watching you sputter as your face goes up in flames. "What? Thought you liked it, baby."

"I did—" you hiss, swatting at his chest with the hand not holding your mug, "—now shut the fuck up and feed me."

He snorts again, all teeth and smug grin, and gives your thigh a little squeeze. "Brat."

But he still grabs a cracker, tops it with some cheese and ham, and holds it up for you and you take it happily, chewing with a satisfied little smile like the spoiled girl you are.

By the time an hour rolls by, the board is picked clean, your tea mug is empty on the coffee table, and you're deadweight against his chest, your soft little breaths puffing against his neck while your arms stay tucked tight around his middle.

Jason glances down at you with a quiet little huff, adjusting the blanket so it's snug around your shoulders. You barely even stir, except to nuzzle closer, one leg hitched over his like you're trying to fuse into him. Christ.

He shifts, grabbing the remote with his free hand and flicking through whatever trash is on this late—some dumbass reality show with more bleeped out words than actual dialogue—but his mind is a million miles away.

He groans under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face as his dick gives a familiar, very inconvenient throb against the soft cotton of his boxers because he can't get the sight of you out of his head—hands gripping the couch like your life depended on it, hips arching back, your voice wrecked and all needy as he fucked you open. The way you'd sobbed his name, begged him not to stop.

He sighs, eyes dropping back down to you.

And you're just... out. Completely gone. Mouth slightly open, already drooling on his chest and somehow, still the cutest fucking thing he's ever seen. His.

Jason scoffs quietly to himself, shaking his head as he sinks a little deeper into the cushions. His dick can wait. He's got you wrapped around him like a sleepy little koala, and he's pretty sure this—you—is his happy place and there's no shot in hell he's moving anytime soon.

[nicverse]

[nicverse]

love a man that's anti-trump and anti-rich person.

[nicverse]

Superman & Batman scene redraw

[nicverse]

BRUCE WAYNE IS A GOOD DAD AND NO STUPID, INACCURATE COMIC WILL CONVINCE ME OTHETWISE

Bruce wakes up with the worst headache ever known to man, and all of his children are simultaneously in his room for some odd reason, which, as you can probably guess, does not help him in the slightest. Of course, it had to be today of all days, when he physically couldn’t tell them to shut up or redirect their chaos to something else.

Bruce lets out an inaudible groan as he hears Jason’s voice rise up to an indignant shriek, most likely protesting something that he most definitely did.

“Dickie.” Bruce’s voice crackles quietly, making Bruce wince. “Baby,” Bruce calls again, suppressing the cough that wants to rise up in his throat.

Dick, who is sitting next to him calmly (even though Bruce knows his firstborn is the person who most likely brought the chaos to his room so early in the morning), tilts his head. “Dad?”

“Take my card. Take your siblings. Go get breakfast somewhere, anywhere, and bring me back some food.” Bruce orders, trying to keep how miserable he was feeling out of his voice.

Judging from Dick’s face, he was failing.

“You doing alright?” Dick asked quietly, his eyebrow knit in concern, a look Bruce hates putting there.

“Yes, Birdie. Just a migraine.” Bruce reassures, reaching over and squeezing Dick’s hand lightly, and feeling the tension in his shoulders lessen just a millimeter from seeing Dick’s smile.

Dick rummaged through his bedside drawer, knowing exactly where he kept his wallet, and pocketed one of his many black cards. “Any meds you need me to pick up?”

Bruce tried to think and pull up a mental image of their medicine cabinet, but his head throbbed painfully, leading him to give up. “I trust your judgement.” He said simply, leaving it all in Dick’s hands.

Dick nods and squeezes his hand again, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, just like Bruce had done ever since he was a child and had his own migraines. “We’ll be back, and we’ll be safe,” Dick says.

Bruce knows a promise when he hears one.

“I love you.” Bruce managed to raise his voice enough so all his children could hear as Dick ushered them out of his room, and from the sounds of it, threw Damian over his shoulder.

Bruce couldn’t help but smile as there were murmurs of agreement and scattered ‘love yous’ back before his room was once again plunged into silence and darkness, one of his children turning the lights off just as his door closed.

It’ll probably be a good day.

[nicverse]

HELL YEAAAAAAH, Jason Todd is a certified yearner

— SWEET VELOCITY

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝑗ason peter todd

contains: modern au, bakery!au, gn!reader, 3k wc, racer!jason & baker!reader, fluff, mutual pining, nervous and shy jason, author tried to research bakery ’n racing terms :p

𓏲 𓌔𓌔 ➴ㅤㅤProfessional race car driver Jason Todd sneaks into your bakery every morning to indulge his secret sweet tooth while avoiding fan recognition. When you finally piece together that your quiet customer is also your favorite food blogger, you can’t help but feel something for him. Fortunately for you, the feeling is mutual.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘✿𓏲

The bell above the door chimes softly as Jason pushes into the small bakery, shoulders hunched and baseball cap pulled low. It’s 6:41 AM—early enough that the morning rush hasn’t started, late enough that the display cases are filled with golden pastries that make his mouth water despite himself. He shouldn’t be here. Again. But the cinnamon rolls at Flour & sugar have ruined him for anywhere else and he’s got a race this weekend that’ll probably end with him stress-eating his way through half their stock.

You’re piping the last of the vanilla buttercream onto a batch of cupcakes for the display cases when you hear the familiar chime of the front door. It’s early—earlier than most costumers venture out for pastries—but you know exactly who it is. The same broad shoulders, the same cautious way of moving through your small bakery like he’s afraid of being spotted. He’s been coming here for three months now, always cash, always generous tips, always gone before the morning crowd arrives.

You have a regular customer who thinks he’s invisible. He’s not.

Of course you’ve taken notice of him. It’s impossible not too. At first you didn’t give his presence that much thought. But suddenly you started to get used to his visits and he suddenly became part of your schedule, part of your day and the bakery’s as well. Him sitting near the window became a welcomed sight almost every morning. You’ve developed a habit, you perk up every time you hear the bell above the door ring in the early hours of the morning, thinking it’s him—hoping it’s him.

Which is ridiculous. You’ve only had a few conversations with this man. There is no way he feels even the slightest of the same about you or the bakery.

The warm scent of yeast and vanilla travels through the bakery, mixing with the soft jazz playing in the background. The atmosphere is welcoming, cozy—everything Jason needs after the high-pressure world of racing circuits and media obligations.

Jason doesn’t glance at the chalkboard menus scattered around the bakery walls, he already has every signature item memorized. Brown butter cinnamon rolls, flaky croissants, seasonal scones that change with your mood and the weather. Three months of visits will do that.

He feels his shoulders relax when he sees the empty bakery, almost as if he’s afraid of other visitors recognizing him. His eyes trail over the small storefront with its light wooden tables, then to the display counter with its warm golden lighting, before landing on you at the register. You’ve just emerged from the kitchen, flour dusting your apron, a slight smile playing at your lips.

His eyes widen as he makes eye contact with you, and he’s always this nervous when entering your bakery. He remembers the first day he came in like it was yesterday—nervous energy, trying to stay unrecognized, having an internal monologue about finding the perfect cinnamon roll and struggling to hold eye contact with the cute baker. He hopes you haven’t noticed how he stands out like a sore thumb among your usual clientele.

But you do notice. You notice everything.

A certain type of clientele visit your bakery—students cramming for exams, older folks meeting for their weekly coffee dates, families with children whose eyes light up at the sight of decorated cupcakes. Not professional race car drivers trying to hide behind baseball caps.

Of course, he isn’t aware that you know who he is. The formula racing circuit might be a world far from yours, but you’ve at least heard of Jason Todd. His reputation precedes him—aggressive driving style, consistent podium finishes, the kind of media scrutiny that would make anyone want to disappear into a quiet bakery at dawn.

You’re happy he decides to chose your quiet little bakery.

What surprises you isn’t that he’s famous, but that this particular racer has such a sweet tooth for your creations. His favorite, without question, are the cinnamon rolls—the way he savors each bite like it’s a small piece of heaven tells you everything you need to know about why he keeps coming back.

Jason approaches the counter with practiced casualness, though his heart rate picks up slightly. Three months, and he still feels like an imposter in this warm, flour-dusted world.

“Morning,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “Could I get two of the brown butter cinnamon rolls? And maybe...” His eyes drift to a new pastry he doesn’t recognize. “What’s that one?”

“Maple pecan danish,” you reply, and there’s something in your tone—not recognition exactly, but familiarity. You’ve grown to like seeing him. “Made them fresh this morning. Want to try one?”

He should say no. Stick to his usual order, pay, leave. But the way you’re looking at him, like you actually want his opinion.

“Sure. Yeah, I’ll take one.”

You watch him consider the danish, and there’s something almost vulnerable about the way he weighs the decision. Like choosing a new pastry is somehow risky. Most customers grab whatever looks good and move on, but he approaches your display cases like he’s studying art.

When you ring him up—$12.50—he hands you a twenty and shakes his head when you reach for change. Same as always. That’s nearly a 60% tip, and he does it every single time without fanfare, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers brush together when during the money exchange. Jason feels sparks light up at the small touch. You raise a single brow, slightly taken back at the contact, but seeing the slight pink tinge dusting his cheeks, you can’t help but smile a little.

“Thanks.” He coughs, covering up his embarrassment, already backing toward his usual table by the window. The one where he thinks he’s hidden, where he can watch the street and eat in peace.

You don’t mention that you’ve started making extra cinnamon rolls on the days he usually comes. You don’t mention that you’ve been saving the last perfect pastry for him or that you’ve noticed him taking pictures of his food, quick and subtle, like he’s documenting something precious.

You definitely don’t mention that you know exactly who he is.

The day passes like any other. Customers trail in hour after hour, and the cozy, almost silent atmosphere of the early morning is replaced by soft conversations and peaceful laughter. Every customer finds their little corner in the bakery, settling in with coffee and pastries. You spend your day moving between the kitchen and register, working through the breakfast rush, lunch crowd, and afternoon treat seekers. The display cases shine under their warm lighting, showcasing seasonal specials and customer favorites. Between restocking croissants and ringing up orders, your mind drifts to Jason.

By the time you flip the sign to ‘CLOSED’ and lock the front door, the sun is already setting. The bakery feels different in the quiet—flour settled, ovens cooling, the lingering scent of vanilla and yeast your only companions. You finish cleaning the display cases and counting the register, muscle memory taking over as your thoughts drift back to your mysterious regular customer.

At home, you collapse onto your couch with a cup of tea, finally able to unwind. Almost automatically, you pull out your phone and open your bookmarks. The blog Sweet Velocity posted earlier today, and you’ve been looking forward to reading it since you saw the notification this morning.

NEW POST: “The Art of the Maple Pecan Danish.”

‘Tried something new today. Maple pecan danish from my usual spot—a risk that paid off in ways I didn’t expect. The pastry was ambitious: laminated dough folded with the patience of someone who understands that good things take time. The filling struck that perfect balance between sweet and complex. Sometimes stepping outside your comfort zone leads to the best discoveries. Sometimes taking chances on new things reminds you why you fell in love with the familiar ones in the first place.’

It’s obvious who is writing this blog. You’ve been keeping your eye on it for a while now. You’d actually call yourself a fan. This Sweet Velocity writer has captured your attention. Not only because of their charming commentary, but also because you know who they are. Jason always seemed too shy to even hold eye contact with you. And now in his blog, where he can escape the media’s scrutiny, he’s praising your bakery and calling you—the baker—cute.

If only he was aware of the fact you knew exactly who he was—a famous racer with a sweet tooth for your treats and an eye out for a cute baker like you.

The next morning, Jason arrives at 6:43 AM instead of his usual 6:41. Progress, you think, watching him approach the counter with marginally less tension in his shoulders.

“Morning,” he says, and this time he almost meets your eyes. “The usual?”

“Brown butter cinnamon roll?” You’re already reaching for the best one—the one you definitely didn’t set aside for him. “How was the danish yesterday?”

He pauses, clearly not expecting the question. “It was really good. The technique was impressive.”

“Technique?” You raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious. Most customers just say things taste good or bad.

“The lamination. The layers.” He catches himself getting technical and ducks his head. “I mean, it was flaky. Really flaky.”

There’s something endearing about watching him stumble over his words, like he’s not used to talking about food with someone who might actually understand.

You want to tease him a little. This plan of yours might be a little devious, but you can’t help it. The sight of someone like him turning into a blushing mess in your hands is a chance you cannot let go.

“‘The pastry was ambitious,’ in your opinion?” You quote back his own words from the blog, your eyes locking onto his face to see his reaction. The sight of it is rewarding.

Jason freezes completely. His eyes widen, they dart to you before looking panicked around the room, as if he’s looking for an escape. The pink tinge that coats his cheeks that you’re used to becomes even more prominent. Jason can feel how it reaches his ears too. Suddenly the bakery feels too hot for him. He tugs at his cap, trying to cover his embarrassed face before speaking up.

“How did you?—”

“The blog. I follow it. Love your review of those macarons from last week.”

You can imagine the gears turning in his head as he tries to piece together how you found out and how to respond like a puzzle.

“I can explain—”

“No need.” You chuckle lightly, feeling a little bad you’ve panicked him so much. You aren’t sure that dropping the fact that you know he’s also a racer will help this situation in any way. It might freak him out even more. And you’ve teased the poor man enough. “I just wanted to say thanks for all the kind words about this place. Even if you never mentioned it by name.”

Jason’s shoulders relax a bit. “You… you’re not mad?” Disbelief and relief coat his tone at the same time.

“Mad? You’ve been giving me a masterclass in writing with your blog basically. Not to mention the feedback is really helpful for me to improve my baking in anyway. I’m flattered.”

He seems to calm down a bit from the scare you gave him. He even leans in closer to the register. You noticed how big he was the first time you saw him, but now that he is so close, you can see the size difference between the two of you. You’re not small yourself, you’d say you have an average build. But nothing is average about him.

You can feel your heart skip a beat at the close proximity. You’re not sure if he feels the same.

Suddenly Jason tilts his head, trying to get a closer look at you. As if he’s trying to memorize your face. You’re sure you’re blushing now. You only now remember how he had called you cute in his blog. The tables are turned on you in a matter of seconds. Now you’re the one who’s flustered.

Jason seems to be enjoying the sight in front of him. The corners of his lips curl and he speaks up. “Okay, but seriously, how did you know?”

It takes you a second to clear your mind and focus. “You described my cinnamon rolls as having ‘the perfect balance of comfort and complexity, like a well-tuned engine.” You try and hold eye contact with him, but his eyes seem too intense, even though he couldn’t even look at you the last day. “Plus, you’re the only person who eats them with that level of admiration and you photograph them.”

“I photograph them?” He asks, and now it’s your turn to be surprised by his statement.

“You think I don’t notice you taking pictures? You’re sneaky, but not that sneaky.”

“So you’ve been watching me, huh?”

Your heart skips a beat. You look at him dumbfounded. How did you end up in this situation? Suddenly you’re the one a flustered mess. Yes, you’ve been watching him. But he asks with an air of confidence you didn’t expect from a quiet guy like him. You feel the need to fluster him back.

“While we are on the subject of watching each other, why don’t you call me cute to my face since you’re so comfortable typing it out on your blog?”

Jason’s eyes sparkle slightly with a glint you haven’t seen before. He smiles nervously, fidgeting around the register to gather his confidence again.

“What?” You challenge him. “Too shy?”

He scoffs with a light laugh following it. “No. But I’m sure you’d like to see me shy.”

God curse him and his boyish charm. You do want to see him shy. It’s the whole reason you quoted one of the lines from his blog right in his face. Which had worked to get you to your goal, but only for a few moments before Jason fired back.

“Maybe I do.” You admit with a cocky smile which seems to startle him. “Who wouldn't want to see a renowned racer praise their treats?”

The admission that you know who he is hangs in the air. You almost think you crossed a line. Maybe you came off too strong. But to your surprise Jason smiles. A truly genuine smile paints his lips and you’re sure that sight is sweeter than any pastry in this whole bakery.

“The bakery treats or you?”

You feel like you’ve been turned a mess in his hands. There’s a fluttering feeling in your stomach that is suspiciously similar to butterflies. You know you’re blushing because Jason can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. Or maybe that’s because he just likes looking at you. He did say you were cute.

“Smooth.” You chuckle to hide your embarrassment. “Very smooth. You aren’t so bad yourself.” You say, words a little too quiet.

Jason shuffles near the register, slowly inching closer. He’s like an eager puppy, waiting for your compliments and treats. He doesn’t want fo come off as too eager, but he can’t help but feel a strange pull to this bakery and you as well.

“What? I didn’t hear you.” He says in faux confusion, as if he didn’t actually hear what you said perfectly. Your raised brow only spurs him on.

“Are you serious?” You deadpan, but the smile doesn’t leave your lips. “One might say you’re desperate for compliments.”

“Oh, so you did compliment me, huh?” He quips, voice tinged with satisfaction at his small victory.

“You better return that compliment.”

“Want me to say you’re cute again?” He asks, the satisfaction in his voice turns into shaky nervousness, as if he’s testing the waters.

“Yes.” You reply quickly and you can see the small spark of surprise in his eyes.

Jason’s confidence wavers for just a moment at your direct response, that familiar pink creeping back across his cheekbones. But he doesn't look away this time.

“You’re cute,” he says, voice softer now, more genuine than teasing. “Really cute. And talented. And...” He trails off, seeming to realize he’s about to ramble.

“And?” you prompt, leaning slightly closer across the counter.

“And I’ve been coming here for three months trying to work up the courage to have an actual conversation with you instead of just writing about you in my blog like some kind of stalker.”

The admission hangs between you. You can see the exact moment he second-guesses himself, his hand moving toward his cap again.

“Well.” You say, reaching across to still his hand before he can pull the brim lower. “Good thing I read your blog, then. Saved us both some time.”

His hand is warm under yours, calloused in ways that speak of more than just steering wheels—maybe he works on his own cars, or has hobbies beyond racing. You find yourself curious about all the details his blog doesn’t cover.

“So what happens now?” he asks, not moving his hand away. “Do I keep pretending to be incognito, or do you start charging me extra for being famous?”

“Depends. Are you going to keep writing about my ‘ambitious pastries’ and ‘cute baker,’ or are you going to start asking said cute baker out for coffee sometime when they’re not covered in flour?”

The question surprises you as much as it does him—you hadn’t planned to be so forward. But three months of watching him eat alone by the window, three months of reading his thoughtful reviews, three months of carefully saving him the best cinnamon roll each morning—maybe it’s time to stop dancing around whatever this is.

Jason’s smile is answer enough before he even speaks. “What time do you close?”

𝄢　© petalbcrnes 𓈒　𓋫　’𝟮��𓈒　ᛝ

[nicverse]

Thinking about how if you’ve been with Jason for long enough you’ll eventually end up knowing the secret identities of all other superheroes, even outside of the Bat Family.

Because over the course of years, all of them keep slipping up. Like imagine you’re helping Tim with a case and he’s just like:

“i am tracing it back to central city maybe Wally can do a quick sweep and report back” and you’re like:

“why would Wally—oh. OH. So… that makes Barry Allen the Flash? Damn.”

By year three of dating Jason you’re just accidentally the most well-informed civilian in the entire hero community—like you didn’t mean to know everything, you’re not even nosy! They’re just so bad at keeping secrets when they trust you.

Then it snowballs.

Like you’re hanging out at the manor and someone mentions “Arthur”—and you’re like “Aquaman?”

Jason: “Wait how the hell do you know that?”

You: “Because Garth was talking about Atlantis politics over dinner last week. Who else would he be talking about??”

At one point you’re on a rooftop and you see a guy with a red scarf and a bow, and you go:

“That’s Roy Harper, right?”

Jason, blinking: “Have I ever told you that?”

You: “…No.”

Jason, completely deadpan:

“You’re not allowed to be kidnapped. Ever.”

Eventually it gets to the point where someone like Clark Kent flies in and is like “Hey I’m looking for—”

And you just go:

“Bruce is not here, Mr. Kent.”

He looks startled.

You: “C’mon. The glasses don’t do that much.”

And then one day one of the actual heroes is like,

“How do you know all this? Did you like, hack Watchtower records or something??”

And you’re like:

“No?? You all just talk too much.”

Jason, proud and amused in the background:

“She’s observant. That’s my baby.”

(Then turns around and threatens to maim anyone who tries to erase your memory “for safety reasons.”)

You’re basically the unofficial HR rep of the superhero world at this point. You’ve seen Wally’s baby pictures, you’ve fed Titus under the table, you know that Oliver Queen leaves his arrows everywhere, and one time Zatanna asked if you could help her pick out birthday gifts.

You just know everything. You’re in.

You didn’t even mean to be.

You were just dating Jason Todd.

[nicverse]

in a world of boys he's a ✨️gentleman✨️

You having front seat privileges when in Jason’s car or something.

Like maybe you’re going somewhere right, and you use a car for whatever reason blah blah blah and roy joins youse for whatever reason (maybe you’re going out for food or to a store or whatever).

And your first reaction to going to the car is something along the lines of,

“Oh, I’ll let you both go in front so you can talk together.” as like you’re opening the back door for yourself.

And Jason just stands there so baffled, and honestly looking genuinely offended and even hurt that you would even EVER suggest that. (And that you opened the door for yourself cause like what are you doing?? That’s his job???)

He’s acting immediately. You don’t even have time to actually sit down in the backseat, he’s picking you up, leaving the back door open for Roy.

“Get in the back, Harper.”

“Yessir.” You just know Roy’s got a shit eating grin on his face cause he finds it hilarious to see Jason riled up like this, and for something so small too.

The car door shuts with Roy inside, while Jason is still outside with you still lifted up in his arms. He’s looking up at you, still looking offended when he speaks.

“Why would you even say that? You sit beside me. Always, I don’t care who’s with us, you always sit beside me.” He has this big dramatic pout on his face, acting like your suggestion just proved you didn’t love him.

You’re giggling your ass off in his arms, feet still off the ground. “Jay, lovie, it’s just so you can talk together. We never drive with him and he’s your best friend, least I can do is let him sit next to you so you can talk.”

“Noooo, stoooppp, you’re breaking my heart, stop.” Queue intensified pout and frown on his face, he’s whining like a kid who doesn’t want to go to sleep. “You sit next to me so I can hold your hand and touch you and be next to you when I’m driving. I can’t do that when you’re in the backseat.”

“Okay, okay,” you laughing again, pressing a kiss to his dramatic pout. “I’ll sit next to you.” His face instantly lights up, big smile on his face as if a frown had never been there to begin with.

He’s setting you down now, hand on the front door handle before turning to you again.

“also if you EVER open your own door around me again there will be severe consequences,” He says with the most serious voice and look on his face, before placing the sweetest kiss ever on the tip of your nose, and opening the door for you.

You’re kind of stood there baffled, before you let out a small laugh again and sit down in the passenger seat.

Jason’s got his hand on your thigh with yours above it while he’s driving, Roy’s sat in the middle in the back and leaning on yours and Jason’s seats to talk to you both, and everyone’s happy.

Yeah, idk, something like that

[nicverse]

I just know Jason Todd is such a a good boyfriend.

He's not perfect Obviously. He's probably the most flawed Robin to exist but he also Knows that and he's not hiding from it either. Bros not attending therapy by any means but I think between all the robins he's definitely the more likely to always be like "you're right, I'm sorry, I'm going to do better' and mean it (only other one is Cass you know she means it every time)

He's always the man to try to compromise, if not he'll just sacrifice what he needs to make a situation better (so selfless it probably starts fights on their own)

He's so thoughtful and remembers everything. He's not a big show off guy but the little things he does from bringing you your favorite teas, books, and other interests you can tell this man listens to everything you say.

He doesn't take you for granted at all. The concept of mortality is very real to Jason, he's thanking the stars every night you're safe when he returns. He counts the days till he can lay with you at night, and takes his time getting to remember the way you smell and feel against his own warmth.

He definitely cries a lot to be honest. The only real reason it's of note is just because how comfortable he is with it, more than you are. You might be a "I hate arguing because I cry when I'm mad" type but he seems to be the complete opposite?

He'd definitely shoot anyone else if they saw him shed any amount of emotion, but it's genuinely always taken you by surprise. And you love it it's made you feel more human, it made you feel like the things you said and did actually mattered just as much as the things he said and did affected you. It's definitely a bit selfish and evil of you in that regard probably. But if there's one thing Jason craves is that mutual obsession. It's the only way that man knows how to love, it's not his fault entirely, a mix of learned lessons and rewiring nervous system trauma will do that to you.

But for all his faults and flaws, its made him a caring and attentive boyfriend. Constantly asking if you're okay, constantly checking on your safety. He knows he ain't got a lot of good outcomes in his life and he just wants to make sure this one lasts.

A/N

Been feeling cheesy n gooey lately I haven't been really obsessed with the quality of my work as much as like I'm just I need to get this idea down right now so MB but I'll refine and tune concepts later if I really fixate on them :)

[nicverse]

this is the most real thing ever

jason todd is not fit for hookup culture nor will a friends with benefits situation work because once you’re in his bed, you’re in his bed.

when he sees you getting up from your side of bed he doesn’t even think, he just wraps a arm around your waist to pull you back into the sheets.

“jay… I need to find my clothes so i can like, do things.” you whined.

jason just yawned. “well, i don’t plan on releasing you from my grip so you’ll just have to suck it up and lay back the fuck down huh?” saying it with some grogginess in his voice but he sounded so certain.

he knew you’d just huff and lay back in bed with him and cuddle in the big blanket.

[nicverse]

FUCK ICE.

Superman says fuck ICE. Be like Superman

[nicverse]

TWO OF MY WORLDS COLLIDING

F1 au

[nicverse]

Damian: Father

Bruce, working on a case: I'm busy go ask Dick

Damian: Richard I-

Dick trying to pull Tim out of a cupboard: Sorry, can't right now, go ask your Father

Damian: But he's the one that told me to ask you!

Dick now trying to pry a jar of cookies out of Tim's grubby little hands: Go ask Jason then

Damian: *angry grumbling*

Dick and Bruce standing in front of a burning building: why.

Damian: Todd said it was okay

Jason: Hehe yeah i did

[nicverse]

I MDNI 18+

Jason prides himself in knowing he managed to snag the heart of the sweetest girl in Gotham. You’re always so soft with him, so kind. When he sneaks into your place early in the morning and wakes you from your sleep, you don’t scold him for it. Instead, you blink away the sandstorm behind your eyes and tend to the new bruise forming alongside his jaw. You ask no questions, you never push him for answers- and you’ll never know how much he appreciates it. Appreciates you.

Before he found you, Jason rarely slept a full night if he could help it. Too anxious, too angry, he rarely woke feeling well rested anyway- so what was the point. But your hands, soft and understanding, handle him in a way that has his eyes fluttering against his will, and sleep finds his easily. You’ve been nothing but patient with him the entirety of your relationship. His sweet girl. So, in his own ways of many, he does what he can to return the favour.

You’ve learned early on that Jason has a scarily accurate way of knowing when you’re upset. Call it sixth sense, call it boyfriend intuition, maybe it’s his really good people-reading skills. You just don’t know how he does it. Some nights when you’re frustrated because you can’t sleep, you lay on your back and weep so softly- careful to not disturb him. But it’s no use. When he awakes, he’ll take you in his arms, tuck your head under his chin and rock you gently. Back and forth, quieting your cries until you’re finally lulled to sleep. He just knows his baby. He knows what you need even before you do, he loves quietly like this.

But there are nights when you need to not think. Nights when your thoughts are little mean, telling you not so kind words. And maybe you start to believe them a little bit. So when you push through the front door of your apartment, he’s already there- standing big and strong in your kitchen. Waiting like he knew, because he did. In these moments, he doesn’t have to ask. To anyone else, you look like you just had a long day- but he knows you. He knows his sweet girl. So he takes one look at you and knows exactly what you need.

Which is how you find yourself like this, splayed out beneath this 6 foot brute of a man. Completely surrounded by him. Large hands moving up your hips to gently push you further into the mattress as he lays his full weight on top of you- he’s everywhere. Usually, you’d feel overwhelmed but this is exactly what you needed. And he begins to move, the slow drag of his cock already has you burying your face into the pillow, tears prickling your eyes. It’s so good, so so good. You’re so full and he’s panting in your ear, “yeah baby, I know.. I know- it’s good, huh?”

At some point, it becomes a bit too much. He can’t help it, just wants you feeling good again. He’s fucked you through your third orgasm before you’re reaching a hand back to push at his abdomen, silently pleading “too deep, please”. You need to catch your breath, but as much as he is soft and compliant for you, Jason knows you need this. And a selfish part of him needs you too. So he gets a bit mean when he’s whispering, “I know it’s deep, hun. Let me fuck you, just like that.” And “No, baby. You can take it.” You know it’s no use putting up a fight, once he sets his mind on something- he won’t stop until he’s satisfied. He gets this tunnel like vision in moments like these. All he can see is you, you, you. So instead, you reach back around to play with the soft wisps of hair at the back of his neck.

Fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, he buries his face in your neck and purrs. Cold nose pressed to the underside of your jaw- such a contrast to how he’s fucking you. But it’s all worth it when you turn your head and press a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. His sweet girl.

[nicverse]

Wrong Place, Very Wrong Time

Synopsis - Caught in the act? Try caught by the family.

Rating: M (SFW summary, but implied NSFW content)

Pairing: Red Hood (Jason Todd) x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

Warning: Sexual implications, language, Batfam embarrassment.

The cave was supposed to be empty.

Jason had checked twice.

“You sure no one’s gonna be back tonight?” you whispered against his mouth, breathless from the way his fingers gripped your hips, from the way your back hit the cold console with a thud.

“Positive,” he muttered, lips dragging down your neck. “B didn’t sleep last night. He’s passed out upstairs, Alfred took Damian to that fencing tournament, and everyone else has their own crap going on.”

Still, you cast a wary glance around the massive underground lair. The Batcave always felt like it had eyes—even when it was quiet.

You were half on the edge of the Batcomputer desk, half in Jason’s lap, his jacket long gone, his gloves discarded beside your shirt. His hands were rough, calloused, greedy in the way they mapped your skin like he hadn’t touched you in weeks.

Which, to be fair, he hadn’t. Between missions, near-death escapes, and a very specific argument involving someone almost blowing up WayneTech’s west lab, the two of you hadn’t had a moment alone in ages.

“Remind me,” he groaned against your chest, “why we don’t do this more often?”

“Because you’re dramatic and the Batcave is the least sexy place imaginable.”

“Blasphemy,” Jason smirked, trailing his mouth lower. “It’s got great acoustics.”

You laughed—then gasped—your fingers tangling in his hair just as a distant click echoed behind you. You froze.

Jason didn’t.

“Jay,” you hissed, pushing at his shoulders. “Wait—”

And then—

“OH MY GOD—JASON?! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You screamed. Jason cursed. Somewhere behind you, there was the sound of a batarang hitting the floor.

“Dick?!”

You whipped around, your entire body going stiff with panic as Nightwing stared at the two of you from the top of the stairs. His mask was still in his hand, mouth dropped open in absolute, unfiltered horror.

“I didn’t—no—are you—are you seriously—here?” Dick flailed a hand toward the two of you, eyes doing their best not to drop below your collarbone. “This is literally where we work! Where Bruce works! Where I work!”

Jason pulled his body halfway in front of yours, hissing like a cornered animal. “Do you mind?!”

“YES, I MIND,” Dick shouted, spinning around so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. “I can’t unsee that! I came down for mission notes, not emotional trauma!”

You buried your face in Jason’s shoulder, mortified.

Jason, on the other hand, was still shameless.

“We were off duty! And don’t act like you’ve never done anything questionable in the cave!”

Dick’s voice echoed off the walls, muffled by the way he slapped a hand over his eyes. “Yeah, questionable, not full-on NC-17! Jesus, Jason!”

“Okay, okay,” you hissed, fumbling for your shirt and yanking it over your head as Jason started looking far too smug. “Can we please pretend this never happened?”

“Pretend?” Dick’s voice cracked with disbelief. “I need therapy! You need boundaries! This is literally the Batcomputer! Babs is gonna kill you both if she finds out.”

Jason stood, unbothered, zipping up his pants with a scoff. “Then don’t tell her.”

“You know the cave records everything, right? There’s probably already motion detection alerts—Alfred is going to see—”

That shut Jason up.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “You don’t think Alfred—”

“Master Jason, Miss [Y/N],” a voice echoed from the speaker overhead, posh and calm despite everything. “Might I strongly recommend locating a more suitable venue for your… escapades?”

You shriveled. Jason winced.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, grabbing your shoes with one hand and dragging your mortified soul away from the console. “I’m never coming back here again.”

Jason pulled on his jacket, growling under his breath. “Told you we should’ve gone to your place.”

“You said your apartment had bullet holes in the ceiling!”

“Yeah, well at least it doesn’t come with audience commentary!”

From the shadows, Dick’s laugh was borderline maniacal. “I’m telling Tim. I’m telling everyone.”

Jason spun on his heel, grabbing your hand. “Like hell you are.”

“Try and stop me.”

You yanked Jason toward the elevator, cheeks still burning, mortified and shaky and barely resisting the urge to disappear through the floor. The second the doors closed behind you, Jason let out a long breath and turned to you.

“Well,” he muttered, lips twitching, “on the bright side… at least we made history.”

You glared at him. “Don’t.”

His smirk turned into a grin. “Come on. You gotta admit… kind of hot, right?”

“You’re never touching me again.”

“Sure,” he said, pulling you into him anyway. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

[nicverse]

JQDPQPSKWPA OMG LITERAL MASTERPIECE 😭😭 need this tattooed in my brain

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.