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ONE OF YOUR GIRLS ~ JASON TODD

Jason Todd is the unnaturally attractive TA in your college class. Your really hot TA that just found out you’ve been selling essays to your classmates

Contrary to what the majority of your English module thinks, writing an essay is really not that hard.

It just isn’t. You’ve written them at three in the morning with zero hours of sleep, in libraries, in bed. Even on the toilet on a particularly gruelling deadline. Everyone has those things they’re just good at, and yours has always been anything English related. Novels, poetry, sonnets. It’s partly why you’d even chosen this extra module for the year. You had an extra space to fill and you knew it wouldn’t impede on any work for your degree. It's an added plus that you enjoy it as much as you do, and an extra added plus that you’re earning money for it.

Maybe it's unethical to prey on the lesser-minded people in your class. It’s definitely an interesting discussion on the laziness that plagues Gotham College, but you’re not one to complain about it. At least it's you writing it, a human, and not some AI website that will single-handedly destroy the environment. You’re doing the world a service, if anything. And you only charge fifteen dollars per essay, which isn't bad. You do have some rules when it comes to writing. For example, you only will write four essays per coursework submission, mainly because there's only so many points you can make without just repeating yourself. So if the students decide they want to bid against who those five essays will go to, that’s not exactly your fault. Some of the more difficult assignments really gets the ball rolling. You guess an empty bank account is better than failing.

It’s all good fun until you get caught.

It’s not the professor that catches you. Mr Owen is a sweet man, and you think that even if he did realise what you were doing, he wouldn't have the heart to tell you off for it. He’d probably just be happy one of his students was having so much fun in class that she was doing other people's work. No, instead, it’s his highest graded ex-student, now TA, Jason Todd.

Jason is only three years older than you, having graduated last year, and was now helping out Mr Owen. You’re sure it’s for experience, or to fill up his CV for some work experience, but you don’t complain. The few classes he teaches every few weeks have been great. He’s good. Really good, actually, which he’s surprising because the first time you saw him you’d thought he might’ve mistaken the lecture hall for the bodybuilding classes on the third floor.

Jason is entirely too attractive to just be a TA. You’ve, embarrassingly, scoured every modelling agency in Gotham you could find, because there is no way somebody who looks like that would just slum it in an Intro to English class. The defined lines of his chest and arms you can see over the button-ups he wears to class, the perfect poster-boy hair that always falls just right over his face. And you’ve heard the rumours about his motorcycle, which adds about ten points to his overall attractiveness. You’ve never seen Jason smile once, always looking over the class with that bored expression over his pretty face. He’s situated right next to Mr Owen at the front, his own desk that’s always cluttered with papers and pens.

You have no idea how he caught you. There are only about forty students in the module but still. You’re careful with what you write, making all your work different enough from the exemplary essays you hand in under your name that you were sure nobody would ever find out. Until, of course, Mr Owen is handing back your most recent submissions, and you find a sticky note tapped to the back of yours. Your brows furrow, confused, and you peel it off carefully to read it.

“You made the same point about Angelou’s simplicity in three different essays. If you’re going to keep writing them for half the class, don’t get sloppy.”

Your face heats almost immediately, your stomach sinking with a horrible feeling. You stuff the note under your paper, eyes immediately darting to where Mr Owen is still handing out the papers. But he’s not looking at you like he’s about to report you to the student board. He’s just rambling on about the new poet you’d all be looking at. He doesn't even look in your direction once he’s walked off. And when you consult the note again, you find that the handwriting looks nothing like his almost illegible scrawl. This is blocky and neat, and you feel that same swooping feeling in your gut when you realise who’s handwriting it is.

And sure enough, when you do look up, Jason Todd is looking back at you with the smallest (and first) smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

You start praying that some impromptu tsunami will burst through the windows of the hall and whisk you away. It’s just your luck that the one time you want Gotham to deliver one of its life threatening incidents, the world outside is calm, the sun bright with mid-day light and the campus buzzing with students. You are decidedly not looking in Jason’s direction. You can live the rest of your life without seeing that smug look on his face again.

You sort of feel like you’re about to throw up from nerves, but there’s something worse than the threat of expulsion bothering you; his stupid little comment. You’re not sloppy. He’s got some nerve calling you that. You’d love to see him come up with five different essays on the same fifteen line poem. Hell, you’d settle for three.

You fidget uncomfortably for the next ten minutes. The room feels hotter all of a sudden, and you tug at the collar of your sweater. You don’t even know what to do. Will Jason report you? Or just keep leaving passive aggressive notes all over your essays? Your sloppy essays. Surely Owen will catch on, and then god knows what will happen.

Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall and you see that you only have twenty minutes left. You can definitely make it through without any incidents. And then you can run out of the classroom before Jason Todd can even look your way. It’s fine. Fine.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Jason suddenly stands. He’s tall too, and when he takes the two boxes from Mr Owen’s frail hands your eyes don’t miss the way his arm flexes beneath today's light blue button up.

“Thank you, Jason. Just to my office, please.” He nods, pointing to the other two boxes on the floor. “Feel free to take someone with you.” Mr Owen gestures vaguely towards you and the others sitting in the room.

You hear movement behind you and you can only imagine everyone sitting eagerly in their chairs to be picked by the hot TA. You, on the other hand, are very content in staring really hard at the table in front of you and avoiding all forms of eye contact, which is harder since you’re sitting in the front row. It works, for about ten seconds, before a loud thud jolts you, an embarrassing noise escapes your throat.

“Do you mind?” Jason’s voice is deep and low, a lilt of Jersey accent curling around the syllables.

You could say no. But he knows what you’re doing and the way he’s looking at you with his hands braced on the desk is kind of intimidating.

You nod, getting up with little grace. You nearly trip as you round the desk, and quickly grab the two boxes. Jason holds the door open for you with one hand and carries the last two boxes with the other. He’s definitely showing off. But whatever. The walk to Mr Owen’s office takes about seven minutes. So fourteen there and back and then however long it takes to dump the boxes in his room and leave. You can do that.

You’re not even sure why he asked you to do this. There were about fifteen willing people almost falling out of their seats to help him. And you were definitely not one of them.

Your trainers squeak against the tiled floor, and your hands are starting to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The boxes are heavy, and you try and readjust them to ease the pain a little.

“You alright there?” Jason speaks up besides you.

You glance at him from and find that he’s looking back with an amused expression on his face. Of course he’s not struggling. You’re sure those biceps could carry about six boxes all on their own.

“Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is clipped and sharp, and he bites back a smirk.

The two of you fall back into silence. Not for long though, because that smooth voice carries out across the empty corridor again.

“Your essay was good.”

Your face feels hot again. This time when you reply, you keep your gaze firmly away from him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s very refreshing to see such original work.”

Oh, what a prick.

“I mean, most of your class, it’s the same regurgitated ideas.” You only hum in response, and it doesn’t deter him.

“Honestly, it’s just sloppy. But I-“

“My work is not sloppy!” You nearly yell, turning to him quickly.

Jason’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly schools his expression to something a little satisfied, that makes your irritation spike more. It’s maybe what he wants, and it’s definitely inappropriate, but you’ve never been very good at concealing your emotions.

“I’d like to see you write five different essays on the same topic for only fifteen bucks a paper. And on Mary Angelou no less! That poem was fifteen lines long!” You scowl, shuffling the boxes in your arms again. “There is only so much that I can say. And I don’t think my points were very sloppy.”

You two have stopped in the corridor now, and Jason looks completely unbothered by the boxes you two are lugging about, while you are ignoring the burn in your biceps.

“Fifteen bucks a paper?”

You pause a little. You’re surprised that’s all he had to take from your outburst. You feel a little silly for yelling, and your voice comes out quiet when you speak again.

“Sometimes more. There’s a bit of a betting pool going around.”

He snorts, and it’s strange seeing it on his usually stoic face. “What’s the highest you’ve charged?”

“Thirty five. It was for the one on Finnegans wake.”

Jason laughs properly at that, and you can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips. He continues walking and you follow after him. But only after hesitating for a little.

“That’s not half bad. Good money for a college student.”

You scoff. “It’s great money. Takes me a few hours to cough out the essays and I get a minimum of sixty every time.”

Jason only nods in a way you think might be impressed. Luckily, you finally reach the office, and he holds the door open for the two of you. You quickly walk in, the boxes landing on Owen’s desk with a heavy thud. You huff, rubbing your hands on the rough material of your jeans and squeezing them to get your blood flowing. You lean against the wall as you watch Jason flit about the room, shoving the boxes in the far corner and grabbing some papers from his desk. He doesn’t say anything while he does it, and it causes the nerves stuttering in your chest to increase.

You bite at your lip. “You- You’re not going to tell Owen, right?”

Jason looks up from where he’s rifling through one of the desk drawers. He fixes you with a steady gaze, tilting his head just slightly.

“I probably should. But I won't.”

You visibly relax, exhaling heavily. “Really? Why not?”

“Half the people in your class are just here to fill an empty class. People like you are actually good at what they do.”

Jason seems to find what he’s looking for, sliding the papers under his arm as he shuts the drawer with a click. “Letting you carry on this little side hustle means I get to read actually interesting work. Even if they are getting sloppier.”

You glare at him and he smirks, walking over to open the door once more. You don’t leave just yet.

“You can’t call me good and sloppy in the same breath.”

“I think I just did.”

You huff. “Fine. You’ll see. The next four essays won’t be sloppy.”

God. You could live the rest of your life without ever hearing that word again.

———

You and Jason develop a little system.

You find out, after meticulous analysis over some of your friends papers, that all the essays are graded by Jason. It’s all in that same familiar scrawl, and after some not so subtle staring after a submission day, you see Mr Owen dumping all of the classes’ work on Jason’s desk. So you feel a bit of relief at not being caught and expelled.

It’s after your little interaction in the office that you start to find even more post-it-notes taped to the back of your paper. And it’s names. Names of all the papers you’ve written, which Jason seems to always find with alarming accuracy. The notes he leaves in the margins of your own works start to feel less like the professional scrawl you're used to, but a little more teasing.

“Excellent point. Johnson’s essay had one alarmingly similar.”

“You use ‘ergo’ a lot.”

“I agree. Patterson is overrated.”

You act like you hate it. Sigh and roll your eyes when you feel his heavy gaze from the front of the room when you’re being given feedback. Your seat is almost perfectly aligned with his desk so it’s hard to miss. When you’re daydreaming during the especially long lectures, and your eyes trail over to him, and sometimes you catch him looking back.

Some days, while you’re leaving class, you linger by his desk, and the two of you talk. At first, you were just insulting the copy of War and Peace on his desk. You’d called him performative and he called you annoying. But you two talk more as the days go by, sometimes not about English, but about each other.

It’s fine. This is just- Actually, you don’t really know what this is. You don’t think it’s not allowed, college wise. He’s only three years older than you, and he’s technically not actually your teacher, so it’s not completely weird if you’re developing a little crush on him.

But you don’t act on it. You never do, because there’s a distance between the two of you you’re both too nervous to cross. You don’t know how much of this is just for fun, and you’re not about to embarrass yourself by assuming anything further.

But things change one day.

Mr Owen is out sick, and so Jason is in charge of the lecture. The room is immediately more awake, everyone sitting on the edge of their seat to witness Jason in action. He usually sits back for Owen’s lectures, more focused on observing the class or typing whatever he does on his laptop. The lessons he runs are far and few between, so everyone is excited to see his teaching methods in action again.

Or just to see him. There’s a lot of girls you don’t normally see so close to the front sitting in the same row as you. You’re sure it has something to do with the email Owen had sent last night warning about his absence.

“So. Who actually read The Wasp Factory?” He asks, hands holding him up on Owen’s desk. He’s wearing a white shirt, and the material stretches over the hard lines of his arms.

There’s a bout of movement across the room, and you watch the girl sitting two seats next to you almost shoot out of her chair with how fast she sticks her hand up. Her lips are glossy and sticky, her shirt unbuttoned a little too low. Personally, you think it’s a little overkill, but Jason eyes land on her out of all the other eager-to-please students, so maybe she’s doing something right.

“You’ve read the first five chapters, right?” He asks, and she smiles brightly.

“Yes, sir.”

Jason nods. “Would you consider Frank a reliable narrator?”

It’s an easy question. Even your best customers can answer that. The girl seems to think the same, but just as her mouth opens to respond, Jason keeps talking.

“Frank demonstrates a vivid and unusual imagination from the beginning, and we know that his father is part of the reason. Frank even believes his own father, the source of all his education, to be unreliable with the information he provides him. Do you think both of them could be considered as unreliable narrators, or does the blame fall on the narrator we see, Frank?”

He doesn’t stop for breath once, words coming out untainted and smooth. The girl stammers a little, mouth opening. Jason’s face is expressionless. The room is quiet for a beat too long, and your face creases, cringing a little.

“Today would be nice.” You mumble under your breath.

Well. At least you thought it was under your breath. But it actually was loud enough that both the girl and Jason heard you. You watch his lips twitch with a barely concealed smile, and the girl turns to glare at you. Your face heats, guilt seeping into your skin. You really hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, and she doesn’t take the apologetic look you give her very seriously.

“Bitch.” She says, and Jason holds up his hand.

“No, since she’s so eager to talk, maybe she can try to answer my question.”

It’s a challenge. Careful brown eyes study you and you straighten slightly under his attention, aware of the rest of your class also looking your way.

“Well. I think that both Frank and his father are unreliable narrators, but in a different sense. I think as a reader, it’s obvious that Frank is going through a personal crisis because of Eric’s arrival, and his invasion of this world Franks created for himself leads to a personal crisis, which lets us finally see the truth he hides from us. His father, while not actively lying to the reader, spends Frank’s entire life lying to him, and so inadvertently lying to us. So I think that they’re both to blame. Sir.”

You tack on the honorific at the end for fun, and maybe to poke fun at the girl next to you. Maybe you really were a bitch, but there's a weird curl of jealousy settling in your chest that you can’t really explain, and it’s making you act like an idiot. Jason raises one eyebrow, just for a second, before he nods.

“Good work.” He lingers for just a second too long, staring right at you, before he turns to the rest of the room. “Now, what do we think the wasp factory actually symbolised?”

The rest of the lecture goes by uneventfully. You keep to yourself, doodling on the corner of your notebook, staring at Jason when he’s not looking your way. Teaching is a good look for him, you think. He’s good at holding the class's attention, and the matter-of-fact way he talks to you makes it feel more like a conversation than a lecture. When it comes time to pack up, you linger a little, avoiding the gaze of your new friend as she practically storms out the hall. The room is nearly empty when you make your way around the table, but before you can walk out, your name is called. By Jason, no less.

You head darts towards where he's seated at his desk. “Yes?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?” He fiddles with a pen in one hand, twirling it between his fingers.

You nod, hand tightening over your backpack strap. “Yeah, sure.”

When you make your way to the front of his desk, he slides over a leaflet to you. You begin reading it, but he explains what it is anyway.

“I’ve got this conference tomorrow. Well, it’s more like a community thing. Free classes for upcoming students to see what the course and university is like so that they’ll sign up for it next year.”

You glance up at him. “I’m already a student, if you couldn’t tell.”

He hums. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

You think it’s best for you not to dwell too much on that statement, and the teasing lilt of his voice. “I mean, would you be interested in coming down and helping out?”

Your finger pauses where it's hovering over the corner of the leaflet. “Me?”

Jason leans back in his desk chair. At some point in the lecture he’d unbuttoned his sleeves, and the fabric was folded up messily up by his elbows. His arms lean on the armrest and you will yourself to look up at his face. His hair is curlier than when he’d come in, the humidity frizzing it up and making it look ruffled, but you think it’s cute.

“You’re intelligent. Very intelligent, and one of the best students in this class.” He speaks with such conviction, and your face heats at the compliments.

“Owen can’t make it and I’d like to have a student there for the people coming to talk to. Might be easier to talk to a pretty face like yours instead of mine.”

Jason thinks you’re pretty. What a great day today has been.

You slip the leaflet back on his desk. “I’d love to. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. Maybe just a book if you want to seem smart.”

It’s not a date. It’s really not. So there is no reason for you to be as happy as you are, or for you to be smiling as much as you are. You adjust your backpack once more. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Todd.”

He winces at the name, waving you off. “Please. Just call me Jason. We’re practically the same age.”

“Really?” You muse. “It feels a little unprofessional to just call you Jason.”

Jason’s tongue poke the side of his cheek, a smile curling against his lips. “You know, you might be right. You wanna call me sir again?”

Your face burns and you laugh a little nervously. “No, no, Jason is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You quickly walk out, desperate to get away from that teasing face.

—

It feels weird coming into college on a Saturday. The halls are crowded with fresh faces, all beaming with excitement and hands full of the college freebies. There's stalls set up outside the classroom doors, with what you assume is other student volunteers smiling behind them. That’s probably what Jason wants you to do today. He hadn’t given you much information, but you’ve come in eager all the same. You weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as you make your way to Owen’s room. It’s empty, apart from a few of the students who have showed up early, and you immediately spot Jason at the front of the room.

He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his chest, and a sleek pair of trousers held up with a fancy sort of belt. Jason looks good. You think he’s dressed up a little more than usual, but you can’t judge him too much because you are too. It’s nothing too special, just a nice button up and jeans. It’s a big step up from the usual lumpy sweaters you come in with. It makes sense, though. This isn’t the same class of students he sees three times a week, but instead people he actually has to make a good impression for.

You just stare at him for a few seconds, still standing by the front door and clutching the strap of your bag. He looks up suddenly, and a small smile graces his lips at the sight of you.

“You came.” He makes his way around the desk and stops in front of you.

Jason’s taller up close. And he smells good. Something spicy and crisp.

“Of course.” You gesture behind you. “Do you want me to set up one of those stalls outside?”

He makes a face. “Oh, no. You’ll be in here with me.”

His hand meets the small of your back as he leads you to his desk. You ignore the warmth that spreads over your skin at the contact, and dump your back beneath it. You sit down on his chair and spin yourself around.

“So this is what you see during all the lectures.” You ponder, fiddling with his penholder.

Jason huffs a laugh. He leans against Owen’s desk, and he studies you. “You look nice.”

Your eyes dart up to his, red dusting your cheeks. The compliment is barely a thing, but you feel flustered none the less. “Oh. Thank you.”

Jason moves on quickly. “So. The whole point of today is to give these guys a taster of what these classes are like if they were to sign up when they’re enrolled. I won’t need your help with the lessons per say, but since you’re a second year and you’ve been an eager student all year, you’re here if they need to ask anything.”

You nod. “Am I supposed to chat you and Owen up to them?”

He laughs. “Well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t need to. You like the class enough that you write five essays at once for it.”

You glare at him as he smiles cheekily. When you turn to the room, you find it’s been slowly filling up while you’ve been talking, people quickly taking up the seats. It feels different from up here, all their faces trained on the two of you, and Jason watches you carefully.

“Nervous?” He asks.

“No. If you can do it then this will be a breeze.”

It sort of is a breeze. The first half is just like your lessons, and he’s found a short poem to go through with the class. It’s the same type of engaging content he keeps you all hooked with, and you watch the students eat it all up. Sometimes, when there’s a particularly stupid comment made, he glances at you slightly, like it's a private joke between you two.

The second half is more for questions, and you’re surprised how many people want to talk to you. It’s a mix of high-school students and people starting next year, all queued up in front of the desk. They ask you about campus, the student accommodations. Some of them ask about your major and your studies, and some about Owen and Jason.

You’re well aware that he’s sitting quite close to you, but even if he wasn’t, your response would be the same. You sing his praises, complimenting his teaching methods and feedback. You tell them he’s a great TA and you’re sure that when he commandeers his own classes you’ll be in the front seat. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze from where he’s sat beside you.

The class was coming to a close, and most people had left. The majority of the students had prepared their questions, so you get through them quickly. This guy, however, seemed intent on wasting your time. He was one of the upcoming first years, and he was leaning incredibly close to talk to you. You’re not stupid enough to not realise when someone’s flirting with you, and you smile weakly, a little nervous to tell him you aren’t interested.

“You know, maybe if I get your number I could text you any other questions I have.” He grins and you laugh weakly.

“Look, I-“

“You can direct them to me.”

You didn’t even realise Jason coming up behind you, and his presence is sudden, hands resting on the back of your chair.

“My name should be in the college directory, which is available online.”

His tone is clipped, and the boy in front of you doesn’t look too happy at his words. You don’t really care though, because Jason’s fingers brush against your shoulders and the contact keeps you distracted.

Jason and this guy are doing some weird alpha male thing in front of you, and you let it play out. The boy loses, and walks out, despite still looking a little agitated at the rejection. The rest of the room quickly clears up after, and then it’s just you and Jason.

You sigh, stretching a little. “Well. I think that went well. Do you-“

Your words trail off, because the second the last person is out, Jason strides towards the door and locks it. Your mouth snaps shut as he does so, a flutter of something curling in your chest. He walks back over, this time stopping in front of you. You’re separated by the desk, and you wish he would’ve just come stand with you. The chair is soft beneath you, and your hand grips the soft fabric. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. Just when you go to ask him if he’s okay, he begins speaking.

“Why do you think student-teacher relationships are such a popular trope in romantic literature?”

Oh. So maybe you aren’t the only one who’s been feeling the tension between the two of you. He asks the questions with the same air he asks questions in class, so you don’t hesitate to reply.

“I think it’s the power dynamics, and also the forbiddeness of it all. The taboo. It’s interesting to see people make the risky decision of being together knowing the consequences if they’re caught.”

He nods. He walks around slowly, and you turn in your chair so you’re facing one another. You have to look up to see him clearly, and you wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart is beating.

“I think people also like the desperation. The student has some sort of emotional relationship with the mentor, so.” Jason steps closer and you're surprised you’re even able to speak with this proximity.

“They’re just eager to please in any way they can.” You finish, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

Jason hums. His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. When you don’t push him off, it trails up, ghosting over your neck to settle on your chin, fingers gentle as they raise your eyes to look up at him properly.

“Is that you?” He murmurs. “Are you eager to please me?”

It feels like more than just a question. It feels like he’s asking for permission.

The more logical part of your brain tells you that this is probably stupid. He’s not your teacher, technically, but there’s probably some regulations about a TA and a student going any further than just that.

But unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the less reasonable part of your brain seems to be louder. At some point during the lesson, he’d undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and his hand is curving against your jaw, and you wonder what it would feel like for them to touch other parts of your body. Jason always looks good, but right now he’s looking at you like it’s taking every fiber of his being not to do something reckless. And honestly, you feel like you’ve done enough eye-fucking during class. You deserve this, really.

Your answer slips from your lips before you can really stop it. “Yes.”

He drags you to your feet, pressing you against the wall behind you two, the chair rolling and crashing into something you can't see. His eyes bore into yours, bright and a mosaic of blues you never really noticed. But you’ve never been this close to him before, one breath away from kissing.

Jason swallows roughly and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob. “We shouldn’t be doing this, you know.”

His hand is warm where it grips your jaw. “The taboo, remember? That’s what makes this so hot.” You try to sound teasing but you just sound breathless. Desperate.

His lips twitch into a smile, and he hums. “Do you wanna be good for me?”

You nod quickly, and in one swift motion he’s capturing your lips on his own. They move against yours steadily, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and push you against him harder. He tastes like the mints he leaves on his desk, and you sigh, heat coiling in your gut. Your arms trail up to drape around his shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You whimper in the back of your throat as his teeth graze your bottom lip, his tongue deepening the kiss. Jason presses a knee between your legs, and your hand in his hair tightens. He groans, breaking the kiss, his breath as heavy as yours. His nose bumps the side of your face, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How did you know I liked you?” You ask, hands sliding down the smooth material of his shirt.

“It’s hard to miss you ogling me every lesson. Your seat is practically right in front of my desk.” He mumbles against your skin, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses down your jaw.

You frown. “You ogle too. Don’t think I missed that.” You quip and he huffs a laugh.

“So bratty.” He sighs. Jason looks down at you, eyes shining, and brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

“Let me take you out.” He suddenly says.

His lips are glossy from kissing you, and there’s a dusting of red over his cheeks and the tips of his ears. This close you can see a scar that runs down his sharp jaw, and smattering of freckles on his forehead. You’re not sure how you and your grandpa sweaters have landed a man like this.

“Really?” You sound a little in awe and he laughs.

“Yes, really. As much as I’d like to bend you over my desk, I think you deserve much better than that.”

“You- Well, yeah.” You nod, not trusting what else might come out of your mouth.

Jason presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “There’s always next time, though.”

guys i have a Jason Todd itch.. watching the superman movie has put me in a dc mood!! And also someone requested college Jason and idk if this counts but.. lowkey teacher x student is kinda lengers to me

ANYWYA Hope u all enjoyed!

#tehehe #loooove jason #looooove this #i have an English degree #i have an English degree so i feel very seen #dc jason todd #jason todd reader #jason todd x reader

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