prongsx

[prongsx]

hold me now

clark kent x fem!reader | 2.6k words

summary : superman doesn't just help citizens from being trampled by aliens. he also helps you, a disheveled mess on a park bench after you might have ruined your career, and he doesn't only gives you hope — but also advice regarding your co-worker clark, who you've been harbouring a crush on

warnings : not fully proofread, sorry! <3

You're screwed.

You're totally, royally, screwed.

Your career might truly be over at this point. You'll have to do the walk of shame into the Daily Planet, and have everyone stare at you while you're forced to pack up all the stuff on your desk.

All your research and draft papers that have created a monstrous pile next to your monitor, the picture frame which proudly displays a snapshot of you, Lois, Jimmy, and Clark.

Oh, Clark.

He's the one you'll miss the most. During the last year and a half you've worked at the famous newspaper of Metropolis, you had grown to care for your co-worker. And not in a platonic way. Another sob escapes your mouth as you think of never seeing Clark again.

The highlight of your mornings at the office are when he would stumble in, his glasses askew and balancing four white coffee cups out of thick cardboard, heading straight towards you with that soft and boyish smile to hand you yours first.

Clark wasn't naive per se, but he did have a sense of innocence to him. You would prefer to wrap him up in a tight hug and never let him go, his tender heart so soft that your chest sometimes hurts for him.

Once, during a lunch break, you weren't able to hold it in. You sat cross-legged on the sofa of the break room, with Clark turned fully towards you and resting his chin on his hand, listening to you animatedly recount the latest gossip you had overheard between strangers on the train.

"So then, apparently, Evelyn went behind Mary's back and talked shit about her to their new neighbours. You know why?" You gestured for Clark to answer, and took another bite of the tiramisu he'd brought to work.

Between the two of you, a small tradition had come to life. Each Thursday, one of you brought a dessert to work to share together and it switched weekly.

"Why?" He raises his eyebrows, listening intently. You think he'd listen patiently even if you were reading a step-by-step thousand page manual on how to assemble a car.

"Because, you'll never guess this. Evelyn was trying to sabotage Mary because she was hoping Mary would move out! Afterwards, she wanted her new boyfriend to move in, because their apartment was sooo nice with high-rise windows. And when Mary found out, she got their landlord to kick Evelyn out. I mean, who wouldn't? Poor Mary. " You shake your head dejectedly.

"What? That's so mean though. Why didn't she just explain the situation to Mary? That's so malicious!" Clark's eyebrows had furrowed, and he had scrunched his nose up.

He had looked so wounded, as if he had personally been wronged. Perhaps that is what moved you. You had set your tiramisu on the coffee table, and reached up and cradled Clark's face, putting on the most sympathetic expression you could.

"Sometimes people just do mean stuff, Clark. It's not everyone, but some are just too self-centered or in denial that their actions had bad intentions. Some like causing pain to others if it means they get control over the situation. It's the way the world is. It shouldn't be though."

His mood had been dampened the entire afternoon after that, and he'd only cheered up when you'd brought him a piece of cheesecake from the shared fridge.

You pushed the sticky note that had hung to the container out of your mind, which now lay in the trash, still with "Jimmy's cheesecake!" scribbled onto it.

Sorry Jimmy.

And today might have been your last day at your dream job.

You don't think you've ever seen Perry this mad. He had covered his face with his hands, even putting his cigar out. At least he had the decency to berate you in his office, and not in front of your peers. But you knew that everyone had gotten wind of your mistake. How could they not?

In a rush to post one of your articles on time, after you hadn't published one in more than a week, you had clicked on the wrong article. You hadn't checked to see if the work you'd posted was the correct one, pressured to get started on your next project.

You had instead published your secret research that had initially been turned down due to it's scandalous nature. You'd been forbidden to look further into it, and had been advised to stick to your reports about the latest victories of superheroes like Superman or the "Justice Gang", as the Green Lantern referred to themselves.

"Is the newest CEO of the prestigious Velvet Capital Bank clean or corrupt?"

The article had been deleted after about twenty minutes when an intern had notified Perry, but it was too late. There were around 11 million people in Metropolis. Inevitably, word had spread.

You're thankful that you hadn't written your name on the article, but that gratitude evaporated quickly when you realised the Daily Planet could get hit by a lawsuit from that stupid billionaire you'd dug into.

The editor-in-chief had simply told you this conversation would be continued tomorrow, and had sent you back to work.

Which is how you've ended up on a cold and hard park bench in Centennial Park, mascara running down your cheeks and smeared over your face from rubbing your eyes. Your workbag sits abandoned at your feet, and the rustle of leaves and the fresh wind are a reprieve, letting you breath clearly again.

You didn't want to go back to your apartment. If you opened the door to your dark and lonely apartment, you'd spiral even further. You'd resigned yourself to walking around until you got tired before you headed back home.

Your breath catches slightly on the way out, and all your crying has sapped out all the energy left in you. A couple walks past, swinging their intertwined hands together and giggling. There's a big red lipstick stain on the guy's cheek, and the girl's lipstick is smudged at the corners.

Clark wouldn't judge you. Even though you made that grave mistake. You really wish he were here right now, squeezing the life out of you with his hugs. His hugs always make you feel better, compressing you with his strong arms, bending down slightly to reach you.

A deep, warm voice startles you.

"Are you alright Miss?" You whip your head to your left, to see- no. No way. You're dreaming. You must be.

You can't believe your first encounter with Superman is when you are mentally six feet away from the edge. You clear your throat, and roughly wipe your cheeks with your fingers. How embarrassing, he probably has better things to do than console a weeping woman whose makeup bears a resemblance to a panda.

"I'm alright, Mister…Uh…Sir? Superman, Sir."

"Just Superman is alright. Mister and Sir makes me feel old. But you don't seem alright. I mean, you just look upset, not that you don't look beautiful. Sorry." He winces and sits down next to you.

You don't want to burden Superman with your life (which might actually be in ruins and you don't want to think about that too intensely). But…he might give you some good advice. You hope.

You glance at him, he seems like he's truly concerned. "I messed up at work. Big time. Like, I made a major mistake. I might actually get fired for this, because I maybe damaged the image of my company. And the image of a really wealthy guy who could buy my apartment and it wouldn't even make a tiny dent in his wallet. But he's corrupt. I'm sure of it. That's how I got into this situation."

You stare at him with a blank face, curious on how he's going to respond to your rant. You doubt Superman has made experiences like this.

"Are you sure you're getting fired? I mean, everyone does mistakes. The severity of mistakes by people vary wildly, but from what I hear, you didn't do anything wrong."

You narrow your eyes. "No?"

"No." He adjusts his position the best he can on this small bench.

"Corrupt guy? If anything, you warned the citizens of our city that the man is corrupt and therefore not reliable. I'd appreciate it if someone informed me of something like that."

A deep sigh from you, coming from the depths of your soul.

"My work doesn't appreciate it. I can get a job as a journalist some other place too. But- ugh. The place where I work now has grown on me. It's my second home. My best friends work with me there, and I have so many memories there. I love my job. Sure, it's mentally challenging and sometimes I say I want to quit after a long grueling day, but I don't actually mean it.

"I don't want to have to get used to another company and new people. I don't like big changes. And my coworker. I'm not going to tell you his name. But I haven't confessed my feelings to him yet. I'm pretty sure he reciprocates them, but I fear he's too nervous or shy to outright admit it.

"And if I lose my job, I worry we'll fall out of contact. I don't want to lose contact. I want to keep having weekly dessert lunches with him, and I want him to keep looking at my work over my shoulder, leaning on my desk with one arm and the other resting on the back of my chair.

"He brings me coffee each morning, you know? He goes out of his way every day to do that for me. I want to be able to call him mine, and to press kisses to his handsome face. And to hold his hand and be able to initiate affection whenever he's so cute I could scream."

Your eyes have drifted more and more away from Superman, and you're staring up at the sky. The full moon is out tonight, and she is shining brightly down on you. The moon is a bit lonely too, you think. You'd like to give her a hug too. But at least she's peaceful and serene.

You turn back to look at the Kryptonian superhuman at your side. He's looking at you and you think you can see his eyes watering. His lips part, and he hesitates for a moment.

Hm. That's weird. His eyes remind you of someone. They're the same shade of blue as Clark's eyes. Almost like the snowflakes you see in animated movies, icy blue. But not cold, no. Never cold. A snowy blue, but with warmth in his expression.

Even his eye shape is the same. You file that away for later.

Superman is nice company, and this could be your chance to interview him and save your career, now that you think about it.

But it seems rude to take advantage of the superhero who keeps everyone safe, especially when he's helping you right now.

"You should talk to him. About your feelings. Though I truly don't think you're going to get fired, you have to shoot your shot. Life isn't always as easy as we think. But it's nicer to navigate the hardships with someone at your side. Trust yourself." He softly claps his palms against his thighs, and goes to stand up. You follow him with your eyes.

"Here. If you are really at risk of getting laid off, text this number. I'll convince your boss to not do it, and to keep you on his team. You seem like a very ambitious worker. Not many are brave enough to call out people with the wrong morals." He hands you a small slip of a white card, with a number on it.

His business card.

Superman has business cards. You chuckle.

"Thank you…"

Superman is gone. You raise the card, as if to examine it.

It's just you and the moon now, in silent company to each other. You look up. The moon rises each night, even when her light is dimmed and not fully noticeable.

You can do that too.

The next morning you take a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open, giving you a full view of the loud and tumultuous office.

Clark, surprisingly, is already sat at his desk, and his expression softens the moment he sees you, his lips curving upwards. He beams at you, and beckons you over. You make your way over to his desk, trying not to crush the note in your hand.

"Good morning Clark. You're early for once."

"Good morning! A construction site outside my building woke me up early. Listen, I heard about what happened yesterday. But it all worked out." He gestures to Lois, who is hastily jotting down notes with a telephone pressed to her ear, and to the stack of photos littering Jimmy's desk as he fiddles with his camera.

Clark leans towards you, whispering in a conspiratorial manner. "The Daily Planet has been getting an influx of calls by whistle blowers who heard about what you wrote. This could be a major piece!"

A heavy weight drops from your chest, and you press your mouth to your hand. You weren't going to get fired.

Superman was right.

Hope fills your chest, and your confidence surges. You open your mouth before you chicken out, and your short sleeve button down is sticking to your skin, and you desperately hope you're not sweating through it out of nerves.

"That's amazing, thank you Clark. Do you want to go out to dinner with me?"

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, repeats like a mantra in your head.

His face takes the color of a pinkish hue, and he painfully hits his knee on the underside of his desk as he hastily stands up.

"Ouch, I- yes! I'd love to." He swallows nervously. "Like, like a date?" His voice gets quieter towards the end of the sentence.

You nod, smiling up at him. You stand on the tips of your feet to lean up, and plant a kiss on his cheek. Some of your lipgloss sticks to his face, and his face turns even more red.

"Let's go after work." You slip the note onfo his desk and your heart pounds in your chest as you head to your desk quickly. You're officially going on a date with Clark Kent. Jimmy stares at you with his mouth agape, being ignored as you walk right past him.

He snaps his head between Clark and you, pointing with his finger, absolutely baffled.

Clark can hear the quick thumps of your heartbeat, accompanied by his own accelerated heart. He reaches his hand up to his cheek, where he can feel the stickiness of your makeup. His lips stretch upwards, so wide his face hurts.

He catches your eyes from where you sit at your desk, and a happiness so deep hits him that he might cry. He cannot wait to build a deeper relationship with you. He can't wait to hold you, and to love you with everything he has.

A white folded paper next to his keyboard catches his attention, and he looks around. You must have left it here. Slowly, he unfolds the note to see your handwriting, neat and elegant.

His breath stops as he reads the note.

Thank you for the advice, Superman. You were right, I long to have someone by my side in my life, and that someone is and always will be you.

Xoxo, I can't wait for dinner later

dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

© aelinwya - please do not copy, repost or translate my work. furthermore, i do not condone my work getting put into any AI.

[prongsx]

smoke break

[prongsx]

I have a grandchild?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.” 

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

[prongsx]

barkeep (p. 2)

summary. after your last meeting with jason, you find yourself thinking about him (more than normally that is), a memory lingering in the corners of your mind. until one night after your bar shift, your relationship undergoes a metamorphosis. (word count. 3.9K)

content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, med student!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???, confession of feelings

warnings. injuries/blood, stabby stabbing, making out?, reader gets mugged oof, jason, reader gets called sweets (not by jason lol)

author's note. it's finally here!!! yayayayayay!! thank everyone for the patience, i recently started a second j*b so i've been too tired to write, but once it get my schedule more stable i'll have much more time! thank you all who showed love on the first barkeep! i hope this is a worthy conclusion <3

It’s been a week since you’ve seen Jason. 

Not that you’re counting or anything. But you have caught yourself checking your apartment door more than usual. Glancing up too quickly from your book when you hear footsteps pass in the hallway outside. Feeling your heart hitch, tight and quick, in your throat whenever someone knocks at the door.

 Midterms had crept up on you way faster than you expected they would this semester. Soon enough, you were buried in flashcards and caffeine, ambushed by back-to-back exams and relentless study sessions. You're still recovering from the academic whiplash. 

Due to some of your testing times being later in the day, you had to swap out a few shifts, taking the earlier ones so your coworker could cover your normal night shifts. You really hope Jason doesn’t think you’re avoiding him. And you also really hope he hasn’t come crashing into the bar, bleeding out hoping to find you and getting your terrified coworker instead. Hoping to find the hands that knew how to stitch him back together, waiting for the practiced way they moved. 

Aside from studying until your brain aches and your fingers are numb, you spend an embarrassingly long time thinking about Jason. Last week’s overnight stay at your apartment solidified the depth of the feelings you harbored for him. Whenever you were in public, you would catch yourself looking for him. You’d wonder about what he thought of the books you’d lent him, how far he’s gotten, who his favorite characters are. 

You find yourself in a deep spiral of wanting to know everything about him, wanting to know him. Every little detail, you want to know—what’s his favorite color, when’s his birthday, is he a light or deep sleeper, does he annotate his books, if he sleeps with socks on, how does he like his eggs cooked? 

Jason has lodged himself into your brain, like a splinter, small, deep, and impossible to ignore. It’s like he’s your little secret, even though he isn't yours at all. You don’t know what you mean to him, if you mean anything at all. But you know what he’s starting to mean to you.

After collecting your paycheck—and counting the bills to ensure you actually were given the right amount this time—you began traversing the streets of Gotham. Your money is safely tucked deep in your bag and your windbreaker zipped up to your chin—a false sense of protection. The sounds of Gotham drift into your ears—honking cars and sirens filled the air with a low, steady hum. 

The bus stop wasn’t far. Less than two blocks from the bar, just past the convenience store with the flickering sign that buzzes loudly as you pass. You had checked the schedule earlier; there was one last bus, just before midnight. You even left early, trying to give yourself extra time to get there. 

The wind stings your cheeks and you clutch your coat tighter around your body as you briskly continue to walk. A chill creeps down your spine, your eyes flicking to look down every dark alley you pass. The streets are damp, slick with rain that hasn’t fallen but still lingers in the air. This night in particular makes you feel uneasy—something about it feels like the city is closing in on you, breathing down your neck. Lost in your paranoia, you just barely register the hiss of breaks and the low rumble of an engine as the last bus starts pulling away. 

“Shit,” you mutter, breath puffing out visibly in the night air as the bus disappears down the block. The headlights turn the corner and vanish, leaving you alone with the hum of a flickering streetlamp and the distant groan of traffic. It does little to fill the empty space around you. For a moment, you just stand there, your shoulders sagging, alone on the deserted sidewalk with cold fingers.

Eventually, you sigh and begin the walk home, your footsteps echoing against the damp pavement. The streets have quieted, and the lack of noise brings you no comfort—no signs of life, just you and your heartbeat. You try to keep yourself in the center of the sidewalk, far away from the mouths of the alleys looking to swallow you whole. But the feeling of being watched doesn’t leave you, your stomach turning sickeningly inside you. 

You’re just paranoid, you aren’t being watched, everything's fine, you repeat like a prayer internally. You turn down the road that cuts between a construction site and a row of closed businesses, their windows boarded up. This part of your walk is awful at night—the looming steel beams from above cast large shadows onto the stone brick of the abandoned stores as you pass.

At first, you think your head is playing tricks on you, because you swear you hear footsteps behind you. Swallowing thickly, you risk a glance over your shoulder and your heart drops. Not too far away, you spy two men in their thirties at earliest. One is smoking a cigarette, the red embers flare like an alarm bell in your head. His gaze flicks to yours when he sees you looking, and he grins.

You whip your head forward and pick up your pace, fast enough that your boots begin to slap wetly against the concrete. You dig into your pocket with trembling fingers until you find the small pocketknife attached to your keychain. The blade is barely two inches long, but your hand tightens around it anyway, sweat making the metal slick against your warm palm.

“Hey, sweets,” one of them calls, his voice echoing through the abandoned streets. “Late night, huh? Need help carryin’ that?”

You don’t answer and don’t dare look back, blood rushing through your ears. Walking so fast it’s nearly a jog, you round the corner to your street. As you turn, you can see they’ve gotten much closer, too close for comfort. Fear is clutching at your chest. 

You could run to your apartment, lock the door—but then they know where you live. Screaming wasn’t an option, unfortunately it would probably be brushed off by anyone who heard. You want to call Jason, but you don’t have his number—if he even has a phone at all.  Your fingers clutch the strap of your bag. 

“No need to make this difficult,” the second guy says, this time way too close for comfort, “just give it here.”

You bolt, so quick you barely register your own movements, but you’re jerked back by the back of your coat. The hand yanks your collar hard and as you try to twist free, you stumble and your back is slammed hard against a brick wall. 

“I don’t have anything!” you lie, your voice strained and too shaky. You hear one of them chuckle, the one who has you pinned against the wall smells like cigarettes and stale body odor.

“Don’t be difficult,” the man grunts, his sour breath washing over you as he tries to wrestle your bag from your grip. Panic flares in your chest, the position not allowing you to grab the knife tucked away in your pocket. You fling your elbow at him, shoving him off the best you can. 

He grunts, holding his nose, about to knee you in the gut before the distinct sound of a gun firing stops him. You flinch violently as a spray of blood hits the pavement beside you, the mugger who had you pinned cries out. He crumples to the ground, holding his ankle as it spurts blood from the fresh bullet wound. A shadowed figure drops down from the scaffolding above, landing on the concrete with a crack. 

Relief floods through you as the sight of Red Hood’s signature helmet and a familiar red bat symbol fills your vision.

The mugger farthest from you doesn’t even have time to react. In two swift movements, Jason kicks his legs out from under him and slams him into the nearest wall, his forearm crushing the man’s jugular. The man lunges—knife out, fast—but Jason catches his arm. He efficiently twisted it back with a sickening crack, then drove the butt of his gun into the man’s mouth with enough force to send teeth clattering onto the wet concrete.

 You watch frozen, chest heaving. The man who tried to pin you is groaning beside your feet, rolling slightly, but your attention is locked on Jason. He turns to glance at you, you can’t see his eyes through the helmet, but you know he’s scanning you for injuries. There’s a beat, but then the man in his grip surges back upward, jabbing the blade in his hand towards Jason’s side. 

Something like strangled gasp leaves you involuntarily as the blade catches his side. Jason jerks back, pressing his hand to his side for a second before firing his gun again. The shot is sharp, the bullet striking directly in the middle of the man's kneecap. 

The alley falls into a strange silence, broken only by the sputtering groans of the two attackers. You stand there, breathing hard with your heart in your throat. Jason nudges the man at his feet with the toe of his boot, assessing if he’s lucid. Seemingly satisfied, he finally turns towards you. The crimson red of his helmet gleams under the flickering streetlight above.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low and rough, distorted slightly by the modulator.

You nod, still too stunned to speak. Your eyes flick down—he’s gripping his side, fingers pressed to a spot near his ribs. Blood leaks between them, staining the leather of his gloves.

“You’re hurt,” you breathe, stepping toward him, your hands shaking. 

“It’s nothin’,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“You’re bleeding.”

He turns his head slightly and shifts his weight, avoiding your gaze. The soft rain slides down the sleek metal of his helmet, soaking into the leather of his jacket.

 “I said it’s nothin’.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur—guilt catching in your throat—and the clouds start to cry, the patter of rain on your jacket filling the empty air, “I missed the bus.”

“I can see that,” Jason breathes out, his free hand reaching out and gripping the hem of your jacket. “And don’t apologize.”

He tugs at the crinkly fabric gently, starting to walk in the direction of your apartment. You want to protest him moving, worried his wound will get worse, but you keep your mouth shut and follow him without question. Just like any other night Jason walks you home, he stays close, but this time your shoulders only bump because he’s swaying on his feet from blood loss.  His pace is steady from beside you, but you notice the hitch in his breath every few steps, the subtle way he holds his side. 

“How did you find me?” you suddenly ask after a stretch of silence, turning your head toward him. His fingers tighten a little at your windbreaker.

“Was gonna give your books back,” Jason mutters, his voice rough. “Ya’ haven’t been at the bar. Figured I’d drop them off, but you weren’t home.”

“Sorry. I—I had midterms. Had to change my shifts,” you reply softly, searching for the words that invaded your brain. “Jason, if you hadn’t-”

“Don’t,” he says, almost too soft for this voice modulator to pick up, “I wouldn’t have let them touch you.”

You snap your jaw shut, the finality in his words silencing you as soon as they hit the cool Gotham air. The walk to your apartment is quick, only a block or two from where the muggers grabbed you. Both of you clamber up the steps to your apartment and Jason leans heavily on your doorframe. The key trembles a little in your grip as you unlock your apartment door. 

“Sit. Please,” you murmur gently, urging him towards the couch as he hesitates in the doorway. The door shuts behind him with a soft click and instead, he sinks down against the living room wall. You toss your keys into the dish by the door and hurry to the kitchen. The first aid kit—left out from when you sliced your finger making dinner yesterday—is still open on the dining table. You snatch it up and turn on your heel.

By the time you return, Jason has peeled his leather jacket off—tossed in a heap beside his helmet. His undershirt clings to him, soaked with dark blood, his hand still pressed on the wound on his side.

“‘M gettin’ blood on your rug,” Jason mumbles, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Kneeling, you start sifting through your first aid kit, you stare at him as you shake your head. 

“I wanted a new one anyway,” you reply noncommittally, leaning forward and slipping your hands under his shirt to pull it up, peeking at the wound. The injury doesn’t look as deep as you feared, but still deep enough to need stitches. Older, dried trails of blood crust around the edge of the torn skin at his ribs and run down his side.

Sucking in a breath, you quietly speak, “shirt off, Jay.”  Your voice as you speak isn’t as steady as you would like it to be. You nudge his arms up over his head and carefully peel the bloodstained fabric from his body. 

It’s not the first time you’ve seen him fully shirtless, but a prickle of heat still curls down your spine regardless. It’s not just because you get a good look at the soft dips of his toned abs either. The idea that he trusts you enough to let you see does too. It also doesn’t help that you’re so close, on your knees between his legs as your fingertips brush his skin. Quickly, you pull your eyes away, afraid he’ll think you’re staring at the scar that runs up his stomach and deviates near his sternum. 

Instead, you busy yourself with dipping a cloth into just a bit of water and spare a glance up at him. Jason’s eyes rage like a storm over the ocean as you meet his gaze, realizing he’s already looking down at you. You swallow thickly and your eyes dart away from his. 

“This is gonna sting.”

“As always,” he mumbles, the muscles on his stomach tense in anticipation. You press the cloth gently to the cut and above you, Jason lets out a huff of air through his nose. He doesn’t flinch or make any more noise, but you can feel the way his muscles twitch under your hand. Taking your time, you carefully clean and disinfect the area. Your knuckles occasionally graze the curve of his ribs as you clear away layers of blood. It feels oddly intimate, more than normal. Neither of you are speaking, but you can feel Jason’s intense stare boring into the top of your skull as you work.

“I was thinking about you,” you say softly, not quite looking at him as you reach to grab your suture supplies. “All week. I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you.”

He exhales through his nose, something quiet and ragged. “Didn’t think that.” You hum in acknowledgement, pressing the suture needle to the edge of his wound. 

“I’ll be quick,” you murmur, piercing into his skin. You try to move quickly and efficiently, ignoring the way it’s obviously hurting him—trying to not focus on the way his hands clench tightly and his jaw clenches. You sit on the floor in front of him, quiet for a long moment as you finish closing the wound. You could say thank you. You could say I was scared. Because you were, it wasn’t even the muggers. It was that he got distracted, by you none the less, and he got hurt because of it. 

Quickly, you finish wrapping his side, hands slow, reluctant to be done. Selfishly, you want to keep touching him. Want to press your palm flat to his chest and feel the beat of his heart.

But instead, you murmur, “All done,” and reach to close the kit, your hands trembling slightly. He’s watching you—not even bothering to hide it—and you can feel the weight of his stare. Your throat feels tight and the silence crackles like static between you two. 

Without your permission, your eyes flit up to his face. Your hand twitches, resisting the urge to brush his damp, dark curls from his forehead. But you don’t, you stay kneeling between his legs, heart a mess in your chest, fingertips still tingling from where they touched him.

“You should lie down,” you say quietly, trying to shake yourself from the trance his gaze put you in. “You can take my bed this time. I’ll take the couch.”

“I—” he pauses, jaw working like he’s trying to bite something back. His eyes dart away from your face like it burns him to meet your eyes. . “Should head out. Actually.”

You lean back slightly, onto your heels, drawing your hands into your lap. “What? Why?” Your voice shakes despite yourself, your brows pinch. Jason doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, shoulders hunched forward like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are still stained with dried blood, twitching faintly where they rest atop his thighs.

“I just—I shouldn’t,” he mutters, voice faltering. Though he makes no effort to get up, like he’s frozen in place. The moment stretches, your heart pounding against your rib cage.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, “don’t pull away like that.”

Jason hangs his head, his gaze locked on his lap. You can tell he’s staring at the pale, jagged trail that cuts down his torso like a brand of his past. He looks like he wants to disappear inside himself, as if letting you see him this close was a mistake he can’t undo.

“Please. Talk to me,” you plead quietly. Your fingers almost reach out to grab his hand, hovering just above it. Jason exhales, slowly, ragged, like it hurts him to breathe.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Jason says, voice raw. You stay silent, stiff as you process his words.

“I’ve thought about tellin’ you,” Jason murmurs, barely audible. “But every time, I stop myself. Because you deserve someone safe. Someone whole. Not…” He trails off with a harsh breath, his hands clenching against his thighs. Jason’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. “Not me.”

“It’s bad enough you know as much as you do,” Jason mutters, “if somethin’ ever happened to you because of me—”

He cuts himself off and your breath catches. Jason finally lifts his eyes to look at you. They’re slightly glassy, glinting with fear. Your face pinches together at the sight, because he looks so young. He doesn’t look like the man you know at this moment—he doesn’t look tall and burly, he doesn’t look battered by life. Jason looks like a boy—a boy who’s lost, a boy who’s scared.

“You’re not just someone to me,” he goes on, voice hoarse and fraying, ”I thought I could ignore it. Tried to act like I didn’t—like this didn’t mean anything. But it does. And it scares the hell out of me. Because I’m not safe. And I need you to be.”

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears.

“I keep tellin’ myself to stay away,” Jason continues, like he can’t control the words he’s kept bottled in his throat for months. The dam that’s been holding back his feelings has broken, and there's no way to stop him from spilling them out. “To not drag you into my mess. I keep findin’ excuses to see you. And when I can’t, it’s like—like I can’t breathe right.”

Your eyes sting and you blink hard. Jason finally looks at you, his eyes stormy, pupils large and dark as they practically swallow his irises with how big they are. You’re leaning forward before you know it, gently resting your hand on his—lose so he can pull away if he wants. His fingers twitch beneath your touch before his larger pointer finger links with yours. 

Jason’s nose brushes yours and his hair tickles your forehead. His other hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you like he’s afraid to break you. His lips barely ghost over your cheek, your temple, your jaw—like he’s memorizing every inch of you. Each touch is careful, like he’s savoring the feel of your skin against his.

“You just sounded like you were out of a Jane Austen book,” you breathe out, your eyes feel heavy and hazy. 

“That a compliment?” Jason murmurs, his hand slides up to cup your jaw—callused skin brushes against the corner of your lip and you shiver.

“Maybe,” you respond, your foreheads pressing together and the air is hot, heat emanating from your skin. “Yes…”

Jason huffs, like a poorly contained laugh, before his eyes are focused on you again. Your breaths mingle in the space between you, shallow and warm. You can feel how hard he’s shaking, like he’s holding himself back from 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes along the curve of your neck, trembling.

“I don’t care,” you say softly with a shake of your head, your hands sliding up to cup the nape of his neck. 

Within the second the words leave your lips, his own find yours. The kiss is slow but full of months of want, Jason’s hands sliding back into your hair as he pulls you closer to him. You gasp against his lips as your knees shift forward, half in his lap and half hovering over him. Jason tentatively moves his lips against yours, prying them open to combine the heat of your mouths. His lips are warm, kissing you like it could be the last time he could get the chance. He tastes like copper and rain, like desperation.

Your hands are lost in his dark head of hair, cradling his head in place as you swipe your tongue along his lower lip. Jason makes a quiet, almost involuntary sound in the back of his throat as he brushes his tongue against yours. Panting slightly, you pull away and open your eyes slowly—lashes brushing his heated skin. It’s just enough to see the flush on his face and the glisten of saliva on his reddened lips. His breathing is ragged, eyes heavy lidded and searching. Your noses brush and you nudge his against yours gently.

“We should do that more often,” you say lightly, “payment for patching you up so many times.”

Jason laughs shakily, breath hitching on the exhale. “Deal.” 

The corners of your eyes crinkle and your nose scrunches, the ache in your chest lessens and you huff a laugh. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You cradle his large frame against you, pressing your lips to his temple.

“Can you read to me before bed, too? As part of my payment. Obviously.”

Jason tilts his head, gently pressing his lips to the column of your throat, his hands resting on the small of your back. His voice is low, rumbling against your throat, his words pressed into the very fabric of your being.

“Anythin’ for you.”

[prongsx]

Prince of Gotham

(heavily inspired by this post op if you see this, I didn't want to bother you 🙈)

[prongsx]

Damian is still a child guys

[prongsx]

we are not children anymore, honey.

warning: swearing, a bit insinuating, f!reader, fluff.

where jason needs to remind you that you're not kids anymore and teasing him isn't the same anymore.

1,8k words

You met Jason Todd when you were both innocent children, well, as innocent as the crime alley allowed. He was your best friend, most of the scars he had back then were from picking fights with anyone who raised their voice at you, anyone who tried to sell you drugs or tried to be aggressive with you.

You had an easy body language, both of you touched each other often and played the usual games that children do, physical touch was never a distant thing.

You secretly had a crush on that somewhat reckless and smiling boy who protected you, always holding your hand. Maybe in the back of your mind you thought that one day you would get married.

At the time, he was a little shorter than you, a fact that deeply irritated him but made you laugh. Then he was adopted by Bruce Wayne and you thought that would be the end of your friendship, but there seemed to be a thread that connected you, not even taking on the mantle of Robin could separate you.

Then Jason was taken from you in the most abrupt way possible, by the hands of death itself. But not even that which seemed inescapable separated you for long, the grief that consumed you could have destroyed you, but something in your mind repeated that Jason would never leave you alone.

When Jason appeared at your door, years later, his blue eyes looking haunted, you cried, something in your heart that was dead seemed to come out of the ground in the same way as your best friend.

At first, you simply didn't know what to do with this new Jason, he himself seemed a little lost, the well had affected his emotions. He took up more space, his arms and hands were bigger. Doubts consumed you, afraid of never rescuing the old bond, but then you bought your old favorite cookie and he smiled at you.

That dimpled smile, which lit up his blue eyes and seemed to bring a reckless air to him. And you decided right then and there that nothing would stop you from being his best friend again.

The thing was that your friendship was based on a time when you were both younger and more naive, feelings were simpler. Jason died before you could be friends during that strange time in your adolescence when touching your friend seemed strange, the only memory your body had of your friendship with Jason was a sticky friendship.

"Only you could make me go to the other side of town to get that damn donut that tasted like paper." Jason grumbles, closing the latch on your window as he moves his huge body into your living room. At that moment, you feel the room shrink, and it feels like any false move will betray your racing heart as you watch Jason remove his helmet, his black curls messy in a cute way.

"They're great." You hum, reaching out to take the package from Jason.

"Seriously, there are so many bakeries with better donuts." He retorts, crossing his arms, drawing your attention to the outline of his biceps in his skintight uniform.

"The best isn't always going to be the tastiest."

Jason rolls his eyes at your completely nonsensical choice of words, flopping his tired body on the couch next to you.

"Jason, did you just sit on my couch in your dirty patrol gear?"

"Sweetie, I just walked halfway through this shitty city looking for that donut. I have a right to dirty your precious couch."

You let out a grunt, knowing he's right. He has the right, but that doesn't stop you from lightly pinching the side of his hip, where his suit had a layer of fabric.

He doesn't even blink at your attitude, his hands holding your wrist, his long fingers holding it as delicately as was allowed.

"I thought you gave up trying to play fight with me," he whispers, his voice heavy with that accent that makes your legs a little weak.

You shrug, your body approaching him almost as a reflex, your knee touching his. It's kind of annoying how much bigger he's gotten than you, and stronger. Much stronger, you know he could flip you over with a single hand and honestly the thought is more exciting than you want to admit.

"Sweet thing?" He calls to you, still with that sly smile on his lips. You blink slowly, coming back to reality.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you going to eat your delicious donut?"

"Yes. Yes." You say, nodding.

If before you thought Jason was cute, now you could write ridiculous poems about him, two stanzas just about his sapphire eyes.

He snuggled deeper into your couch, spreading his thighs and letting out a sigh of relief at the comfort.

"Tiring patrol?" He opened his eyes when he felt your hands lightly pinching his nose, trying to make him pay attention to you again. You would never admit it out loud, but having Jason's undivided attention was kind of addictive and intoxicating.

"You could say that."

You dropped the donuts on the living room table, suddenly feeling guilty. Even though it was just him teasing you, the store that sold your favorite donuts was really far away.

"I'm sorry I made you take my stupid donuts." He let out a breath when you rested your chin on his shoulder, staring at him from under your eyelashes.

"No. I don't forgive you." He teased, his hands going down to your waist and drawing circles there.

"Seriously, I was selfish." You repeat, looking down at the red bat symbol on his chest.

His blue eyes continued to stare at you, his hands coming up and lightly holding your chin, his eyebrows furrowed. Jason never accepted it when you seemed sad towards him, or when you made it seem like you were a hindrance in his life.

"Stop that shit."

A laugh escaped through your nostrils.

"You still have such a dirty mouth, Todd. My mother still blames you for the variety of curses I know."

He laughed, the sound going straight to your stomach. It should be forbidden for someone to have such a delightful laugh to hear. Jason wasn't as much of a laugh now as he used to be when he was a child, his innocence had been taken away from him years ago, so you drank every drop of his laughter you could.

"Well, I blame you every time I act stupid. We're even."

You reached your hands up to his hair and pulled lightly, like you used to do when you wanted to get back at him when you were kids. But this time, he didn't laugh you away or flick you in retaliation. His lips curved into a thin line and his eyes blinked so fast you thought you'd imagined it.

"Sweetie." Jason's voice was low, the nickname sending an electric shock through your body. "We're not kids anymore."

"You're still just as annoying." You joked, praying he wouldn't notice the slight crack in your voice.

"No, sweet thing, you didn't understand what I meant." He said, his blue eyes staring straight into your face. His hands moved down to your hips, pulling you closer to him, your legs almost resting on his thigh. "I'm saying we're not kids anymore." He repeated.

"Yes. I obviously know that."

He let out a long sigh, as if you were irritating him with your stupidity.

His slightly chapped lips parted as he said something that you were momentarily lost in, your hands resting on his muscular thigh. He gripped your chin tighter when he noticed your inattention and felt your hand on his thigh.

"See? That's what I'm saying." He let out a laugh that wasn't like before, it wasn't genuine and open-hearted, it was low and had a feeling you couldn't quite grasp. "You keep touching me and teasing me like we're children."

"I can stop." You stammered, very confused and feeling a little dizzy. This new Jason Todd, with more scars and less shyness, was making your throat suddenly close up.

"You're not supposed to stop." He whispered, his other hand coming back to grab the back of your neck and pull your faces so close you could feel his warm breath. "Just letting you know that now, when you lie on top of me and stare at me like that, my first thought isn't to play fight with you, darling." His hand squeezed your chin lightly as he added, his voice lower, "When you stare at me like that, all I think about is kissing you stupid."

Forming words seemed harder than ever.

"Ah."

"Ah," he mimicked you in a thin voice, a goofy smile on his face, his grip on your chin bringing your lips close to his. "I say I want to make you sigh my name and that's all you have to say?"

You clear your throat, your eyelashes fluttering slightly. The hand resting on his thigh makes an involuntary movement to lightly squeeze the muscle there. Jason's blue eyes darken, a noise close to a growl leaving his lips.

"You keep doing these things. Fuck, baby, every time you almost climb on my lap like it's nothing." He took a deep breath, as if he was losing his mind, closing his eyes so as not to get lost in his own thoughts. "You must know what you're doing to me."

"No. I. No." You repeated, still very overwhelmed by how close you were. Your best friend, staring at you like he was about to destroy you.

He smiled again at your mental confusion, brushing his lips against yours and letting out a low moan that made you gasp. "Let me kiss you, please?"

You nodded, crashing your lips against his before you had to beg for it. Jason's lips were rough against yours, as if he was punishing you for making him wait, for making him yearn for this.

Jason's ability to focus on multitasking was evident when he pulled you to sit fully on his lap, without separating your lips, his hands moving up and down your body, swallowing the small moans that came out of your mouth.

"I think I've already thought of a way for you to pay for your stupid donuts," he whispered, pulling your lips away for a few seconds to smile at you.

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in years. Your hands cupped his face, caressing his cheek. There were so many questions and doubts swirling around your mind, but Jason pulled you into a hug, kissing your forehead.

"Honey, it took you a long time to realize that you're mine. Just relax."

You blinked away the tears, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, a genuine smile on your lips.

Your best friend was in love with you too, and everything would be okay.

I hope you liked it, sorry for the mistakes, I need to review all my works. My epub box is open, I just want to write more for Jason!! I'm stupid for him. And I'll be dying on the hill that Jason Todd has a dirty mouth. I'm trying to write for a gender-neutral reader but I've discovered that I have difficulty, I'm sorry, but I'll keep trying.

[prongsx]

[prongsx]

Ps. I still love you

Synopsis: Jason hates you. Or rather, he hates that he still loves you like he's a stupid teenager.

warnings: f!reader× jason todd. brief mention of injuries and violence. I had the idea for a long story with this plot but my mind produced a short one of what the statement would be like. not revised. English is not my first language.

Jason hated you. A lot.

Or maybe not.

He hated himself more, for sure. And he hated the way he got stupid around you, he lost a lot of his mean and fearless attitude when you were around. When you smiled? Great, he was sweating like a teenager. Smiling at him? He wished he was dead again so he wouldn't feel that.

He met you when you were teenagers and he was painfully obvious about all the love he felt for you back then, everyone could see it, except, of course, you.He doesn't hate you for not reciprocating it, no, he's not that stupid.

He hates you for seeing the most pathetic version of him.

Dick still laughs at the way he sighed while reading Jane Austen and listened to sad romantic music loudly when you didn't get his hints. He was never good with words, not even back then, so he would just make you home-cooked meals, bring you very specific gifts, and grumble like it was nothing. But he was more affectionate with you than with everyone else, even though the Robin version of him was more open to others, you were different.

And now, that he was back in Gotham and you seemed unfairly prettier? Did he shut down when you tried to get close to him for the good times? He freaked out. Because this new version of him wasn't made for that. He only wanted revenge and justice. He wasn't that idiot boy in love anymore who could steal stars for you.

No, he doesn't have those kinds of feelings anymore. He repeats this to himself every time he catches himself staring at you and thinking about how pretty the curve of your nose is, how your eyes almost close when you laugh, how you still have a lot of the quirks you had when you were 15. So he pushes you away, he represses all of that because he's terrified. Completely.

The idea of ​​being vulnerable like that again makes him sick. And he won't admit it, but it hurts the way you try to get closer to him, how he can see the hurt in your eyes when he's cold to you.

—Jason? What happened? —He freezes when he hears your voice, damn it, he knew it was a bad idea to go to the batcave to use Bruce's first aid kit.

—Nothing.— He replied, turning his back to you, groaning in pain softly, his back was burning.

—You're bleeding, Jason Todd. —You replied, standing in front of him and crossing your arms.

He almost smiled, you were adorable when you were worried. Damn, seeing you worried about him made him happier than he should be. But he obviously doesn't show it, he just grumbles.

—Jason, let me help you. Your hands are shaking. — He looks up, noticing that you're closer, your soft eyes staring at him, taking the towel from his hand. He was really shaking, the mission had reached a very specific part of his brain that was still fighting against the traumas.

—I'm fine, damn it.— He regretted it the moment he said it. He didn't understand why he was so stupid with you. Your shoulders slumped, your nose wrinkling in that way he knew you did when you wanted to cry. But then, surprising him and yourself, you took the towel from his hand and glared at him furiously.

—You can hate me all you want, I'm not going to let you bleed to death just for being stupid. Now, be quiet and let me help you, you idiot.

His eyes widened, immediately going silent. Of course, you didn't know, but he would jump off a bridge if you asked him nicely. But then the words registered. Him hating you? It was kind of laughable, considering he was in love with you before he died and even after he was resurrected.

—Okay.— He mumbled, letting you start tending to his wounds. When he felt your fingers touching his bare chest, he shivered, thinking the fifteen-year-old version was fainting.

—Sorry.—You mumbled, interpreting his shudder the wrong way. He wanted to correct you, tell you that he didn’t want to hear your forgiveness, he just wanted you to keep touching him.

—You’re quick at this.—He murmured, his voice soft. Your first aid skills had really improved, you were precise and controlled. He felt like an idiot when you looked at him in shock, as if you couldn’t believe he was complimenting you.

—Thanks. I.. got a little tired of Dick’s horrible sewing and learned to do it myself. It was either that or look like Frankenstein.

He laughed at your joke and noticed how your eyes lit up at making him laugh.

God, you were glad you had made him laugh. You both sat in comfortable silence, for the first time in a long time. Then, being the brave person you always were, you glared at him.

— I miss being your friend.

He froze, his green eyes growing deeper.

— Why you hate me now?

—I don't hate you. — He mumbled, his hands clenching his own clothes, his breathing becoming unstable, terrified of where the conversation was going. Then he looked up and noticed that the eyes he had loved throughout his adolescence were filled with tears.

— Yes, you hate me. And I... I don't understand, Jason. Even with Bruce your relationship has improved. But you can't even look me in the eyes.

He gasped, and almost by reflex, his hand went to his own chest, which was burning. Damn, being the one to blame for your tears almost physically hurt him.

— You're better off this way.

You gave a bitter laugh at his words, your hands going to his shoulder, not caring that he froze under your touch.

— You have no right to say what's best for me. We... were friends, shit.

— No, we weren't. — He said calmly, which only made your eyes get tearier.

— Of course we were! He took a deep breath, feeling his head spinning, he had lost a lot of blood, you were too close, he could smell your shampoo, feel your touch on his skin.

— Please...let's forget about this.

— No, let's not! You were sweet, you were nice to me. He laughed bitterly at your words, shaking his head.

— I was an idiot. That seemed to make you livid, you grabbed his chin, hard, forcing him to look at you. His legs opened automatically, sitting on the stretcher, making room for you to stand in front of him

. — I forbid you to talk about my friend like that.

— Your tone was serious, firm. There was so much affection in your voice, so much affection for that boy who was dead.

— You will not talk nonsense about him and you will not even be able to look me in the eyes while you say it.

He continued to stare at you, perplexed. Staring into your eyes was making him dizzy. He had dreamed so many times of leaning in and tasting her lips.

—I was pathetic.—The tightness in his jaw tightened, his eyes furious.

—Stop.

—No, you can’t say anything. I was pathetic. And you knew it. All that pent-up love and—He closed his mouth, because the realization on your face spoke volumes.

—So you really liked me?— Your voice was low, the touch on his chin going all the way to his jaw, so close he had to hold his breath, his ribs aching.

—It was obvious to half the world—he murmured, his cheeks flushing

—And why do you hate me now?

—Because I can’t look at you for long without feeling fifteen again. —He stuttered, the words coming out before he could stop them.

That was all you needed to hear. Your hands went to his cheek, the touch soft and affectionate. Then you pressed your lips against his, almost shyly, your tongue tasting his lower lip. It took Jason a few seconds to react, but then his hands were holding your waist and his lips were eager against yours, finally fulfilling his dream of years.

You were soft to the touch, smooth, your lips fit perfectly with his. When you needed air, you pulled away a few inches, your breath against his cheek, your forehead pressed against his, your voice was shy and hesitant when you whispered.

—Was it like you imagined?

—Not even close. — He murmured, pulling you in for another kiss. You could talk about your feelings later. Now he just needed to fulfill all the dreams of the teenager in love that he once was.

Guys! Omg! Hello! I miss this a lot! I miss write a lot. I know this fic its not exaclty well writing but i just need put my thoughts out of my mind. Now i have a job and i miserable now (do you know that famous song)

Hope you liked it. I really want make this a series with flashback but idk

Hope you guys are fine!

[prongsx]

love when fictional men are so devoted to their partner it makes them dangerous and insane. very slutty behavior keep it up king

[prongsx]

where did all the years go?

[prongsx]

on my knees, now i wanna see how bad jason fangirls after being praised by wonder woman, please🧎(also i just really love how you draw jason aaaAAAA)

He will be thinking about this for literal weeks

[prongsx]

barkeep

summary. as a bartender at one of the sketchiest bars in gotham and a med student, you and red hood aka jason todd have a symbiotic relationship. you give him free drinks and patch him up and he makes sure you don't get murdered walking home. at least, thats all you two say it is. (word count. 3.8k)

content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???

warnings. blood and injuries, mentions of alcohol, not proof read oopsie

author's note. why this took me 5 million years to write i don't know, but i'm excited to write more for jason because thats my shawty fr

Working at the sketchiest bar on Park Row, more locally referred to as Crime Alley, hadn’t exactly been your dream gig. But as a med student with a brutal class schedule and rent breathing down your neck like a wild animal, options were slim. And unfortunately, this place paid — mostly in cash, always on time. As much as you wanted out of this part of town, it always had a way of pulling you back in, like an addiction you couldn’t quit.

The bar’s nearly closed now. The lights are dimmed low, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls, and the red glow of the liquor store sign across the street bleeds through the grimy front window like blood out of a wound. All customers and staff besides you have left, leaving the bar quiet — almost eerily so. You’re hunched over the register, thumbing through crumpled bills, when you hear it: the soft click of the front door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the old floorboards.

You don’t even have to look. You know who it is. Your eyes flick sideways, catching a glimpse of him in your peripheral as you finish counting the ones.

“Trying to sneak up on me, Hood?” you call out, voice dry as you click the register shut and turn around, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

He’s already slumped at the bar, a heavy silhouette of exhaustion wrapped in blood splattered leather. His cargo pants are scuffed and torn in places, the usual overkill of weapons strapped haphazardly across his frame. Classic Red Hood. Classic Jason. The low, rasping chuckle that rolls out of him is muffled beneath the red helmet, but it still manages to sound amused. His head tilts back, the movement slow and deliberate, his neck craning as he looks at you. Even with the helmet on, you can feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and unwavering.

“Key word tryin’,” he says, voice thick with static from the modulator. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and duck behind the bar. You retrieve the emergency med kit you started keeping there after the second time he stumbled in bleeding all over the bar floor. Sometimes you can’t stop thinking about how lucky he is — to have stumbled into an empty bar, conveniently being manned by a tired bartender who just so happens to be a medical student.

“Rough night?” you ask, circling around the bar and sliding into the seat beside him as you snap the kit open. Without a word, he shrugs off the jacket, grumbling under his breath as if his bones ache from the inside out.

“When isn’t it a rough night in Crime Alley?” he mutters, a tired edge making its way into the corners of his voice.

You wonder—do all of Gotham’s finest have it this bad? But you already know the answer. Crime Alley is his turf, and it chews him up more often than not. You’ve — unfortunately — lived in the Alley your whole life. Not that many places in Gotham are good places to grow up, but the Alley specifically was awful. You can remember nights when you wouldn’t sleep, the sounds of gunshots ringing in your ears, sirens haunting your dreams like lullabies from hell.

He lifts the helmet off and sets it gently on the bar’s freshly wiped surface. You almost scold him for dirtying the bar again but you don’t, you just glance at him. You still remember the first time you saw his face, just a few months ago. He’d come in the same way, trailing blood, a bullet having kissed too close to his jugular. Could have killed him if it had been just an inch closer. You’d needed to remove the helmet to keep him alive, keep him breathing. He’d let you see him. Really see him for the first time. 

After profusely apologizing and praying you wouldn’t ever say anything, he assured you — probably delirious from blood loss— that it was fine. He even tried to make a joke about knowing where you worked and lived if you talked.. You swear you nearly fainted and he had to quickly reassure you that he was joking.

Now, as you glance over, you catch the dark curls damp with sweat, the lone white streak stark against the rest, curling messily against his forehead. He’s handsome, annoyingly so in your opinion, with broad shoulders, a boyish face, and a sharp jaw. There's a crook in his nose, from having it broken one too many times and a thin scar on his left cheek, faded and pale from age. You turn back to the kit before you stare too long, but not before you catch the way his eyes linger on you. They’re blue with tinges of a stormy grey-green, and startling in their clarity. But you don’t have time to be distracted.

“What hurts?” you murmur, fingers sifting through gauze and bandage wraps, already prepping for the worst. He exhales slowly, the sound almost like a sigh, but heavier. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like his muscles haven’t stopped bracing for a fight, even now that he’s sitting here with you.

“Side,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to his ribs. “Took a hit. Might’ve cracked somethin’.”

You wince sympathetically, tugging your stool closer. “And yet you came here instead of a hospital.”

He huffs another half laugh, dry and rasping. “Hospitals ask questions. You don’t. It’s good practice for med school anyway.” 

The silent ‘I’m also legally dead’ hangs in the air between you, so you don't argue. You just reach for the dark fabric of his undershirt, peeling it back to reveal the bruising underneath. It’s already a deep, angry color, shades of violet and black blooming across his side like a storm cloud under his swelling skin. Blood has started crusting over a shallow gash in his side just under it. 

Your hands hover a moment over the worst of it, instinctively gentle, and his breath catches just slightly when you touch him. You press gently, only to assess the damage, he groans when you press near a middle rib. The sound causes you to draw your hands back instinctively.

“Definitely bruised,” you murmur. “Maybe fractured at worst. I can’t feel any cracks and you’re not breathing as bad as someone with broken ribs would be. You got lucky.”

“‘M always lucky,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm.

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You? Lucky?”

His lips twitch, and just for a second, “Always.” 

You think about how he can’t be that lucky, especially since he’s previously died. You try to not to bring that up, honestly it was an accident you even found out, like most things you learn about him. He had been bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his abdomen, and when you’d lifted his shirt, you saw it. A very real autopsy scar on a very not dead man. 

Maybe it’s the bartender in you that gets people to open up, to spill their secrets. Maybe it was also the high amount of pain meds coursing through his veins. He explained, very vaguely. You didn’t press more after he told you, didn’t ask how it was possible. Yust patched him up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t like talking about it, so you don’t.

You shake your head, grabbing a portable cold pack, cracking it to activate the cooling agent and pressing it against the worst of the swelling. He flinches, not much, but enough to betray how much pain he’s hiding..

“We should wrap this,” you say, nodding toward the gauze. “And you need rest. Like, actual rest. Sleep. More than three hours on a cardboard box somewhere.”

“You offering a bed?” he teases lightly, and the way he says it, soft, laced with something fragile beneath his typical aloofness, makes your stomach flip. 

You look at him fully, something warm curling in your chest as you finally push the words past the knot in your throat. “I’m offering my couch. Don’t push it.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds just a little more real. You wrap the gauze carefully around his ribs, your fingers brushing skin, and despite yourself, you notice the way his breathing hitches every time you get too close. When you’re done, you seal the kit shut and lean back a bit, observing your handiwork. 

“You’ll live.” You meet his gaze again, meeting his eyes as they stare down at you, just letting your words soak in. Just him. Just you. Just the quiet thrum of a city that never sleeps, and the two of you stealing a moment of peace in the shittiest part of it.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “I’m serious. You can sleep on my couch tonight. Rib injuries make it hard to sleep, so you should really be resting somewhere safe. And semi-comfortable.”

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but ultimately he decides not to fight you on it.

You make sure the kit is fully secure, placing it back behind the bar in its hiding spot. You can feel his eyes tracking you as you move about the bar, going through the motions of closing. He doesn’t ask for a drink tonight. Usually you offer him your shift beer — the one drink you get free per shift — half out of gratitude for walking you home, half because the alcohol helps take the edge off whatever he endured that night.

Trying to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you wipe down the final surfaces, flip off the neon sign that flashes in the window, and lock up the register. You try not to let your mind wander, try not to peek at the tired man still slumped at the bar as he gingerly attempts to pull his leather jacket back on with a grimace. You hover a bit, watching him to make sure he doesn’t need any help, even if he would never ask for it. He struggles a bit as he slides off the barstool, and he doesn’t stop you when you quietly nudge your shoulder under his arm, easing his weight across you to steady him. Once he’s steady, you slip away from him as you both make your way out of the bar. You lock it behind you, hitching your your bag over your shoulder

“Come on,” you say, your voice has a gentler tone to it now. He doesn’t argue, he just gives a nod quietly and falls into step beside you as you walk. This in itself isn’t new. He always walks you home after stopping at the bar. It’s part of the unspoken arrangement between the two of you: you fix him up and sometimes give him a beer, he makes sure you get home in one piece.

The streets are half asleep, half alive at this hour of the night. The buzz of faulty streetlights and the distant buzz of sirens are the only noise that fills the air, aside from your footsteps. The night air is cold and it bites at the skin of your face as your breath fogs around your lips. Jason’s walking a little slower than usual beside you, his stride careful but still steady, probably favoring his side so as to not agitate his ribs further. His broad shoulder brushes yours now and then as you walk beside each other, close enough that you can feel the rough leather of his jacket where it touches your sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he murmurs as he breaks the silence, eyes on the ground. “For patching me up.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, the corner of your mouth tugging up a bit. “It’s the least I can do.”

“But I do have to —,” he stumbles a bit over his words, his voice partially strained. “Thank you. I mean.”

There’s a beat of silence. He glances over at you, his bright eyes catch the light of the street lights overhead. “And for offering the couch. Thank you— again,” he adds. It’s quieter this time, and you can feel the uncomfortable thump in your chest when you realize he sounds vulnerable.

You look at him, and something in your chest aches a little. He isn’t one for showing his emotions, at least not around you. On occasion you catch him, flushing embarrassedly after he says something a bit awkward, but he manages to mask it well around you at least.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say. “Figured I should keep you overnight for supervision.”

He huffs a tired laugh, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you as it lingers—it looks soft. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked out for him like this before. You wonder if he’d even let them. You wonder why he’s letting you.

By the time you reach your building, he’s drifted a little closer. Not quite touching, but the space between you feels smaller somehow, like he’s a shadow attached to your back. He follows you up the steps, like he always does when he drops you off. You can feel his eyes in the back of your head and he just watches your back like he always does. But tonight’s different, because he always leaves you at the door, by the time you’re safely inside he vanishes like he was never even there. 

But tonight he won’t vanish, at least not right away.

You slide your key into the keyhole, trying to ignore his presence behind you. You unlock the front door to your apartment, shoving it open with the usual force because the door catches weirdly sometimes. You leave a mental note to yourself to text your landlord about it (again). The apartment is quiet as you lead him in, moonlight shines through the window in your kitchen, illuminating the small space. 

Your apartment is modest but yours and you’ve found ways to make it comfortable with your limited funds. A plush beige couch takes up most of the space in the living room, a large dark wood bookshelf that overflows onto the floor finds its home on the wall, and a coffee table that’s covered in medical textbooks. Various plants adorn the space, pots and planters scattered over nearly every surface that they would allow. Kicking off your shoes, you hang your jacket on a hook on the wall, turning to look behind you. Jason stands in the doorway, his gaze fixated on the deadbolt of your front door. 

“You should get this fixed,” he comments, opening and closing your door a few times to test the lock, twisting it a few times to investigate. “It’s not safe.” His eyebrows are pinched together, eyes fixated on the latch before he breaches the threshold of your apartment, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve texted my landlord about it like, three times,” you say with a sigh, dropping your keys into a ceramic dish by the door. “Scumlord’s ghosting me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a moment, dropping his helmet on the floor with a soft thud, his frown deepening. He shifts on his feet, like he’s weighing if he should say something. You think he mumbles something under his breath as you search for an extra blanket for him, but you opt to ignore it.

Jason almost immediately collapses on your couch once his boots are off, groaning a bit as he makes contact with the plush cushions. The sound is caught somewhere between exhaustion and relief. You have to suppress the small smile that curls at your lips as he sighs, shifting until he finds a comfortable spot. 

You hand him a blanket, before padding over to the small armchair across from him. you curl into the cushions, tucking your knees against your chest. Your fingers play idly with the hem of your sleeve as you observe him quietly. He tilts his head toward you, a few strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead. When he sees you’re already looking at him, his gaze falters. He quickly drops his eyes to the coffee table, like being caught under your attention makes him nervous. Something on the table catches his eye as he reaches out to pick up a book that rests there.

“You read these?” He says, inspecting your worn copy of The Hunger Games. 

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft as the day starts to catch up to you. “I’ve read all of them. Started rereading them a few weeks ago.”

Jason thumbs through the worn pages with a surprising gentleness. You can’t help the way your eyes drag to his knuckles, bruised and scabbed over as he brushes through the first few pages, inspecting it.

“I’ve been meaning to read them,” he murmurs, absentmindedly flipping through pages. “Just— haven't had time.”

You nod, stretching your arms up over your head as a yawn escapes you. The motion pulls your shirt slightly at the hem, the fabric soft from too many washes as it exposed your midriff. Jason’s eyes flit to the movement—quick and fleeting—but when he meets your gaze again, he averts his eyes back to the pages in front of him.

“You can borrow mine if you want,” you offer, blinking sleep from your eyes.

His face expression changes a bit, vague disbelief tugs at his brows. “You sure?” he asks, his voice is tentative as his eyes flicker up to meet yours. 

You brush some of your hair out of your eyes sleepily and nod, your gaze steadily trained on him. “Of course. I have all of the trilogy. It’s no problem, really,” you insist. 

Jason’s eyes once again travel down to the book in his hands. His thumb runs down the crease of the spine, his expression muddled. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, though you barely hear it. You hum lightly in response to his thanks. The silence you two sit in isn’t uncomfortable, just peaceful and calm. The city hums faintly outside of your window, muffled now and more distant, like it knows better than to intrude on the moment. 

A yawn draws itself from your throat again, and this time you don’t fight it as you shudder a bit. The warmth of the room has made your limbs heavy, and the comfortable silence only deepens the tired pull of your eyelids.

Jason notices the noise, his eyes immediately finding your form. “You— You should sleep,” he says, gently, and the tone of his voice makes your skin tingle.

“So should you,” you murmur in response, already uncurling from the chair.

He doesn’t argue with you, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes as you move to the short hallway that leads to your bedroom. You find yourself hesitating in the doorway of your room, your fingers brushing against the frame as you glance back at him over your shoulder. He’s watching you again, not bothering to hide it this time and it makes your stomach flip. He hasn’t moved yet—still perched on the edge of the couch, the book clasped loosely in one hand. The soft lamplight brushes over his features, highlighting the purpling bruise on his cheekbone.

“You can take my bed if you want,” you say quietly without really thinking of the implications, your fingers twitch from where they grasp the doorframe. "I feel bad making you stay on the couch."

Jason shakes his head almost immediately, and you think you should actually go to sleep because you swear you see a flush on his cheeks. God, you really should go to bed. “I’m good here. Couch is fine.”

You nod, trying not to let the twinge of disappointment show on your face, but what else would you have expected him to say. Of course he would say no. Still, a part of you wants to insist. Wants to say that he doesn’t have to sleep like a stranger on your couch. Wants to hold him close and protect him from whatever haunts his dreams. But you don’t. You just linger there for a moment longer before speaking softly.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

He looks up at you like he wants to say something more, his eyes searching your face but you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. He looks like there’s something lodged in his throat that he can’t quite swallow down, catching whatever he wants to say. Despite this, all he says is a quiet, “Night.”

You retreat into your bedroom quickly after that, the door left ajar behind you. You lie in bed longer than you mean to as you pull the cool sheets up to your chin, listening for the sound of movement from the living room. Your mind wanders as you allow your mind to drift to Jason, probably thumbing through the book in his hands still. A deep part of you wonders if he’s thinking of you. You wonder if he knows you’re thinking of him, or if he even cares.

For a fleeting moment as you fall asleep, you wish he’s followed you in— not for anything else than to bathe in the feeling of his presence.

When you regain consciousness in the morning, your eyes nearly snap open as you take in the sunlight spilling through your curtains, pale and golden. Immediately thinking of last night's events, you throw the covers to the side. You find yourself quickly padding into the living room, your bare feet slapping gently against the hardwood of your floors.

The couch is empty. There’s a thump of disappointment in your chest as your heart rate slows.

The blanket you’d left out for him is folded neatly on the back of the couch. The spot where he’d laid last night is faintly indented, like a ghost of him lingers in the cushions. The books you lent him are gone, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

And when you check the front door out of habit, peering out into the halls of your apartment, as if you will catch a hint of red disappearing from view. Your gaze catches on the lock as you close it, because the deadbolt doesn’t catch like normal.

It’s been fixed.

The lock, the one that’s been broken for weeks, now clicks cleanly into place when you shut your door. The deadbolt slides smoothly, no catch. You stare at it for a long moment, blinking against the sudden tightness in your chest. You don’t have long to bask in the feeling, because your eyes are now drawn to a small pink sticky note that clings to the door. Unsure how you missed it earlier, you pluck it off the wood of the door, examining the neat, small words.

Fixed your lock and thank you again for the books. Hope you sleep better knowing it’s fixed. Someone’s gotta look out for you. - J

[prongsx]

Honestly, the relationship between Dick, Barbara and Jason should be explored more both in comics and fanfics. Like they're the OG batfamily - the people who knew the before-everything-went-downwards.

I LOVE the relationship with Jason and his other siblings but tbh they're strangers to Jason, the Bruce that Jason knew and the Bruce that the other younger siblings know/knew is different.

... so any fic recs?

edit: my fic rec!! and this one!

[prongsx]

jason is todding

[prongsx]

"A Voice from Gaza… A Cry for Help"

Hello, I’m Saja from Gaza 🇵🇸💔 I’m writing to you today during one of the hardest moments of my life… For months, we’ve been living under the fire of war 💣. The bombing never stops, and death follows us everywhere 🕊️. Destruction has become a daily scene in our lives 🏚️.

But war is not our only enemy… Prices have skyrocketed 💸🔥, and everything has become unaffordable. A loaf of bread 🍞, a box of milk 🥛, a bottle of water 🚰… have all become distant dreams. Even the most basic needs are no longer within reach. We survive on so little, trying to hold on despite the pain 😔.

My home is no longer the same 🏠❌, our lives have changed, and safety has vanished. My children no longer know peaceful sleep or full meals 🛏️🍽️. Every day brings a new danger, and every night we pray just to survive one more day 🙏.

This is a picture of my home after the bombing… Our dreams turned to rubble. 🧱💔

Today, I am asking you for a helping hand 🤝, a message of support 📣, a kind word 💬, or any contribution, no matter how small 💖. Any support — big or small — makes a real difference in our lives 🌟.

If you’re unable to donate, please help by sharing or reblogging this post 🔁. My voice may not reach far, but with your help, it can reach those who can make a difference 🌍✨.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who reads and cares ❤️. Your presence gives hope in a time where we’ve lost almost everything 🌹.

[prongsx]

I miss writing here... unfortunately (or fortunately) I got a job and became miserable, you know, that song