prongsx

[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

[prongsx]

metal and pine, ch. 2 | knight!jason todd x princess!reader

a/n: was not expecting people to want more, thank you for the love! i put off cleaning my room for this so i hope you enjoy

cw: slow burn, mutual denial, inaccurate language used, slightly suggestive, jason is dramatic, reader is sassy, they both want that cookie bad

chapter 1 here

whatever this feeling was, jason hated it. it boiled and brewed in his chest, stomach turning and mind aching.

you haven’t left his mind since that night on the roof, and for the past week he’s spent his time aimlessly wandering the castle. he must have covered the whole building by now. the other guards and even the maids have started to whisper, taking notice that their typically cocky and dry humored knight was now slouched and quiet.

he didn’t care what they noticed or how they noticed it. the sounds of your sniffs and sobs are echoing too loud in his head, your gritty command for him to leave scraping against his eardrums.

“it’s me isn’t it? i’m the reason why i’m not in love. why i’m so lonely.”

he mulls over your question again, fucking stupid. you’re a stupid girl. why would you ever even conjure the thought? why put him in the position to answer such a meritless question?

of course you’re not the reason.

that’s what he should’ve said. that was the honest answer. then why couldn’t he say it? what was so hard about saying those six words?

it would be too honest, he decides. it would open a jar of worms that he doesn’t even know exists, it would make room for a seed to be planted—one that’s fed with lingering touches and tense air.

again, you’re his job. any amount of closeness between the two of you is merely forced proximity. nothing more, nothing less.

he’s repeating this like a mantra as he comes to a stop in front of your chamber doors.

he’s not even allowed to be this close to your room—his job is to only guard the perimeter of your quarters. but here he is, rubbing a pebble in his hands, trying to muster up the courage to just knock. he knows you won’t answer, you’re asleep. even if you weren’t, you like to be alone in the mornings, not even allowing maids to bring you breakfast and bathe you.

he shuts his eyes tight and pinches his creased brow, “stupid,” he murmurs. his favorite word, it seems. he leans his forehead against the door.

it pushes open.

jason flinches, halting himself from falling head first to the floor. he straightens up, looks around. he’s in your room. and you’re nowhere to be seen.

typically, as boyish as the man is, he would’ve taken a chance to stalk around your room, to make fun of whatever girly trinkets and treasures you’ve got lying around. but his heart drops at the sight of your empty bed and open window.

there’s no way you could’ve escaped without him knowing. he was manning the halls all night, pacing.

except for when he took a break to sneak some wine from the kitchen, two hours ago.

shit. he smacks his face in irritation—with himself and with you. if anyone finds out you’re gone, he’d be hung for sure.

he bolts to the open window and looks down, a makeshift rope of dresses and bed sheets hangs from the sill.

christ, you’re a piece of work.

he pulls in the rope to make sure no one sees or notices you’ve left. he swings himself out of the window and climbs down, fingertips digging in stone crevices.

taking a beat once he lands on the grass, he breathes in the foggy morning air. he looks for any trace of you, anything to lead him to where you are. he stills, stopping his shaky inhales, listening past the cicadas and morning doves.

jason just makes out the faint sound of hooves galloping deep in the forest that surrounds the castle. of course you’re hidden in there. there’s a clearing with a pond he used to always catch you near when you were teenagers, when the king would order him to keep an eye on you. you must be in a nostalgic mood.

he looks around, making sure no one’s around to see him, and bolts towards the sound of you. he swears he’s never run this fast in his life.

he slows when he makes it in, following the worn path to the clearing. he places his hand over his chest to calm the wild beats of his heart as he treks through the damp earth, keeping an eye out for critters and you.

hoisting himself up a tree for a better vantage point, he hops from branch to branch, barely making a sound in the process.

a horse neighs, he freezes. hushes and coos follow.

“shh, settle down, honey. you don’t want us to get in trouble, do you?”

he’ll deny it, but the hairs on his nape stand at the sound of your sweet voice, arms and back wrapped in goosebumps. it was everything he needed to hear.

thank god.

your knight hops three more trees to find you at the shore of the pond, petting and humming to your horse as she drinks the fresh water.

he doesn’t make himself known right away, taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, safe and smiling.

he’s never seen you in this state, curls wrapped in silk and spilling atop your head, white nightgown and robe loosely hanging off your shoulder, exposing the smooth, brown slope of your skin.

he swallows. gulps. he’s just looking—he assures no one but himself—nothing more, nothing less.

“and to think, i almost made it eight days without seeing your ugly mug,” you scoff, not even turning around to look at him.

he’s startled and nearly falls out of the tree, but he catches himself, swinging on the branch and dismounting on both feet. he’s always underestimated your ability to hear him.

“well, good morning to you too, princess,” he steps towards you, the familiar clinking of his armor nowhere to be heard.

“go ahead, tell me how you found me this time,” you’re still not looking at him, putting all your focus on your sweet girl nibbling on grass.

“i, uh-,” he pauses, he can’t tell you he was in your room, you’d probably have him hung personally.

“i was doing patrol on the perimeter. knew something was up when honey wasn’t in her stable.”

you hum, somehow you know he’s lying. call it women’s intuition. but you choose not to confront him right now.

“and i saw the sorry excuse for a rope hanging from your window.”

“ah. i’ll have to find a new method of escape.”

“maybe so.”

there’s silence, you still haven’t turned around to face him. anger and sadness rises in your throat. he can’t see you cry again.

“listen,” he says your name for the first time ever, causing you to whip your head to face him out of shock.

it’s your turn to take in this new sight of him, armor-less, nothing on but a worn wool shirt and a pair of faded black pants, leather holster held taught on his waist. you try not to stare at the way his chest puffs through the wool, or the way his tanned biceps bulge under crossed arms, or how his ebony hair hangs damp and messy in his face-

your eyes flutter and you look clear your throat, “what did you just call me?”

“it was the only way i could get your attention,” he continues, not letting you interject, “i was wrong for what happened that night. i was harsh.”

“yeah, no kidding.”

“god, can you let me apologize?”

“who said i was stopping you?”

as much as he wants to take back his insults, he can’t deny, you are annoying and you do tire him out.

he pinches between his eyebrows again, a habit developed at the cause of you. the white streak in his hair might become his whole head if you keep it up.

he exhales, “i acted out of my rank, and you don’t deserve that. it’s my job to protect you. i’m your knight, that is where my duties lie.”

“yeah, you are my knight. thanks for making it clear? what are you saying?”

“i’m saying that-,” he takes a breath, “maybe i’m not the person you should come to for advice.”

you scoff and shake your head, a habit developed at the cause of him. you mimic him, taking a step forward, closing the gap between you that he’s been trying so hard to upkeep.

he’s offended you, again. you had barely crossed the line of acquaintance and confidant, now he’s ripping the rug you just got comfortable digging your feet in right from under you.

you inch closer, tilting your head to catch his blue, downcast eyes, “is that really what you want? you want me to just be a job to you?” your voice is low, hurt.

he swallows nervously, nostrils flaring to an unheard beat, “y-yes,” it’s a lie, and you both know it.

neither of you break contact, eyes boring into each other for what feels like an eternity. hearts drumming loud and in sync.

you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. part of you wants him to break, to apologize on his knees and confess what he’s truly been feeling. the other part of you wants to cry into his chest, beg him to be your friend again. he’s the only one you were close to having.

you both have too much pride.

“well,” you break the silence, taking a step back. the gap between you now solidified into a sharp wedge, “can’t stop you from wanting to do your job, now can i?”

“no, you can’t, your highness,” he whispers.

“alright, that’s settled then,” your voice is uncharacteristically chipper as you make your way towards honey, hopping up and straddling her dense body.

your once loose nightgown is now wrapped tightly around your figure, highlighting the curve of your plush thighs and hips. jason’s eyes flutter, trying to find interest in anything but you.

“hop on.”

“what?”

“how else are you getting home, sir jason?”

“oh, i don’t- i was gonna-.”

you turn his words against him, “as my knight, it’s your duty to follow orders. now hop on.”

jason looks at you dumbly, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. hesitantly, he leaps up on the horse, opting to hold onto the saddle. out of respect, obviously.

you whisper to honey, “c’mon girl, take us home. go fast, okay?”

your horse chuffs, acknowledging your words. smart girl. she takes off with a speed jason’s never seen, almost making him fall. he slides an arm around your waist out of instinct to stabilize himself.

you expected to laugh at his fear, a harmless prank. but your breath hitches at the pressure of his warm forearm pressed against your belly, only a thin layer of fabric a barrier between you.

your heart skips a beat. you’re alarmed is all.

jason feels your body tense against him, “apologies, your highness,” he murmurs, bumpy ride making his lips brush against the edge of your ear. chills run down your spine and heat rises to your cheeks.

“mhm,” you manage to squeak, eyes focused on the path in front of you.

———————————————————————————

as soon as you bring honey to a halt in front of the stable, jason hops off before you can. he holds a hand out to you.

your eyes flit back and forth between his face and his long, calloused fingers.

“are you not ready to get off, my princess?”

his princess. you gulp at the name, the sound of his husky voice as it rolled off his tongue. you shake off the thought, it was nothing but a formality, surely.

you straighten up, “i can get off just fine on my own.”

he puts his hand down by his side, jaw clenching.

hopping off, you place the lead line in the same hand that tried to help you down. you smile coyly, “go ahead and tie her up for me, will you? i’m going to wash up.”

jason squints at the back of your head. he’s fucked up, royally. and you’re just getting started, besting him at his own game of teasing avoidance.

he replies through clenched teeth, “yes, your highness.”

[prongsx]

Jason had always been too much.

Too loud, too fast, too stubborn. He could never just be in the way that people seemed to want him to. Even now, years after resurrection, after countless fights and the League’s brutal remaking of his body, after the Pit had burned away all softness, he still caught himself moving like that scrawny, half-starved kid from Crime Alley — slipping between shadows, ducking his head to avoid attention, bracing for the next blow.

But he wasn’t small anymore.

He could see it in the way people looked at him — sidelong glances, half-hidden wariness. He towered now, broad-shouldered and heavy with muscle. A wall of a man. Built like a weapon.

And sometimes he hated it.

There were nights when his body felt like a costume he couldn't take off — too large, too loud even in stillness. He’d lie awake with his hand curled against his ribs, willing his heart to slow, not even sure why he felt so wrong in his own skin.

But not with you.

You didn’t flinch when he brushed past you in tight hallways. You didn’t shrink from his size, or his moods, or his silences. You had a way of just… existing beside him, calm and steady, like the eye of a hurricane.

It was late when it happened. A long patrol, a bruised shoulder, dirt still under his fingernails. He didn’t say much when he walked in, just stripped off the Red Hood armor piece by piece, until he was bare and quiet and aching.

You were already in bed, curled in loose sheets, and when he sank into the mattress beside you, something in him gave out. All that strength, all that careful control — gone in an instant. He reached for you instinctively, spooning behind you like muscle memory, tucking his face against your neck.

But then you turned in his arms.

“No,” you whispered gently, not unkind. Your hands were warm against his chest, guiding him, shifting him — and before he could ask what you were doing, he was the one being cradled.

You pulled him in, let him rest his head on your chest, your arm curling over his wide back like you could hold all of him — and the strangest thing was, you did.

No one had ever held him like that.

Not Bruce. Not Alfred. Not anyone.

He wasn’t a weapon here. Not a soldier, not a ghost, not a lost Robin who had clawed his way back from death. He was just Jason. He was your Jason.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and unhurried, and asked softly, “Wanna take a bath with me in the morning?”

He nodded against your collarbone, eyes closed. His breath evened out.

It was the best night of sleep he’d had in months.

He didn’t say it out loud — not yet — but he was possessive. Fiercely, utterly yours. But not in the way people might assume.

He didn’t need to own you.

He needed to belong to you.

Every night he came home and saw the light still on, your smile still waiting, he felt the weight in his chest ease just a little more. He could live with the monster in his mirror, the blood on his gloves, the ache in his bones — if it meant this. If it meant you.

He didn’t care if he was your first. Didn’t care about perfect love stories.

He just wanted to be your last.

And if you’d let him, he’d be yours forever.

[prongsx]

had some fun drawing random batfam headcanons (pt 1? let's see how it goes)

[prongsx]

Being an Adult is a Scam. In fact, it's at least six different scams all stacked under a trench coat.

[prongsx]

Drawing Jasons

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Jason taking a shower 😛

[prongsx]

women need to get more annoying & meaner & evil. it's good for our society