whotookcry

[whotookcry]

YOU LIKE ME?

(Jason is like a nervous freak in this bare with me, and I’m turn this into a series, have faith 🥹 )

I shivered at the cold ac air hitting me from above. Terrible seats. I turn to my cousin (it’s me I’m your cousin) who was shivering just the same as I was. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” He snickers rubbing his left arm to create some type of warmth. “Hey, I don’t want to be here either! My dad made me come in his place.” It was true, my father who just had to go to Mexico to see if his beach house was still standing after the hurricane, told me to come in his place. ‘It’s perfect publicity for you, mija. You’re gonna be just like me!’ I could hear the sickening yet loving grin on his face through the phone. He was already on a plane before I could even have a chance to say no.

“Don’t say that to the PR people outside.” He laughed hitting my arm. “Rich people.”

“You say that as if you aren’t rich either?” I shove his arm away, rolling my eyes to pay attention to the people waltzing and pretending to have a good time with their spouses. “I’m more middle class compared to you. Thank you very much.”

We both huddled closer, almost like penguins, before the ac shut off again. “Whose party is this anyways. The music kinda sucks.”

Before I could respond to Marcus, a red spot clouded the side of my vision. I look up to see the Jason Todd and Dick Grayson making their way past our table. “…excuse us..” he uttered forcing himself to look away from us and hurry along. “Ooohh girl. Isn’t that-“

“Please don’t remind me.”

Did I have a one night stand with him? Perhaps.

Was it a lapse in judgement? Of course!

Will I do it again? NO THE FUCK I WON’T!

“What an asshole! Pretending he doesn’t know about your little….night together.” Marcus giggled beside me. “Marcus, please shut up.”

“Sorry! Sorry, but still! What kind of man treats someone like that!” I nod in agreement to him. We both lean back in our seats, staring at Jason sitting with his family refusing to look up from the table. “He’s so-“

“Hot. Yeah I agree. You really fumbled that.”

“Oh my god!” I hit his arm as he laughs. “Kidding! He fumbled you, girl.”

“He’s just so confusing! It aggravated me. First he tells me ‘oh well you look gorgeous tonight’ and then fucks me. Then refused to talk about it. THEN BLOCKS ME? Make it make sense!”

“I’ll tell you one thing I live by. Men are men….except me of course! I’m an anomaly.” He jokes. “I’m sure you are.” I turn back to the crowd of people finally moving to sit back down for announcements.

Bruce Wayne makes his way to the podium, first thanking everyone for coming and hoping everyone is enjoying their evening. “I’d also like to say a special thank you to the (last name) family, for their wonderful donations to support the Wayne foundation helping kids all around the world!”

It was like a spotlight hit both Marcus and I in that moment. “Now why the fuck would they put a spot like light on us.” Marcus said between closed teeth grinning helping me up to wave at everyone. I mimicked his action as everyone clapped around us. “He didn’t tell about no damn donation. Fuck me.” I say through a tight smile. The light turned off and we sit back down. “Please don’t tell me we have to make a speech.” I turn to Marcus who already had a finger on his nose. (nose goes) “You’re such a bit-“

“Please come on down!” Bruce said over the speakers. I flash a fake smile before standing back up again and walking slowly to the podium next to the tall buff man. I fix my dress and stand in front of the podium, my fake smile now turning to a nervous one. “WOW, what a great turn out tonight!” Fuck keep it simple. “I just have to say, what an inspiration Mr. Bruce Wayne for even starting a campaign like this! Everyone give him a hand first and foremost!” Almost on cue they all clap as I shine grace on the man next to me. ‘Fuck what else do I say.’ “I truly believe, that this foundation is one of the most powerful and important foundations that has come across the nations. It truly starts with our youth! We have to be there to protect them first. They are our future.”

I’m running out of words. Shit.

“I’m extremely grateful for such a kind man to want to help the kids out there who don’t have anyone else to turn to. We will continue to support you on your future endeavors and thank you for all that you do. My father may not have been able to make it tonight to thank you himself, but I’m sure he would have been very proud of what an amazing foundation you’ve been able to build.”

‘Please get me off this wack ass stage.’

I turn to wave at the crowd as they clap and cheer. Marcus catches my eye, he was covering his mouth, trying not to laugh. ‘Fuck I’m about to laugh too.’ My lips fold back inside my mouth as I give a firm hand shake to Bruce before walking off the stage. He continues talking as I hurry to the table. “Stop fucking laughing.” I whisper to Marcus as he covers his face trying to calm himself down. “Oh I could just tell you were about to freak out. Your ears were so red!” He choked out behind his hands. My face flushed before I punched his shoulder. “I didn’t fucking know what to say idiot. I should have made you come up there with me!”

“Oh I would have said way worse. Been like ‘oh yeah cool foundation, I don’t know what it’s for but sounds nice.’ Or some shit.” I covered my own mouth breathing heavily trying not to bust out laughing. “Stop. We are in public.”

His shoulders start to shake. “I’m sorry. I just- your dad is so going to have a fit about you not mentioning how much he has donated. You know he loves to brag.” I shut my eyes now after seeing Marcus leaning forward to hide behind the table. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

A small snort comes out of his nose making the table next to us look back. “People are looking stop.” Which only made his shoulders shake faster. I look forward to Bruce still talking. “Fuck is he ever gonna stop talking.”I mumble out making Marcus practically start crying. “Oh my god stop crying, it looks like you’re crying over what he’s saying.” I hit his back making him calm down. He sits up straight wiping his tears off. “We are gonna need a drink after this.” He let out a huge breath from deep inside his lungs. “I’m good. I’m good.”

I look back tonight the stage to see him now talking about another project he’s working on. I glance around seeing everyone mostly invested in what he’s saying. - pair of eye catch mine. “He’s fucking looking over here.” I fix my posture and stare back, ugly, making Jason turn away again. “Hey, say the words and I’ll beat him up in the men’s bathroom.” Marcus huffed leaning back in his chair. “Yeah right. Security would rip you out of there before you could get him with the amount of shit you talk.” We both smile at each other at the thought of before the lights go back to normal. “Thank fucking god, he’s done talking.” Marcus stands up. “I’m gonna go get us drinks. Tequila?” He asks smirking slightly, “we can’t get fucked up here!….but yeah just one.”

“Perfect.” He spins on his heel to the direction of the bar, moving quickly before the hoard of middle aged woman try to stock up on wine. I cross my legs in front of me as the ac kicks on again. “Fuck I should have brought a jacket.”

“Would you like me to tell them to turn it off?” I jump at the voice behind me. “Mister Wayne! Hi! How are you?” I ask nervously before standing up to properly greet him. “I’m great. How are you and your father getting along. I heard he had to make a quick trip out the country.” I sighed, “you heard right. He left early this morning to Mexico. Hurricane season is bad this year.” He nods in agreement, “oh most definitely. Hopefully I’ll see him again sometime this week.”

“You have his number, no?” He shakes his head at my question. “Your father’s quite the escape artist. I look one way, he’s there, turn for a second, he’s gone.” I laugh, “sounds like him. Here, I’ll put in it your phone. I’m sure he would love to catch up with you.” Mr Wayne hands his phone over, smiling down at me.

A text appears at the top.

Bruce! Stop talking to her! You’re going to embarrass me! PLEASE!

I squint at the message still typing in my father’s details into the phone.

“We would also love to have your family over for dinner.” Bruce chimes in obviously knowing I seen the message from Jason. “I uh-“

“I’ll text your father the details. Thank you for coming tonight.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes it as if comforting me. The phone disappears from my hand as well as him. “…….” I turn back to see Mr. Wayne now mingling with the next table. “…what-“

“I’m back!” Marcus yells with two dressed ultras in one arm and an entire bottle of reposado. “How the fuck did you get the bottle?!” “I tipped the bartender $300. Da fuck. They got more in the back. You’d be surprised how many of these old women are buying bottles of wine for their tables!” He sets everything down on the table. “We are not finishing that.”

“Here? Of course not. Once we leave? You already know the type of night we are about to have.” He gave a tooth grin before popping open the cork at the top of the bottle. “Open foo.” He forced my mouth open and poured a good amount of tequila down my throat. The smell burning my nose but moved so smoothly down my throat. I gulped it down before pushing the bottle back. “That was way too much!” “Perfect! Me next.” He hands me the bottle and gets on one knee so I could pour the light brown liquid down his throat. We both shiver after the fact before sitting and washing down the taste with a nice cold beer. “Could have been worse.”

At least our bodies are warm now.

“MIJA! What is this?” The door to my room is thrown open. I hold myself feeling the consequences of finishing the bottle and then some from last night. “What time is it?” I mumble groggy, trying to find the strength to sit up. “Look!” My father’s phone was shoved into my face as I pry my eyes open to look. “What?”

An invitation to dinner at some fancy Italian restaurant. “….he knows we aren’t Italian, right?” I croak looking at my father’s happy face. “I’m sure! Get up already and shower! It smells like alcohol in here!” He marches out, not closing the door behind him making me groan loudly and force myself up. I look down at the outfit from last night. “How the fuck did I get home?” I look around to see traces of Marcus but lord knows he’s already out drinking again. ‘You can’t get hung over if you never get sober.’ His voice ringing in my ears from past events that left me feeling like i needed a hospital while he pranced around unaffected from his drinking. I sigh to myself and trudge to the bathroom. “Fuck I look like shit.”

I showered, got decently dressed before walking down stairs to find Marcus eating lunch. “Took you long enough.” “Why are you still here?! How are you even here?!” I yell half way down the stairs. “I’m here to coach you on tonight. You’ll be meeting with your ex flings family and I can’t be there to protect you since…well I’m just your cousin not your brother…and your dad said I can’t go. SO! Let’s start with the basics.” I shake my head as I make it down to the kitchen table. “Please don’t call him my ex fling. It was one time.”

“Still! If you act any type of way. They will get suspicious of you both. Rule one, don’t even look at him. Rule two, matter of fact, don’t engage in any type of conversation with him.” I groaned, “I wasn’t planning too. I don’t even want to go!” I eyed Marcus’ sandwich which he happily pushed over to me. “I don’t understand why that family would even want a dinner with us?”

“Your dad seems ecstatic about it.” Marcus points out. I couldn’t deny how happy he seemed. ‘Fuck, I’ll take one for the team.’ Marcus continues telling me the dos and don’t of ‘ex sex partners’ as I grovel into the sandwich.

He leaves after an hour of lectures and unimaginable scenerios. My father forces me to get changed with a stylist at hand. “Make her look…cutesy!” Was his only request.

(You pick idc)

I spin around in the mirror. “I look so…cutesy.” I nod to myself confirming my father got his wish. I snatch a purse off the shelves in my closet and stuff it with necessities. Wallet. Check. Phone. Check. Pepper spray. Check.

Well that’s enough necessities for me.

I sling the small bag over my shoulder and hold my heels in hand.

“MIJA! THE CAR IS PULLING UP!” I heard my dad scream at the top of his lungs. I hurry down stairs and see him fixing himself up in the hallway mirror. “Oh look at you, rrrrrawr.” He rolls his tongue while smirking at himself. He flinches as he sees me giving him a weird look on the stairs. “You’re so weird, dad.”

“Mija! You look so beautiful!” He disregarded my comment and drags me to the car.

The ride was quick and the sinking feeling in my tummy was getting worse by the second. “Why do you think they invited us for dinner?” I ask my dad glancing over to him as he squints to read what ever is on his phone. “Probably a thank you dinner. You did really good by the way. Though you could have mentioned how much I donated.”

‘Of fucking course.’

“I didn’t even know you donated to him.” I huffed leaning back in my seat. “It’s not like he needs it. He’s already rich.”

“Baby! Please, let’s not be rude to Mr Wayne when we get there.” He ruffled my hair messing it up. “Dad!”

“Look we’re here!” He says excitedly as the door opens. Paparazzi swarmed the building. “Dad! I have a dress on!” He whisked his suit jacket off dramatically to cover me, earning ‘he’s such a gentlemen!’ From older women in the crowd. “Come mi vida.” He says once I’ve fixed myself. I lock arms with him and hurry my way inside. “Why is there so much paparazzi?!”

“Good evening-“

‘Oh, that’s why.’

We both turn around to see Bruce Wayne standing, smiling charmingly at the both of us. “….Bruce! How wonderful it is to see you!” My father spoke as he gave Bruce a big bear hug, catching the poor man off guard. “Please this way.” Bruce ushers us to a private room with an enormous table in the middle. “Jesus.” I mumble quietly. I walked behind them finding a seat at the other side of the room. “Sorry, my boys are running a bit late. They should be here shortly.”

‘Mane.’

I look over to see a green eyed boy sitting examining the cutlery. “…hey-“

“You must be the one my brother made love to-“

It was almost as if i was punched in the gut by a MMA fighter. “I’m sorry?”

“Apologies for his behavior. Please do not let his actions make you think less of the Wayne name.”

“…right….” Bruce and my father seemed to not have heard them, clearly caught up in their own conversation. I sit down next to the boy, putting my purse down next to him. “…so-“

“Oh he’s told me plenty. Well not me in particular but I did over hear the story at the dinner last night.”

‘So no how are you? What’s your name?’

“Alright!” I nodded vigorously convincingly myself that this little boy did not just tell me what I think he just told me. “Well I’m (yn)!”

“Damien.”

I nod again before propping my elbows on the table to hold my head up. “Pennyworth says elbows on the table is a sign of disrespect.”

‘Can I breathe?!’

“Right, sorry.” I remove myself off the table and put my hands on my lap, still trying to process what this kids problem was. I look over to him still playing with the cutlery. “The Penne All'Arrabbiata is very delicious here.”

‘Does this kid have adhd or something?!’

“Oh! Okay, thanks for the recommendation. I’ve never been here before.”

“Here,” he hands me his menu, “for you to look at.” He places it in front of me then sinks right back into his seat. I utter a quiet thank you before browsing the limited amount of options.

“What’s with the paparazzi out front?” My eyes snaps to the side faster than my head. Jason stood at the entrance of the room, hair disheveled, black dickies with a white shirt tucked into it. ‘Maybe I did fumble.’ I pinch my own hand at the thought, how dare I say that to myself. “These are my other two, Dick and Jason.” Bruce introduces them to my father who also brought them in for a big bear hug. ‘He really needs to stop hugging random people.’

“And this, my daughter, my meaning of life. Mi vida! Come!”

“Oh my fucking-“ I mumble standing up to walk around the table. I extend a hand to the man in blue slacks and a white button up. “Lovely to meet you, Miss-“

“(Yn) is fine. Thank you. A pleasure meeting you as well.” We shake hands rather quickly before I turn my attention to Jason. I couldn’t tell where he was staring, either at the wall behind me or my forehead. “….nice to meet you.” I mumble. “Likewise…” he forces a smile not putting up his hand to shake mine. “Ahh! Mijo! Don’t be shy! She don’t bite!” My father raised his eyebrow at Jason, I could tell he already found him disrespectful for not shaking my hand. I raise my hands up. “Papi, it’s fine.” I nudge his ribs hard enough for him to start coughing and holding his side. “Right.” He backed down almost immediately. “Come let’s sit.” Bruce says after clearing his throat at the awkward encounter. My father guides me to sit right back next to Damien who was oddly enough sitting at the head of the table. Bruce sat infront of my father and Dick before me. “…so!” The conversations began as I fumbled in my purse for my phone. A small kick from under the table catches me by surprise. I look towards the green eyed culprit who nodded his head forward for me to look. I turn slowly to catch eyes with Jason who was watching my every move on the other side of Bruce, until he noticed me staring back at him. ‘What the fuck?’

I looked back at Damien who had a small evil smirk on his face, obviously teasing his older brother for entertainment. “Yes, I already donated over 2 million this morning.” My dad exclaims clapping his hands. “You what?”

“I donated more money to Bruce’s foundation, mami.”

I squinted at him. “…write off I see.” I tsked looking back down at the menu. The sudden silence at my words catches me off guard. I look up seeing everyone curious as to what I meant. “…..kidding?” I shrug my shoulders before my father sighs and continues his conversation with Bruce. “Any plans this evening (yn)?” Dick asks smiling a bit too happy for my liking. “Um, probably just hanging out with my cousin, movie night or something.”

“Can I come?” We both turn to Damien who was staring back at me with determined eyes. “Uh- well-“

“Ah! He wants a movie night? We have a big theater room with a projector your boy would love! Lots of snacks and candy to choose from!”

‘So much for my Love Island night.’

“I’d love to show you around my office and show you some ideas I have for your new project coming up. Crack open some beer??” Bruce nodded at the idea. “Sounds like a plan, the kids can-“

I zoned out the conversation, looking back at Damien who had a devious smile. ‘There’s no way he thinks Jason is going to my house for him to bully some more.’ I turn toward Jason’s direction seeing him twirling a butter knife in his hand while glaring at the kid.

Dinner felt abnormally long, listening to Damien talk about his friend at school with Dick chiming in here and there. My father stands up first, “how delicious the food was! Great choice, Bruce!” I stand to follow him checking the time. 8 PM? Barely? “We’ll follow behind you-“

“Father, we must stop by the manor. I would like to change into something more fitting for movie night!”

‘Demanding kid. I like that.’

“Ah! Take your time of course! We’ll set up the theater room for your arrival!” Dad winks to Damien giving him a big thumbs up. “Come, mami! We have things to do for our guest. He dragged me by my arm to the entrance of the room. “See you soon!” He waves dramatically before yanking me through the door.

“Father you’re not serious, are you? Are we really having a movie night?l

“Me? No no no. YOU will be hosting the movie night.” He chuckled as we made it to the front doors of the restaurant. Most of the paparazzi were already gone but a few flashes here and there blinded me anyways. The car pulls up and I get shoved inside with dad’s suit jacket around my waist. “I should have told the stylist longer skirt.” He huffs before pulling out his phone to check his notifications. “Aren’t you excited honey? New friends!”

“First of all, the kid is like 10 and the other two are probably not even coming!”

“Easier time for you to keep him entertained. He’ll probably fall asleep anyways.”

I sigh, realizing he’s probably right. No way Jason is going to show up for sure.

To my surprise, he’s standing behind Damien and Bruce at my front door.

‘You’re joking.’ I moved out the way as the three entered. “Nice pajamas.” Damian complemented. I look down at my plaid red pajama pants and black oversized shirt. “You as well.” I smiled down at him, he wore matching silk pajamas with a pillow and blanket in hand. I turn to Jason who was wearing casual baggy sweatpants and the same white shirt as before. Damian tugged on my shirt. “Theater room.” He said as if reminding me where I was taking him. I held back a laugh, “of course.” I put a hand on both his shoulders to guide him down the foyer. “Right this way.”

“Bruce! You made it! Please! This way!” I could hear dad exclaim from behind us. “Your dad is quite the opposite of mine.” Damian said looking up at me. “Oh yeah, he’s definitely he’s own breed of dad.” I joke looking back down at him. “What happened to Dick?”

“He had other matters to attend to.” He looked back forward as we entered the theater room. “Welcome in.”

“Huh.” I could see the little excitement bubbling inside him. “What movies do you have?”

“Whatever your little heart desires.” I giggle, walking to the projector in the back of the room. We watch the screen light up and hurry to the couches. “Oh shit, I should of brought a blanket-“

“We can share mine. It’s king sized.” He said in a matter of fact tone. I smile at him, fixing his seat to recline before reclining my own. A soft thump to my right catches me off guard. Jason sat back, staring at the screen in front of us, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. “Put on a scary one.” He suggested. I cocked a brow at him, whispering, “he’s just a kid, Jason.”

“No he’s right. I would like to watch something scary.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He unfolds the blanket and throws one side over me. His pillow already behind his head. “…okay..” I scroll through our options and settle on a classic. (Idk pick something that scares you shitless) I hit the play button and lean back into the seat, cuddling into Damian’s soft blanket.

Halfway through the movie, Damian was already in my arms, and I in Jason’s. “This is a bit-“

“Extreme.” Jason finished. Somehow all three of us were under the blanket. “Should I-“

“Absolutely.” They both answer together.

I grab the remote before another horrific scene could play. “How about something funny?”

They both nodded silently.

I leaned back into the seat as a new movie plays. Damian made his way back in my arms, and Jason, his arms behind his head. I glanced at him making him turn. “What?” He mouthed before looking down to see Damian cuddled up to me. “Demon.” I shook my head. “He’s like the sweetest.” All Jason could do was roll his eyes at my words.

Again around half way through the movie, Damian was already asleep in his recliner. I slowly get up to go to the bathroom. A hand grabs my wrist pulling me back down. “���.we need to talk.”

“You had your chance to talk and you blocked me!” I whisper yelled at him. “Look! I’m sorry! I panicked.”

“….so you block me???”

“…..yeah..?”

I rolled my eyes and pulled my wrist away from him. “You’re so full of shit, Jason.”

I march out the room with him following behind. “Look, I’m really sorry. I know things are really awkward but I don’t want them to be. I actually really like-“

He cut his own self off as I looked back at him. “You what?”

“I just…ugh.” He grabs me by my shoulders. “I just really care about you. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. Let’s just start over.”

I squint at him before sighing. “Fine….now let go of me I have to pee.” I shake his arms off me and dash to the restroom.

Ok so basically, my idea with this story is he actually is in shambles because Bruce thinks your dad is a criminal and is trying to get as close as possible to find out where all this money is coming from. He has sex with you and Bruce was like “actually, this is perfect.” So basically he’s gonna lead you on but fall in love and a lot of angst and anger blah blah blah, it’s a work in progress 😣 but that’s the gist, next chapter is going to be in Jason’s point of view so it makes sense.

[whotookcry]

AS IF?

“Ha! As if! (Y/n) and I would never date!”

A sinking feeling erupted in my lower belly. I pressed my body on the wall behind me. Eavesdropping was not on my list for my Friday night activities but here we are. I could hear Jason and Roy laughing amongst each other. Tuning into their conversation late was a big mistake. Why was I even brought up? And what does Jason mean him and I would never date? As if he could get a catch like me! I may have had a small crush on him before…but definitely not now!

“Why are you hiding behind a wall?” I look up to see Dick standing in front of me, a curious yet playful look on his face. “Spying?” I quickly cover his mouth. “No! I’m not!” I whisper to him harshly. I could feel the giddy smile forming in my palm. He slowly pushes my hand down. “What did you hear? Did he say something embarrassing?” A mischievous look formed on his face as he bent down closer to my ear. “You have to tell me.”

“No Dick! Fuck! You’re so weird!” I lean back away from him. “I just over heard him talking…about me..” He obviously could tell that I didn’t hear good things due to my demeanor. “What did that asshole say? Do I need to beat him up?”

“No! No! It’s nothing serious. I swear.” I could tell he didn’t believe me for a second before marching into the living room behind me and jumping in between Roy and Jason on the couch. “Fellas. What are we talking about over here?”

‘Jesus Christ, Dick! So embarrassing!’

I peer into the room almost immediately locking eyes with Jason. ‘Fuck.’ I never turned around so quickly in my life and run up the stairs to the bathroom. “Hey!”

I made it to the top of the stairs before dashing into the first room I saw and locking it behind me. Loud knocking shook the door. “Open up! Now!”

I backed away from the door slowly. Bumping into the bed behind me causing me to fall back. “Fuck!”

“Are you okay? What happened? Don’t make me break down this door.” Jason said more as a threat than a warning. “Go away!”

Silence.

I sat still hoping he would leave…until the lock on the door slowly started to turn. I just up off the bed and run to hold the door knob from twisting open. “Are you psycho?!”

“And if I am?! Let me in!”

I stood no chance with the tank of a man pushing the door open and closing it behind him. “Why are you locking yourself in random rooms?” He scoffs grabbing my shoulders and guiding me to sit back down on the bed. “I was just…getting some air…” he looked down at me with a raised eyebrow. “Sure.” He sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. Our thighs barely graze each other before I quickly scoot over. “What’s up? Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not! Let’s go back down stairs.” I stand up only to be pulled down again. ‘I really need to start working out if I ever want to stop being rag dolled by this beast.’

“Talk to me. Dick said you heard me say something. What did you hear?”

‘Wow, Dick. What a snitch!’

“I didn’t hear anything. I just…really don’t want to talk to you right now.” ‘Real smooth (yn), real smooth.’

“I obviously said something to upset you! Just tell me what you heard!” He pulled me to face him.

“Jason! It’s really nothing! Let’s go back to the party! Okay?!” I successfully escape his hold and hurry to the door before he could catch me again. Zooming down the stairs, I make my way to the kitchen where the girls were pouring up drinks. “Pour me one, please.”

“(Yn) drinking? We must be having a good night tonight!” Cass says before handing me a glass of red wine with some spike of unknown liquor. Her own concoction if you will. I down it faster than I should have. “One more and I’m good.”

Worst sentence of my life.

I proceeded to take at least three shots with the already drunk girls and a shot gun with Dick and Kory. Jason sat at the kitchen table watching me closely. It was awkward enough he sat there without saying a word until everyone wanted him to shotgun against Dick too. “Just one. I’m driving tonight.” He grumbled glancing over to me. As they prepare the beers, I make my way over to the living room to sit down for a bit. The room was starting to shift and I did not want to throw up already. “Hey. Drink this.”

“I think I’m done drinking.” I wave off whoever was talking.

“It’s water, dummy.” I look up to Tim waving a water bottle above me. “Should have paced yourself.”

I groan sitting up and drinking the water slowly. “I know. But I’m fine.”

“You are most definitely not fine. Doesn’t take a detective to figure that out.” He pushes me over to make room for himself. “Never seen you drink like this before. Something happen?” I sighed at his questioning. “No. Nothing happened. I just want to have a good time.”

“Hm.” He pats my shoulder. “You’re not fooling anyone. Good try though.” He pushes me over once again, this time pulling my legs up on the couch after he gets off. “Stay here. I’ll find you some bread to eat.” I watch him venture off to the kitchen. In my drunk little brain, no way I’m staying here for Jason to find me! I sit right back up with new found energy. Walking straight to the front door and leaving without anyone noticing.

“…….” I now stood on the side walk watching cars drive by. ‘Wow….how I made it down here in one piece…i guess we’ll never know.’ I turn on my heel and proceed to walk down the block. Stumbling a bit before turning to follow the side walk. ‘Fuck where’s my phone.’ I pat around my low rise jean pockets before finding it. I hold it up to my face only to see the reflection of Jason looking right back at me. “Oh god now I’m hallucinating..” I sigh putting the phone back in my pocket. “Yeah I found her. Taking her back home now.” I whip around seeing an angry Jason behind me on the phone. “….heyyyy…” I grin nervously, stumbling backwards to gain distance from him. “…….” He shoved his iPhone into his back pocket before charging at me and picking me up over his shoulder. “PLEASE! HAVE MERCY!” I scream feeling my feet leave the ground.

“Be quiet! You’ll get the cops called on us!” He yelled carrying me to a blacked out Denali. I cover my mouth and hit his back. “You’re so mean.” I whisper through my fingers. “I’m sure I am.” He opens the passenger seat and practically tosses me inside shutting the door and locking it til he gets to the drivers side. “What were you thinking running off drunk? Are you crazy?!” He lectures. “I’m not.” I watch him as he reaches over me to buckle my seatbelt. Our eyes meet for a brief second before he retreats back to his own seat and buckles his own seatbelt. “Doesn’t seem like it. You could have gotten arrested, or even worse, taken off the street!”

“Not like it would make a difference to you…” I mumbled making his cock his head back in my direction.

“What?!”

Looked away from him, more so, turned my entire body away from him, crossing my arms over my chest and begin ignoring him.

“Oh my god. Is this about what you heard? I swear to you I would never talk bad about you a day in my life! Tell me what you’re freaking upset about?!”

Drunk me was not about to let him win this one nor let me spill my guts to him. “I’m not upset. I’m perfectly fine. Happy even. Just take me home and never talk to me again.” So close. So close.

He grunted. Zooming through the traffic to my apartment. He parked just before my building. I unbuckle my seatbelt belt and try to open the door. Locked. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I can’t have you upset at me when I don’t even know what I said to upset you!” He undid his own seatbelt and leaned over to grab my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Please.”

Fuck, that cracked the drunk tears in me. He watched as tears began pouring out the corners of my eyes. “You said, you and I would never date. Not that I gave you that option but it was hurtful how you said it! And then you laughed after saying it too!”

His eyes softens at the sight of me crying. “No! No! That was only part of what I was saying! I didn’t mean it like that! I said you and I would never date, you’re way out of my league! I don’t deserve you. Roy wanted me to ask you out but I laughed it off!”

“But I do want you.” I sniffed before realizing what just came out of my mouth. He paused before wiping the tears off the sides of my face. “You’re drunk right now. You don’t mean that.” He says softly. I shake my head, “but I do mean it!” He sighed, putting the car back in drive and slowly pulling up to my apartment. “Look…let’s just get you to bed.”

I scoff at him. I unlock the door myself and jump out the truck, slamming the door behind me. “Why does no one ever listen to me!” I trudge into my apartment building before the tears could start flowing again. “So stupid!” I dig into my pockets for my house keys as I climb up the stairs of my building. “Hey! Wait!” Jason calls out behind me, hurrying to catch up before I can lock him out. He grabs me by the wrist and takes the key before I could insert it into the door handle. “Please understand that I’m not trying to be a dick about how you feel. I just want you to be sober so we can understand each other better.” He unlocks the door for me and opens it, nudging me inside with his body. I wasn’t listening to him. Drunk me refused to listen to him. I walked straight to my room and closed the door behind me. Stripping down to my white crop tank top and underwear then jumping into bed. ‘Man, I really should have waited for Tim to bring me that bread.’

The door slowly creaked open. “Can I come in…please…?”

I held a hand up and utter a quiet, “no.” Which he obviously ignored and ended up on the other side of the bed next to me. “….we can talk in the morning, okay? You’re going to need me anyways with the massive hangover you’re going to have.” He chuckled ruffling my hair. I groaned into the comforter and flipped over away from him. I hear shuffling behind me then the blanket being tugged over. I turn over to see him cuddled up in MY bed with MY tv remote in his hand. “You’re so annoying.” I grumble before turning over fully to see what he would put on. “Go to bed already.” He shimmy’s down a bit so I could see before pulling me up to lay my head on his chest. The sound of his heart beating rapidly with the mix of his body radiating heat pulled me into a deep sleep.

The sun glared from the window into my eyes. A throbbing pain in my head forced my eyes to stay shut. “Fuck, what did Cass put in those god forsaken drinks.”

“Beats me. I wouldn’t trust anything she hands me.”

My eyes shoot open. Looking up to see Jason with his eyes closed still in the same spot as last night. “….huh….I was really hoping it was all a dream.” I sigh pulling the thick blanket over me as if I could hide from my current situation. “I’m sure you do.” He laughed pulling the blanket back down. “Too late now.”

I looked up at him. “I’m sorry that you had to deal with a drunk me.”

“It wasn’t too bad. Just a few screams and tears. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He grins. I groan into his side. “Again. Terribly sorry.” I sat up and scooted myself up to sit with him. “Did you sleep at all?”

“For a little bit, yes. I was more worried of you throwing up on the bed in the middle of the night. Hence the trash can to your left.” I turn to see my kitchen trash can next to the bed, embarrassing. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay, I promise.” He reassured. I looked at him before the sentence ‘but I do want you.’ Swirls above his head. ‘Fuck why did I say that.’

“Jason. You don’t have to force yourself to be here. I know I probably ruined our friendship and all-“

“You didn’t. Stop talking like that. You didn’t ruin anything.” He pushes himself up off the bed and walks to the bathroom in the hall. “….put some pants on by the way. It’s getting hard for me…to contain myself.” He mutters before closing the door behind him. I look down at my bare legs before hurrying to my closet to find some shorts.

A few minutes pass before he leaves the bathroom and comes back to sit next to me in the bed. “About last night….”

“I know….I meant what I said Jason….sober or drunk….i meant it with every fiber of my being…I do want you.” I curl into myself. “I know you don’t feel the same so-“

“I do.”

“…..huh?”

“I do feel the same.”

“…..oh!” I don’t know why I couldn’t muster up any other words but somehow, it worked. He laughed at my flustered expression. “I’ve always felt this way about you. I thought you already knew.”

“How would I know?! You treat everyone but Roy like an associate!” He scoffed at that. “I do not! I definitely…did something nice for you recently…” I could see the gears in his head trying to find an example of something nice he’s done.

“…well?”

“I’m working on expressing myself better, okay?” He nods to himself as if that was an acceptable answer. I sigh patting his back, “you…really amaze me sometimes.”

Terrible ending but I just read something and thought, imagine reader drunk instead

Readers reaction to the tea:

[whotookcry]

I’m trying to make my post as aesthetic as everyone else’s does but damn 😭 Mayhaps I just don’t have the vision for it

[whotookcry]

Thank you for the mini event!! Can I request a F1 Jason Todd x reader story?

Red Lights Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. mild suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. car accidents. injuries. mention of drug use. non-canon complacent. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I can't believe i got this request. Just the other day I was like I wanna write an F1 driver au for a character. Anon are you spying on me? Should I be concerned? Nonetheless this made me so so happy. Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ Comment to be added to taglist

Part 2

Jason Peter Todd was a man who, at the peak of his career, could effortlessly be regarded as the very embodiment of Formula 1 excellence. He was everything a driver dreamed of becoming—wealthy, young, impossibly gifted, and the adopted heir of none other than Bruce Wayne, the legendary “Dark Knight” of motorsport himself. A five-time world champion, Bruce in his prime had been a force of nature, drawing comparisons to icons like Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. And Jason? He was every bit his father's successor—perhaps even destined to surpass him.

Jason wasn't just successful; he was revolutionary. His meteoric rise shattered records with an almost casual ease. He wasn't just the youngest driver to ever compete in Formula 1—he was the youngest to win, and not just any race, but his very first. The accolades piled up faster than his rivals could keep track: most wins in a single season, most podium finishes, highest points tally ever recorded. The list seemed infinite, his potential boundless. The world adored him, idolizing him with near-religious fervor. Corporations fought tooth and nail for his endorsement, desperate to attach their brands to his golden image. Jason Todd—three-time world champion, impossibly handsome, and a marketing juggernaut—had single-handedly propelled Formula 1 into unprecedented popularity. Fans either wanted to stand beside him or become him.

There was no ceiling to what he could achieve. His future was a blinding horizon of endless possibility—until Bahrain.

The Sakhir Grand Prix unfolded under a scorching desert sun, the sky painted in hues of amber as dusk crept over the circuit. The air thrummed with the deafening roars of engines, the grandstands vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands. The final laps loomed, tension thick enough to cut through. Jason Todd, the prodigy, the phenom, was locked in a relentless pursuit of history—his fourth Bahrain Grand Prix victory within grasp. His car screamed down the straights, tires dancing on the knife's edge of control. He was pushing beyond limits, chasing glory as always.

But as he himself had said once before “Speed is a relentless god. And sometimes, it demands sacrifice.”

Bahrain's Sakhir Circuit had always been a beast of a track—deceptive in its sweeping curves, punishing in its tire degradation, unforgiving to even the slightest misjudgment. Jason's tires were fading fast, the rubber screaming in protest with every high-speed corner. The team's warnings buzzed in his ear, urgent yet distant, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Roy Harper, his closest friend and fiercest rival, loomed in his mirrors, a mere eight-tenths of a second behind—close enough to strike if Jason so much as blinked.

The radio crackled again, the voice of his engineer strained with concern: “Jason, watch the rear left—it's going off!”

But Jason Todd had never been one to yield. Not to his rivals. Not to the limits of physics. And certainly not to caution. He was five laps away from etching his name deeper into the history books, from claiming yet another record that would silence even his harshest critics. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the intoxicating rush of speed—it all blurred into a singular, all-consuming obsession. He knew his car better than anyone alive. He had pushed it beyond its limits before and walked away victorious. Why would this time be any different?

At 200 miles per hour, the world narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and adrenaline. The next turn approached—a brutal, high-speed corner that demanded precision. He braked hard, but the rear tires, worn to the cords, betrayed him. The car shuddered, the tail snapping out in a violent fishtail. For a heartbeat, his reflexes prevailed—his hands a blur as he wrestled the steering wheel, correcting the slide with the instincts of a champion.

And then—catastrophe.

A deafening bang ripped through the air as his left rear tire failed explosively. The car lurched sideways, spearing toward the barriers at a near-perpendicular angle. The carbon-fiber monocoque—a marvel of engineering designed to withstand brutal impacts—shattered like glass upon collision. The force of the crash sent debris flying in a lethal storm of shrapnel, scattering across the track in a grotesque spectacle. The wreckage rebounded violently, spinning back onto the racing line—just as Roy Harper's car, helpless to avoid the chaos, hurtled into the carnage.

A second impact. A sickening crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

Roy had no time to react. No time to swerve. His front wing speared through the mangled remains of Jason's cockpit like a blade. The halo device—the very piece of safety equipment designed to protect drivers from such horrors—held firm, but the sheer force of the collision tore the survival cell apart, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

The voice of Dick Grayson—Jason's brother, his race engineer and his unwavering support—crackled over the radio, raw with desperation. A silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.

And then, as if the universe itself sought to twist the knife deeper, fuel from Roy's ruptured tank spilled onto the scorched asphalt. A single spark—a fleeting, inevitable spark—ignited the fumes.

The world erupted in flames.

Marshals in fireproof suits charged forward, their extinguishers spraying thick plumes of retardant, but the devastation was absolute. The grandstands fell eerily silent, thousands of spectators frozen in horror. Mechanics, engineers, and rival team members stood motionless, hands clasped in prayer or pressed over mouths in disbelief. Roy Harper, miraculously conscious but dazed, was dragged from his ruined car with relative ease—his injuries severe but survivable.

But Jason Todd?

The reigning world champion was still trapped inside the inferno.

The fireproof material of his race suit glowed beneath the flames, his silhouette barely visible through the thick, black smoke. Over the team radio, Dick Grayson's voice cracked with increasing desperation, begging for any sign of life. “Jason, talk to me. Please, just say something—anything!” Only static answered.

The medical car arrived within seconds, but the violence of the crash had left almost no room for hope. The extraction was a nightmare—jaws of life prying apart twisted metal, paramedics shouting over the roar of the flames. When they finally pulled him free, his body was limp, his helmet scorched, his suit seared in places. The world blurred into chaos after that—screaming sirens, frantic radio calls, the paddock holding its breath.

Then, whispers spread through the garage like wildfire.

The hospital's initial prognosis was grim: incompatible with life. The injuries were catastrophic—internal bleeding, multiple fractures, third-degree burns covering nearly 40% of his body. At one point, his heart stopped entirely, flatlining for over a minute as Bruce Wayne, the legendary Dark Knight of motorsport, stood helpless outside the ICU, restraining a sobbing Dick Grayson from pounding on the glass in sheer despair.

Time of death: 20:45 hours.

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

But then—

A single, weak beep.

The head surgeon blinked, certain he had imagined it. Then another. And another. Jason's heart, stubborn as the man himself, refused to surrender. The news rocketed through the paddock, a shockwave of disbelief and cautious relief: Jason Peter Todd was alive. Barely. Clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, but alive.

What followed was a waking nightmare.

Roy Harper, consumed by guilt, retired from Formula 1 immediately, unable to bear the weight of what had happened. Months later, he was found half-dead in a hotel room, an empty bottle of pills beside him—another casualty of that cursed day. The FIA scrambled to implement new safety regulations, mandating stronger cockpit protections and stricter tire wear monitoring. The team, once dominant, floundered without their star driver.

And Jason?

He slept.

For six agonizing months, he remained in a coma, his body healing at a glacial pace. When he finally woke, the details were kept fiercely private—no press releases, no interviews, just a single, guarded statement confirming his consciousness. But those who saw him in those early days knew: the Jason Todd who emerged from the darkness was not the same man who had entered it.

The fire had taken more than just flesh.

It had taken a legend.

“I want to race.”

The words hit Bruce Wayne like a physical blow.

For a man who had stood unshaken in the face of countless crises—both as a five-time world champion and as the iron-willed owner of Wayne Racing—the sheer weight of that simple declaration brought the world to a staggering halt. His son's voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and fractured, yet burning with a desperation that cut deeper than any scream could have.

It had been two months since Jason Todd had woken from the abyss of his coma. Two months of slow, agonizing progress—of bandages being peeled away, of casts removed, of wounds grudgingly closing. The hospital had kept the worst of the scarring hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, not just for medical reasons, but out of fear for his fragile psyche. The first days after his awakening had been a storm of rage and denial—violent outbursts that left nurses scrambling for sedatives, his own body betraying him as orderlies pinned him down to keep him from tearing at IV lines and heart monitor leads.

The crash had taken more than flesh and bone. The doctors had warned Bruce in hushed tones: PTSD. Depression. Nightmares that never end. Jason's body, though stable, was a battleground. His mind? A warzone.

“I understand, Jay, but—”

“No, you don't!” Jason's voice shattered like glass against steel. “You don't get it! These four walls, these fucking machines and tubes—they're driving me insane. I don't belong here!”

And he was right.

Jason Todd had never been meant for cages. He was wildfire in human form—meant to blaze across the rain-slicked straights of Interlagos, to carve through the golden-hour shadows of COTA's esses, to exist where the air smelled of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, not antiseptic and despair. The hospital was a prison, and every second spent trapped inside it was another piece of him dying.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor rather than meeting his son's fever-bright eyes. “Jason,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “you need to heal.”

Jason's hands clenched into fists, the heart rate monitor spiking beside him. “I have healed enough!”

The words weren't just defiance—they were a plea, a demand, a last stand. Because Jason Todd had spent his entire life pushing past limits, and this? This was no different.

Except it was.

And the crushing weight of that truth hung between them, suffocating and unspoken. Bruce, the man who had faced down the most ruthless competitors on the track, who had rebuilt entire teams from ashes, found himself paralyzed by the one battle he couldn't strategize his way out of. How do you make a force of nature understand it's been fractured?

Bruce didn't—couldn't—answer. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything left unsaid. The heart monitor's steady beep mocked them, a cruel reminder of time moving forward even when Jason's world had screeched to a halt.

Then, like a blade slicing through the tension, Jason spoke again, his voice stripped of its earlier fire, replaced by something colder. “Who did the seat go to?”

It was a logical question. The season hadn't ended with his crash. The circus marched on, the cars kept racing, and the world didn't stop turning just because Jason Todd had been ripped out of his cockpit.

“Tim got the seat.”

Tim Drake. The reigning F2 champion. Bruce's godson. The kid with a mind sharper than a scalpel and reflexes that bordered on preternatural. After his parents' tragic death, Bruce had taken him in, just as he had with Jason. And Jason knew—hated that he knew—Tim was good. Scary good. But potential didn't change the brutal arithmetic of Formula 1: seats were finite. Tim's promotion meant Jason's throne had been filled before he'd even left the ICU.

Before the crash, Jason's teammate had been Cassandra Cain. A prodigy in her own right, the only woman on the grid outside of Themyscira Formula One team—Diana Prince's all-female team, founded to shatter the sport's glass ceiling. Cass had been more than a teammate; she'd become family. Diana herself had tried to poach her, offering a coveted seat in her revolutionary outfit. But Cass had chosen Wayne Racing, loyalty outweighing opportunity. And Jason would sooner set himself on fire again than take her place.

“He's half-baked at best,” Jason spat, the words dripping with acid. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “I saw him at testing. He can't do shit.”

Tim Drake was brilliant. A prodigy by any measure, but raw talent wasn't enough in Formula 1 and brilliance didn't erase inexperience. Not when you were thrust into the spotlight mid-season, expected to fill the void left by a living legend. Not when every lap, every turn, every mistake was measured against the ghost of Jason Todd—the youngest champion, the record-breaker, the firebrand who had redefined what it meant to be fearless behind the wheel.

Tim wasn't just racing against the competition. He was racing against a memory. And right now, memory was winning.

Bruce exhaled, slow and measured. “But that doesn't change the fact that you're not ready yet.”

Jason's jaw clenched. “The season's coming to an end. I have plenty of time to train and get back in the game by the time next season rolls around.”

“Jason, but—”

“YOU DON'T GET TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”

The roar tore through the room, raw and unfiltered. In a flash of movement, Jason's hand shot out, snatching the call remote from the side of his bed. Before Bruce could react, it was hurled through the air with enough force to shatter the fragile illusion of control Jason had been clinging to.

Bruce sidestepped on instinct, the remote clattering against the wall behind him. But when his gaze snapped back to his son—really looked at him for the first time since entering the room—something in him faltered.

A flinch.

Subtle, involuntary, but there.

Jason saw it. Saw the way Bruce's eyes flickered, the way his breath hitched for the barest fraction of a second. Saw the look in his father's gaze—not just concern, not just frustration, but something far worse.

Revulsion.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

The realization hit Jason like a lightning. His chest tightened, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind something hollow and brittle.

Bruce Wayne—the man who had faced down the most dangerous corners in the world without blinking, who had stared death in the eye more times than he could count—flinched at the sight of his own son.

And in that moment, Jason understood.

This wasn't just about whether he was ready to race again.

This was about whether he'd ever be seen the same way again.

“Boy Wonder No More?”“Crash Down Bahrain Lane: What It Means for the Champion Team”“Robin Fails to Fly”

The headlines screamed at him from every newsstand, every digital feed, every godforsaken screen in the hospital waiting room. Bold, black letters against stark white backgrounds, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the wound. And beneath them—always beneath them—the same grotesque images: his car wrapped around the barriers, the inferno licking at the sky, the thick plume of smoke staining the Bahraini horizon like an omen.

They had reduced his entire legacy to a single, catastrophic moment.

Three-time world champion. Youngest race winner in history. The driver who had redefined dominance. None of it mattered now. The trophies gathering dust in Wayne Manor's halls, the records that still bore his name, the races where he'd crossed the line with his fist raised in triumph—all of it was trumped by one mistake. One lapse in judgment. One turn taken a fraction too late.

Jason Todd: No longer the Boy Wonder. Now, forevermore, The One Who Died.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had died—if only for a minute. Flatlined on the table, his heart stubbornly restarting as if to spite the universe itself. But the world didn't care about comebacks. It cared about spectacle. And what was more spectacular than the fall of a golden child?

He was Lucifer, wasn't he? God's most favored son, the brightest of angels, cast down from heaven for the sin of pride. Wings broken, flames licking at his heels as he plummeted into the abyss. Maybe it had always been inevitable. Maybe this was his divine punishment—for daring to believe he was untouchable, for thinking the throne was his by right.

Fall from grace. Fall from his throne. Fall from his rightful spot.

So he trained.

Day and night, through the pain that lanced up his spine with every movement, through the phantom screams of tires that echoed in his dreams. He pushed his body to the brink, then past it, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced them to remember what they'd once been capable of. The rage inside him was a living thing, coiled tight around his ribs, whispering in his ear: Prove them wrong. Make them regret it.

There were days when the fury was all-consuming, a black tide that drowned out reason. Days when he'd catch his reflection—the scars, the hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of a face that had once been called ridiculously pretty—and something inside him would snap. Mirrors shattered under his fists. Posters torn from walls, trophies hurled across rooms, their polished surfaces dented against the hardwood. The boy who had been worshiped now couldn't stand the sight of himself.

Bruce tried. He really did. He threw money at the media, buying silence where he could, burying stories of Jason's outbursts beneath layers of PR spin and legal threats. Staff members who looked at Jason with pity in their eyes found themselves abruptly unemployed. But none of it changed the truth: Bruce Wayne, for all his resources, all his power, didn't know how to fix this.

How do you mend a shattered reputation? How do you rebuild a ghost?

The world had already written Jason Todd's epitaph. Now he had to claw his way out of the grave.

The new season began with a quiet humiliation—Tim Drake, the temporary heir to Jason's throne, was demoted back to F2 with barely a whisper of protest. If anything, the young driver seemed relieved to return to the junior category, away from the suffocating expectations of filling Jason Todd's fireproof shoes.

Jason reclaimed his seat, but not his crown.

The first race back was... acceptable. Mediocre by his old standards, but passable for a man who'd crawled back from death's doorstep. The commentators tiptoed around his performance—“He's shaking off rust,” they said. “The speed will come,” they assured. But Jason heard the unspoken truth beneath their carefully chosen words: the fire that had once made him untouchable had dimmed to embers.

Heavens know how he tried. But no amount of willpower could stop his breath from shortening at corners that reminded him of that turn in Bahrain. No mental gymnastics could prevent his palms from sweating through his gloves when the pack bunched too close. The doctors had a name for it: PTSD-induced panic attacks. Jason had another word for it: weakness.

And weakness had no place in Formula 1.

Race after race, he watched helplessly as rivals streamed past—drivers he'd once dominated now leaving him in their wake. The unthinkable happened in Jeddah: Jason Todd, the boy wonder who'd podiumed here in his rookie year, finished outside the points for the first time since his debut.

The garage wrapped him in cotton-wool encouragement. “You'll get there, J.” “Just need more seat time.” Each well-meaning word landed like a scalpel, peeling back layers of pride to reveal the rot beneath—their pity, their disappointment, their fading belief in the myth of Jason Todd.

He wanted to scream. To tear the fucking garage apart. To make them all see—really see—what this was doing to him. But he stayed silent, letting their hollow encouragement wash over him like acid rain.

The truth was simple: Jason Todd wasn't back. He was just... there. Haunting his own career. And the worst part? He wasn't sure which was more unbearable—the idea that this might be permanent, or the terrifying possibility that the old Jason, the real Jason, had died in that Bahrain crash after all.

Jason leaned heavily against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. Below him, the team party roared on—champagne corks popping, laughter ringing through the Wayne Racing hospitality suite. Cass had podiumed at their home race in Gotham, keeping the team's legacy alive where he had failed. He was proud of her. She'd earned this. But pride couldn't fill the hollow space in his chest where ambition used to live.

The nicotine burned his lungs in a way that felt almost comforting. The old Jason—the real Jason—had treated his body like a temple. No alcohol, no junk food, certainly no cigarettes. Every calorie counted, every heartbeat optimized for performance. But that man had died in Bahrain. This new version of him? This one didn't give a damn.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the Gotham night. It was funny, in a twisted way. Every drag brought him back to that moment—the acrid smell of burning carbon fiber, the taste of gasoline and fear. In a world where nothing felt familiar anymore, only the memory of his destruction remained vivid.

“I thought F1 drivers weren't allowed to smoke.”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a young woman swaying slightly, her cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand. She couldn't have been more than mid to early twenties, her designer dress wrinkled from dancing, her makeup smudged at the edges. Some sponsor's daughter, probably. Or a journalist's plus-one.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jason said flatly. “The bar's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the party without looking at her.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she persisted, ignoring his dismissal. “You're the best of the best. You're supposed to—”

“I'm roadkill, sweetheart.” The words came out harsher than he intended, edged with something bitter. “All charred meat and bones. Ain't nothing special anymore.” He waved the cigarette absently, sending a lazy spiral of smoke her way. “They don't get rid of me ‘cause I've got too much on them to lose.”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then, with a suddenness that almost made him laugh, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and flicked it over the railing.

“Hey—!”

“You listen up,” she slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are Jason fucking Todd. You are literally the coolest.” Her words were drunken, but her conviction was startling. She said it like it was scripture. Like she truly believed it from the bottom of her heart.

“That was before the—”

“NO!”

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and unyielding, all traces of drunken slurring stripped away by sheer frustration. She stepped closer, invading his space, her finger jabbing into his chest with enough force to make him stagger back half a step. The scent of vodka and citrus clung to her breath, but her gaze was startlingly clear—burning with an intensity that pinned him in place.

“Don't you dare give me that.”

Her words struck like a hammer to glass.

“You're still him. It doesn't matter how deep you bury yourself in hate and self-pity, you're still the Jason I know.” Her voice cracked, raw with something that sounded too much like betrayal. “And honestly? You're the best out there is— snap the fuck out of it. And also don’t you dare talk smack about my idol. Because I will fight you for it.”

Normally, Jason would’ve had security drag her away by now. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate some drunk stranger laying into him like this. But there was nothing normal about tonight.

Because she wasn’t tiptoeing around him. Wasn’t feeding him hollow platitudes or empty encouragement. She was the first person in months who looked at him and didn’t see a cautionary tale—just a man too stubborn to climb out of the hole he dug himself.

And damn if that didn’t terrify him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that bordered on violence. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Her voice broke, and suddenly, the anger bled into something else entirely. Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara in inky rivers down her cheeks. The dam broke—great, heaving sobs wracked her frame, her words dissolving into incoherent hiccups.

Jason stood frozen, arms stiff at his sides, utterly unprepared for the emotional hurricane in front of him. He glanced toward the party, grateful the crowd was still oblivious, but the reprieve was short-lived.

Footsteps pounded against the terrace tiles.

Danny, one of his oldest friends, a race mechanic who’d known him since their karting days—burst onto the balcony, breathless and wide-eyed.

The woman whirled, launching herself at Danny with a wail. “Dan-Dan, he—” She jabbed a finger wildly at Jason, her words devolving into unintelligible sniffles.

Danny caught her, steadying her swaying frame. “He what?”

“He’s being mean.”

Jason’s hands flew up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything to her!”

Danny’s gaze flicked between them, bewildered. “To whom?”

“To himself!” she wailed, fresh tears erupting. “Tell him to stop!”

Realization dawned on Danny’s face, followed swiftly by mortification. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose like a man praying for patience.

“Toddster, I am so sorry for her behavior,” he muttered, already maneuvering her toward the door. “Please forgive her.”

Jason barely had time to process before Danny hauled her away, her protests fading into the din of the party.

The balcony was silent again.

Jason stared at the empty space where they’d stood.

What the hell just happened?

The next race weekend arrived with an unexpected turn—Jason clawed his way past the midfield, securing a respectable finish that, while nowhere near his former glory, at least silenced the whispers of his inevitable decline. The garage hummed with cautious optimism, the tension easing just enough for Dick to crack a joke, for the engineers to clap him on the back without that lingering hesitation. It was progress.

But Jason's mind wasn't on the race.

It was on her.

That drunken, furious woman who'd screamed at him like he was worth the effort. Her words had burrowed under his skin, festering like a splinter he couldn't dig out. “You're still the Jason I know.” The worst part? She'd said it like she meant it. Like she'd seen him—really seen him—through the wreckage of Bahrain and still believed in whatever of himself remained.

He'd resigned himself to never seeing her again.

Until the broadcast screens flashed her face.

There she was—no smudged mascara, no vodka-induced haze—standing trackside with a microphone in hand, interviewing the podium finishers with effortless charm. The realization hit him like a missed gear shift: she wasn't just some random party crasher. She was one of the presenters. And now that he really looked, he did recognize her. Not just from the balcony, but from the periphery of his world for months. Lingering near Danny in the garage, passing through the paddock with a press badge. He'd been too consumed by his own spiral to notice.

His curiosity flared.

He watched her wrap up the interview, then slip toward the back of the garage—a restricted area for presenters. Equipment rooms weren't on the media tour. Even if she was connected to Danny, she had no business there.

For the sake of the company, Jason told himself, and followed.

The equipment room was dim, cluttered with spare parts and toolkits. She was already inside, rummaging through a duffel bag that looked suspiciously personal.

“Looking for something, miss?”

She whirled, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. “I-I wasn't snooping, I swear! I just came to get my bag—”

“Yes, of course,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “And about that night on the terrace...”

Her face drained of color, lips parting slightly as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “I'm so sorry, really,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I understand if you want to press charges, but just know I—”

“Actually,” Jason interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “What.”

It wasn't a question—it was pure, unfiltered disbelief, the kind that left her rooted to the spot, staring at him like he'd just spoken in tongues.

Jason exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of vulnerability. The movement was almost self-conscious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this moment either. “You were right,” he admitted, the words rough but sincere. “About... all of it.”

His gaze lifted to hers, bracing for the pity he'd grown so accustomed to seeing in people's eyes. But it wasn't there. Instead, he found something far more disarming—wary confusion, yes, but beneath it, a flicker of something that might've been hope. Or maybe just surprise that he hadn't thrown her out of the garage yet.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

Then, as if her brain had finally caught up with the absurdity of the situation, she blurted: “So... you're not gonna press charges? Or slap me with a lawsuit that would probably cost more than everything I own and land me in jail?” The words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly. “Because, honestly, I've been mentally preparing for that exact scenario for the past week, and—”

Jason laughed.

Not the hollow, humorless sound he'd been making for the past year, but a real, genuine laugh—the kind that caught even him off guard. It rumbled deep in his chest, startlingly warm in the dim light of the equipment room.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation: “But if you're feeling that guilty, you could make it up to me by keeping me company over dinner.”

The woman looked like she was about to faint.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You—what?”

Jason arched a brow. “You heard me.”

“You're asking me to dinner?”

“Unless you'd prefer the lawsuit?”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the dawning realization that he was, in fact, serious. And then—slowly, hesitantly—the corners of her lips curled upward. “You're insane.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. Thought you knew that already. So what's the verdict?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe her own answer. “...Fine. Better than a ruined career I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Jason said, pushing off the doorframe. “Now, you gonna tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘the drunk girl who yelled at me’ in my head?”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

The moment Jason’s manager contacted her after their encounter in the equipment room, reality hit like a sudden downpour at a race—unexpected and impossible to ignore. A sleek car would arrive at her doorstep at 7 PM sharp, the message stated, its tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilaration and sheer terror.

What if this was all an elaborate trap?

The thought circled her mind like a vulture. Maybe Jason Todd had taken offense to her drunken tirade, and this dinner was simply a prelude to legal annihilation—a chance to personally serve her with a lawsuit that would bankrupt her and tarnish her fledgling career before it even took off. The possibilities were endless, and none of them comforting.

But beneath the anxiety, a traitorous spark of anticipation flickered.

Because it was Jason Todd.

Three-time world champion. The man whose posters had adorned her walls as a teenager. The driver whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion long before she ever stepped foot in the paddock as a presenter. And now? Now she was supposed to sit across from him at a dinner table without combusting from sheer nerves.

Outfit crisis imminent.

As a presenter, her wardrobe was extensive—filled with sleek blazers, tailored dresses, and enough heels to make a fashion blogger weep. But suddenly, nothing felt sufficient. Too formal? Too casual? Too try-hard? She stood frozen in front of her closet, hands buried in her hair, as the existential dread mounted.

“Steph. Help.”

The phone call to Stephanie Brown—her closest friend and a rising star in the motorsports styling world—was nothing short of a distress signal.

“I have a very, very, very important dinner today, and I have nothing to wear. What do I do? Should I just die? God, I can’t do this. I—”

“Woah, woah, easy, girl,” Steph interrupted, her voice a calming anchor amidst the storm. “I caught ‘dinner,’ ‘important,’ and ‘nothing to wear’—that correct?” A muffled sound followed, then Steph’s sharp, “Tim, stop that—”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, nodding vigorously out of habit despite Steph’s inability to see her. “Also, tell Tim congratulations for his podium. I was going to catch up with you guys, but you’d already flown out.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steph sighed. “Tim just couldn’t wait to get some ‘me time’ at home.” The unspoken eye roll was almost audible.

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.”

“See? Y/N gets it!” Tim’s voice chirped in the background, smug.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Steph snapped. “Ain’t nobody asked yo ass.” What followed was a familiar symphony of bickering— a dynamic so ingrained it nearly made her smile despite her panic.

“Steph! Dinner!” she interjected before the couple could fully derail.

“Oh, right.” Steph’s tone shifted back to business. “Let’s see—is this like a professional ‘don’t fuck with me’ dinner? Or a ‘I lowkey wanna bang you’ dinner? Or a ‘this could’ve been an email’ dinner?”

The blunt categorization forced a laugh out of her, but the truth was far more complicated. “It’s a ‘please don’t kill me and my career’ dinner,” she confessed, voice small.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/N,” Steph said slowly, “What did you do?”

“Fucked up big time.” The admission came out in a rush, followed by Tim’s audible “Ooh,” in the background.

“Shut up, Tim!” Both girls barked in unison, effectively silencing the young driver.

Steph’s sigh was long-suffering. “Alright. First, breathe. Second, we’re fixing this. But you owe me the full story later.”

Y/N had stood in the presence of racing legends before - interviewed world champions with champagne still dripping from their hair, exchanged banter with team principals who controlled billion-dollar empires, even moderated press conferences where the tension between rival drivers could have powered the entire paddock. Yet none of those experiences could compare to the visceral, gut-churning nerves currently twisting her stomach into knots as the luxury car glided toward the restaurant.

It was ironic really. She'd interacted with Jason Todd quite a few times in professional settings - the obligatory media day interviews, the post-race scrums where she'd lobbed softball questions about tire strategy and a couple more here and there. Those encounters should have made this easier. Familiarity should have bred comfort.

But this wasn't a media event with carefully scripted questions and PR handlers monitoring every word. This was dinner. Intimate. Unfiltered. Just two people and whatever uncomfortable truths might surface between the appetizer and dessert.

Before that disastrous night on the terrace, she would have sold her soul for this opportunity - a private audience with the man whose racing prowess had inspired her career path. Now? Now she fantasized about the floor opening up beneath her. The cruel twist of fate wasn't just that Jason Todd finally knew she existed - it was that he knew her as the drunken harpy who'd screamed at him like some deranged fangirl.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the burgundy tulle of her dress, the delicate fabric whispering with every fidget. Stephanie had insisted this was the perfect choice - “It says ‘I’m too sexy to kill, so please don't ruin my career’,” she'd declared while wrestling Y/N into the designer garment through the phone. The color was no accident either: Jason's signature shade, the one that adorned his helmet and racing suit. A subtle homage or a desperate plea for mercy? She wasn't sure anymore.

The car slowed as they approached their destination - one of those impossibly exclusive restaurants where the maître d' could spot an impostor from fifty paces. The kind of establishment where reservations required connections more than money, though God knew there'd be plenty of both behind these doors. Y/N had walked past places like this her whole life, never imagining she'd actually enter one - certainly not under these circumstances.

Through the tinted windows, the restaurant's facade glowed like some temple of the elite, its polished brass and artfully distressed oak radiating quiet money and old-world power. The sort of place where Bruce Wayne might hold court in a private dining room while discussing billion-dollar deals between courses.

Her throat went dry. Against the combined might of Wayne Enterprises and Jason Todd's racing fortune, she was utterly insignificant. A single ill-advised outburst could vaporize not just her career, but Danny's position at the team too. The weight of that realization settled over her like a lead apron as the car door opened, releasing her into the lion's den.

The maître d' didn't even check the reservation list. One glance at her and he was nodding deferentially. “Mr. Todd's guest. Right this way.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown to judgment. Somewhere in this temple of haute cuisine, Jason Todd waited and Y/N wasn't sure whether to beg for forgiveness or prepare for war. The ambient chatter of the elite patrons seemed to fade into a distant hum as her eyes scanned the dimly lit dining room, searching for the one face that had haunted her thoughts since that disastrous balcony confrontation.

And then she saw him.

Jason Todd sat bathed in the warm glow of an artfully placed spotlight, looking every bit the racing royalty he was. The crisp lines of his tailored shirt—a deep burgundy that matched her dress with embarrassing precision—stretched across his broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of the scars that marred his collarbone and running up his neck. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times in frustration and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched her approach.

“Wasn't aware there was a dress code,” he remarked dryly, his voice laced with amusement as his gaze flickered pointedly between her dress and his own shirt.

Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, turning her face the same shade as the offending fabric. Goddammit, Stephanie.

“It's a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding into the plush chair opposite him with all the grace of a startled deer. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him—studying the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, the way the candlelight reflected off the polished silverware, the distant exit sign she was sorely tempted to bolt toward.

Jason chuckled lowly, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I know I ain’t much to look at, but you don’t need to make it so obvious,” he teased, accepting the leather-bound menu from the waiter with a nod of thanks.

Her head snapped up at that, indignation momentarily overriding her embarrassment. “What? No! You're gorgeous—”

The words tumbled out unchecked, her filter obliterated by sheer panic.

Jason froze, the menu hovering mid-air as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. A slow, dangerously smug grin spread across his face. “I see,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice making her want to vault over the table and strangle him—or maybe herself.

Mortified, Y/N yanked the menu up like a shield, pressing the cool leather against her burning face. You're so done, Y/N, her inner voice screamed at her, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

From behind her makeshift barricade, she heard Jason let out a huff that oddly sounded like a  laugh—the kind that vibrated through his chest and made her traitorous stomach flip. “You planning to order from behind there or should I just guess what you want?”

She groaned, the sound muffled by the menu. It trembled slightly in Y/N's grip as she fought to regain control of her traitorous tongue. The embossed letters blurred before her eyes— foie gras, truffle-infused something, caviar that probably cost more than her monthly rent. None of it registered.

The candle between them cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow— a souvenir from his early racing days that no media outlet had ever gotten the full story on.

“It's a bold strategy,” Jason mused, leaning back in his chair with the effortless grace of someone completely at home in this world of white tablecloths and thousand-dollar bottles of wine. “First you scream at me drunk, now you're trying to suffocate yourself with the menu. I'm starting to think you've got a death wish, doll.”

Y/N finally dropped the menu with a defeated thud. “I was hoping for spontaneous combustion actually,” she admitted, reaching for her water glass with only the slightest tremor in her fingers. “Seems more dignified than whatever this is.”

Jason's laughter rang out, unfiltered and unguarded. It transformed his face completely - the harsh lines of trauma and exhaustion momentarily smoothed away, revealing the more of the boyish charmer who'd taken the racing world by storm years ago, almost making Y/N's heart stagger.

“But you know,” He said swirling the liquid in his glass with deliberate nonchalance, “most people who think I'm going to ruin their careers don't compliment me quite so... enthusiastically.”

The ice cubes clinked mockingly as he took a sip.

“I was being polite,” Y/N lied through clenched teeth, surrendering her menu shield to the hovering waiter.

“Polite would've been ‘you clean up nice.’ But ‘Gorgeous’?” He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes. “That's the kind of word that makes a man think dangerous thoughts.”

The waiter chose that moment to reappear with their first course - some delicate arrangement of edible flowers and microgreens that looked more like a museum installation than food. Y/N seized the distraction like a lifeline, stabbing at her plate with slightly more force than necessary.

“Careful,” Jason murmured, watching her assault on the defenseless appetizer. “That fork's not one of my sponsors.” Y/N shrugged and muttered something unintelligble before continuning with the same.

“Christ, you’re something else,” he said, shaking his head as he signaled the sommelier. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something more contemplative. “Look, let's get one thing straight - you're not here because I'm planning to sue you into oblivion.”

The waiter arrived with the wine list before she could respond. Jason barely glanced at it. “The '89 Margaux,” he said automatically, then paused. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Y/N blinked. That particular Bordeaux cost more than what she made in a month. “The... the Margaux is perfect,” she managed, watching as Jason nodded dismissal to the waiter.

When they were alone again, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his shoulders, and Y/N suddenly found the stem of her water glass fascinating.

“I asked you here,” Jason continued, voice dropping into a more serious register, “because you were the first person in a year who didn't treat me like either a ticking time bomb or a broken trophy.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass absentmindedly.

The raw honesty in his words stole Y/N's breath. This wasn't the carefully curated media persona or the angry driver she'd confronted on the balcony. This was Jason Todd stripped bare— vulnerable in a way she'd never imagined seeing.

Her professional instincts warred with something far more personal. “I saw someone who needed to get his head out of his ass,” she said before she could stop herself, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was-”

“No,” Jason interrupted, that ghost of a smile returning. “That's exactly it. It was... refreshing. Let's just say it helped me think differently.” His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the tablecloth. “And I'd like to thank you for that.”

Y/N nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine to buy time. The rich, oaky flavor bloomed across her tongue. “You're welcome, I suppose,” she murmured, the rim of the glass muffling her words slightly.

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of silverware and the muted conversations of other diners. Jason's gaze drifted to the window where Gotham's skyline glittered against the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” he said suddenly, turning back to her with renewed focus, “you're free to make conversation with me. It's more entertaining than most people I talk to.”

The challenge in his tone sparked something in Y/N. She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment before asking, “So what do you do when you're not racing?”

It was a genuine question - one she'd always wondered about. In every interview she'd ever watched or conducted with Jason Todd, the conversation inevitably circled back to racing strategies, training regimens, or future competitions. His social media showed nothing but carefully curated content - podium finishes, sponsor events, the occasional vacation photo that still somehow related to racing. There was never any glimpse of who Jason Todd might be when he stepped away from the track.

Jason opened his mouth automatically. “Um, I usually train or go over my past races, analyze data, study tracks—”

“No,” Y/N interrupted gently but firmly. “I mean outside of racing. You've pretty much dedicated all of you to racing, but who is Jason Todd outside of that?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, and for the first time that evening, the ever-present confidence in his posture faltered slightly. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second.

Jason's brow furrowed as he stared into his wine glass, as if the answer might be hidden in its depths. When he finally looked up, there was something unsettlingly vulnerable in his expression.

He paused, then continued with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter, “I mean I used to read.” The admission came slowly, dragged up from some long-buried place in his memory. “Before races. History, mostly.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “There was... there was something about empires rising and falling that put the whole 'will I qualify P1 or P2' thing in perspective.”

Y/N found herself leaning forward without realizing it. This was new territory - an actual glimpse behind the carefully constructed media persona. The Jason Todd of press conferences and interviews was all sharp edges and racing statistics, a human embodiment of competitive drive. This Jason? This one had layers.

“And now?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Jason's thumb traced slow circles around the base of his glass, his gaze distant. “Now I...” The sentence trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a rougher edge, the words tinged with something like self-reproach. “Christ, you're right. There isn't a Jason Todd outside of racing. Hasn't been for a long time.”

Y/N could see the moment of realization hitting him, could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he confronted this truth about himself. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of his eyes - she recognized the signs of someone spiraling inward with uncomfortable self-examination.

Seeking to lighten the mood before it turned too heavy, she quipped, “For someone who just admitted he has no life outside racing, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me to take this dinner seriously as a networking opportunity.”

The tension shattered as Jason barked out a surprised laugh that made the waiters look curiously. “Fuck you,” he shot back, but there was no real venom in it - just a warmth that softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor. He speared a bite of his appetizer with more force than necessary, the action betraying his lingering discomfort with the direction of their conversation. “Fine. Next time I'll lie. Tell you I breed rare orchids or some shit.”

“Next time?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own fork hovering mid-air as she caught the implication.

Jason froze for a fraction of a second, then recovered with a shrug that was far too studied to be casual. “Figure of speech.” But the way his eyes darted briefly away, the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, told a different story entirely.

Y/N deadpanned, “You just admitted your entire identity is wrapped up in going fast in circles. That means we've got our work cut out for us.”

“'We'?” Jason latched onto the word with surprising quickness, his tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm though something in his eyes betrayed genuine curiosity. “As in you want to accompany me in this grand journey of self-discovery?” The question was framed as rhetorical, but there was an undercurrent of something more - a quiet hope that surprised even him.

Y/N smiled at his characteristic sarcastic flair, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was. “That depends on you, Mr. Todd,” she replied, matching his tone but letting her amusement show through.

Jason regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it does,” he finally conceded, the words neither a confirmation nor denial, but something intriguingly in between.

The sleek black town car had glided through the city's rain-slicked streets in near silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as Jason’s chauffeur navigated the late-night traffic. Y/N had sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, fingers twisting in her lap, replaying every moment of the evening in her head. Jason had been... different than she expected. Not the brooding, closed-off champion the media painted him as, but someone sharper, wittier—someone who had actually laughed at her jokes.

When the car finally pulled up to her apartment building, she had thanked the driver with a polite smile, maintaining her composure right up until the moment her front door clicked shut behind her.

Then her knees gave out.

She slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor, back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up, followed immediately by a wave of sheer panic.

She needed to talk to someone. Now.

Stephanie picked up the video call on the second ring, her face already alight with curiosity. “Okay, so how did it go?”

Y/N opened her mouth—and promptly burst into tears. Stephanie’s eyes widened as Y/N devolved into a babbling, incoherent mess, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs.

“I can’t understand shit,” Stephanie said, leaning closer to the screen. “Are these happy tears or sad?”

“Seems happy to me,” Tim chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Happy?” Stephanie repeated, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re acting like Jason Todd took you on a date or something.”

Y/N froze.

Then, slowly, she looked up at Stephanie through her lashes, her lips quirking into a sheepish smile. “I mean—” A giggle escaped, high-pitched and entirely involuntary.

Stephanie’s expression morphed into pure shock. “Hol’up, bitch. What do you mean by ‘I mean’? Whatchu teehee’ing for?” she shrieked, loud enough that Y/N had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Y/N went on a date with who now?” Tim’s voice floated into frame as he leaned over Stephanie’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“That’s why I just asked her, dipshit,” Stephanie snapped, shoving him away.

“It wasn’t a date,” Y/N insisted, though the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger betrayed her. “I mean, it was one in my head, but that doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Y/N snapped out of her daze, straightening up as the full weight of the evening came crashing back. Words poured out of her in a frantic, breathless rush—Jason’s unexpected dinner invitation, the way he’d actually listened to her, the way his smirk had softened into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.

Stephanie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Jason FUCKING Todd? As in three-time world champion Jason Todd? The guy who hasn’t been seen in public outside of races for like a year? The same Jason Todd whose poster you had above your bed and wrote like a thousand fanfictions about in high school and college? The one who’s—”

“Steph! That was years ago!” Y/N’s face burned so hot she was surprised her phone didn’t melt.

From the background, Tim’s voice piped up again, smug. “Wait, Y/N had a crush on Ja—”

“TIMOTHY DRAKE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD—”

A scuffle ensued, followed by a yelp and the sound of something—or someone—being forcibly silenced.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Then her phone chimed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

Her stomach dropped. With trembling fingers, she opened the message.

Unknown: So when do we start?

Y/N let out a strangled scream and threw her phone across the room like it had burned her.

“Y/N? HELLO? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Stephanie’s voice screeched from the discarded device. Y/N scrambled to retrieve it, her voice pitching into hysterics. “H-he just texted me. What do I do? What do I DO?”

She collapsed back onto the floor, biting her fist to muffle another scream.

Y/N's phone continued to blare Stephanie's increasingly frantic voice from where it had landed face-up on the rug. She stared at it like it might explode, her entire body frozen in panic.

Jason Todd had her number.

Jason Todd had texted her.

Jason Todd was somehow already ruining her ability to function like a normal human being.

Stephanie's pixelated face twisted in exasperation on the screen. “Y/N, I swear to god if you don't pick up this phone right now—”

With trembling fingers, Y/N grabbed the device, her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her in the front camera. “Steph,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do I say?”

Stephanie opened her mouth—probably to deliver one of her famously unhinged pep talks—when Tim suddenly shouldered his way back into frame, his grin downright diabolical.

“Say yes, obviously.”

“TIM—”

“No, listen,” he barreled on, ignoring Stephanie's death grip on his arm. “Jason doesn't text people. Like, ever. Dick had to bribe him just to answer group chats. If he's reaching out first? That's basically a declaration of—”

Stephanie clamped a hand over his mouth. “What my handsome yet unburdened by intelligence boyfriend is trying to say is,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you should reply before you psych yourself out of it. Also, tim don't spout bull, she's plenty delulu as it is.”

Y/N's thumb hovered over the screen. The cursor blinked mockingly in the text box.

Unknown: So when do we start?

She swallowed hard.

This was Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd who had once flipped off an entire grandstand after a controversial penalty. The same Jason Todd whose post-race interviews were legendary for their sarcasm and barely-contained rage. The same Jason Todd who had just admitted he had no identity outside of racing—and was now asking her to help him find one.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Y/N: Depends. Are we starting with book recommendations or full-blown personality reconstruction with something more hands-on? 

The reply came almost instantly.

Jason: Never been the one to back out from a challenge. So what's it gonna be doll?

Y/N's breath hitched. She could practically hear his voice in her head, that low, teasing drawl that had made her stomach flip more than once during dinner.

“Steph,” she blurted out, turning back to her still-active video call where Stephanie and Tim were watching this unfold with rapt attention. “Suggestions. Fast. Something I can take Jason to.”

Stephanie's grin was instantaneous. “Oh, I know you're not about to drag Jason Todd into one of your hyperfixation hobbies.”

“Good idea and that I absolutely will.”

Stephanie snorted. “Well, you could take him to that artisan ceramics workshop with the old Italian nonnas you're obsessed with. Or that dance class you signed up for in Barcelona last year.”

One thing about Y/N: she happened to be on the ADHD spectrum and every Grand Prix weekend in a new country had become an opportunity to dive headfirst into a new hobby. From pottery in Italy to flamenco dancing in Spain, her restless mind latching onto anything that could provide that sweet, sweet dopamine hit. It made her the perfect person to help Jason Todd find something—anything—that wasn't racing. Collecting herself, Y/N typed back with renewed determination:

Y/N: Give me a country, and I'll tell you what we're doing.

Jason: Race in Imola in two days.

Y/N: So Italy it is.

Excitement buzzed under Y/N's skin. Imola. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And now, the backdrop for whatever this was becoming.

Across the world, in a private jet en route to Italy, Jason found himself staring at his phone with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something that wasn't a race.

Their messages continued late into the night—Y/N enthusiastically listing every obscure Italian hobby she'd tried, Jason responding with dry humor that slowly melted into genuine interest. He didn't even realize when the tension in his shoulders began to ease, when the ever-present anger that had fueled him since his return started to fade, replaced by something lighter. Something like anticipation.

In just a span of two days, his phone was filled with ridiculous stickers, mostly consisting of a concerning number of cat memes and a plan for their first “non-racing activity.” His phone buzzed again—another meme from Y/N, this time a photoshopped image of Bruce Wayne with cat ears next to an actual grumpy Persian. Jason snorted, thumb hovering over the keyboard to reply, when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Jason, can we talk?”

Cass's voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage, where mechanics buzzed around the car like worker bees. Jason slipped his phone into his pocket, though not before Cass caught a glimpse of his screen— the ridiculous meme Y/N had sent him.

“Sure, Cass. What's up?” he said, turning to face her.

Cass studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes perceptive as ever. “You've been... different.”

Jason stiffened. Different. Did that mean distracted? Unfocused? Cass was one of the few people who had never treated him like glass after the accident, never looked at him with pity. If she said he'd changed—

But then Cass's lips quirked. “You smile more.”

Jason blinked.

“And you keep checking your phone,” she added, nodding to his pocket, where another notification had just buzzed. “Whoever they are... I like them.”

Jason opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but found he didn't want to. Instead, a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,”

he admitted, pulling out his phone to see Y/N's latest message.

Y/N: Pack something you don't mind getting messy. We're starting with ceramics tomorrow.

“Me too.”

Jason stood frozen outside the unassuming ceramics studio, his boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as he double-checked the address. The building looked like something out of a postcard—sun-bleached terracotta walls draped in lush ivy, the faint scent of lemon trees mingling with the earthy aroma of clay from the open windows. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its blue door chipped with age.

He glanced at his watch—10:02 AM. He was late.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. This wasn’t a race briefing or a sponsor meeting. Just... an odd detour into unfamiliar territory.

The street was blessedly empty, tucked away in the city’s historic district where tourists rarely wandered. Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. These days, being recognized outside the paddock meant one of two things—either starstruck fans shoving phones in his face, or pitying glances from those who remembered the crash. He hated both reactions equally.

His outfit felt foreign against his skin—a lightweight linen shirt layered over his usual thin turtleneck, loose trousers instead of fireproof racing gear, boots that had never touched a garage floor. The fabric moved differently, unrestrictive in ways his racing suits never were.

Jason raised his fist and knocked twice on the weathered blue door.

The door flew open before his knuckles could make contact a third time.

“Ah! Finalmente!”

A tiny, silver-haired woman—Nonna Gianna, he presumed—grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and yanked him inside before he could protest. The studio was cooler than the sunlit street, the air thick with the mineral scent of wet clay and something herbal—maybe thyme or rosemary from the small kitchen in the back.

“You are il ragazzo who knows nothing, sì?” Gianna declared, her dark eyes scanning him with the same intensity engineers used when inspecting a damaged chassis.

Jason opened his mouth to argue—he’d mastered the most complex racing circuits in the world, surely he could handle some clay—but she was already dragging him past shelves of glazed pottery, their surfaces catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

The back room was bathed in golden sunlight from the open roof and thin shades, the hum of a spinning pottery wheel filling the air. And there—

Y/N sat at the wheel, her hands buried in a mound of wet clay that spun hypnotically under her fingers. She’d traded her usual paddock attire for a linen shirt that matched his own—though hers was already streaked with earthy smudges—her hair tied back with a vibrant scarf. And a smudge of clay decorated her cheek.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” she quipped without looking up, her voice laced with amusement.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown by the quip and the sight of her—so at ease here, so different from the polished presenter or the drunk socialite he saw earlier. But before he could respond, Gianna shoved him toward the empty wheel beside Y/N’s.

“Bello ma stupido,” the old woman muttered, patting his bicep approvingly before grabbing his hands to inspect them. “Strong hands,” she announced, turning them palm-up like a fortune teller. “Good for clay.” Her smile was slightly unnerving—the kind usually reserved for fresh meat in a lion’s den.

Jason, who had faced down the most intimidating team principals and aggressive reporters without flinching, felt an odd prickle of nerves under her scrutiny. “I’ll... try my best?”

Gianna snorted and slapped a wet lump of clay onto his wheel with a decisive thwap. “Non provare. Do it.”

For the next two hours, Jason Todd—three-time world champion, master of precision—was thoroughly humbled by a lump of wet earth.

His first attempt collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. His second wobbled violently before spiraling off-center. His third attempt earned him a sharp rap on the knuckles with Gianna’s wooden spoon when he gripped the clay too tightly.

“Troppa forza!” she scolded. “Clay is not enemy! You fight it, it fights back.”

Y/N muffled a laugh into her shoulder, her own wheel producing something suspiciously vase-shaped. “She’s right, you know,” she said, pushing back a stray strand from her forehead with her wrist. “It’s about listening, not controlling.”

Jason glared at his latest failed attempt, the clay stubbornly refusing to obey him the way his car always did. “I’m used to things responding immediately when I tell them what to do.”

Y/N’s grin was downright wicked. “Welcome to the real world, hotshot.”

He flicked a bit of clay at her. She gasped in mock outrage and retaliated by smearing a streak across his cheek, her fingers lingering just a second too long. Gianna threw her hands up and muttered something in rapid Italian before stomping off.

By the session’s end, his shirt was thoroughly ruined, patience exhausted and—against all odds—he’d somehow produced something vaguely cup-shaped.

“Non male,” Gianna conceded, examining his lopsided creation with a critical eye. “For first try.” She turned to Y/N and said something that made the younger woman nearly drop her perfectly formed vase.

Jason wiped his clay-caked hands on a towel. “What’d she say?”

Y/N refused to meet his eyes. “Nothing important.”

The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows as Gianna’s cackling faded into the distance, leaving Jason and Y/N alone at their worktable. Jason found his gaze tracing the details of Y/N’s profile—the way her nose scrunched in concentration when examining their pottery, the smudge of clay drying along her collarbone that she’d missed when cleaning up. He noticed how her shoulders curved slightly forward when focused, the golden chain around her neck catching the light with each movement. A glimpse of ink at the base of her neck peeked through her hair—some tattoo he couldn’t quite make out, its meaning hidden just like so much about her still remained unknown to him.

It struck him then how rarely he noticed these small things about people. In the paddock, he saw drivers as competitors, engineers as problem-solvers, journalists as obstacles to navigate. But Y/N—he was seeing her in fragments, piece by unexpected piece, and each discovery left him strangely curious for more.

As Y/N carefully carried their creations to the kiln, Jason wiped his clay-streaked hands on a towel. The studio’s elderly owner reappeared at his side, moving with surprising stealth for someone who’d just been cackling moments before.

“Tu e Y/N,” Gianna began, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Da quanto tempo vi frequentate?”

Jason blinked. “Pardon? Uh, signora um... non parlo italiano.”

Gianna’s wrinkled face scrunched in concentration as she searched for the right English words, then gave up with an exasperated wave of her hands. Instead, she brought her pinched fingers together in the universal sign for kissing.

Jason’s eyes widened comically. “No, no, me and Y/N—not like that,” he protested, waving his hands in denial.

“Non?” Gianna looked genuinely surprised. “Ma l’ultima volta che l’ho vista eri nello sfondo del suo telefono.”

Jason stared blankly, the rapid Italian washing over him without comprehension. Before he could respond, Y/N returned, immediately picking up on the tension.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head at Jason’s bewildered expression.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jason muttered, suddenly finding the clay remnants on the table fascinating.

Gianna said something rapid-fire to Y/N, who laughed and shook her head before turning back to Jason. “She said we can fix ourselves a meal in her kitchen if we want while the pots bake. What do you say?”

Jason automatically shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to strictly watch what I eat.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Jay, look. It’s two weeks before the next race. One sandwich won’t destroy you.” She clasped her hands together in mock pleading. “And Gianna makes her own cheese! With goat milk from her nephew’s farm. Pretty please?”

The way she said it—the exaggerated pout, the way her eyes sparkled with challenge, the way she said his name—stirred something in Jason. He’d spent years following nutrition plans to the gram, never deviating, never indulging. But standing there, with clay under his nails and Y/N looking at him like that, the strict rules he’d lived by suddenly felt less important.

“Fine,” he conceded, holding up a warning finger. “One sandwich.”

Y/N’s triumphant grin was worth whatever lecture his nutritionist would give him later. As Gianna led them toward the small kitchen in the back, chattering away in Italian, Jason realized with startling clarity that for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about macros or race weight.

He was simply... enjoying himself.

The small kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the earthy scent of baking bread and the sharp tang of fresh herbs. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the worn wooden counter where Y/N stood, her hands deftly slicing into a crusty loaf of sourdough. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the comfortable silence between them.

Jason leaned against the counter nearby, watching as she worked. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—practical yet graceful, her fingers sure and steady as she portioned the bread. The quiet domesticity of the moment felt foreign to him, like stepping into a scene from a life he’d never allowed himself to imagine.

Then Y/N glanced up, her eyes flickering briefly to the high collar of his turtleneck before meeting his gaze.

“I respect people’s fashion choices and all,” she began, her tone light but curious, “but if you don’t mind me asking... why the turtleneck?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He’d been asked it before—by reporters, by fans, even by well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject of his scars. But coming from Y/N, it felt different. There was no pity in her voice, no morbid fascination. Just simple, straightforward curiosity.

Jason hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve. He could deflect, could make a joke and steer the conversation elsewhere. But something about the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the way Y/N waited without pressing, made the truth feel less like a burden and more like just another part of himself.

“After the crash,” he started, his voice quieter than he intended, “people tend to... stare.” He shrugged, as if that explained it all. And in a way, it did. The scars were a map of his worst moment, etched permanently into his skin. A reminder he carried everywhere, whether he wanted to or not.

He realized how somber his words sounded and quickly tried to lighten the mood. “And even then, I wouldn’t wanna scare you with ‘em. It’s ugly stuff.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to the bread, her knife moving steadily. But just as Jason thought she’d let the subject drop, she murmured, so softly he almost missed it:

“Not to me, it’s not.”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate as the dust motes floating in the sunlight. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly—if he’d imagined the quiet sincerity in her voice. But before he could question it, Y/N looked up again, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual ease.

“Hey, can you wash the cherry tomatoes, please?”

Jason nodded, pushing away from the counter to comply. As he turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over the vibrant red tomatoes, he became acutely aware of the quiet sounds filling the kitchen—the splash of water, the rustle of Y/N gathering herbs, and beneath it all, the soft, absentminded hum escaping her lips.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the way she let it drift in and out of her thoughts, barely aware she was doing it, struck something deep in his chest. It reminded him of his mother—how she would hum old lullabies while cooking, the sound wrapping around him like a comfort as he sat on the countertop, swinging his legs and waiting for dinner. It reminded him, too, of Alfred—the Wayne family’s butler—patiently teaching him how to prep vegetables, his dry wit hiding a warmth Jason had taken for granted in his youth.

He hadn’t thought about those moments in years. Hadn’t let himself.

The water ran over his fingers, the tomatoes glistening like little gems in his palms. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the simmering anger that had fueled him since the crash—the bitterness, the relentless drive to prove he was still the same, still unbeatable—felt distant. Fading, like an old wound finally beginning to heal.

And standing there, in a kitchen with the scent of fresh bread in the air and Y/N’s quiet humming weaving through the space between them, Jason realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy.

Not the fleeting rush of a podium finish, not the hollow satisfaction of proving his critics wrong. Just... happy.

Y/N perched on the edge of the worn wooden counter, her legs swinging idly as she took another enthusiastic bite of her sandwich. Crumbs tumbled onto the plate below, but she paid them no mind, too absorbed in savoring the flavors—the rich creaminess of Gianna’s homemade goat cheese, the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crunch of freshly baked sourdough.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering halfway to his lips. His expression was distant, conflicted, as if caught in some internal debate. The voices of his past—his coaches, his nutritionists, even his own relentless drive—whispered warnings in his mind. This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t what champions do.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. His fingers gripped the bread just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles pale with tension. The voices in his head were louder than the cheerful clatter of the kitchen—his old trainer’s stern warnings about maintaining race weight, the nutritionist’s rigid meal plans, the unspoken expectations of a champion who couldn’t afford to slip, not even for a moment.

Was this weakness? The thought slithered through his mind. Was he throwing away years of discipline, all the sacrifices he’d made—the early mornings, the grueling workouts, the endless self-denial—for something as trivial as a sandwich?

“Is there something wrong?”

Y/N’s voice cut through his spiral, her brow furrowing as she studied him. The concern in her eyes was genuine, untainted by the judgment he’d come to expect from the racing world.

Jason shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to answer her. Then, before he could overthink it further, he took a bite.

The flavors exploded across his tongue—sharp, tangy cheese mellowed by the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, all anchored by the nutty depth of freshly baked bread. It was simple. It was perfect. And for the first time in years, Jason actually tasted his food.

His so-called “cheat meals” had always been at Michelin-starred restaurants—obligatory team dinners or sponsor events where the food was secondary to the politics. He’d long since trained himself to ignore the delicate dishes placed before him. The flavors had become irrelevant, just another sacrifice in the pursuit of perfection.

But here, in this tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains, with Y/N swinging her feet like a child and Gianna humming off-key in the corner, the weight of expectation lifted. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason was present—truly present—in a moment that had nothing to do with racing.

“Want one more?” Y/N asked, already reaching for the bread.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yes I do.”

The words felt like a revelation.

Between races, in stolen days across different time zones, he found himself dragged into what Y/N affectionately called their “hobby hunts”— whirlwind excursions into the mundane wonders of each Grand Prix host country. In Italy, he’d learned the meditative art of pasta-making from a Nonna who smacked him whenever he kneaded the dough too aggressively. He’d reluctantly tried watercolor painting, only to discover an unexpected satisfaction in the way colors bled across the paper.

And now, in Venice after the triple header, Y/N was determined to subject him to what he firmly believed was the most ridiculous “hobby” yet.

“Mask-making is not a real hobby,” Jason declared, arms crossed as they stood outside a tiny workshop in Dorsoduro, its windows filled with elaborate papier-mâché creations. Y/N’s expression shifted instantly—her usual playful smirk dissolving into something far more serious. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that gave Jason pause.

“Tell that to Guillermo,” she said quietly, “who spent thirty years perfecting this ‘hobby’ of his. After he lost his job and his son stopped speaking to him, it was the masks that kept a roof over his and his wife’s heads.”

The raw sincerity in her words hit Jason like a missed braking point. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the careless privilege in his dismissal.

“I—” He swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment before her face lit up with sudden mischief. “So that means you’ll give it a go?” The whiplash-inducing shift in tone left Jason blinking. “...What?”

“You promised,” she singsonged, bouncing on her heels with renewed energy. Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. Jason’s jaw dropped. “You made that up?”

“Every word,” Y/N confirmed cheerfully. “And no takesies-backsies. You already agreed.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an evil little thing, you know that?”

“But you love it,” she teased, already pushing open the workshop door.

The protest died on Jason’s lips. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

The crisp Canadian air carried a bite that was absent in the Mediterranean warmth they’d left behind. The empty rink stretched before them, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights, freshly smoothed by the zamboni. Jason exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air as he stepped onto the ice, the blades of his skates cutting effortlessly into the pristine surface.

He hadn’t expected this. When Y/N had mentioned renting out an entire rink as a thank-you for flying her to Montreal in his private jet, he’d assumed she was joking. But here they were, the only two people in the arena, the silence broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional scrape of steel against ice.

It was… thoughtful. Unnervingly so. Y/N had a way of anticipating what he wanted before he even voiced it—like she understood that, despite his love for the roars of the grandstands on track, he craved these quiet moments away from prying eyes and cameras.

As a high-performance athlete, Jason found his balance almost immediately. The muscle memory from years of rigorous training translated seamlessly to the ice, and within minutes, he was gliding across the rink with the same natural ease he carried on the racetrack.

Y/N, however, was another story entirely.

She clung to the boards like her life depended on it, her usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed terror as her skates betrayed her at every turn. Jason watched, amused, as she attempted to push off—only to immediately pitch forward with a yelp, arms flailing wildly before she somehow managed to right herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him as he executed a lazy backward crossover right in front of her.

Jason smirked. “You’re the one who picked this hobby, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t realize you’d turn out to be some figure-skating prodigy,” she shot back in an attempt to gain back some of her dignity, gingerly releasing the railing—and immediately regretting it as her feet slid out from under her.

Jason darted forward, catching her by the waist before she could faceplant onto the ice. “You’re hopeless, I swear,” he laughed, steadying her as she wobbled like a newborn fawn.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or the cold, he couldn’t tell. “I’m great at plenty of other things!” she grumbled, attempting to shake him off.

“Oh, I believe you,” Jason said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But skating isn’t one of them.”

As she wobbled dangerously again, his arm shot out to steady her. “Careful, doll. Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

She muttered something decidedly unflattering under her breath, but the effect was ruined by the way her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

Jason held out his hand. “Alright, baby steps. Take my hand.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at his outstretched palm like it was a trap. On one side: this was Jason Todd, the man whose posters had adorned her teenage walls, whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion— offering to teach her something for once. It should’ve been a dream come true. But letting him witness her utter lack of coordination was humiliating enough and accepting his help felt like surrendering the little dignity she had left. Especially considering how insufferably smug he looked seeing her struggle.

For a brief, stubborn moment, she considered refusing. But the ice was unforgiving, her pride bruised but definitely not worth a broken tailbone and his hand looked awfully steady. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. Perhaps this was karma from the pottery class.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she warned.

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

The scrape of blades against ice filled the quiet rink as Jason guided Y/N in slow, careful circles. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grip - whether from the cold or the unfamiliar intimacy, he couldn’t tell.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Jason chided gently. “Look at me instead. It helps with balance.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, meeting his with a mixture of irritation and reluctant trust. The moment their gazes locked, her posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“See? You’re getting it,” he murmured, unable to resist a small, genuine smile.

“I’m literally just standing here while you do all the work,” Y/N grumbled.

Jason chuckled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before slowly releasing it. “Alright, try on your own. Just remember - knees bent, weight forward.”

For a glorious three seconds, Y/N glided unaided, her face lighting up with triumph. Then physics intervened. Her arms became frantic windmills, her balance abandoning her in an instant. Jason saw the exact moment panic flooded her wide eyes—the dilation of pupils, the part of lips ready to yelp—before his body moved on instinct honed from years of split-second reactions.

One strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from them both. His other hand slapped against the boards to arrest their momentum, the impact vibrating up his arm. But all Jason registered was the feel of Y/N pressed along his entire side—the warmth of her even through layers of clothing, the way her racing heartbeat thudded against his ribs in perfect sync with his own runaway pulse.

Jason had always known Y/N was attractive. Objectively. The way one might note a well-composed photograph or an elegant car design. As a presenter, she fit the expected mold of paddock beauty—polished, camera-ready, the kind of woman sponsors loved to position near their drivers for photo ops.

But this... this was different.

In his years as a champion, Jason had been paraded before countless models and starlets, had endured awkward PR “dates” arranged by the team, had smiled for cameras with women whose names he barely remembered. None of them had ever made him notice how the arena lights caught gold flecks in their eyes. None had hands that fit so perfectly in his, as if engineered by some higher power just for this moment. No one’s cheeks had ever flushed such an enticing pink from cold and exertion, nor had their lips—currently parted in surprise and glistening with whatever gloss she’d applied that morning—ever seemed so impossibly, distractingly soft.

And the scent of her—citrus and something sweet beneath the cold air—wrapped around him more completely than any embrace.

“Maybe... maybe we should call it a night,” Y/N whispered, her breath puffing warm against his neck.

The words were a surrender, but her body told a different story—the way she hadn’t pulled away, how her fingers had fisted in the front of his jacket as if to anchor herself.

Jason blinked, suddenly aware he’d been cataloging her features with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He cleared his throat, carefully putting space between them while keeping a steadying hand at her elbow. The air from the refridgeration systems rushed in to fill the void she left, chilling him instantly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, voice rougher than intended. He busied himself with adjusting his gloves, avoiding her gaze. “We can, uh... try again another time.”

The words tasted like a lie. Because what Jason really wanted was to pull her close again, to see if her hair really was as soft as it looked, to discover if her lips tasted as sweet as that damned gloss promised. But that way lay madness—or at the very least, a complication neither of them needed.

In the weeks that followed, something undeniable shifted in Jason Todd’s racing—a transformation that didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp analysts and devoted fans who tracked his every lap. The reckless, almost desperate aggression that had once defined his driving—the “madman” style commentators loved to dramatize—had mellowed into something far more dangerous.

His moves were calculated now, his overtakes executed with surgical patience rather than brute force. Where he once would have forced a risky gap, he now waited, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. The result? A steady climb up the championship order that left his rivals scrambling to adjust their strategies.

“What the hell’s gotten into Todd?” became the paddock’s favorite question.

Only Jason knew the answer.

In the quiet hours between races, when the roar of engines faded to memory and the paddock emptied of its usual chaos, Jason found himself reaching for the books Y/N had slipped into his life like secret treasures. Each volume carried her fingerprints—literally, in the smudges on the pages where she’d gripped them too tightly during thrilling passages, and metaphorically, in the notes she’d scribbled in the margins with her characteristic wit and insight.

“While finding new hobbies, it’s important not to lose the old ones,” she’d told him with that knowing smile of hers, pressing another book into his hands after their delightful attempt at Venetian mask-making.

He’d taken her words to heart in a way that surprised even himself. The books became his companions on long flights between races, their pages a refuge when the weight of expectation grew too heavy. He raced through them not just for the stories they held, but for the promise of her next recommendation—the quiet thrill of her commentary when he texted her his thoughts at 2 AM after finishing one. 

What he didn’t tell her—what he couldn’t bring himself to admit—was that he’d commissioned a custom sandalwood bookshelf for his bedroom, its rich grain polished to a warm glow. It stood as a shrine to something that was uniquely theirs’s: the slightly lopsided cup that he made at Nonna Gianna’s, a beer mug from their trappist brewing adventure in Belgium, the framed photo of them covered in cheese curds in Austria, the pressed wildflowers from their trek across the Scottish highlands after his P1 finish in Silverstone. The one that brought him back in contention for the World Championship. It felt like he was building something more than just a collection.

It felt like proof.

Proof that there was a Jason Todd beyond the racetrack. Proof that he could be more than the sum of his scars and his victories.

And it was all because of her.

His phone was a dangerous thing these days.

The gallery, once filled with nothing but race data and engineering schematics, now held a growing album of stolen moments—candid shots of Y/N laughing at a joke he hadn’t meant to be funny, her nose scrunched in that way he’d come to adore. Screenshots of her social media posts and presenter segments saved before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pathetic, really.

World champion. Three-time title holder. And yet here he was, lurking on her Instagram like some lovestruck fan, his stomach twisting every time she posted something new.

Most of her older posts were about him—race photos, blurry grandstand shots, captions filled with exclamation points and heart emojis. The realization should have been flattering. Instead, it left him unsettled.

Did she still see him that way? As some untouchable idol, a fantasy to be admired from afar?

Or could she want the man behind the helmet—the one who woke up sweating from nightmares, who still caught himself holding his breath when tire smoke curled too thick on race day?

Then there was Danny.

A single photo, buried deep in her feed like a landmine. Y/N pressing a kiss to some grinning bastard’s cheek, her caption cheerful and simple: Happy birthday, loser.

Jason knew Danny. Knew him in the way you only know someone who’s shared both your childhood dreams and their dissolution. They’d started karting together, two scrappy kids with more talent than sense, pushing each other until their tires wore bald and their wrists ached from steering. Danny had been one of the few who could match him turn for turn, whose laughter rang just as loud when they tumbled into the grass after some reckless, glorious overtake.

Jason had assumed they’d climb the ranks together, side by side. But life had other plans—Danny’s family couldn’t sustain the financial hemorrhage of competitive karting and pragmatism won out over passion. While Jason raced forward, Danny stepped back, trading the driver’s seat for textbooks, determined to stay close to the sport in whatever way he could. He still remembered the hollow look in his friend’s eyes the day he packed up his helmet— “Engineering school,”  he’d muttered, “like the old man wants.”  Jason had fought to keep him close, badgering Bruce until Wayne Racing took Danny on as a junior mechanic. They weren’t the brothers-in-arms they’d once been, but the bond remained, worn comfortable with time.

But his closeness to Y/N bothered him. Jason stared until the pixels blurred. He could ask her. Three words —“Who is Danny?” —and he’d have his answer. Who was he to her? A friend? An ex? Worse—a current? 

But the thought of hearing the answer—of watching her face shift in that way when someone mentions a name that matters—left him cold.

Better not to know. Better to—

His phone buzzed, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen like she’d somehow sensed his spiral.

Y/N: It’s a shame the race in Zandvoort is so late. You should see the tulips they have in April.

Jason exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he typed back without thinking.

Jason: Yeah well. Next year I’ll take you.

The reply came instantly.

Y/N: Bet. Though the beach there is pretty cool too. The water’s cold this time of year but still warmer than your ice tubs :P And then there are the museums too—a history buff like you would appreciate them.

Jason smiled despite himself, imagining her rolling her eyes as she typed.

Jason: I’ll go wherever the lady takes me.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he’d intended. For a long moment, the typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, until finally—

Y/N: Careful, Todd. That almost sounded like a promise. 

“Jason, what do you think?” Bruce’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the boardroom. He was seated at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by executives in tailored suits and their managers poised with styluses over tablets.

Jason blinked, startled. His head snapped up from the phone in his lap, only to find nearly a dozen eyes trained on him. He straightened in his seat, his screen going dark as he shoved the device into his blazer pocket. Of course, he had zoned out—texting during a sponsor meeting was probably frowned upon, but truthfully, Jason didn’t give a damn.

The Wayne Formula One team hardly needed financial backing. Bruce’s wealth alone could fund a fleet of cars and pit crews for the next decade. But apparently, having glossy logos of luxury brands and legacy sponsors plastered across the chassis was “strategic”—whatever that meant. Optics over necessity. It was all part of the game.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… cool, I guess,” Jason mumbled, shrugging one shoulder with disinterest.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. But without missing a beat, he turned back to the others and carried on with the presentation.

As the meeting ended and people began shuffling out with polite handshakes and promises to circle back via email, Dick approached him with a concerned look, pulling him gently aside into a quieter corner of the lounge just outside the boardroom.

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii

A/n: Ughhhhhh this is what I get for trying to cram what should be a multi-chapter fic into a single one-shot. Tumblr said "bitch i think the fuck not" and slapped a only-1000-blocks-allowed-per-post on my dreams 😭😭😭Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long😔😔 (Tumblr, I beg you—just let me post my novel-length emotional support in peace.) Feel free to send more requests for the event.

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[whotookcry]

Tonight.

Just something short, nothing too serious, drinking mention

CW:terrible writing,

The charity gala was terribly boring to say the least.

You stood near the corner of the room, a highball glass filled to the brim with an unbalanced mix of tequila and grapefruit soda mix. A sorry excuse for a Paloma but a perfect drink to get you through the next three hours. Why you were invited to such a high class event with only less than 30 dollars to your name? Luckily you networked with the right people and landed here with just your charm….that and a certain family found out your side job of hacking into security systems for “fun” and needs you close by “in case of emergencies” as they say. More like keeping tabs on you but the free drinks do make up for it in your eyes. You walk around the crowd of people in the way of the middle of the dance floor. ‘Do people even dance at these things? Who even waltz anymore?’ You’re left eyebrow cocked seeing the few couples dancing to classical music. ‘Guess I was wrong.’ A soft sigh escapes your lips and you continue your journey to no where in particular.

“Hey. What’s wrong with you?” Your head cocked back to the voice behind you. “What? Nothing?” Your eyes focused on the tall man, his black on black tux complemented the red tie tucked into it. “Wow, never seen you so…..” you trailed off not wanting to insult him despite this is the first time you’ve seen him not covered in dried blood, dirt, and sweat. “Nice looking?” He scoffed not taking you seriously. “Gee, thanks. You clean up nice too.” You mentally face palmed but couldn’t falter now. “Thanks Jason. So…is this how these parties always are? I was expecting more drunk ceos or something.” You look away from him and peer back to the crowd of people just talking about how much money they made or why their spouses couldn’t make it. “Yeah, well I try not to make an appearance but Bruce said this one was mandatory….he’s accepting some award and it would be good publicity for ‘the whole family’ to be here.” He clicks his tongue behind his teeth before looking back down at you. “You look bored.” You sigh at his observation before looking back at him. “Terribly. The tequila can only do so much to keep me from jumping off the roof top.” Another sip from the black straw in your drink, burned down your throat leaving you to cough a bit before clearing your throat. “Someone’s gotta tell the bartender to work on his ratios..” you mumble making him laugh, “hey that’s the best part of a free drink. You’re getting more alcohol than mix. Best way to get drunk faster.” You immediately stop sipping on the watered down liquor and pause to adjust to this new reality you forgot could happen. ‘I should not have gotten this drink.’

This may have been your fourth drink but he definitely did not need to know that. You mentally prepared for the liquor to hit later in the night…but that’s a later problem you didn’t have to think about right now. Jason looked down at you seeing your mood change. “Oh don’t tell me you’re feeling it.” He shut his mouth to contain the laugh edging out the corner of his lips. Oh how you refuse to be in this predicament with Jason Todd. “Restroom.” You placed the empty glass on a random table and walked in the direction going further and further away from the bathrooms. Jason snickered behind you before following you at a distance. You pushed pass random elites, only uttering quiet ‘scuse me’s and sorry’s as you continue to a random hall you set your sights on. Jason not letting you out of his sight for a split second. As soon as your foot left the room, it was as if it all hit at once. You practically almost tripped over nothing. Rough hands grab your waist hastily to pull you back up. “Jesus, be careful.” Jason guides your wobbly body to a secluded part of the hall.

“You get drunk like this often?”

“I’m not drunk Jason. I’m tipsy. There’s a difference.”

“Bullshit. Tipsy my ass.” He found the situation entertaining. He would take this over talking to rich folk any day. “Hey. Look at me.”

You looked up, not expecting the soft warm light to make him look even more handsome than he already was. “Fuck maybe I am drunk.” You mumbled looking back down to his chest. “I’m fine!” You pushed pass him only for his arm to capture you again. Your body relaxes almost immediately in his arms making you curse yourself again. “I’ll take you somewhere you can calm down.” He chuckles picking up your head with his hand to look at your face. Your eyes squinting in the distance. It’s not that you couldn’t see, but the walls were starting to vibrate. “Fine.”

The walk was somewhat easy despite him basically carrying you from behind and you lost a shoe somewhere along the way. Not that he couldn’t save it, he just chose not to since it would risk you running off somewhere to be a hazard to everyone (especially the bartender) “Jason…I kind of want another Paloma.” You said as you both entered his hotel room. “You’re insane.” He shook his head and threw you on the bed causing your other shoe to fall off as well. “You need water.” He opened the small fridge under the tv, pulling out a cold water, “sit up.” He practically demanded causing you to whip your head back at him. “First of all-“ he pressed the now open water to your lips before you could go off on him for talking to you in that tone. “Drink.” You obliged silently glaring at him as the water slipped down your throat. Jason pulled it back as some of the water dripped down the corners of your mouth. He used his thumb to clean it off. His breath caught in his throat seeing your eyes still on him, watching him clean your face. He now sees the bigger picture. Not to say he didn’t find you attractive, he most definitely did. Seeing you, leaning back on your elbows just looking at him with his thumb on the corner of your mouth. He was tempted to see if you would suck on it but pulled away quick enough before the thought could be put to action. His throat cleared, “sorry.”

You fell back onto the bed now stared up at the ceiling processing the scene that just ended. “…so…back to the party?”