Part One - Mentions of violence and some of Jason's trauma
“We got the files you needed, I don’t understand what the problem is –”
You were cut off by a stern voice. You’d never heard Batman so livid, and it was a cold sort of anger that you weren’t used to. It made you and Red fall silent.
“How many times am I going to have to discuss your antics with you Hood?”
Nightwing, who you assumed was the one to contact Batman, stood before you now alongside Red Robin, the pair of them quietly watching this argument unfold.
You wanted to cast a glance over at Red. The anger was practically radiating off of his suit. “Almost beating a man half to death? Again?”
“You weren’t there! The prick had it coming!” Jason snapped back, his voice full of emotion now that his helmet was off and all he had was that domino mask.
Batman merely scoffed at Jason in response. “That’s no excuse! You were all given one clear rule-”
“We fight crime, shits gonna get ugly sometimes! Yet you act like you’ve never hit someone that hard before!” Jason took a step closer to Batman as he yelled.
I've never seen you hit Joker that hard, and you hate him.
The words Jason uttered to Bruce so long ago simmered in the back of his mind. Back when he was bloody and bruised at the hands of his own ‘father.’
Batman stood, rigid and full of rage before his demeanour suddenly seemed to change. His body language telling you his attention had turned to you.
“[Vigilante name].”
You wanted to grimace.
“How did you gain access to that room so quickly? How did you know the pin?”
Soon enough, everyone’s eyes settled onto you.
Oh hell no. The last thing you expected after this shitty night was to be at the centre of the conflict. You did not think Batman and his little soldiers would end up interrogating you.
You kept your arms crossed against your body, your glare meeting everyones before falling back onto Batman.
“What?”
“The. Pin. How did you attain it?”
You fought the urge to fiddle with the knuckle duster that still sat on your hand. Fought the urge to shift your feet on the ground. You felt Red turn to look at you too.
You nonchalantly shrugged. “I don’t just work for you. I have my own cases too, and I’ve been investigating here and there.”
Nightwing and Red Robin’s line of sight switched from you back to the Dark Knight, but both he and Hood seemed unconvinced.
Tension settled over the room like a weighted blanket. Still, you held your stance. Held eye contact even though all you were staring back at was a bat-like cowl with white casing over the eyes.
“You work for them, don’t you?”
Batman’s words sounded more like a statement rather than a question, and it made your skin crawl. How long did you really think you could hide your identity from the Bat? Nevertheless, the breach of privacy made anger ring like alarm bells in your head. Especially given one of the rules Batman laid upon you when he first met you; never try to discover anyone’s secret identity. Ironic.
“What do you mean? Why would I bring back these files if I were working for the bad guys?” You spat back, clearly becoming defensive.
Batman responded coolly, “I never said you were working for the ‘bad guys.’
You swallowed hard, and it no doubt went unnoticed by the two stupid detectives standing before you. Your glare snapped over to Red Robin, but he seemed a little sympathetic. Like he was pitying you for what was about to go down.
“The use of potassium? Your tendency to use chemicals instead of weapons when on patrol? There have been signs for a while.”
Now, you shifted on your feet. Whether it was because you were slowly becoming nervous or weary, you couldn’t tell. The only thought that brought you peace of mind was the fact that it seemed they still didn’t know your identity. Just where you worked.
You supposed you could live with that.
Batman continued, assuming he was indeed right.
“If that’s the case, our best bet is to have you work undercover.”
Your brows knitted together. “What do you mean?” You said once again.
“We’ll try and gain access to the security cameras. Give you advanced contact lens’ so we can see what you see when you go into work.”
Your guard dropped and instantly you were glowering at him. “Come again?”
This time, Nightwing responded. “It would help with the case [vigilante name].” He reasoned oh so diplomatically. “We could get inside intel and more.”
“We can’t let this get any worse.” Batman interjected, adding onto what Nightwing said.
Your mouth was agape as you stared at them both. “So you want me to willingly give away my identity?” You asked, astounded.
Jason’s gaze hung onto you, taking in the betrayal that made its way into your expression.
“No one would use it against you.” Nightwing said calmly.
“No, but you would all go along with your day feeling safe behind your masks and I would be exposed. That’s not fair.”
“This is for the safety of others.” Batman’s voice grew stern again. “It’s not about you.”
You scoffed before stepping back, and it almost sounded like a bitter laugh.
You couldn’t believe it. But a part of you also wasn’t so surprised either. Of course they didn’t trust you enough to allow you to keep your secret identity, just as they were keeping theirs. Of course they were acting like there would be no other way to crack this case and bring these people down. You would apparently have to reveal who you really were so that they could discover what your company was planning. And now all four bats were watching and waiting for you to remove your mask. You shook your head, heavy with disappointment.
All you wanted was to be defended, to have someone have your back just once –
“You can’t ask her to do that.”
Your head immediately snapped to look over at Red. He was standing tall, his body language sure as he spoke those seven words to Batman and Nightwing.
“Hood, stay out of –”
“No. That’s bullshit. We can do this without her removing the mask. We’ve done it a million times before.”
Those standing before them looked befuddled, and Red knew Bruce was probably swimming in rage at the fact that he was shitting all over his plan, but Jason didn’t care. In fact, the thought of it kinda made Jason happy.
Red Hood turned to face you, dark hair falling above his eyes and demons apparently rid from his mind. He was his old self again. His usual self, but then again not so much. He was being…sweet?
“You go to work, snoop around. Find out what you can and report back to us.”
You gave a curt nod in return, grateful to have him sticking up for you.
You quickly ignored that warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest and turned your gaze back onto the Bat.
“So?” You asked, eager to see if Batman would agree with Red’s proposition.
Bruce wasn’t happy, but he let it go. “Fine, get as much information as you can. We’ll discuss your encounter with that guard later.” He said to Red before leaving the cave.
And you did the same.
Jason watched as you instantly turned on your heel and headed towards your motorbike. Instinct told him to reach out to you. Ask you to wait a second. But he let you go.
It was late. Later than you usually stayed out on patrol. But you were high on agitation and adrenaline, and you wanted to get it out of your system. The cold Gotham breeze brushed through your hair and against your skin, carrying the scent of rain. You sat atop one of the tallest buildings in Gotham, tilting your head back to look up at the cloud riddled sky. Maybe you’d be forced to go back to your apartment by the rain. You let out another annoyed sigh, flipping your dagger around in your hand before launching to your feet.
You’d heard the footsteps from a mile away, and now they were close enough for you to confront them. The odds of it being a criminal or thug was low. You were expecting one of the men from the lab, maybe, but you were also expecting to see Nightiwng come and play devil’s advocate with you.
Instead, you were met with another one of those bright, red helmets.
“Someone’s a little tense.” He quipped as he still his movements so you realised he wasn’t a threat. He didn’t come to fight this time.
You lowered the hand that held your dagger before easily slipping it back into its sheath.
“You have a shelf full of those helmets?” You asked, nodding towards it.
You couldn't see it, but he was smiling. “Yeah, I got Batman to make about a dozen of them. Him being rich and all.”
Red walked across the rooftop, mirroring your movements as you began to slowly circle him.
“I wouldn’t know how rich he is, I don’t go around trying to discover everyone’s identity.” Bitterness laced your tone, but Jason could understand why.
“That’s just Bru- Batman.” He cleared his throat. “He’s paranoia and distrust incarnate.”
“Tell me about it.” You muttered, your eyes gazing back out to the skyline and city lights.
Something turned in your stomach, fluttered in your chest. “Thanks for standing up for me. I really didn’t want to blur the lines between my patrol life and work life.”
Red nodded, “Yeah…it’s fine. I get that.”
Fuck, now what was he supposed to say? He was too hung up on the fact that you had thanked him to think of a way to carry the conversation.
You both stood in silence, watching the city life below before you eventually side-eyed him. “So…how are you holding up?”
With the way he looked back at you, you just knew he had an eyebrow raised.
Not knowing how to bring it up, you had your dagger in your hand again as it turned between your gloved fingers. “The crowbar?” Your voice was quiet.
Oh, that.
Red faced away from you. “Yeah..” He moved his large arms as if to stretch them before eventually turning to face you again. “It was nothing.”
A part of you was so horrendously curious as to why the brash and fearless Red Hood buckled when he saw a crowbar, but you weren’t going to urge him. Push him to reveal something he so clearly didn’t want to acknowledge.
You shrugged. “We all have something we would rather not face.” With the cool breeze picking up you crossed over arms over your body.
Jason didn’t miss the affliction in your eyes as you stared out at that morbid city.
“You?” He asked, his body ever so slightly inching closer towards yours.
You looked back at him before looking down at his thighs. “Yeah, those things.” You said.
He looked down at the guns strapped to him.
Something ate away at Jason once he realised.
So he was using the one thing you couldn’t stand?
His main weapon was your crowbar…
“That why you would rather give people nerve damage with your chemicals?”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t even Red.”
He gave a light snicker and it immediately made your head spin.
No, this was not how you two were supposed to interact with each other.
You eagerly ignored that feeling in your chest. “Well, I have work to do tomorrow. Chemical testing, snooping, etc, etc.”
Jason caught the hint it was time to go your separate ways and call it a night.
“Mm, come back to us with some intel and you might be able to earn some trust Dr.”
You narrowed your eyes at him but a smirk dusted your face at the mention of his new nickname for you. It started out just being shithead, then he referred to you as a fox.
‘Sly as a fox.’
Sometimes he’d call you alchemist, but now it was Dr.
You flicked your hand at him as if you were swatting away a fly. “Yeah, yeah, cause that’s what I aim for in life. Earning the Bats trust.”
And in a blink of an eye, you had dropped down off of the rooftop.
Now it was just Jason, the wind and car horns from down below.
He drew in a deep breath, letting the coldness fill his chest as he thought about how your ‘friendship’ had taken such a turn.
But as Jason romanticised what could be, you couldn't help but feel you needed to re-drive a rift between this growing friendship. Not because you disliked what was slowly growing between you two, it actually made you a little giddy...but that was the problem.
lmk what ya'll think cause I might make this a series :)
Jason Todd slips into your apartment after attending a gala
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
You heard the soft creak of the door as he opened it.
A barely there light from neon signs outside diffused by sheer curtains filtered through the room. Jason gently closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving your silhouette in the bed.
You laid on your stomach; your arms wrapped on top of your pillow and your head nestled between.
He walked over – taking in how your hair fell. The gleam of your silk sheets. The rise and fall of your chest.
You were still awake. He could always tell.
But you could never really tell when he was approaching, because big, brash Red Hood had the softest walk when he wanted to.
A sudden coolness prickled your skin as Jason pulled the hem of your shirt back, his icy fingertips grazing you. He carefully pressed a kiss to your lower back.
You let out a breath through your nose, shifting against the silk bedding as he moved with you.
The only time Jason pulled his lips away was to take off his tie.
You remained still, eyes open and waiting. Anticipating as a subtle heat rose to the tips of your ears. Then you felt his fingers skate across the base of your neck as he pulled the collar of your shirt down.
Measured kisses littered the back of your shoulders now. Slow, methodical. The ends of his hair tickled your skin.
And you let your eyes close again.
Jason braced his hands on the bed on either side of your figure. You unfurled your arms, running your hands down his own arms until you reached his wrists.
He stopped and glanced up from your shoulder.
You moved, prompting him to move forward until his arms were well stretched out beside your head, your fingers still clamped around his wrists.
Jason calmly kicked off his boots before slipping onto the bed and pressing in closer.
A soft sigh escaped him.
The mattress dipped beneath you both as he settled his body against your back. You felt the quickening pace of his pulse beneath your fingers.
“Someone's bold tonight,” he murmured against your ear.
You hummed back, voice tired. “Not really.”
Jason tilted his head as he watched you carefully. Then he leant down and let his teeth graze the area where your neck met your shoulder.
You head lolled forward, a smile gracing your face.
“Does it bother you?” You asked, giving his wrists two gentle squeezes.
Jason buried his head in the crook of your neck, “No.” He tilted his head up to move his hair out of his way. “But will you turn around for me?”
when the ARKHAM KNIGHT puts on the mask he’s like a different person. nothing can hurt him - nothing can even touch him. you’ve long since been in his care, you still haven’t seen his face, not really. he totes you around like a trophy, dragging you to god know’s where while you remain in his custody. you’re not stupid, you see the way he looks at you, how the mask looks at you. studying you, unwavering, unblinking, it sends a shiver down your spine. no one has come to rescue you, and it’s getting more and more pertinent to your well-being that you go easy on him. when you were first brought to him by his men in red camo, you were kicking and screaming until you were drugged into complacency. being here as long as you have, hope dwindling, you catch the knight staring… and you let him.
he and his forces keep moving, you haven’t recognized a pattern, and you wouldn’t know where to go if you could escape. for now, you lie low, you do what you think he wants. you suggest strategies, paint it as more efficient or fiscally responsible, when in reality you’re minimizing civilian inconvenience or—in extreme cases—maiming, casualties. in a twisted sense, you slide into the duty of being at the knight’s side in more categories than just a pet. you like to think he trusts you to a certain extent, or maybe even cares about you in his own way. it’s not such a horrid thought anymore - until it comes time to test it.
“i’m just saying, please, let them go.” your hoarse throat chokes up, clutching onto the thick strap of his forearm while you beg. your knees threaten to give out as his monstrous stride directs towards the civilian hostages. he’s locked the building down, and you’re not sure anyone’s getting out. two of his men note your appeared hostility, even if you can’t claw through his armor, his glorified bodyguards take hold of your wrists and your shoulders, yanking you off of him as he jerks his hand holding his pistol from your reach.
“why should i?” he rounds on you, studying your skewed features through cold and digital eyes. the grating sound of his voice mod hurts your ears, flinching as he barks orders at his men to secure the perimeter.
“they don’t have anything to do with this, we can just move- on—ah!” the death grips of his associates tighten on you and you wince, your knee buckling but they prop you up anyway, cutting off your circulation when they tighten on you. rallied by the pain, you thrash even if it’s futile.
“keep her here. i’ll finish what we started—“ the knight instructs, and as he turns on his heel you call after him.
“wait. wait! please!” you yank, but it just bruises your wrists. “i’ll do—mm—anything! just listen,” your heart drops to your stomach as the two militants begin to drag you further away one resisted step at a time. you panic. “you’ll have me, okay?” you shout over your shoulder.
against the odds, a subversion of your expectations to be cast aside and all the trust you’ve spent building to be thrown in alongside you… the arkham knight turns around.
“drop her.”
you gasp as you’re tossed, landing on your knees and catching yourself from falling forward, gravel digging into your palms. panting, you see two thick boots step into view, the sound of rock scraping rock as its ground under his soles when he lowers in a crouch. cold metal kisses the underside of your chin, tipping your head up until you’re met with his gaze towering over you. the end of his pistol lines up with your throat. you didn’t realize you were glaring until you see your reflection in his face.
“anything?” . . .
back on your knees, and alone in a room with him this time, you swallow your dry mouth. “well, i have been feeling a little… pent-up.” he muses, heavy metal clinking as he raises his gun to the air, elbow propped up on the armrest of this leather sofa chair. you’re unable to look at him, your eyes glued to his belt. planted between his spread knees, you sweat, panic setting in on the reality of just what you’re about to do. “looks like you’re ready to get started.” he’s challenging you. your lashes flutter as your heart rate ravages your ribcage, blood roaring past your ears.
cruelly, he puts the final nail in the coffin, taunting your sacrifice. he sits forward, the elbow transferring to his kneecap as the gun lazily lulls to sit at your temple, and you flinch. you feel its heft against your skull. “you think it’ll make me go easy on them?” your jaw clenches as he tests your resolve with his malicious inquiry. the idea that you begged for this churns your stomach. your silence spurs him on, and you can hear a sick grin behind his mask as he returns to his position, slumping into his seat so you had plenty of room to do what you came here to do. “well,” he scoffs. “couldn’t hurt your chances.” . . .
“that’s right, that’s fuckin’ right.”
you pinch the tears of strain when you shut your eyes, simultaneously trying to concentrate on what you’re doing while avoiding thinking about what texture his cock is against your tongue. the smooth veiny underside grates against the bed of it, and the velvety head hits the back of your throat at a nauseous pace. the hair in his pubes tickle your bottom lip; either he wasn’t expecting something like this or he’s just not the manscaping type. you gag and rear, the instinct to detach n catch your breath too great to resist. a vicious hand clamps the nape of your neck, reading your reluctance.
“take it, bitch.” he reaffirms your place, forcing you to swallow every inch of him as you whimper through your nose. he can’t bottom out, but when he gets close it cuts off your air supply. sadistically, his palm adjusts to cup the back of your head, pushing you down until your cry in surprise mutes. he overpowers you, holding you down, your instincts kicking in to futilely bang your fists against his thigh. as if it’s an act of mercy, he releases you, and you whip your head back to be able to take in oxygen through your open mouth, coughing through the moisture of his pre and your spit. there’s a sting up your nose like some of that salt contaminated the sensitive insides, and you stave away your quivering lower lip.
a familiar feeling places onto your temple. you freeze, shakily peering to the side as your inhale trembles. the end of his pistol threatens your life as his great body leans forward. “we’re not done yet, princess.” your frame clatters, shock running your blood ice cold while your skin glows hot, clammy hands shake as they come to rest on his thighs to steady yourself, weak from overexertion. the gun faithfully follows you, kissing your skull while you curl down, your tongue peeking out to kitten lick his head before your mouth involuntarily closes up in a powerful shiver. you will yourself to continue, fighting bodily functions of fight-or-flight to fit his dick in your mouth before he blows your head off. “that’s it.” he affirms, condescendingly encouraging. you take the tip of him back, the outer velvety skin having been cooled by the air. so you don’t tempt your nausea, you reintroduce him bit by bit. the pistol matches your bob, a constant reminder of what’ll happen should you fail to please him.
it’s that love they talk about on a sunday afternoon.
adoration practically leaks from jason todd’s pores, shining like rays of light on your skin, rejuvenating at every turn.
the kind of love that makes your heart feel warm and fluttery and it just radiates off of him easily. knowing what temperature you liked the house to be at or how you always toss your balled up socks in one corner of the room than the other.
jason is not the type to hide that he loves you and will remind you constantly.
he’s not passive about it and keeps it abundantly clear that the two of you are written in the stars for him. he’s like the embodiment of devotion because it’s fundamentally rooted in him to communicate and try to understand you more daily. he doesn’t assume anything, but he learns more and more.
he’s also the type of man to bring you flowers just because. at first it really is sweet. he brings them over on every date. then every time he makes an excuse to see you, he’s got flowers tucked away somewhere on his person even when you told him he didn’t have to bring it on every outing.
sometimes it’s just flowers he picks up on his way to get you, intricately picked and tied with a stem, like he really took his time choosing them. other times, it’s when he picks you up from work with a massive bouquet of snapdragons cause you said you liked them once. he’ll wait outside patiently, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the flowers, biting the inside of cheek until you come outside.
it’s always to see the smile on your face and the hint of surprise even when you knew it was coming.
he lives for that look.
when you call him drunk for the first time, having a friend phone him for you at a party you didn’t even want to go to, even then he brought a dozen roses. arriving to pick you up in under five minutes with a thin layer of sweat over his brow. he even apologized while he held your hair back when you threw up and continued while you drifted off asleep after he tucked you in.
“—seriously though, i would’ve brought a bigger bouquet but the store was closing and it was all they had so i just put the good flowers from the remaining together and—”
when you woke up in the morning with the flowers in a mason jar because all of the other vases you had were currently being used, you tried to tell him they were getting to be too much. the man claimed that’s nonsense and that there’s no such thing while continuing to softly sing whatever he was playing while cooking breakfast for when you woke.
then, he danced with you in the kitchen to distract you from protesting. but when he spun you and you groaned all groggy and hungover, he kept you close to his chest instead, humming the soothing tune. rocking the two of you back and forth in your dingy kitchen, shifting from either leg until you melted right into him. cheek pressed to his hard chest.
the music plays softly from the kitchen and he coos by your ear while he steadily dances you over to the couch with him, lyrics pouring from his love stricken lips.
“she looks just like an angel.” tucking your head into the crook of his neck while you bask in his warmth. still humming the same tune as he softly sings, “—when she walks across the room.”
it’s so easy to fall into him when he’s like this.
later in the week he thrifts you a dozen more vases that went with the decor of your house along with a couple extra trinkets he thought you’d like.
he keeps a photo of you from that morning in his wallet, tucked in his arms and mouth parted in sleep. he’s smiling with his head tilted just barely in the frame, though the focus is on you resting on his chest. next to it is a kiss you left when he pulled out his wallet to show you. lipstick mark staining his cheek in the photo.
he actually got it laminated so your kiss never fades away.
when he slowly moves his life into your home from all the late nights he stays over, he insists on paying the rent and utilities just because he can. your name is on the lease but he doesn’t give a shit because he meant what he said when he told you what’s mine is yours.
he starts buying mundane things in pairs too because, “i couldn’t just buy one, they come in pairs, you can’t just split them up.”
he’s made any excuse to buy you things that remind him of you, and that meant a lot since he turned out to be more sentimental than you thought. jason would buy you pastries and chocolate with the cheesiest line like i thought of you because it’s sweet like you.
that’s how you knew i love you came in many forms with him.
at first he struggled with saying it so instead you see it in his actions. though the man is sentimental and the first time he says it and you repeat it right back, the hearts in his eyes expand and he slots your hand into his. jason never struggles to remind you after that time. the love that he drowns you in is the only kind you’d want to receive, and that’s just the kind of man he is. and jason todd is that type of man to do acts of service for you solely because he is capable without ever being told to.
you hate washing the dishes? that’s okay with him! jason has no problem wiping them down and scrubbing them clean.
“you know the saying, if life is a loop full of dirty dishes and laundry, all that means is it’s a lifetime full of home cooked food and clean clothes.” humming gruffly while he scrubs, turning his head back to find you still staring like you’d fallen for him all over again and grin, “or something like that ma.”
and physical contact? he’s like velcro to your skin.
while you cook, his head is tucked between your neck and your shoulder while he’s pressed against your back. occasionally touching your hand and stirring for you.
even after having a long night and getting in after you, he’ll wake up with you for work and watch you get ready for the day. he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his hair disheveled. watching you with eager eyes as you do your skincare or dress yourself. it didn’t make you feel embarrassed because it wasn’t exactly lustful. it felt like he was burning the memory and ingraining you as the sole purpose of everything good in his life because that’s exactly what he’d tell you that you are.
or you could be sitting on the couch and watching television when jason decides it’s time to strike. just moments after coming home, he plops his full weight ontop of you and groans. you make a sound that resembled a cushion losing air but he just settles a leg between yours to take some weight off of you. he pulls your shirt up just enough for him to slot his head underneath and steal some of your warmth from your skin.
you complained that he’s gotta at least wash his face. told him he’s stretching the collar of your shirt out with his head when his hair pokes out to touch your chin. but slowly, you press a kiss against his lips, watching him deepen it before it gets sloppy and he starts to trail his way back down your neck. lower and lower before disappearing beneath the fabric. he groans cause you’ve got no bra on. when he rubs his face between your breasts and nuzzles until he’s comfortable, you gasp softly. the stubble on his chin rubbing against the sensitive skin, side to side until he stops to take a bite of the plush flesh.
you laugh when he settles. “did you just motorboat me?”
jason blows against your skin while he huffs and does it again to get you to squeal and shove him away just for him to grip onto you tighter.
“can’t a man just appreciate a work of art?”
a/n: idrk what this is but i love jason and he’s the cheesiest, loverboy to ever exist idc
#drabble.ᐟ ⸝⸝ mean!arkham jason ⸝⸝ boot humping ⸝⸝ condescension ⸝⸝ degradation ⸝⸝ lap grinding ⸝⸝ MDNI !
───〃★ dc masterlist !
jason stormed into the safehouse, the heavy thud of his boots echoing like goddamn gunfire. the arkham knight helmet was already ripped off and tossed in the corner, but the rest of the armor stayed on—black tactical plates still warm and reeking of gunpowder, smoke, sweat. another shitty run-in with batman. the old man’s voice still clawed at the back of his skull. he dropped onto the edge of the bed with a low grunt, thighs spreading wide in that aggressive manspread, elbows braced on his knees, jaw locked tight.
you’d been waiting all month—hell, closer to six fucking weeks—pent-up and aching like a wound that wouldn’t close unless treated properly. and he wasn’t treating you at all. every time you’d tried to initiate something, pressing up against him in bed or sliding a hand down his chest after a long night, he’d brush you off with a tired “not tonight” or “got shit to handle” before rolling over or heading back out. neglected, horny, and desperate, reduced to desperately fingering yourself raw in the dark while he chased revenge.
you padded over without hesitation and sank to your knees between his spread legs, the cold gritty concrete biting into your bare skin. you positioned yourself right over his left combat boot, the thick scuffed leather dusty and still carrying the street grime, and looked up at him with those big needy eyes. the same ones that were screaming please just fuck me already.
“jay,” you cooed sweetly, hands sliding up his armored thighs, feeling the hard plates and the burning heat of his body underneath. “you’re so tense, baby. i’ve been so empty without you… you won’t fuck me properly anymore. every time i try you just push me away. “i miss you.”
he stared down at you, green eyes sharp and pissed, one brow arched. “what—what the fuck are you doing down there?”
you smiled innocently and rocked your hips forward, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you pressed your soaked aching cunt right against the toe of his boot. your thin panties were drenched, clinging obscenely to your swollen folds, and the rough coarse leather—worn treads, tight laces, cold metal eyelets—scraped hot friction against your throbbing clit. a full-body shiver hit you as you started grinding in a slow and deliberate motion, letting your slick pussy lips drag and smear along the unyielding surface.
“i’ve been so fucking wet for weeks,” you whispered, voice breathy. “aching every night while you’re gone.”
jason let out a low, cruel laugh, mocking and sharp. “look at you. a month without a proper fuck and you’re already humping my filthy boot like a pathetic bitch in heat. that’s disgusting. what happened to you? i neglect you for a few nights and this is what you turn into?”
his hand dropped, thick fingers threading roughly into your hair, gripping tight at the scalp. the sting, along with his degrading words made your pussy clench.
you whimpered and rolled your hips harder, the wet obscene squelch of your dripping cunt sliding against the leather filling the quiet room. your juices coated the boot in shiny streaks, making the rough texture glide slick and filthy over your clit with every desperate grind. “i can’t help it… it feels so good. this is all you’re giving me.”
"pathetic," he sneered, voice dripping condescension even as his grip tightened, yankıng your head torward so you were looking directly into his eyes. "my needy little pervert. can't even wait five minutes before you're rubbing that sloppy cunt all over my dirty gear. you really get off on this shit? being this fucking desperate and gross because i was too busy to stuff that hole?"
you nodded frantically, panting hot against his thigh as you rode the boot faster, thighs trembling, slick running down your skin. the pressure built heavy and fast in your core, clit pulsing against the leather.
he watched you with dark hooded eyes, his own cock visibly straining thick and hard against the front of his tactical pants, the bulge twitching. he pressed the toe of his boot up, tilting it so it just barely pushed against your clit. a flicker of something like guilt crossed his face for half a second—yeah, he’d reduced you to this—but the sadistic part of him loved it. loved seeing you break down like this for him.
“disgusting is right,” he mocked, tone harsher now that you were so into it. “look at the mess you’re making, smearing your whore juices all over my boot. batman would love this—his ‘replacement’ girl turned into a mindless animal humping my shit because she’s too weak to wait. how long’s it been, huh? a month? six weeks? you that starved, baby?”
his fingers flexed harder in your hair. then he shifted, pulling your head up slightly. “open up.”
you parted your lips obediently and he shoved his index and middle fingers past them, deep into your warm wet mouth. “suck,” he ordered, voice rough. “yeah, just like that. show me how desperate that mouth is too.”
you moaned wantonly around his thick fingers, sucking greedily, tongue swirling as you kept grinding your soaked pussy harder on his boot. the dual sensation of rough leather scraping your clit and his fingers filling your mouth made you drip even more.
“filthy fucking girl,” he continued, mocking you relentlessly, though his cock ached visibly in the tight suit and his fingers pressed deeper, making you gag just a little. “look at you choking on my fingers while you hump my boot like a dog. i almost feel bad neglecting you for so long… almost. but fuck, it turns me on seeing you like this. so pathetic for me.”
you whined loudly around his fingers, sucking harder, drool slipping down your chin as your hips jerked sloppily. the boot was now slippery with your cum, the friction burning perfect against your swollen, aching folds.
“jay—please, i’m so close,” you mumbled wetly around his digits. your hand came up to grab at his wrist.
“yeah?” he smirked meanly, twisting his fingers in your mouth. “gonna cum on my dirty boot like the slut you are? go on then. make a fucking mess. show me how badly you’ve been starving for anything i give you, you disgusting little whore.”
you came hard with a muffled broken cry around his fingers, thighs clamping around his boot as the orgasm ripped through you. your cunt pulsed and gushed slick heat all over the leather, soaking it thoroughly, waves of pleasure making your whole body shake and twitch. aftershocks left you trembling, still grinding weakly against the messy boot.
before you could even catch your breath, jason yanked you up by the hair and pulled you onto his lap, forcing your soaked, oversensitive cunt to straddle the thick, hard bulge of his cock through his tactical pants. the rough reinforced fabric dragged right against your swollen clit, making you gasp and whine sharply at the overstimulation.
“that’s it, keep going,” he growled, voice low and mocking as one big hand gripped your hip, guiding you to grind on his aching cock. “ride my lap like the needy girl you are. i’m rock hard because of your pathetic little show and you’re gonna work for it even if that greedy cunt’s already twitching from being too sensitive.”
you whimpered, trying to squirm, but he held you firm, the heat of his thick erection pressing insistently against your dripping folds. his free hand came up, lightly slapping your flushed cheek with a gentle but sharp tap, then again, just enough to sting and make your eyes water.
“don’t you dare stop,” he taunted, shoving his fingers back into your mouth, deeper this time, fucking them slowly against your tongue. “suck. yeah, just like that, you desperate whore. look at you—cumming on my boot and already grinding on my cock like you can’t get enough. six weeks without dick and you’ve turned into this filthy mess. i didn’t know my girl was such a needy one.”
he slapped your cheek again, light and teasing, while his other hand forced your hips to roll harder, the friction of his suit against your worn out clit sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain through you. his cock throbbed underneath, straining against the fabric as he watched you like you were the only thing to see.
“naughty girl,” he murmured, rough and mocking but edged with dark want. “we’re not done. not even close.”
time dragged by. three hours of doing you in. three hours of making up for every single second he wasn’t here to take care of you and the ache between your legs. you came hard—time and time again. he lost count of how many times you’d orgasmed under his influence.
only then did the mean edge in his eyes soften. you were practically limp, slumped against his chest now that the armor was shed, trembling and boneless, tears streaking your face, drool on your chin, thighs quivering from the sheer overstimulation. jason let out a low breath, the anger from earlier bleeding out as he wrapped both arms around you, holding your spent body close.
“easy, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but gentler now, one hand stroking slowly down your back. “you did good, princess.” he carefully wiped the spit from your lips with his thumb before pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead.
he cradled you against him as he reached for a clean cloth from the bedside table. with careful, almost tender movements he wiped between your thighs, cleaning up the mess of between your legs, murmuring quiet praises under his breath. “look at you… all fucked out and limp. so pretty. i got you.”
his hand kept rubbing slow circles on your back, the other carding gently through your hair where he’d been pulling earlier. the skin was still warm against you. “just breathe, baby. i know it was a lot… i push you hard but fuck, you take it so well.” he let out a soft sigh, relaxing against you. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to leave you hanging that long.”
you nuzzled into his neck, exhausted and spent, and he let you, pressing another kiss to your temple. “sleep. ain’t going anywhere tonight.”
jason todd who goes all soft and clingy at home with his girlfriend. ˚.✦
It's funny how your boyfriend, the intimidating 6-foot-something Red Hood, completely melts the second he crosses the threshold at your shared apartment.
After patrol, he makes sure to give you a kiss before getting in the shower. Then, you are waiting for him in the bed, and he instantly flops on top of you. His head on your stomach, adoring how soft it is. His big arms lift you easily so he can wrap them around you. He breathes you in and sighs, long and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
"Rough night?" you ask, threading your fingers in his still damp hair.
"Not really," his voice is muffled by the fabric of your pajama. "I think I'm going to go on patrol less, I always miss you too much."
"Mmhm, that sounds good," you tell him, your free hand coming to trace lines in his back.
He still looks huge on top of you, but you let him get as small as he wants you every time he's with you. That's probably why you are together after three years.
"I would be here when you arrive from work, with a terrible dinner and, I don't know, an apron or something," he rambles, sleep starting to kick in.
You huff a laugh, "You wanna be my house husband?"
You say it almost as a joke, but Jason gets silent for a moment. You feel the exact second the idea sinks its hooks into him.
Jason goes very still on top of you, the way he does when he’s turning something over in his head like it’s a live grenade. Then he lifts his chin just enough to rest it on your sternum, eyes half-lidded and suddenly, achingly soft.
“I could,” he says, quieter. “I mean… I’m already home most nights before you anyway. And the safehouses are paid off. Roy keeps telling me I’ve got enough fuck-you money to retire twice.”
You keep tracing slow circles between his shoulder blades, letting him talk it out.
“I could cook,” he continues, voice getting that sleepy-dreamy quality it only ever has with you. “Like, actually learn instead of just burning pasta. Greet you at the door. Have the place clean. Maybe… get a cat. A black one. He’d hate me, but he’d love you.”
You snort. “You want a cat that judges you daily?”
“Already used to it,” he mumbles, nuzzling back into your stomach. “Plus I’d get to see you come home to me every day. Carry your bag. Kiss you stupid the second the door closes. Run you baths when you’re sore. Be… waiting.”
His arms tighten around your waist, possessive and gentle all at once.
“I want that,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “I want to be the thing you come home to.”
Your hand stills in his hair. You feel your heart do something complicated, squeeze and melt at the same time.
“Jay,” you say softly, “look at me.”
He does, immediately. Those green eyes are nervous, like he just confessed a sin instead of the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you.
“Are you sure?” you ask. “I love the idea—God, I love it—but only if it’s what you want. Not just for me.”
He thinks about it, really thinks, brow furrowing the way it does when he’s defusing a bomb.
“I’ve spent years being needed out there,” he says finally. “I think… I want to be wanted in here.”
You lean down, kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his mouth.
“Then stay,” you whisper against his lips. “Be my house-husband. Burn dinner. Adopt three cats. I’ll come home to you every single day and kiss you stupid for the rest of our lives.”
He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, and buries his face in your chest again.
“Deal,” he mumbles, voice thick. “But I get to pick the cat names.”
You smile into his hair. “Deal.”
He falls asleep like that, arms locked around you, breathing finally even.
You stay awake a little longer, imagining it: coming home to Jason in sweatpants and an apron, flour on his cheek, a black cat glaring at him from the counter while he grins at you like you’re the best part of his day.
a/n: why do i always end making tough men house husbands?
SUMMARY: In a Bridgeton-esque world, you and Jason have a meet-cute in the Wayne Manor Library.
WARNINGS: none.
TAGS: bridgeton/regency au, historic inaccuracies, on my ‘jason has facial scars’ agenda, reader is basically the ‘diamond’ of the season, wayne manor library and ‘pride and prejudice’, i know i advocate for rizzless jay but he has rizz in this one idk.
ᯓ★ NOTES: please accept this while i continue to procrastinate on knight!jason. i need to work on the way i describe things is literally my literary achilles heel.
“But Mama!”
“No arguments. You must look your best! The second Wayne son is finally making an appearance, you must blow his socks off with your beauty.” Your mother barks out as the seamstress gives a tug, making you hiss as the corset tightens your waist by another inch.
“You must charm him and marry into that family!” Your monster mother continues. “Must you—Ah!” You start but are interrupted by another tug. “Must you behave like all other Mamas’? Pouncing on every other eligible bachelor?”
“You will never again get a chance like this! We must make sure you have at the least one dance with him. It is said that he dislikes talkative women, which happens to be your entire personality. You must stay quiet in his presence.”
“This is absurd.” You murmur to yourself.
Just another season in the Ton. A special one since you debuted this time, your first season as a woman eligible to marry. Which has sent your entire family into a frenzy. You’ve attended two other balls since you debuted, entertained about a dozen suitors. Dubbed by all gossip magazines as the most eligible!
But goodness, you felt miserable.
And now this man! A man you’ve never met. A man everyone calls a barbarian! Everyone says he’s rash and rough, scary looking. And your mother wants you to wed him when you’ve never even seen him! Just because his father happens to be prestigious!
The ball is in full swing when you get there. It’s the Wayne Ball, the most glamorous one of the Ton, barring the Royal ball of course. It’s hosted every season at the Wayne Manor, you may not like the people, but you definitely like the house.
It’s like a palace out of a dream.
Multiple wings, each with their own purpose. A private art collection that filled the main ball room, the one of display the Annual Ball. You had briefly chatted with the oldest Wayne son, Mr.Dick Grayson, and he had mentioned that they also had a private pond-like area in the Manor where one could take a leisure swim.
But that isn’t why you adore it. It’s the library. The vast expanse of shelves and hundreds, if not thousands, of books stacked neatly. The smell, the atmosphere, everything about this place, it feels comforting, like home.
You manage to sneak away after a few dances and endless small talk of suitors rambling about things that naught matter to you. A candle stick you manage to snag and the ornate oak doors creak as you manage to push it open just enough to slip in.
The short train of your dress trails behind you as you weave through the shelves. Oh, what you would give to spend the rest of eternity in this place, with warmth, endless tea and snacks, you could read forever and ever, to your hearts content with no one to bother you about it.
You stop when it feels right, turning into a shelve and bringing the candles up just close enough that the warm light illuminates the book titles. When one catches your eye, you set the stick down on the closest table, returning to run your finger over the name, the sound of your nail scratching against the leather bound echoing in the vast space. Pride and Prejudice.
You pluck it from its peaceful nest of other books. There’s a thin film of dust settling on places a regular dusting can’t reach, like the book hadn’t been touched in a while. The familiar weight in your hands is an immediate comfort from the world outside the room. You pull open the cover, to the name of the book on the first page, along with someone’s signature.
Property of Jason Todd.
“I see a fellow traveller has taken refuge in this library.” A manly voice causes you to flinch, jumping a step back. He’s a tall man, one you have not seen before. The dim light casts shadows on his face, enhancing the sharp cuts of his features. Even like this, you can tell he is rather…handsome.
“I apologise for scaring you, Miss..?” He murmurs, still leaning against the shelve behind you, no urgency in his posture. There’s a few strand of white hair on the front of his hairline, glowing yellow now. His shoulders are wide, a man of labour perhaps, as his hands are tucked into pockets.
You offer him your name after taking a few calming breaths, “I must take my leave, we cannot be spotted without a chaperone, Sir.” You nod your head in acknowledgement, moving to slot the book back into place. “Not to worry. Alfred is here.” An older man, butler you presume, steps out of the shadow, bowing his head slightly to you.
The tall man, yet to identify himself, pushes off the shelve, walks closer to you. His eyes catch the book in your hands and yours catch his face. Scars decorate his cheek, one runs from his lip to his ear, another intercepting it, forming something reminiscent of a ‘J’.
“I adore that novel.” He murmurs as you glance away from his face and he glances towards yours. “Seems interesting.” You comment. Shallow of him, but the first thing he notices is that you’re beautiful. Not just the traditional sense, but the serenity in your expression, the allure of your presence. The way the light reflects off your dress makes you shimmer like the night sky.
“Do you like to read, Miss?”
A soft smile makes it way to your lips. “My mama says it’ll scare the suitors if a Lady is well read. But I enjoy the company of these stories regardless.” The man stops a respectful distance away from you, a smile mirroring yours, gracing his handsome features, his eyes baring into yours.
You can see him more clearly now, that he stepped into the might casted by the lone candlestick you brought with you. His clothes are one of grandeur, indicating his higher position in society, but they’re worn with casual carelessness, his inner coat vest was unbuttoned, and his collar undone. His hair tousled like someone ran their hand through it one too many times.
“Are you not enjoying the festivities? Is it not to your liking?” He asks, glancing to the door. “I tire of mindless dancing with suitors. Since it is my first season, I must entertain all.” His eyes dip to your lips as you talk and you pretend not to notice. “Why are you here?” You question.
“I tire of the Mamas’ hounding me with their proposals even when their daughters cower away from me in fear.” He walks closer, holding his hand out and you place the book in it.
“Must be your height.” You jest, eyes fleeting to his scars for a moment. Surprisingly, he chuckles, the voice hits your ears like fine whiskey. “Must be.” He gives you a genuine smile. He seems even taller like his, beside you.
A moment of silence, thick silence settles over the space as his eyes glitter when they look into yours. You bite your lips, beginning to ramble to fill the silence. “I must stay till the second Wayne son arrives and I must acquire a dance with him. My mission for tonight is to charm him into to marrying me.” A sliver of distain slipping into your voice.
“Do you dislike him?” Jason’s eyes furrow as his lips threaten to turn his smile into a smirk. You sigh wistfully, stepping closer to the shelve, running your hand over the remaining books. “I’ve heard stories of him. That he’s a…Well, the gossip papers do not speak kindly of him.”
“But…?” Jason prompts. He can tell you’re dissatisfied, wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. And you seem comfortable enough around him to express it, instead of fear. He takes that as a compliment.
You fall silent for a moment, “I think we mustn’t judge a person till you meet them. Who knows? He might be my perfect match.” You offer him a soft amused smile, as he turns the book around in his hand.
Jason always loved this library. Always his favourite room in this preposterously large Manor. And maybe it was fate, if he ever believed in such a thing, that he ran onto you here, especially as you picked out the one book he adored the most out of the thousands here.
“If you say it’s good, I must borrow it from the Royal library.” You say as you contain your hand from itching out and doing something as ridiculous as touching his face, tracing his scars. “I don’t think they would notice if you took it from here.” The mystery man says with a raise of his eyebrow.
You scoff in offence, painted mouth forming an ‘O’. “For one, that is theft. Secondly,” You point to the book. “I think Sir Todd,” You recall out his name. “Would most definitely mind if his book went missing.”
“I don’t mind.” He smirks. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. A soft, ‘excuse me?’, leaves your mouth.
“My name is Jason Todd-Wayne. Second Son of Duke Bruce Wayne.” Jason extends his hand, almost as one does when asking for a dance, as a soft gasp leaves your mouth before you shut your eyes momentarily in embarrassment.
“I apologise, Mr. Todd—“ You say as you place your hand in his. “Just Jason.” He whispers, interrupting you, as he brings up your hand, placing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitches as you’re rendered speechless for a moment. Many others had done this of course, it’s common for suitors to try and ‘seduce’ this way but…
There was a charge in the air, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. His lips linger for a moment too long before pulling away just enough to run his thumb over the area where his lips had just been, his breath still warm was brushing against your bare knuckles.
You repeat his name to him, so soft that it might as well have been a gust of wind, the inappropriateness of the whole ordeal catching up to you slowly.
You clear your throat as you pull away your hand, Jason gives you a suppressed smile. He holds up the book between the two of you, offering it to you. “I would like you to have it. Read it and maybe…”
The sound of music and laughter from outside creeps into the room louder than before. You glance to the door, you know you must take your leave soon but it’s been a while since you enjoyed the company of a man in conversation.
“Maybe we would discuss it? I would…love to hear your thoughts.” His voice snaps you out of your quiet days, the hesitance in his voice evident. Perhaps he’s trying not to scare you off, but truly, he isn’t as horrid they say, he isn’t horrid at all.
“Surely.” You whisper as you reach for the book and he pulls back just as your fingertips graze it. “Only if you promise me another conversation, Miss.” He says, extracting a breathy giggle from you. You give him a firm nod as he finally place the book in your hand.
“I’ll be looking forward to it, Mr. Todd—Jason.”
You don’t take the candle stick with you, just the book is what you return with. You do your best not to glance back as you walk to the door but you can’t help yourself. “May I say, for the record? You aren’t…as they say.” You blurt out hurriedly, before you could second guess yourself.
“Why do you reckon that is?” He calls out. A small smile makes its way to your lips. You chuckle before you call out.
“One mustn’t judge a book by its cover.”
ᯓ★'s P.S. do we fw the new theme i love it so much. chat is this a safe space to say i don’t enjoy musicals…idk how that’s relevant but i needed to admit that to someone…
don’t forget to leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed!
plushie picture credits to the original poster not me!!
SUMMARY: gf!reader surprises Jason with a new plushie. A now-internet famous Red Hood plushie!
WARNINGS: none.
TAGS: fatson todd, established relationship, fluff, jason is WHIPPED for reader hell yeah, movie nights, kisses.
ᯓ★ NOTES:tbh if this was self insert i wouldn’t have named the plushy ‘fatson’ but that’s the internet name now so gotta go with it🤷♀️
in my head, it’s the same reader as the tiny fic reader.
It was a normal day, normal as it can get for an ex-dead anti-hero vigilante.
Infact, today was his day off! All he wanted to do was to spend the day with his kind, gorgeous girlfriend. You’re getting some popcorn and soda plated in the kitchen as Jason makes his way to the living room to set it up for movie night, only after you profusely(and suspiciously) refused his help with the food.
It’s all normal at first, nothing seems amiss, everything in its place. He plops onto the sofa, on the far end of your little plushie corner. Jason knew you loved those little stuffed buddies, he’s won you a couple at your amusement park date a while back.
Unassuming of anything, your boyfriend pick up the remote, opens Netflix and begins browsing. “Hey, babe. Is everything in place?” You call out from the kitchen, getting impatient. What an odd question, Jason thinks. “Uh…yeah?” He says back in the direction of the kitchen, taking a proper sweep of the room.
Was he forgetting something?
It’s all perfect until eyes finally catch into your plushie corner and…“Princess?” He calls out all confused as he leans forward and snatches the latest edition to your growing collection.
It’s a plushie, of him—of Red Hood—who is him. But it’s not any ordinary plushie, oh no, this is an overly exaggerated circular plushie. It has his Red Hood helmet, his shirt with his Red Hood insignia, under which is his abs also blown out of proportion, his beige jacket and all his limbs as dangly little things.
Next thing Jason hears is your cackling as you enter the room with the tray of food. “Ain’t he just adorable?” You coo as you set the tray down and plop right next to Jason, who was still holding the plushy, swinging your legs into his, your feet resting on his thighs, as you snatch the plushie from him.
“Who even makes these things?” He scoffs as he sees you hug the thing close to your chest. “People on the internet, my love.” You turn the plushy to face you, smoothing down its exterior as you glance up at Jason with a mischievous glint.
“Wanna know what i’ve named him?”
“Do tell.” He murmurs back in that low ‘i’m amused’ voice of his. You open your mouth to say it but you yourself laugh at it, a giggle slipping out. Jason occupies his hands with massage your feet as you try and fail to contain your laughter, not even telling him what the joke is.
“Fat-Fatson Todd, because he’s,”—giggle—“Jason Todd, but round.”
Jason can’t help but crack a smile as you laugh off at your own joke. “Fatson Todd.” He repeats, nodding along like he gets what’s funny. “That’s it, Todd. You’ve been replaced as cuddle-partner.” You joke with a teasing smirk.
Your boyfriend’s eyebrows rise in amusement, “Oh, really?” You simply hum before Jason grabs onto the plushie, rescuing it from your grasp with a smirk and throwing the plushie somewhere behind him. “We’ll see about that.”
That’s how you ended up lying on your couch, boyfriend on top of you. Attacking your neck with kisses as you laugh to your heart’s content.
SUMMARY: Jason Todd, a touch starved man, loves your hugs.
WARNINGS: none
TAGS: jason todd need a hug AND HE GETS ONE, implied established relationsip, drabble, fluff, touch straved jason todd.
ᯓ★ NOTES: sometimes all we need is a hug 🤷🏻♀️
“Jay?”
There he is, leaning against your door frame, his head is down, face shadowed by his hair. You see his chest move with a deep breath before he’s onto you. His hand wraps around your waist, pulling you in as he closes the door behind him.
Jason doesn’t look at you, you don’t need him to. Your body welcomes him readily, letting him take you. His arms wrap around your body, across your shoulders and waist as he buries his face in your neck, your hair, you. You, you, you. It’s all and only he needed.
His scent is the same as always, blood, gunpowder, smoke and whiskey. You breath him in, hands running across his neck and nape in soothing rubs, one sneaks up, running thought his messy locks. You feel his hammering heart against his chest, your heart calm in comparison.
His hands tighten around you, squeezing you almost painfully, not that you mind. Anything to easy his mind, his soul. Your legs lift off the ground till youre on your toes and he walks you back, back till you hit a wall. You take the cue, wrapping your legs around his waist.
Jason’s eyes are wired shut, everything running through his head, everything is a little clearer with you in his arms or rather him in yours. He lets a ragged breath into your hair, his body shaking with its intensity.
Closer. He needs you closer.
His hands slip behind your hip, lifting it off the wall and pushing it to his abdomen, as his shoulders pin yours against the wall, in a way your entire body was flushed with his. His face moves upwards, pressing his cheek against yours. He holds you as though you were a lifeline, grounding him back to earth.
You can feel the hard planes of his body, being the way it is from years of strenuous exercise and fights. Your finger traces a scar on the side of his neck, one he attained years ago. “Hey.” Your voice is soft, gentle, everything he needs.
Turning your head, you place a kiss on his cheek, the side of his face, his temple, his forehead, anywhere your lips can reach. Your hand runs up and down his spine, rubbing his back. That’s when he melts.
You feel his body relax, shoulders hunch down first, you feel his face relax, un-scrunching. He still doesn’t yield his hold around you, sighing as he’s slowly pulled out of his spiral. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”
Your voice is as sweet as honey, you move to his arms, rubbing your hands up and down the length of both his arms, soothing. You feel Jason nod against you, his rapid heartbeat now becoming more steady.
“I love you.” He huffs into the side of your neck. He doesn’t need to tell you, you know it.
cowboy au . sfw . drabble . romcom . tooth rotting fluff . jason todd has a southern accent . fem reader . jason todd as your favorite cowboy . apologies if you’re lactose . part two
The oppressive, heavy heat of a Southern Texas afternoon hung thick in the air, smelling of dry dust, sweet alfalfa, and the sharp, metallic tang of the baked tin roof as you shifted on the porch swing, the wooden slats groaning softly, sticking slightly to the back of your bare thighs.
It was a brutal, suffocating warmth that made every movement feel like it was happening underwater. Then came the heavy, rhythmic thud of worn leather boots sinking into the parched dirt.
You didn’t have to look up to know as Jason Todd was walking up the path, the brilliant sun catching the distinct, stark white-grey patch in his dark fringe where his cowboy hat sat pushed back. To call him big felt like an understatement; he was built like a brick wall, his broad chest stretching the fabric of his faded, sweat-damp chambray shirt.
The rolled-up sleeves showed off forearms thick with ropy veins and biceps that looked heavy enough to crush cedar posts. He was rugged—far more rugged than the polished guys back at your college campus—with a faint dusting of dark stubble along a sharp jawline and a few faded scars that only added to his rough edge.
And, right on cue, he was cradling a massive, wax-sealed wheel of cheese against his ribs. “Hey there, little lady,” Jason drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards and up into your chest.
He flashed that goofy, slightly dorky grin that always felt entirely too soft for a man of his size. “Figured you and the folks might be runnin’ low.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. That made the sixth wheel this month. From inside, the screen door clicked open. Your mother, Elena, peeked out, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron as she took one look at the cheese, and for a split second, sheer terror crossed her face. From deeper in the kitchen, your father, Arthur, yelled, “If that’s more parmesan, Jason, I’m lockin’ the gates!”
Jason’s chuckle was a rich, deep sound that crinkled the skin around his eyes. “Not parmesan, Arthur! Gouda this time!”
“Oh… how lovely,” Elena murmured, offering you a quick, conspiratorial look of desperation before taking the heavy wheel as her arms visibly dipped under the weight.
“Thank you, Jason. I’ll just… go find some room for it.” She retreated quickly, likely heading for the backup livestock freezers out back where the last three wheels were currently staging a hostile takeover.
With your parents gone, an immediate, thick quiet fell over the porch, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched buzz of cicadas.
Jason didn’t leave… he never did.
He took two slow steps closer, propping one heavy boot up on the bottom step of the porch as he took off his cowboy hat, his movements deliberate, and wiped his brow with the back of a thick, scarred hand and up close, the radiant warmth of his skin hit you, carrying a heady mix of leather, cedarwood, and the clean, masculine scent of sweat.
“You look nice today,” he murmured, his tone dropping from the booming neighborly greeting to something much lower, much softer as his blue eyes locked onto yours.
They lingered, tracking the line of your collarbone before dragging back up. He reached out, his thick fingers lightly wrapping around the chains of the porch swing just above your shoulder as the metal rattled softly under his grip, stilled only by the heavy pressure of his hand.
As the swing shifted, a stray beam of intense, blinding afternoon sun cut right past the awning, hitting you square in the face. Your eyelids fluttered shut instinctively against the sudden glare, a small, involuntary crease forming between your brows but Jason didn’t say a word.
But without a second’s hesitation, he shifted his massive frame. He stepped directly into the path of the light, his broad shoulders easily swallowing up the harsh glare. To make sure, he raised his free hand, holding his cowboy hat just high enough to cast a perfect, cool shadow over your face.
Feeling the sudden relief from the heat, you slowly opened your eyes as the world was darker now, framed entirely by his silhouette. He was just looking down at you, his expression steady and quiet, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was now absorbing the full, brutal heat of the sun just to keep it off you.
“Not gettin’ too oppressive out here for you, I hope?” he asked, his voice dropping into a soft, molasses drawl. “Sun’s regular beating down today.”
“It’s miserable, Jason, and you know it,” you said, your voice a little breathier than you intended. You tried to keep your tone light, trying to ignore the way his gaze dropped to your lips, holding there for a beat too long before darting back to your eyes.
Every time he did this, a knot tightened in your stomach. Your brain screamed at you to stop being so vain. ‘He’s just being neighborly!’ you told yourself, a familiar wave of self-conscious cringe washing over you.
‘He’s the town’s golden boy… don’t go making a fool of yourself thinking a guy like him actually wants you.’
To imagine those massive hands holding yours, or that smirking mouth pressing against your neck, felt like a dangerous game that would only end in embarrassment.
“Miserable, huh?” Jason repeated.
He took another step up, bringing himself deep under the shade of the porch but keeping his body positioned as your shield. He leaned his weight forward, his other hand coming down to rest on the wooden support beam of the porch roof as the muscles in his bicep flexed tightly against the strain, mere inches from your face.
The silence stretched, pulsing with a sudden, heated electricity that had nothing to do with the Texas weather. He was standing so close you could feel the whisper of his breath against your forehead. “Is that why you keep coming back every three days?” you asked, a sudden spark of boldness taking over as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.
“To appreciate the cool down?”
Jason’s dorky grin vanished, replaced by a slow, dangerous smirk that made your pulse skyrocket as he leaned down just a fraction, his face inches from yours.
You could see the individual dark lashes framing his eyes, the slight roughness of his sunburned cheeks, the faint white line of an old scar cutting through his eyebrow.
His hand shifted on the swing’s chain, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder, the contact was agonizingly slow, a casual, heavy warmth that sent a sharp shiver down your spine despite the stifling heat.
He didn’t pull away as his thumb hovered just a hair’s breadth from your collarbone, the calloused skin barely whispering against yours. “Maybe I just like the view on this porch,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, raw sincerity.
His eyes searched yours, heavy and full of a longing that you couldn’t just dismiss as ‘friendly’ anymore. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth one more time, his breath hitching just enough for you to hear it over the cicadas.
“And truth is… I’m clear out of excuses to be seein’ you.”
Jason leaned a fraction closer, his thumb finally making a soft, deliberate swipe against the side of your neck, his rough calluses catching against your skin with a friction that made your breath hitch entirely.
“So,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there, his voice like velvet over gravel. “If I come back Friday... I reckon you’re gonna make me invent another cheese, or can I just come see you?”
A breathless laugh caught in your throat. “Depends on if you can find anything better than Gouda, Todd.”
“Darlin’, for you, I’d find a way to smuggle the good stuff straight out of France,” he teased, his smirk melting back into that soft, dorky grin that made him look completely helpless against you.
Before you could reply, the sharp clack of the kitchen window sliding open shattered the heavy quiet. “Sweetie!” your mother’s voice called out, entirely oblivious to the thick tension she had just sliced right through.
“Can you come help me slice up some of this... whatever it is? And see if we have room in the chest freezer!”
The spell broke as Jason slowly drew his hand back from the swing's chain, though his fingers dragged along the metal link by link, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to fully break the connection.
The sudden absence of his massive frame shielding you from the world made the Texas heat rush right back in. “Duty calls,” you sighed, offering him a small, genuinely regretful smile as you stood up from the swing as your legs felt a little weak under his intense gaze.
“Guess it does,” Jason said softly as he stepped back just enough to give you room, but his blue eyes never left your face. You walked backward toward the screen door, holding his gaze the entire time.
Just before you pulled the door open, you lifted your hand and gave him a small, playful little wave as Jason let out a quiet huff of a laugh. He lifted his own massive, scarred hand and mimicked the gesture exactly—waving his thick fingers in a tiny, teasing imitation of yours.
The contrast of a guy built like a tank doing a dainty little wave made your heart do a ridiculous flip. “See you around, Jason,” you murmured.
“Countin’ down the days,” he replied but he didn’t move an inch as he stood perfectly still on the top step, his cowboy hat held loosely at his side, just watching you.
Even as you stepped into the dim, air-conditioned relief of the house and the screen door clicked shut behind you, you could feel his eyes on your back through the mesh.
Only when you finally turned the corner into the kitchen and completely disappeared from his sight did he finally turn to leave. Through the kitchen window, you couldn’t help but peek out as he made his way down the porch steps and back onto the dirt path.
He walked with that slow, unhurried cowboy swagger—a heavy, deliberate stride that carried the weight of his massive frame with a distinct, rhythmic roll of his hips.
With every slow, heavy step of his boots into the parched earth, his leather belt and heavy brass buckle rocked up and down, a steady, captivating rhythm that matched the swagger of a man who knew exactly how much space he took up but he didn’t look back, but the easy, lingering smile on his face told you everything you needed to know as he disappeared down the dusty ranch road.
The silent, heavy stillness of midnight had long since settled over the house, broken only by the low, monotonous hum of the central air conditioning. It was the absolute final week of your summer break, and you had spent the vast majority of the day masterfully bed-rotting, utterly glued to your phone screen in a nest of pillows.
Your mother had eventually lost her patience with your vegetative state, dragging you out of your bedroom hours ago with a stern lecture about wasting the sunshine. This left you currently tangled in a fluffy, oversized blanket on the living room couch, mindlessly doomscrolling through the dark, your face illuminated only by the harsh blue glow of social media.
Suddenly, the sharp, echoing chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet house as you sat upright instantly, the sudden noise making your heart give a frantic, fluttering leap against your ribs.
Your thumb habitually tapped the corner of your phone screen to check the date, your breath catching in your throat. Three days, it had been exactly three days since he last dropped off a delivery.
You had been counting the hours, though you’d never admit it out loud as a familiar, wildly nervous flutter bloomed in your stomach, like a swarm of tiny butterflies waking up all at once.
You bit your bottom lip to hide a silly, helpless smile, throwing the blanket aside as you scrambled off the couch. Pausing by the hallway mirror, you quickly raked your fingers through your messy, sleep-tousled hair, smoothing down your ridiculously oversized t-shirt and trying to make yourself look at least somewhat presentable.
Your heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you took a deep, steadying breath, stepped over to the front door, and swung it open.
… Surprise, surprise.
Jason Todd was standing on the porch, looking entirely too big and breathtakingly handsome, illuminated by the harsh yellow glow of the porch light.
And there, cradled tenderly against his massive, broad chest like a prized possession, was yet another wax-sealed wheel of cheese. Internally, you let out a long, exhausted, yet secretly giddy sigh. Just the sight of the dairy made your stomach turn; you had consumed so much cheese over the last two months that you were pretty sure you were permanently cured of any future cravings.
Your refrigerator was practically a dairy exhibit at this point, yet, looking up at him, the mild nausea instantly vanished, completely replaced by that heavy, sweet, familiar heat that always pooled in your chest whenever he was near.
He was just so cute, standing there like a giant, nervous boy despite his terrifying size. “Come on in, Jason,” you murmured, stepping aside and gripping the edge of the door a little too tightly.
“Hey there, darlin’,” he rumbled as the sheer depth of his voice was a low, gravelly vibration that sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.
He stepped past you into the house, bringing with him a sudden rush of the warm night air as he walked through the entryway and toward the kitchen as if he owned the place, his heavy leather boots making the floorboards groan under his sheer, undeniable weight.
Even in the dim house, he was a massive, imposing presence that made the hallway feel incredibly small, yet entirely safe. He had his cowboy hat pushed back on his head, revealing the thick, dark fringe of his hair and that distinct, stark white-grey patch right at the front that caught the dim light.
He looked beautifully rugged—sunburned across the bridge of his nose, impossibly broad-shouldered, and smelling faintly of the outdoor night air, expensive leather, and sweet cedarwood as you closed the door behind him, your hands trembling slightly, and followed him into the kitchen like a helpless moth drawn to a flame.
He set the heavy cheese wheel down on the counter with a soft, definitive thud before settling his large frame at the wooden dining table.
Moving on complete autopilot, your body knowing his routine by heart now, you opened the fridge, grabbed the glass pitcher of sweet iced tea, and poured him a generous glass.
The ice clinked sharply, a musical sound in the quiet room, as you set it down in front of him. Pulling your legs up slightly, you took the seat directly opposite his, desperately wishing the table wasn't so wide so you could be closer to him.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Jason said, his voice dropping into a soft, intimate register. He flashed you a tiny, boyish smile that crinkled the outer corners of his brilliant blue eyes, immediately taking a long, thirsty sip of the cold drink.
You couldn’t help but stare as his prominent throat shifted when he swallowed, the collar of his unbuttoned denim shirt moving with the rhythm, exposing a glimpse of his tanned collarbone.
As he set the glass down, his gaze drifted nervously to the ceramic fruit bowl in the center of the table, looking for anything to do with his hands. He reached out, his massive, muscular forearm practically taking up half the table space, and picked up a small, bright tangerine.
An intimate, heavy quiet settled over the kitchen, so thick you could practically taste it as the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, tearing scrape of his large thumb digging into the citrus peel.
The sharp, sweet, and tangy scent of the tangerine instantly filled the air, cutting through the stagnant midnight heat and making the moment feel frozen in time. “Your folks already asleep?” Jason asked quietly.
He kept his eyes fixed on the fruit in his hands, his thick thumbs pulling away a long, perfect strip of orange peel with agonizing slowness. “Out cold,” you whispered back, leaning your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, completely captivated by him.
“Which is probably good for you. If my dad saw that new wheel on the counter, he’d actually carry out his threat and lock you out of the neighborhood.”
Jason let out a rich, low chuckle—a beautiful, rumbling sound that vibrated right through the wooden tabletop and into your arms, making your skin tingle. “Yeah, well. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.”
He finally looked up, his intense, burning blue eyes locking onto yours through the dimness of the single kitchen light.
The dorky, sweet neighborly act completely melted away, replaced by a slow, heated focus that made your pulse skyrocket. He looked at you with so much unfiltered, agonizing adoration that it made your chest ache. “Besides,” he murmured, his eyes dropping briefly to your face before meeting your gaze again.
“Like I said… I was runnin’ right out of excuses. I just couldn’t go another day without seein’ you.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry despite the iced tea sitting nearby. You looked down at his hands—massive, heavily scarred across the knuckles from a life you could only guess about, and deeply calloused from years of hard, rough work.
Yet, right now, he was peeling that tiny tangerine with an almost heartbreaking gentleness, a stark, beautiful contrast to how easily those hands could probably crush cedar posts.
You knew, instinctively, why he always kept his distance, why he never quite crossed the line as he was terrifyingly big, a creature of muscle and scars, and he handled you like you were made of the finest, most breathless glass.
He was always hesitating, always pulling back his chin, so clearly scared that his rough, calloused skin or his sheer strength would hurt your softness.
It was a beautiful, agonizing torture.
He wanted you so badly it was written in every tense muscle of his back, yet he was holding himself back for your sake, “You could just come over without the cheese, Jason,” you said softly, a sudden spark of boldness cutting through your racing nerves.
Your voice was barely a breath, but it carried perfectly across the small distance. “You don’t need an excuse… I’m always waiting for you anyway.”
Jason’s hands stilled completely as the half-peeled tangerine sat heavily in his open palm. The silence stretched between you, pulsing with a sudden, thick electricity that felt entirely too loud in the empty house.
You could hear the rapid, heavy rise and fall of his chest. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a long, agonizing beat that made your entire body ache for him, before dragging back up to search your eyes as the yearning in his expression was completely raw, a desperate, hungry thing that he had tried so hard to hide under cowboy charm and silly gifts.
It was a heavy, breathless tension that made it hard to breathe. Slowly, carefully, as if dealing with something fragile, Jason set the fruit down. He drifted his massive hand across the wooden table, his fingers crawling forward until they stopped just a mere inch away from your elbow, but he didn’t touch you as his calloused knuckles just hovered there, casting a warm, radiating shadow against your bare skin.
His thumb twitched visibly, a silent testament to how desperately he wanted to close that final, agonizing inch, to wrap his hand around your arm and pull you into his lap, but he forced himself to stay back, his jaw clenching with the effort.
“Is that right?” Jason whispered as his voice dropped a whole octave, thick, gravelly, and laced with a dangerous, terrifying sincerity that made your heart do backflips.
He leaned forward just a fraction, his broad shoulders completely blocking out the rest of the dim kitchen, trapping you entirely in his heated focus. “Because if I come over here without an excuse, darlin’... if I come over just on account of starvin’ for you... I won’t have a lick of restraint left to keep my hands to myself.”
Jason’s knuckles remained just an inch from your skin, the radiant heat of his body bridging the small gap between you as the silence between you grew heavier, thick with the scent of fresh citrus and the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
“I’m leaving next week, Jason,” you murmured softly, the words feeling incredibly heavy in the quiet kitchen. “Summer break is almost over.”
The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. Jason’s hands stilled completely, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the fabric of his shirt. He stopped peeling the tangerine, the quiet, methodical scraping sound ending abruptly. Slowly, he looked up, his intense blue eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, dark gravity.
For a long moment, he didn’t say a word as he just looked at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face as if trying to memorize it before you could slip away. Then, with an agonizingly slow movement, he flattened his massive hand.
Resting in the center of his palm was a perfectly peeled tangerine section as every single bit of the bitter white pith had been carefully, meticulously removed by his thick fingers.
A soft, breathless smile touched your lips. “Thank you,” you whispered as you leaned forward slightly, reaching out to take the fruit from his hand. As your fingertips brushed against his palm, a sharp jolt of electricity seemed to shoot straight up your arm.
His skin was rough—incredibly rough—the heavy, dense calluses from years of working the ranch scraping lightly against your softer skin. He didn’t pull away, instead, his thumb swept in a slow, lingering stroke across the back of your hand, a deliberate, grounding touch that made your breath hitch.
Up close, his hands smelled distinctly of the sweet, sharp citrus, masked beneath the deeper scents of worn leather and cedarwood as Jason watched your every move intently, his breathing hitching slightly as you finally pulled the tangerine section away and popped it into your mouth.
You chewed slowly, trying to ground yourself, before crossing your arms and leaning your elbows heavily against the wooden table. You looked at him through your eyelashes, a sudden, nervous tightness gripping your chest.
“So,” you started, trying to keep your voice steady, though it lacked its usual confidence. “Do you want to keep in contact with me after I leave? Or… was I just a summer fling to you?”
Jason scoffed, the sound sharp and rough as it tore from his throat. He shook his head, a dark strand of his fringe falling across his forehead, highlighting the stark white-grey patch of hair near his temple.
“A summer fling?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that was laced with sudden offense. “Lord, are you serious, darlin’? You think I’ve been haulin’ forty-pound wheels of gourmet cheese out to your place every three days just 'cause I wanted a temporary distraction?”
The effortless reassurance in his voice made your heart do a violent flip against your ribs. He looked almost exasperated that you could even think such a thing, his massive chest rising and falling with a heavy, troubled breath. “I don’t even like artisanal brie,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes softening into something hopelessly whipped as he looked at you.
“I just needed an excuse to see you. I’ve been reading Cheese Aficionado magazine for three months just to have talking points.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. “You subscribed to a cheese magazine for me?”
“I’ll have you know I bought a premium digital membership,” he corrected solemnly, though a tiny, helpless smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Slowly, his larger hand began to slide across the table again as his biceps flexed against the wooden edge, looking massive in the dim light as he reached for you. His hand hovered directly over yours, so close you could feel the whisper of his pulse.
He wanted to touch you—you could see it in the way his thick fingers twitched, the way his jaw clenched as he stared down at your hand, but he hesitated as he looked at his own scarred, rough knuckles, and that familiar fear of being too big, too rough, and too careless with you took over.
With a tight, restrained exhale, Jason finally drew his hand back, gripping the edge of the table instead. He looked up at you through his dark brows, and right there, in the dim light of the kitchen, you froze.
His pupils were completely blown, swallowing up the blue of his irises until his gaze looked incredibly dark, heavy, and full of an uninhibited, raw hunger and you noticed it instantly.
… It was right in front of your eyes, entirely impossible to ignore.
A sudden, intense wave of self-consciousness washed over you. Feeling the sting of what felt like a quiet rejection when he pulled away, you quickly looked down at the table as you awkwardly reached up, scratching the back of your neck as a hot flush crept up your throat.
Your hands retreated from the table entirely, dropping down to your lap where you tightly laced your fingers together, an uncomfortable and heavy quiet stretched between you as Jason crossed his massive arms over his chest, leaning his heavy frame back against the wooden chair, the wood groaning softly under his weight.
He didn’t take his eyes off you as an anxious energy buzzing through your veins, you began to rhythmically drum your fingertips against your thigh, the soft, repetitive thudding sound filling the silence of the room.
Jason tilted his head slightly, his sharp jaw shifting as he listened to the pattern. “What melody is that?” he asked quietly, his tone softening, trying to break the sudden tension.
You stopped drumming for a fraction of a second, your fingers hovering over your lap. “About You by The 1975,” you answered softly, looking up to meet his gaze again.
Jason nodded his head, a slow, appreciative expression crossing his face. “Good song,” he murmured, and that single response opened the floodgates as you started talking about the album, the words spilling out of you a little fast at first out of sheer nervousness.
But as you kept going, the awkwardness began to melt away. Jason didn’t interrupt you once as he just sat there, completely entranced, his chin resting in his hand as he drank in every single expression on your face.
He was so visibly captivated it was almost ridiculous—the tough, stoic cowboy reduced to putty just because you were rambling about indie pop.
The more excited you got, the more he smiled. It wasn’t that goofy, neighborly grin from before; it was a soft, incredibly tender smile that reached all the way to his eyes, completely melting the rugged, dangerous edge of his features.
“And then the saxophone solo hits in the middle of the track,” you explained earnestly, leaning forward, “and it’s just— it feels like the musical equivalent of a main character realization in a movie, you know?”
Jason let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is that right? A main character’s realization?”
“Yes! Don’t laugh at me!” you giggled, playfully swatting at his arm, instead of pulling away, Jason caught your hand mid-air as his large fingers wrapped securely around your wrist, not squeezing, but holding you there.
He slowly guided your hand down to the table, his index finger tracing a slow, mesmerizing circle over the sensitive skin of your inner wrist as his gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a heavy, simmering warmth behind his lashes.
Before either of you even realized it, the distance between you began to shrink again. You were both leaning heavily against the table now, your elbows propped on the wood as the conversation drifted into lighter, sillier topics.
“Okay, but you still haven’t explained why you brought truffle gouda last week,” you teased, your voice dropping into a playful, conspiratorial whisper. “That stuff smells like a wet dog, Jason! I had to wrap it in three layers of tin foil.”
Jason burst out laughing, a rich, booming sound that vibrated right through the wooden tabletop. “Hey, now! The boy workin’ the deli counter down at the Piggly Wiggly swore up and down it was an aphrodisiac! I was desperate, darlin’—pure t-desperate!”
“An aphrodisiac?!” You threw your head back, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “You tried to seduce me with fungus cheese?”
“I didn’t know no better!” he defended himself, though he was laughing just as hard, his eyes bright and absolutely helpless. “I’m a cattleman, sweetheart. If it doesn’t come sliced up in a yellow plastic Kraft wrapper, I am completely out of my depth. I saw a French name on the label and figured I was pullin’out the big guns.”
“I was just tryin’ my damndest to impress the smart city girl, and look where it got me! Gettin’ interrogated over some moldy dairy in my own kitchen.”
Every time a laugh escaped your lips, you would unconsciously lower your head, your body naturally gravitating toward his massive warmth.
You moved a bit closer, and Jason met you halfway, his broad shoulders relaxing as he leaned in, his hand sliding up from your wrist to weave his fingers through yours, anchoring you to him.
The quiet midnight air around you felt charged, thick, and dizzyingly intimate as the laughter gradually tapered off into soft, breathless smiles, and as you tilted your head up, you realized just how close you had gotten.
Your foreheads were almost touching, the space between you down to mere inches and you could smell the sweet citrus on his breath, see the individual dark lashes framing his blown pupils, and feel the intoxicating, heavy heat radiating directly off his skin.
Jason’s gaze dropped to your mouth again, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a slow, agonizingly sweet rhythm that screamed he was never, ever letting you go.
The space between you stayed small, the air thick with a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat outside as Jason’s fingers remained loosely woven with yours on the table, his thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke against the back of your hand as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin.
“So,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, cozy register that felt like a late-night radio host. “If I’m barred from buyin’ you that fancy truffle cheese from here on out... what else am I supposed to ask you about? What’s a regular day look like for you when you ain’t takin’ pity on a lonely cattleman?”
You let out a soft snort, nudging his knee with yours under the table. “I don’t take pity on you. And my regular days are boring. Just… a lot of studying, drinking way too much iced coffee, and trying to survive group projects.”
“Group projects, huh?” Jason tilted his head, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips as he shifted closer, his broad chest pressing slightly against the edge of the table. “Now, that sounds like a mess. You got a good crew down there?”
“Some folks who take care of you when you’re stressin’ yourself out? Because you’ve got a bad habit of carrying the weight of the world on those pretty shoulders, and I’d reckon a smart girl like you is probably doin’ all the heavy liftin’ for the whole lot of ‘em.”
You scoffed, a dramatic sigh slipping past your lips. The sudden wave of exhaustion from just thinking about the upcoming semester caught up to you. Without really thinking about it, you let your grip on his hand loosen just enough so you could fold your arms on the table, burying your face in your sleeves.
You turned your head to the side, resting your cheek against your forearm so you were still looking up at him from table-level.
From down here, Jason looked absolutely massive, his dark silhouette framed by the dim kitchen light as he immediately leaned down with you, propping his chin on his free hand, his intense blue eyes fixed entirely on your face.
The sheer weight of his gaze was enough to make your stomach do a dizzying flip; he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
“My friends are great,” you mumbled into your arm, your voice a little muffled but full of genuine affection. “Maya practically lives at my apartment, and Leo always brings over takeout when he knows I’ve been staring at a computer screen for twelve hours. They’re amazing!”
“Nothing but good things to say about them, they’ll probably be thrilled to have me back.” You paused, letting out another groan that vibrated against the wood. “But the actual school part? The classes and the professors who act like their syllabus is the holy grail? I’m already dreading it... It’s just endless reading and exams.”
Jason scoffed, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. A look of playful disdain crossed his rugged features. “Sounds like a total racket to me. You’re tellin’ me you pay all that good tuition money just for some fella in tweed to make your life miserable?”
He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dancing with a sudden spark of mischief. “Tell you what, darlin’—I got a better proposition.”
“You just stay right here on the ranch. I’ll write you a fake diploma on the back of a Purina feed bag. ‘Certified Expert in Artisanal Brie.’ No exams required, no sleepin’ on a library desk. Just practical application.”
A bright, genuine laugh bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy atmosphere instantly as you shook your head against your arm, your shoulders shaking with giggles. “A feed bag, Jason? Really? I don’t think that’s accredited.”
“Hey, now, don’t go knockin’ it. It’ll have my signature right there at the bottom, and I’ll have you know that it still holds some weight in this county,” he teased, his voice incredibly soft, utterly whipped by the sound of your laughter.
He watched you melt, a lazy grin stretching across his face. “Besides, I’ll even throw in a gold star if you promise to keep testin’ out the cheese recipes with me.”
As your chuckles faded into a content sigh, Jason’s hand slowly lifted from the table as he hesitated for a brief second, his thick, calloused fingers hovering just above your head, before he finally closed the distance.
His large hand slid gently into your hair but you didn’t pull away, instead, you let out a soft, pleased breath, leaning your head a little heavier into his touch. Jason’s fingers were surprisingly careful, contrasting completely with the rugged, scarred look of his knuckles as he began to slowly weave his hand through your strands, gently ruffling the hair near the crown of your head before smoothing it back down.
His thumb lightly brushed against the top of your ear, a lingering, tender touch that sent a pleasant shiver straight down your spine. He just watched you, his jaw relaxed, his pupils still wide and dark as he took in the sight of you letting him touch you so freely.
“There,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray strand and tucking it behind your ear with agonizing slowness. “Much better, no school stress allowed in this kitchen.”
The rhythmic, soothing motion of Jason’s thick fingers in your hair was working its magic with dangerous efficiency. Every slow, deliberate stroke against your scalp felt like a physical anchor pulling you deeper into the plush cushions of the couch.
“I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice growing a little softer, losing its sharp edge as the exhaustion finally started to win. “Maybe a feed-bag diploma isn’t the worst idea… at least the tuition is cheaper.”
Jason let out another low, vibrating chuckle. The sound rumbled deep in his chest, a comforting acoustic wave in the quiet room as his fingers paused for a fraction of a second to gently press against the crown of your head, a grounding weight that made your eyelids flutter. “Cheaper? Darlin’, it’s free,” he said, his Texas drawl wrapping around the words like a warm blanket.
“Plus, it comes with a lifetime supply of tangerine peelin’ services, courtesy of yours truly. I’d say that’s a pretty solid benefits package right there.” He leaned back a fraction, hooking his thumb in his pocket with a slow, easy grin.
“Most folks gotta negotiate for that kind of dental and vision, but for you? It’s just standard policy. Heck, I’ll even throw in a designated driver for life, long as you don’t mind ridin’ shotgun in a dirty truck.”
“Mmm. Sounds tempting,” you whispered. You leaned your head back just a fraction more, implicitly demanding he resume the stroking.
He complied instantly, his thumb tracing a slow line behind your ear. “Do I have to wear the little graduation cap, or can I just wear a cowboy hat?”
“Well, now, that depends on your GPA,” he teased, his voice dropping an octave, rich with quiet amusement. “But seeing as I’m the dean of this particular academy, I think we can arrange a dress code exception for you.”
The initial burst of nervous energy that had been keeping you wired all evening was completely gone now, replaced by a heavy, syrupy exhaustion that felt like lead in your veins as the conversation drifted, slowing down to a lazy, comfortable crawl as the minutes ticked by on the kitchen clock.
You found yourself fixating on the sheer absurdity of his daily routine. “Explain to me again,” you mumbled, your eyes remaining closed for three seconds before you forced them open a crack, “how you actually manage to wake up at four in the morning without wanting to physically fight the sun.”
Jason laughed softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “The sun and I got a mutual understandin’, darlin’. I don’t bother it, and it stays out of my way till I’ve had myself at least one cup of black coffee. Besides, them horses don’t care much for sleepin’ in.”
“Horses are overachievers,” you decided, your voice barely above a breath. “What’s the weirdest coffee order you’ve ever had to make at the shop? To survive that early?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said, his fingers winding through a soft knot of your hair, untangling it with infinite patience. “Had a fella come in last month, swore up and down by a large drip with a shot of espresso, a pump of peppermint, and a healthy splash of lemonade.”
You let out a weak, horrified sound, shifting your weight. “That’s a crime! He should be in jail.”
“That’s just what I told him,” Jason murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. “But the man paid in crisp cash and looked like he hadn’t slept since the turn of the century, so I figured I’d let it slide. Can’t say the same for you, though. You’re fadin’ fast on me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“No,” you lied.
The word was delayed, a sluggish defense as your eyes fluttered shut again, and this time, it took a monumental effort to pull them back open to look at him. “Just… resting my eyes. I’m listening to every word. Lemonade coffee… and jail.”
“Yeah, I can see that. You’re a real conversational powerhouse right now, ain't you?” he replied softly, his lips twitching into a tender smile as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. “Go on and close ‘em, darlin’. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Then, the room went entirely quiet as the only sounds left were the familiar, low hum of the refrigerator and the gentle rustle of the wind outside the window, cutting through the warm Texas night.
You meant to keep talking—you really did as you had a whole defense prepared about why resting your eyes was a legitimate form of active listening.
But the steady, radiating warmth of Jason’s body beside you was intoxicating. The mesmerizing, slow trace of his fingers through your hair felt like a weighted blanket pressing you down into a deep, safe well of sleep.
Your breathing slowed, the shallow catching of your lungs evening out into a deep, peaceful, rhythmic sigh as your eyes finally stayed shut.
The room, the kitchen clock, the smell of old wood and Jason's cedarwood cologne all dissolved into a soft, dark blur as Jason noticed the exact moment you went under.
Your shoulders, which had been held with a faint residual tightness, completely dropped. The tension left your frame as you sank fully forward, your head coming to rest on your folded arms atop the hard wooden table.
With agonizing slowness, terrified he would startle you awake and ruin the peace you so desperately needed, Jason shifted his massive frame closer as the wooden chair beneath him groaned slightly, and he froze, holding his breath until your deep, even respirations confirmed you were still fast asleep.
He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently catching a few stray strands of hair that had fallen across your cheek, clinging to your eyelashes. He tugged them back with a surgeon’s precision, smoothing them tenderly behind your ear just to get a clear, unobstructed view of your sleeping face.
He stared down at you for a long, quiet moment. In the dim light of the kitchen, his expression went completely unguarded as the tough, unbothered, stoic cowboy facade he wore out in the world evaporated entirely, replaced by a look of pure, helpless adoration.
He looked at you the way a man looks at something fragile and infinitely precious—something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold.
A small frown briefly marred his forehead as he noticed the angle of your neck. Your cheek was pressed flat against your sleeve and the unforgiving, hard edge of the kitchen table since he knew you’d wake up in an hour with a stiff neck, a bruised cheek, and a grumpy disposition.
Carefully, moving with a fluid, liquid gentleness that contradicted his large size, Jason slid his right hand underneath your face. His palm was rough, mapped with lines of hard labor, but it was incredibly warm.
He cradled your cheek in his hand, lifting your head just a fraction of an inch so your skin rested against his soft palm instead of the harsh wood.
As if sensing the change in sleep, a low, deeply contented hum vibrated in your throat as your lips parted slightly, exhaling a soft puff of warm air against his wrist. A faint, sleepy smile touched the corners of your mouth, and your face naturally, instinctively nuzzled deeper into the heavy comfort of his hand, seeking his warmth like a plant turning toward the sun.
Jason’s breath hitched at the movement and for a second, his heart did a frantic, erratic thud against his ribs, loud enough that he feared you’d hear it.
A soft, breathless smile broke across his own face, a silent chuckle shaking his shoulders. He didn’t move his hand away, instead, he just sat there in the quiet Texas night, keeping completely still, his thumb beginning to move in a slow, impossibly tender circle against your cheekbone.
He was completely content to stay frozen in that kitchen, holding the weight of your sleep for as long as you needed him to as Jason’s eyes flicked over to the small digital clock on the microwave, the bright blue numbers casting a faint glow in the dark room.
1:14 AM.
A soft sigh escaped him and as much as he wanted to stay frozen in this exact position forever, he knew he couldn’t let you sleep the rest of the night on a hard wooden kitchen chair.
Moving with the absolute utmost care, Jason began to slide his hand out from beneath your cheek.
He did it in microscopic increments, ensuring his rough calluses didn’t catch on your skin, substituting his palm with the soft cushion of your own folded arms so your head lowered gently back down.
You let out a tiny, discontented mumble at the loss of his warmth, but your eyes stayed closed, your breathing deep and even as Jason quietly pushed his chair back, the wooden legs making barely a sound against the floor.
He stood up, his massive, broad-shouldered frame instantly towering over the table, his shadow completely eclipsing your small form in the dim light.
He stepped around the table, positioning himself right behind your chair. Bending down, he slipped one thick, powerful arm beneath your knees and wrapped his other massive arm securely around your upper back.
With a single, effortless fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms, gathering you into a secure bridal carry, and to a man who spent his days tossing eighty-pound hay bales, you felt entirely weightless.
Your head naturally lolled sideways, your face burying right into the crook of his neck. The soft fabric of his shirt scraped against your cheek, and you instinctively curled closer, your hands weakly clutching at his chest as you sought out his radiating body heat as Jason froze for a second, his chest tightening in pure affection, before he stepped out of the kitchen.
The hallway was dark, but he knew the layout of your house by heart. He walked with heavy, deliberate, yet completely silent footsteps, mindful of the doorways as he carried you into your bedroom.
The room was cool, the window cracked open to let in the fresh night air. Jason navigated around the edge of the bed and carefully lowered his knees, laying you down onto the mattress.
The sheets rustled softly as you sank into the pillows, your arms finally letting go of his shirt as you rolled onto your back, completely dead to the world.
As you shifted, the hem of your loose shirt caught on the fabric of his sleeves, riding up a few inches to expose a sliver of your bare belly to the cool room.
Jason’s hands stilled as he stared down at you in the dark, a rush of blood hitting his ears as his jaw clenched. He looked away for a split second, clearing his throat silently, before he reached down with two fingers.
With agonizing care, he caught the edge of your shirt and pulled it back down, smoothing the fabric over your stomach to cover you back up and keep you warm. He then reached for the comforter at the foot of the bed, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in safely.
He didn’t leave right away as he stood over your bed for a long moment, just watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. The realization that you were leaving in a week felt like a heavy stone in his gut, but looking at you now, so peaceful and safe in his space, he knew a little bit of distance wasn’t going to change a damn thing.
He was already too far gone.
Leaning down, Jason placed his large hand flat on the mattress beside your head to support his weight as he pressed his lips gently against your forehead, the kiss lingering for a few long, quiet seconds, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp.
He pulled back slowly, his eyes sweeping over your face one last time before he turned on his heel and quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click.
request batfam who meet kids that remind them of their past selves | part 1 here as i ran out of blocks :/
characters bruce wayne here, dick grayson here, jason todd, tim drake here, damian wayne here, duke thomas here, stephanie brown here, cassandra cain here
content batfam x platonic! child reader, gender neutral! reader, orphan!reader
masterlist
jason todd, 6.7k
child neglect, poverty, homelessness/unsafe housing, child endangerment, child involved in gang activity, exploitation of a minor, implied gang violence, threats of violence, injury to a child (its a split lip), dental injury, medical/dental neglect, childhood trauma, references to jason’s death, references to past child vigilantism, discussions of revenge, mild language, emotional hurt/comfort, protective pseudo-parent dynamic, no explicit abuse shown but implied systemic neglect
Jason caught you stealing the tyres off his bike at two in the morning.
Not trying to steal. Not thinking about stealing.
Actively stealing.
You had one wheel halfway off, a wrench clutched in your hand like a weapon, your hoodie pulled up over your head, and the fierce, feral focus of someone who had not eaten enough to be patient.
For a second, Jason just stood there in the mouth of the alley and watched.
It was not even a bad job. That was the first annoying part.
You had picked the back tyre first, probably because it was less visible from the street. You had jammed a chunk of brick under the frame to keep the bike balanced. You had chosen a narrow alley off Park Row where the streetlight flickered just enough to make cameras unreliable.
Smart.
Stupid. But smart.
The second annoying part was that you were tiny.
Not toddler tiny. Not harmless tiny. Gotham did not make harmless children. But young. Ten, maybe eleven if the city had sharpened you early, which it clearly had.
Skinny wrists. Split knuckles. Shoes held together with duct tape. The kind of hoodie that used to belong to someone bigger, older, maybe gone.
Jason felt something ugly and familiar crawl up the back of his throat.
He stepped forward.
“You know,” he said, “most people start with a hello.”
You shot up so fast you hit your head on the seat. “Shit!”
“Language,” Jason said automatically, then hated himself for it immediately.
You spun around, wrench raised.
Jason looked at it. Looked at you. Looked back at the wrench.
“Really?”
Your eyes narrowed. “Come closer and find out.”
Jason’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Kid, that’s my bike.”
You glanced at the tyre, then back at him. “Don’t see your name on it.”
“It’s literally custom.”
“That’s not a name.”
“It has guns hidden in it.”
You froze.
Jason grinned. “Relax. Not in the tyre.”
Your grip on the wrench tightened. “You a cop?”
That killed the smile.
“No.”
“Then why do you care?”
“Because you’re stealing from me.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And I’m emotionally attached to my tyres.”
You stared at him like he was the weirdest problem your night had coughed up.
Jason should have grabbed the wrench, scared you off, fixed his bike, and moved on.
That would have been normal. Reasonable. Healthy, even.
Instead, he looked at the hollow beneath your cheekbones, the bruise yellowing along your jaw, the way you kept your body between him and the alley exit like you were ready to bolt but too proud to admit it.
He saw a kid with grease on their hands and hunger in their eyes. He saw himself, twelve years old and all ribs and bad decisions, jacking tyres off the Batmobile because poverty made every dangerous thing look like an opportunity.
He hated it. He hated you a little for being there.
He hated Gotham more.
“Where were you gonna sell it?” he asked.
“None of your business.”
“Pawn place on Ninth gives trash rates.”
Your expression flickered.
Jason leaned against the brick wall. “Don’t go to Mikey’s either. He’ll trade you half cash, half store credit, and the store credit’s only good for expired chips and illegal fireworks.”
Your eyes sharpened. “You know places?”
“I know a lot of places.”
“You a thief?”
“Retired.”
“That means yes.”
Jason shrugged. “That means evolved.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself. Then you looked furious that he had made you do it.
Jason pointed at the wrench. “Put that down.”
“No.”
“Put it down, and I’ll buy you food.”
Your face closed instantly.
There it was. The door slam.
Adults only offered things when they wanted something. A meal was never a meal. A ride was never a ride. A kind voice was a hook hidden in bread.
Jason knew that look too well.
“Forget it,” you snapped. “I’m not stupid.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“I don’t go nowhere with strangers.”
“Good.”
That made you pause.
Jason nodded once. “Seriously. Good instinct. Keep that.”
You lowered the wrench half an inch. “Then what’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, probably,” Jason said. “But not from me.”
You stared.
He sighed and pulled out his phone. You tensed immediately.
“I’m ordering,” he said, turning the screen so you could see. “Diner on the corner. You walk in by yourself. Sit wherever you want. I pay over the phone. You eat. I stay out here and mourn my bike’s emotional trauma.”
Your suspicion did not lessen, but hunger moved behind your eyes like a live thing. “What kind of food?”
Jason did not smile. “Whatever you want.”
Your throat bobbed. “Burger?”
“Yeah.”
“Fries?”
“Obviously.”
“Milkshake?”
“Don’t push it.”
You raised the wrench again.
Jason sighed. “Fine. Milkshake.”
“Two burgers.”
“Now you’re negotiating?”
“You said whatever I want.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re the idiot offering.”
Jason looked at you for a long second.
Then he said, quieter, “Yeah. I am.”
You did not tell him your name that night.
You ate like someone had taught you food could disappear if you did not move fast enough.
Jason watched from across the street, helmet tucked under one arm, pretending he was not watching. You sat with your back to the wall and your eyes on every entrance. You wrapped the second burger in napkins and shoved it into your hoodie pocket.
Not greedy.
Saving it.
That made something in his chest twist mean.
When you came out, you wiped your mouth with your sleeve and tossed him a look. “Your tyre’s fine.”
“You only got halfway through.”
“I could’ve finished.”
“Sure.”
“I could’ve.”
“Sure.”
You glared. “Thanks for the food or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” Jason said.
Then you vanished into Crime Alley.
He let you.
Then he followed you.
Not close. Not in a way you would notice. Probably.
You moved like a kid who had mapped danger by necessity. Avoided the dealers on the corner. Cut through the laundromat because the owner looked the other way. Slipped behind a boarded-up bakery, through a busted fence, into a building that should have been condemned ten years ago.
Jason stood outside in the cold and stared up at the broken windows.
Of course. Of course you lived in a death trap with no heat, exposed wiring and a stairwell that probably had tetanus as a resident.
Of course you were his problem now.
“No,” Jason said aloud to himself.
A rat scurried by.
Jason pointed at it. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The rat, wisely, did not respond.
“I’m not doing this,” Jason said.
The building creaked.
Jason looked at the third-floor window where a faint light flickered.
He thought of Catherine coughing in a narrow apartment. Willis gone. Hunger like a second heartbeat. Bruce’s cape filled his vision for the first time, huge and impossible, after Jason had tried to steal the tyres off a car that turned out to belong to a myth.
He thought of how it felt to be caught and not hit. To be fed and not charged for it. To be given a bed and not told he owed his soul for the mattress.
Then he thought of the Robin suit. The crowbar. The grave.
Jason turned away.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Not a chance.”
By morning, he had researched the building ownership, the landlord’s criminal history, three active warrants tied to the local gang using the basement, and your name.
By noon, he had bought groceries.
By one, he was standing outside your building with two bags in his hands, hating every choice that had brought him there.
You found him before he knocked.
You dropped from the fire escape behind him like a feral raccoon in sneakers.
Jason did not jump. Much.
“Jesus—”
“Language,” you said.
Jason slowly turned.
You were smirking.
Little punk.
He held up the bags. “You stole my wrench.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I did not.”
“You didn’t take it back. Gotham rules.”
“That is not a real legal system.”
“Works better than the real one.”
Jason hated that he agreed.
Your gaze dropped to the bags. The smirk vanished.
“What’s that?”
“Groceries.”
“For who?”
“You.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what’s in them.”
“Don’t care.”
“There’s cereal.”
Your eyes betrayed you for half a second.
Jason lifted a brow. “Chocolate kind.”
“I said no.”
“Also bread. Peanut butter. Apples. Soup cans. Stuff that doesn’t need much cooking.”
“I’m not taking charity.”
“Good. Then consider it payment for not stealing my tyre.”
“You already paid me.”
“That was hush money.”
“For what?”
“For the emotional damage of seeing someone disrespect my bike.”
You did not laugh this time. Your shoulders hunched up around your ears, hard and defensive.
“I don’t need help.”
“Never said you did.”
“You think I’m some sad little street kid?”
Jason’s temper sparked.
Because yes.
Because no.
Because he hated that phrase, hated the pity baked into it, hated how often people looked at poor kids like they were tragedies instead of people surviving adults’ failures.
“I think you’re a kid,” he said.
Your face twisted. “Same thing around here.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is if you’re dumb enough to act like one.”
Jason went still.
There were things Gotham taught children that no one ever untaught them.
He crouched and set the bags on the ground between you.
“I’m leaving these here,” he said. “You can take them. You can throw them at my head. You can sell the peanut butter for all I care.”
Your eyes flicked over his face, hunting for the trap.
Jason stood.
“But don’t let pride starve you,” he said. “It’s a stupid way to die.”
Something crossed your face.
Not softness. Recognition, maybe.
Then you grabbed one bag and threw it at his chest.
He caught it.
“Keep your apples,” you snapped.
Then you snatched the other bag and bolted inside.
Jason looked down at the apples in the bag against his chest.
“Progress,” he told the rat watching from the gutter.
You were working for the East End Kings.
Not officially. Not initiated. Not old enough for them to trust with anything serious.
But enough. Running messages. Watching corners. Carrying burner phones. Sometimes moving small packages you probably knew better than to open.
Jason found out and saw red so fast his vision blurred.
The Kings were not major players. That almost made it worse. Small-time gangs were messier. Less discipline. More idiots with guns and something to prove. They used kids because kids were cheap, fast, and legally inconvenient to prosecute.
He found you three nights later on a corner in the rain, hood up, pretending not to shiver while a guy named Lenny handed you a folded envelope.
Jason waited until Lenny was alone.
Then Red Hood dropped him into a dumpster.
Gently.
For Jason.
Lenny groaned, nose bleeding. “What the hell, man?”
Red Hood crouched in front of him.
“The kid,” he said.
Lenny went pale. “I don’t know what—”
Jason grabbed the front of his jacket.
“The kid.”
“Just a runner! Just a runner, man. We don’t make ’em do anything.”
Jason’s grip tightened. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“They need cash! We give ’em work!”
Jason slammed him back against the dumpster hard enough to rattle the lid. “You go near them again, you’re gonna need a straw to eat soup.”
Lenny nodded frantically.
“Great talk.”
Jason let him drop.
Then he turned and found you standing at the alley entrance, face white with rage.
Ah. Shit.
“You had no right,” you said.
Jason straightened. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask you!”
“Kids don’t usually ask to be exploited.”
“I was handling it!”
“You were carrying drops for morons with guns!”
“I need the money!”
Jason stepped forward. “There are other ways.”
You laughed at him.
It was not a child’s laugh. It was sharp and ugly and exhausted.
“Spoken like someone who’s got a fridge.”
Jason froze.
You saw the hit land and pressed forward because Gotham kids learned to bite when they smelled weakness.
“You think I’m doing this for fun? You think I like those guys? They pay cash. Nobody else does. Nobody hires kids. Nobody cares if we eat. So unless you’ve got a magic job tree under that stupid helmet—”
“Who is we?”
You stopped.
Jason’s voice was quieter now. “Who are you feeding?”
Your jaw clenched. “No one.”
“Kid.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Who?”
You looked away, throat working.
For a second, he thought you would run.
Then you said, “Mara.”
Jason blinked. “Mara?”
“She lives downstairs. Old lady. Not like old-old. Just regular old. Her son used to bring groceries, but he got locked up. She’s got bad knees and she forgets stuff sometimes. If she doesn’t eat, she gets dizzy.”
Jason’s chest went tight.
“And Niko,” you added, almost unwillingly. “He’s six. His mom works nights when she can. Sometimes she’s gone two days. He cries if he’s hungry.”
Jason looked at you.
Not a thief. Not a runner. Not a problem.
A child standing between other vulnerable people and the city’s teeth, because no adult had stepped in fast enough.
Of course you had not left.
Of course you had refused the apples.
You were not trying to save yourself.
Jason wanted to punch every wall in Gotham.
Instead, he took off his helmet.
Your eyes widened despite yourself.
He clipped it under one arm.
“My name’s Jason,” he said.
“I know.”
Of course you did.
Jason sighed. “Yeah, okay. Creepy, but fair.”
“You’re Red Hood.”
“Allegedly.”
“You threatened Lenny.”
“Definitely.”
“I needed that money.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Jason’s face hardened, but not at you.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Something in his voice made you go quiet.
He crouched so you were closer to eye level, even though he knew you hated when adults did that. “I grew up three blocks from here. I stole tyres off a car once because I was hungry and thought I could sell them.”
You stared. “What happened?”
“The car belonged to Batman.”
For the first time since he’d met you, your face went completely blank with shock.
Then you said, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jason barked out a laugh. “Yeah. Wasn’t my finest hour.”
“Did he beat you up?”
“No.”
“Arrest you?”
“No.”
“What’d he do?”
Jason looked down the alley. Rain slid along the red curve of his helmet.
“He took me home,” he said.
You absorbed that silently.
Then, defensively, “Good for you.”
Jason looked back at you. “I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t agree to go.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“But I am going to make sure Mara and Niko have food. And you are going to stop working for the Kings.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“They’ll come after me.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Jason smiled. This one had teeth.
“They will.”
You stared at him for a long second.
Then you said, “You’re scary.”
“Yeah.”
“Not to me,” you added quickly.
Jason’s expression softened before he could stop it.
“No,” he said. “Not to you.”
Jason did not drag you out of Crime Alley.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He wanted to pick you up by the back of your oversized hoodie like an angry alley cat and deposit you somewhere with central heating, clean sheets, and zero gang members per square foot.
But he knew what it was to have your whole world dismissed as a bad place someone better could remove you from.
Crime Alley was dangerous.
It was also yours.
Mara downstairs, who called you “sunshine” even though you scowled every time. Niko from 2B, who followed you around with a stuffed dinosaur and absolute trust. Mrs. Alvarez at the laundromat, who let kids warm up by the dryers if they helped sweep. The bodega owner who pretended not to see you pocket bruised fruit and then started leaving it in a bag by the door after Jason had a quiet word and paid him double.
You had roots there. Twisted ones, maybe.
But roots.
So Jason started there.
He fixed Mara’s heater first. Badly. Then he called someone who knew how to fix heaters properly and stood there glaring until the job was done.
He stocked Niko’s apartment with groceries and told his mother, who looked ready to cry from exhaustion, that it was from a “community fund.” Then he actually created a community fund because Roy told him fraud was bad and paperwork was, unfortunately, a thing.
He got the building inspected. Then repaired. Then quietly bought by a shell company that definitely did not trace back to Jason Todd unless someone was Tim Drake, in which case all bets were off.
He showed up with groceries every Wednesday and claimed it was because he “overbought.”
“You overbought kid cereal, baby carrots, and arthritis cream?” you asked, unimpressed.
“I’m complex.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re short.”
“That’s not a comeback.”
“It’s an observation.”
“You’re bad at this.”
“At what?”
You gestured vaguely at him. “Being normal.”
Jason scoffed. Then went home and googled normal things guardians say to children.
The results were terrible. One article suggested “active listening.”
Jason closed the laptop.
Absolutely not.
The pseudo-dad thing happened slowly. Like mould. Or ivy.
Or a knife wound you did not notice until there was blood everywhere.
First, you started texting him.
Mostly insults.
you left soup cans. mara hates tomato. amateur hour.
Jason replied, Tell Mara I accept constructive criticism but not slander.
Then, niko has a fever. what do i do
Jason was halfway out the window before he finished reading.
He arrived with medicine, a thermometer, electrolyte drinks, and Leslie Thompkins on video call. You stood in the corner biting your thumbnail while Niko slept.
“He’s gonna be okay?” you asked.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Fever’s not too high.”
“You know?”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
Jason softened. “I’m sure.”
You nodded too fast.
Then, very quietly, “Okay.”
After that, you started texting before emergencies.
what’s a normal temp
how long does milk last if fridge broke
do teeth grow back if adult ones fall out
That one made Jason call immediately.
“Whose tooth?”
“Mine.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Kid.”
“I bit someone.”
Jason closed his eyes. “Why?”
“They deserved it.”
“Not the question.”
“He tried taking Niko’s backpack.”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is the tooth loose or out?”
“Loose.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Stay there.”
“You’re not my dad.”
Jason was already grabbing his jacket. “Never said I was.”
“You act like it.”
He froze.
The line went quiet.
Then you added, suspicious and small, “That’s weird, right?”
Jason swallowed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m still taking you to a dentist.”
“I don’t have dentist money.”
“I have dramatic overreaction money.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
The dentist said you had two cavities, one loose tooth from impact, and the kind of dental history that made Jason want to set something on fire.
You sat rigid in the chair, refusing to admit you were scared.
Jason sat beside you and let you squeeze two of his fingers until his knuckles popped.
Afterwards, you were silent in the passenger seat of his car, a bag of dental supplies in your lap.
Finally, you muttered, “Thanks.”
Jason looked straight ahead. “No problem.”
“I still think you’re bossy.”
“You bit a guy.”
“He started it.”
“You’re gonna put that on your college applications?”
“What’s college?”
Jason nearly drove into a lamppost.
That night, he opened a savings account.
Then another one.
Then he called Tim.
“I need a fake scholarship fund.”
Tim did not even sound surprised. “For your tyre thief?”
Jason scowled. “Don’t call them that.”
“Oh my God,” Tim said. “You imprinted.”
“I did not imprint.”
“You’re doing paperwork.”
“I hate you.”
“You’re nesting.”
Jason hung up.
Then texted him the information he needed.
The Robin question came on a bad night.
Of course it did. Bad nights were when old ghosts got chatty.
You had been jumped by two older kids from the Kings who were angry their easy runner had been taken off the board. They had not gotten far. Jason found them first.
He did not kill them.
He wanted credit for that.
He did, however, scare them so badly that one of them cried.
When he found you afterwards, you were sitting behind the laundromat with a split lip and murder in your eyes.
Jason crouched in front of you. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t ask.”
You slapped his hand away. “I said I’m fine!”
Jason sat back.
You were shaking.
Not from fear.
From humiliation. From helplessness. From the brutal math of being small in a city that worshipped power.
“I want you to teach me,” you said.
Jason’s whole body went still. “I already am.”
“Not that self-defense crap.”
His jaw tightened. “Careful.”
“I want the real stuff.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t!”
“You want me to train you like Robin.”
The name cracked across the alley.
You went quiet.
Jason felt sick.
There it was. The shadow he had been outrunning since the night he met you.
You wiped blood from your lip with your sleeve. “You were Robin.”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So no.”
“Batman trained you.”
“That’s not the winning argument you think it is.”
“You got out.”
Jason laughed once, sharp and humourless. “I died.”
You flinched.
He regretted it instantly.
But the truth sat between you now, ugly and necessary.
Rain dripped from the laundromat awning. Neon buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed and faded.
You stared at him.
“I know,” you whispered.
Jason looked away.
Of course you did. Gotham kids collected horror stories like other kids collected trading cards.
You took a shaky breath. “But you came back.”
“Not all of me.”
Your anger faltered.
Jason leaned against the brick wall and slid down until he was sitting on the dirty ground beside you.
He did not care about his jacket.
“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said. “And you’re not gonna like it.”
“I never like what you say.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You hugged your knees.
Jason stared at the opposite wall.
“When I was a kid, being Robin felt like power. Like finally, finally, I wasn’t the smallest thing in the room. I could hit back. I could help people. I could stand next to Batman and matter.”
You were listening now. Really listening.
“And I loved it,” Jason said, voice rough. “That’s the part nobody wants to talk about. I loved being Robin.”
Your eyes flicked to him.
“It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t. I had magic in my hands. I had a cape. I had people looking at me like I was worth something.” His throat tightened. “But I was still a kid. And kids shouldn’t have to bleed to prove they matter.”
You looked down. “I already bleed.”
“I know.”
“So teach me to make it count.”
Jason turned toward you.
That one hurt.
That one hit bone.
He reached out, slowly, and touched your shoulder. You did not pull away.
“You don’t have to make pain useful for it to be real,” he said.
Your face twisted. “If I’m not useful, what am I?”
Jason’s heart broke with a sound only he could hear. “You’re a kid.”
You scoffed, but it came out wet. “I’m serious.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It should be.”
“But it’s not.”
Jason closed his eyes.
“No,” he admitted. “Gotham makes damn sure it’s not.”
You were crying now, furious about it, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on your face.
“I hate being scared,” you said. “I hate not having money. I hate that people can just take stuff. Food, heat, whatever. I hate that they look at me and know I can’t do anything.”
Jason’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh. “I know.”
“I want them to be scared of me.”
“I know.”
“You are.”
Jason looked at you.
“You’re Red Hood. People run when they see you.”
“Yeah.”
“I want that.”
“No,” Jason said. “You want to be safe. Those feel the same when you’ve never had safe.”
That shut you up.
He let the words sit. Then he said, “I’m not making you Robin. I’m not making you Hood Junior. I’m not putting a gun in your hand or a mask on your face and calling it healing.”
“I wouldn’t use a gun.”
“Not the point.”
“I could help.”
“You already do.”
You scowled. “Not like that.”
Jason bumped your shoulder lightly with his.
“You kept Mara alive. You looked after Niko. You survived this place with duct-tape shoes and a stolen wrench. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to help.”
Your mouth trembled.
He continued, softer, “But you’re not responsible for saving everyone. Not Mara. Not Niko. Not Crime Alley. Not me.”
Your eyes snapped up.
“Especially not me,” he added.
You looked away fast.
Jason sighed.
“I’ll teach you how to fight enough to get away,” he said. “I’ll teach you how to break holds. How to scream so people hear you. How to use your size. How to patch a cut, spot a bad deal, read a lease, cook something besides canned noodles.”
“That’s not fighting.”
“That’s surviving.”
“I want more.”
“I know.”
“Will you ever teach me more?”
Jason hated that question.
He hated that he could not honestly say never.
Because you were Gotham. Because danger would find you even if he wrapped the whole city in Kevlar. Because one day you would be older, and you might still want to help, and Jason knew better than anyone that locking a kid away from choice was just another kind of cage.
So he said, “When you can tell the difference between wanting justice and wanting revenge, we’ll talk.”
You stared at the ground. “How will I know?”
Jason’s voice dropped. “You’ll stop hoping it hurts.”
You were silent for a long time.
Then you leaned sideways until your shoulder rested against his arm.
It was not a hug.
Jason understood. He sat there with you behind the laundromat while the rain turned the alley silver and cold.
Eventually, you said, “Your bike still has ugly tires.”
Jason looked at the sky. “I am trying to have a profound parenting moment here.”
“You’re not my parent.”
“Thank God. You’re expensive.”
You sniffed.
Then, very quietly, “But you kinda are.”
Jason did not move.
His heart did something stupid and painful.
“Yeah?” he asked, too carefully.
You shrugged, still not looking at him. “Pseudo.”
He huffed. “Pseudo, huh?”
“Means fake.”
“I know what pseudo means.”
“Wasn’t sure.”
“You’re bleeding on my jacket.”
“You sat next to me.”
“Terrible choice.”
“You make a lot of those.”
Jason smiled despite himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “This one’s not so bad.”
The first time you slept at Jason’s apartment, it was because the building heat went out again.
Technically, it had been fixed.
The pipes disagreed.
Jason found you, Niko, and Mara bundled in three coats each, with the oven open for warmth.
He almost had a stroke.
“Nope,” he said.
Mara blinked at him. “Good evening to you, too, dear.”
“Nope. Everyone up. We’re leaving.”
You bristled immediately. “We’re not—”
“The oven is open.”
“It’s fine.”
“That is carbon monoxide poisoning with extra steps.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I have died before. I get to be dramatic.”
Mara lifted a hand. “He does have a point, sunshine.”
Betrayal flashed across your face. “Mara.”
“He brought groceries last week with those nice pears.”
“That’s not relevant!”
Jason packed bags while you complained. Niko cheered because Jason had a TV and cereal. Mara took one look at Jason’s panicked attempt to make the apartment “presentable” and patted his cheek.
“You’re a good boy,” she said.
Jason nearly dropped a blanket.
You laughed for six straight minutes.
His apartment was not built for guests, much less an elderly woman, a six-year-old, and a sharp-mouthed preteen with trauma and burglary skills.
By midnight, Niko was asleep on the couch. Mara had taken Jason’s bed despite protesting exactly once. You had claimed the floor near the window.
Jason stared at you from the kitchen. “No.”
You lifted your head from your bundled hoodie. “What?”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“I sleep on floors all the time.”
“That’s not the compelling argument you think it is.”
“I’m fine.”
Jason pointed down the hall. “Guest room.”
“You don’t have a guest room.”
“I have a room with boxes in it.”
“So a box room.”
“Now it has a mattress.”
“Since when?”
Since he had ordered one three weeks ago and told himself it was “for emergencies.”
“Since shut up.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You planned this.”
“I planned nothing.”
“You bought a kid mattress.”
“It’s a regular mattress.”
“It has dinosaur sheets.”
Jason paused.
Niko, asleep on the couch, murmured something about stegosauruses.
Jason lowered his voice. “Those are for Niko.”
“You bought dinosaur sheets for Niko.”
“He likes dinosaurs.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
Your expression did something complicated.
Too soft. Too young.
Jason looked away first.
“There are extra blankets,” he muttered.
You stood slowly, gathering your hoodie around yourself like armour.
In the hallway, you stopped.
“Jason?”
“Yeah?”
“If I sleep in there, you won’t lock the door?”
His chest caved.
“No,” he said, voice steady by force. “I won’t lock the door.”
“And I can leave if I want?”
“Yeah.”
“And you won’t be mad?”
“No.”
You nodded.
Then disappeared into the room.
Jason stood in the kitchen for a long time, gripping the counter.
Later, around three in the morning, he woke to the soft pad of feet.
You stood in his doorway, pale and furious with yourself.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
“No.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Jason sat up slowly on the couch where he had exiled himself.
“You want water?”
You shook your head.
“You want me to check the locks?”
Another shake.
“You want to sit?”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
He made room.
You sat at the far end of the couch, knees tucked up, not touching him.
After a while, you whispered, “I dreamed I stole your tyre and you left.”
Jason swallowed. “Kid.”
“I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t care if you leave.”
“Liar.”
You glared at him in the dark.
Jason smiled faintly.
“I’m not leaving because of a tyre,” he said.
“What about because I’m annoying?”
“I know Dick Grayson. My standards are warped.”
“What about because I’m too much?”
There it was. The real nightmare.
Jason’s voice went quiet.
“I know too much,” he said. “I know heavy. I know sharp edges. I know nightmares and bad choices and punching first because asking for help feels like handing someone a knife.”
Your eyes shone.
“You’re not too much,” Jason said. “You’re just a kid who’s had to carry too much.”
You looked down fast. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“I know.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then we put some of it down one piece at a time.”
“We?”
Jason blinked.
Then, because the truth had already made a mess of him, he said, “Yeah. We.”
You leaned against him five minutes later. Very lightly. Like you were giving him plausible deniability.
Jason did not move.
Pseudo-dad, apparently.
Fine.
He could be pseudo.
You got clean shoes in March.
You hated them.
“They’re too white,” you complained, standing in Jason’s kitchen with one foot lifted like a cat forced into socks.
“They’re shoes.”
“They look rich.”
“They look like they don’t leak.”
“They squeak.”
“They’re new.”
“They’re embarrassing.”
“So was watching you duct-tape the old ones to your feet.”
“That was engineering.”
“That was a cry for help.”
You glared.
Jason crossed his arms.
You crossed yours.
Behind him, Roy—who had made the fatal mistake of stopping by during the shoe war—leaned against the counter eating cereal from the box.
“You two know you’re making the exact same face, right?”
“Shut up,” you and Jason said together.
Roy grinned. “Adorable.”
Jason threw a dish towel at him.
The shoes stayed.
So did the dentist appointments. The school enrollment. The tutoring. The fridge stocked with snacks you pretended not to like and ate anyway. The little basket by the door with your name on it, filled with gloves, keys, a phone charger, and increasingly weird rocks Niko gave you “for protection.”
You still lived in Crime Alley most days, because Jason had promised not to rip your life away.
But you also had a bed at his place.
A toothbrush. A drawer.
Then two drawers.
Then one day Jason opened the hall closet and found your hoodie hanging beside his jacket.
He stared at it for a full minute.
“Don’t make it weird,” you said from behind him.
Jason closed the closet. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Go do your homework.”
“Pseudo-parent behaviour.”
“Pseudo-grounded behaviour.”
“You can’t ground me.”
“Try me.”
You did your homework.
Badly. With dramatic suffering.
Jason helped, which mostly meant both of you learned fractions through mutual resentment.
One evening, while you were hunched over math problems at his kitchen table, you said, “Did Batman make you do homework?”
Jason nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
“When you were Robin.”
Jason leaned back. “Alfred did.”
“Who’s Alfred?”
Jason went still.
Then he smiled, but it hurt.
“The best man I ever knew.”
You studied him, sensing the grief without poking it too hard. “What’d he do?”
“Fed me. Yelled at me politely. Patched me up. Made me go to school. Taught me manners.”
You squinted. “Didn’t work.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, he’d agree.”
You tapped your pencil against the paper. “Was he like your dad?”
Jason thought about it.
“No,” he said. “He was Alfred.”
You nodded like that made perfect sense.
Then you said, “Are you like that?”
Jason’s throat tightened.
“Like Alfred?”
“No. Like…” You waved your pencil vaguely. “Whatever you are.”
Jason looked at you sitting at his table in your not-leaking shoes, with a smear of peanut butter on your sleeve and a math worksheet you had called “government propaganda.”
He thought about fathers. Willis, who had left bruises and absences. Bruce, who had given him a home and a cape and grief complicated enough to need its own filing system. Alfred, who had loved like soup, structure, and sharp British disapproval.
Jason did not know how to be any of those things.
Maybe that was good. Maybe you did not need a repeat.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
You nodded again. “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“You’re here,” you said, like it was obvious. “That counts.”
Jason had to look away.
“Math,” he ordered.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m allergic to fractions.”
“Liar.”
“Brat.”
“Pseudo-brat.”
Jason laughed, rough and startled.
You grinned.
There it was.
Not healing like a miracle. Not safety like a switch flipped on.
But something.
A fridge with food in it. Shoes that did not leak. A kid at a kitchen table, alive and complaining.
A man who had been Robin refusing to make another one out of hunger and rage.
Months later, you found the helmet.
Not the one he wore most nights. An older one. Cracked along the side. Retired after a bullet had kissed it too close.
Jason found you sitting on the floor of the safe room, holding it in your lap.
For a second, all the air left him.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said.
“You should get better locks.”
“I have military-grade locks.”
“Yeah. You should get better ones.”
He stepped inside slowly.
You ran your fingers over the red surface. “Is this what made people scared of you?”
Jason leaned against the wall. “No.”
You looked up. “Then what?”
“The choices I made wearing it.”
Your expression turned thoughtful.
Not hungry, exactly.
But curious in a way that made his stomach knot.
“It feels powerful.”
“Yeah.”
“Robin felt powerful too?”
Jason closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah.”
“Do you miss it?”
The answer should have been no.
Simple. Clean. Responsible.
But Jason had promised himself he would not build your life on lies.
“Sometimes,” he said.
You looked surprised. “Really?”
“Flying across rooftops? Helping people? Being part of something bigger? Yeah. I miss parts of it.”
“But not all.”
“No.”
“Because you died.”
“Because I was a kid,” Jason said. “And I didn’t know I deserved to be safe before I deserved to be useful.”
You looked down at the helmet. “I want to help people.”
“I know.”
“Not because of revenge.”
Jason said nothing.
“Okay, maybe a little because of revenge.”
“There it is.”
“But not only a little.”
He sat on the floor across from you.
The safe room lights hummed softly.
“You help people now,” he said.
You rolled your eyes. “If you say Mara and Niko—”
“Mara and Niko.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It counts more than punching idiots in masks, actually.”
“You punch idiots in masks.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain hypocrisy.”
Jason pointed at you. “Vocabulary. Nice.”
You tried not to look pleased.
He reached out, palm up.
After a moment, you handed him the helmet.
He set it between you.
“This isn’t the only way to be strong.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You were quiet.
Then, “I’m trying to.”
Jason nodded. “That’s enough for today.”
You stared at the helmet. “Will you ever let me wear one?”
Jason’s heart did that old, painful twist.
“When you’re older,” he said, “if you still want this, we’ll talk. Not because you’re hungry. Not because you’re scared. Not because you think being feared is the same as being free.”
You looked at him. “When, then?”
“When you’ve got a life you’d be choosing it from. Not a life you’re trying to escape.”
Your eyes went shiny, and you immediately looked furious about it. “Gross.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Feelings are a biohazard.”
You shoved his shoulder.
He shoved yours back, gently.
You smiled.
Not sharp. Not fake.
Just a little.
Jason thought of Batman catching him with a tyre iron. Thought of the Manor. The Cave. The suit. The grave.
He thought of all the roads pain had opened and all the doors it had closed.
Then he looked at you.
You were not Robin. You were not Hood. You were not a weapon Gotham got to forge because the city was too cheap to feed its children.
You were a kid who needed dental checkups and homework help and shoes and cereal and someone who would show up every Wednesday with groceries like clockwork.
You were a kid who had called him pseudo-dad and then pretended you hadn’t.
You were a kid who deserved to grow up before deciding whether to become a symbol.
Jason picked up the helmet and stood.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where?”
“Dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your stomach growled loudly enough to snitch.
Jason raised an eyebrow.
You glared at your own abdomen. “Traitor.”
“Pizza?”
“With garlic knots?”
“Obviously.”
“And soda?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Two sodas.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“You raised me.”
Jason stopped in the doorway.
You froze too, realising what you had said.
The safe room went very quiet.
Your face flushed. “I mean—”
Jason saved you because sometimes mercy looked like pretending not to notice.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “And clearly I’m doing a terrible job.”
You stared at him for a second.
Then your mouth twitched.
“The worst.”
“Disaster.”
“Tragic, really.”
“Get your shoes.”
“The ugly white ones?”
“The clean ones.”
“Same thing.”
You walked past him, shoulders brushing his side.
Not a hug. Not exactly.
But close enough.
Jason watched you head toward the hall, complaining under your breath, alive and warm and safe for tonight.
For tonight, that was the mission.
Not vengeance. Not fear. Not a child in a cape.
A child with pizza grease on their fingers and homework waiting on the kitchen table.
A child who had tried to steal his tyres and somehow made off with his whole damn heart instead.
Jason followed you out, locking the safe room behind him.
There has always been a distinct connection between the two of you, an invisible string that bonds you two together and pulls you back to each other no matter what or no matter when — you can’t quite describe it.
He will always watch you, gaze drawn in by the sight of you even if he is far away.
You are always looking out after him, gaze searching even if you aren’t supposed to notice him.
Like today, when you felt his eyes on you. You cannot explain the feeling but there is some sort of faint tingling right against your neck, a ghost of a touch whenever he looks at you. So you don’t hesitate to turn around, mind racing just to find him.
And you do. Your eyes clashing seconds after. You part yourself from your group, feet automatically bringing you closer to him while his own feet were planted on the ground. The closer you get, the harder your heart beats. Because you are happy. Although, you don’t openly show it.
“You came.” you stand inches away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his own body.
“Well, what did you expect?” he scoffed, hands unclenching in his pockets as soon as he hears your voice.
“Thank you.” it’s quiet, hangs in the air so lightly — that you two fear of breaking the silence.
So, you decide to swallow, clearing your throat before your lips curve into a smile. He feels the tension wearing off his shoulders, gaze averting from yours because he can’t—can’t keep staring into your eyes. Because he can’t bear the sight of you, as if you could see right through him. As if he laid his soul bare just for you.
If he had a soul, that is.
He listens attentively, ears only picking up the sound of your movements. It fills his mind, it calms him down, it makes him feel complete. Somehow. Then he dares to look at you again, watches how the gown slides off your shoulders with ease, watches how you take off the cap. He parts his lips to say something, anything. To stop you from continuing.
But he keeps his mouth shut, because he knows damn right it won’t stop you. And you smile because you know he won’t walk away.
“Y’know, you’ve always been smarter than me.” you reminisce in your past and drape the black gown over his shoulders, the black cap right on top of his head, “A lot smarter.”
“You’re acting childish.” there’s no venom in his voice, no annoyance behind his eyes.
“It’s for you.” you push down the cap to cover his sight.
“It’s your graduation.” he tries to reason, doesn’t even stop you from doing so.
“—No, it’s not my graduation. It’s yours.” you pause for a moment, then corrected yourself, “our graduation.”
The gown and cap hang off his figure as if he is the one who graduated, as if he belonged here, as if he deserved it. But in reality, he did. He deserved to graduate, to grow up, to receive a normal childhood. Yet he didn’t get to, so you share yours. Your graduation, your growth, your childhood.
“Looks great.” you tilt your head slightly, “congratulations on graduating, Jason Peter Todd.”
Jason is glad that you covered his eyes to not see the sting, that you gave him privacy and didn’t dare to see him crying.
Since you knew from the very beginning there would be tears threatening to fall, since you knew him from the very beginning.
author’s note — i’d love to think this can be platonic or romantic idk man , whatever they have seems so intimate and delicate that I don’t dare to label it , idea comes from the tiktok where the child shares their graduation with their parents <3 love is powerful ⸝⸝
He starts by pulling you towards him by the waist using both of his hands, pushing your bodies together, leaving no space for air or doubt. His hands are steady and strong, afraid of the thought of you moving just one inch away, afraid of the separation. He wants you near, he needs to feel you.
One of his hands moves from your waist to your back, caressing it like something precious, while the other one moves to let his entire arm hug your waist, trapping you in position.
And while his arms are around you, his beautiful eyes are scanning every single detail on your face. Admiring you like something holy, something unreal. In your eyes you're the most beautiful being that has ever stepped on the planet earth. He gets drunk by the sight of you, and the feeling of having you with him.
And while he’s taking his time worshipping you, your hands move to his chest, rising to his shoulders, and finally ending in the back of his head, with your fingers intertwining with his hair.
It doesn’t matter how much time has passed since you both saw each other—it could be years, it could be months, or it could be just one day—the moment Jason’s lips touch yours he can’t hold back.
You taste the desire and longing in his tongue. The kiss is deep, heated and long. Jason only pulls apart to groan, making your entire body shiver with pleasure.
He needs you to be impossibly closer. He needs your hands touching him all the time. He needs to feel your breath against his skin. He always needs more when it comes to you.
Sometimes—whenever the situation allows it—without stopping, his kisses start lowering towards your neck; lower, your chest; lower, your stomach; lower-
But, when the situation is different—and he can’t have you like he wants to—he’s the one that pulls apart first. His body doesn’t move, he’s still holding you against him. His grip hasn’t loosened. It’s still strong, holding you against him, like he is afraid you might run away, or just vanish into thin air.
He admires you again, but this time with pride. Proud of being the reason your lips are swollen now. Proud of being the one having you.
Jason Todd kisses like a starved man, but only because he’s obsessed with you.
A/N: Don't ask me what this is, I don't even know myself. This is probably the closest you're going to get to smut written by me.
If, when my toddler is, you know, toddling around saying “mama? Big ball?”
If I were lean down and say “unfortunately the big beach ball for some reason fills you with such an unadulterated rage that is beyond human comprehension that you scream until you pass out, so mama had to remove the beach ball from the premises until you can better regulate your emotions” she would simply stare at me like I had 3 heads full of equal betrayal.
summary: you're on your period and they help you through it
word count: dick - 0.9k, jason - 0.8k, tim - 0.8k
warnings/tags: sfw, fem!reader, established relationship, fluff, comfort, use of pet names, no y/n, mention of stalker tim
dick grayson
The day hadn't started out badly. You woke up to the smell of pancake batter cooking in the apartment, pulling you out of bed towards the small kitchen where Dick stood watching over the stove. He had made you an array of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, leaving you to think it was the start to a wonderful day. How wrong you were.
When you arrived at the local Blüdhaven coffee shop you worked at, you were met with a line out the door, because unbeknownst to you, your boss had advertised a sale for students if they showed their university card. There was no rush hour today—the entire day was the rush. Throughout the chaos, you managed to have hot coffee spilt all over you, the whipped cream can explode everywhere, having to push through the cramps that made you want to curl into a ball, and the one bathroom break you could manage, you realized you bled through your pants.
It was safe to say that now the shop was closed, you were ready to drive home and fall asleep in Dick’s arms after the absolute hell of a day you had. You clock out and walk out the door of the shop, locking it behind you, then toward your car. Your bag gets carelessly thrown somewhere in the back, but as you put the keys in the ignition and turn, your car makes a sad starting sound before giving up.
“No.” You try again, but this time, your engine doesn’t even rumble. “No, no, no.” Your head falls against the steering wheel as you hold back the flood of tears that threatens to fall. You take a couple of deep breaths before grabbing your phone, which had died an hour before closing, and get out of the car to walk home.
Every step you take feels like you're walking through quicksand. You’re definitely not being vigilant enough to be walking alone in Blüdhaven at night, but you were left with no other choice, so you keep one hand on your pepper spray as a safety precaution. You make it about a block before a shadow follows behind you, but you're too tired to even notice it, until you feel a gloved hand grabbing yours to spin you around.
“What’re you doing walking home alone?”
You glance up, coming face to face with those familiar ocean blue eyes staring down at you behind the domino mask with concern. “I had the worst day,” you mumble, not even trying to cover the bone deep exhaustion in your tone.
His gaze softens slightly, but the tension in his shoulders is still evident. “You know it’s not safe to walk home alone. Where’s your car?.”
“It wouldn’t start.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“My phone’s dead.”
“Oh.”
You gesture to the jacket you had tied around your waist, “I also bled through my pants,” then lift your arm to show where the skin is still red and painful to the touch, “And got hot coffee spilt on me.”
His gaze follows your every motion, his eyes narrowing when he sees the angry spot on your arm where the coffee burned you enough to still have lingering pain. “Let's get you home, okay baby?”
“What about being Nightwing?”
“The city can wait, you’re more important to me.”
His hand runs along the small of your back as he gestures you forward in the direction of the apartment. Neither of you talk, only the faint sounds of sirens and cars driving break up the silence as Nightwing personally sees you home safely.
It's about 15 minutes until you're unlocking the door and slipping inside the cozy apartment. Haley greets both you and Dick at the door, circling your feet in excitement, waiting for you to pet her. Kneeling down, you scratch the spot she loves behind her ear as Dick walks out of the hallway and into the bedroom. You hear drawers being opened and shut followed by the sound of water filling in the tub.
Giving Haley one last kiss to her head, you stand, following the noise coming from the bathroom, just to see him knelt before the bathtub checking the temperature of the water. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting you a bath ready.” He’s still in the identifiable black and blue suit, sweat dried to his skin making his skin shinier than usual. Glancing at the counter you notice the sweatpants and hoodie that lay there perfectly folded, waiting for you to put on after the bath.
“You didn’t need to do this for me,” you whisper, feeling a deep bubble of guilt crawling up your throat. His job involves him getting punched, shot, stabbed, and a hell of a lot more than what you experienced today, and yet, he’s the one filling the bathtub for you.
Hearing the shift in your tone, he turns his head to face you, then slides the mask off his face so you can see the earnest look in his gaze, “Love, you had a bad day, please let me take care of you.” He turns the faucet to the tub off, then walks till he is standing before you.
“You probably had a bad day too.”
He trails his hands up your waist, stopping when they rest on your cheeks. “My pretty girl,” he whispers, “Don’t worry about me. I’m here to make your day better, okay?”
You barely nod, but his gaze caught the movement. You look back at the tub, then back up at him. “Can you stay?”
His dimple pops as he smiles at you, as he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “Anything you want.”
jason todd
You're laying on your couch, arm tossed over your forehead trying to deal with the headache your period has brought on while also trying to ignore the cramps attacking your stomach. Your phone rests on the floor as you debate calling Jason. You know he’s busy with his double life right now, and you don’t want to bother him, but you also feel so sick that you don’t think you can make it to the medicine cabinet for pain killers.
You come to the conclusion you can’t deal with this anymore when you feel a tear fall from the corner of your eye and into your hair. You reach for your phone, pressing the favorited contact, and wait not so patiently for his rough voice to fill the speakers. It takes a few rings but he finally answers.
“Hey baby, I’m kinda busy right now.” You hear him breathing heavily into the microphone and assume he answered through his helmet comms that he linked for your contact.
“Jay,” you sniffle quietly, “Everything hurts, I can't get to the medicine, the lights are so bright and—”
“Woah, okay, what happened?”
The sounds of yelling and punches hitting their mark fill the silence between the gaps of talking. “I started my period and everything hurts, Jay. I'm sorry to bother you.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Another punch. “I’ll be there in ten.”
Your voice is hesitant, “Are you sure?”
“Ten minutes,” he repeats more roughly this time, knowing you can doubt yourself when you're on your period and wanting to shut that down immediately.
“Yeah okay, ten minutes. Just be safe, please.”
“Always am.” If you had felt better, you would laugh at the sheer lie that is, but your headache sends a shooting pain through you, so instead you let Jason hang up the phone.
True to his word, you hear his three knocks at the door ten minutes later before he lets himself in with the key you gave him. His gaze falls onto you, looking like death reincarnate laying on the couch, and drops all his gear on the floor as you watch the tension leave his body as he switches from Redhood to your Jason.
He walked toward the kitchen to grab the pain medication from the cabinet, then knelt on the floor next to the couch helping you sit up to take the pills. His right arm is wrapped around your waist holding you up, while his left arm draws mindless patterns on the thigh of your sweatpants in hopes of distracting you from the pain.
“Come on, baby. I know it hurts but you gotta sit up to take the meds.”
Your head drops to his shoulder as he grabs your water bottle and holds the straw in front of you. Taking a drink of water, then the recognizable pills, you finally got down what is your last hope at making it through the rest of the night without pain.
Jason gently pries your head off his shoulder to analyze you with his trained eyes, “Now, what all is hurting?”
“Mainly my head and my cramps, but my body also just aches.” Your voice feels harsh even in your own body right now. His calloused hand that now rests against your face, while his thumb makes a slow sweeping motion across your cheek is the only thing keeping your grounded right now.
He nods along as you reply, “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“Knew you were busy.”
“I’m never too busy for you. Have I not made myself clear enough about that in the past?” His voice has a lilting sense of anxiety to it, like he's worried you don't understand that he would drop anything for you, even if it caused bigger problems for him.
“No, you have I just—”
“Just nothing. You call me when you feel like shit, okay?”
You nod slowly, still clutching your stomach as the pain medication works its way down to the problem.
“Words, baby.”
“I’ll call you next time.”
“Good,” He leans in and places a gentle kiss against your brow, “Now, let’s watch a cheesy romcom while the medicine does its job.”
You nod, “That sounds really lovely right now.”
Jason turns the TV onto the shitty romcom that he knows you love, and even though he finds the whole plot cheesy and overrated, he’d watch it a million times over just to see the smile it brings to your face—especially when the tear tracks of pain still linger on your cheeks. He carefully lays you back down on the couch, making sure you're comfortable, before moving to rest behind you. His arm wraps around your waist, a comforting warmth that works against knots in your lower stomach, and you hear the quiet whisper against your ear, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Jay.”
tim drake
Your eyelids feel heavy as you keep re-reading the same sentence of your book over and over again, each time the words becoming more jumbled together. You sigh, losing all interest in reading the novel right now, bookmark the page and toss it onto the opposite end of the bed. You would text Tim to come over to take a nap with you, but he texted you this morning saying he was going to be busy with Bruce doing “bat stuff.” Whatever that meant.
You lean back against the pillow that molds to your body, as you debate what you should do. You probably shouldn’t take a nap considering Tim gets onto you about how you always stay up late and then complain about being tired the next morning, only for the cycle to continue, but you already feel yourself falling deeper into the mattress into sleep.
You faintly register the weight running across your face, causing your nose to scrunch slightly and lift your hand enough to gently push it away to leave you to rest. It comes back again, this time a gentle feeling scratching at your scalp and followed by a quiet whisper.
“Honey.”
“Mmm.”
You roll over, lifting the cover enough to slip it over your head so you can go back to sleep, but this time you feel an unmistakable weight land on top of you.
“Time to get up.”
“Timmm, let me sleep,” You grumble into the pillow beneath you.
“No, you finally got onto a good sleep schedule. I don't want you to ruin that.”
“You have no room to talk, Mr. All Nighters.”
He laughs quietly and pulls the comforter off your face, leaving you face to face with your boyfriend hovering over you. His hair has fallen slightly over his forehead, permanent bags linger under his eyes, and he's wearing the old Gotham University hoodie that you wear more than him.
“My work requires all nighters, yours requires early mornings.”
“Yeah, whatever you say, Red Robin,” you say through a yawn. Lifting your arms to wrap around his neck and pull him down to press a kiss to his jaw, you whisper against his skin, “Missed you.”
“I missed you too.” He pulls back to hover over you again while his blue eyes scan your face with that analytical gaze of his. It's the same one he uses when going over his code, looking for any flaws in his work. “How’re you feeling?”
Your brows pull together in confusion. “Uh… I guess my stomach aches a little. Is something supposed to be wrong with me?”
“Your period.”
You shake your head no. “I’m not on my period.”
“You start today.”
You slide out from under him to rest against the headboard of the bed, while he follows to sit in front of you. You’re reaching for your phone to pull up your tracking app because you could’ve sworn you wouldn’t start for another couple of days. “How do you know when I’m supposed to start my period?”
His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink as he tugs slightly at the strand of hair on the nape of his neck as he admits, “I track it.”
You slowly lift your gaze from your phone to meet his gaze, “You track my period?”
He nods sheepishly.
“I don't even know why I’m surprised, that's mild compared to some of the things you’ve stalked me on.”
“I do not stalk you… I just always want to make sure you’re okay.”
You smile at him. “And I love you for it, baby.”
You bring your attention back down to your phone, and sure enough, your tracker has a big predicted today staring back at you. “Okay, you were right, but I haven't started yet, so I might be late.”
“Oh, well I brought you some stuff anyway,” he says as he grabs a grocery store bag you now realize was there the entire time. He starts going through each item in the bag and explaining the reasoning behind each item he bought and the research that shows how it helps with period symptoms. He even bought you a new heating pad after you were complaining about yours being broken last month.
You didn’t even realize tears were in your eyes, likely due to the hormones coursing through your body, until they fell down your cheeks and Tim was pulling you against his chest.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Your sob is slightly muffled against his hoodie, “This is just so sweet, Timmy.”
“You liked it that much?”
“I love it.”
He pulls you back enough so he can cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing away the hot tears collecting on your cheeks. “How about we open this candy and watch our show?”
You just nod in agreement and watch as he sets everything up around you both. He opens the three different candies—one sour, one chocolate, and one fruity—because he was unsure which you'd want. Then he turns on the TV to the show you’d been watching together and bundles under the covers with you, keeping you tucked against his chest. Much to your dismay, when you went to the bathroom an hour later, you did in fact start your period.
A/N: took me forever to write this because my summer classes are taking so much out of me, but I finally got it finisheddddd!! also olivias new album is so insanely beautiful and such a work of art (if you haven't listened to it yet, please go do and let me know)
obsessed with tumblr writers... @allaboutirem0 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
