𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕ ˚.✦ ⵢ₊˚. hopeless romantic more hopeless than romantic
𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕.✦ ⵢ₊˚. max black is my spirit animal
𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕.✦ ⵢ₊˚. probably less of a loser than you think I am
My writings: anxietywrites
My asks and questions: anxietyaps
Me irl: anxietyirl
Current obsession
loml ࡛࣪⋕.✦ Taylor swift
0:35 ━❍──────── 4:39
↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺
VOLUME: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
I love Marvel, Supernatural, Arcane, 2 broke girls, Ted lasso, Modern family, Billy butcher, Cats, Andrew Garfield, DC.
I also love Gracie Abrahams, Billie Eilish, Taylor Swift, Doechhi, Kendrick Lamar, Seedhe Maut, Dhanji, Nanku, Harry Styles, Bad Bunny.
If you have any suggestions or requests for my ongoing series or something else you’d like me to write, let me know! Fair warning, though I am very new to all of this, so any and all feedback’s and comments are appreciated.
Thank you - Vee <3
Dm me to be added to my any of my tag list!
Asks are also open!<3
Please treat everyone with kindness, if you act like an ass, you will be treated like one!
Also this an 18+ Blog minors DNI!
Marvel x Supernatural
Smokeshow
Marvel
Roommate!Bucky Blurb (desi!reader)
Supernatural
The Ties that Bind (Angst) (OlderSister!Reader)
DC
The Secret of Us (Series) (Jason Todd x Chubby!reader)
Hit me Hard and Soft (Series) (Dick Grayson x Reader | Jason Todd x Reader)
if yes then, are you aware of what's happening in India? if not then here i explain:
Sonam Wangchuk is on a hunger strike. Who is he? He is our great scientist and education reformist, a man who has dedicated his life to bettering our country . He's the inspiration behind the iconic character in the movie Three Idiots, and his work has even earned him the Ramon Magsaysay Award, often called Asia's Nobel Prize . He is a true gem of India.
And why is he on this hunger strike? FOR US. For our education system. For the countless students whose futures are being destroyed. He is protesting the horrific deaths that happened after the NEET paper leak, where students who had worked their entire lives for a dream took their own lives when their results were cancelled due to the government's failure . He is standing up against a system that plays with the lives of millions . He is demanding accountability, demanding the resignation of the Education Minister, and demanding that the government stop treating the future of our youth as a joke.
So, i humble request ya'll, if you are in Delhi or you know someone who is in Delhi, please ask them to take out some time and join the protest at Jantar Mantar .Even an hour of support can make a difference. And if not, then please spread awareness on every social media about this and join the online protest. Post about it, use the hashtags, talk to your friends and family . Because at this time, even 1% matters, cus if Sonam sir can give his 100%,risking his life,then why can't we?.
And if you are ignoring this instead of spreading awareness, then sorry not sorry, you are useless af. This is not just his fight,it is the fight for every student, for the future of our nation. We cannot sit back and do nothing while a man is dying for our cause.
pairing: ex's older brother!steve rogers x female reader
summary: you break up with your boyfriend when he gives you a cruel gift, which leads to you getting bred by your ex's brother on christmas eve.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), body shaming from reader's ex/talk of insecurities, emotional hurt/comfort, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, heavy breeding kink, dry humping, kissing, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (angel, sweetheart, baby), aftercare, revenge sex with a happy ending
word count: 4.9k
a/n: here's my second entry for @stargazingfangirl18, @buckets-and-trees and @biteofcherry's Hoes for the Holidays event!! for this one, i used the prompt "Receiving an unexpected gift" and it's really not a nice gift 😅 this is the fic y'all voted to be about Steve as your ex's older brother (though it's different than my original idea 🫣). there's so many ideas in this one, i hope it comes together well, and that y'all enjoy it!! happy holidays 🎄❤️
You were so humiliated.
The sharp slam of the bedroom door behind you was momentarily satisfying, but it was quickly eclipsed by a fresh wave of shame washing through your body. You couldn’t believe your boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend—would do that to you. And in front of his whole family.
Tears of embarrassment pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you looked up at the ceiling to stop from crying. You refused to cry over that jackass and the unexpected gift he’d gotten you. You had other things to focus on than the memory of what had just happened.
You needed to make a plan to escape. You needed to pack and get out of there. But how on earth were you going to get home from your ex’s family’s mountain cabin on Christmas Eve?
A soft knock sounded at the door and, assuming it was your ex come to grovel, you called a quick, “Go away,” your voice thick with tears. You couldn’t face him, not if you didn’t want to end up in jail for murder on Christmas.
When the door opened anyway, you whirled around, ready to hiss and claw at the face of the man who’d humiliated you in front of his entire family during their Christmas Eve celebration. But you froze when you saw who it was.
It wasn’t your ex who slipped into the bedroom, but his older brother, Steve Rogers.
You blinked, your mind going entirely blank as it dawned on you that not only had your boyfriend—ex, you reminded yourself—denigrated you, he wasn’t even going to try to apologize for hurting you.
The numb, blankness only lasted another moment. Then anger, hot and roiling, churned in your belly, and you narrowed your eyes at the man in front of you.
“What do you want?” you spit out, unable to contain your fury from spilling over and scalding Steve. Even if he didn’t have anything to do with the gift your ex had gotten you, he’d been a witness to your humiliation, and that was bad enough.
Steve’s hands lifted, like he was going to reach for you, but you snarled and took a step back, making sure you were out of his reach. He let his hands fall back to his sides and he looked at you with concern etched into his handsome face.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he said. His blue eyes were sharp as they raked over your body, taking in the way your arms were wrapped around your middle like you were protecting yourself. “What he did…” Steve trailed off, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words to complete that sentence.
Your ex’s older brother swiped his hand down his face, and the movement brought your attention to the angry, broken skin on Steve’s knuckles. There was a small cut on the middle one, like the skin had split open when he’d hit something. Or someone.
That thought had you looking closer at Steve.
You didn’t know your ex’s older brother very well. Although you’d been dating your ex for most of the year, you’d only met his family when you’d arrived at their cabin a few days before Christmas to celebrate the holiday with them. You’d cancelled your own plans for the trip, and you’d been excited to get to know Steve and your ex’s parents.
But the days had been a little awkward and… weird.
First, there was your ex’s mom’s reluctance when you’d offered to bake some Christmas cookies based on your family’s recipes. She’d claimed she didn’t like letting anyone else into her kitchen so soon before Christmas, and that she was sure her family wanted their usual cookies.
You’d been prepared to leave it there, but Steve had interjected and said the cookies you wanted to make sounded delicious. He’d given his mother a look you couldn’t quite interpret and told her it would be good for the family to try something new.
Then there was the day your ex’s dad had taken him skiing, even though he’d known the two of you were supposed to go into town for some last-minute shopping. The shopping day had been your ex’s idea, but as soon as his father suggested skiing, he’d forgotten your plans entirely.
With him and his dad gone, and his mom busy in the kitchen, you were left on your own. You ended up reading in front of the fireplace, where you’d been joined by Steve, who stoked the fire in between sketching in a sketchbook and making occasional conversation with you.
In fact, as you looked back on the days leading up to Christmas, you’d spent more time with your ex’s brother than the man you’d been dating. Even though you’d been dating his brother, Steve had been there for you, supporting you and making sure you didn’t feel alone.
That realization had you finally softening, and you stepped closer to him. Steve stayed still as you snagged his hand, wrapping your fingers gently around his wrist and lifting it so you could look at his split knuckles.
“What happened?”
Steve heaved a heavy sigh, ruffling his blond hair with his other hand. “I decked my brother,” he said simply, and when his eyes met yours, his gaze was entirely unrepentant. “He deserved it for how he treated you.”
Vindication, swift and vicious, stole through your heart, and you couldn’t help the corners of your mouth from curving up into an evil smile. “Did it hurt? Did he cry?”
A surprised laugh tumbled from Steve, and he shot you a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Probably… and yeah, a little.”
“Good.”
Steve laughed again, softer, the warmth of it almost affectionate, but then he sobered, his expression turning serious. He tangled his fingers loosely with yours, gently tugging you closer, and you stumbled willingly into his arms.
With his undamaged hand, he cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his.
“Are you okay, angel?” he asked, looking deep into your eyes. He sounded so much like he genuinely cared that his question finally pierced through the armor of anger you’d wrapped around yourself.
Tears sprang to your eyes unbidden, and in the face of Steve’s kindness and care, you couldn’t stop them from falling. You shook your head in response to his question as tears spilled down your cheeks, as much an answer as you could muster.
“Fuck,” Steve cursed softly, pulling you into a tight hug. He wrapped you up in his sturdy arms and tucked your head against his shoulder, his palms skating up and down your spine over the fabric of your dress.
There, in the safety of Steve’s arms, you allowed yourself to fall apart. The dam burst and you sobbed into Steve’s sweater while he held you close, keeping you warm and steady while you cried.
You didn’t know how long you spent crying, but Steve didn’t rush you. He held you patiently while you sobbed through the hurt, never hurrying you or making you feel silly for your outburst, just whispering words of comfort and encouraging you to let it all out.
“I j-just can’t believe I wasted almost a year with someone so cruel,” you lamented when you could finally manage words, your voice muffled by the soft cotton of Steve’s sweater. “He knows how insecure I’ve been f-feeling, and that’s how he responds!?”
“He’s an immature, dipshit knucklehead, that’s for sure,” Steve rumbled, his voice low and angry enough to be a growl. But he quickly reined in his anger and cupped your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful just the way you are.”
Your emotions were a tangle of thorns wrapped around your heart, but Steve’s declaration loosened the briers as hope—and something else—flooded in between your ribs. Overwhelmed, you buried your face back in his chest, unable to stop the memories of what had happened from bullying their way into your mind.
It was tradition for the Rogers family to have a nice dinner on Christmas Eve, and then sit by the fire as each member of the family opened one of their gifts. You’d worn a long-sleeved velvet dress that hugged your curves and made you feel pretty, though couldn’t help but notice your ex hadn’t commented on whether he thought you looked nice.
After dinner, your ex had insisted you open a present first because you were a guest. He’d pulled a long, thin box from under the tree, explaining the gift was from him, and your heart had raced with excitement.
The shape of the box looked like something that would contain a bracelet or a necklace, and you were already envisioning wearing whatever jewelry was inside for the rest of the trip. But when you’d pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the box, there wasn’t any jewelry inside.
Instead, it was a gift card to a gym near your apartment.
You’d felt your face go blank with horror, your mouth dropping open as you tried to process the cruelty of the unexpected gift. You didn’t want a gym membership. You wanted to feel better about your body, but the gift implied that your body was something that needed to be fixed.
Your ex must’ve mistaken your expression for confused surprise because he’d explained he knew how you’d been feeling insecure about your body. There’d been a hint of laughter in his tone while he’d said he wanted to help you lose weight.
He’d said it was really a Christmas present for both of you.
And the worst part was, both of his parents had laughed. They’d laughed like it was some silly, harmless joke, and your heart wasn’t crumbling because your boyfriend of nearly a year was confirming your worst insecurities were true—he didn’t like the way you looked. He wanted you to change.
In that moment, something snapped in you. Anger flooded in on the heels of humiliation, and you let it guide you. Chucking the box and the gift card at your boyfriend’s head, you’d told him in no uncertain terms that you were done, your relationship was over, then you’d stormed upstairs to escape and be alone.
That is, until Steve showed up.
You clung to your ex’s older brother like he was the life preserver keeping you afloat in the ocean of unspeakable horrors that had become your Christmas, crying into his chest until you had no more tears left. He held you tight the whole time, his arms a comforting weight around your waist, his hands soothing up and down your spine.
When you’d finally cried yourself out and calmed down a little, you pulled back and blinked at Steve through your tears. You knew you must’ve looked a mess, but you felt raw and vulnerable and there was something he’d said that lingered in the back of your mind—and you just had to know.
“Do you really think I’m beautiful?”
The question was dredged up from the very pit of your soul, where your insecurities clawed at your sense of self, and you knew you sounded pitiful as you asked it, but you needed Steve’s answer. You needed to know if he’d been telling the truth or just telling you what he thought you wanted to hear.
With a sound of surprise, Steve’s handsome face softened at your question. He cupped your cheek in his warm, calloused palm, his thumb brushing away your tears, his expression earnest.
“I do, sweetheart,” he said, his words like a promise. “I thought you were gorgeous from the moment I met you—and even though I don’t know you well, I know you’re way too good for my little brother.”
A delighted, hiccuping laugh spilled from your lips before you could bite it back, your heart soaring at the sincerity in Steve’s words. He chuckled affectionately at your reaction, and used the cuff of his sweater to clean up as much of your ruined makeup as he could manage.
When he was done, Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead that was so sweet, your heart banged against your ribs with longing.
“I wish I’d met you first, Steve,” you murmured, the admission slipping out before you could think better of it. But it was true.
The whole time you’d been at the cabin, Steve had been the steady support you’d needed. You’d tried not to resent your ex while you’d still been with him, but since your relationship was over, you could yearn for his brother as much as you wanted. And you realized you’d been pining for him since not long after you’d arrived at the cabin.
Steve blew out a sigh, looking over your shoulder as something like regret flitted across his features. “I do, too, angel,” he said, so quietly that you weren’t sure if the words were meant for you.
But then he returned his gaze to your face, and an electric bolt of awareness zipped down your spine. Steve meant what he said—he wanted you, maybe just as badly as you wanted him. The realization hit your bloodstream with the fizzy delight of a glass of champagne, and it gave you the courage to be brave.
“Steve, will you kiss me?” you asked in a soft voice, hardly daring to hope you’d get what you wanted. “Please?”
It took a moment for Steve to process your question, and when he did, he went perfectly still—except for his eyes, which darkened infinitesimally as they roved over your face, like he was trying to read your thoughts in your expression.
“Sweetheart…” Steve started, trailing off like he didn’t know what to say. He swallowed and finally asked, “Why?”
“Because fuck my ex,” you said, parsing through your twisted emotions as you spoke and letting your heart guide your words. “Because I want to hurt him—and I didn’t get a chance to hit him like you did.”
Steve huffed a laugh at that, but didn’t interrupt the spill of your words, and it gave you the space to be honest with him, in a way you never were with your ex.
“Because I want to be kissed by someone who thinks I’m beautiful,” you said, your voice cracking with emotion. You held Steve’s gaze as you went on. “Because I deserve to be kissed by someone who cares about me, especially after the horrible Christmas Eve I’ve had.”
Affection shone bright in Steve’s eyes as he stared back at you, a small smile curving his mouth. “So it’s more than just a revenge kiss?”
“Yeah,” you answered truthfully, sliding your hands up the front of his chest and settling them on his shoulders. “I want this, Steve—I want you.”
“I can work with that,” Steve murmured, slanting his mouth to yours and giving you the kiss you’d asked for.
It started soft, just a sweet brush of lips, tentative and exploring and wonderful. Then, when you couldn’t help but moan at the feel of him, Steve deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped past your parted lips and he swallowed your breathy whimpers of pleasure, kissing you so thoroughly, so sweetly, you knew he was liable to ruin you.
But you welcomed his destruction. You reveled in it.
Wrapping your arms around Steve’s shoulders, you pushed up onto your tiptoes to kiss him harder, climbing his body to get closer. With a grunt, he spun you around, presing your back to the closed door while he pushed his knee between your thighs, kissing you harder.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel better than I imagined,” Steve groaned, ducking his head to leave lingering kisses down the curve of your neck. His hands slid up your sides, groping your tits and grabbing handfuls of your ass, helping you to grind on him.
“You imagined kissing me?” you asked, your voice breathless with desire, whimpering when your clit rubbed against the firm muscle of Steve’s thigh through your clothes.
“Mm, I imagined a lot more than that,” Steve murmured, kissing his way back up to your mouth. For a long moment, you were quieted by him stealing the breath from your lungs, but you weren’t distracted so easily.
When Steve pulled away, leaving you gasping for air and writhing between him and the door, you asked, “What else did you imagine?”
Steve braced one of his arms against the door above you head, using his other hand to guide your hips to keep humping against his thigh. His chest heaved with heavy breaths and his eyes grew even darker as he watched pleasure dance across your face.
“I’ve imagined fucking you in every room of this cabin,” Steve confessed, his voice a low, delicious rumble that sent shivers all the way down to your toes. “Wanted to make you come on my tongue while your cookies baked, wanted to fuck you in front of the fire.”
You moaned softly at Steve’s words, enjoying the picture they painted of a very different kind of Christmas while you rubbed yourself on his thigh, your hip bumping against the bulge in his pants.
“God, fuck, sweetheart, I’ve fucked my hand every day and night since you got here, thinking about sinking my cock into your tight, warm pussy,” Steve said, his voice strained as he buried his face in your neck, nipping at your sensitive skin. “I didn’t care that you were my brother’s girlfriend, I wanted you—I want you so bad, angel.”
“I’m not his girlfriend anymore,” you reminded your ex’s older brother, your words practically a purr against the shell of his ear. “Take me, Steve, fuck me. I want you, too, please.”
You’d barely gotten your last word out before Steve was wrapping his arms around your waist and hauling you away from the door. He tossed you down on the bed and it wasn’t until you landed, his scent surrounding you, that you realized you were in Steve’s room.
In your haste to get away from your ex and his awful, laughing parents, you’d shut yourself in Steve’s room rather than the one you’d been staying in, or the room where your ex had been sleeping. That was…a choice you’d parse out another time.
As Steve climbed onto the bed, you were too focused on him, and the task of helping each other get out of your clothes to think too hard about what it meant that you’d sought sanctuary in your ex’s older brother’s room.
When you were both nearly naked—you in a matching set of red lingerie while he wore a pair of black boxer briefs—Steve reached over to his bedside table and pulled out a condom. But you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and stayed his hand.
“Don’t,” you said, fighting through the fog of lust to get the words out that you wanted to say. “I always used condoms with him—I want you to fuck me bare, Steve.”
Your ex’s brother froze above you, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Then, a slow, smug smirk spread across his face. “You want me to fuck you raw, baby?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “Want me to fill up your pussy until you’re dripping my come down your thighs? Ya want me to breed you, angel?”
Your heart was racing in your chest, but all you felt was excitement, a giddy grin curving your lips as you nodded.
“Yes, please, Steve,” you begged eagerly, spreading your thighs wider so his bulge pressed against your soft mound. “Want you to come deep in my pussy, fill me up completely.” Your smile turned evil, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “C’mon, Stevie, breed your brother’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Fuck,” Steve groaned, his eyes sliding closed as he dropped the condom back onto his bedside table. His arms dug beneath your body, crushing you to his chest while he buried his face in your neck. “You on the pill, sweetheart? Because I might put a baby in your belly if you’re not.”
A delicious shiver skated down your spine, and it surprised you how much you didn’t hate the idea of Steve putting a baby in you. It was almost a shame that you were on birth control, but that didn’t stop a little recklessness from taking over.
“I am, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try to beat it,” you murmured, tugging on one of Steve’s arms until he pushed himself up, giving you his hand while he watched what you were doing. You guided his palm to press against your lower stomach, smirking when you felt his cock twitch against our pussy. “Knock me up, Steve. Stuff me full of so much come, there’s no way it doesn’t take. Breed me—please.”
Something seemed to snap in Steve, his handsome face twisting into a mask of lust and his eyes going dark and hazy with need. In just a few quick seconds, he stripped you out of your bra and panties and tossed them, along with his briefs, somewhere in his room.
It wasn’t until his bare cock slid against the slick slit of your pussy that he paused, and his gaze cleared when he caught your eye. “Are you sure, angel?” he asked, rocking between your thighs and fucking between your folds to coat his hard length in your desire.
You smiled up at Steve, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. It was slow and decadent, the way your lips moved against his, your tongue slipping briefly into his hot mouth before you pulled back with a grin.
“Am I sure I wanna be bred by my ex’s brother on Christmas Eve?” you shot back teasingly, not giving Steve a chance to respond before you answered your own question. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s hot as fuck.”
At your playful response, Steve paused, a conflicted look passing across his features for the first time. You reminded yourself that he cared for you—really cared—so you gave him a more serious answer.
“Hey, this is what I want,” you told him, skimming your hands up his biceps and over his shoulders. “I’m on the pill, so it’s not likely to take. But if it does…maybe it’s fate.” You shrugged a shoulder. “Or maybe I get a morning after pill.”
The expression clouding Steve’s face cleared and he must’ve been reassured by your words because he grinned. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you agreed, pulling him down for another soft, sweet kiss. “Now, fuck me, Stevie. Please.”
Steve chuckled against your cheek, lining up with your tight hole and pushing inside, his laughter choking off in a groan when he felt your heat envelop him. “Fuck, baby, that’s it, take my cock,” he rumbled, pushing deep into your slick cunt.
You cried out at the warmth of his bare cock and the stretch of him filling you up; your back bowed off the bed as you bore down, trying to take him even deeper. With a few more thrusts, Steve worked his cock into you, and when he was finally fully seated, he paused to kiss you while you adjusted to his size.
“Ready, sweetheart?” he asked with a grin, pressing his forehead to yours and nuzzling your nose. “Ready for me to fuck you full of come and put a baby in your pretty belly, huh?”
“Ready, ready,” you mumbled, rocking your hips beneath Steve’s body, fucking yourself on his cock. “Please, breed me, Stevie!”
With a half-feral groan, Steve started to fuck you, rolling his hips in a maddening rhythm, pulling out of you only to press back in until the tip of his cock brushed your cervix. He fucked you in slow, languid strokes that drove you wild, sweat gathering at his brow and making your skin glisten.
“Breed me, breed me, breed me,” you chanted breathlessly, hooking your thighs over his hips and meeting his thrusts with your own rocking hips.
Gradually, Steve picked up the pace, fucking you hard and deep, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every thrust. Neither of you cared, though, too lost in each other, your moans filling the room alongside the sounds of Steve’s hips clapping against your thighs.
“You feel so fucking good, baby, such a perfect fucking angel taking my cock,” Steve growled against your mouth in between hungry kisses. “Gonna breed your pussy, baby, gonna stuff you full while your cunt milks me dry. Gonna make you all fucking mine.”
Steve’s possessive words sparked even more pleasure in your body, and you hurtled toward your release. Burying your face in his collarbone, you mumbled urgently, “Ahh, Stevie, ‘m close!”
“That’s my girl, come on my cock, angel,” he growled, grabbing your thighs and pushing your legs toward your chest, bending you in half and mounting you in a mating press. The change in position had the base of his cock rubbing against your clit and you moaned loudly. “So fucking gorgeous—you’re so fucking beautiful, baby.”
The praise and the pleasure from Steve’s mouth and body was too much. It all sent you careening over the edge, tumbling into ecstasy with a shrill cry of his name. “Steve!”
Exquisite pleasure crashed over you in endless waves, your own release sparking his. Steve’s thrusts turned wild as he chased his release, then he buried his face in your neck and groaned so loud, you felt the sound down to your bones.
Inside you, Steve’s cock twitched and you felt him plunge deep, the tip of his dick pressed to your cervix as he spilled inside you. Steve flooded your pussy with his seed, feeding your womb with rope after rope of come.
It sent new fluttering waves of pleasure through your pussy to know there was a possibility that he was breeding you for real, that his seed might take and he might knock you up. You hugged him closer, threading your fingers through his hair and bringing his face to yours for a messy, feral kiss.
The slide of you mouth against Steve’s slowed as you both came down from your peaks. For a long while, you made out in his bed, his softening cock still buried deep in your cunt and your hips tilted up as if you both hoped he would really put a baby in your belly.
“Still wanna get that morning after pill, sweetheart?” Steve asked when he finally pulled away, pushing up onto one arm enough to look at your face. When he saw how pleasure-drunk you were, a grin spread across his face.
It took a moment for you to process his question and when you did, you heaved a sigh. “I probably should,” you said, then muttered, “It’s the responsible thing to do.”
Steve just hummed like he’d agree to whatever you wanted to do, then gathered you up in his arms and rolled over. He took you with him, grabbing a blanket and covering your cooling bodies while he kept you pinned against him.
You snuggled deeper into his chest and let out a sigh of contentment as you let yourself melt into his warmth and comfort. You could make a decision about the morning after pill later, when you weren’t feeling reckless enough to hope your ex’s brother had knocked you up.
After a short while, Steve’s voice brought you back from the edge of sleep.
“Spend Christmas with me.”
You let out a little sound of sleepy confusion, having been lulled into a doze by his fingers skating up and down your spine. At his invitation, though, you roused, lifting your head to look at your ex’s older brother. “What?”
“My best friend, Bucky Barnes, has a cabin nearby,” Steve explained, his eyes sharp as they watched your face. “D’you wanna get out of here and spend the rest of Christmas there—with me?”
You only had to think about it for a minute. It was already Christmas Eve, but you couldn’t stay another minute at your ex’s family’s cabin. And you didn’t want to spend all of Christmas trying to get home. Besides, you didn’t want to leave Steve just yet. It was an easy decision.
“That sounds perfect, Stevie.”
Once the plan was made, you and Steve moved quickly. You packed up your things, then he carried your bags down the stairs of the cabin. Only your ex was still awake, and you were gratified to see the black eye forming on his face.
He sneered some comment about how you moved on quickly, and you shot back that you were simply trading up for the better Rogers brother.
Before your ex could respond, Steve stepped in. He told his brother he was leaving with you and their parents shouldn’t expect him back for Christmas—or ever, unless they all apologized to you. At that, your ex looked a little shell-shocked, which made it easier for you and Steve to make your exit.
You spent the rest of your holiday with your ex’s older brother, shacked up at a cabin in the mountains, just the two of you. He fucked you in every room, in every position, filling you up with his come until he did end up putting a baby in your belly.
That year, Steve Rogers gave you a baby for Christmas, and it was the perfect gift to start of the rest of your life together.
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! ♡
Summary : Bucky is an expert at taking your bra off. Putting it on, however? Not so much.
Pairing : Congressman! Bucky Barnes x wife! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : steamy and suggestive, bucky is very touchy, fluff, cursing, nudity. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 2.5k
Note : Reminder, if you wanna be in the Bucky Taglist please send me a message! It gets buried in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
For once, Bucky had finished getting ready before you.
He stood near the bathroom mirror, rolling his shoulders back as he smoothed a hand over the lapel of his suit jacket. The dark fabric fit him perfectly, fitted at the waist, broad at the shoulders, and a tie knotted neatly at his throat. The congressman look suited him far too well, and you weren’t gonna complain.
He took a deep breath as he put his watch on over his metal wrist, opening the bathroom door to see… you.
In your shared bedroom, you were perched at your vanity chair in nothing but lace panties, legs crossed neatly, arms lifted slightly as you kept your freshly painted nails suspended in the air to let them dry. The bottle of polish sat open beside you, the faint chemical scent mingling with your perfume, and the lamplight glowing warm on your bare skin.
The moment you finished your last nail, you glanced up into the mirror, only to find Bucky staring.
His eyes dragged over you, lingering shamelessly on your body before meeting your eyes in the reflection.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his cuff.
You arched an eyebrow. “I’m literally sitting still and not touching anything,” you said, although you were checking out his reflection, too.
Bucky looked incredible in a suit. Ergo, your thoughts were definitely just as sinful as his.
“Exactly,” he said as he walked toward you like a lion approaching his mate. “You’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that… and I’m supposed to remember how to behave in front of my colleagues tonight?”
You held your hands out carefully, showing him your perfect little red nails, though all Bucky could think was how good they’d feel leaving scratches down his back later. “I can’t smudge these, honey,” you pouted adorably, “please don’t distract me.”
Still, he chose to ignore you.
He slipped behind your chair, his reflection towering over yours, and let his hands settle on your bare shoulders possessively. His thumbs brushed lazily across your skin, tracing slow circles that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Buck,” you warned, though your voice had already gone softer than you meant it to.
“Mmhmm,” he hummed, bending to press a kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “Just appreciating my wife.”
His metal hand drifted lower, following the line of your collarbone, until his palm lay against your chest. He didn’t even squeeze. They just rested there, teasing, knowing the textural difference between his metal and human hands was something that… turned you on.
That bastard.
You tried not to move.
“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time, eyes fluttering shut for one second. “My nails.”
“Your nails look perfect,” he praised, lips brushing your jawline. “So does the rest of you.”
His metal hand slid down your side, fingers tracing your waist before curving around your hip, drawing you subtly back against him. He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.
You let out a shaky laugh. “We’re going to be late.”
“We’re always late,” he said, kissing the corner of your neck. “No one’s surprised anymore.”
“Congressman Barnes,” you tried again, hopelessly flustered, “behave.”
He chuckled, hands drifting a little bolder, and you could tell he had absolutely no intention of behaving at all.
You tried to keep your breathing steady while his hands wandered, like he was mapping every inch of your skin. His lips traced a lazy path along your shoulders, and you could feel the smile he wore when your breath caught.
“Alright,” you breathed out with a small chuckle, “if you’re going to keep touching me, you can at least be helpful.”
He hummed, mouth brushing trailing kisses down your arm as he playfully grabbed at you in all the best ways. “Pretty sure I’m bein’ very helpful right now.”
“Honey, my nails are still drying.” you reminded, tilting your chin toward the bed. “Please put my bra on for me.”
He froze just long enough for you to feel the shift in his attention.
He looked over at the lace bra that matched the panties you wore, then back to your bare chest in the mirror, his fingers tightening just a little where they cupped you.
“You really wanna hide these?” he asked, thumbs brushing across your breasts, making your breath hitch. “Feels like a crime.”
You swallowed, heat curling straight down you. Still, you managed to be a little snarky. “Would you rather Senator Brandt see me like this?”
Ugh. Brandt.
Last time you attended one of Bucky’s work functions, he got very drunk and tried to convince you to go home with him. He didn’t cross any physical boundaries with you, and you had managed to take care of yourself that night, but when Bucky found out, he very nearly broke his jaw. Instead, he only gave him a black eye.
He got off with a warning, to stop resorting to physical altercations, and was told to behave.
But you know your husband always found it hard to do so.
With that, finally, begrudgingly, he reached for the bra.
He picked it up like he’d rather drop it to the floor and forget about the charity auction entirely. Then he came back behind you, eyes still dark on your reflection as he slid the straps up your arms.
His fingers dragging along the curve of your shoulders before guiding the cups into place, and even with fabric between you now, you could feel the hunger in his touch, the way his palms lingered just a second too long.
Then the band brushed your back… and stopped.
He angled the clasp.
Missed.
He tried again, teeth clicking.
The strap twisted.
Could he not… put a bra on?
You could feel the stubborn frustration building in him. He hated losing to anything— especially while touching you.
He pulled the band tighter, his chest pressed almost flush to your back now as his metal hand worked one strap and his flesh hand fumbled with the other.
You bit your lip, fighting a laugh.
Because fuck, he was so close to getting it right, then again and again…. He failed.
“Everything okay back there?” you asked, teasing.
He growled under his breath, his palm splaying across your stomach to hold you in place as he tried again.
Your husband was an expert with his fingers. In fact, he was devastatingly sinful when he wanted to be. You would know.
But apparently… not at this.
As you laughed at his sloppy attempts, you remembered the first time Bucky had gone head-to-head with your bra.
—
The very first night you ever slept together, everything had been slow at first. After all, he was finally crossing a line you both had been circling for months.
You remembered the way he’d kissed you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
You’d been lying back against the pillows, heart racing, his body hovering over yours. His fingers had slid beneath the band of your bra, pausing just long enough for his eyes to meet yours.
You nodded.
And then, within five seconds, Click.
He used two hands, but he was smooth, quick, and clean.
The clasp had opened like it was designed for him.
The straps had slipped away as the fabric fell.
He hadn’t gloated or smirked then.
He just let a deep breath out like your body was a prayer he’d never learned but somehow already knew by heart.
And afterward you’d thought: Of course he’s good with his hands.
—
Then, you remembered your wedding night.
You were both laughing, giddy, breathless, drunk on happiness more than the reception wine, still half-dressed and stumbling through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.
His tie was gone. Your shoes were discarded somewhere near the door. He’d kissed you against the wall like he couldn’t wait another second to be close to you, to finally celebrate being husband and wife and hopelessly in love.
You remembered the way his metal hand had cupped your cheeks while his flesh one traced down your spine… pausing at the clasp of your lingerie.
You barely had time to register the movement before—
Snap.
One-handed, in three seconds
It was effortless.
He pulled back just enough to grin against your lips.
“Still got it,” he’d said, voice smug and unbearably fond.
You’d laughed, breathless, and whispered back, “I married a show-off.”
—
And then, you remembered last night.
You’d been straddling him on the couch, your skirt bunched around your hips, his tie loosened and his hair mussed from your fingers. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your back as he kissed you just a little deeper.
His metal palm ghosted beneath the band of your bra, cool against your skin.
He didn’t even hesitate.
There was a precise flick of his wrist, a quick curl of his fingers—
Snap.
The clasp practically melted for him
He pulled back, chest rising as he muttered under his breath with boyish triumph, “Ha. Sub two seconds.”
You’d snorted, half turned on, half amused, and shoved him back onto the cushions with a grin. You stood up, guiding him to the bedroom as your bra fell to the ground. “Get over here, Congressman.”
He let out a wicked laugh.
—
The memories faded, and you were yanked right back into the present by the sound of Bucky muttering under his breath as the clasp slipped out of his fingers again.
He tugged the band tighter, trying to guide the hooks together.
They slid. Missed.
The strap twisted halfway up your shoulder.
He froze.
You bit your lip so hard you almost ruined your lipstick.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You blinked innocently at the mirror. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t laugh.”
You almost obeyed.
But then he tried again, with that same intense concentration he used when testifying before a committee, and the bra just… refused to cooperate.
A tiny laugh escaped before you could stop it.
“Sweetheart,” you said with faux sympathy, “do you need me to call tech support?”
He looked at you through the mirror. “I can do it.”
“Mmm,” you hummed, far too entertained, “sure you can, big guy. You only took it off in, what, sub two seconds last night?”
“That was different,” he grumbled, fingers fumbling again.
“How?” you teased. He tugged too sharply, and the band snapped against your back.
You jumped.
His hands rubbed where it hit, concern threading through his voice. “Sorry, sweets.”
Then he tried the clasp again.
And missed.
Again.
You sucked in a breath to keep from laughing outright. “This is… kind of adorable.”
He leaned closer, close enough to feel his breath warm at your ear.
“Keep talkin’,” he said darkly, “and I’m just gonna decide it doesn’t need to go on at all.”
As heat rippled through you, but so did mischief.
“Just admit that you can’t put a bra on,” you whispered, eyes sparkling.
He grunted something that sounded awfully like “never” under his breath, as he stubbornly fought the clasp.
“I can strip you blindfolded,” he said, frustration and desire tangled in his tone, “but this— this damn thing—”
You couldn’t help it.
You laughed.
And then, finally, it clicked.
The clasp slid into place, the band settling snugly across your back.
Bucky froze behind you, like he didn’t quite believe it had happened.
“Ohhh, look at that,” he said, grinning against your ear, his hands smoothing over the band like he was inspecting the handiwork he was ridiculously proud of. “Hooked. Secured. Aligned. Perfectly installed by your very capable husband.”
You snorted. “Installed?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said smugly. “Professional application.”
Then he gave the clasp its last gentle pat, like it was a trophy.
As you stood up, he stepped back to admire his work, and immediately forgot about his work entirely.
His eyes dragged over you, again tracing the curve of the lace across your breasts, the matching panties hugging your hips.
You watched his reflection: his pupils blown wide, lips parted.
And lower…
Yeah.
There was no hiding the way his slacks suddenly fit a lot tighter.
You let your lips curve into a smile.
“Everything okay?” you asked sweetly.
He swallowed hard.
“Not even a little,” he rasped.
His gaze roamed you again, you could feel him undressing you with his eyes, could practically hear the thoughts rattling around in his head, none of them even remotely innocent.
“Christ, doll… look at you,” he said, visibly breaking a sweat. “Standing there in our house… in our bedroom… in that little set… like you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”
You smiled and leaned up to kiss his cheek, like a counterweight to the heat.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“That’s not even fair,” he said, rubbing a hand over his chin. “You stand there lookin’ like sin and expect me to behave like a gentleman?”
You tilted your head sweetly. “You did great, baby.”
That was his undoing.
His hands came back to your waist, thumbs brushing the satin of your panties before sliding down and hooking his finger on your panties like he needed to feel that he’d earned this moment.
“Damn right I did,” he said, “but I still wanna take it apart.”
You were about to tease him — until you caught sight of the clock on the wall behind him.
Oh no. You were running far behind.
you nodded toward the bed, where your long strapless cocktail dress lay waiting in a pool of satin. “Can you help me with my dress, please?”
He groaned, head tipping back, and eyes closing.
“Sweetheart…” he said, voice strained, “you seriously want me to cover you up?”
You bit back a smile. “We have to leave. I’ll even have to let my nails dry in the car.”
“We could cancel,” he argued weakly. “Tell ‘em the congressman’s wife had… an emergency.”
“Bucky.”
He rested his forehead to your shoulder for a second, gathering himself like he was preparing for combat.
“Okay,” He sighed, a man accepting his tragic fate. “Okay. I can do this. I’m strong. I’ve got discipline. I’m a government official.”
You bit back a laugh.
He guided the long strapless cocktail dress up your body, smoothing satin over skin he very clearly wanted exposed again. His palms smoothed over your waist. Up your ribs. Along the curve of your back as he pulled the zipper.
You felt him want you, even now, when he was trying to behave.
When the dress was on, he didn’t step away. He stayed, admiring you.
His hands rested at your hips again, fingers pressing gently into the fabric. “My wife,” he said, kissing your temple. “The most beautiful woman in any room she walks into.”
His eyes traced from your neckline to your lips… then down your figure again, then back to your eyes.
“And just so we’re clear…” his voice dropped, “the second we get home I’m takin’ that bra back off in one second flat.”
-end.
Request Guidelines
Masterlist (needs updating and reworking since I've reached the limit!)
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
Those kids would by dying before you do.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
sorry I’ve been so MIA guys, moved cities, got a new job, slipped that disc of mine. HMHAS shall be updated on the weekend, love you guys. Thanks for being patient 😮💨😮💨
It’s pretty likely that it’s a four digit number, and as there are four digits chosen there, that means that there cannot be any repetition. This mean that there are:
n!/(n-4)! possible orders. As ‘n’ is 4 (number of digits available). 4!/0! which becomes 4x3x2x1/1 which simplifies to 24. That means that there are 24 possible combinations of codes. This would take you about two or three minutes to input all possible codes.
well ‘technically’ the code is most likley 1970. statistically, a majority of people, when told to choose a 4 digit code will choose their birth year. and this key pad is obviously a few years old to put it nicely, thats most likley it.
No, no, no. Don’t base your deductions of psychology. Let’s talk chemistry. When you first press a button, there’s more of the natural oils on your skin, and therefore it wears down the numbers on the keys faster. Obviously 0 is the first one, then. Try 0791 first.
Close, but not quite, I think. People will almost always choose a number they can remember. What’s memorable about 0791? Try 0719 - a birthday, 19th of July. That is more likely.
♡ 𖥻 when did you get hot? ──── a jason todd, dick grayson ongoing series.
┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
┆SUMMARY .ᐟ you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
┆ WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
SECOND CHAPTER ──── ❛❛BOYS, BOYS.❞
CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── ❛❛Jason meets your mom, and you have a surprising, heart fluttering encounter with his older brother.❞
LAST ﾉ MASTERLIST ﾉ READ ON AO3 ﾉ NEXT.
Your mom never owned a cell phone.
Not just because it was expensive, but because she had this stubborn loyalty to her landline. It was the first thing she’d ever gotten in her own name, and in a family barely scraping by, that clunky beige phone wasn’t just for calls, it was proof she could keep at least one thing steady on a waitress’s paycheck.
Which meant you got to see her face the night Bruce Wayne called your house.
It was early evening. You’d just trudged home from school, sweaty from sprinting for the bus. Simone had the TV blasting Twin Peaks in the living room, the baby wriggling on your mom’s hip while she tried to keep him from yanking on her earrings.
“Come on, little man, give grandma a break,” she muttered, bouncing him as he drooled down her shoulder.
The phone rang just as you were kicking off your shoes by the door.
“Gabriel, stop—oh. Hello?” Your mom’s voice flipped instantly, high and nervous. She smoothed her hair with her free hand, even though nobody could see her. “Yes, this is her mother. …Mr. Wayne?” Her eyes went wide. “Wait—your son and my daughter? Uh—yes, sir. Of course.”
You didn’t stick around. Heart thudding, you retreated into the bedroom you shared with Simone and dumped your backpack on the bed. Little Women slid out, along with the notes Jason had scribbled for you in class. You were still pulling out your pencil case when your mom appeared in the doorway, arms folded now that Gabriel had been handed off.
“Baby girl,” she said slowly. “Since when are you and the Wayne boy so close?”
“His last name’s Todd, actually,” you muttered, cheeks hot. Jason’s crooked smile at lunch flashed in your head before you could stop it. Most boys your age were gross, but Jason was… different. “He just invited me over to study. He asked for your number.”
Your mom arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Just talking, huh?”
“Yeah, just talking,” you said quickly. “So… can I go to Jason’s after school tomorrow?”
Her answer was immediate, a firm shake of her head. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting my twelve-year-old run off to some stranger’s house. I don’t care if it’s Bruce Wayne or the President. This isn’t the eighties. I told Mr. Wayne his boy can come here first. If I like him, then we’ll talk about you going over there.”
“Wait—did you just say Bruce Wayne?” Simone’s voice shot from the living room. A second later she came bounding in, Gabriel clinging to her like a little monkey. Her eyes were wide, gleaming.
“Yes, your sister’s got a study date with the Wayne boy,” your mom said. “He’s coming here tomorrow.”
Simone gasped. “No way. Wait—it’s not Dick Grayson, right? Right? He’s, like, eighteen, not some middle schooler like Ankle Biter over here.” She jiggled Gabriel on her hip like he was agreeing with her. “Oh my god—if Gotham’s prince is coming to our house—tell me it’s Dick Grayson.”
Of course. Her crush. Half her dresser was stuffed with clippings of him. People covers, glossy gossip mags, headlines like “From Circus Tragedy to Gotham’s Golden Boy” and “Rift with Bruce Wayne?” She’d read every word. To Simone, Dick wasn’t just Bruce Wayne’s ward, he was Gotham’s heartthrob.
She darted back to her drawer, fishing out a wrinkled magazine page and reading in her most dramatic voice: “‘From circus tragedy to Gotham royalty, Dick Grayson has captured the city’s heart—’” Gabriel tried to grab the paper, but she just spun away, “‘—the eighteen-year-old has stepped into the spotlight as a dashing young man—’”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. Simone grinned at your misery.
“It’s not Dick,” you cut in, rolling your eyes. “It’s Jason. The new kid.”
Simone blinked, then smirked, rocking Gabriel on her hip. “Ohhh. That makes sense.” She leaned in with a wicked grin. “When Jason shows up, I’m asking for his brother’s number.”
“Don’t you dare embarrass me, you jerk,” you hissed, imagining Jason’s face if Simone started drooling over his older brother. Not that you were even sure if they were brothers, Bruce Wayne’s whole family situation was confusing as hell.
“Don’t call your sister names,” your mom snapped, shooting you a look. Simone only stuck out her tongue and dropped back onto the couch, TV volume cranked up until it rattled the cheap picture frames on the wall.
“Now hush, you’re ruining Twin Peaks,” she said, shoving Gabriel’s tiny hand away from the remote.
“I thought I was the middle schooler here,” you shot back, but Gabriel latched onto your sleeve, tugging until you laughed.
Simone didn’t glance up. “Shhh. I’m about to finally find out who killed Laura Palmer.”
In gym class, a volleyball came flying at your head. You barely had time to react before Jason’s hand shot up, snatching it out of the air like it was nothing. His jaw tightened, blue eyes flashing as he turned toward the girls who’d sent it your way. Without a word, he hurled the ball back. It smacked into the wall beside them with a sharp bang, making the whole group flinch.
He didn’t bother hiding his glare before turning back to you.
“So, what’d your mom say?” His voice was softer now.
“She said it’s not the eighties anymore, so I can’t just show up at your place without her meeting you first.”
Jason snorted. “Fair enough.”
“Which means,” you added, raising a brow, “you’re coming over to my place today.”
He just nodded.
You hesitated, glancing at the boys laughing nearby, then lowered your voice.
“I live in the Narrows. You… know that, right?”
Jason met your eyes without flinching. A grin tugged at his mouth. “What, you think I’m scared of a couple cracked sidewalks?”
“More like the daily homicides and muggings.”
He smirked. “Sounds charming.”
After class, he was waiting outside, wind messing up his hair. Gotham stretched out around you, still beautiful, even under the haze and the constant hum of traffic. Jason glanced over, about to say something, when a girl with short hair walked past with her friends.
“Hey, Carmen,” one of them sneered. “Did you know Jason’s dad’s rotting in prison for life?”
Carmen turned with a poisonous smile. “Really? Guess it’s only a matter of time before Jason joins him.”
The words cut sharp. Your head snapped toward Jason, bracing for his usual response, a scoff, a comeback, maybe even something reckless.
But he didn’t fight back.
His fists curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. The easy mask he always wore slipped, just for a moment, and something raw flickered through. Your chest tightened. You wanted to defend him, to shut Carmen up, but the words stuck in your throat. The girls’ laughter trailed behind them, cruel and smug, leaving only silence in their wake.
That flicker of embarrassment in Jason’s face made something inside you snap. Heat surged through you, rising fast. You locked onto Carmen’s blonde head and spun toward her.
“Listen, you—”
Jason’s hand closed around your wrist, cutting you off before your anger could sharpen. His grip was steady. Without a word, he steered you toward the academy gates.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly. Not harsh, but anchoring.
“But, Jason—”
“No.”
“But she—”
“It’s not worth it.” His jaw was tight, grip unyielding.
You swallowed your frustration as he led you, not to some sleek car with a chauffeur, like you half expected, but down the street to the bus stop. His fingers still curled lightly around your wrist, like he didn’t quite trust you not to whirl around and throw a punch.
“You should’ve let me say something,” you muttered.
“And what would you have said? She wasn’t lying.”
You glared at him, but the argument lodged in your throat. The evening breeze rattled the shelter around you. The bus screeched up, brakes hissing. Jason still didn’t let go, guiding you on board like he was afraid you’d start a fight the second he released you. He dropped the fare in without a word, shoulders stiff. For someone who usually carried himself like nothing could touch him, he suddenly looked worn.
He finally let go once you were inside, hand lingering in the air before shoving it deep into his pocket. He slid into a seat near the back, hunched forward, eyes fixed out the window. You followed and sat beside him before he could pretend he wanted space. The bus lurched back into motion, engine humming.
Jason’s reflection in the glass looked unreadable.
“She was lying,” you said softly.
His jaw clenched. “My dad’s in prison. That part wasn’t a lie.”
You leaned closer, making sure he couldn’t look away. “She was lying about you.”
He finally met your eyes, suspicion flickering there.
“You’ve had my back since I got here,” you said, voice steady. “Let me have yours too.”
The words hung between you, heavy as the rumble of the bus. Jason didn’t answer right away, but his shoulders eased, just slightly.
“I mean… if you really wanted to punch her, I wouldn’t stop you,” he muttered at last, voice low, like he was testing the waters.
Testing you.
And you couldn’t help it.
A laugh burst out, ugly and breathless. You pictured yourself swinging at Carmen’s smug face, the chaos that would follow, maybe even losing your scholarship. It was absurd, and somehow that made it funnier. Jason glanced at you, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. For a moment, he looked his age, like your laugh had cracked through the armor.
Still smiling, you nudged him. “I know it sucks, your dad being in prison and all. But hey… at least you know where he is.”
Jason leaned back, shooting you a sidelong look.
“What? Your dad’s not around?”
“Not really,” you admitted, shrugging like it didn’t matter.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Very.”
The rest of the ride passed in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside, Gotham shifted. Downtown’s shine gave way as the bus rolled into the Narrows. Buildings leaned close, brick and stone darkened by years of neglect. Fire escapes zigzagged across narrow streets, graffiti marked the walls, and the hum of life here carried a rougher edge.
The neat order of the city’s heart felt a world away, replaced by grit pressing in on both sides. You noticed Jason shifting in his seat, fingers tracing absent patterns over his backpack straps, like he was trying to will his thoughts into focus.
“My dad was a henchman,” Jason said, eyes still on the streets outside. “Ran with Penguin for a while… till he got caught.”
You shrugged, doing your best to act unimpressed, even though this was huge. He was actually opening up to you. “Hum… I don’t even remember my dad’s face. Honestly, probably for the best—he ditched us right after I was born, so I’m guessing he wasn’t much of a nice guy anyway.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Eh… not worse than your dad working for a criminal, but yeah.”
You caught him snorting.
“What is this, Gotham’s Worst Dad Award?”
You bit down on your smile, but another laugh slipped out anyway. Jason shot you a quick side-eye, his blue eyes bright with the effort of keeping a straight face. His lips twitched, fighting a grin, until he finally gave in and laughed with you. The sound made your chest feel weirdly light. Your shoulders brushed, then your knees bumped. Neither of you pulled away, but you both pretended not to notice, like staying that close was an accident neither of you wanted to fix.
“Wait—that’s my street,” you blurted, already hoisting your backpack.
Without thinking, you grabbed Jason’s hand and tugged him toward the doors as the bus slowed. It wasn’t until you felt his fingers tighten just slightly around yours that you realized what you’d done. Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
The two of you just walked side by side down the cracked sidewalk, the silence stretching in a way that felt strangely comfortable.
You glanced at him, heart thumping in your chest. “Hey… when Carmen said all that stuff about you ending up like your dad—what did she mean?”
Jason’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t pull his hand away.
“You don’t really keep up with the news, do you? Gotham Gazette, Gotham Times, any of that?” Jason asked. His eyes weren’t on you, they stayed fixed on the Narrows around you, like it was easier to watch the neighborhood than to face the past.
You shook your head. “Not really. My mom reads the Gazette sometimes, but I don’t. Why?”
The two of you walked past a corner bodega with bars on the windows, the smell of fried food drifting into the street. A group of kids played stickball with a dented soda can, their laughter echoing between the tight rows of buildings.
Jason’s hand tightened in yours. “Because if you did, you’d already know what she meant.” His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the city, but heavy enough to sink in your chest.
He caught your confused expression and sighed.
“Before Bruce… before all this academy crap, I was in Crime Alley with my parents. My dad was locked up before I even turned ten. And my mom…” He paused, jaw tightening. “She wasn’t around much. Drugs, you know? By the time she overdosed, I already knew how to take care of myself. Stealing food, crashing wherever I could. That was just… normal.”
Finally, he looked at you, blue eyes sharp.
“Then Bruce caught me stealing the tires off his car,” Jason said, voice low. “He parked in Crime Alley, of all places. I couldn’t believe it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That dumb?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah… dumb enough. But that’s how he found me. Saw me struggling with the tires and… well, next thing I know, he’s taking me out of there. Adopted me. That’s how I ended up with him.”
He shrugged, like it was just another fact of life, but the weight behind his words hung between you.
“Gotham Gazette found out I was living on the streets before the adoption went through. Stealing whatever I could to survive,” Jason said flatly. “They ran an article. Bruce sued them, of course.”
You frowned. “But the damage was already done, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, eyes flicking to the cracked sidewalk. Then, almost against his own seriousness, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Carmen likes to call me a street rat. Like it’s supposed to be insulting.” He laughed again. “Total jerk move. But… I think she’s got a thing for me.”
You blinked, caught between disbelief and amusement. “A thing?”
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the quiet.
“Hey! You two—get down here!”
You both looked up. On the building’s fire escape, your mom leaned over the railing, arms crossed and eyes narrowing.
“Mom…” you groaned, letting go of Jason’s hand.
Jason raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Family reunion, huh?”
“Something like that,” you muttered, tugging your backpack higher.
Your mom shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile in her eyes. “Come on, you’re not standing out there all day. Get inside.”
You glanced at Jason. “Guess we’re heading up.”
He followed you as you led the way through the narrow stairwell, the city’s hum fading behind the walls of your apartment building. The door to your unit creaked open, and you stepped inside, the warmth of home washing over the tension of the streets. Jason paused at the threshold, taking it all in, then gave you a small, quiet smile.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
“No shoes inside!” your mom called from the kitchen. You both froze for a second, then started kicking off your shoes almost at the same time, fumbling a little with laces and straps. Jason shot you an amused glance, and you couldn’t help but grin.
Before you could start explaining the apartment rules, like no shoes inside and no eating on the couch, your mom appeared in the living room.
“Jason, huh?” she said, giving him a careful once-over, arms crossed but her expression neutral. “You’re the one my kid’s been hanging out with?”
Jason straightened slightly, offering a polite nod. “Yeah. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Your mom studied him for a beat. Her gaze lingered on the faint smudge of dirt on his jeans, the way he kept his hands tucked close to his sides. Finally, a tiny smile appeared. “Alright. You don’t seem like a thug. That’s a good start.”
Jason allowed himself a small smirk. “I’ll take it.”
You couldn’t resist. “See? Told you she’s selective.”
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but the warmth in her expression was undeniable. “Selective, yeah… but fair. Now, come on—sit down before you two track dirt all over my floor.”
Jason raised an eyebrow at you. “Guess I better behave then.”
When you two finally went up to your room for the study session, your mom was very clear about one thing. The door had to stay open.
“Last time I wasn’t looking,” she said, arms crossed, “your sister ended up pregnant. So—door stays open.”
You froze, cheeks flaming. Mortified. Jason, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to disappear, maybe even throw himself out the nearest window.
“Uh… noted,” you managed, fumbling to pull your chair closer to the desk.
Jason gave you a weak, incredulous look, running a hand through his hair. “Seriously… what did I walk into?”
You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Welcome to my life.”
Once the initial shock faded, you both got down to work. Books and notebooks spread across your desk like a small battlefield. You tried to concentrate, but Jason kept brushing past your arm as he reached for a pen, his closeness making your chest thump a little faster than usual.
By the time you hit the physics homework, both of you were running on fumes. Numbers weren’t really Jason’s thing, and your brain felt like it was slowly melting under the weight of equations and Newton’s laws. Jason had abandoned the desk entirely, perched in your chair with a resigned slump, while you lay sprawled on your bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to scream.
After a long pause, he muttered.
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Diary of a Wimpy Kid,” you said without missing a beat, letting your eyes wander back to the ceiling.
Jason raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the chair. “Really?” His voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement. “That’s… your favorite?”
“Yep. Greg Heffley all the way,” you said, shrugging. “Don’t judge me.”
“I mean… it’s an okay choice for a middle schooler.”
“You’re a middle schooler, smartpants. So what’s your favorite book?”
“To Kill a Mockingbird. Harper Lee.”
“You’re twelve.”
“With a big brain,” he said, grinning.
You rolled your eyes. “A twelve-year-old with a big brain who reads sad, moral novels instead of, I don’t know… comics or something.”
Jason leaned forward, mock-offended. “Come on, that book’s a classic. And it’s about justice, morality, and human nature. Stuff that matters.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, sitting up a little, “all I want to know is whether Greg Heffley is actually touching the cheese in the schoolyard or not.”
Jason blinked at you, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re… serious?”
“I am twelve!”
Before he could respond, your mom called from the bedroom doorway.
“Alright, you two, I made something for you—come eat before it gets cold.”
You and Jason both glanced toward the doorway. Jason shot you a mock-exasperated look, like silently asking: do we really have to pause our profound Cheese Touch debate?
“You already know, food over morality,” you muttered, nudging him toward the kitchen. The moment you stepped inside, the warm smell of freshly baked cake hit you both. Your mom was wiping her hands on a towel, a proud smile on her face as she set the cake on the table.
“Sit down,” your mom said, motioning to the chairs.
She set two big slices of cake on your plates, then looked at Jason with a warm smile. “So… Jason, I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“You have?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Well,” she said, nodding toward you, “Ankle Biter here doesn’t have a ton of friends, so she was pretty thrilled when you came along.”
“Mom…” you groaned, feeling your cheeks heat up.
“Ankle Biter?” Jason echoed, clearly confused.
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s a family nickname. When she was a toddler, she had this weird obsession with biting people’s ankles. Didn’t matter who, me, her siblings, everyone got nibbled. The name stuck.”
You buried your face in your hands, muttering, “Thanks for bringing that up again.”
Jason chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Okay… that’s actually kind of adorable.”
While you two started digging into the cake, your mom paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hold on—I think the family album’s in the living room. I’ll go grab it.”
Your stomach sank. “Mom…”
Jason tilted his head, curious. “Family album?”
“Oh, it’s mostly pictures of this one growing up,” she said, pointing at you with a grin. She disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and Jason alone for a moment. You shot him a nervous glance.
“Trust me,” you whispered, “this it’s going to be painful."
A few minutes later, she returned, album in hand, her grin impossibly wide. “Alright, kids, brace yourselves!”
She flipped open the pages, and soon Jason was laughing along with you at your childhood antics; Halloween costumes where you were inexplicably wrapped like a burrito, the time you flooded the kitchen trying to give your nephew a bath, crayon-eating sessions, and countless diaper disasters.
Jason shook his head, still chuckling. “You… were a weird kid.”
“Yeah… apparently, some things never change.”
After the cake break, and the humiliation of the family album, you and Jason slogged through the rest of your homework. By the time you both finished, the sun was dipping low and the apartment felt quieter, softer.
When your mom started clearing the table, Jason stood up without hesitation. “Here, let me help.”
“You don’t have to—” she began, but he was already stacking plates and carrying them to the sink.
A few minutes later, he was elbow-deep in suds, carefully rinsing dishes while your mom dried beside him. They traded easy small talk, her laughter ringing through the kitchen at something he said. You leaned against the doorway, watching. Your mom kept sneaking little approving glances at him, the kind she usually reserved for rare miracles, like when one of your siblings actually remembered to do their chores.
By the time they finished, you were pretty sure your mom was completely smitten with Jason Todd.
“Oh, honey, you definitely have to come by more often!” your mom said as Jason slipped his shoes on in the hallway.
Jason glanced up, clearly caught off guard. Before he could respond, she reached out and ruffled his hair like he’d been hers all along. He froze for half a second, wide-eyed, then let out a startled laugh.
“Uh—thanks, ma’am,” he said, scratching the back of his neck once she pulled her hand away. His voice was polite, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost shy.
You caught the look on his face, the way his surprise lingered, almost like he wasn’t used to this kind of easy affection. Maybe it had been a while since anyone’s mom treated him like he belonged. As she headed back into the apartment, Jason adjusted his backpack, still looking thoughtful. Then he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Your mom’s… kinda great.”
You grinned, bumping his shoulder. “She’s already adopted you.”
He just smiled.
“See you tomorrow, Ankle Biter.”
“Don’t start with that.”
“Sorry,” he wasn’t sorry.
It didn’t take long before you found yourself at Wayne Manor. By mid-July, the city was baking under the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer and the air feel heavy. Your grades had climbed, thanks in no small part to Jason’s relentless tutoring and your mom, pleased with the results, finally relaxed enough to let you enjoy a Saturday morning at Bruce Wayne’s pool. The idea of setting foot in that mansion still felt surreal, but the promise of cool water on a sweltering day was enough to push the nerves aside.
You were clutching your backpack and a pair of pink goggles when the enormous front doors creaked open. Instead of Jason, or even Bruce Wayne himself, you were met by a tall, neatly dressed man with the kind of posture that made him look both intimidating and gentle all at once.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said warmly, dipping his head in greeting. “You must be Master Jason’s guest. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”
You blinked up at him, momentarily forgetting the goggles in your hand. “Uh… hi.”
“I’m Alfred. Master Jason mentioned you’d be joining us today.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the sweeping entryway behind him. “Please, come in. Shoes off if you plan to go near the pool. I do insist on keeping the floors spotless.”
You stepped inside, the marble floor gleaming beneath your sneakers, the air cool compared to the heavy July heat outside. Before you could say anything else, heavy footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Jason came jogging down two steps at a time, hair a little messy, a smug grin already plastered on his face.
“Took you long enough,” he said, eyeing the goggles in your hand. “Nice look. Very intimidating.”
“Master Jason,” Alfred chided lightly, though his eyes held the faintest hint of amusement. “I’ll remind you that a good host welcomes his guests, not mocks their swimwear.”
Then he turned back to you, his voice polite as ever.
“Shall I bring refreshments to the pool, Miss, or would you prefer to settle in first?”
“Um… I don’t know, maybe—” you started, fumbling for an answer.
Before you could finish, Jason grabbed your wrist. “She’ll figure it out later,” he cut in, already tugging you toward the hallway.
“Jason—” you protested, stumbling after him.
Alfred’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his composure as he watched the two of you disappear. “Very well,” he murmured to himself, already making a mental note to prepare lemonade anyway.
“Jesus,” you breathed, your eyes darting from the towering walls to the gleaming chandeliers. “Your house is… huge.”
Jason smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction as you trailed behind him, taking in every ridiculous detail of Wayne Manor’s endless hallways. But the second you stepped outside, all the polished wood and fancy décor vanished from your mind. Your jaw practically hit the ground.
The pool stretched out in front of you, sparkling under the July sun like something out of a magazine. It wasn’t just big, it was massive, the kind of pool that could probably fit your entire apartment building inside it.
Jason caught the look on your face. “Yeah,” he said casually. “Kinda beats the community pool, huh?”
Before you knew it, you were in the pool with Jason, the cool water a relief from the sticky heat. Within seconds, the two of you had devolved into chaos, splashing, dunking, and laughing so hard you could barely catch your breath.
Jason tried to push you under, but you kicked out and sent a wave straight into his face. He came up sputtering, hair plastered to his forehead.
“Oh, you’re dead,” he warned, grinning.
You squealed and swam away as fast as you could, only for him to catch your ankle and tug you back, both of you thrashing and laughing loud enough to echo across the entire yard.
It wasn’t elegant, or graceful, or anything remotely like what you imagined swimming at a billionaire’s pool might look like. But it was fun.
“Wait, wait, wait! I need water!” you called, water dripping from your hair as it plastered itself across your face.
You clambered out of the pool, the tiles slippery under your feet. Water splashed across the floor as you trudged toward the kitchen, still in your Minnie Mouse bathing suit and pink diving goggles, hair sticking in every direction.
Jason called after you, laughing. “Hey! Watch the floors!”
You barely heard him over the squelching sound of your wet footprints. You stomped into the kitchen, dripping water everywhere, hair plastered to your face and pink goggles still perched crookedly on your head and then—
He was there.
An older boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, leaning casually against the counter. His black hair fell in soft, natural waves, and his blue eyes were bright, full of energy even as they casually scanned the kitchen. His posture was effortless, every movement smooth and confident, and the kind of grin he wore made your heart skip a beat. Your twelve-year-old brain short-circuited. Every coherent thought evaporated. He wasn’t just cute, he was everything your pre-teen imagination could dream up: athletic, graceful, and handsome in a way that made your stomach twist.
You blinked at him like an idiot, water dripping off your arms and legs, goggles slipping down your forehead, and your entire body felt like it had forgotten how to move.
“Uh… hi?”
“Water,” you squeaked, your voice sounding like a squeaky cartoon mouse instead of a human being.
His head tilted slightly, amused. He pointed toward the fridge. “Over there.”
You nodded so fast it was probably alarming, barely noticing your heart pounding in your ears. You grabbed the water bottle from the fridge, hands shaking so badly you nearly dropped it. Your brain had officially shut down. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a sentence, couldn’t even process how someone could look like that.
The older boy studied you for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You… you’re Jason’s friend, right?”
Your throat went dry. Words existed somewhere in your brain, but they refused to cooperate. All you could do was nod violently, blinking so fast it was a miracle your pink goggles stayed on.
“Uh-huh,” you squeaked.
He leaned a little closer. “Nice. I’m Dick.”
“Uh-huh."
Before he could say anything else, Dick flashed that grin again, his white, perfect teeth, and you almost screamed. Panicking, you spun on your heels and bolted back toward the pool, your wet feet slipping slightly on the shiny floor. You wobbled, arms flailing, barely catching yourself before a full-on faceplant.
From behind you, Dick’s laughter rang out, warm and amused. “Careful, kid!” he called, still grinning.
You didn’t reply, too busy trying to regain your balance and convincing yourself your heart wasn’t trying to leap out of your chest.
You officially hated boys.
┆NOTES .ᐟ Jason’s mention of his father being in prison aligns with Red Hood and the Outlaws: Rebirth. Willis Todd’s backstory is detailed in Red Hood: Outlaws #23.
♡ 𖥻 when did you get hot? ─── the ongoing series' masterlist. welcome!
┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
┆SUMMARY .ᐟ you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
┆WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
FIRST CHAPTER ──── ❛❛You never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby rich kids. But then Jason Todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt… something.❞ READ ON AO3.
SECOND CHAPTER ──── MORE COMING SOON.
┆NOTES .ᐟ The beginning of the story takes place in the early 2010s, with Jason and Reader being 12 and Dick being 18. The references and technology at the start will follow that period. I’m following the comics to avoid major mischaracterization, so they’re my main source of inspiration. There’s no use at all of “Y/N,” and the Reader isn’t formally described beyond being she/her, so you’re free to imagine her however you like.
┆NOTES .ᐟ The age gap between Reader and Dick is a central factor in their development, as it highlights the imbalance of experience and perspective between them. In contrast, Reader’s relationship with Jason operates on a more equal footing, creating a distinct power balance that influences how each dynamic unfolds.
┆NOTES .ᐟ Chapters will always be posted on AO3 first, so make sure to follow me there as well.
♡ 𖥻 when did you get hot? ──── a jason todd, dick grayson ongoing series.
┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
┆SUMMARY .ᐟ you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
┆WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
FIRST CHAPTER ──── ❛❛I THINK I WOULD REMEMBER IF YOU HAD THAT FACE.❞
CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── ❛❛You never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby rich kids. But then Jason Todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt… something.❞
NEXT ﾉ MASTERLIST ﾉ READ ON AO3.
──── GOTHAM ACADEMY, GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. EARLY 2011.
Rejection is probably the worst thing a pre-teen could feel.
It settles on your small shoulders like a heavy, tattered cape, dragging you down with every step. Your eyes stay glued to your shoes, two sizes too big, scuffed, hand-me-downs from your older sister’s high school days. The worn soles squeak softly against the polished floors, echoing through the hallways in a way that makes you feel painfully exposed. Around you, the other kids laugh in crisp uniforms, their shoes shiny and perfectly fitted, their backpacks glossy and new. The smell of polished wood and lemon-scented cleaner fills the air and every whisper of laughter, every glance at you, feels like a spotlight shining on your differences.
Your hands hang awkwardly at your sides, fingers brushing against the oversized sleeves of your blazer. Your mom couldn’t afford to buy a new uniform, but thankfully your neighbor’s daughter had been a scholarship student at Gotham Academy too, and now you have a set of her old blazers, one of them swallowing your frame. The skirt is another story, your mom patched the gaps with so much care that it almost hurts to look at it, the stitching holding more love than it could ever be fashionable.
“Are you kidding me? They just accept anyone these days. Bruce Wayne must be losing it,” you hear from behind. Four boys are passing by, their voices loud and casual, but every word feels like it’s meant to land right on you. The tallest one has messy blonde hair and a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances you up and down, lingering just long enough for you to feel the weight of his judgment.
“Whoa… did you smell that?” he adds, laughing, and his friends snicker along with him. You shrink into your oversized uniform, tugging at the sleeves as if hiding could erase your presence. Your patched skirt and too-big shoes suddenly feel heavier, every step squeaking against the polished floor like it’s announcing your wrongness to the whole hallway. You force your gaze down, wishing the walls could swallow you up and make them forget you exist.
When the bell rang, you nearly bolted toward your classroom, slipping inside as quickly as you could. You didn’t dare look at anyone, didn’t pause to meet a single pair of eyes. Instead, you went straight for the last row, sliding into the corner seat like it was the only safe place left in the room.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable, far sturdier than the wobbly desks back at your old public school. Even the air here felt different, quieter, sharper, like everything at Gotham Academy had been built to remind you of how far you were from home. For the first time that morning, you let out a shaky breath, thinking maybe, just maybe, you could disappear here.
But then a shadow fell across your desk.
“That’s my seat,” a boy’s voice drawled. He stood over you, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his face. It’s the same blonde from the hallway. His friends lingered behind him, already laughing as if they knew how this would end. You froze, hands clutching the edge of the desk, heat rising in your cheeks.
He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose like you were some kind of disease. “Ew… do you always smell like that? Cheap, nasty perfume—my maid wears better stuff than that,” he sneered. “I can smell it from here. You’ve basically ruined the whole row with… whatever that is.”
His friends burst into loud, cruel laughter, the sound echoing off the classroom walls like it was meant to humiliate you. A few kids glanced over, some giggling, others quickly pretending they hadn’t noticed, like they didn’t want to be associated with someone like you. You felt your stomach drop, shrinking further into yourself, wishing you could vanish into the floor. But before you could even move, another shadow fell over the desk.
“Back off, Jordan.”
The voice came from your left. You looked up and saw a boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes standing there. He didn’t move closer, didn’t shout, but the weight in his tone made the room feel heavier.
Jordan's smirk faltered. “Excuse me? Do you know who you’re talking to? My family—”
Your savior’s lips curled into a sharp, unreadable smirk. “Yeah, I know your family. You’re horrible with chicks just like your dad, huh? Wife-beater behavior runs in the family.”
The words hit Jordan harder than anything else could. His friends froze, unsure whether to laugh or retreat. Jordan's face went red with anger, his smugness cracking, but he opened his mouth to defend himself.
“My dad… my family—”
He cut him off, deadly serious. “I don’t give a fuck about your dad. Back off before I break your nose.”
Jordan’s scowl deepened, lips pressed into a tight line, but he finally stepped back, muttering under his breath. The black haired boy dropped into the seat next to yours and gave a small, almost invisible nod.
“I’m Jason,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a sharp edge to it, the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasn’t someone you messed with. On the surface, he looked like a regular rich kid, fancy shoes, hair perfectly in place. But his eyes… They carried weight, the kind of intensity you didn’t usually see in someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. He leaned back slightly, one shoulder brushing yours, and gave a small, half-smile. “Don’t worry about Jordan. He acts like he’s got a stick up his ass all the time probably because his dad’s a disgusting piece of shit.”
“His dad?” you asked, surprised.
“Uhm… Mayor Hamilton Hill,” Jason said with a shrug, like it was common knowledge.
You glanced toward Jordan, who sat a few rows up with his friends gathered around him, tossing out half-baked jokes to lighten his mood. But he wasn’t laughing. The moment he felt your eyes on him, his head snapped back, and his gaze locked onto you, sharp, furious, like you’d trespassed into a place you didn’t belong.
It was insane. He didn’t even know you, yet the hatred was already there, simmering in the way his lips curled. It wasn’t just about a seat. It was about the uniform you wore that didn’t quite fit, the scuffed shoes on your feet, the patched skirt stitched with love instead of money. To him, you weren’t just a new student, you were a reminder that not everyone at Gotham Academy came wrapped in silk and gold, and he despised you for it. But your twelve-year-old brain didn’t hold onto things for long, and your attention shifted the moment class began. Physics was first, and you let out a quiet sigh as you pulled your notebooks from your bag.
The teacher started scribbling equations across the board, symbols and numbers flowing together like another language. You stared at them, eyes wide, as if you’d just been asked to solve rocket science. Back at your old public school, lessons had been slow, basic, sometimes the teacher didn’t even bother showing up. Here, though, everything moved too fast, built on foundations you’d never been taught.
Your pencil hovered uselessly over the page. It wasn’t just that you hated numbers, it was that you’d never been given a real chance to understand them. And now, surrounded by kids who nodded along like it was nothing, the gap between their world and yours stretched wider with every line the teacher wrote.
You felt your cheeks grow warm, shame settling heavy in your stomach. You shifted, hoping no one would notice.
But someone did.
Jason leaned back in his chair, glancing sideways at your notebook. He didn’t say anything at first, just smirked faintly, like he’d already figured out what was going on. When the teacher turned back to the board, Jason muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Don’t sweat it. Half these rich idiots don’t actually get it either—they just pay people to make ’em look smart.”
He tapped his pencil once against his desk, casual. Before you could give him more than an awkward smile and a straightened, whispered “thank you,” your teacher’s voice cut through the room.
“Alright, let’s see who was paying attention…” His eyes swept the class, finger pausing before landing right on you. “You—new girl. Can you answer this one?”
Your stomach dropped. The chalk marks on the board blurred together, numbers and symbols turning into a jumble that made your chest tighten. You gripped your pencil so hard it might snap. A couple of kids twisted in their seats to look back at you, some already smirking, waiting for you to trip.
Jason didn’t give them the satisfaction.
“She knows it,” he cut in smoothly, his tone sharp enough to snap the tension. He leaned back in his chair with a cocky grin, eyes locked on the teacher. “But if you’re really trying to put someone on the spot, pick me. I like this crap.”
A low ripple of laughter moved through the room. The teacher frowned, hesitated, then sighed and called on another student instead. The whispers quickly faded, the eyes on you turning back to the board. Jason glanced sideways, his smirk softening into something less sharp, almost reassuring. The knot in your chest began to ease, and you found yourself giving him a small, uncertain smile in return. Maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t walked into Gotham Academy completely alone.
“Mom, I’m home!” your voice echoed down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building as you kicked off your shoes by the open door. The soles were caked with grime from the Narrows, subway dust, rain-slick asphalt, and everything else Gotham liked to cling to you on the walk back from the station. No matter how polished and pristine the Academy looked, the streets you crossed to get home never let you forget where you really lived. The apartment was small and warm, and smelled faintly of onions sizzling in a pan.
Your mom stood in the kitchen, still in her diner uniform, apron strings knotted tight around her waist. Her hair was falling loose from a bun, and she looked bone-tired, but her face lit up the second she saw you.
“There’s my smart girl,” she said, stirring the pot before wiping her hands on her apron. Her face looked worn, and the smell of cheap coffee still clung to her, but her smile was full of pride. “How was your first day?”
“It was nice, I guess.”
She tugged gently at your shirt and skirt, inspecting the seams with a frown, worried her stitching might not hold up through a long day. “Don’t forget—I need that uniform. I’m washing and pressing it tonight, no excuses.”
From the living room, your brother called out over the blaring baseball game. By his grunts, it sounded like the Gotham Knights were losing again. He was stretched out on the old couch in a clean T-shirt. Rare sight “Come on, ma,” he said, a grin in his voice. “She’ll survive one day at school without you wrapping her in bubble wrap.”
Your mom just kissed your forehead, “Go get cleaned up before dinner.”
You passed your brother in the living room. His feet were kicked up on the scratched coffee table, a pile of magazines teetering nearby. The couch sagged under him, its faded fabric dotted with crumbs and the faint smell of sweat and sawdust from work.
“Mom’s going to kill you for that,” you muttered, glancing at his scuffed boots by the door. He’d been working construction since he dropped out of high school, putting in long, dusty days at sites all over the Narrows. He always smelled like concrete and sweat.
He just reached out and ruffled your hair. “Go shower, Ankle Biter. You stink.” He sniffed dramatically and recoiled, waving a hand. “Wait… is that mom’s perfume?”
You wrinkled your nose.
“You know that stuff’s ancient,” he said, gasping as if he’d just uncovered a crime scene. “Seriously, go shower before she notices.”
Chances were, she had already noticed, not just the perfume, but that you’d tried to borrow some of her makeup. A bit of foundation under your dark circles, a touch of mascara, last night had been rough with your older sister’s newborn crying nonstop. But your mom was too kind to say anything, letting you slip by, proud of you no matter how small the effort to look presentable for the new school.
“Tony, take your dirty feet off my coffee table!” you heard your mom yell as you shut the tiny bathroom door behind you. Something thumped against the couch, probably whatever she had thrown at your brother this time. From the front door, your sister’s arrival reached your ears, your nephew babbling nonsense only she seemed to understand. You laughed and shook your head, slipping out of your uniform. The noise and chaos of the apartment faded into the background, a comforting white noise as you stepped into the shower.
But your moment of peace was short-lived. A knock at the bathroom door sounded insistent.
“Come on! I really need to pee—these pregnancy hormones are no joke!” your sister shouted.
The perks of having only one bathroom in the whole house.
“You’re not pregnant anymore, Simone,” you said, opening the door, already dressed in your Superman pajamas. She barged in, practically shoving you aside.
“She better not be!” your mom yelled from the kitchen as the baby reached up to tug at her hair.
Simone had become a teen mom last year, after six months of secretly dating the crackhead who lived down the street. You were pretty sure he was too old for her and he hadn’t paid a cent in child support. That’s why she dropped out of high school in her senior year, taking a job as a cashier at the corner bodega just to make ends meet. You still remembered the shouting matches between your mom and her.
And Tony? Well, he dropped out of high school in his junior year after your dad bailed, leaving your mom to raise three kids on her own. Since then, he’d stepped in, not just as a father figure, but as the one keeping the household afloat.
They were over the moon when you got the scholarship. You could see it in your mom’s eyes, in Simone’s beaming smile. In Tony’s quiet praises. For the first time, someone in your family was getting a shot at a real education, a chance to step out of the struggles of the Narrows and into something bigger.
At the dinner table, you carefully recounted your first day, making it sound smooth and easy, because you didn’t want to worry them. You left out the tears in the girls’ bathroom during lunch, and the awkward encounter with the mayor’s son. This was your moment and you wanted them to share in the pride, not the doubts.
Tony pushed his plate back slightly, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He leaned back in the chair. “Nice to hear your day was all sunshine and rainbows, Ankle Biter,” he said, voice teasing but gentle. “But… don’t you have homework? I doubt Gotham Academy goes easy on you.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll get to it.”
Across the table, your mom was sneaking glances at you while eating, and Simone cooed at her baby, mumbling something.
That night, you helped with the dishes. It was just you and your mom in the kitchen, steam curling from the leftover food as she slid containers into the fridge and you dried the plates. The apartment was quiet except for the clink of dishes and the low hum of the radiator.
“Mom,” you asked quietly, glancing up at her, “can you help me with my homework?”
She froze for a second, the spatula hovering mid-air, before straightening her shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Uh… of course,” she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too confident. You could see it in the way she smoothed her apron and tried not to fidget, homework had never been her strong suit, but she was determined to make you feel like she had it under control.
You smiled at her, and she returned it, though just barely. The tremor in her hands betrayed the confident posture she was trying to wear. You could see it in the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip, fumbling with her apron—your mom trying so hard to seem capable, even though you knew she’d never finished school.
You sighed softly and headed to the bedroom. Simone and the baby were already lying across her bed, the little guy murmuring an incoherent babble, while Simone was reading a copy of People magazine, her eyes caught on an article about Kim Kardashian’s whirlwind 72-day marriage that everyone had been gossiping about. You grabbed the textbook the school had handed you, opening it to the first chapter.
“I need to write an essay about Little Women by Louisa May Alcott,” you said, setting the book on your lap. You could feel your mom lingering in the doorway, hesitant, hands clasped together like she wasn’t sure whether to leave or step in.
“Uh… yeah, okay,” she said finally. “I… I can help. Sure. Sit down.”
You patted the spot beside you. She sat, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a little groan, the mattress dipping under her weight. Immediately, you noticed the way she scanned the page like it might explode in her hands, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. She glanced at you, clearly anxious, pretending she understood, but the way she tapped the page with her finger betrayed her.
You looked at your mom with soft eyes, taking in the tired lines on her face and the slight tremor in her hands. You’d never seen her reading a book your entire life. Gently, you kissed her forehead.
“Mom… I actually asked my new friend—uh, Jason—to help me with this earlier,” you said casually. Sometimes, lying isn’t wrong—it’s just protecting someone’s feelings... “He promised to explain the parts I didn’t get, so you don’t have to worry.”
Her eyes widened a little, a flicker of relief, and maybe guilt, crossing her face. She tried to hide it with a nod. “Oh… right. A new friend,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “That’s… good. That’s… really helpful.”
She stood up from the edge of your bed and shuffled around the cramped bedroom, fumbling slightly as she grabbed your uniform from the pile of laundry on the chair. Her shoulders were hunched, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed just how little sleep she’d had.
“I’m going to wash it and press it,” she said, trying to sound firm.
“It’s midnight, mom… you have work tomorrow,” you protested softly, reaching out to stop her.
She paused and turned to you, giving you a small smile. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “Just go to sleep, pretty girl. I’ve got this,” she said, her voice gentle.
For a moment, the hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the floorboards filled the apartment. You watched your mom from the bedroom doorway, folding your uniform carefully.
Once she was done, you closed the door behind you and walked over to Simone, who was lounging on her bed with the baby beside her, the TV flickering in the background with Keeping Up with the Kardashians. “Hey, have you read this book?” you asked, holding up the textbook.
“Of course not,” she replied without looking up, her eyes still fixed on the magazine. “I tried watching the movie with Christian Bale, but it was so boring I couldn’t even finish it.” She nodded toward the TV with a faint smirk. “Honestly, this show is way more entertaining.”
You rolled your eyes and sat down next to her. “Well, one of us has to actually, you know… learn something.”
She snorted, tossing a blanket over your lap. You closed the book and leaned closer to her. “Sure, Professor Ankle Biter.”
Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy. You drifted off with your big sister gently stroking your hair and with the soft weight of your nephew curled against you, drooling lightly on the sheets.
You didn’t see Jason again until four days later. By then, you’d noticed he had this strange habit of skipping school for days at a time and then showing up with fresh, unexplained bruises. This time, it was a swollen black eye, dark and raw against his skin. At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with voices and clattering trays, every table crowded with clusters of friends, except his. He sat alone, hunched over, picking at the food he wasn’t eating.
“You should put some ice on that,” you said quietly, stepping up behind him.
Jason glanced up. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” His voice wavered just a little.
You shifted the Little Women book in your hands, hugging it against your chest, not sure what to say next. He noticed, his gaze flicking to the cover.
“You finish the essay yet?”
You shook your head. “Not even close.”
Something in his expression softened. “Good,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Makes me feel a little better.”
You sat down, facing him, heart racing slightly. But you didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched until he let out a long sigh. “It shouldn’t take long. Little Women’s an easy book.”
“Yeah, totally easy. I can read it with my eyes closed,” you said, shifting in your seat. But Jason caught it—the way your hands fidgeted with the spine of the book, the slight awkward twist of your shoulders. His gaze tracked every movement like he was piecing together a puzzle.
“You never read it, did you?”
“Mm… no.”
“You didn’t understand it?”
You shook your head, bracing yourself for a sarcastic jab, maybe even a laugh. But none came. Jason just sat there, studying you with that bruised face and tired eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table like he was debating whether to bother. Then he huffed out a breath. “Alright. Look. Little Women’s not rocket science.”
You tilted your head, clutching the book tighter. “Easy for you to say.”
He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his bruised eye. “Okay, so—you got four sisters, right? Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. They’re dirt poor, but they’re trying to keep it together while their dad’s off fighting in the war.” He paused, making sure you were listening. “The book’s really about how they deal with growing up when everything around them kinda sucks.”
You blinked at him. “That’s… actually a lot clearer than how our teacher explained it.”
Jason shrugged. “Yeah, well, teachers like to make things sound fancy. Truth is, it’s just about family. Each sister’s got her thing—Meg wants to fit in, Jo doesn’t want to be told what to do, Beth’s sweet but too quiet for her own good, and Amy… well, Amy’s Amy.”
You bit back a laugh. “That’s it? That’s your literary analysis?”
His lips twitched. “Hey, I didn’t say I was writing your essay for you. I’m just giving you the cheat sheet. Point is, the story’s not about big words or whatever—it’s about trying to do right by your family even when life kicks you in the teeth.” His voice softened at the edges, like maybe he wasn’t just talking about the book anymore.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria noise buzzed around you, but at that table, it was just the two of you.
You looked down at the cover of Little Women and then back at him. “You’re… actually kind of good at this.”
Jason smirked again. “Don’t spread that around. Gotta keep my reputation.”
“Yeah, sure but... Thank you,” you said quietly.
He leaned back, starting to wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve read this book a bunch of times, so it’s—”
“No, not just about the book,” you cut in, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean… standing up for me. For not letting Jordan humiliate me. Or our teachers.”
For once, Jason didn’t have a quick comeback. His smirk faded into something gentler, almost surprised, like he wasn’t used to anyone noticing that side of him. He rubbed at the edge of his tray, looking everywhere but at you.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low, “somebody had to.”
Neither of you said anything after that, both of your faces heating up. Jason’s eyes dropped to his bruised knuckles, and you found yourself fiddling with the corner of your book.
“So, uh… did you start the physics homework?” he asked suddenly, like he needed to change the subject fast.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Okay, then. We’ll do the essay together, and after class we’ll tackle physics.”
Your eyes widened. “Really? I mean—I don’t want to bother yo—”
“Just give me your mom’s number,” Jason cut in, his words quick and clumsy. “I’ll… I’ll ask Bruce to talk to her. You can come over to my place. There’s more room to study there.”
You blinked. “Bruce?”
His body went rigid. He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “Uh—Bruce Wayne. He, uh… adopted me. I’m… adopted.”
You froze for a second, eyes wide, your mouth opening and closing like you were about to say something smart but failing spectacularly. “Wait… so… you live with Bruce Wayne? Like… the billionaire guy?”
Jason’s cheeks flushed, and he jerked his hand toward the tray in front of him. “Yeah… but it’s not like I’m rich or anything, okay? Don’t tell anyone.”
You nodded frantically, heart racing, words tripping over themselves. “No, no! I—I won’t! I promise!”
He gave a small, awkward smile, and the cafeteria noise faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. Awkward, a little embarrassed, but strangely… allies in all of this.
┆NOTES .ᐟ Jordan Hill and his family aren't OC's. Fans of The Batman: The Animated Series might recognize him as the Mayor’s son. He’s not actually a jerk in canon, but I needed someone to fill the bully role here. Canonically, Dick Grayson was a Gotham Academy student in both the Young Justice comics and the show. I read Issue #408 and the subsequent issues covering Jason’s origin and didn’t find much about the school he attended before his death, but I decided to place him in Gotham Academy for the story.
┆NOTES .ᐟ A few small changes: I decided that the beginning of the story will take place in the early 2010s, with Jason and the Reader being 12 years old. The references and technology at the start will follow that period.
┆NOTES .ᐟ As an author, and especially one who writes "reader x" fics, sometimes the absence of a nuclear family for the MC makes me relate to them less as real people and more as ornaments in someone else’s story. Coming from a big family, being poor, and growing up in the Narrows are experiences that shape our reader and her perspective.
Intimacy as a Crime | Series | Lovers to Exes to Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Jason Todd x fem!Reader | Chapter 1 | Hurt/No Comfort
Word Count: 2,509
Next Chapter (TBA)
Chapter Warnings: Arguments. Yelling. Lying (Jason). Crying (Reader). Cheating accusations. Mention of drug dealing (Reader accusing Jason). Messy break up. Jason having a violent anger episode "off camera" at the end.
Rocky wasn’t something that anyone wanted to call their relationship.
There had yet to be an actual argument. Nothing more than small disagreements and little tiffs had been exchanged about the matter. All things that had been pushed aside with simple excuses. Clever changes in topic that were so smooth that you didn’t ever notice until the curiosity came back to you. Everything you chose to believe all because they came out of the mouth of someone you loved. Someone you trusted.
It was meant to be a normal night. It had been a nice night, actually. A midsummer night; cool from the rain from throughout the day, yet in that moment the sky was clear and the humidity had lowered. You had been comfortable in your boyfriend’s apartment, even if it would’ve been nicer if he had let you crack open his windows to let in a nice cool breeze while you both had been eating pizza on his couch.
You plucked the plates off of his coffee table with ease while Jason placed the extra slices into a ziploc to save for leftovers. You were content with the domesticity of it. Everything that was occurring in the moment happening with a quiet air of domesticity.
You stepped on the lever of the garbage can, but paused, “Do you want to save the crusts for your neighbour’s dog?”
Jason gave you a shake of his head over his shoulder, “Nah. He said she’s on a diet now.”
“You don’t want to sneak them to her anyways?”
He smiled to himself, placing the bag in the fridge, “I could, but I’ll respect it. She is a little chunky.”
You smile, too, and scrape the plates off.
Bringing them to the sink and turning on the tap, Jason doesn’t even let you get your hands wet before he has a gentle hand on your hip, guiding you to the side as he pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie to clean them himself. You move to break down the boxes instead.
You stare at his back. You decide now is a chance to try again at discussing this.
The early evening light filtered in at a sharp angle from the kitchen window, brushing along his back and making his hair look shiny.
You hold the cardboard in both hands, “It’s getting late. I have to get up for work tomorrow.”
It wasn’t uncommon. You both already agreed you wouldn’t be staying the night at his.
Jason looked at the clock on the wall, a small frown on his face, “That time already?”
You nodded, pulling open and flattening the various tabs of the pizza box.
Another beat of silence. You try again. “I mean… I could stay the night. I have some clothes here-”
“You know I’m not here tonight, baby. I got work.”
Your jaw tightens when he cuts you off. Ever adamant.
“Why can’t I just sleep here while you’re at work?”
You watch him. His shoulders tense for a moment as he thinks. He shakes his head, still focused on the dishes, “It’d be a further trek for you in the morning.”
There’s an edge to your voice, “I’ll wake up earlier.”
“And be even more tired when you do?”
“I’ll get to see you.”
“You don’t wanna see me in the morning, sweetheart.”
“What if I do?”
Jason dropped the sponge and turned to you, looking confused and frustrated at your persistent stubbornness, “What’s this about?”
You clutch onto the flattened pizza box like it’s your lifeline. Held in front of you like it’s the partition between the priest and the sinner at a confessional. You’re not sure who was who in this situation.
“Why don’t I get to meet your friends?”
Jason leaned back against the edge of the counter, hands holding the edge on either side of him, “You know why.”
“That I’m too good to know them?” You repeated what he’d told you a handful of times before. “I want a real answer, Jason.”
“That is the real answer. I meant it.”
You frown at him. You’re picking a fight now. You know you are, but you can’t help it anymore. You can’t do it anymore, not after all this time of him skirting around all these topics.
The tension had been there all along; ever since your first doubts had taken root. Now it was all just boiling over after simmering as part of your inner turmoil.
“Then why can’t I even know about them?”
You notice his fingers tighten on the edge of the counter, “You do know about them-”
“Only after you let slip that you even had any. And I only know two names. Honestly I thought you’d made them up until Dick showed up a few weeks ago-”
“He’s not a friend.”
“So who is he? Just some guy?” Your voice seemed to get louder the longer he didn’t meet your gaze. “Some guy who happened to know where you live? Some guy that you decided to hide me from by throwing a blanket over my head?”
Jason looked to the ground, shoulders tense. With one hand held up, both as a motion to keep it quiet and for him to surrender, he pushed off the counter and took a few steps towards you, “Okay, I know that wasn’t the best-”
“It doesn’t matter at this point!” Your fingers dug into the cardboard, your voice raising even more, “You were still so embarrassed of me that you tried shoving him out before he could even see me!”
“Embarrassed of you?” Jason’s shoulders dropped. He stopped a few feet away from you. “You think I’m embarrassed of you?”
You huffed and dropped your hands, cardboard hanging limply, “You threw a blanket over my head.”
Jason stood there for a moment. You could tell he was taking in what you were saying, choosing the best response. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” He sighed and closed the gap between you, placing his outstretched hand on your shoulder. You stared down at his socks on the tile. “C’mon, let’s clean up and-”
There it was again. The deflection. The changing of the subject. No explanation.
You tensed under his touch. You stepped back, “Jason, I don’t even know what you do.”
That made him freeze, “What?”
After all this time, you’re finally cracking. He skirts around everything in such a clever and charismatic way. You feel like an idiot for it to take you this long to put things together.
“I know that you work nights.” You begin. “You’ve mentioned that you’re a mechanic. I mean, sure, you’ve even fixed my car for me multiple times. I’ve watched you work on that piece of scrap car until you brought it back to life. But you always do it in the parking garage. How come you never just take it to the shop you work at?”
He’s standing with his back straight, staring you down in a way that makes you feel like you’re at the bottom of a pit, and he’s up top on the edge. Too far for you to grab with him not willing to reach out his hand.
“There is no shop,” He says slowly. “It’s just a van body. I fix broken-down cars on the side of the road.”
“So where is the van, Jason? I’ve only ever seen your bike and your car.”
“It’s a company truck. It gets parked in a yard-”
“What’s the name of the company?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You might as well have the shovel in hand with how you feel the distance between you growing.
“Company name.” You repeat.
Jason finally looks away. He takes a step back.
You sigh and toss the cardboard into the recycling bin.
You’ve never met his family. You know he has one. Has some, at least. You know he sees them. He just doesn’t talk about it. You open your mouth to bring it up but decide against it. Not having family is not something you would ever chide him for.
Yet he’s met all of your family. All of your friends. He even met your boss once when he had picked you up from work.
You bristle at your own thoughts, “Jason I don’t even know who you are.”
His head whips back to you in an instant, “Yes you do. I’m right here.”
“No. I don’t,” You’re beginning to get emotional. You walk away from him, yet you feel him hot on your heels. “I don’t know where you go. I don’t know what you do. I get it if you’re not good with your family, but I’d still like to know at least your background a little.”
Jason stopped firmly in the middle of his living room, “No you don’t.”
You whipped around to face him, the coffee table between you two, “You don’t get to decide that for me!”
“I-” He clenches and unclenches his fists with a huff. “I’m just trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From that!” He made a sweeping gesture, “All of that!”
“From what?! Just tell me!”
Jason only stared at you, arms tight at his sides.
Hot tears rolled down your cheeks, “You’re not a mechanic.”
He still didn’t say anything. He looked like he was fighting something within himself. A fragile ceramic on the stove withholding boiling water that was about to overflow.
“Where do you go at night?”
Jason set his jaw, “Don’t.”
“Where, Jason?”
His eyes focus on a spot on the wall behind you, fists clenched, “Work. I’ve told you.”
You scoff and turn towards the exit.
Jason calls your name. He steps up behind you and touches your arm.
You pull away but still spin on him. You point a finger to his chest, “Are you a drug dealer?”
That immediately put him on the defensive, “No!”
“Why haven’t you at least told your friends about me?”
“Baby I’ve told you-”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me! Are you embarrassed of me?”
“Of course not! I told you I’m not!”
“Then why don’t they even know?”
“It’s complicated-” He ran his hands through his hair. “Please can we just sit down and talk about this-”
“Complicated in the same way that you won’t take me on a real date?”
A hurt expression crossed his face, “A real date?”
You huffed and wiped at your eyes. “You never take me to public places. It’s always inside; at mine or yours. Or somewhere secluded like the trails we take our walks on. The most open space you took me to was the drive-in. In that stupid project car of yours with those tinted windows that we all know are just barely legal they’re so dark.”
He says your name softly but you cut him off.
“Am I just some side chick that you’re hiding from your real life?”
That was too much. Something you should have never second guessed was Jason's loyalty to you. Now, your large boyfriend was glaring just as much as you had been. He stepped back from you, arms at his side. “Are you serious?”
Yet you stood your ground with your arms more so hugging yourself than being crossed, your body half turned away from him and towards his front door.
Jason shakes his head in disbelief, “No. God, you're kidding. I love you. Only you. There’s no one else." He looked you up and down, considering, "Have I really made you think that?”
Your tears start falling all over again. A small sob leaves your throat, “What else am I supposed to think, Jason?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Baby there’s no one but you-”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me!”
Jason held his hands up in surrender, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just-” He sighed and ran his hands down his face. He cursed under his breath. “I told you from the start I’m no good. I don’t know what you want me to be. You’ve never shown a problem with this.”
“Every time I’ve asked why I had been showing that!” You shouted, his own loud voice overlapping with yours. “Why can’t I meet your family? Why can’t I meet your friends? Why can’t we even just go out to a restaurant without ordering in from one!”
“Fuck!” He was nearly pulling out his hair. “Just tell me! What do you want? Huh? Just say it!”
You cringed lightly as he yelled, “I want to be a part of your life! Your whole life!”
He shouts so loud it echoes off of his walls, “You can’t be a part of my life!”
You stare at him, equal parts angry and hurt. He stares right back.
Your tears keep coming in thick, hot streams. Seemingly realizing what he’s done, Jason turns his head to the side, looking regretful.
“Why?” You ask, voice tight.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He still doesn’t look at you.
“Why?”
“I can’t-”
You don’t even wait to hear him finish. You spin on your heel and march off to his bedroom.
You hear him say your name. Very quietly. Just once.
You grab a random grocery bag on the way there. Tearing open his drawers and closet, you take every single item that’s yours and shove it in.
It barely fits. You walk back out into the living room. Jason’s where you left him.
He runs another hand over his face, “Lemme drive you home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“We’re not talking tomorrow.” You pick up your blanket on his couch and try stuffing it into the grocery bag. It barely fits. Only haphazardly drapes over the top.
You can hear the slight anxiousness in Jason’s voice, “What are you doing?”
You take a moment to stare over the back of his couch to the bookshelf behind it. There were various books you had lent him. There was no way you could carry them with you right now. You decided to forfeit them.
Jason says your name when you don’t look at him. There’s panic stuck in his throat, you can hear it.
You breeze past him without even a look in his direction.
He just stands there. Rooted in place while you take that shovel of yours and uproot everything you two had together.
He doesn’t say another word. Not when you slip on your shoes. Not when you slam the key he’d given you on the side table beside the closet. Not when you unlock the door. Not when you slam it behind you on the way out.
You walk down the hall and wait for the elevator.
A loud bang and crunch came from behind his apartment door, like something had hit the wall and broken through the drywall. It was followed by a loud crash of wood against wood. What you had never realized may be your last meal together churned in your stomach.
You wiped your tears away again. The ding of the elevator was muffled by the sound of glass shattering deeper in the apartment.
You let it carry you away as you clutched your grocery bag of belongings tightly in your hands.
okay hope you enjoy there will be more on the wayyyy
✮⋆˙ ─ duty calls babe, gtg!
dick grayson x reader (ㅅ´ ˘ `)
ᯓ. being with a vigilante is not for the weak. why must he leave in the middle of a heated makeout session?!
content warning: neck kisses , nipping , uh idk making out..
you first fell in love with your boyfriend even before you found out that he's nightwing, but you remembered the first time you saw him in his suit, right in front of you, in person. it was like the tides shifted in that moment, no wonder he's popular with the ladies..
"you like what you're seeing?" he always joked. who are you to lie?
"yes."
"oh."
he soon realized that you were serious when you stopped talking and only communicated through actions, stopping him as soon as he finished suiting up, locking your arms around his neck, and stared at him with those eyes that always turn his switch on whenever he locks in with it.
with his signature smirk, he too, wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer, and tilts his head to the side, eyeing you down.
"you do know that i have to go now, hm?" he joked out, offering a small peck right on the corner of your lip, giving you the urge to smirk as well.
you returned the action by giving him a peck as well, this time right on his lips.
"we all know that every time this happens, you always make it on time." you shot back, allowing him to place his face in your neck, chuckling at your words before he attacked your neck with his kisses, causing you to gasp.
softly, you felt as he nipped at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, but only for a moment until you felt his tongue soothing the area, only to then move up with wet kisses until he arrived back at your perfectly plumped lips.
you both got the memo, as you both crashed into each other, wasting no time as lips were parted at the get-go, it was all you heard. kisses filled each other's ears as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss. you heard him groan as you pulled at his hair, making you let out a small giggle in the heated kiss.
dick, on the other hand, wanted the most out of this moment. you felt how he gripped onto you, pulling you even closer to his body, not wanting you to leave, wanting to taste you even more. he wanted it all from you.
it was intoxicating; his lips were like a drug to you. but soon, you both had to break apart for air. it made you whine, already missing the taste of his lips.
that sight of your small frown, staring up at him with those knitted eyebrows. he loved it. he loved it so much he couldn't help but chuckle as his fingers caressed your swollen lips, all from his doing.
he then dragged it down to your neck, rubbing the area he nipped earlier, then slowly pulled you in, parting his lips, about to dive in one more time before-
ring!
the sound of a phone filling the hot silence, pulling a loud sigh out of you as dick laughed. the mood was now ruined, and dick had to go.
you both broke out of each other's arms, as with a slumped frame, you made it back on your shared bed, shoving your face into the pillow, leaving dick by himself staring at you as you locked everything out, including him.
Synopsis: The morning after a long night with your boyfriend should be relaxing, however Tim's family has no idea who you are let alone that you're in a relationship.
Notes: Probably OOC I'm having fun leave me alone, Fem-Reader, This is my first time writing for DC, posting on tumblr, and just straight up writing a Fic in a few years please be nice 🙏🙏
TW/CW: Alluding to sex, pre-established relationship, almost getting caught, (tbh idk if it counts) dumb teens doing dumb teen stuff, inappropriate jokes
───────────────
The sun filters through a sliver of a crack from Tim's black out curtains that cast a bright beam of light that miraculously hits both yours and Tim's faces.
"Tim, turn off… The sun." Your voice cracks with sleep, turning around and attempting to pull the blankets over your face to hide from the glaring light. "Thats not going to happen for like another 5 billion years."
"Tim..."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
After a weak attempt of getting out of bed to scavenge for your lost clothes from the previous night, a memory pops into your head. One of you having a conversation with Tim about how you needed to leave before the sun came out as to not be seen by his family.
Looking back at the mocking light that now dances across Tim and the bed alike you realize how absolutely screwed you are.
Biting your lip and quickly searching for your lost phone in the ruffled bed sheets, grabbing ahold of the cold case only for it to be dead when attempting to turn it on.
"Damn it-"
Tim, despite being half asleep himself, was still concerned by the distress in his girlfriend's voice. "Mmnyou okay...?" The words dragging together, sleep still lingering in his tone. Reaching over a hand to rest on your thigh in a comforting manner.
"What time is it?" You ask, not quite panicking but also not completely fine. Tim's eye cracks open giving you a confused look as he looks between the sun (or what bit he can see through the curtains) and your face. Then it finally clicks on what exactly what is going on.
Tim sits up almost too fast and making his head feel light in doing so, but his poor health is not the most pressing matter at hand. It was that you were still here when his family was in the house.
Awake.
And probably expecting him to be down for breakfast relatively soon, that is if he is wasn't already late for said time.
Both you and Tim look at the state of his room.
Hoodie tossed over his computer,
Pants left on the floor by the window you came through,
Bra hanging off a lamp,
Panties nowhere to be seen.
There is no way that if one of his brothers or his butler or even god forbid- his father came in they wouldn't be able to put two and two together.
Last night Tim was supposed to go on a patrol. However one thing led to another and his patrol turned into him being balls deep in you.
How romantic.
You now scrambling to find any sort of clothing to cover up with and Tim desperately trying to hide the evidence from last night was stopped by the sound of footsteps coming closer.
Breathing stilled, no movement made by anyone. You had one of his shirts half way on when the knock on his door came.
Tim and you exchanged a glance before he looks at the closet as if silently telling you to get in. You shoot him a glare but make silent steps toward it knowing you have no better ideas.
"Master Timothy, are you going to be joining us for breakfast today?"
A muffled british accent asks through the door. Tim struggling to pull up his sweatpants and hide the last bit of your clothing around his room manages to respond.
"I'll be down in a few minutes-"
There was a moment of silence between them before Alfred spoke again.
"Are you feeling alright master Timothy? You sound rather hoarse and… Alarmed."
Tim didn't answer, his brain was going miles per minute yet couldn't process what Alfred's next words were.
"I'm coming in, Master Timothy."
Tim trying to stop Alfred from coming into his room was foiled by his low hanging pants. His foot snagging on the loose fabric and making him slip, falling on his face. Alfred steps into the room was greeted by the sight of Tim on the floor with his sweats barely on and the noticeable sound of someone trying to conceal their laughter from the closest.
Alfred being the good butler he is stays silent about Tim's actively breathing closet.
"Master Timothy, are you alright?"
Standing over Tim's unmoving body he gets an affirmative groan of pain, slightly muffled by the hardwood floor.
"Yeah, m'alright..."
Glancing at the closet and around Tim's room he notices a pair of ladies undergarments hanging from a blade of the ceiling fan. Nodding to himself with a low hum before speaking to the boy on the floor.
"Well, we hope to see you at the dining table soon, Master Timothy."
Before turning around with a click of his heels back out of Tim's room.
As soon as the door is shut and you could no longer hear the sound of footsteps you bursted out of the closet laughing.
"Look who's face down ass up now!" You laughed out and pointing at your boyfriends ass.
"This is not the time to be making jokes-"
Tim's feeble attempt of getting up and pulling up his pants was once again foiled by his girlfriend tackling him onto the bed.
"This is the perfect time for making jokes."
There was a moment of silence between the two before you noticed something.
"Hey? Is that my underwear on the fan?" Looking up from the bed to see what is in fact your panties from last night that had been thrown into oblivion by Tim.
Tim's eyes shifted upward toward to look at the underwear on his fan. "Man, I've got a good arm." This comment gets him a small punch on the arm from you.
"Ow- What was that for?" His eyes narrowed at the girl attached to his side.
"You tell me now's not the time to make jokes and you make one yourself-? Hypocrite"
"No, it's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
"I hate you."
Getting up to gather your stuff to once more to jump out his window... Again.
"Boo, you suck." He says back to you while he watches you get dressed in his clothes. "You have clothes. Why are you using mine?" He questions as you pull a pair of his sweatpants on.
"I can barely sit down and you want me to wear jeans? Not happening." You turn to him and stuff your bra in a bag. His bag. You do one last look over his room to see if you missed anything and deciding if you did you'll get it later.
"Guess it's time for me to skedaddle."
Tim lets out a huff of air before grabbing you by the waist, eyes meeting and breath mingling.
"Be safe."
He breathes out softly, resting his forehead against your own for a moment before his lips meet yours in a sweet yet fleeting kiss, absently rubbing a circle on the curve of your hip when he pulls away.
Walking towards the window Tim's eyes follow, turning your head to meet his gaze one last time before you fall and eat shit out the window.
"OH MY GOD-"
Tim's voice was barely audible due to you being stuck in the god forsaken rose bush.
"I TOLD YOU TO GET RID OF THIS BUSH-" You yell up at him getting out from the thorny cushion.
hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god
