Can you do a headcon about Jason and what he loves about you. Thank you 😊
-he loves when he wakes up in the morning with you giving him pecks all over
-he loves coming home from a long mission to find you wearing his shirt or sweaters-he loves when you’re in your most vulnerable state around him knowing that you trust him so much
-he loves the way you look at him or look you get at the mere mention of his name
-he loves when you give him quick peck on his lips as you go off to work
-he loves when you’re just dancing and singing in the kitchen in the morning like no ones watching
-he loves seeing you get excited over the littlest things
-he loves the way you smile-he loves seeing you blush when he compliments you
-he loves the way you hug him so tight after not seeing him after a long mission
-he loves when you hold his hand unconsciously
-he loves when you ramble on about things you like because you’re just so happy and passionate -he loves the way to bite your lip without even noticing
-he loves how you grow so fond over a fictional character and get so emotional over their deaths
Jason’s super protective of you, and honestly you think it’s a little over the top (but he knows you’re a target for every villain in Gotham and beyond, and no, that flamethrower hidden in the door is not overkill.) The new burglar alarm system he got Roy to install is pretty nice, though.
On a similar note, he sleeps sort of curled around you, and would probably sleep on top of you if he wasn’t heavy enough to squash you flat. It helps if he wakes up in the middle of the night and can tell that you’re still there.
He calls you super ridiculous sappy pet names, and you pretend it irritates you (even if you think it’s actually kind of cute.) You call him Jay or sometimes Jaybird.
He gets restless if he’s not out on the streets for a while, like if you’ve insisted he stay home for a week because for god’s sake, Jay, you broke three ribs, or worse still if he’s actually confined to bed.
It’s not so bad as long as you’re around to keep him company, but when you leave the apartment he paces around and makes a mess, and you’ll come back to papers everywhere and a trashcan full of burned food. (It’s not that he’s a bad cook, he just got distracted by something else.)
He’s terrified that you’ll leave him, and no matter how often you reassure him that you’re not going anywhere you can tell that he doesn’t quite believe it.
He gets overwhelmed when you do even the smallest things, like snapchatting him a picture of your lunch or staying up late for him to get back from patrol (you’ve heard that once he held a thug at gunpoint while checking a message you sent him about the kind of cereal he’d like.)
Roy hangs around a lot of the time and he makes really suggestive comments and dismantled your computer once. He’s funny, though, and he has an amazing number of embarrassing stories about Jason. You could even say he has an… arsenal. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
fuck, I just realized that if I spend my life being too intimidated to make art then that means I don't even get to make bad art. I end up making NO art. that's way worse
summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.
cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)
tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.
wc 𓂃 2.1k.
— oneshot request !
Snow.
It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.
Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.
That posh dickhead Oliver.
Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.
Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."
Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.
He looks like he walked into the wrong building.
And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.
It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.
Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.
"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."
You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.
"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."
He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.
But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"
Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.
He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.
You'd laughed.
He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.
"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."
He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.
Jason's pen snaps.
The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.
"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"
"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."
You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.
He looks away before you can ask.
Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.
Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.
He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.
He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.
You've never treated him like a ghost.
You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.
You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.
You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.
"I'm cold," you'd whispered.
"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.
"Not without you."
You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."
Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.
He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.
The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.
Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.
You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.
"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.
"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.
Jason wants to shake you.
He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—
"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.
Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.
He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.
The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.
Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.
I've known you since we were nine.
I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.
I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.
You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.
And I can't—
"Jason!"
Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.
"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.
You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.
"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"
"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."
You don't drop it. When do you ever?
Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.
"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."
Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.
He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.
"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.
You blink. "Who?"
He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.
"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
The rest of the walk is silent.
He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"
He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.
But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.
You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.
"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Jason Peter Todd."
He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.
"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."
He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."
"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."
Fifteen years. God.
Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.
Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.
He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.
You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.
And you're still here.
You're still here.
"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.
"Who?"
"Oliver."
You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."
"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"I'm acting like one."
You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.
"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"
Because I love you.
Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.
Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.
Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.
Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.
He doesn't say any of it.
He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.
"Jason," you whisper again.
And he thinks — maybe.
Maybe this is the moment.
Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.
His hand moves before he can stop it.
His fingers brush against yours.
You inhale sharply.
And then—
"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."
You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.
Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.
Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.
"Jason."
He turns.
You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.
"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.
He stares at you.
"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."
"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight."
He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—
short | fluff | smut | “wiping my drink after him”
synopsis: you try a trend on jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. clearly he doesn’t appreciate it.
a/n: was supposed to be fluff but i’m freaked out sorry
it’s nearly 10pm when jason comes home from patrol. he had planned to get here earlier and switched his shift with dick all because you told him you finished work.
without even asking if you wanted him to do so, he just did it.
“baby?” he calls out as he shuts the front door.
you’re sitting on your bed, practically buzzing as you’d just been scrolling on tiktok and saw a trend you just had to try on him.
“i’m in here jay,” you reply from your bed, fingers idle on the screen as you quickly place it on the nightstand.
enough to capture the both of you.
heavy footsteps approach the room and he opens the door with sweat wicking his brow. he gives a low hum as he takes on the sight of engulfed in one of his t-shirt, a habit you’d taken when you missed him and wanted him home. curled up in your comforter with just your torso peaking out, jason plops right on top of you. no care in his sweat on your skin now of his weight resting on you entirely. you giggle as you run your fingers through his hair.
“don’t you think you should, i don’t know, shower before you come into bed?” no real annoyance behind your words.
he nuzzles even closer to you, shakes his head in the crook of your neck. almost like he’s motorboating your neck.
“nah, i’ll wash the sheets in the morning. they’ll need it after i’m done with you.”
the heat reaches your face and a fluttery feeling sits low in your stomach. he always knew how to throw the words back at you. but alas, the show must go on. you stroke his hair back once more, cupping his face with both hands to kiss his sweet face. jason melts into it immediately, but he shrugs like he were shy from this attention. when you pull away, a piece of him was disappointed.
“you hungry?” you ask him. “i was gonna make something to eat.”
he shakes his head, “don’t worry about it. i came home to take care of you. i’ll cook.”
you raise a brow as you reach for your water bottle, ready to play in his face. “take care of me? i’m a grown adult babe.”
he watches as you lift the bottle to your lips, his eyes trained hard on how they part and press against it. taking in how your throat swallows down the water and he gulps in anticipation as though he was drinking it too. his lips part as he leans in to kiss you again. though this time, you bring the bottle between you and put it to his lips.
“you look dehydrated,” you say like it’s the easiest thing in the world. tilting your head slightly and watching the gears turn in his head. “have you been using the bottle i bought you?”
he sighs and nods, “yeah, but i like using yours better.”
sitting up enough to take the bottle and take a long sip. probably draining your ice cold water from how thirsty he was and didn’t even realize. he makes a sound of approval and hands it back to you when you do the unspeakable.
you take the bottle from him, lift your opposing hand and wipe it with your sleeve. jason is absolutely dumbstruck. his lips part in confusion as his brows furrow. he looks to you, then the bottle and then back to you again. he scoffs softly and then points at the bottle.
“the fuck was that?”
he’s blinking hard at you and waiting for a response. you just take a long sip and furrow your brows back.
“what do you mean jay? i’m drinking water?” feigning confusion.
“you just wiped me off of it i’m some freeloader, with germs and shit.”
you can’t control your laughter and shake your head at him. “i’m just wiping your spit off of it jason. it’s not a big deal.”
he knows you have never cared about germs with him before. besides, you live in gotham, and it’s hardly the cleanliest place to be living.
then he’s stammering, pointing between you and the bottle again. “but babe you just kissed me! how is that any different! wait, does my breath smell?” before he leans back and puts his hand in front of his mouth and breathes out to sniff his breath. “i didn’t smoke or anything and i brushed my teeth i swear.”
this only makes you laugh harder, pushing this chest and grasping tightly at he bottle in your hands. jason only seems to get even more confused. he sits up completely and watches you giggle to yourself, finding this entire thing amusing. jason however, does not.
with a loud scoff, he takes the water bottle from your hands and tongues at the mouth piece. he fully lets his tongue fall out of his mouth, licks it all around before pulling back and handing it to you. you grimace a little at the wet sheen on it.
“ew jay, what the hell.” holding the bottle like something toxic.
“take a sip.” he says with the most stern expression you’d ever seen on him.
oh, he was pissed.
you decide to play along longer and shake your head in defiance at him.
he blinks at you, “i’d let you spit in my mouth and you’re sitting here telling me you won’t drink from the same bottle as me?”
“no, not until i wash your slobber off of it.”
that’s when he huffs out like a kid throwing a tantrum and grabs the bottle from your hand, mumbling under his breath. you watch him with genuine confusion while he is the one to take another sip before grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.
he squeezes your cheeks until your lips part and spits the water directly into your mouth. you make a sound of surprise the sudden intrusion makes your eyes widen but you were definitely not opposed. you swallow it down immediately. he keeps his hold on your cheeks as he squints and a small smile begins to take form on his face.
“you’re liking this,” he states rather than asks.
the contagious smile takes home on your face as you stare back at him and nod. “it’s a prank.”
“ha,” he says flatly, “now can you lay back down please?”
sighing as you lay down for him, he immediately follows after you. weight resting directly over you like a weighted blanket that wouldn’t budge if you tried. when you squirm a little, he wraps his arms over yours so you’re bracketed between him and the mattress. then he really does give you some sloppy, wet kisses that leave a trail in its wake.
he’s mumbling lowly as he starts to tug on your shirt, pulling the fabric up and huffing like he’s still annoyed. kisses getting a little rougher as he starts to bite the flesh beneath it and knead it with his teeth. you can’t help but tilt back for him.
“slobber, huh? i’ll show you slobber.” murmuring against your skin enough to tickle. he pulls his head up to look at you while you’re still giggling, “okay jokes over. was gonna do all the work but—”
jason lifts you from beneath him and places you firm onto his lap. hand tight in your hip as you straddle him and he settles his back on the headboard. he clears his throat and something behind his light eyes darken enough to tell you you were really in for it now. the thick bulge beneath you was unmistakable now. you open your mouth in a gasp and say his name.
“there’s no way that turned you on.” making the horrible mistake of letting a giggle out again.
he breathes out of his nose and pinches your side to make you jolt. groaning like he’s not the cause of you moving around and tightening his hold on you so you’d stop moving.
“i spat in your mouth. of course i’m hard.” he sighs as his fingers slide across the waistband of your underwear and tug them just to let them snap. you jolt again but he doesn’t stop you from moving or say anything about the desperate sound you make at the friction.
instead, jason smiles a little harder, “go ahead then.”
guiding your hips back and forth until your breath caught in your throat and you grips his shoulders for dear life. you breathe out his name again but it’s barely a whisper.
he tsks and bucks up into you, dragging his hard length against your clothed core. your hips with a mind of its own as you chase your own release, dragging your hands down his chest and pushing him further into the mattress. you’re already a mess, panting heavily and saying his name.
dangerously close already and he’s just grinning like he’s won.
one of his hands come up to the nape of your neck and pulls you down towards him, whispering lowly in your ear.
“there you go ma, take what’s yours.”
movements getting sloppy and uneven while he’s keeping you folded against him. one strong palm kept your faces close and the other moved you in accordance what he knew got you there. he knew you were a goner before you even let go, gasping and stilling just for him to continue moving against you. even when you make a whimpering sound he continues and holds you hard against him.
you’re trying to catch your breath when he finally stops and kisses the side of your face sloppily again. his hands rubbing up and down your back like he’s soothing you. it feels like your purring against him as you come back to yourself. but this time, he’s the one laughing while he whispers in your ear like a coo.
𝟏𝟖+ 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 | he sends you a voice message while he’s away.
“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”
his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.
“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.
he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.
“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.
“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.
“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”
“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.
“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.
“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.
“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.
“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.
“anyway. i’ll be back soon. love you, byee.” he spoke before blowing an obnoxious kiss to the phone and cutting the voice message.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem! Reader/ Red Hood x fem! Reader
Word count: 5.7k
Synopsis: Your relationship with Jason is complicated, you take care of his kid and practically take on the role of his mother, and stay the night with them and yet he still won't ask you to be his.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, situationship, dad AU, dad! Jason todd, will they won't they, CW food mentions, CW suggestive language, fluff.
Requested by anon: single dad!jason todd x nanny!reader. she knows he’s red hood, and is in like desperate need to make some money, and he needs someone to watch his kid while he’s out vigilante-ing.you can obviously change stuff or like write it however you wish. ANYTHING U WRITE WILL BE PHENOMENAL
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Jason Todd Masterlist
“Are you joking?”
“If I say please with it would you do it?” Jason’s voice is strangled against the phone’s receiver, and you’re beginning to think that he’s currently fighting some petty villain whilst talking to you casually.
“It's not that you weren’t nice about it, it’s just—” sighing, you finish packing a second lunch box for Oliver, already agreeing to Jason’s plea before even saying yes to him. “—I literally just watched him yesterday. I have a life too, you know.”
“You do?” You hear a pained groan on the other side as Jason huffs into the phone. He’s definitely out fighting crime again. “When was the last time you went on a date again?”
“Don’t remind me, asshole.” Rolling your eyes, you have a feeling that Jason could sense your sass through the phone, he has a sixth sense when it comes to your attitude.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“How’d you—?” You twist around as if there is a hidden camera around your apartment. “Can you please just fucking beat the guy, you breathing on the phone is annoying me.” On the contrary, you feel your cheeks warm just from the familiar sound.
“What, I can’t even breathe?”
“Oi, what the fuck, lady!” A stranger’s voice adds amidst the sound of a metallic clang.
“Am I on speaker?”
“So demanding as always.” You could just tell that he said that with a smirk. With the muffled sound of fist hitting skin, you finish packing. Waiting for Jason to answer, you grab the bags and head outside. The key fob clicks with a beep as you get inside your car. “You little shit.” Heaving, Jason returns to the call a minute later. “You’re already in your car aren’t you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Placing the phone on the dashboard, you stifle a chuckle. “That depends if you’ll pay me my regular fee.”
“Please, you like watching Ollie.”
“I do, but times are tough and I gotta pay bills too, ‘Mr. I have a billionaire for a dad.’ My regular nine to five isn’t cutting it much anymore.”
His soft chuckle has you grinning to yourself like a madwoman. Cheeks aflame, and hands suddenly clammy, even after all these years he still has that effect on you as if you’re a school girl having a crush.
“Fine, I never skimp out on your fees, I’m not going to start now.” His boots thump on the ground, “And you wouldn’t be having that problem if you agreed to stay with us.”
“And have your son question the nature of our relationship again?” Starting the car, you head out of the driveway towards the familiar road to Jason’s apartment that you have driven a thousand times before that you could practically drive there with your eyes closed.
“It’s not my fault that he could sense the tension.” There’s keyboard clacking on his end, as Jason puts the phone in between his shoulder and cheek that you could tell from the rustle of clothing. “He’s a smart kid, and smart kids see through everything.”
“If that’s you saying that our friends with benefits situation needs evaluating then tell that to yourself.” You say with a clear bite to your tone, knowing that you have tried several times to be more than his friend, not just to occasionally warm his bed. “You’re just making Ollie confused.” Your tone falls as you hear him shift on the other end.
He stops typing for a moment, a chill running in between the two of you as if he sits beside you in the car. There have been conversations about the exact same subject, and Jason would almost always segue out of it, or wave the topic away casually. Recently though, the tension is running higher than ever, you’ve been staying at their place more frequently, longer even.
You have a space in his closet where you always have fresh spare clothes tucked inside, your clothes smell like the citrus fabric conditioner he uses because Ollie can’t stand the smell of lavender. You have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, your own loofah, a bathrobe that he bought in your favorite color on a random day because you were complaining of using his towels. You even have an extra pair of shoes, your own mug in the kitchen that Oliver painted at school for you, and a bunch of hair ties left scattered in Jason’s bedroom, all belonging to you.
There is a routine now at his apartment whenever you stay the night or two, sometimes longer than in your own place where you only go home to grab new clothes. In the morning you’d make the boys breakfast, chocolate pancakes for Oliver, shaped like bats of course, and the usual egg and sausage for Jason that he always shares with you, chopping up pieces of the meat for you whilst you cut Oliver’s pancakes for him. Little Ollie, all toothy smiles and giggles, rambles on about some show that he forced you two to watch last night whilst you wiped the syrup from his cheek. The three of you would always have breakfast together that it’s basically ingrained in Ollie’s routine. It’s domestic bliss, but it’s all an act when you always leave. And Jason will only kiss you back when you’re both tangled under the sheets.
Over the years, you’ve found yourself becoming closer to Oliver, you met him when he was just a year old, barely walking straight, still teething as he seemingly imprinted on you like a little duckling. The poor kid has grown fond of you too, but now that he’s a bit older, he’s asking a lot of questions. Questions that you don’t even know the answer yourself.
You read him bedtime stories, you help him get ready for school, you kiss him goodbye, and you tell him that you love him. And yet you’re not his mom, his aunt or anyone important in his life, you’re just the woman who takes care of him and yet loves him like he’s your own.
You’ve left your mark in their lives, your life rotates around them, and yet, you’re still an outsider.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him.” Jason sounds defeated, tired and utterly conflicted.
“Good,” your tone snags at the end as you clear your throat. “I’m almost there, is he still with your neighbor or is Tim watching him now?”
“Tim,” Jason simply says through clenched jaw as he continues his work. “I told him that you’re coming.”
“You’re always so damn presumptuous, Jason Todd.”
“I know you couldn’t resist Ollie, even if you could resist me, only sometimes that is.”
You park the car as you shake your head with a small smile. “One of these days, I’ll say no.”
“I know,” he softly says, almost melancholic. “I’ll be back before his bedtime. Try not to eat all my yogurt this time.”
—
“Where’s my favorite guy?” Opening your arms, Ollie bolts out of the couch as he runs in between Tim’s legs, and launches himself into your arms within a second of his uncle opening the door.
“Here!” Oliver giggles and kicks his feet happily as he wraps his arms around your neck. “I missed you!” He grins toothily, voice squeaky as he tightens his hold on you with all of his five year old might.
“I missed you too, buddy!” Squeezing him, you start to stand up but struggle a bit. “Oh, what is your dad feeding you? You’re getting so big!”
Tim helps you up with his hand on your elbow whilst gathering your bags in his free hand. “I think he got into Jason’s protein powder again.” He jokingly says, but not too farfetched when you once caught him trying to open the big jar.
“You did!” Leaning away, you feign a shocked gasp, smiling at Ollie as he giggles and nods wildly, already distinguishing a joke. He has a striking resemblance to his dad, from his dark hair and brilliant green eyes, it’s as if someone cloned Jason. “What! You could go to jail for that!”
“No, you can’t!” Little Ollie answers in his adorable Robin Hood costume, complete with a green hood that has a bell at the end. It jingles whenever he moves his head, adding to the cuteness.
“Yes, you can!” You tickle his tummy, garnering a laugh that you’re familiar with that never fails to bring a laugh from your throat. “It’s illegal!”
“It’s not ill–gal!”
Tim closes the door behind you as you carry a squirming Oliver into the living room. You could just feel Tim’s eyes watch the two of you pensively. You already know what he’s thinking though, the same as his brothers and sisters that has driven you and Jason to question the relationship the moment Ollie called you ‘mommy’ for the first time.
You toss Ollie on your shoulder, garnering a happy squeal from him. “I’m surrendering you to the police!”
“That’s wrong!” He pats your back, “dad said to not be a…be a smitch!”
You snort a laugh, ruffling his hair whilst he kicks about. “It's snitch, baby.”
Seeing the mess they’ve made during playtime with all the plastic medieval weapons and shields around the place has you wincing if not for the mess you’ve grown accustomed to whenever you’re around their place. There’s even a handmade cardboard dragon, complete with green shimmery scales made from glitter that is sitting on the couch alongside a toy bow and arrow, courtesy of his aunt, Barbara. It seems that uncle Tim wants to overshadow uncle Damian’s arts and crafts skills when you could see the evidence of the art supplies laying on the coffee table.
You feign an offended gasp. “You’ve been playing Robin Hood without me.” Placing him down gently, Ollie looks up at you with his big green eyes. “What’s the story this time?”
“Lord Tim called his banners against me just ‘cause I ate an apple from his tree! But I won by calling my dragon!” He enthusiastically reenacts, arms wide around him, lifting off the fierce dragon as he ‘flies’ around the apartment.
“He cheated, he means.” Tim defends himself from the kitchen, opening the tupperware filled with cookies that you brought as he looks at it like he wants to marry the sweet treat.
“I did not!” Ollie abruptly stops and stomps his foot. “You had your own ogre forces!” He then points an accusing finger at his uncle. “Tell him that it was fair!” Turning to you, he flutters his lashes and pouts, the expression he always pulls whenever he wants you on his side, which is almost always. Especially when it’s against his dad, or in this case, against his uncle.
“How many knights did you have, Robin Hood?” Going around the fuming Ollie, you sidle beside Tim as you pick up a cookie, not taking a bite of it, just brandishing it around like a piece of meat in front of a lion. “Because it’s all in the numbers, you know.”
You know the kid well as he follows the cookie in between your fingers with his gaze. “I think…ten?” Pursing his lips, Ollie lets go of the paper dragon and steps forward. “Can I have some?”
“That depends, did Tim give you any sugar today?”
The boy contemplates, nose scrunching, and fingers flexing, just like a certain someone. It’s almost the exact same face Jason makes whenever he watches you go, as if he’s resisting the urge to ask you to stay.
“...no?”
“That sounds like a question, doesn’t that sound like a question?” You turn towards Tim, who is on his third cookie as you tilt your head at him and snatch the fourth one from his hand. “Did you give him any sweets today?”
“He had a popsicle because he was complaining about his tooth.” He looks offended, eyeing the cookie desperately. You relent with a sigh and give it back to him. Tim immediately perks up and devours it whilst Ollie looks at him with jealousy.
“Is your tooth still hurting, buddy?” With worry in your tone, you crouch down and Oliver crosses the short distance to embrace you. You know this reaction well enough, he’s embarrassed. You pat his back lovingly, moving some stray hair away from his eyes as you peck his temple. “I told your dad that you should go to the dentist—”
“No dentist!” He flinches, but doesn’t move away from you. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, he calls you sweetheart just because he has heard his dad call you that a million times before that it just stuck. Better than ‘mommy’ that has opened Pandora’s box. “I really am.” Cheek laying atop your chest, you hold him close.
“Yeah, but your tooth will keep hurting if you don’t go. Dad will be there the whole time.” You reassure him, giving him a loving squeeze.
“I know…” he raises his head, looking up at you worriedly. “Susie said that they have drills and knives and scary masks— and it will hurt more.”
“What does Susie know?” Tim adds, cookie crumbs all over his shirt and cheek. “Susie eats glue.”
That garners a laugh from Ollie as you stifle a chuckle. “How about I come with you and dad, hm? Then you can have all the cookies and ice cream you want after the dentist.”
“All I want?” His eyes sparkles. “Even rocky road? And— and your triple chocolate cookies?”
“Of course.” You might regret it later but at least you finally got him agreeing when no one else could.
“Okay, deal!” In true Jason Todd form, Ollie stretches his hand for you to shake. Taking his smaller hand in yours, you then shake it with a smile. “Can I have one now, please?”
Jason’s right, you cannot say no to his son. “Fine, just half though. And if your tooth starts hurting again you have to stop eating.”
“Okay!” He hops in place until you give him half a cookie. “Can I watch TV now?”
“Go, thirty minutes and then dinner for you.” Patting him in the back, you watch him skip over to the living room, clutching the cookie like it's the most precious thing he has. You turn towards the tupperware as it’s almost half empty thanks to Tim. You glare at him whilst you close the lid right in front of him.
“He can’t even eat it!” He protests.
“It’s for Jason.”
Tim groans and goes to wash the crumbs off his hands. “Just get married already, damn.”
“Tim, c’mon.” You slap his bicep, palm meeting a wall. “Ollie might hear you.”
“Fine, I’m just saying…” Sighing, Tim gathers his things from the kitchen counter and shoves them inside his backpack. “Four years together, if you even call it that, and you’re still around after all the ‘will they won’t they’ situation you two got going on.” He zips up the bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a huff. “I mean, shit, I’d go fucking crazy.” He utters lowly, for your ears only as Bluey echoes around the living room.
Your eyes wander towards Ollie as he kicks his legs on the couch happily, then over to the framed picture on the mantle where the three of you smile at the camera during Ollie’s third birthday. “It’s not like that. Jason and I are happy like this. It just…works.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Hand in his pocket, he lets out a breath, eyes flicking from Ollie then back to you. “Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and feel like you’re being strung along by my idiot brother. You’re a fucking saint, honestly. Just… just know when to say no and leave. Ollie’s the one who’s going to get stuck in the middle of this. He’s getting older, and we both know that he doesn’t just see you as his babysitter when you’ve been here since he was in diapers.”
Arms crossing over your chest, you look at your socked feet. “Yeah, I know that.”
“If Jason keeps being a hardass to you after all the talks you’ve had with him then you don’t deserve this.”
Your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply as you look Tim in the eyes and shrug. “I guess I’m the idiot then.”
“I did not say that, but kind of yes. Just like him.” He chuckles and grasps your elbow gently. “Good luck with the gremlin.”
“One talk.” You say just as he’s putting on his shoes.
“What?”
“Jason and I had one talk about our situation. The others…well, never even finished.”
“Well, keep talking to him. Maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.”
With the click of the door, you deflate and thump your head against the wall. Tim’s heart was in the right place, and you understood his words. Just like all the other words his siblings have told you about your complicated relationship with Jason. Every holiday and birthdays, at least one of them would tell you almost the exact same thing, or you see one of them sidle beside Jason and whisper about the same topic. You knew it was getting serious when Alfred and Bruce had to step in after Dick’s wedding.
“I can see the way he looks at you.” Alfred whispered amidst the sound of the first dance music. “I have seen it on them,” he gestured to the happy married couple, then back to you as you gripped your champagne flute. “And on master Bruce’s parents. Jason’s complicated, but with you, the look just comes easy.”
You remembered the moment you looked at Jason across the room as he carried a sleeping Ollie in his arm, and a drink in the other, the way his gaze immediately gravitated to you was a shake to your core. If Alfred was wrong, then everyone else was. And that’s impossible when they’re the smartest family you’ve ever grown to know. And it’s Alfred, he has never been wrong the whole time you’ve known him.
Running a hand over your face, you turn your gaze over to someone you love without any complications.
“Alright, Robin Hood, grilled chicken for tonight or mac and cheese?”
“Mac and cheese!”
—
Jason comes home to a dark apartment, but unlike the time when he used to go home to an empty barely furnished place where it always feels cold and dim, this one is a comfortable darkness, where the warm lamplight from the living room spills over the couch where his two loves reside. He doesn’t feel alone, on the contrary, he feels complete.
The moment he sees you both sleeping peacefully that calms his anxious mind, he places his equipment quietly inside the closet. Unlacing his boots, he then takes off his jacket and mask, all without making a single peep, especially when his skin pulls at the movement, bruises aching, injuries flaring up as the adrenaline that masks the pain ebbs away.
When he goes around the corner, the TV’s lights flashes across your sleeping face whilst Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap. The sound of the show is quieted down in favour of sleeping. Your cheek is pressed against the back of the sofa, neck tilted uncomfortably as you cradle Ollie lovingly in your arms. He’s curled against you in his dinosaur pajamas, arms clinging onto a Batman plushie you made for him when he was only three after he begged you relentlessly.
The two of you look like any other mother and son pair, and Jason sighs longingly at the sight.
Smiling softly, he reaches for your face, until he realizes that he’s still wearing the same bloodstained gloves. His jaw tightens, how could he hold you with those hands?
You stir awake as you feel his presence, so used to the smell of copper on his suit, and the warmth that feels like home to you. “Jay?” Your voice crackles whilst you blink blearily at his large looming shadow. Some would be intimidated or even terrified of the sight, but not you, you reach out to the shadow softly, fingers wrapping around his outstretched wrist. “You’re late.”
“Hey, sweetheart.” Jason laughs through his nose, chortling under his breath. “Sorry, I ran into some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Concern knits your brows as you pull him closer into the light to survey his appearance. “You okay?”
He feels your eyes rake around his face and his form, swallowing thickly when you have no idea the effect you have on him. “Yeah, I’m good, just need a shower and sleep.”
When your hand pulls away, Jason feels the longing come back in waves.
“Come sit with me for a bit.” You pat the space beside you, tucking Ollie’s feet further into the couch to make space for his dad. If it was anyone else asking him, he’d brush them off, but it’s you, so he obliges without a peep, groaning as his knees pop. “Need medical attention? The nurse is on call.” Lashes fluttering, cheek resting atop your shoulder, you smile fondly at him.
Jason shakes his head with a chuckle, yanking off his gloves and shoving it inside his pockets. “No, I’m good, nothing I can’t handle. The nurse can keep holding the little prince.” His head droops back over the backrest of the couch, corded neck in full display whilst he swallows thickly as his fingers rake through his dark tresses. If only he knows the effect he has on you. “How was your day?” His green eyes flutter open, gazing at you with tenderness.
“Well,” clearing your throat, you fix your hold on Oliver to disguise your flustering. “We played Robin Hood for two hours, got him to eat some grilled chicken with his mac and cheese. And get this, I actually talked him into going to the dentist.” You grin victoriously, tapping his broad chest proudly.
“Shit. How’d you manage that?” His brilliant green eyes glimmer with pride. “I’ve been trying to get him to go for weeks.”
“That’s the thing though,” you bite your lip, wincing as if you’ve done something wrong, or stepped over the line. “I promised him that I’d come along.”
“Why does it sound like you regret it?” Brows furrowed, he has the look of bewilderment. “I’m fine with that, Ollie’s fine with that if he agreed.”
“I mean, I thought it’s a dad and son exclusive thing. Like a bonding thing.”
“Sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile. “It’s the fucking dentist. If my son wants you there then the more I want you there with us.”
You let out a sigh of relief that he could feel. “That’s good then. Also I sort of promised him that he could have lots of sweets after.”
“Well that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” A growing teasing smile appears on his lips whilst you stifle a laugh. “He’d be up until dawn and that means we’d be up until dawn.”
“Who said I’ll be there after? I’m out after the dentist.” You scooch closer as he loops his leg around your own like usual, pulling you close, like how he always does during movie nights and days spent together whilst watching his energizer bunny of a son. “You’re on your own, Jay.”
“Oh, c’mon, not even for double the pay?” Jason takes Ollie’s legs gingerly and rests them above his lap so he could move closer to your side.
“No amount of money is worth it for running after a sugar high Oliver Todd.” You get the message as you place your head atop his shoulder. He winces before you could even rest fully on him. “Shit, you okay?”
“Yeah,” his face twists in pain. “Just— just give me a sec.” With his large palm covering his shoulder, he pushes in harshly as you hear a loud pop that has you reeling and covering your mouth in shock. Ollie stirs in his sleep but with Jason patting his back sweetly, he goes back to sleep. “There, you were saying?”
“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Thought you’d be disgusted.” The corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.
“Shocked, but I got over it when I realized that you fixed a dislocated shoulder without vomiting in pain.” You stifle a laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “Seriously though, do you need to go to the hospital to get that checked out?”
“No, I’m good. I’m used to this.”
“That’s not a good thing actually.” Nose scrunched, he scoffs out a chortle, rolling his eyes at your expression. “I still remember the first time the hospital called me years ago, I didn’t even know I was your emergency contact. I thought you’d have a gunshot wound or your face all melted but it was for a broken knee.” Your tone softens, eyes meeting his own. “You really scared me back then.”
“That was such a long time ago,” Jason still remembers the frantic look on your face when you pulled open the hospital curtains. “I told Dick that I was fine but he had to fireman carry me to the hospital, said something about having fucked up knees of an eighty year old. He got a black eye from me then.”
“I remember the selfies he took. While you were on the hospital bed in the hospital gown with the opened back.” You shake your head at the memory. “Has anyone told you that you have a nice ass?”
“Of course.” He says almost immediately with pride that makes you roll your eyes. “Say that again when I get Ollie to bed.”
“Noting that in, boss.” You tap your forehead comedically, tiredness forgotten as your shoulder presses against his comfortably.
“You know I…” Clearing his throat, fingers flexing on his thigh, Jason looks at Ollie before gazing back at you. “you’re still my emergency contact.”
You scoff. “Why? Alfred’s more reliable, he’ll be there on a heli or something. If you guys still do the whole hospital thing when it’s been years.”
“Because you’re not Alfred.” He says softly.
“I don’t have a sick mustache so.”
“Sweetheart, I’m trying to tell you something here.”
“Then tell me, Jason.” You inhale, smelling the iron on his suit and the baby powder that still clings to your hand. “We’ve known each other for years, practically co-parenting this gremlin together and have seen each other naked a million times before so just tell me.”
“I did it.”
“Did what?” Brows furrowed, your worry grows from his heavy expression. “Eat the lasagna I left in the freezer for Ollie?” You joke to ease him.
“No— actually that might be me, but no that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Jason fully turns to you, arm thrown over the back of the couch as his bruised knuckles brush along your neck.
“Okay.” You hold the back of his hand that rests atop his thigh. “I’m here. You can tell me.”
“Remember when you told me that you thought you were being followed?”
“Yeah, but that was,” you wrack your brain. “shit, that was years ago. Literally when Ollie was still a baby.”
“I love how we determine time with Ollie.” He takes a breath, wiping away a stray glitter from your cheek.
“BO, before Ollie, AO, after Ollie.” Sucking in your teeth, you wince. “Actually, BO doesn’t sound as nice.”
He pauses, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your lips that has you quieting down.
“What was that for?”
“Just ‘cause.” His brilliant green eyes glance down at your lips, resisting the urge to kiss you.
“Right, sorry, I’m not taking this seriously, what were you saying, Jay? You can tell me, I won’t judge, whatever it is.”
“This isn’t like the mole I had.”
“I still think it looked like a hidden Mickey.” He chuckles, forehead resting on your temple before inhaling deeply and leaning away. “You’re acting weird, Jaybird. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Sweetheart,” pursing his lips, he squeezes your hand. “You were being followed that day. It wasn’t your imagination.”
“Shit.” You suddenly feel winded. “You found out about it? How—? Who would even do that? I’m no one.”
“You’re more than that. And someone figured it out too.”
He tells you how that simple passing comment that you told him once as you helped with unloading groceries you got him while he was too busy and sleep deprived with baby Ollie— and that he managed to uncover a whole crime syndicate hell bent on taking the Red Hood down and everyone who is associated with him. He tells you how he’s been tracking and taking them down for years, and occasionally with his siblings. But it got harder, he used his own methods when they got too close to you and Ollie one day in the playground. Unbeknownst to you, your life was in danger together with his son, he couldn’t just let them roam around freely and wait for them to strike, no, Jason had to eliminate every single one of them. Even though it would take him years, it has taken him years. But as of today, he has finished what he started, and he can finally do what he wanted to do from the start.
“You’ve been hunting them down for years? All this time?” Your eyes search his emerald eyes, looking for a joke or a lie, but you don’t find it.
“When I asked you to move in with us, they were getting too close to you, and I wanted to protect you as best I could.” Jason leans forward, elbows atop his knee, as if he’s in pain. His hair falls over his face, a dark curtain that hides his fatigue. “Thought that it might’ve helped if you were near. But it only led to an argument.”
“I said no because it would’ve confused Ollie.” Reaching for him, you retract your hand with hesitation as your brows furrow, holding onto Oliver as if he’s about to be taken. “Even then— I don’t know, you still felt so far away from me, Jay.”
“I know,” he sighs, shoulders taut as his shirt stretches from the movement. “I wanted to put an end to them before I could commit because I was fucking terrified that they’d get you, but at the same time I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know which one was harder.”
For a moment you have no words, as you could only hear Ollie’s soft breathing and Jason’s strained one. So with love in your heart for the man before you, you place your palm atop his nape, thumb pressing gently along his taut skin, caressing softly, right where you know a scar lies, one that he hasn’t told you the truth about how it came to be. That he got it for protecting you and his son.
Jason doesn’t pull away, it took him years to learn to not move away from your touch. A lot of unlearning too, that the whole world isn’t out to get him. That someone could love him enough to just be there and hold him for comfort. His muscles relax on instinct from your hand gently gliding along his shoulder blades.
“All I know is that I couldn’t lose you.” He finally says after a breath, fists clenching in front of him. His neck cranes to you, cheek pressed right atop your hand, eyes soft, and fully leaning into your touch. “But now that’s done, and I could— we could… I don’t know.”
You encourage him with a genuine sweet smile, one that you only reserve just for him and the boy you cradle in your arms. “Tell me, Jason, I’ve stuck around this long.”
His lips brush along the length of your fingers. “Together. If you want.”
“Jason Peter Todd, I’m cradling your son in my arms after running after him for hours on end and I still want to do it all over again. My clothes are in the dryer, my hair is stuck in your hairbrush. And I’m going to the dentist with you and Ollie even though I fucking hate it there too. What do you think?”
“That’s the clearest yes I’ve ever heard without someone actually saying it.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I think I should ask you out first. An actual date without eating mac and cheese while watching Bluey.”
Cheeks aflame, stomach doing somersaults, you scoff that is akin to a laugh. “I would love that.”
“Yeah?” His expression brightens, eyes glimmering as he sits up, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers around yours.
“Yeah, just kiss me, Jaybird.”
Jason does some maneuvering around Oliver that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He finally gets close to your lips as Ollie is completely on his lap and yours, still sleeping soundly as he kisses you chastely, and yet tender, enough to be a promise for more later. It’s the kind of kiss he gives you whenever everyone else is looking away, a simple kiss that reminds you that he’s there, quietly telling you to wait, and wait you did.
When he leans away, he has forgotten about all the aches. All the while your eyes stay on his parted lips with longing, then back to his eyes that you love unconditionally. “I’ll take your clothes out of the dryer and then take Ollie to bed. Meet me at our usual place?”
Your brows pinch together, but the smile on your face remains. “The bar downtown? It’s a bit too late for a drink.”
“No,” he laughs, cradling your cheek in his rough hand, gently rubbing away the sleep tucked in the corner of your eye. “The bedroom, my idiot.” Jason says it affectionately, moving closer as he gives you a peck, and another, and another until you’re both smiling into the kiss.
You whisper teasingly. “Ah, to continue our conversation, right?”
“Yeah,” Standing up, Jason sheds his body armour, and shirt with one swift movement that has you mesmerized. Just so he doesn’t dirty his son’s favorite pajamas, he then gently takes Ollie in his hold, pressing a quick peck on his temple, before tapping your foot with his own. “It’ll be a very productive conversation.” He bends at the waist, still carrying Ollie as if he weighs nothing just to kiss you as if he couldn’t help himself.
“I’ll be there.”
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Summary: The first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment.
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The first night you stayed at Wayne Manor felt strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of the mansion itself. If anything, the manor should’ve felt impersonal. Too large. Too polished. The kind of place where you were afraid to touch things because they probably cost more than your rent. Instead, it felt… lived in.
Warm.
There were books left open on side tables. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned in sitting rooms. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair that was very obviously Dick’s because no human being besides Dick owned that many neon hoodies. And Bruce—
Bruce somehow made the entire massive place feel smaller just by existing in it. You were standing in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he walked in wearing the robe. You physically had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Bruce paused immediately. “What?”
“Oh my god,” you breathed. His brow furrowed slightly. “That robe is pink.”
“It is not pink.”
“It’s satin.”
“It’s silk.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Bruce looked down at himself with a tiny frown like he was reconsidering the robe for the first time in his life. The robe was absolutely pink. Not bright pink. But definitely some rich wine-colored silk situation that looked unbelievably soft and expensive and absurdly domestic on a man built like Bruce Wayne.
Your laughter finally slipped out. Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who’d apparently dealt with this before. “Damian bought it.”
You gasped dramatically. “Damian picked this out?”
“He said it looked distinguished.”
“That child thinks you’re a divorced millionaire in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. And there it was. That tiny almost-smile he tried so hard to suppress sometimes. You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t you do that.”
“Do what?”
“That little smile thing where you pretend you’re not smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are right now.”
Bruce took another sip of tea to hide it. Coward. You wandered closer, unable to help yourself, fingers brushing lightly against the silk sleeve of his robe.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Wait, this is actually insane.”
Bruce looked down at you quietly. “What?”
“It’s so soft.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought rich people fabric was all for aesthetics. This feels illegal.”
A quiet laugh escaped him then. Actual laughter. Low and warm and rough with sleep. It startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Bruce rarely laughed fully. Not like that. Usually it was restrained amusement. A quiet exhale through his nose. Tiny smiles hidden behind coffee mugs. But this?
This was softer. Sleepier. Real. And maybe because it was late, maybe because the kitchen lights were dim, maybe because Bruce looked so comfortable standing there in his ridiculous robe with messy hair and reading glasses halfway down his nose, you suddenly felt unbearably fond of him.
Your hand stayed resting lightly on his sleeve. Bruce glanced down at it before looking back at you. Neither of you moved for a second. Then Bruce quietly asked, “You tired?”
“A little.”
“You’ve been trying not to yawn for twenty minutes.”
“I was being polite.”
“You fell asleep during the documentary earlier.”
“In my defense, it was about architecture.”
“It was about sustainable city planning.”
You stared at him flatly. “Bruce, that’s worse.”
Another tiny smile. God, you loved making him smile. Bruce set his mug down before reaching out gently, fingers catching your wrist. Not forceful. Just guiding. He pulled you closer until your hip bumped lightly against his. And then, because apparently this terrifying man was secretly affectionate beyond belief in private, he simply wrapped both arms around you and tucked you against his chest.
Your brain short-circuited immediately. “…Oh.”
Bruce hummed softly above your head. “What?”
“You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You literally just bear-trapped me in a kitchen.”
“You walked into range.”
You laughed against his chest, and Bruce’s arms tightened slightly in response like the sound itself relaxed something in him. That was another thing you were learning. Bruce touched constantly when he loved someone. Not publicly. Never publicly.
But in private? A hand at your waist while passing behind you. Fingers brushing your knee during conversations. Pulling you absentmindedly against his side while reading. Small things. Quiet things. Like he was always reassuring himself you were still there.
You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. “You’re really different at home.”
Bruce’s expression softened almost immediately. “Is that bad?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think it’s my favorite version of you.”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people probably would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. Bruce leaned down slightly, pressing a slow kiss against your forehead. Not rushed. Not heated. Just tender. The kind of kiss that felt like being cared for. “You should sleep,” he murmured softly.
“Mmm. Don’t wanna.”
“You said you were tired.”
“I am.”
“Then come to bed.”
The words were simple. Casual, even. But warmth still flooded your chest embarrassingly fast. Bruce must’ve noticed because the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “C’mon.”
He took your hand then. And despite the size of Wayne Manor, despite the endless halls and towering ceilings and all the wealth surrounding you, walking through the quiet manor half-asleep with Bruce’s hand wrapped around yours somehow felt more like home than anything else.
The first time Bruce came to your apartment, you nearly canceled three separate times. Not because you didn’t want him there. That was the problem. You wanted him there too much. Which meant suddenly you were painfully aware of everything. The old radiator that hissed like it was possessed. The tiny kitchen with exactly three feet of counter space. The fact that your couch cushions sank weirdly in the middle.
You spent an embarrassing amount of time cleaning despite the apartment already being clean. Fluffing pillows. Lighting candles. Hiding the one chair that had become The Laundry Chair. And still, by the time Bruce knocked on the door, your stomach was in knots. Because Bruce lived in Wayne Manor.
Wayne fucking Manor.
Meanwhile your apartment building had a flickering hallway light and a neighbor who blasted music every Thursday night. You opened the door still wearing one sock because you’d lost the other one halfway through panic-cleaning. Bruce immediately noticed. “…You’re missing a sock.”
You stared at him. “Hello to you too.”
His mouth twitched slightly. And just like that, some of the tension eased. Bruce stood there dressed down in dark jeans and a black henley, one hand holding takeout bags from your favorite little noodle place across town. Not chauffeured-driver Bruce Wayne. Not billionaire gala Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.
Your Bruce.
“You brought food?”
“You forgot dinner yesterday.”
“You remember my meals now?”
“You forget them often enough for it to qualify as a pattern.”
“Wow. Judgmental.”
Bruce leaned down slightly as he stepped inside, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead as he passed. “You’re nervous,” he murmured quietly.
Your eye twitched. “No I’m not.”
“You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically.”
You froze. “…How did you know it wasn’t already like that?”
Bruce slowly looked at the stack of books beside the couch. “…Because those are still piled by color.”
You stared at him in horror. Bruce kissed the side of your head to hide his amusement. “You missed one,” he informed you gently.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he sounded very sure about that. Bruce moved deeper into the apartment while you shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t stop watching him. Not because he looked out of place. But because he didn’t. That was somehow worse. Bruce Wayne should’ve looked ridiculous standing in your tiny kitchen setting takeout containers on the counter. Instead, he looked… comfortable. Like he’d already decided this place mattered because it mattered to you.
His gaze wandered quietly around the apartment, not critical, not assessing financially, just observing. The string lights around the windows. The tiny framed movie posters. The books overflowing from shelves because you’d run out of room months ago. The blanket draped over the couch. He noticed everything. Of course he did. “You have more mugs than dishes,” Bruce observed after a moment.
“That’s because mugs are important.”
“Hm.”
“That was judgment in rich person.”
“That was observation.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Same thing.”
Bruce’s smile deepened slightly. God. That smile was unfair in normal lighting, but in your apartment with the warm lamps on and rain tapping softly against the windows? Lethal. You turned away before he noticed the effect he was having on you. Too late. Bruce’s hand slid lightly against your waist as you passed him. Effortless. Automatic. Like touching you had already become instinct for him.
“What?” you muttered suspiciously.
“You’re pacing.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve walked in a circle around the kitchen three times.”
“…This kitchen is like four feet wide.”
Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “Still counts.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m being perceived.”
“You invited me over.”
“I regret allowing you to have observational skills.”
Bruce laughed quietly then. Actually laughed. Low and warm and fond. And suddenly your tiny apartment felt warmer for it. Bruce leaned back against your counter afterward, watching you plate noodles while soft jazz played faintly from your speaker. There was something deeply surreal about the image.
Bruce Wayne.
In your apartment.
Looking absurdly handsome while holding chopsticks.
You pointed at him suddenly. “You’re too relaxed.”
One brow lifted slightly. “Meaning?”
“You’re acting like you do this all the time.”
“I spend time at your apartment often.”
“You have been here for six minutes.”
“And yet.” You narrowed your eyes harder. Bruce only looked amused. Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you, the shitty apartment radiator suddenly let out a loud metallic BANG. You flinched. Bruce didn’t even blink. “…Did it just do that naturally?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.”
“And you live like this willingly?”
“It builds character.”
“I think it builds tetanus.”
You laughed so suddenly you almost dropped your bowl. Bruce looked disproportionately pleased with himself for causing it. A little later, after dinner, you found Bruce sprawled across your couch like he belonged there. Which was insane. Truly insane. Because this was Bruce Wayne.
Billionaire CEO.
And he was currently wearing one of your fuzzy gray blankets over his lap with a green face mask spread across his face. You stood frozen in the hallway staring at him. Bruce glanced up from his phone. “…What?”
“You look ridiculous.”
“You put this on me.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it!”
“You said it helps with dry skin.”
“You’re Bruce Wayne.”
“And?”
“And you look like a sleepy TikTok boyfriend.” Bruce looked entirely unashamed. Worse, he looked comfortable. Feet propped on your coffee table. One arm stretched along the back of the couch. The face mask somehow failing to make him look any less intimidating. You collapsed beside him laughing into your hands. “This is the weirdest moment of my life.”
Bruce looked over at you quietly then. Really looked at you. His expression softened in that private way he reserved only for the people he loved most. “I like it here,” he said softly.
Your laughter faded a little. “You do?”
Bruce nodded once. “It’s yours.”
The simplicity of it hit embarrassingly hard. Because he meant it. The apartment wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t glamorous. But Bruce looked around at your tiny living room like it was something precious because it belonged to you.
You shifted closer without thinking. Bruce immediately opened one arm for you on instinct alone. You curled against his side while rain tapped softly outside and the face mask on his stupidly handsome face cracked slightly when he smiled down at you. “You know,” you murmured, “if Gotham could see you right now, your reputation would be destroyed.”
Bruce kissed the top of your head lazily. “They’d survive.
The Way to a Vigilante's Heart is Through His Stomach
Jason Todd/Civilian!reader
Gender neutral reader
T rating
Lowkey a comedy, you're just trying to do your job, Jason is a menace
1,636 words
Nobody told him there was a stupid event today.
In retrospect, it made sense why Bruce reconvened at the Batcave and ended his patrol so early tonight. Everyone was also used to Jason going off on his own once those brief meetings were done, so naturally, when Jason turned back around to grab a snack from upstairs, no one had stopped him.
The manor has tons of secret ins and outs— one in particular leads to a hidden doorway right outside the kitchen. Entering, he sees a couple of trays and little pastries laid out. Perfect. Alfred was practicing his baking again and he knows that the butler wouldn't mind him tasting some of his work. Taking off his helmet and placing it on the table, he digs in on the finger food.
That's when he realizes he's not alone.
There's shuffling at the doorway to the kitchen and he's about to give a quick explanation to one of the many snitches around the house when he finds himself caught by...
someone.
You look back at him, freezing at the doorway of the kitchen like a startled deer about to get hit by a car.
Slowly, he picks up his helmet, and moves it back onto his head.
You recognize him instantly.
Everyone in Gotham knew who Red Hood was. A vigilante in the most basic of terms. One night he might be saving someone from a shooter, another night he could be bombing the city. And tonight? You just saw his face.
A million thoughts run through your head in this moment. You curse god, berate yourself for thinking you were safe moving from a diner job to a supposedly bougie catering company, wonder if you were gonna be able to see your cat tomorrow, wonder if your roommate remembered to feed your cat tonight...
By instinct you run. That was obviously the wrong choice, because he sprints after you, and quickly catches up.
In a situation like this, your catering tray means nothing to you, company property be damned. You take the silver platter and toss it at him like an Amazon and her discus. Except you're no Amazon, and the cheap tray doesn't do much but clatter to the ground with a loud metallic ring when he dodges.
"What do you— mmph!"
You find yourself pinned between him and the dark wood panel of the hallway as he places a hand over your mouth.
"Don't even think about scream— fuck! Did you just bite my hand?" He hisses, shaking said hand out to the side to mitigate the pain.
"Help! Someone help me!" You don't hesitate. Maybe it's a death wish, but considering he hasn't even whipped out a gun yet, you're taking any chances of survival you can.
That's when you feel it. Cold metal wrapped around your wrist, then a tug. You stumble forward, into him, as he places a rag he grabbed from your apron into your mouth to gag you again as he pulls you away from the kitchen entrance.
You can hear one of your coworkers walk upstairs, calling for you.
Inside one of the many rooms of Wayne Manor is where he takes you, turning the lock. It's empty, because again, it seems your luck was absolutely shit today.
He turns looking down at you.
"I'm gonna take the gag out of your mouth, and as long as you don't scream, I'm not going to hurt you."
You look back at him, clear doubt on your features, but you nod.
Despite the fact you’re stuck in a room with a masked lunatic, you stay silent. Mostly silent. You attempt to spit out some of the cloth fibers stuck on your tongue.
"Who are you?" He asks, because apparently this was now an interrogation.
"Who am I?" You hiss, "Who are- what the hell are you doing here?"
"I was trying to get a snack, until you showed up."
Your eye twitches.
"Snack? At Wayne Manor? Can't you get takeout like a normal person?"
He pauses, and even through the helmet you can tell he feels called out by your observation.
"...I like the way the butler here cooks."
Why was that so specific?
"So what? You sneak into a high profile party just to grab some cookies?"
"I didn't exactly know there was a high profile party tonight!" He argues back at you.
You know you're pushing your luck right now, but come on. This guy is completely ridiculous, violent vigilante or not.
"Do you have a list of all socialites butlers and private chefs, or something? Do you break into St Cloud's penthouse too?"
"Maybe I do."
What! The! Hell!
"Well, I hate to tell you this, but none of those puff pastries were the butler's! It was my company's! So you didn't even get a bite of Bruce Wayne's butler's cooking!" Survival instincts be damned, you just wanted to spite this guy at this point.
"Really? They're not bad," he says, a pleasantly surprised tone running through his helmet's voice filter. It was something you definitely didn't expect because you're not sure how to take the compliment.
"Well. Thanks. I actually helped cook some of those."
"It's good that you can cook, because you definitely don't have any talent in running."
If this asshole wasn't built like a brick wall and armed to the teeth, you'd smack him right now.
"I'll make a deal with you, if you give me an entire tray to go, and you don't tell anyone I was here, I'll let you go."
Your eyes narrow at him in suspicion.
"You're smart not to take my word for it, but you don't have much of a choice right now. Either you let me walk away or I knock you out and make you look like an idiot who tripped over the hallway runner."
Because of course adding a hurt ego on top of a hurt body added to his threat.
"Fine, but I'm not gonna enjoy it."
"Of course you won't."
He keeps to his word though, and unlocks the door. Quietly, more quiet than you expected a man of his frame to move, he ushers you towards the kitchen. There's a small crowd of your coworkers just around the corner, probably looking for you and what happened to you.
You feel his hands on your shoulders, and the low sound of his voice close to your ear.
"I've uncuffed you. You're going to walk over to them and blame your accident on the dog dragging you off. Then you're going to ask for a quick break where you'll bring me the goods."
Then he pushes you forward.
You turn around to find him, but the bastard disappeared.
The sound of your shoes padding against the floor cause the group to turn towards you.
"We were just looking for you! Someone heard a scream, are you alright?"
You think, just for a second, before opening your mouth. You could tell them everything that happened. That the Red Hood was here. That he gagged you. That they should call GCPD and turn on the bat signal.
You open your mouth.
"Sorry, I got spooked by the dog here. Then it tugged me down the hallway to play. He's... surprisingly friendly."
A few of them laugh at that.
"Yeah, apparently the youngest one owns like 50 animals."
"Oh I heard about that, guess you can have that many pets if you're a rich kid."
They devolve into chatter before your manager reminds you all that now they know you're safe, they need to get back out there and serve and cook for the party outside.
You're not quite safe yet though.
True to your word, you exit out the back door of the kitchen, into the open night air.
Wayne Manor's backyard was more like a personal park. There was a well maintained lawn and garden that stretched out into the darkness. It seems as though it wasn't open to the party tonight though, the lights that lined the pathway off blending into the night.
"Took you long enough."
You jump at the voice.
"Careful, you have something I'm interested in."
He points to the little baggie of spanakopitas in your hands.
"You're making this feel like a drug deal."
He snickers at that.
"If this were a drug deal I would've shot you."
Maybe that should've scared you, but at this point, you're a little over his bullshit and ready to get back to work.
He lifts the helmet off of him again, and you can see his face.
He's fit, not that you couldn't see that from his actual build, but the chiseled jawline certainly doesn't let you forget it. There's a few scars running across his face too. Some of them more faded than others. Instead of feeling repulsed, you can't help but think it sort of... suits him.
You shake that thought.
He opens the baggie, lifting one of the pastries to his mouth and chews, getting crumbs over his chin and his dark shirt.
"Not bad, maybe I'll have to hire you myself."
"Please don't."
He lets out a dangerously loud cackle at your immediate response and seems to humor in the way you look around like a paranoid criminal. As if feeding him made you an accessory in his other crimes.
"Thanks, and don't forget, you might've seen my face, but I know where you work."
He jabs a finger at your very clear nametag.
Then as suddenly as he appeared, he vanishes into the dark lawn.
You could try to keep track of him, report where he was headed now that he's gone, but your gut instinct tells you that's more trouble than it's worth.
Besides, what are the chances you're ever gonna meet him again?
bf!jason todd who's got a subtle obsession with the top half of your body. not just your chest (although he loves that too), but your shoulders and collarbones too.
he's always got a heavy hand rubbing comforting circles on your nape. you'll be sitting next to him at the cramped dining table, digging into your takeout and chatting about your day, and he'll reach his hand out without even really realizing it. leaned back in his chair, he'll stare intently at your face, listening and replying attentively, while his hand stays solidly on the back of your neck, thumbing mindlessly moving back and forth.
or if you're sitting on the couch, he'll come up behind you and start kneading the juncture of your shoulders as he asks you where you put that new shirt he got the other day. slightly bent over to look at you as you twist your head to reply to him. his hands moving firmly along the outline of your back, sometimes dipping under the collar of your shirt to steal some of the warmth there.
on warm days, when the top you're wearing has no sleeves or straps, or if you've decided to forego a top altogether, you might find yourself having to repeat your sentences a couple times. he just can't pay attention all that well when your soft skin is glowing in his line of sight. his eyes will constantly be flicking from your face to the soft slopes and divots at the top of your chest. the little beauty marks and bumps grabbing his attention a little more than choosing which new coffee flavor to try.
when you ask him to clasp a necklace on for you, he might take a little extra time. although his fingers were big and calloused, you knew very well how deft and nimble they could actually be, so you would lightheartedly chastise him for taking so long. but he seeks out those extra moments where he can brush against your skin. and the sight of you baring your neck to him, something so intimate and vulnerable, makes his stomach warm in a way he can’t really understand.
and at night, when you’re wrapped up in one another, bf!jason todd pulls your back flush to his chest and noses at the back of your neck. he takes these big inhales that kind of tickle and you’ll lightly smack his forearm in protest. but he’ll just murmur a disingenuous apology against your skin and do it again. the only thing he likes more than those moments are when you’re the one wrapping your arms around him. when he’s got his face so smushed against the crook of your neck it makes you worried whether he can breath well. but he’ll always reassure you with light kisses and slow drags of his lips across your collarbone, before following the curve of your neck with his nose to place one final good night kiss on your jaw. then he’s back to his favorite spot.
(I am trying my hand at angst- it def turned out more hurt/comfort lol)
The plan had been simple.
In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.
Simple plans had a way of detonating in Gotham. The city had a sense of humor about that — a mean, black-comedy kind of humor that mostly landed on the people trying to do good in it.
You had learned this.
You had really learned this and yet you had still looked at the blueprint Jason spread across the hood of the car two hours ago and thought: yeah, okay, this could work.
Marcone was a mid-level weapons trafficker who had recently made the mistake of moving product through the East End, which put him squarely in Red Hood's territory and, by extension, yours.
The job was a two-person operation:
Jason would take the east entrance, you would take the west and you'd both box Marcone's men in from your sides, grab the manifest from the office on the second floor, and then be back at the safehouse before midnight.
Clean. Contained. Simple.
What had actually happened was that Jason had called you twenty minutes in — his voice clipped and controlled, which was how you knew it was bad — to tell you that; the east entrance had been a decoy, that there were twice as many men as the intel suggested and that he was pinned down three blocks away dealing with a situation that was developing.
"Go back to the car," he'd said. "Wait for me."
You had said, "Copy that," which was technically not a lie, because you had understood the instruction perfectly.
Then you had gone inside anyway.
The reasoning had seemed sound at the time. Marcone was in the building. The manifest was in the building. If Marcone got spooked and ran before Jason got clear, six months of work evaporated, and more weapons ended up on more streets and into more hands that would use them on people who hadn't signed up for any of this. You were good. You had trained hard and been trained well, in part because Jason had an almost pathological need to make sure the people around him could handle themselves.
You can handle this, you had told yourself.
Three of Marcone's men were already down in the corridor behind you, which was evidence in your favor. The problem was what was in front of you.
Viktor Renn was not what the file had described. The file had called him personal security, which conjured something in a suit with an earpiece. Viktor Renn was six-foot-four of Eastern European muscle with hands that looked like they'd been assembled from spare parts and eyes that registered your presence the way you'd register an inconvenient weather pattern — something to get through, not something to worry about.
He had hit you twice and you had felt both of them in places you didn't know you could feel things.
You were in the second-floor office. The manifest sat on the desk ten feet away. Renn stood between you and every exit, which was a layout problem you were working on solving while simultaneously trying not to get your skull caved in.
Your earpiece crackled. "—still there? Talk to me." Jason's voice, lower than usual, strained at the edges.
You ducked a swing that would have taken your head off your shoulders and came up behind Renn's arm, going for the joint, but he was faster than he looked — they always were, the big ones who had survived long enough to be good at this — and he pivoted and caught you by the vest and threw you into the wall.
The drywall cracked.
You didn't.
Margin.
"Still here," you managed, pushing off the wall. Your left eye was swelling. You could feel your ribs complaining about the evening's events, "Minor complications."
"What kind of complications."
"The large kind. Don't worry about it." You spit blood. "Where are you?"
"Two minutes out. Maybe less. Stay on the line." A pause, and under his control there was something rawer... something that sounded like worry wearing a thin disguise. "Tell me you went back to the car."
You didn't answer that.
"Tell me you went back to the car."
Renn came at you again. You had been reading his pattern — three exchanges now, enough to see it — and you knew the move he was building toward, the overhand right that was his finisher, the one he'd been setting up with body shots. You also knew you couldn't take another two minutes of this the way you'd been taking it. He was bigger and stronger and fresher, and time was not your friend.
You thought about what Jason had taught you once, months ago, when you'd asked him how he thought about a fight he couldn't win clean.
I don't fight to win, he'd said. I fight to make sure the other guy loses. Those aren't the same thing.
You hadn't understood it then but you understood it now.
Renn threw the overhand right.
You didn't dodge it.
You stepped into it.
The impact was spectacular and white-hot and briefly took the room from you — but you were inside his reach now, too close for the power strikes, and you drove your elbow into his throat with everything you had. You felt him choke and reel, and followed it with a knee to the inside of his thigh that buckled the joint, and when he went down you went with him and you didn't stop, because stopping was losing, because you hadn't come here to win, you had come here to make sure he lost —
"Hey." The voice in your ear was different now. Closer. Real. "Hey, stop. I've got him. I've got him."
Hands. On your shoulders. Pulling you back.
You fought them on instinct — one hard backwards elbow — and heard a sharp exhale and a familiar goddamnit that cut through the static in your head and made you stop.
Jason.
He was behind you, both hands gripping your arms now, solid and real and here, and Renn was on the floor in front of you, not moving in the way that meant unconscious rather than dead. You registered that slowly. You registered a lot of things slowly.
"I've got him," Jason repeated gently again, quieter. Directly in your ear, not through the comms. "It's done. You can stop."
You stopped.
Your hands were shaking. You hadn't noticed until now.
Jason turned you around and even through the helmet you could feel him looking at you; taking inventory, doing the rapid damage assessment he always did when things went wrong, cataloguing everything he'd have to account for later.
"You didn't go back to the car," he stated shakily.
"The manifest—"
"I don't care about the manifest right now."
The words landed oddly.
Jason cared about every mission component. He drilled contingencies for contingencies. Hearing him say I don't care in that flat, quietly angry voice was more alarming than shouting would have been.
"I'm okay," you rasped out.
"You're bleeding from your ear."
"That's probably fine."
"It is not probably fine."
He had one hand on the side of your face — gauntlet off, bare hand — tilting your head toward him. His thumb brushed your jaw just below the worst of the swelling and you didn't mean to, but you leaned into it slightly, because the room was still tilting and his hands were steady and you were tired in a way that went deeper than muscle.
"What did you say to him?" Jason asked. His voice had shifted again — something underneath it that you couldn't read yet, but that felt important. "Before I got here. I heard part of it on the comms."
You winced as you thought back. The last thirty seconds before he'd arrived, when you'd stepped into the punch and Renn had grabbed you by the jacket and you'd looked him in the face and said —
"I said I didn't need to win," you said. "I just needed to make sure he lost."
Silence.
"Those," Jason replied carefully, "are not the same thing."
"I know. You taught me that."
Another silence, different from the first. His jaw worked behind the helmet. He looked at Renn on the floor, then back at you, and when he spoke again his voice was very quiet and not entirely steady.
"I taught you that so you'd know how to survive, not so you'd know how to—" He stopped. "You were willing to take that hit."
"It was the only angle I had."
"You were willing to take that hit," he retorted again, like you hadn't spoken, like he was still processing the shape of it. "You stepped into it. I saw the replay from your camera. You stepped into it."
"It worked."
"It worked," he repeated, and there was something in his voice that you had only heard a few times before... not anger, exactly, and not fear exactly, but the space where they overlapped, the particular frequency of someone who had looked at a moment and understood how differently it could have ended.
"You have a concussion and two cracked ribs and you're bleeding from your ear and you want to tell me it worked?"
"I got the manifest."
He made a sound that was not a laugh. "You—" He stopped again. His hand was still on your face. He hadn't moved it. "Yeah. Okay. You got the manifest."
"Jason."
"What?"
"I knew you were coming."
He went very still.
"I heard you on the comms," you reasoned. "Two minutes. Maybe less. I just had to make sure he wasn't operational when you got here. I wasn't trying to—" You paused, picked the words carefully. "I knew you were coming. I just had to hold the line."
The room was quiet except for Renn's unconscious breathing and the distant sound of sirens starting somewhere below, which meant you needed to move soon.
Jason's thumb moved again, a small careful motion along your jaw, like he was checking for damage or like he needed to confirm you were real and present and still here.
Maybe both.
"Next time," he started, and his voice had come down from that dangerous quiet to something rougher and more honest, "you wait for me."
"Next time don't get held up."
"That is not the takeaway I—" He exhaled hard. "You're impossible."
"You already knew that."
"Yeah," he agreed with a sigh. "I did."
He looked at you for a moment longer — really looked, in the way he rarely let himself, in the way that made you feel accounted for in every particular — and then he pulled his hand back and reached past you for the manifest on the desk, tucking it into his jacket.
"Can you walk?"
"Obviously."
"I'm going to ask you that again in thirty seconds and I want an honest answer."
"Still obviously."
He made the not-laugh sound again, and this time there was something almost warm underneath it. He got his arm around you as you moved toward the door — supporting without making a production of it, the way he'd learned you preferred — and you leaned into the solidity of him and didn't comment on it, and he didn't comment on you leaning, and that was its own kind of conversation.
"Two cracked ribs," he said, in the stairwell.
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't help."
"It helps me."
He said nothing to that, but his arm tightened slightly, and that said enough.
The car was where you'd left it. The city hummed its indifferent nighttime hum around you. Somewhere in the east end, three blocks over, someone was probably dealing with the situation Jason had left in his wake, and you found you didn't have the bandwidth to care about that right now.
You sat in the passenger seat while he drove and let yourself feel the full inventory of the evening — the ribs, the eye, the ear, the shaking that hadn't fully stopped — and decided that all things considered, you'd take it.
"You scared me," Jason admitted. Just that. Flat and honest and not dressed up.
"I know," you answered smally. "I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"I'm sorry you were scared."
A pause.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay. That one I'll take."
The city moved past the windows. You didn't fill the silence, and neither did he, and it was the kind of quiet that didn't need filling — the kind that meant something had been established between you, some new notation in the ongoing document of what you were to each other.
I knew you were coming. I just had to hold the line.
He had heard that. You had meant it. And now it was in the air between you, settled, real, permanent.
You'd deal with what it meant later.
For now, you let your head tip back against the headrest, and you breathed, and the car carried you home.
jason todd is so beautiful. someone should tell him that every day. he's so devastatingly lovely, i just wanna hold him in my arms and kiss him all over and again and again and again. specially his forehead. i wanna suffocate him with forehead kisses. i wanna listen to his heartbeat because it's still beating. i want our souls to kiss. he's so lovable, i never want him to feel otherwise. i wanna take care of him when he's hurt. i wanna take care of him regardless. i wanna hear about the books he read. i wanna read with him. i wanna dance with him late at night in the kitchen. i wanna go target shooting with him if that's what helps. i wanna kiss the tip of his nose and watch it scrunch up. i wanna make him smile. more than that, i wanna make him laugh. i wanna watch old movies with him. i wanna bring him flowers. i wanna learn how to ride a motorcycle so that we can go playfully racing down the highway. i wanna hide with him from the world whenever things in his head get loud. i wanna memorise his tells. i wanna make him feel safe. i wanna be his safest space. i wanna make him feel precious because he is. i wanna see him having fun with his friends. i always want him surrounded by people who care for him and make him feel happy and loved. i wanna take polaroids of him when he isn't looking, but i also want to capture him grumpily looking at the lens and put them in our journal. and yes, i wanna kiss his frowns away. i wanna write him long thoughtful love letters. i wanna love jason todd gently.
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.4k
summary: clark tells you everything, but there’s just one thing you can’t get past.
a/n: i loved the new movie and just had to write something! no big spoilers. just a tiny one, if it even counts?? (iykyk.)
Clark Kent had just spilled everything to you. Confessed his love. Told you he was Superman, which—if you were being honest—wasn’t as shocking as he thought it would be. But you didn’t say that. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.
He finally told you where he grew up—Smallville, Kansas. He said it quickly, almost like he hoped you’d miss it, before circling back to the part that mattered most: that he loved you.
One thing had led to another. Something between kisses, half-smiles, and uneven breaths. A blur of soft touches and quiet urgency.
Now you lay there in your bed, limbs still loosely tangled with his. Your head rested against the steady rhythm of his chest while his hand moved along your back in slow, absent strokes—soothing and familiar. Your breath had started to even out, but your mind still hadn’t caught up.
He was Superman.
He was yours.
And those two things alone should’ve been front and center in your mind, but they weren’t. Not even in the slightest.
"I can't believe it," you whispered.
Clark shifted, his chest rising with a quiet inhale. "I know. I should've told you sooner. About Superman. About who I am."
You lifted your head, turning to look up at him. "I knew you weren’t from here, but I didn’t think there.”
He furrowed his brow, confused. “You mean… Krypton?”
You made a face. “No. Kansas.”
“Everyone knows you’re from Krypton. But Clark Kent? I thought maybe, like… Vermont. Or Oregon. Definitely not Midwest.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed in mock offense. “What’s wrong with Kansas?”
You gave a half-shrug, still curled against him. “Nothing. Just… explains a lot. I mean, you’re like, painfully polite. I should’ve known.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face like you’d just wounded him, but the smile gave him away.
“No, really.” You grinned, propping yourself up slightly. “I bet you’d even stop mid-battle to save a squirrel. Like, buildings crumbling, alarms going off—and there you are, making sure it gets to safety.”
Clark shook his head, pretending to protest, but you could already feel the laugh building in his chest.
“I can totally see it,” you teased, as he slipped his other arm around you and pulled you closer.
His lips brushed yours, soft and warm.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you murmured against his mouth.
He didn’t answer. Just kissed you—deep and unhurried, laughter still dancing behind it.
It was the kind of kiss that said you weren’t wrong at all.
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
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if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3
May you pretty please elaborate on rough sex with Clark because wow I’m just 🥹🥹 your writing is so beautiful. Despite the sex being rough and intense i cannot for the life of me see Clark as being dominate?? doesn’t that even make senses
only a little one as requests are still closed, but couldn't pass this up. fem, mdni
desperation often alters the dynamic of sex with clark.
whether he's been out doing something particularity dangerous, or if you've been separated by your jobs for the day, it's then that he gets especially clingy and needy. all he needs is to feel is the warmth of your cunt around him and your tongue on his, after that, he's golden. he's not asking for much.
he only needs so long before the chub on behind his pants causes some serious strain, before all blood leaves that beautiful brain of his beneath his head of equally beautiful black curls. before all thought and cognitive function dissipates.
he'd be on the bed below you, groin supporting your seated weight over him. what would have started at cowgirl lead by you, would've very quickly shifted into something not. he would grow antsy, hips rocking up to chase after the snug wet hold your cunt has around his cock. those irregular upwards fucks of his, would shortly become something systematic — each one repeating over and over until you pass over the subconscious control to him.
clark would hold you there, fingers spread wide either side of your spine so as to keep you exactly there, to keep your chest pressed into his as he fucks up into you. those hiccup-like pants of yours would spur him on, would encourage him as his moderately tame upwards winds devolve into anything but; until they become uncharacteristically brute and selfish.
though you make no objections, not when you're getting a dicking this good, not when you're incapable of forming any such words.
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