🏃♂️ Charity Race With Bonus Trauma (aka: How Jason Todd Raised $25,000 and Nearly Killed His Brothers)
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The sun was shining over Gotham Central Park, now transformed into a festive loop of lemonade stands, balloons, banners, and one noble goal:
raising money for the city’s underprivileged kids.
Bruce had organized the whole thing with his usual philanthropic flair.
But Jason Todd had a different plan. A more... efficient one.
“Alright, Tim,” said Jason, lounging in a folding chair, leather jacket open, sunglasses barely hiding his smug grin.
“Each lap you run is a thousand bucks. I pay, you run. Easy.”
Tim eyed him warily.
“And why aren’t you running?”
“Because I’m the sponsor. You’re the racehorse. It’s basic economics.”
He smirked. “And after those croissants last night, you should be thanking me.
Don’t even try to deny it — Alfred ratted you out.”
Tim groaned and pulled down his event T-shirt. No time to argue. At least it was for a good cause.
But Jason had a problem:
Tim would run maybe five laps before tapping out or getting bored.
And Jason wanted to donate a lot of money.
He needed… extra motivation.
Then he saw it: Damian Wayne, a few meters away, tightening his gloves like a demon child prepping for bloodsport.
Jason’s brain lit up like a Christmas tree.
He leaned in close, voice low.
“Tim said you don’t have balls.”
Damian froze. One eyebrow twitched. Rage flushed his face like Jason had just insulted Talia, the League of Assassins, and every Wayne ancestor combined.
“Not me,” Jason said, hands raised, stepping back innocently. “Tim.
Said. You. Don’t. Have. Balls. that you are a eunuch. Google it later.”
Right then, the starter whistle blew.
Tim started jogging at a chill pace.
He didn’t know hell was on his heels.
“DRAKEEEEE!” Damian roared, launching after him like a heat-seeking missile.
“WHAT THE HELL DID I DO?!” Tim screamed, suddenly sprinting like his life depended on it. (It probably did.)
“GET BACK HERE YOU SLANDERING PIECE OF SHIT!”
The crowd watched in awe as two runners blazed ahead, lapping the others with near-superhuman intensity.
“Such commitment!”
“What a strong brotherly bond!”
“They look like they actually hate each other,” whispered the more observant ones.
Jason, still in his chair by the lap counter, casually held up a hand for each pass.
“Twenty-two… twenty-three… c’mon boys, just a couple more and that food bank in Crime Alley is paid for.”
Tim was soaked in sweat, legs shaking, but fear was giving him wings.
Damian looked like he’d made a pact with an ancient speed god.
On lap twenty-five, Jason snapped his fingers.
A nearby refreshment booth creaked open — courtesy of Jason’s own upgrades.
Damian, still seeing red, charged right in.
SLAM! The door locked shut.
“SET ME FREE , YOU BASTARD!” Damian yelled, banging on the metal bars.
“It’s for charity,” Jason replied, casually tossing him a vegan empanada through the grate.
“And also for Tim, who looks like he’s about to throw up.”
Tim collapsed onto the grass, wheezing.
“Jason… you’re insane…”
“And you just cost me twenty-five grand. Well done, mini Forrest Gump.
Tonight, Gotham’s poor kids eat thanks to your trauma.”
Jason raised his arms in victory as the crowd cheered — mostly unaware of what had just happened.
But the money was in.
The kids were gonna eat.
And Jason?
💥 If you laughed, screamed, or felt secondhand exhaustion for Tim, smash that like, reblog to bless your followers, and drop a comment — I read them all and they give me Damian-level rage joy.
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