peach

[bungunz]

Here is chapter V from In Ice We Trust the fanfic I’m looking for written around 2020

I saved it onto my google docs on july 15 2020 so it should be from that year: here’s what i have: In Ice We Trust V Jason Tod

PS: ITS BEEN FOUND https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/post/190130128854/in-ice-we-trust-masterlist-a-fake-dating

https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/post/190130128854/in-ice-we-trust-masterlist-a-fake-dating

Unfortunately the writer isn’t on tumblr anymore…Thank you @littleredwing89 but you can find some of the posts on the way back machine https://web.archive.org/web/20230302210852/https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/

✨ ari/ / 20 // bi // west indian✨taking a break from requests✨ masterlist / thirst tag / kofi

———————————————————————

“When Jason was about two years old, he was put in a pair of custom skates and a tiny replica of his dad’s Gotham Knights jersey and he was taught how to navigate the smooth plains of an ice rink. 

Naturally, he was an ace from the get go. 

By the time he was nine, he was the best centre forward on his  team. 

By the time he was twelve, he’d realized that having a crush on one of his rivals, teammates and best friends was a terrible idea— he put that on the back burner though. No time for fickle feelings on the ice.

By the time he was fourteen his older brother had made up his mind to give up on hockey and his younger siblings were just getting their footing. They were a generational imbroglio of hockey history— children of the infamous Bruce Wayne, carriers of his legacy, his legendary, his sheer greatness.

Bruce was King of the ice. And when he was backed by big league names like Clark Kent and Hal Jordan, he played like a nightmare. Fast. Sneaky. The Dark Knight of Gotham with a dashing smile and three Stanley Cup rings like crowns to mark his kingship.

By the time he was sixteen, Jason had grown boringly comfortable to the presence of hockey royalty in his life. He got birthday presents from Wayne Gretzky and get-well cards signed in the ink of greatness from women’s league champions like Diana Prince and Dinah Lance. 

By the time he was seventeen, Jason had his mind set on making it to an NHL, first draft. His upbringing was seeped in hope and hazardous plays and rink time and wrapping tape around sticks and skating better than he ran. There was nothing else in the world for him. He wanted to play on more than just his father’s name. More than just the passing whispers and favors from family friends. It couldn’t be something given to him— no, it would be earned.

And so with Tim nipping at his heels with enough talent to get scouted right after he graduated high school, droning on and on about the Ivy Leagues and his GPA and legacy spots, Jason decided his destined future could be gained while he played alongside his friends. 

Choosing a major was a piece of cake smothered in frosting and if Jason didn’t live and breathe stick, puck, skates and ice, he would live and die by words. His plans were set in stone. He was an ace. He had it made.

He did not plan on his twelve year self yanking on his ear to remind him that he was still sorta in love with someone he had no business being in love with. Nor did he imagine that he would hedge his well being on a tragic pipedream idea born from desperation. 

But alas, here he was— a white knuckled grip on his future and loose chain closed around his heart’s self preservation. All his faith, laid in ice.

****

The direct flight to Gotham is delayed by an oncoming snow storm. The winds are frigid and full of buzzing holiday excitement. It’s almost cozy at the busy boarding area— families huddled together and lone passengers making conversation under strings of warm fairy lights and golden baubles on hanging garlands.

Jason buys you a peppermint hot chocolate despite your protests and hunkers down next to you to entertain your brave attempt at keeping awake. It’s adorable to watch stifle down your yawns. Your eyes grow droopier by the second, your speech slower and softer until you’re nodding off on his shoulder.

You’re a sleepy little thing and he practically preens in your entrusting of him as a pillow. The flight’s not that long. He spends most of it shaking with worry while you attempt to distract him with a play by play of a few highlight reels that you thought he would like. When you realize that tactic isn’t working, you put on your determined, squared-serious brave face and hold out a hand to him. For a moment, he thinks you want him to hold it.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

“What are we playing for?”

“Hmm,” Your head cocks sideways while you mull over prize ideas. “Winner gets first dibs on any baked goods for the next week.”

“I’ll take that action. And, loser—”

“It’s ok, Jason. You can admit it’ll be you.”

“Loser, gets to be on the team that plays against Damian’s on family game night.”

You huff a small gasp of disbelief. “That’s harsh. Alright, nimrod. You’re on.”

***

Dick’s waiting at the arrivals gate, bundled up in a navy coat and looking every bit the part of a rich socialite he pretends to be for the local press. Jason does a quick sweep of the area at that thought. Lying to his family is enough, he doesn’t need tabloids involved in his relationships (even the fake ones). Sure that it’s clear, he tucks you into his side. You go easily, smiling up at him. He knows you must make quite the picture and by the starry-eyed look on Dick’s face, he lets himself fall into the idea that maybe you both have this rouse in the bag.

“Baby brother!” Dick’s voice carries a sing-song lilt of teasing that grates against Jason’s nerves even though he’s a good distance away. He ignores your snort of amusement and the intense steers of curious passersby, shouldering forward and guiding you along. 

“Dick,” he leers, making his brother’s treasured nickname sound more like a teasing insult.

Dick smiles in response, turning up the charm as he spreads his arms wide. To Jason’s surprise you move forward to accept a hug before him.

“I actually think you grew a little, Y/N.”

“Don’t be fooled. You just haven’t seen me in ages.”

“Now, whose fault is that?”

You shrug, walking backwards and smoothly catching Jason’s hand. The move looks natural. Familiar. Like you’re both so in tune with each other’s bodies and not just having beginners luck. He fights hard to keep a smug grin off his face. 

“Before there are any witnesses,” he says. “I’m going to admit that I missed your stupid face, big bro. That’s it. That’s all you get. Merry Christmas.”

Dick engulfs him in a one armed embrace. “I’m telling everyone you said that.”

“No one will believe you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he sniffs. “You guys good, right? Clear to go?”

The drive home is chock full of Dick’s warm, proud commentary of all the things Jason’s missed. He’s practically running a one man show, a hand on the wheel and the other gesturing wildly as he thrills through antics filled stories. It’s easy to hold onto you and laugh along with him. There’s no tension, no expectations of watching eyes and loaded questions. 

Jason spares a quick glance at the rearview mirror; Dick looks pleased as a peach at the arm Jason has secured around you. He can tell he’s in for a nice, long brotherly chat about emoting. But the thought doesn’t bother him entirely, he finds. He needs a safe space to rattle off all his feelings for you because just sitting quietly next to you or catching your gaze or watching you smile makes him feel like he’s going down the ice at mach 2  and he’s going to do something incredibly stupid if he doesn’t let any of it come to the surface soon.

***

Titus and Ace are the first to greet him at the door with wagging tails and excited yips. They’re both wearing matching red collars adorned with delicate silver bells. Damian’s standing just behind them. Jason can tell he’s only just been dragged out of bed and ushered down to play the part of a doting baby brother. His thick, dark hair is mused, sticking up in several directions and his clothes are recognizably items that he’s pilfered out of the closets of their siblings. Still, despite the pained look on his littlest brother’s face, Jason cannot fight the urge to wrap him up into a hug. He’s not surprised to feel Damian returning his heavy embrace, even less so when he finds that his strong grip is matched.

“Can’t believe it,” he admonishes. “I’ll walk in here one day and you’ll be as big and tall as Bruce.”

“As long as I’m not as dainty as Timothy, I’ll be fine.”

Damian’s amused response reveals that his voice has finally deepened and he’s still fully committed to making Tim’s life a living hell. 

“I’m not sure if I’m offended by that,” comes Tim’s voice. 

Jason watches Tim embrace you with something a few shades shy of jealousy creeping into his chest. He wonders if it shows on his face, because the second you catch sight of him, you’re sliding right back to his side and placing a gentle hand on his lower back. It’s terrifying to feel like his body is betraying all his thoughts to you— even brief contact sends his mind spiraling and he knows at some point his ears have gone pink. He expects you to resolutely ignore it, but instead you look as shaken and stirred as he feels.

Tim’s rasp of a question— something nerdy and leagues beyond concepts he cares to understand— breaks the silent hypnosis you’ve pulled over Jason. Just like that, he’s back in the foyer, being scolded by Damian for letting the cold air in and ushered to the nearest fire by Dick.

He’s pleased to see that halls have been decorated with the same yards of greenery and baubles that they’ve been keeping in storage since before Dick was born. It’s nice, the contrast of brown neutrals and gold and red accents and splashes of green. The nostalgia twinge of Christmas past warms Jason down to his toes and he leans into your light touch to stay grounded.

Alfred appears somewhere between Tim’s regalling of Damian’s last home game (the subsequent fight that follows between them being triggered by Timothy’s overzealous relay of Damian taking a spectacular fall in full goalie gear) and Dick’s near teary admonition of how well Duke is doing in school.

“He won’t let me say anything in front of him, you guys,” Dick simpers. “I’m just getting it out of my system.”

“Always and forever a sap.” Jason teases, feeling incredibly pleased at the amused giggle he spurs from you. 

He’s trying very hard to feel settled and at home within the walls of the manor, surrounded by most of his brothers while you’re plastered to his side. Your presence is not as overwhelming as he’d anticipated— he clocks the press of your shoulder to his, his thigh to yours, the ease of where his thumb is resting against your wrist bone— and has to take a stilling, meditative breath like Roy had once taught him too. 

Logically, there is nothing to be nervous about but there’s a whole world of responsibilities laying on the other side of winter break and the chasm of regret laying before him because he knows— oh he knows— that he could possibly screw things up with you. And on top of that, he’s going to have to sit through a lecture from his father about choosing teams and he’s already dreading the hopeful look on Bruce’s face.

 He all at once wishes that he had his own team behind him, cheering and being supportive idiots.

“Where’s everyone else?” You ask gently, steering the conversation out of hockey territory. He squeezes your wrist gratefully, gladdened that you picked up on his swelling anxiety.

Damian snorts. “Late, as usual.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“You know what Timothy, I’ll tell you what’s rich—”

It devolves into an old tussle of words and half-hearted nudging from there before Dick drapes himself bodily over both of them and Jason has no choice to follow because for a mere moment, he allows himself to remember that he misses home. He has a great team waiting for him, wonderful friends and you….whatever it is you are to him, whatever it is you want to be— and that’s the family he holds onto in between the moments that he gets to come back to Gotham and be pressed face first into expensive floors by lovingly, stinky feet and devious hands. The world is heavy, but he isn’t carrying it alone.

He’s aware of your laughter above the fray of chaos. Growing voices join and a delighted preamble of conversation cuts through Tim’s cursing and Damian mocking but he’s still nosing the ground so he’s unable to truly enjoy the disappointed looks on Cass and Alfred’s faces, nor Duke and Stephanie’s glee.

And then, Bruce appears behind them all. This, Jason gathers, because Damian and Tim and Dick scramble to their feet with electric energy to feign innocence.

Bruce holds his position, leaning casually against the doorframe. He doesn’t seem to change no matter how much time Jason spends away, that’s one thing he’s grateful for. His dad’s continuing good health and prospering wellbeing makes him feel a little safer in the world, a little more secure in himself when the cruel tentacles of darkness come his way. 

“Boys,” Bruce says fondly.

Steph snorts, “Idiots.”

Cass places a hand on her shoulders, “Imbeciles.”

****

Alfred implores everyone to take a moment to themselves and settle in before dinner. Under the guise of a tour, you whisk Jason into one of the quieter corridors with seething concern painting your features and a touch that’s so gentle he could almost cry.

“What’s the verdict, captain?”

An involuntary laugh burts out of him against his better judgment at the seriousness in your tone. You glare. He grins back.

“I’d say we’re doing well so far but I don’t want to jinx it. It’s good. We’re good.”

The distinct sharpness of the unsaid “Together,” cuts through him like a knife. He aches for something to relieve the pain. 

You’re quiet for a moment, analyzing. “Then why do you look like you took a stick to the face?”

“Nervous,” he admits.

“About?”

“Its just….I forgot about—it’s stupid. Really. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

It’s then he realizes that you’re still holding his hand, looking up at him with an incorrigible grin and he can almost let himself pretend that this— whatever this moment is— is real. Not something knitted together by deception and necessity.

“Insufferable,” he matches your grin. “Bruce is….”

“A legend?”

“Sure. But he’s also my dad. A good dad. And hockey— well sometimes it feels like hockey is all we have. And now that I’m being scouted and everyone else sorta bailed and gave up on, you know—I just….”

“Take a deep breath, Jay.”

He does, exhaling slowly. “It’s just me. Carrying his legacy. And— don’t get me wrong I don’t think there’s anything else in the world that would make me happy as this does.”

“God, you’re such a hopeless junkie.”

“I’m spilling my guts, could you please?”

“Sorry,” you say, squeezing his fingers. “You’re stressed because it’s a lot? Because you’re scared to mess up?”

“I want to make him proud but like you said, he’s a legend. And he got to where he was by being intense and determined and maybe if all of his kids wanted the same thing it would be easier to not take every one of his critiques as life or death. But it’s just me,” he takes another shaky breath. “It’s just me and I know he means well but it’s—”

“Overwhelming.” 

He nods, throat too thick to keep up with his words. 

“I’m not going to say I get it, because I don’t. But hey,” and then your thumbs are on his cheekbones, your eyes boring into his. Soul to soul, each breath shared. “I’m here for you, yeah? Whatever you need.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t—”

He claps a hand over your mouth and you bite at his palm. 

“Hey! Ow! Consent and shit, Jesus.”

“Oh, we should talk about that while we’re on the topic. Hand holding, the—” you make a circular gesture between his body and yours. “Cuddling and shit. That’s fine. I can do that.”

“But?”

“But I think we should talk about kissing.”

“I—”

“After. After you talk to Bruce, okay?” You punch at his shoulder lightly. “Dick’s coming this way, I’m pretty sure I’m about to get a shovel talk soo….”

Dick, all lecherous smiles and perfect hair, is indeed trotting down the hallway with purpose. 

“Sorry to pull the plug on your make out session, kiddies but Bruce wants you to check in with him,” he points to Jason with a waggling finger. “And we,” he shifts said finger towards you, “Are going for a walk.”

You spare Jason a quick glance before walking towards Dick’s beckoning wave. It shouldn’t mean anything significant, but from you he knows it’s a concluding check in— a small, see, you’re ok. I’m ok.— and just as it did seconds before, your careful concern steadies him. Enough so that he manages to walk firmly into Bruce’s study with his head held high.

Jason wants this over as soon as possible.

That way, if it goes badly he can sulk through dinner and complain into your arms later.

There are a plethora of pictures littering the neutrally painted walls of the study, all arranged in an artful manner; snapshots of him and his siblings growing up, a young Bruce and his parents, Alfred in casual clothing and few of Bruce on the ice, grinning. His cup photos are held in large antique frames in the middle of it all. Mahogany shelves store olympic medals and other awards that Jason itches to achieve. It’s just short of a shrine to the outside world, but he knows that to his father, it’s a reminder. He’d always said that if he could do it, then so could his children. That sort of belief held Jason together for long before it started tearing him apart. Because in the wake of all of it, he’s the one being handed this legacy to live up to.

Jason remembers the day Dick came home and dropped his skates on the dining room table, uncaring of the proximity of expensive mahogany and sharp silver razors. He’d watched his father and brother have a tense, circular conversation about the highs and lows of hockey and how much it shaped all of their lives. Dick was tired, Jason knew how that felt. Bruce was disappointed, not mad; Jason knew how that felt too. Dick couldn’t stand hockey anymore and he was going to quit; Jason couldn’t ever dream of knowing that feeling.

The weeks that followed had felt like a turf war, with Jason stuck in the middle in his refusal to pick sides. But eventually, the dust settled and the world righted and all was forgiven. Dick picked up figure skating and couple peewee coaching gigs because he— like the rest of their family— loved the ice too much to let go. 

This however, left Jason to fulfil the role of primary hockey prodigy in the Wayne family and whatever hopes Bruce had for Dick, they all passed down to him. For a little while, he carried the weight around his shoulders like a crown, depicting himself as the prince of hockey that the media houses claimed he was. 

And then the crown turned into a noose and the kingdom began to fall.

Cass put her goalie pads into storage the day before her Bantam season was supposed to start. Bruce hadn’t made a spectacle of it. Cassandra was freshly fifteen and angry at the world like most teens were and she wanted more. Bruce had learnt from his trivial reaction to Dick and set off in assisting her in establishing fundraisers and charity work and taking her on UN trips. It was better, sure. But it added another layer for Jason to carry. And he did.

Tim quit verbally and publically after he got his first college acceptance letter. He’d quit privately in the crowded med bay of the Gotham City rink with a concussion to his name and blood in his mouth. 

“Fuuuck the shit, dad.” Bruce was only ever ‘dad’ when he wanted something. “I’m going to fucking Harvard,”

“Darn right, Timmy.” And his voice was crinkly over facetime but he was smiling.

And then another layer was added to Jason’s potential expectations.

Duke, thankfully, played straight up to the Juniors with him. Jason would be forever grateful to have his brother at his side through every stricken panic attack and reckless bad decision that took them to victory. They’d taken the Q by storm and by the time they got back, Jason had been captain of a Division 1 NCAA hockey team and Duke had shuttered his skates away for a well deserved break.

It was both a burden and a curse that Damian had taken to being a kickass goalie like a duck to water. He was a weird sapling of a boy off the ice and terror on it and unlike the rest of them, he only really played for his friends. Jason was proud to say that his youngest brother had a better grasp of healthy mental capacity in proximity to hockey than he did. 

But all in all, he was still left first in line to take the fall. Gold star center forward, same position Bruce played.

The descent would begin with whichever professional team he chose.

So, he waits for it. 

The sly comment on something he’s been doing wrong— with his captaincy or his grades or his clothes or his reluctance to come home— but it doesn’t come. Instead, his dad claps him on his shoulder with one hand and uses the other to poke at his side, just like when he was a nerve-wracked kid standing in a locker room, inches from an anxiety attack.

“I keep thinking, one day, I’ll get used to the fact that you’re so grown now. But in my head you’re always  like,” He waves a palm in front of him, waist high, “This height and still refusing to brush your teeth.”

“I’ll have you know, I have great dental hygiene now.”

“Of course I know. I paid for all your fillings.”

He jostles him. Bruce pushes back. It’s so easy that Jason wants to sob. He releases a gust of breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“So what do you think?”

He’d taken to faxing over all his offers as soon as they came in. There’s a list in his head— and also on a few neon green post-its that Garfield had given him, they sit in his wallet between his credit cards and his student id— of the teams he has to choose from (The Pens, The Habs, The Bruins, The Sharks and The Avs), and the pros and cons of each. What he expects from Bruce, is a rundown of the elements that he’s already agonized over. What he gets instead is:

“I think you waited far too long to start dating Y/N when you could have been happier sooner,” Bruce drops into his large leather office chair with a huff. “But you’ve always been a pining romantic and all my relationships burn fast and bright, so what do I know?”

Everything, Jason wants to say. But also, nothing.

“What do you mean pining romantic?”

“You’ve been in love since you were twelve years old and you smashed head first into the boards and came home delighted to have Y/N on your line anyways.”

“It was a good play. We won the game.”

“And some shiny fake teeth.”

Jason coughs out a chuckle. He’s thoroughly weirded out. But more than that, he’s relieved.

“I meant about the teams though. What do you think?”

“What does it matter? You’re a smart kid with a great deal of talent. Wherever and whomever you choose, I’ll be in the stands wearing those colors and being embarrassing.”

There’s so many things he wants to say. Confess, really. Relief soaks into him like summer rain and he’s drenched, brain cottony and words all choked as hope grows within him. Finally, after the comforting silence begins to drag and his tongue returns, he says, “Do you do that with Damian?”

Bruce sighs, ruefully. “No, I’ve been banned.”

****

Dinner is a loud affair. It makes Jason ache for team meals in dining halls but it also bolsters him. His nervous frenetic energy dissipates as he watches Duke and Cass make snowmen out of mashed potatoes (“We need more butter here cuz it looks like a lumpy butt”/ “You see a lot of those in your personal time?”)and listens to Damian give a rundown of NHL goalie stats that he’s been keeping up with. At his side, elbow grazing his abdomen, you listen intently whilst occasionally flicking grinning glances at him and that catastrophe of potato art on the other side of the table.

Afterwards, he sticks around to watch you needle Alfred into helping with clean up. You’re persistent where he’s stubborn and it’s highly entertaining to watch you putter around the kitchen that Jason holds such fond memories of. 

It isn’t until Alfred is handing him an extra toothbrush, linen and towels does he think to ask.

“What are the sleeping arrangements?”

“Come again?” the older man blinks. “As in, where are you sleeping? Or, as in are you allowed to sleep with your partner?”

Honestly, Jason shouldn’t blush as furiously as he does at the turn of phrase because it’s coming from Alfred and it’s perfectly innocent but his ears go pink at the tips anyways.

“The-uhhh, the second,” he waves the pile in his arms airly. “You know what I mean.”

Alfred has the guile to laugh. Jason is positive the universe has it out for him.

“I’ve taken the liberty to assume that you are a perfectly responsible adult, in an adult relationship and would like to be treated as such,” he drops another few extra towels into Jason’s hands. “If not, there are several other guest rooms prepared. You can take care of moving over the luggage.”

Jason swallows the weight of those words and Alfred’s knowing little smile. He wonders if it’s the years of Bruce’s rookie bullshit that’s made him so perceptive or was it simply because he could tell that Jason was hemorrhaging with emotions.

“Thanks, Alf.”

He shoves at his ajar bedroom door with his hip, startling slightly when he comes upon the sight of you standing under one of his large windows, nose pressed against the glass so that it fogs under your breath. The navy curtains that frame each of the three glass panels are the only new addition to his room. His sheets are familiar and clean, books on nightstands and overflowing shelves across every open space of wall are dust free but still dog-earred and bookmarked. The basket of pucks next to his bathroom door is still there, albeit lessened in quantity. That he chalks up to Damian.

“It’s snowing,” you say in lieu of hello. 

He drops the towels and linen onto the edge of the california king bed, tampers down the vaguely warm thoughts that prods his mind. “That it is.”

“It’s pretty.”

“So am I.”

“Humble, too.” You’re smiling when you look at him. “So.”

“So?”

“Twenty bucks Roy cries with laughter when you tell him about the bedsharing.”

“You're…..we don’t….I can— you want to?”

“I mean, if you’re cool with it.”

“Are you?” he tries again. This situation is more than borderline weird, he’s aware. He doesn’t want to make it any more uncomfortable for you than it already is. “Really? Because there are guest bedrooms—”

“I”m good. I’m sure. We’re a normal, romantic couple, remember?”

“Right.”

He watches you unzip your carry on and root around for pajamas. Gracefully, you stack them next to the towels on the bed and begin the process of tucking a few of your things away. If seeing you at home in his apartment makes him burn up inside and out, seeing you at home in his childhood bedroom turns him into a nuclear time bomb.

Time weighs on him, sliding down is bones like cursed metal. Each chink of spine aches, pressured physically and emotionally. He watches the snow fall with tender grace, drops himself onto well known sheets and counts the minutes until the bathroom door cracks and you floo down next to him. Here, he braces himself for a tense conversation that’s clinical with plans and warnings. Instead, you say nothing. In that silence he finds a comfort he didn’t know he’d been longing for. 

His whole life is a wretched wonderment of high stakes moments. Even his family drives his adrenaline up. 

But lying there with you, shoulder to shoulder, as the stars glint against fresh snow and the moon slumbers dutifully above— he feels calm and at ease.”

[bungunz]

I wish you could zoom in on the letters on some fanfics cause that shi is TINY! Even with glasses damn I wish tumblr had an option that would let you make the letters bigger, it totally ruins my mood to read fanfics

[rotlinedotcom]

she had a face straight out of a mag(azine)

normal au . nsfw (violence not smut) . secret admiration . fluff . onesided pining . drabble . celebrity fem reader . unrequited love (not really) . fighting crime but make it romantic . bonus scene

The heavy, copper stench of blood and sweat hung thick in the midnight air, mingling with the bitter aroma of burnt gunpowder and the cheap, wet-cardboard smell of Crime Alley.

Jason Todd shoved his heel into a thug’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack. He exhaled a jagged, rattling breath through the vocalizer of his helmet, his chest heaving under the weight of his tactical gear.

“Fuckin’ roaches,” he growled, his voice a low, mechanical rasp that vibrated with pure irritation.

Another man lunged from the darkness, a rusty switchblade flashing under the dim amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. Jason didn’t even blink, he stepped into the attacker’s guard, parrying the knife hand with a brutal forearm block.

With a fluid, practiced twist, he caught the guy’s wrist and cranked it backward until the bone popped like dry kindling. The thug shrieked, but Jason cut the sound short. He grabbed the back of the man’s leather jacket and slammed him face-first into the brick wall.

The rough, crumbling texture of the masonry scraped against skin, leaving a smear of dark crimson behind as the man slumped into a heap as Jason wiped a splatter of someone else’s blood off his forearm, his leather gloves creaking softly in the quiet that followed.

Every muscle in his body ached with a familiar, dull throb. Then, he looked up.

Towering above the grime of the alley, illuminated by brilliant, stark white floodlights, was a massive Chanel billboard. It looked entirely out of place in this rotting corner of the city.

And there you were.

Your skin looked like pure silk under the studio lighting, a sharp, breathtaking contrast to the rough, soot-stained brick surrounding the ad. Your eyes caught the camera with an effortless, captivating warmth that seemed to cut right through the Gotham gloom.

Your lips, painted in a stunning, rich shade of crimson, were parted slightly as you blew a kiss directly toward whoever was looking and the bold black lettering beneath you read: Rouge Allure.

Jason froze, the ambient hum of a distant police siren faded into background noise as his heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden, fierce thud that had absolutely nothing to do with the adrenaline from the fight.

He stared up at your face, feeling a strange, hollow ache in the center of his chest. You were a world-famous model, your life was filled with runway lights, high-end perfume, and a world that was entirely clean.

You were light-years away from the mud and blood he drowned in every single night. You didn’t even know he existed—not the real him, anyway. To you, the Red Hood was just a terrifying, gun-toting headline on the morning news.

The sheer distance between your worlds was an ocean he could never cross, a silent, painful truth that weighed heavily on him every time he saw your face.

Yet, here he was, completely, pathetically whipped. He actually kept a crumpled magazine clipping of this exact photoshoot tucked safely inside a hidden compartment of his utility belt, right next to his backup ammo.

“Hey! Red Hood! You’re dead, asshole!”

A gruff voice shattered the silence. Jason didn’t even turn around as he heard the frantic, heavy footsteps of three more thugs charging down the alley behind him.

His eyes remained locked on your billboard, specifically on the soft curve of your lips as he sighed, thoroughly annoyed that his quiet pining session had been interrupted.

As the first thug reached out to grab his tactical vest, Jason spun on his heel. He ducked underneath a wild, clumsy swing from a baseball bat, the wooden club whistling past his helmet.

Jason drove his elbow upward into the man’s ribs with a sickening thud, shattering the bone, then hooked his leg behind the thug’s ankle to sweep him hard onto the asphalt.

Before the other two could react, Jason unholstered one of his customized pistols. He whipped the heavy steel butt of the gun across the second thug’s temple as the man immediately dropped like a stone.

The final attacker, panicked, lunged with a rusted tire iron. Jason sidestepped the overhead crunch with effortless grace, grabbed the man’s jacket collar, and used the thug’s own momentum to vault himself upward.

His combat boots caught the edge of a rusty fire escape, the metal groaning loudly under his weight as he scrambled up the iron grates, his gloves gripping the cold, unyielding metal as he leaped onto the flat, gravel surface of the roof.

The wind up here was sharper, carrying the faint, crisp scent of the harbor. Before he sprinted to the next ledge, Jason paused as he walked over to the roof’s edge and looked back down at the billboard one last time.

Safely hidden underneath the cold, intimidating red-tinted visor of his helmet, a surprisingly soft, boyish smile touched his scarred lips. His tough, crime-fighting exterior completely melted away as he reached out his heavy, blood-stained gloved hand toward the towering image of your face.

With a heartbreaking gentleness that didn’t belong to a killer, his fingers swept through the chilly air, symbolically catching the kiss you had blown to the world.

He carefully pulled his hand back, curling his fingers closed to ‘hold’ it, and pressed his palm flat against the center of his chest—right over his racing heart. “Got it,” he murmured to himself, his voice entirely devoid of its usual mechanical grit, filled instead with a quiet, aching fondness.

Turning on his heel with a sudden, dorky little skip in his step, he sprinted across the gravel roof and leaped into the dark, cloudy night, carrying a piece of your warmth into the cold Gotham’s shadows.

The midday sun over Gotham’s Diamond District was blindingly bright, a stark contrast to the midnight shadows Jason usually operated in. He sat at a corner table of a ridiculously upscale café, wearing a heavy canvas jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and a pair of dark sunglasses.

He looked like an off-duty construction worker who had lost a bet, completely out of place among the sea of silk blouses and designer suits.

And then, you walked in.

You were on a break from a local promotional event, flanked by a single, stressed-looking publicist… and you looked exactly like you did on the billboards—effortlessly stunning, radiating a warmth that immediately made the pretentious café feel a little brighter.

Jason’s heart did a violent backflip against his ribs. For all his tactical training, nothing had prepared him for the sheer panic of seeing you in three dimensions, mere feet away from him.

When your publicist stepped away to take a call, Jason found his legs moving before his brain could protest as he approached your table, his massive frame casting a shadow over your menu.

“Uh. Hey,” he muttered. Without his vocalizer, his voice was a deep, slightly rough gravel, but right now, it vibrated with pure, unadulterated nervousness as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m... a big fan. Keep a clipping of your Chanel ad in my—uh, wallet.”

You looked up, surprised, but a sweet, genuine smile quickly lit up your face. “Oh, thank you so much! That’s incredibly sweet of you.”

Jason internally screamed. Your voice was even prettier in person. He frantically patted his pockets, realizing he didn’t have a piece of paper, a notebook, or anything normal for an autograph as his hand brushed against the concealed holster beneath his heavy jacket.

Desperate times called for completely unhinged measures.

“Can you sign this?” he blurted out.

With a smooth, practiced motion, he slipped his customized, matte-black Glock out of its holster and laid it flat on the table. It was perfectly cleaned, oiled, and—thankfully—the safety was firmly on.

You blinked at the heavy metal object resting next to your iced latte. Your publicist, still on the phone a few yards away, didn’t notice.

You looked from the weapon up to Jason’s face, taking in his broad shoulders and the nervous, boyish grin peeked out from beneath his baseball cap as you let out a soft, amused giggle, assuming it was a incredibly detailed, high-end prop.

A lot of Gothamites carried fake gear for cosplay or self-defense theatrics. “Wow,” you teased, picking up your permanent silver sharpie. “You Gotham boys really take your prop replicas seriously, huh? The weight on this plastic is crazy.”

“Yeah,” Jason squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. “Plastic… total toy.”

“Where should I sign?” you asked, turning the very real, very lethal firearm over in your hands. “Right on the slide,” he said, pointing a calloused finger to the top of the barrel. “Please.”

With a neat, elegant flourish, you inked your signature across the matte-black metal, capping it off with a tiny, perfect heart. “There you go. Don’t go waving that toy around too much, okay? You might scare someone!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jason managed to say, taking the gun back like it was made of fragile glass. “Thank you, truly! You have no idea what this means to me.”

You gave him a warm wave as he practically floated out of the café.

bonus: Six months later, the silver sharpie ink was still perfectly intact.

Jason had spent three whole hours in his safehouse applying a meticulous, military-grade clear protective coating over your signature to ensure the solvent and gun oil would never fade it.

Now, the ‘toy’ was his absolute favorite piece of hardware.

Deep in the lower levels of a shipping warehouse near the Gotham piers, Jason was cornered by half a dozen of Penguin’s heavily armed smugglers as bullets ripped through the wooden crates he was using for cover, sending splinters flying into the air.

“Give it up, Hood! You’re outmanned!” one of the smugglers barked as Jason rolled his eyes under his red helmet. He unholstered his primary pistol—the one bearing your silver autograph and the tiny heart.

He leaned out from behind the crate, firing three perfectly placed, non-lethal shots that took out the lead smugglers’ knees and shoulders. He vaulted over the cover, pressing forward with a terrifying, fluid aggression.

A man lunged at him with a crowbar; Jason parried the blow with the barrel of his gun, the reinforced steel clacking against the iron, before whipping the butt of the weapon into the man's jaw.

As the smuggler dropped to the floor, Jason instantly checked the top of the slide, “Oh, thank god,” he muttered through his vocalizer. “Not a scratch.”

He turned his attention to the last two remaining thugs, who were backed against the wall, staring at him in sheer terror. Jason raised the gun, pointing it directly at them as the bright floodlights of the warehouse caught the reflective silver ink of your name, glittering right above the barrel.

“You see this?” Jason growled, tilting the gun slightly so the thugs could get a good look at the elegant handwriting and the little heart. “Look at it.”

The thugs blinked, utterly confused and terrified. “Is... is that a designer signature on a firearm?” one whispered.

“It’s an authentic signature, you uncultured dipshit,” Jason snapped proudly. “And if either of your dirty jackets so much as smudges the clear coat on this, you’ll be thrown into the harbor. Understand?”

The thugs frantically nodded, dropping their weapons immediately. With a satisfied grunt, Jason holstered the gun, giving the grip a gentle, affectionate pat.

He used it every single day, bringing a ridiculous, heavily guarded piece of your glamorous world into the grimiest fights Gotham had to offer.

© konseur — DON’T copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do NOT use/feed my works to AI.

[hemmofox13]

yeah sex is cool but have you tried to watch him beating the shit out of bullies ?

as a teacher I’m extremely pleased

[yunyuu]

✶ DADDY'S LITTLE RAPUNZEL!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ when they do your little daughter's hair 🎀

including ⠀! ⠀ bruce wayne. dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession? fluff. i love writing fictional men as girl dads. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce takes it very seriously.

Every morning, your daughter climbs onto the bathroom counter while Bruce stands behind her with a brush like he's preparing for surgery.

"...Does it hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"No, Daddy."

"Tell me the second it does."

He brushes from the ends up exactly like you taught him.

Gentle. Slow.

If he hits a knot, he stops immediately.

"Found one."

Tiny fingers reach up to hold the section while he carefully works it out.

She watches him in the mirror.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I wanna be pwetty."

Bruce smiles so softly it almost hurts.

"You already are."

He still spends twenty minutes making sure every little ponytail is perfectly even.

When she runs off afterward, he quietly takes a picture.

He has hundreds.

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's love playing with her.

"Welcome back to grayson's professional hair salon!"

Your daughter giggles before she's even sitting down.

"What are we doing today?"

"A princess braid!"

"Good choice."

He narrates everything dramatically.

"Step one..."

Brush.

"No screaming! Amazing client!"

She laughs so hard she wiggles.

"Princess, I need you to stop moving."

"I can't!"

"I can see that."

Halfway through the braid...

He accidentally makes one side way bigger than the other.

"..."

"...Don't tell Mommy."

She gasps dramatically.

"Our secret?"

"Our secret."

You walk in.

"...Dick."

"...Yes?"

"Why is one braid twice the size of the other?"

Your daughter immediately throw him under the bus.

"Daddy said don't tell!"

He places a hand over his heart.

"Oh you traitor!"

JASON TODD

Jason learned because he refused to let you do everything.

He watched tutorials.

Practiced on wigs.

Even ask Dick to help him.

(He never speaks of that day again.)

Now your daughter sits between his legs on the couch while he carefully brushes her hair.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"No pulling?"

"Nope."

He's surprisingly good.

Slow hands.

Patient.

Then she asks—

"Daddy..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I have two buns?"

"...Absolutely."

The buns end up slightly uneven.

She looks in the mirror.

"I LOVE THEM."

Jason looks like he just won the lottery.

"Yeah?"

"They're perfect!"

He absolutely pretends that was intentional.

TIM DRAKE

Tim researches.

Extensively.

Different hair textures.

Brush types.

Leave in conditioners.

Protective hairstyles.

He has bookmarks.

A spreadsheet.

You don't ask.

One morning your daughter climbs into his lap with a hairbrush.

"Daddy?"

"My appointment?"

She nods seriously.

"You have an appointment."

"Excellent."

He carefully brushes every section while explaining what he's doing.

"This helps keep your hair healthy."

"Healthy!"

"Exactly."

She repeats every word he says.

By the end...

The hairstyle is adorable.

Slightly crooked.

But adorable.

She hugs him.

"You make me beautiful."

Tim nearly cries.

"No."

He kisses her forehead.

"You were beautiful since the day you were born."

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian refuses to admit he enjoys doing her hair.

"This is simply efficient."

Sure.

Every morning she's already climbing onto the stool before he even ask.

She hands him the pink brush.

"Please?"

"...Very well."

He's incredibly precise.

Every part is straight.

Every ponytail is symmetrical.

Every bow is centered perfectly.

You watch from the doorway.

"...She's spoiled."

Damian doesn't even look up.

"As she should be."

Then your daughter turns around.

"Daddy."

"Yes?"

"I want flowers."

"...In your hair?"

She nods.

Without another word, damian disappears into the garden.

Five minutes later he returns with tiny fresh flowers.

He carefully tucks them into her braid one by one.

She beams at herself in the mirror.

"I'm a fairy!"

"You are."

Then she throws her little arms around his neck.

"I love you, Daddy."

Damian freezes for exactly half a second before hugging her back just as tightly.

"...I love you as well, habibti."

You smile from the doorway, watching the self proclaimed "most disciplined" Wayne melt completely because his little girl wanted flowers in her hair.

He'll never admit it out loud.

But tomorrow morning, he'll already have fresh flowers picked before she she even wake up.

If you want to be in my DC taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[pianowalklost]

Godly Love

…Jason Todd worships you

TW: mentions of blood!!

{My first ever Jason Todd drabble + my first time writing any kind of fanfic. i hope you enjoy!!}

The sound of the last of the thugs hitting the floor bounces off the walls of the warehouse. Thick red liquid pools around his head, and Jason drops the crowbar he’s holding with an equally loud clang.

He finally did it.

He killed the last man involved in his murder.

Yet he feels no different inside. In fact, the screaming voices he’s been tormented with since his rebirth at the Lazarus Pit have only gotten louder.

He grimaces and clutches the sides of his head as a swirling symphony of dark thoughts berate him. Cool pain shoots against his skull as he repeatedly bashes the side of his head until they stop.

Dazedly, he stares at the countless dead bodies in front of him.

Jason’s shoulders are slumped. He’s beyond defeated. After grisly hours of fighting, blood, dirt, and flesh stain his entire body — including his conscience. The echoes of voices pleading for reprieve won’t leave his head, so he runs.

He runs all the way to your shitty little apartment on the coast of Gotham.

Jason’s eyes catch on the sight of you through your window, bathed in warmth from your reading light as you lay curled on your couch. Jason knows he’s tainting your life.

He’s too selfish to care.

You jump as your window slides open and a familiar dark figure hauls himself through it.

Jason can’t stop himself from groveling. He’s sick, and you’re the cure. He offers all of himself to you, his undying devotion for your attention.

His dirty boots leave marks on your carpet as he clambers his way to you. Halfway to the couch, he drops to his knees and crawls, legs giving out after too much fighting and the mental burden too much death brings.

The world feels like it’s in slow motion as shallow breaths leave your lungs and the large man clumsily makes his way to you.

You sit there in shock, your body unable to move as he reaches out to you. Trying not to squirm as bloodied hands slide up your thighs, painting two trails of red and staining skin red with sin, you attempt to meet Jason’s gaze.

Your breath catches as sickness rises in your stomach.

He’s too out of it to even realize he’s getting you dirty.

Contact to your skin awakens something in him, and all of a sudden his body is softly shaken with silent sobs. Soft words of prayer leave Jason’s lips as if you’re a deity with the ability to deliver repentance from his transgressions.

You’re stiff as your body shudders before your hands find his hair, unsure and shaking slightly. The thick strands wrapped around your fingers ground you as you tug them to bend his head back, exposing his red-rimmed eyes and bruised face. He’s at your mercy.

The tears keep running, mixing with blood and snot, making him look pathetic.

His eyes are haunted with something you’ll never understand as a civilian. His voice is devastatingly broken when he finally speaks.

“I couldn’t stop, I—”

He breaks off into more pitiful sobs before he can finish his sentence.

Your skin burns where he clutches onto you. The hands in his hair drag down to cup his face as you attempt to wipe away his tears — a futile attempt, as they just continue to pour.

Like a god forgiving their follower, you whisper:

“I know.”

He leans into your hands, pressing deeper into you. It’s as if he’s consumed completely by you as he wraps around you entirely, as if attempting to purify himself with your innocence.

The look on his face makes him seem smaller than he is.

Like a child.

The voices haunting his mind don’t stop — they never do — and he buries his face into the plush of your thighs.

Blood drips off of him onto the clean carpet, something that can be cleaned unlike Jason’s hands.

His mind is stuck on the impurity he holds forever, all because of the Joker, and a mix of anger and sorrow bubbles within him. And still you don’t push him away. All-good. All-powerful. All-knowing.

{A/N: thank u for reading i hope u liked it!!}

[scissorhvnds]

      𝘀𝗰𝘂𝗳𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀 - 02

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴! mechanic!jason todd x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! jason finally fixes your car, but he has to make sure it still runs properly as well. for your safety, right?

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, inaccurate car information, time skips

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4871

𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! find it here <3

the familiar musk of jason's shop filled your nostrils once again.

your thighs were frozen to the thin metal chair that remained beside jason's work station. the rusted legs creaked under your weight, threatening to break with each movement.

you tried not to let your mind wander this time.

the events of the prior night plagued you through visions. his arms — the way they flexed with each turn of the wheel, the way his body leaned closer to yours as he retrieved his sweater from the back seat. 

his words stuck to your back for the rest of the night. "see you tomorrow, pretty girl," landing and ironing itself to your skin. 

you recalled his scent — vanilla musk, mint, and the faintest hint of the cigarette he had smoked earlier that clung to the tips of his hair.

in front of you was a familiar scene. dark wash jeans, and a black t shirt. brown boots. body laid supine on a trolly underneath your car.

"how long do you think this will take?" you asked, cringing slightly from the chair's loud screeching.

"tryna get away from me that quickly, darling?" he called back. you hear the smirk in his words. smug bastard. "i'm just getting started down here." 

"tim said that you said it would be an easy fix," 

jason's only response was a hum of confirmation. he hadn't lied — it was an easy fix. but he couldn't bring himself to let you leave just yet. he couldn't. he was selfish, he knew, he wanted to stay in your presence just a little longer. because you… you were off limits. you would go back to your life — school, work, tim, your friends. jason didn't believe that he needed to fit into your life alongside those factors.

"that it wouldn't take long?" you continued after his lack of response. 

"that was before i saw what a mess your car is," 

"shark is reliable," your voice rang back defensively. your car was beautiful. a 99 chevy cavalier. perfect for you. 

"you named your car 'shark'?" his lip curled above his top teeth. of course you had named your car. you had seemed like the type who would. the name was cute, jason would admit, you were cute, but denying it was easier than admitting it. 

"yeah," your tone was flat, defensive. "it's grey, and strong — therefore, a shark."

"right," jason agreed for your sake. the name of your car didn't change his life in any way. he rolled himself out from the undercarriage and stood in front of the hood of your car. 

he took a moment to inspect and assess. seeing him in his element was mesmerizing. his calculating gaze showed care and experience. his eyes roved over each part, and how they worked together. 

"come here," his voice called out, head nodding invitingly. your feet were moving over to him before your brain even realized it was happening. he was a magnet, one that you didn't think you could stay away from even if you wanted to. 

"see this?" he murmured as he stepped to the side to make room for you. you nodded. his finger remained pointing to a part on top of your engine. "that big thing is your engine. and this is your valve. it's leaking and is what is causing problems." 

you nodded again in understanding, leaning your upper half closer to inspect it. jason tried to keep his gaze on your car as well, and keep from wandering down your back. but fuck you were so close to him. and the smell of your perfume was flooding his senses. his fingers hovered on the small of your back, fingers brushing the hem of your tank top — black this time, and just as tantalizing. 

"the good thing is, your engine is fine," he explained. his words were so close to your ear, and you were aware of his proximity to your back. the way his "want me to show you how to fix it?" 

your head tilted back over your shoulder to regard him. his face was so close to yours, close enough to cause your breath to hitch in your throat. 

"yeah? so i can take your job?" the corner of your lip twitched upward. 

jason's expression softened fractionally, his eyes roving over your face. "you think that's how this works?"

words died in your throat. his gaze on you almost stopped your heart. your lips parted to respond, a witty response ready and shaped under your tongue. yet all you could do was press your lips back together and turn back towards the car. jason was entranced by the curve of your mouth. his own mind was short-circuting, just the same as yours. at the sight of your lips pressed together, he took that as a sign to step up closer behind you. 

"okay," he murmured, his arm circling you. his biceps caged you in, pressing against your shoulders. "we are gonna take this rag and wrap it around here,"

his voice was breathy against your ear, but still low and controlled. his weight against your back was grounding, yet completely debilitating. every ridge, every crevice of his chest pressed into you. 

"and then, we're gonna pull," a loud pop followed the end of jason's sentence. your eyes remained on your engine under the valve, scanning, questioning. 

jason's own gaze remained fixed on your face. your fascination, your concern, was evident on your features. your brows dipped slightly as your mind worked around the inner workings of your car — he was speechless by the sight. 

clearing his throat, he let go of your hand and removed himself from behind you. "and, she's all fixed up,"

you immediately felt the loss. a steady chill crawled up the back of your spine. his chest had been so warm and solid against your back. a small part of you was upset at how easily jason fixed your car. you almost wished there was more wrong in order to spend more time caged in by his arms. 

"thanks for fixing her up," you turned to face the front of him, gaze lifted to meet his. his height was towering, no matter the size of your own body. he commanded space. took it up without meaning to — without even wanting to. he was inescapable, a large mass that captured your attention. "how much do i owe you?" 

"don't worry about it," his response was short. dismissive. nonchalant. his arm reached by your head, unhooking the hood of your car and letting it shut.

"jason." you stated, disbelieving. "i'm serious." 

"so am i," 

"just tell me how much i owe you,"

"nothing. was a favour for your boyfriend," he shrugged, his expression remaining unchanging. 

"he's not my boyfriend," your face contorting into a look of disgust. tim was the last person you would choose to date. especially when there was someone else on your mind, someone who happened to be standing in front of you. 

"right, well, still a favour for the piece of shit," 

you gave him a look at his choice of words to describe tim. there were a few beats of silence between the two of you. 

"shop policy is that we need to test run the car," he gave you a sidelong glance, his hand brushing over the hood. "make sure it's running properly." 

"you do this with all your clients?" you raised a brow, unconvinced. 

"can't let you go unless i know you're safe in that thing," he ignored your question, "in good conscious." 

"do i get to drive?" you raised a brow. 

"in your dreams," his voice muttered. he had already opened the passenger door of your car, hand gestured for you to get in. 

"it's my car and i don't even get to drive," you snarked, slipping by him, your back brushed against his chest again briefly. 

"as long as you're with me, you don't have to touch the wheel again," jason's voice was barely above a breath, words uttered as he shut the door after you got settled. 

he hoped you hadn't heard. 

he hadn't even known why he said those words. he didn't mean them. he didn't know you, and he didn't want to know you. 

you were tim's friend, not his. 

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

the front of your hood burnt the bottom of your thighs. 

how you ended up in the meadow on the outskirts of town was beyond you. 

jason was perched beside you, arms folded as he gazed at the over grown grass.

"this place is quite far from town," your voice drifted into jason's ears alongside the gentle breeze that swayed the grass. 

he nodded, his eyes fixed ahead. 

you left it at that, following his gaze ahead. there was peace in the view. an endless expanse of green that contrasted with the cut of the sharp blue sky. 

"i come here quite often," he responded after a while of silence, turning to gaze up at you. 

"peaceful," you added. you didn't feel the need to add more, he understand what you were implying with your words. "do you ever go sit in the field?"

he shook his head, "i like to watch from here,"

you pushed yourself off the hood of your car, feet landing on the road below. rocks crunched under the sole of your shoes, dust settling into the ankles of your jeans. "well then, let's go,"

"no," he shook his head, shifting against the hood. he looked down, knowing that if he continued to look into your eyes he would give in. jason felt himself wanting to give him, wanting to do whatever you wanted. and it was terrifying him. 

you rolled your eyes at his response, "come on, jason,"

he fixed his gaze back ahead, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. it wasn't that he didn't want to — god, he fucking wanted to. he couldn't allow himself to. you were dangerous. 

you took his silence and nodded slowly. "well, i'm gonna go and enjoy myself. and you can stay here, loser," 

you smirked at him, nudging his arm before you turned around and took off running into the grassy area.

the sun cut down through the wind, warming your shoulders. you weren't gonna let jason's reluctance stop you. 

jason watched you run, watched the way your arms swung by your side. his body subconsciously pushed off the hood, moving to follow you into the sun. you felt like his sun, and he couldn't help but want to orbit around you. 

he let out a soft huff, his nails biting into his palm for a moment. 

"fuck," he muttered under his breath before he took off running after you. it felt good, but he wouldn't admit that out loud to you. it was scary how natural this feeling was for him, how easily this path to you opened for him to chase. 

it was scary how fast jason caught up to you. the head start you had was diminished in seconds. he kept a steady pace just behind you, not yet matching your pace, just watching. 

the smile you flashed over your shoulder was blinding. jason almost tripped over his feet at the sight. your teeth beaming with genuine joy, your tongue peeking out from behind the top row. and then your laugh. a breathless laugh from the belly that punched into his chest. 

"tag!" your hand reached back to swat at his arm, while you stumbled over the grass in the process. you righted yourself and cut immediately to the left.

you took off sprinting again in the opposite direction. the melody of your laugh continued to fill jason's void, and he followed without a second thought. 

he chased after you, breath barely puffing out of his chest. he wanted to prolong this moment for as long as he possibly could, to preserve this memory in locket and wear it around his chest — he didn't even know if he would see you again after this. 

all he was supposed to do was to fix your car, as per tim's instructions. that was all. it was only a favour. nothing more. yet, it felt like everything to jason in this moment. how quickly his life had been changed within a couple of days was something he was unable to comprehend. 

his arm circled around your waist, lifting you up into his chest and spinning you around to carry your momentum. you gasped through a shriek, legs kicking into the air at how suddenly you were airborne. 

"got you," his chest rumbled against your back. his other hand latched onto your thigh to steady you back on the ground. 

"jason, oh my—" your hands gripped his arm as the world suddenly spun off it's axis. your foot caught in a hole, your body stumbled forward. the ground was approaching faster than you could process, than you could react. your eyes shut as you braced yourself for impact. you could practically feel your body hitting the ground, the grass catching between your fingertips and sticking under your nails. you were already cringing at the thought. that was gonna be a pain to get out later.

only, you didn't hit the ground — not really. your bottom did, but not as hard as you had anticipated. the back of your head was cushioned, along with your upper back. you realized it was jason by the way his knees thudded against the dirt, bracketing your thighs. jason was practically straddling you. his hand crunched beneath your head before the arm around your upper back pulled you up, hovering your body a few inches off the ground. 

your eyes were wide and wild, gazing up at him. 

he was so close. 

again.

you had seen him up close before, the two of you had shared a few moments in a proximity that was closer than you should have been, but none of those times compared to this. 

he was right there. 

small freckles dusting his nose, blue irises that carried hints of green, and complete and utter perfection. 

and for, jason, god he was speechless. it was instinct on his end, really. his hands moved on their own — thrumming with the desire to protect you. he would let his arms take the brunt of any pain if it had meant you would never see harm. 

was he that pathetic? that you had managed to have him under your thumb within such a short time of knowing you? clearly, he was. 

your fingers instinctively curled into the collar of his shirt, keeping him close. your chest was expanding with breaths that never quite sat right in your lungs, leaving you more dizzy than anything else — or was that because you were close enough to smell jason's natural musk? 

jason lowered your body slowly — hand slipping from under your head, arm uncurling from your upper back and letting you rest on the grass. the green blades framed your head like a halo. angel. you were his angel. 

he followed you down, unable to put space between your bodies. his hands rested beside your head, further bracketing you beneath him. his eyes roved over your form in concern. 

"you okay?" he murmured softly. he checked for injuries, anything, he angled his head to gaze at your ankle — the reason why you had fallen in the first place. it looked fine to him, thankfully. 

you nodded slowly, lips parted in slight shock, eyes still transfixed on his face. 

"need you to say it. are you in any pain?" he repeated, gazing back into your eyes. "does your ankle hurt at all?" 

"i'm okay," you swallowed thickly. "my ankle is fine." 

he accepted your answer, visibly relaxing. "good."

"sorry," you blurted out, anxious from how close he was. from how you could count each and every single one of his eyelashes as they were attached to his eyelid.

"for what?" his voice was barely above a whisper. the breeze flowed through the grass, kissing over your cheeks and sending hair fluttering across your forehead. he brushed the strand back, memorizing the texture under his thumb. he knew why you were apologizing, and it was unnecessary. though, he recognized your words are more instinct than a genuine apology. 

your brain blanked, subconsciously pulling him closer by the collar. closer. closer. it wasn't close enough. 

jason followed willingly. it would agonize him to deny you right now, to deny himself. 

his head dipped down, the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his shaky breath fanned across your lips. 

"angel…" he whispered, eyes squeezing tightly. it was as if the darkness behind his lids could stop him, stop his desire for you. stop the fire that was spreading up his neck — one that could only be extinguished with the press of your lips. 

he wanted it so badly, wanted you. he knew you would taste good under his tongue, that you would mold perfectly with him. his fingers dug into the ground, denting the dirt with the force of his restraint. 

and when your hands slid up from his collar and onto his neck, jason knew he was done for. he was gone. completely at your mercy just by the touch of your fingertips. his neck burned at the spots where your skin met his. he was ready to carve his heart out of his chest and hand it to you with his own hands. his chest plating armour, his protection, his walls that had shielded the parts of himself that he refused to show the world melted instantly with a flash of your smile. 

"jay…" your voice was barely above the wind in his ears, but it cut through nonetheless, grounded him back to the moment where your chin was tilting up towards his mouth. 

oh god, no

he cleared his throat and slid onto his back beside you. the clouds, bright and blinding against the warm blue, were the most interesting thing jason could look at right now. though his eyes were desperate to settle back onto you. 

he wouldn't give in. not yet at least. maybe not ever. you would never be his. 

a spiked ball made it's way down your throat, forcing, shoving, tearing down any words that were about to leave your mouth. the pressure between the two of you was bordering on unbearable. 

you were so close to kissing him. so close. his distance was necessary. you never should have gotten that close to jason — close enough that you had felt the cool air from his nose brush your cheeks. though, feeling him pull away stabbed your heart deeper than you cared to admit. 

"hey, jason?"

he hummed in confirmation

"what were you doing under my car for so long?" 

"what do you mean?"

"well, it was the valve that was leaking right? you said that's under the hood. why were you under my car for as long as you were? you were also inside, like under the steering wheel. what was that?" 

jason remained silent. he didn't have a good enough excuse that didn't make him sound like a fucking idiot. after finding the initial cause of your car problems, he found another, and then another. and then it turned into him fixing whatever he could with the equipment that he had on hand — anything to keep you in the shop a little longer. just a little longer. 

"you know, just stopping some fluid leaks, making sure nothing was rusting. the oil pan gasket is down there, and your transmission," he kept his eyes trained on the sky, hand resting under his head. the same hand that was under yours. the same one that was just gliding through your hair and oh how he wanted to grab onto the strands and— "oh, and your exhaust. that needed to be touched up. i actually put some paste on there so it should be good for now, but you'll need to come in again soon for me to actually fix it—" 

"jason," 

"yeah," his own rambling had caught him off guard, but the way his heart was practically beating out of his chest was getting increasingly harder to ignore. his heart was still beating wildly out of his chest from almost kissing you.

"what the hell does any of that even mean?" 

"basically, you had more work that needed to be done than just the valve," 

"what?" you sat up, your lips jutting out in a exasperated pout. "why didn't you tell me? you have to let me pay you." 

"like i said earlier, i owed tim," he responded, propping himself on his elbow to face you. the sun floated just above your head, bathing you in its ethereal glow. the rays caught on your hair, glittering the wild strands that were mussed from the grass. 

"yeah but not for all of that," 

"well. if you wanna repay me so bad, then you can," 

you nodded in relief. "okay. how much do i owe you then?" 

"i want you—" 

the shrill of your phone ringing in your back pocket cut jason off abruptly. in a way, he may have been relieved that he never got to finish his sentence. you. i want you. he wouldn't have been able to take them back, no matter how much he may have meant it.

too much. way too soon. 

"hey," you pressed your phone to your ear. your fingers absentmindedly picked at the strands of grass beneath your feet. 

"what time are you coming over?" tim's voice rang through the speaker. loud. jason cringed at the sound. 

"huh?" you shifted, sitting up a little straighter. right. tim and you had plans tonight. dinner tonight at the manor, upon bruce's insistence. on days that you and tim had planned to hang out, you usually ended up in the manor. it was more comfortable for you guys rather than your shitty apartment. 

"b's asking, alfred's already started on dinner," tim says, you cam practically see him shaking his head. "so, what time should i tell him? also, why is your location off. i tried to check if you were at home and it says 'location not found'" 

"oh uh, i don't know. i'm on a walk right now, i'll be there in 'bout an hour?" you were distracted. jason was just laying there still, beside you, pretending not to listen but you know he was. the twitch of his nose when tim had mentioned bruce had given him away. 

"''kay, perfect, see you, and fix your location," tim waited for your own farewell before hanging up the phone. you let your phone drop into your lap, falling back into the electrically charged quiet that seemed to continuously engulf yourself and jason. 

"tim?" jason mumbled. 

you nodded, a thick glob of saliva catching in our throat. "dinner at the manor tonight." 

right. jason knew that. dinner at the manor tonight, as bruce had said in the family group chat. 

he knew he had to drive you back, to let you go. you car was fixed now. it was over. your car was fixed, and you were gonna go back to your life now. the dream bubble, the rose coloured world that jason had been fantasizing with you was now grey. 

but he wouldn't complain. he would let you go. and maybe, he would get to see you again. 

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

the manor had been bustling upon your arrival. you still felt like you were in a daze from your earlier encounters with jason. 

he was… different. not what you had expected. 

your first impression of him might have been skewered by tim, and the front that jason put up. the glares, the stone mask that he wore — you saw the softness that lay beneath it all. 

you were currently at the dinner table — seated beside tim — though you could still feel the grass tickling your ankles and jason's steady weight on your chest. you had been so close to kissing him, barely a centimetre between you. 

"so your car is alright then?" bruce's voice brought you back from your dream. 

"hm? oh! yeah, it's all good," your shoulders squared, spine snapping straight. the smile that plastered across your face felt gooey. "jason—"

"—littlewing?" dick's voice rang out in shock, his gaze fixed above your head. a lull settled over the room as the rest of the party's attention followed dick's. you slowly turned your head, your breath catching at the sight. 

speak of the devil. 

jason. he had stood in the entryway of the dining hall — the same navy blue jeans, leather jacket stretched taut over his strong form. 

everyone's gaze were on him, but his were on you. 

"jason! what a pleasure," bruce smiled, standing in greeting. 

"why are you here?" tim blurted out. 

"for dinner?" jason deadpanned.

"yeah, but why?" 

"i'm part of the family, aren't i? do i need a reason to show up for family dinner?" 

"how did you know this was happening,"

you elbowed tim hard enough that he flinched. his fork clanged against his plate at the force of his knee hitting the table.

"i'm in the groupchat, dumbass," jason's eyes narrowed at tim, a scowl forming across his mouth. 

"—yes! you are, no you don't need a reason, and we are so happy you're here," bruce's voice cut in quickly, breaking the squabble. his tone directed at tim. he stood up as well to welcome jason into the room. 

"come sit, littlewing, alfred already set up a seat for you," dick's words barely registered in your mind. jason had looked different, smaller, younger. dick's hand patted the space next to him, across from you, the only empty seat. until now, that seat had always remained empty — set up with a plate, cutlery, and a glass — but empty. now you knew why. 

he took his spot, sliding comfortably into the seat and letting dick clap his shoulder in friendly greeting. jasons eyes shifted from dick, to bruce, and then to you. darker, pupils dilated, head tilted slightly to the side as he took in your appearance again. outfit less casual, your hair done in a way that he could tell you put effort into — though he thought your hair would have looked nice regardless how you wore it. 

jason's gaze was hungry. devouring, though it wasn't because of the food that was being served in front of him, but because of you. 

dinner continued without a hitch. the dymanic didn't change when jason arrived, it molded around him — like he had always been there. 

the conversion flowed between everyone, changing constantly from someone's interjection. the only thing that didn't change was jason's focus on you. when he spoke, when he wasn't speaking. it wasn't the whole time, but it was enough for you to notice it. to feel it burning into your face from where he sat directly in front of you. 

eventually, after the second course of dessert, you excused yourself to the washroom. 

a break was needed. 

while you had developed close relationships with all of tim's family members, they still managed to overwhelm you very easily. 

the washroom was a moment of repreive in the chaos that was confined within the walls of the manor. you could still hear the arguments, the debates, the loud voices that knew how to speak above one another. 

you took your time on the way back, slow measured steps that followed the dark lines of the mahogany flooring. you didn't hear the footsteps behind you, didn't sense the presence that lingered too closely behind you for just a second too long before wrapping an arm around you. 

a large hand covered your mouth, the other pulling your body into the opened doorway beside you. once your back was against the wall, you realized. 

jason. 

he was close again. body pressed up against yours intentionally. he was warm in a way that was devastating — a warmth that you so desperately wanted to sink into, but you knew you couldn't. 

"what are you—" your voice muffled against his hand, palm sliding against your cheek and cradling your head. 

"i should have kissed you earlier," his words cut you off, hanging in the space between your mouths. his gaze was fixed on your lips, centimetres away from yours. "i should have. i need to. been thinking about it since i met you, angel, fuck." 

he was practically pleading. his whispered words were shaking between his lips. 

please. please, let me kiss you. 

"we… jason, we can't," your voice was just as soft, hands exploring up his arms and onto his shoulders. broad and thick under your palms. the desperation was burning the room, a fever beginning to heat up your spine. 

"we… yeah," his forehead softly hit yours, eyes shutting tightly. his nostrils flared with restraint. his other hand tightened it's grip on your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer to him. 

"they're gonna be looking for us, we need to—"

"fuck. i can't. i'm sorry," jason murmured, his snapping open to gaze at you one last time, there was a hint of apology swimming in his eyes, deep and longing beneath the surface. 

and then his lips met yours. 

an: I feel so evil leaving this chapter how I did

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! @batwngs , @boo-123456 , @xuzui , @starshine-girl , @brinawing , @jasontoddsthunderthigh , @outpostsworld , @xx-kino-v , @currentblasphemy , @m-0ona , @vayabenson , @deadbeatphobos , @igotcrabs4u , @anne-chloe , @inesvisible , @ftkats , @branchesofmagic , @wrldbloom , @pantone2617c , @loserinadress , @optimisticalmondbananabiscuit , @sweet-cherry-kisses , @lovelymilijana , @starrydustedwinter , @wisefuncherryblossom , @wiishies , @apocal-ips , @bungunz , @pinklyred , @sluttybiscuitbabes , @venus-bby , @st4rl1ghtgrays0n , @vami , @loretheswiftie , @nerdjoenjoyer , @emma-dilemmax , @sofiasguitar , @artisticmindsunite-blog , @aesthetic-lyss , @sleepyyluciel

general taglist: @mollymal , @redhooduwu , @girlmeetsolivia , @athenxt , @nightlights-and-twiklingstars , @silverjaysz , @l0singctrl , @drea18881 , @calicocat-ina-tuxedo , @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger , @mrbusinessman , @starr-jazz , @bat2nsignia , @champagnesbiggestproblem , @indigoscribe , @luviery , @kennlovespink , @jiasfiles , @arfemiz , @darkxwolfsstuff , @soggywhore , @wiishies , @spideyskywalker , @newangelle , @thatluckygirl19 , @givemefinganame , @hyyperfixationstation , @clmntin3 , @djobrat

[sentrybites]

i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.

i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it

[pearlyscenes]

˚₊꒷ ᨳ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 cozy snippet nook ₊˚⊹*

𐔌 . ⋮ 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝒫𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ₊˚⊹* ₊⊹ 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐝 x reader

warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. mild language. stupid jason. a tiny bit lovesick Jason. Still learning how to tag. English is not my first language.

a little sticky note .ᐟ: I thought this tiny tumblr post is as cute as a bug's ear. i had to give it a shot (i tried my best) ;P. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss enjoy ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა

word count: approx 994

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Jason has been in a relationship for a long time with the reader, she is the perfect woman for him. Now he wants to take the next step, but proposing seems so muuuuuuuch harder than imagined.

Jason nervously toyed with the small box in his trouser pocket. It was perhaps the size of a peculiar walnut, yet despite its light weight, it felt so heavy in his hand. He let the lid snap open briefly, tracing the delicate stone with the pad of his thumb, before gently closing it gently.

Or perhaps he thought he was closing the lid gently.

He cursed softly when the stupid lid pinched his thumb. Surely it couldn't be that hard - why was he worrying? He didn't even shit his pants when he had the Black Mask standing right in front of him. But that hadn't been Jason. It had been Red Hood who faced the frightening reality of Gotham.

Maybe that was a lie. Maybe he was shitting his pants a little. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly; his sweaty hands were already getting on his nerves.

For weeks - if not months - he had planned this evening. Down to every teeny tiny element. Meticulously: every single detail, every single scenario. A little too Bruce for his taste. But good God, what would he do if this evening went wrong? He would never be able to handle loosing his darling.

And how long had she been with him by now? No one would put up with his problems for five years unless they wanted to get married. Right?

He tugged at his shirt. He was Jason Peter Todd, for fuck's sake! Who wouldn't want to marry him, right? Right? He rose from his chair and cleared his throat.

Could it really take that long just to wash one's hands?

He turned in a semicircle, his heart pounding in his throat. What the hell was he doing here? He tugged once more at the table decorations and stared down at the bustling streets of Gotham. Up here on the roof, it almost seemed peaceful, silent. The small garden radiated an almost soothing atmosphere.

Dinner went well. Not just well or good, it was great. He had noticed that she had done her nails. Had she, perhaps, suspected after all what his plans for today was? That was a good sign, right? A woman caring about her nails, maybe even expecting a proposal.

His loud thoughts came to a halt when he heard the door open. Seeing her step out into the soft light of the lanterns (which he had lit specifically for the occasion) in her pretty dress, with those stupid kitten heels that somehow turned him crazy. Perhaps it was the way her legs stretched just a tiny bit more, that struck him as even more alluring.

She had reapplied her glossy lipstick. A broad smile was on her face as she walked towards him.

" 'M sorry, that took longer than expected."

He hummed in acknoledgement. He stepped a tiny bit closer and took her hand in his. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her soft knuckles.

"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. "The food, I mean. I also have dessert downstairs in the fridge."

She smiled and leaned slightly toward him, nodding slowly. The meal had been simple. Jason Todd’s culinary skills left something to be desired - but pasta al pomodoro with Parmesan? That was something he aced.

"Hmmm, nothing compares to Jason Tood's spaghetti."

For a second he just stared at her and runs a hand through his hair.

"Great, good," he murmured, playing with the small box in his trouser pocket. "Fantastic."

She glanced at him, somewhat confused, and blinked toward his trouser pocket.

"You've been fiddling with your hand in your pocket all evening. What's in there?" she snorted, reaching out to tug his wrist curiously. He wriggled gracefully and gently out of her reach and chuckled softly. A tiny, displeased sound left his throat, but still soft. "It's a secret," he grunted.

"You're stupid," she said, her gaze following his. He took a glimpse at her so gently through his long lashes, as if she herself had hung the stars in the evening sky. He kissed her again on her temple.

"Wanna know?"

His words were barely more than a hum. The moment was perfect. They stood close to one another, amidst that familiar banter that so often passed between them. He had written a text of epic length, spanning from the very first moment he had laid eyes on her, and secretly, deep down, knew that she would become his wife.

Even though his mind told him that he shouldn't open up. Who would want to marry a man like Jason? With his many issues and mild aggression problems? From their first date right up to their first fight, after which he spent an entire evening in his apartment (before they moved in together) crying his eyes out.

He slowly sank to his left knee, yet did not let go of her hand. He watched as her eyes widened and her own hands grew warm. His own heart pounded in his throat. He felt as though he could not breathe. And not a single word of his memorized monologue would come to mind.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a hoarse "I-" His hands were sweaty, trembling slightly as, with his free hand, he pulled the ring from his trouser pocket; and nearly dropped it onto the concrete of the roof.

"Sweetheart-"

He never claimed to be a nervous wreck or a helpless simp. But the way she looked at him, so full of anticipation, while barely holding back her own tears of joy… and the ring, looking a little lost inside its box, sparkled in the soft glow of the lanterns.

"Please...", he almost whimpered.

She laughed softly through a few tears that escaped her eyes. She herself couldn't manage to utter a coherent sound - only a wild nod - before leaping into his arms and sobbing, in broken gasps,

"Yes… oh God, yes."

𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 © ℘ꫀꪖ᥅ꪶꪗ ꯱ׁׅ֒ᝯׁꫀׁׅܻꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ꯱ׁׅ֒ made in germany. please do not copy/steal/translate or train ai with my work — 2026.

[pureprettyprincess]

no because nobody understands how hard it was to find x reader fics of anyone in the gaang or atla fandom in general before this movie came out. now there’s new fics coming out daily. I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS‼️

[kombuchaaaaa]

“Oh no Avatar was leaked”

[my-cup-of-coffeee]

oh god i’m back in the building

[bungunz]

[mirk0-maniac]

Me now that the avatar fanfics are back

IM SO HAPPY THE AVATAR FANDOM HAS BEEN REVIVED

[stvrw1tch]

Me right now!!! It was never a phase, also ima need people to create fanfics about EVERYONE please please please please

if you are gonna watch the leaks find a way to SUPPORT THE PEOPLE WHO WORKED HARD ON THIS THEY DESERVE IT!!!

paramount u greed bastards, taking it off theaters is fucked up.

[mariiee568]

Someone PLEASE write for adult zuko

he looks too good in the movie

[legomimi]

PLSSSSSSS A03 WRITERS TUMBLR WRITERS HELL EVEN WATTPAD WRITERS LOCK INNNNN

[honey-snail]

Jason Todd who, unfortunately, is going to have to meet you halfway down the aisle because you simply started crying too hard to make it the rest of the way.

And not those pretty, delicate little watery eyes either.

No, you're unfortunately, hopelessly bawling. The ugly kind. You know the type of crying that comes hot and fast - blurs your vision until the whole chapel melts into muted candlelight and pale smudges of faces. Where your chest cinches so tight it almost aches, your throat burns, and every last ounce of excitement, love, terror, and joy crashes into you all at once - so hard it leaves you trembling in your heels.

It's bad.

Because you couldn't even make it to the altar, could you?

Just standing there in the middle of the aisle, dressed in white, with your bouquet shaking in your hands and tears slipping down your cheeks faster than you can catch them with a pitiful tissue - making a complete, watery mess of yourself in front of everyone you love. Mascara threatening to betray you. Bottom lip wobbling. Breath hitching so pathetically you can barely even explain what's wrong because - nothing is wrong - and somehow that only makes you cry harder.

You even have Bruce Wayne, of all people, looking like he's about two seconds away from stepping in to help. Probably a little concerned you're about to bolt after he dropped half a million dollars on this wedding.

And of course Jason is moving before anyone else can.

Stepping down from the altar, black dress shoes clicking sharp against the floor, expression gone soft with an immediate sort of concern - maybe a flicker of something else beneath it, too.

Because for all his teasing and dramatics, there's probably still some ugly little part of him that wonders if you've finally come to your senses. If maybe - at the worst possible moment - you realized you don't want this. Don't want him.

He finally reaches you, looking down at you with those pretty emerald eyes, all that roughness in him gone soft in a way that almost makes you cry even harder.

"Too much of a crybaby to marry the likes of me?" His voice comes out with that low, gravelly little rasp - teasing, but fond - like he's trying to coax you back down to earth. Already holding your face before you can get out some watery, offended little reply, thumb sweeping carefully beneath one eye, then the other, catching tear after tear on the pad of his fingers.

"Don't tell me you're backing out on me now, baby," he mutters under his breath - quiet enough that it's just for you - while his hands keep working so patiently at your face, wiping away the wet heat of your tears only for more to replace them a second later. Trying to make you laugh when you're too busy sniffling and gasping for air to do much of anything else.

One hand comes up to cup your jaw - warm and calloused and careful against your damp skin - while the other settles at your waist the second your knees start to wobble. Holding you steady without making a spectacle of it.

Letting you clutch fistfuls of his suit jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. Smear your tears all over the lapel - and probably a little snot too - and still not caring in the slightest because it's you.

And when it all starts to feel too big, he leans down until his forehead nearly brushes yours and murmurs, soft enough to melt straight through you,

“C’mon, baby. I got you.”

And then, of course, he walks you the rest of the way.

Not because people are staring at your little crashout or because things have gone awkward and uncertain.

But because there's simply no universe where Jason Todd is going to watch you fall apart on your wedding day - and not come get you himself.

So he guides you the rest of the way down the aisle, arm firm around your waist, your hand tucked tight around his, his thumb still brushing stray tears from your cheek every few steps while you shuffle along beside him - all sniffly and glassy-eyed.

Your veil catching softly behind you.

The room around you going warm and hazy and distant until it feels like it's just Jason - just the steady weight of him beside you keeping you from floating away.

Right before you finally reach the altar, he leans down one last time, mouth twitching at the corner, and murmurs in that low, amused voice of his,

"You done being a crybaby?"

Only for you to start crying even harder.

Which, okay, entirely his own fault.

When it's finally time to kiss the bride, you can bet he's kissing those watery little tears away too. Slow and sweet, a little smile pressed into it, like he can't quite believe he actually gets to keep you - gets to be the one wiping your tears away for the rest of his life.

Because if you are going to sob your way through marrying Jason Todd - the least he can do is hold you through every second of it.

[doc-anders]

Do you have a Radio Batman masterlist of them in order?

Test

Ep. 1: Bruce and Jason training

Ep. 2: Young Dick and Jason

Ep. 3: Nightwing berates Red Hood 

Ep. 4: Red Hood picks on Robin

Ep. 5: Red Hood saves Nightwing

Ep. 6: The boys provide a distraction 

Ep. 7: Dick gets punched in the crotch

Ep. 8: Cass makes Damian apologize to Tim

Ep. 9: Bruce, Dick, and Jason do karaoke

Ep.10: Damian thanks Jason

Ep. 11: Dick and Jason at a Gala

Ep. 12: Bruce tells Jason how he really feels

Ep. 13: Batman picks up Red Hood

Ep. 14: Damian comforts Dick from a nightmare

Ep. 15: Batman delegates duties to the boys

Ep. 16: Family basketball game

Ep. 17: Cass defends the Robins

Ep. 18: Dick and Jason have one of their man chats

Ep. 19:  Jason death compilation I

Ep. 20: Jason resurrection compilation II

Ep. 21: Dick asks Tim and Jason for lady advice

Ep. 22: Damian tells Tim about his first day of school

Ep. 23: Jason is left in charge of Tim and Damian

Ep. 24: Tim and Damian hide in Dick’s room

Ep. 25: Dick talks to Jason about Bruce

Ep. 26: Red Robin asks for back up

Ep. 27: Boys stay with Dick while manor is renovated

Ep. 28: December twenty-fifth

Ep. 29: Nightwing gets rescued 

Ep. 30: Bruce and Jason argue

Ep. 31: Robin tells a joke

Ep. 32: Green Lantern confronts Nightwing and Red Hood

Ep. 33: Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood fight thugs

Ep. 34: Dick cries to Bruce

Ep. 35: Boys try to get Tim out of his room

Ep. 36: Nightwing saves Red Hood from Penguin 

Ep. 37: Family sparring session 

Ep. 38: Boys get captured 

Ep. 39: Dick and Jason try to get Bruce to relax

Ep. 40: Nightwing and Red Hood slap fight

Ep. 41: Boys play with escrima sticks

Ep. 42: Dick and Jason reconcile

[shattersstar]

masterlist <3

about & rules // all works // inspiration // fic recs

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