Words to Feelings

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Writing Master List

Includes all non-event writing. Separate Masterlist for October events.

Valorant:

SFW- Harbor X Reader

Call of Duty:

SFW- 141 Headcannon Pianist!Ghost (Blurb) Post-TBI!Soap x Teacher!Wifey Part 2 Domestic!Ghost x Reader Soap x Reader (drabble) Ghost x Medic!Reader Part 2 Part 3 Domestic!Price x Reader Ghost x Reader (Reader Death Angst) Domestic!Gaz x Reader Ghost x Reader (Drabble, pet names) Ghost x Drunk!Reader (Spelling errors) Angry!Ghost x Reader Part 2 Yandere!Ghost x Reader Konig x Reader Ghost x reader

NSFW- Older!Playboy!Ghost x Reader Part 2 (mild nsfw) Price X Reader Toxic!Ghost x Reader Part 2 Ghost x Yapper!Reader

DC:

SFW- Cheater!Jason Todd x Reader (Hurt/no comfort) Jason Todd x Reader (Small hurt/comfort) Jason Todd x Reader Part 1 2 3 4 5 Jason Todd x Roy Harper Jason Todd's Death Dick Grayson x Reader (Blurb) Dick Grayson x Reader (First date) Angry!Jason Todd x Reader

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Jason Todd x Reader Chapter 9

Chapter List

Jason’s POV  

2 Weeks Earlier  

Jason knew he had messed up. That was glaringly obvious from the moment he woke up in the Batcave’s infirmary. His head ached worse than it had in years, a seemingly endless pounding in the back of his head. But trying to think about how he got there made the pounding worse, and the bright overhead light was certainly not helping either. 

“Bruce! He’s Awake!” Dick yelled from the door, causing him to groan. When he tried to move his arm to cover his eyes, he found he couldn’t. He tried again. No movement. He was trapped.  

Not the coffin. 

Not again 

Panic settled in his chest, a death grip on his lungs. Blood rushing in his ears. No, no, no, no, no, no. He needed out. Air. This wasn’t the end. 

Bruce ran to his side, eyes wide, lips parted, “Jason? It’s the sedative, needs to wear off.”  

His voice was soothing despite the face of concern he was wearing. Sedative. It’s a sedative. He tries to assure himself, rationalizing himself out of the panic. Gradually, his chest loosens, and he can hear the steady beeping behind him again. His lungs still burning with a familiar feeling. 

“That’s it,” Bruce sighs, his exhale heavier than usual. “Can you speak?”  

‘Yeah, of course I can’ is what he tried to say, all that came out was a hoarse noise—not unlike a dying bird. He’d never admit that he felt embarrassed, but his face betrayed him.  

“Give it a minute, you’ve been out for about a week,” Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face. “Glad you’re awake.” It’s the closest thing to comfort he’d ever get from him.  

The pounding in his head returns with a vengeance as Dick sidles up to the edge of the bed. His mocking laugh ringing in Jason’s ears, “Can’t believe you let Two-Face get the best of you, Jaybird. Rookie mistake.”  

Jason mustered the best glare he could, which, with how numb his face was, probably wasn’t that threatening. Two-Face, though? The information he had wasn’t lining up.   

The infirmary…Two-Face...Bruce…  

He obviously lost. So…maybe a trap? No, he would be dead if it were a trap. Ugh. If only he could talk. His finger twitches, and satisfaction curls in his chest—one that quickly turned to pain as the meds wore off. He was beginning to wish Bruce would’ve sedated him longer.  

Despite Bruce knowing English was difficult for him at this moment, he asked, “Do you remember anything?”  

Jason lets out a grumpy-sounding noise that’s a little closer to baby-babbling than a horse. Some feeling returning to his face—just enough to feel the burning behind his eyes.   

“You went after Two-Face alone, Jason.”   

He had gathered that much.  

“There was an explosion.”  

Oh.  

That’s the familiar feeling.  

“You were under for almost 30 minutes before we got you out.”  

Unwanted memories pressed to the forefront of his mind. The smoke inhalation. The burning.   

“You have three fractured vertebrae…” Bruce hesitated, “…We don’t know if you can walk, Jason.”  

Well, shit.  

That affects the vigilante gig.   

3 Weeks Earlier  

Jason’s mind was a clusterfuck of thoughts. The robberies, civilian deaths, and now this, a hostage situation.  

After weeks of unexplained coincidences, he finally found the man pulling the strings. Every incident had been lined up perfectly, the ransom notice sent out in tandem with three other events. it was a risks he understood; however, awaiting Bruce’s arrival was impossible, as lives hung in the balance. Harvey Dent was a neurotic man at best and psychotic at worst.   

“Jason, we’re fifteen out,” The familiar of Bruce’s cadence rings in his earpiece, with a quick tap, he shuts it off. It would be better if Bruce didn’t knowingly have to relive his death.   

As he stared down at the warehouse below him, racking his brain for a plan that he didn’t have. Gun-blazing was his preferred method, but that was when he had backup. And right now he had approximately…two pistols, a knife, three grenades. Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn’t be enough to deal with the entire warehouse. If he was right though, he didn’t have time to wait for more gear. He’d done more with less.   

His fingers flexed around the grip of the grappling hook before he leaned forward enough to fall off the roof, moving with the grace he’d learned from Dick years ago.  

Usually stealth was not his chosen method, but he was in a bit of a bind. The upside was that he didn’t need to clear the entire building, only Two-Face was likely to have a detonator.  

He hit the brick wall near a second-floor window, silently thanking God for the knee pads he had installed in his suit. His jaw clenched as the hinges creaked when he pried against it.   

Jason slipped inside, quickly taking survey of the area he’d dropped into. The grate groaned under his weight as he shifted to the railing, where he could hear the frantic noises of the hostages. And quieter, the steady steps of who he could only assume were the henchmen. The acrid stench of what Jason could only describe as ‘human ick’ lingered in the air.   

He turned to the door to his right, testing the handle. When it opened without difficulty, he slipped inside. Two-Face sat behind his desk. Jason tried to suppress the urge to cringe at the sight of him. The mismatched colors and flayed skin, a rough sight for anyone. Next to Condiment King, Two-Face was a close second for least favorite villain.   

A sick smile spread across his mouth, mismatching hands pressed together in front of him. “You’re a little late, Hood.”  

Jason’s mouth twitched below the helmet, “All this because you weren’t pretty enough to be on the cover of Vogue.”  

Dent stands abruptly, smoothing the red and white suit jacket. His smile turning into a gruesome sneer, “Careful, Hood. I’m in control of the lives downstairs right now. Not you.”  

“No chance to negotiate?” Jason’s hands raised in mock-surrender, forcing the tension from his shoulders in a loose shrug.  

He rounds the desk, steps even and calculated despite the rage on his face…s. “After that petty comment, I don’t think so. Maybe if Batman had come too, he could’ve saved you.”  

Jason’s face contorts as he growls out, “Well, unfortunately for you, I’m not Batman.” He reached for his pistol, pointing it at Dent, not Two-Face.   

He doesn’t waste time pulling the trigger. The sharp bang cut through the silence in the office. A dull thud on the carpet followed. The sulfur burning his nose as he turned on his heel, stalking out to take care of the hostages.   

His feet were heavy as he stepped through the door, pistol still brandished as he cleared the area, noting a lack of lackeys around. No fearful shuffling from the hostages. In fact, Jason wasn’t picking up on any noise—until.  

The first beep shattered his focus. The second had him frozen in place. His feet wouldn’t move, rooted to the ground. He wasn’t sure where the beeping was coming from. Or even how long he had. Nonexistent smoke burned his lungs. 

His chest tightened in that familiar vice. Nausea clawed at his throat. Not ag —

1 week ago  

Jason’s arms tremble as he holds himself up. The upside: he had some mobility. The downside: he had severe damage.  

The wooden bars under his palms groan under his weight, made for a nimble acrobat—not a recovering vigilante. It took a while to get the full story from Bruce, but Jason had finally fished out enough detail to piece it together.   

He froze.   

That couldn’t happen again.  

His failure to do his job cost innocent lives.   

He forces his leg to move despite the sharp pain shooting up through his knees. Bruce had told him something about having to repair his right knee. But he hadn’t really listened after he heard the death count.   

Twenty-six.   

Children. Parents. Innocent.   

A sharp grunt slipping out as he takes another step.  

“That’s enough for today,” Bruce calls from the wall he’d been leaning against for the past two hours, watching him almost clinically. 

“No.” His legs nearly give out, but he catches himself, pushing back up to standing. Then murmurs, “Can’t happen again.”  

“Jason. It wasn’t your fault.” 

His step falter, legs refusing the movement he’d been repeating.  

It was his fault. 

It…was…his…fault… 

The floor felt as if it were swallowing him whole. He couldn’t stop. Not now. Never.  

His leg finally gives out, and he stumbles to the ground. Irreparable pain clawing up his knee.  

“Jason!” Bruce is by his side in an instant. But the damage had been done. Blood dripped from his knees, soaking the floor in crimson.  

Dark spots swam across his vision, even as he tried to blink them away. No. No. He couldn’t give up yet. There were people who needed help.  

3 Days Ago 

“Are you sure you want me to do that?”  

“Yeah, I’m sure, I need to know she’s okay.” 

“I don’t see why you couldn’t do this yourself.” 

“I-...I don’t want her to see me like this. I just need more time.” 

Yesterday 

He stood in front of the display, holding his suit. Fully repaired thanks to Alfred’s handy work. The glass reflected his haggard form, hunched over on crutches. Face still embarrassing shades of black and blue. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to work hard enough to get rid of them.  

Dick had yet to return with results about your whereabouts. Not that he hadn’t already stalked you with the Batcomputer. If circumstances forced him to be here, he would benefit from it. 

He’d offered to return to his own apartment, mostly so no one could stop him from going out. His condition wasn’t good enough for vigilante-ing, but he could at least apologize to you.  

He had managed to shove the thoughts of you away during all the stuff with Two-Face. It made it easier to do what was important.  

But being on bed rest had dredged thoughts of you up from the deepest pits of his mind. He didn’t even know how to apologize, a simple sorry didn’t seem like enough. He didn’t even know what he was going to tell you.  

He pulls his gaze away from the red bat emblazoned on the suit. Did he even deserve to wear it anymore? 

His phone was heavy in his hand, your last message still displayed.  

‘Thanks for the good date! I had fun.’ - Sent 3 weeks ago 

No other messages sent since then. God, he not only messed up the mission, but he also destroyed his dating life. 

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@fireriyu

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Jason x Reader Chapter 8 Chapter List

Contrary to your opinion. The date apparently didn’t go well.  

Otherwise, he would’ve messaged you, right?  

It had been three weeks since the date, and you hadn’t heard a word from Jason. You’d been trying to ignore the aching in your chest at being pseudo-rejected, but something close to embarrassment kept sticking.   

You shake your head, trying to ward off the negative thoughts. It wasn’t your fault—he hadn’t even been active online—clearly it was something wrong with him and not you.   

God, this entire city was cursed.   

It almost made you want to move back home. Almost.  

From the bed, your phone chimed and—despite the fact you were upset with Jason—you jumped at it immediately. Much to your dismay, it wasn’t him—it was your mother.   

The message was a crime report for Gotham. As if that was supposed to change your mind about living here. You sigh, not bothering to deign her with a response. What were you supposed to say? No, sorry, I’m happy here? She would implode, then send you ten more reasons why it was a bad idea. Crime was up 4%, kidnappings were on the rise, there was an increase in petty theft vs. major crimes, and so on. For every point you made she made three more.  

When your phone dings again, you throw it on the bed with annoyance. You had things to do and no time for her antics. The things to do in question...mostly ignore your mom—but you did also need to do grocery shopping too.   

 It had taken some time, but you could finally walk outside without immediately panicking…mostly. There were always the lingering thoughts that plagued your mind. The endless what-ifs. The kind that made you want to become a shut-in. But you’d learned to push them away and take that first step outside.  

You bite back the anxiety rising up your diaphragm as you step into the busy street. You were fine. No one was here to hurt you. The bustle of the street helped quiet some of the louder thoughts, a complaint here, a phone call there. It was easier to lose yourself in the loudness of the city.  

Despite that fact, eyes felt as if they were following you. Your own darting up to confirm that no one was looking. It had been a while since you’d felt like that. After the date with Jason, the feeling had faded for a while—and now it was back. 

No. 

You wouldn’t fall back down that hole. There was nothing but darkness down that path of thinking. Regardless of your assurances, you still glance up at the rooftops, confirming no one was there.  

The air was still cool despite it almost being summer, the endless cloud cover being the one saving grace in Gotham. It would probably rain later. 

As soon as you reach the grocery store, you sigh in relief. You’d made it. That wasn’t hard. Your hands still have a noticeable tremble to them as you grab a cart, your grip almost too tight on the handle. You pull out your phone to check your list only to freeze immediately. 

Message from Jason Todd. An hour ago. 

What? 

You open it, anger that you had dismissed a week ago rising back up.  

‘Hey had an emergency come up sorry for ghosting’ - Sent 10:07 

A three-week emergency? He really expected you to believe that? What kind of prick was this guy? Messaging now. The audacity.  

Another message follows.  

‘If I still have a chance to make it up to you I’d like to take you out again’ - Send 10:08 

You shouldn’t even give him a response. He deserved to be blocked—frankly, you didn’t know why you hadn’t yet.  

‘What was the emergency’ - Sent 10:10 

The typing bubbles appear and disappear a few times. Then there’s a long pause.  

He’s lying.  

Something about the lack of an immediate response set all your alarm bells off. No, you were just being paranoid. You leave your phone propped in the kids’ seat, trying to focus on what type of pasta you wanted. Despite your best efforts, your eyes still dart back to the little three dots wiggling in the corner.  

‘I got in a car accident’ - Sent 10:20 

Well, that was disappointing. A picture follows, causing you to gasp.  

The wreck was brutal, a blue bike was in pieces across the road and ditch. Fenders completed shattered. Wheel bent in half. One of the handle bars missing. What looked to be maybe a Toyota in the background with an obvious flat tire. Damage to the roof of the vehicle and the back window shattered. Red and blue lights reflecting off the crinkled plastic. 

‘Holy shit u ok?’ - Sent 10:22 

Another delayed response.  

‘yea was out of service for a few weeks though’ - Sent 10:30 

He was clearly avoiding saying something, but what actually happened—you couldn’t even begin to guess. He did always avoid details about everything though. Your fingers hover over the keyboard hesitating, before you shove the doubt to the back of your mind.  

‘I’m free tomorrow’ - Sent 10:35 

You shut your eyes for a moment, nearly regretting the message. When you finally look back up, you settle on some rigatoni and throw it in the cart.  

‘Great! I’ll pick you up at 6' - Sent 10:35 

With a soft sigh, you flip your phone over, trying to ignore the text. That was tomorrow’s problem. Today you just needed to feed yourself.  

How did you get into these situations? 

Another hour in the grocery store and the tension had bled from your shoulders by a marginal amount. Even managing a smile to the cashier as she checked you out. The sun starts to peek through the clouds as you trek back to your apartment, giving a semblance of warmth in the chilly air. Maybe things were looking up.  

You let out an embarrassing noise as your good day is rapidly ruined. The culprit? A man who was absorbed in his phone as he turned the street corner.  

“Shit! I’m sorry!” the man straightens, stabilizing you by your elbows. “You alright, miss?” 

You go to glare at the man and immediately tense under his grip. You knew this man. His face had been hanging on your wall last month.  

Richard Grayson.  

He was pretty in a symmetrical kind of way. Bright sapphire eyes stared down at you, brows pressed together with concern. Dark hair styled in that effortlessly messy look. He definitely looked the part of “Heir of Wayne Enterprises”. He wore a fitted t-shirt and jeans, opting for a more casual style. He was leaner than Jason but no lack of— 

NO. 

You shake your head, you could not be comparing him to Jason, this man is revered as the Prince of Gotham. That’s like apples to oranges. 

“You’re not okay?” he hums, a charming smile on his lips.  

“Oh-! no, I’m okay sorry about that,” You wave a hand dismissively, heat rising in your cheeks. Now you get why he’s on the cover of every Gotham magazine ever.  

“You sure I didn’t hurt that pretty face at all?”  

“Yea- Yea I’m- wait, pretty?” Your fingers tighten around the bag.  

“For sure! I see what my brother is fussing about.” He stares down at you with those soft eyes, as if finally understanding something.  

Questions spiral in your head, “I’m sorry, your brother?” 

“Jason? He showed us pictures of you,” There’s a casual bounce of his shoulders, like he didn’t just drop a bombshell. Your eyes trail over his face, trying to see the resemblance. Jason did mention that his brothers were adopted. You must’ve had enough confusion on your face for him to realize he misspoke, “You…didn’t know…did you?” 

You give a barely perceptible shake of your head. He presses his hand over his mouth, cheeks a cherry red. When he finally speaks, his tone is apologetic: “Do me a favor and forget that, please.” 

Forget it? How? This raised so many more questions and connected a lot of evidence.  

“Would you like to grab a coffee?” Your head tips slightly, silently praying he says yes. 

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It’s adorable when people respect my chosen name.

Like wdym your not gonna legal name me just because I’m at work

That probably says a lot about me tbh

[roguedeer]

Being asexual and racist is embarassing as fuck. Being racist at all is obviously embarassing as fuck but the amount of racism and especially antiblackness i have been seeing from asexuals recently is obscene.

One of the only asexual activists is Yasmin Benoit, a Black woman. She has raised so much awareness for the community. She was the first asexual person to lead Pride in London, she started the #thisiswhatasexuallookslike movement and is THE leading voice for the community.

And you all will celebrate international asexuality day on April 6th but we wouldn't even have that if she hadn't cofounded it.

Edit: why are you all too scared to repost this. Cmon. Be vocal about being against racism

Edit 2: if you feel the need to announce in the comments that you're not reblogging for whatever reason just know that I genuinely do not care.

But also know that I will look through your account and if I notice that youre actively a racist or you just dont reblog stuff about that I will ridicule you in a reblog. Idc idc. Not reblogging is fine but if you feel the need ti announce it youre annoying asf.

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lol maybe I should start listening to the voice in my head

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I love being asexual and finding a meaningful connection with someone just for it to be lost due to the fact I don’t want sex

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If I delete my ao3 account will the curse fuck off?

My bike got stolen this morning

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Bout to make a rated list of foods I’ve thrown up in the last week and a half (I’m sick/on meds that make me nauseous)

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Does Reader have a job????

Cause like...

Do I give reader job?????

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Jason Todd x Reader Chapter 7

Chapter List

You sit up, a low groan pulling from your chest involuntarily, joints aching with sleep. After a few minutes—which still didn’t feel like enough—you push to your feet, the cold of the floor helping to drag the last dredges of sleep from your bones. 

You grab your phone and head to the bathroom, turning on the shower playlist without needing to look down.  

Once you were clean and feeling better than you had in days, you stand in front of the mirror. The small tremors in your hands rattle up to your ribs. 

“Okay. I can do this,” you breathe, followed by a heavy sigh, “Red Hood isn’t important.”  

One more deep breath later, you clean up the mess from last night in the living room, throwing everything in the trash. All of this was behind you.  

Not. 

‘I’m grabbing some food. Wanna join?’ Sent 13 hours ago 

Your stomach growls in response; you were hungry. Your chest tightens at the thought of going out again. The phone wavers in your hand, and it takes a second to realize you're shaking.  

No. 

The best way to combat anxiety is to do the thing making you anxious. You could do this—maybe he wasn’t even hungry anymore. 

‘Offer still standing?’ you send. Then immediately set the phone down on the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut. 

A ding echoes through the air, but you don’t move to look at it immediately. Taking a deep breath to try and settle the nerves rinsing up to your throat.  

Disappointment fills you when you finally look back down.  

‘How are you doing, Sweetie? I heard what happened. I told you, Gotham isn’t a good place for someone like you.’  From your mom. You sigh softly; there was no good response to that.  

As you try to formulate an acceptable answer that won’t get you disowned, another notification chimes. This time from Jason.  

‘sure. I’ll pick you up’ 

You stare at the message, unease climbing up your spine. Before you can fully spiral, a second message comes through. 

‘You going to tell me your address or what?’  

The panic eases a fraction—he doesn’t know where you live. He’s not malicious. Just a guy taking you out to lunch. You send him the address, saying you’ll meet him outside. Probably smarter to not give a random guy your apartment number.  

Twenty minutes later a red and black sports bike pulls up. The dark visor reflects your surprised features. He flicks the visor up and those forest green eyes stare back at you. 

“Hey,” You can’t see his mouth, but you hear the smile.  

He holds out a helmet, similar in style to his with a metallic visor instead of a solid black one. Stupidly, you stare at him. 

“I’m not getting on that thing. I don’t know you,” your voice is sharp as you step back, grip tight on your bag.  

“Relax Princess,” He tips his head. A spark of recognition flicks through your subconscious. Your eyes narrow slightly at him, and he steps forward. “Close your eyes.” 

He holds the helmet over your head like he’s going to help you. Apprehension feeds the doubt in your mind. If he was who you thought he was...then he wouldn’t hurt you—right? 

You give a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut, letting him pull the helmet on. He removes his gloves, rough hands tightening the strap through the D-ring under your chin. Once he’s satisfied with the tightness, his hand hits the visor with a small thwack, causing you to jolt slightly. 

He laughs quietly at your reaction, holding out a hand for you to take. “Foot here, then sit on the back.”—he points to the foot peg near the rear wheel. 

You stare at the bike concerned; there was no way that seat was going to fit you; it was smaller than a dinner plate.  

“It’s safer than it looks, you’ll be holding on to me, okay?” He says, sensing your discomfort. You shook him a quick skeptical look, then hook your leg over the back of the bike.  

Once your situated he slides in front of you with a smoothness you didn’t know a man of his size could have.  His visor tips back, “I’m going to touch you, ‘kay?” 

Before you can respond, he hooks his hands behind your knees, pulling you tight to his back. An embarrassing noise falls from your lips. Shaky hands press to his shoulders, stabilizing yourself.  

“Arms around my waist,” he commands softly. You hesitate for a second before wrapping your arms around his ribs, hard muscles under your fingers. 

Don't feel him up. Don’t feel him up. Don’t feel him up. You repeat to yourself mentally.  

The low grumble of the bike hums beneath you, and you unconsciously squeeze tighter. That familiar coil of anxiety worming its way up your throat again.  

His gloved hand rolls the throttle, releasing the clutch as he takes off. Your helmeted face presses to his shoulder as he shifts gears; eyes squeezed shut. 

You can’t tell how long he’s driving for before he stops. He presses a warm palm to your thigh, and you slowly look up, seeing you’ve stopped in front of a restaurant.  

“You okay?” He hums flicking his visor up, eyes dancing with amusement. 

“That was-” you pause realizing your visor is still down. You push it up, sweaty fingers leaving a foggy mark on the plastic. “That was terrible. Never again.” 

He smiles climbing off, offering a hand, “I still have to take you home baby girl.” 

You let out an exasperated noise, and he tips your head back to undo the chin strap. Allowing you to take the helmet off.  

He mirrors your movement, running a hand through his hair. “Shall we?” 

Jason took you to a local restaurant, nothing painfully fancy, but not the slums either. You’d heard this place was good by some friends and had been meaning to try it. They were a 1950’s diner style restaurant, their big seller was burgers and milkshakes. 

It was a homey feeling inside, a few people in further booths and one at the counter. Enough to make you feel safe but not enough to be overwhelming. Frankly, you weren’t sure he did it on purpose; he didn’t seem like a huge people person either.  

You slide in the booth across from him unsure what to say. “So...” 

He smirks in that careless way of his, “So... you're not a Gotham native?” 

“No, moved a few months back, wanted a change of pace. Overbearing parents.” 

His head bobs understandingly, “Ya, I get that, I spent some time out of country, though I don’t think my dad knew.” 

“Oh? Where at?” you say, interested in his backstory that was clearly not online. 

“Tibet, it’s okay, lots of mountains,” Jason doesn’t elaborate more, though you want to push.  

Despite your initial reservations, the conversation flows easily. The way he talked to you like he knew you for years, eased some of the panic in the back of your brain.  

But for some reason you couldn’t shake the way he had said, ‘relax princess’. It was too reminiscent of Red Hood that night in your apartment. But you’d seen him and Red Hood separately. There’s no way he logically predicted being a suspect and planned around it.  

“And for you?” The waitress drones, eyes blank in that too-long shift kind of way. You pause for a long moment, completely forgetting you were supposed to be ordering. 

“Cheeseburger, no pickles, and a vanilla milkshake, please,” You could feel your cheeks heat in that familiar embarrassment. Then add in a quick, “Thank you.” 

If Jason noticed your space-y-ness, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he turns the focus back on you, asking about your history, gently probing that made you feel seen in a way you didn’t know possible.  

God—no. You couldn’t be liking a possible vigilante. 

“Do you have family-?” You blurt out, almost too quickly you realize you interrupted him. His fidgeting stops, and his lips quirk up a tiny bit.  

“Yea, a dad and a few siblings.” 

You shift back and forth a moment trying to decide if you want to push his non-answer. “You don’t provide a lot of information, do you?” 

He full blown smiles at that,  “Guess not, nature of the gig I suppose.” 

“The gig?” You tip your head. 

He freezes, then leans back in the booth slowly, cheeks flushing, “Y-yea, I do some investigating work sometimes...” 

Your eyes narrow, what kind of response is that? Jason’s leg starts bouncing again, vibrating the table.   

“Riiight...” You say slowly, eyeing him as the waitress sets the food in front of you. He was gradually rising on the suspect list. Even as you tried to push away the thoughts of Red Hood, it nagged at the back of your mind. This was a cute guy out to lunch with you, focus on that first.  

“That’s not what I meant- I mean I do investigative work, but I more run a business of sorts,” he combs a hand through his hair, the locks flopping back in place almost immediately.  

“You’re backtracking now,” you hum, almost amused by his panicked words.  

“Sorry...” He looks down, then lower,” ...I don’t do this much.” 

“Talk to women or go out,” You smile slightly, taking a bit of pity on him. Maybe he was just socially awkward.  

He sighs, “Both. I’m not very social. Bit of a night owl, I guess.” 

An hour later, you feel like you hadn’t learned much about him; he did business, some investigating, lives alone, has a decent size family, but wouldn’t specify more than that all his siblings were adopted, not on the best terms with them though.  

You couldn’t figure out if he was hiding things or just weird.  

The Red Hood investigation was behind you—you try to remind yourself—you were moving on. 

Jason Todd was a nice, attractive man. You would pursue this...cautiously. 

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Can I have intimacy without sex?

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In case you’re thinking about getting on anti-depressants because mental health is important

Dont

I’ve been throwing up for the last 2 weeks

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Fucking ADHD paralysis bro.

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Yall… I hate the medical field.

Strep AND Covid at the same fucking time

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Apparently my incessant need to be better than everyone does include my own father

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God, I want a man with big meaty hands to hold me face down ass up.