Hi, I’m Missy!! I'm not new to Tumblr (I think I've finally wracked up about seven years here), but I am trying to get back into writing fics! It's been a long while, and I've already started back on ao3, but I thought about spreading out onto here, too.
My Ao3
My Masterlist
Since I'm starting out again, I wanted to get into doing some one shot x readers, (mostly Jason Todd, because I'm so in love with him). So feel free to send requests, if you feel like it!
Just remember: I have a right to not write any request I do not want to write.
Requests
See latest post in #ismissyrequesting? on my blog to see if requests are open or not!
ANY REQUESTS SENT WHILE REQUESTS ARE CLOSED WILL BE DELETED.
Any requests that I do not feel comfortable writing, do not feel like writing, or are too specific/have lots of details included, will also be deleted more often than not without explanation (I don’t owe you one).
Rules For Requests:
I WILL NOT write:
smut
incest (yes, to me they are siblings even if they are adopted siblings)
male!reader (I just personally don't think I would do you guys justice, since I'm a woman.)
yandere/whump stuff
underage or sibling!reader
this list will grow, I just can't think of anything else in the moment
Series Masterlist | Lovers to Exes to Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Jason Todd x fem!Reader | Chapter 3
Word Count: 2,848
Prologue |...| Chapter 2 || Next Chapter (TBA)
Chapter Warnings: reader gets mugged "off camera", references to Jason killing that man in the alley in the first chapter.
Missy has an exam in two weeks that's worth 40% of her grade so she wrote this instead.
Deep down in his heart, somewhere he kept all the things he never admitted, Jason truly believed that he had been cursed.
First, of course, you and him had broken up close to five months ago now. Maybe that was what had cursed him, his lack of ability to treat you how you had deserved to be treated.
He remembered that night very clearly. Thought about it almost every day. He knew he should have come clean sooner; at least, more clean than he had been. Shouldn’t have lied so much. He had kept you at arm’s length all that time, despite how a lot of nights, you slept right in his arms.
Are you embarrassed of me?
He cringed at himself every single time he remembered how you had sounded during your final argument. He had wanted to show you off. He did. All the time. The best thing he had ever had in this second life, and probably even the first. Then he had gone and screwed it all up.
He just wanted you safe.
Jason had already gone his whole life without you, he just didn’t realize how hard it would be to return back to that kind of life. Wasn’t prepared to crash back into that wall of loneliness.
Jason kept telling himself it was better this way.
You could focus on your studies now. You could find a good man, maybe. Not be so at risk just by being associated with him. Jason could deal with it. He knew pain. Maybe not like this, but he could learn to live with it just as he had done with the rest of his sorrows. Sure, he’d been crying himself to sleep slightly more often now.
After Red Hood had dropped you off at your apartment that night, he had wanted to go back. Had wanted to scream at you for being so stupid. He knew you were smarter than that, walking up to The Red Hood while he was in an alley about to kill that man.
But Jason told himself that he needed to stay away from you. You would figure it out. He had already slipped and called you sweetheart multiple times that night, something he no longer had a right to do anyways. In or out of the mask. He nearly hadn’t asked you for your address. Then you had even said that he sounded “...like [your] ex…”.
He hated that title. Hated the disdain in your voice after the brief expression that looked like you had just tasted something sour.
He needed to stay away from you. But he wanted to keep you safe. So, despite himself, he’d given you the calling card.
But of course, he was cursed. So, a few weeks later, the cellphone linked to that number rang, displaying your own.
Red Hood had been in the middle of a meeting. Yet once he saw that number of yours calling, Jason no longer cared for the current charade he was witnessing. The annoying shortstack that looked over part of Chinatown was yelling about how he didn’t get enough of the share, but Jason simply stood, held up a hand, and turned and stepped away to take the call.
Jason felt his voice crack, ever grateful for how the modulator covered it, “Hello?”
He heard you sniffle on the other end, even as Shortstack was losing his shit in the background, fading as Red Hood moved to a different room.
“Um, hi…” Your voice was weak, strained. “I’m sorry… are you busy?”
“No.” Never for you, is what he used to always add on. “What happened?”
You sniffled again, then said who you are. “The- the girl you drove home a couple–”
Jason interrupted, “I know. What happened?” He didn’t mean to be stern, but he really hadn’t expected you to call so soon after giving you this number.
“I’m on Fifth Avenue and– hic – some guy just took my backpack– cut it off of me—”
Jason was on his bike in record time, “Can you send me your exact location?”
“Um, maybe?” Faint rustling. “I can share it through text, I think.”
“Do that.” He waved a dismissing hand to Shortstack, who had followed him out, still yelling. “Don’t hang up.”
By the time Jason found you, knelt between a dumpster and a couple crates which reeked of fish, you were less of a crying mess than you had been on the phone. Even after putting out the kickstand of his bike, he nearly dropped it with how quickly he stood to get to you.
You had explained everything while he drove. After a nice café trip with your friends to the West end, you had separated from them to head home after a few hours of studying together. Then, after getting off of the street car to get to the subway, you had gotten mugged.
Helping you to your feet, Jason tried not to make his worry and care completely evident. It was hard, but he was at least attempting to dial it down.
His eyes scanned you for injuries even after you had insisted you were okay each of the four times he had asked. He wanted to ask again, but like he had said, he was dialling it down.
You brushed the snowflakes and dusted off of yourself. “Thank you,” You suddenly sobbed, fumbling to even properly enunciate the words, swiping the cold tears off of your cheeks. You looked cold.
Jason lifted his hands to touch you, then hesitated.
Don’t hug her you idiot. He thought to himself. You’re a stranger to her now.
They twitched once. Twice. He moved them to rest on your shoulders, steadying you.
“You sure you’re not hurt?” He asked. You nodded.
Jason looked you over again. He smoothed his hands down your upper arms, his thumb running over the rip in the fabric of your coat near your collarbone. Evidence of you getting the straps of your backpack cut off of you. He pulled the collar of your coat aside to check for any cuts underneath. You seem to not mind that he was very much stepping over the comfortable-stranger-closeness line. He stepped back quickly once he confirmed you weren’t cut on either side.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and sniffled. Jason nearly melted at the sight of you. All he had ever wanted was for you to be safe.
“You were headed home?” He asked gently.
You nodded, rubbing at your nose briefly.
Jason gave a nod in return, “Let me drive you.”
~~~
Your hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the encounter.
Once Red Hood arrived at your apartment and helped you pull the spare helmet off of your head, you were insistent that you could walk up yourself. Then you remembered that you no longer hand your keys.
When you had nearly burst into tears again at that realization, he kindly offered to walk you up and help you sort it out.
Watching Red Hood kneel in front of your apartment door to pick your lock was quite surreal. It made something register in the back of your mind that this was not safe. To let a vigilante, one with a long list of crimes, know your exact address and to even allow him practice on breaking in.
Red Hood glanced back at you once while he worked. “You’re still shaking,” he commented.
You didn’t know what to say to that. Couldn’t even find it in your to be snarky with a ‘Thanks Captain Obvious.’
All in all, you couldn’t bring yourself to be scared by the fact that Red Hood knew where you lived and how to get in. There was something about him that was so familiarly safe.
Your mind trickled back to that conversation with Jason from so long ago, about Red Hood being a good Gotham vigilante to trust. You physically shook the thought away.
The first thing you had thought after you had been mugged was that you needed to call Jason. Like instinct. You hated it. It was the same as the night you missed the last bus. Having to fallback on a man – on your ex – was so not what Gender Studies 106: The Basis of Feminism had taught you. You still considered calling him afterwards, but it would be healthier to call one of your friends to talk through what happened.
Your front door swung open. Red Hood stood and held out a guiding hand, the other holding the door open. “C’mon,” He said gently. “How about some tea?”
Now, there you were. Sitting on a stool at your small breakfast bar, Red Hood standing on the other side in your kitchen, moving around to make you a cup of tea. He grabbed the kettle and filled it at the sink.
You spoke up, voice raspy from crying, “You don’t have to.”
Red Hood plugged in the electric kettle, ignoring you.
“I’m sure you’ve got a hundred other people to go help,” You continued.
Red Hood gave a small shake of his head, “I’m not done helping you, first.”
The current sight was… somehow worse than watching him pick your lock. Red Hood. In your kitchen. Not even looking out of place. Which he should have, being huge and a vigilante and a man wearing military-grade gear and a shiny red helmet.
It had to be because of the way he moved around as if he was so sure of each step.
He opened the cabinet full of mugs above him and took one out at random. Then turned and walked to the other side to open another to take a teabag. Not one movement was done with any hesitation.
“Do you have x-ray vision?
Your sudden question pulled a small chuckle from him. Opening the correct drawer on the first try, Red Hood pulled out a spoon, “X-ray vision? What?”
You slumped a bit more, feeling stupid, “In your helmet.” All of your cabinet doors were solid wood, and nothing was labelled.
Red Hood leaned against the counter as the water began to boil, “Now why would you think that?” He crossed his arm, “I’m no Superman. I’m human just like you.”
Shrugging, you gestured weakly to the things he had gathered in front of him, “You just.. I dunno. You knew where everything was without me saying.”
Red Hood just stared back at you for a moment, you and your living room behind you reflected in that shiny chrome. He does this, you came to realize. You would have liked to think he’s not actually staring, rather just giving you an expression under the helmet that he forgets you can’t see.
His shoulders gave a small shrug, “You’ve got a well organized kitchen.”
You looked at him like he was crazy. You knew what your cabinets looked like. He now also knew what your cabinets looked like.
He gave the same shrug again, “So you keep things where everybody else does? Sue me.”
Once the kettle whistled, Red Hood poured the water into the mug. He grabbed the jar of sugar you keep on your counter nearby. He opened it, grabbed the spoon, then stopped himself. Instead, he placed everything in front of you, almost like he was annoyed with himself for nearly doing it himself.
At least he’s nice enough to let me put my own sugar in, You thought to yourself.
You stirred slowly, noticing how Red Hood was just standing on the other side of the breakfast bar, watching.
“You’re, uh, not gonna have a cup too?” You asked. “You can, if you’d like.”
Red Hood lifted a hand to his helmet. Using his gloved pointer finger, he tapped the smooth red metal where his mouth would be.
“Right.” You looked back down at your mug.
Silence followed for another moment. Red Hood decided to break it.
“Wasn’t your fault,” He offered.
You shrugged.
“It wasn’t.” He insisted. “You did the right thing, letting him go and calling me. A bag’s not worth your life–”
Burying your face in your hands, Red Hood fell quiet again.
“My laptop was in there,” You were trying not to break down crying again. “All of my coursework for every class. My textbooks, too, because they were e-books and I only kept the copies downloaded there.” You shoved the heels of your palms into your eyes, “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I don’t have the money to replace it, let alone my textbooks. I don’t have anything else. I’ll have to rely on the computers on campus… Oh, but my student card is gone now, too. I don’t even have the money to replace that, let alone my laptop–”
As you rambled, you could hear the slight shuffle of Red Hood moving. Glancing up, you saw him shifting from foot to foot. Even with the helmet, you could tell he was deep in thought.
Suddenly, he stopped. “I’ll be back,” he said.
You sit up straight, “What?”
Red Hood is bizarre. You had also come to realize that.
He turned on his heel to face your sink. Pulling open the window behind it, you watched as this large man easily manoeuvred through. You were shocked he fit and that he didn’t struggle.
“I’ll be back.” He pulled out a grappling gun that you did not notice on him before. “It was on Fifth Avenue and Jacobsen, yeah?”
You stared at him. You had no idea if he had been talking to you or had gotten a sudden phone call. You had been walking towards the subway entrance on Fifth Avenue when you had been mugged, but Fifth Avenue was a long street, and you didn’t know which intersection it had been near.
Red Hood nodded amidst your silence, muttering to himself, “Close to there, anyways.” Then, with no farewell, he shut the window and disappeared.
You almost wished he hadn’t. You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t realize that until he disappeared.
You drank your tea and cried quietly to yourself. You called your friend and gave your rendition of the story that subtracted Red Hood’s involvement. You figured they wouldn’t like the knowledge that you had a vigilante on speed dial.
Eventually, you fell asleep atop your bed covers. You were exhausted from the whole day.
Gentle shaking of your shoulder woke you slowly. With a grumble, you slowly blinked your eyes open.
Seeing your own face reflected back in a red filter made you jump back with a gasp.
Red Hood, crouched on the ground next to your bed, held up an apologetic gloved hand, “Sorry, sorry.”
You looked him over. Before you had any chance to ask a question, he held up a backpack. Your backpack. He then pulled your laptop from it for further proof.
You gasped and sat up, “Oh my god.” You took your bag from him, rummaging through it. Your laptop. Your keys. Everything was there.
“Oh my god!” You couldn’t help yourself. You lunged forward and threw your arms around Red Hood’s shoulders. “Thank you! Thank you thankyouthankyou–”
You felt him stiffen. One hand of his landed on your waist only to keep you from falling off of the bed. You could feel the other hovering awkwardly above your back.
You squeezed him tighter despite it, too grateful to care, “I owe you my life.”
“No you do not,” Red Hood said quickly and firmly.
You pulled back to look at those white lenses, “I owe you something! Anything!”
Red Hood shook his head, his hands resting on your forearms, “I don’t need anything, princess. Promise.”
“I’ll bake you something.” You insisted, “Cook you meals for life. I swear! At least let me give you gas money–”
He stood, guiding your arms back to your lap, “You don’t have to do that.”
“But you just saved me so much! How did you even find it all? I thought I’d never get any of it back.”
But Red Hood just continued to shake his head, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “How about you get some sleep? I’ll leave you be.” He offered instead.
You deflated slightly. You wished you could show him your gratitude better, but you only nodded. You were exhausted and Red Hood was convincing when he wanted to be.
“How did you find it?” You asked again.
Red Hood paused as he turned away, “I… don’t think you wanna know, sweetheart.”
*Understandable*. You were so happy you had everything back, you didn’t even have it in your heart to glare at him when that nickname fell from his modulator, “I told you not to call me that.”
He looked away quickly, “...sorry.”
A moment’s pause filled with silence made you feel bad for even bringing it up. Red Hood moved to finally walk away when nothing else was said.
You spoke up one last time, “Thank you. Seriously.”
Red Hood paused in your bedroom doorway to glance back over his shoulder, “Don’t mention it.”
Yes that scene is inspired from Mrs. Doubtfire. This whole series is actually inspired from Mrs. Doubtfire I just don't think I ever mentioned that.
Taglist below:
Want to be added to this series' taglist? Check out this post to see how!
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"
“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.
“Jason, you’re joking.”
“I never joke about closing hours.” He muses.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
“Hey—”
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”
“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”
“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
“There a problem?”
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”
“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”
"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”
“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”
His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
“Jason.”
“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”
You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
⟡ biker!jason todd who watches before he approaches. he notices everything. the way you shift your weight, the way you glance at your phone, the way you look a little annoyed at the world. when he finally speaks, it’s direct. “you waiting on someone?”
⟡ biker!jason todd who doesn’t flirt the way you expect. he’s dry, a little blunt. but he's protective, even when he barely knows you. when he offers you a ride, it’s casual. like it’s nothing. like it wouldn’t change your entire night.
⟡ biker!jason todd who hands you his spare helmet without a word. already adjusted. like he planned for this. his fingers brush under your chin when he tightens the strap, and for a second, he lingers, checking, making sure it’s secure. making sure you’re good.
⟡ biker!jason todd who rides fast, but different when you’re on the back. powerful, but controlled. one hand comes off the handle just long enough to tap your thigh if you shift too much, grounding you. he’s always aware of you.
⟡ biker!jason todd who doesn’t say “hold on,” but expects you to. and when you do, when your arms wrap around him tighter, when your cheek presses against his back. you swear you feel him exhale. just slightly. like he didn’t know he needed that.
⟡ biker!jason todd who becomes quieter around you, not louder. he doesn’t perform. doesn’t try to impress you with stories or bravado. instead, it’s small things, walking on the side closest to the street, keeping a hand at your back, checking your reactions more than he lets on.
⟡ biker!jason todd who lets you wear his jacket. it’s heavy, smells like leather and something distinctly him. when you try to give it back, he just shrugs. “keep it.” like it doesn’t matter. like he didn’t just give you something he never lets anyone touch.
⟡ biker!jason todd who doesn’t say he cares, but shows it constantly. your helmet always fits perfectly. he slows down just enough on turns. he remembers what scares you and avoids it without making it obvious.
---
you had just got off work. the night air is colder than you expected, and you’re standing there rubbing your arms when you hear that engine.
you don’t even have to look.
you already know it’s him.
he pulls up slow, less dramatic. like he’s not trying to startle you. the bike idles for a second before he cuts the engine, the silence settling between you.
“get on,” jason says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
you blink. “no hello?”
a small pause. then, quieter he says, “hey.”
it’s enough to make you smile.
you step closer, and he’s already reaching for the spare helmet, adjusting the strap under your chin. his fingers are careful, precise. when he’s done, he taps it lightly. “good?”
“yeah.”
he nods once and swings back onto the bike.
you climb on behind him. your arms slide around his waist, holding on as you press your chest to his back.
jason stills. just for a second.
then the engine roars back to life.
the ride is fast, but smooth too. you feel every shift of his body, every lean into a turn, every subtle adjustment meant for you.
at one stop, his hand briefly leaves the handlebar, reaching back to press against your wrist where you’re holding him, just a quick squeeze.
Jason was so fun to draw I definitely want to do more dc art! maybe absolute superman or Wally west..never doing bedsheets again though that was so hard it felt malicious
Just some of my favorite DC fics. it's mostly BatFam cause that's my current hyper fixation. I may have a slight thing for Jason Todd 😅. Reader is gender neutral unless noted otherwise.
Other Fic Recs
Key:
Fluff ☁️
Angst ⛈️
Mature 🌹
Smut 🔥
Comfort 💞
Reverse Comfort 🔁💞
Yandere 🩸
Series 🔗
Dynamics:
Strangers 💛
Best Friends 💙
Strangers to Lovers 🧡
Friends to Lovers 💜
Exs to Lovers 💝
Established Relationship ❤️
Lovers to Exs 💔
Enemies/Rivals to Lovers 💘
Platonic
Bruce Wayne/Batman
☁️ Slipping Through My Fingers (Daughter!Reader) by @peachessprincess ♀️
Dick Grayson/Nightwing
☁️ Shared Custody (Child!Dick || referenced romance with Bruce) by @ghxstrobins ♀️
Damien Wayne-Al'Ghul/Robin
☁️💞 Dad's GF (BatMom!Reader) by @torasplanet ♀️
☁️💞 Hot Chocolate and Cats (BatMom!Reader) by @cryptpages ♀️
Multi
☁️ Being Bruce Wayne's Twin (Batfam) by @nosyrobin ♂️
⛈️💞🔗 Punchline AU (Joker's Daughter and the Batfam) by @witherby ♀️
☁️🔗 Littlest Wayne AU (Adopted by the Batfam) by @witherby
☁️💞🩸 Family Knows Best (Batfam) by @one-green-frog ♂️
⛈️🩸 Neglected Reader Turned Mafia Boss (Batfam) by @ladyrosemone
☁️💞 Found Family (Batfam & Kents) by @lunasfics ♀️
🩸🔗 Little Thief (Batfam) by @green-butterfly-writes
⛈️💞 Drug Addicted Sibling (Jason and Dick) by @njghtiee
Romantic
Bruce Wayne/Batman
🌹 Count on Mom by @alisonwritesimagines ❤️♀️
☁️ Meeting the CEO by @yourgirlkitty 🧡♀️
Dick Grayson/Nightwing
🔥 "Will You Mind It?" by @hhoneylemon ❤️♂️
🔥 Dick Can Be Mean by @marshallpen ❤️♂️
Jason Todd/Red Hood
☁️ Bluetooth by @cipheress-to-k-pop 🧡♀️
☁️ Meet the Family by @mostly-imagines ❤️♀️
☁️ Meeting His Siblings by @gilverrwrites ❤️
☁️ The Gift of Truth by @saltyjoy ❤️♀️
☁️ M.I.A. by @indulgentdaydream ❤️
☁️ Pastel Goth!Reader by @fallen-angel2470 ❤️♀️
☁️ Lipstick Confessions by @luvlypresley ❤️♀️
⛈️💞 To Love and to Lose by @itsameaera ❤️
☁️ (Not So) Private Nicknames by @kandyscorner ❤️♀️
Tim Drake/Red Robin
☁️ Against All Odds by @saltyjoy 💙♀️
Damien Wayne-Al'Ghul/Robin (Aged Up)
⛈️💞 The Heart Remembers by @fawnindawn 💝♀️
☁️ Runnin' Back to You by @fawnindawn 💘♀️
☁️🌹 Lethal Devotion by @iydiamartinx ❤️♀️
☁️ Damian Has a *Bit* of Cuteness Aggression by @arachnidseyes ❤️
Wally West/Kid Flash
☁️🌹 First Few Kisses by @moviecritc ❤️♀️
Multi
🌹🩸🔗 A Day in Life (Poly!Justice League) by @couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🧡
☁️🌹💞 Fainting During Sex (Batboys) by @clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm ❤️
Series Masterlist | Lovers to Exes to Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Jason Todd x fem!Reader | Chapter 2
Word Count: 1,125
Prologue || Chapter 1 |...| Chapter 3
Chapter Warnings: mentions of injury, aggravated assault, gun wounds, blood (what Jason did to the man in the alleyway last chapter), drug dealing, weapons dealing, typical Red Hood violence.
More of a filler chapter. Short and just showing reader's thoughts on the situation before we get into the beginnings of the nitty gritty.
Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t get the Red Hood out of your mind. He seemed to be everywhere now.
Not physically. Yet after that night, you would hear more about him than you felt like you ever did before. More news coverage. More social media posts. More overheard conversations around campus and in public.
You sat on the bus (having gotten on at the right time today), scrolling through your phone. Everything you came across all talked about how much more violent he had been recently.
Wasn’t he always violent? You think to yourself. Everyone knew that. Red Hood. The only one of two vigilantes in Gotham who used guns.
You had seen him beating that guy up in that alleyway. Had heard him shoot the guy. Then watched and listened to him lie to your face. You hadn’t thought twice about his nature. That’s just who he was. Red Hood only focused his violent efforts on those who he deemed deserved it. A college girl trying to get home didn’t deserve it, and Red Hood had proved he agreed by taking you home safely.
You hadn’t dared tell your friends about the encounter. First off, they would chide you for staying late again. Then, they would probably hold another intervention about your unhealthy coping mechanisms with living post-Jason.
How were you even supposed to bring it up? Or, for the matter, change the story so that they didn’t know you willingly walked into an alley with an armed vigilante who had been, in the moment, taking out every ounce of anger he had ever felt on that man. Then proceeded to get on the back of the Red Hood’s motorcycle, give him your address, and drive you home.
You cringed to yourself at that thought. You really had thrown out all Surviving Gotham 101 (A real course at the university, mind you. Mandatory for all no matter your major.) knowledge out of the window just because you had seen the one vigilante you trusted the most in this city.
Watching the buildings go by outside the bus, your mind drifted back to a conversation you had once about this, albeit tinged a bit sour by the fact it had been with Jason.
The two of you had been watching the news. You were seated on your carpet with your back against the couch, between Jason’s calves and knees. The large man was sitting on the couch behind you. He had been taking chunks of your hair and braiding them at random. Something that helped his anxiety.
“Bullshit,” You had muttered.
You had felt Jason’s fingers pause in your hair, “Hm?”
Pointing at the TV, you exclaim, “What they’re saying about Red Hood! I don’t think he’s a danger to the public.”
Jason had been quiet for a moment, “No?”
“Not when he hasn’t done anything,” You crossed your arms. You could feel Jason start to say something. You raised a hand to object, “To the general public.”
Jason let out a soft chuckle.
You continued, crossing your arms again, “I mean, he’s for the people. If you lined up every vigilante in Gotham and said I had to go with one,” You point with your chin as a blurry photo of the Red Hood appeared on the screen again, “I’d go with him.”
Jason didn’t answer for a long time. Curious to his silence, you tilted your head back against his knee to look up at him.
He was staring down right at you. Your hair was unmoving between his fingers.
“I thought you didn’t like gun violence.” Is all he said.
“I don’t,” You shrugged. “But I’d still feel the safest with him.”
Jason still looked at you. Examining, almost. His eyes darted over your face for a moment before he leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“Can we change the channel, please?” He murmured quietly against your skin.
You nodded, grabbing the remote and opening up Netflix instead.
You looked back up at him, “Who would you feel safest with?”
He had been focused back on your hair, working on the fifth braid, “None of them.” He shrugged, “But... Red Hood’s a good choice for your safety.”
You cursed Jason Todd for being right.
You cursed him for still being on your mind so often.
Slumping back in the bus seat, you sigh and put your phone away. You feel the card that Red Hood had given you brush your fingers.
That was weeks ago now.
Fiddling with it, you think about your recent events. Maybe you were just thinking about it all too much. You were paying more attention now that you had met the Red Hood face to helmet. Of course you would start noticing more mentions of him.
Maybe I’m just thinking about it so much because it was such a weird interaction.
It had all started with how you approached him. Which, you cringed at again. You had watched him reach for his gun when he first spotted you. If he hadn't stopped once he looked over at you; if you had looked the least bit threatening at any point, you would have been dead.
You were still hung up on the fact that he hadn’t given a single care about whether or not you knew motorcycle safety. (Again, curse Jason Todd for entering your mind.) The way he had gotten to your apartment so efficiently. The fact you both had just ignored that beaten and shot man in the alleyway.
Mind you, you have just assumed he would go back after he dropped you off. Surely he wouldn’t just leave some drug dealer (or worse) laying in an alley somewhere.
You suddenly wondered if Red Hood had ever run into Jason on his patrols. After your few months apart from your ex and many conversations with your close friends, you were all convinced that he truly had been a drug dealer and had been hiding it all from you. Or weapons dealer, with how much he knew about guns.
The bus finally arrived at your stop. You shrugged off your thoughts, feeling neutral about the image of Red Hood beating up your ex like he had that man. You knew Jason had been hurt in the past. Badly.
You had seen the scars on his face, his arms, one nasty one on his calf once when you had convinced him to let you test a wax strip on him, and the one on his neck that he hated having touched or kissed. You knew there were more under his clothes, ones he never took off in front of you.
Sighing, you exit the bus.
Curse Jason Todd, for not letting you want him to be hurt.
Reader being in the bus the whole time is like an allegory for her thoughts moving and her making connections in her mind but she's still in the same place (the bus) because she hasn't figured out that Red Hood and Jason are the same person.
Taglist below:
Want to be added to this series' taglist? Check out this post to see how!
your boyfriend, jason todd, is the one who insists on movie night.
He’s already in full cozy mode: hoodie up, socks mismatched, dragging every blanket within reach to the couch like he’s fortifying a position. You spend a solid twenty minutes debating movies. Him vetoing anything “too artsy,” you vetoing his fifth consecutive suggestion of Die Hard, both of you pretending the real argument isn’t just an excuse to keep bumping shoulders and stealing popcorn kernels from each other’s fingers.
Eventually you compromise on something with explosions and questionable plot logic, his pick, naturally.
He hits play, hits the lights, then promptly hits you.
Full body drop. One hundred ninety pounds of ex-Robin muscle and residual Pit stubbornness lands square on top of you, pinning you cheerfully into the cushions. His arms snake around your ribs, legs tangle with yours, face immediately burrows into the soft space just below your collarbone. You feel the huff of his exhale against your chest, warm and already slowing.
Three minutes. Maybe four.
The opening credits are still rolling when his breathing evens out into the deep, unmistakable rhythm of sleep. He's already out cold, lips parted slightly against your shirt, one hand still loosely curled in your hoodie like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go.
And you?
You’re trapped.
Every time you so much as twitch, he instinctively tightens. Arms flex, thighs bracket yours more securely, a low sleepy grumble vibrating against your sternum.
So you give up.
You settle.
You card your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, feel the way he melts further into you even in sleep. The movie keeps playing while the real show is the slow rise and fall of his back under your palm, the faint scar on his cheek, the way he’s somehow managed to wrap all six-foot-something of himself around you like you’re the only anchor he trusts.
An hour and a half of this, at least.
a/n: wrote this in like 15 minutes and i just KNOW that bc it's jason it's gonna get at least 1k notes. and i love that
I don’t know if these are all too well known or if I’m just too obsessed with the Jason Todd x reader search and tag, but these are my personal favourites (I just wanted an excuse to compliment these amazing writers) :>
dividers by: @saradika-graphics
YOU DIE LAUGHING - @njghtiee = In general she is such a good writer but this fic in particular has THE MOST DELICIOUS ANGST it’s just so good (it also has a part 2 which is just as amazing)
JASON TODD BLURB - @cherryvvave = It’s only a blurb and more specific to a reader who crochets but he’s such a cutie in this :)
Up to no good (mostly.) - @raveninfog = Set when Jason and reader are teenagers and he’s so shy, this fic is just so fluffy. I love it >:)
Out of the Bag - @indulgentdaydream = This just itches my brain in such a nice way, it’s angsty but I am so in love with it (and with all her writing too)
will you hold me instead, and tell me that it's over now? - @julymusings = HE’S SUCH A LOVERBOY IN THIS i just melted when i first read it, it’s so cute
The Batboys When They Miss You - @lilmarshie = This is a personal favourite headcanon of mine but I could and would spend ages just scrolling through their whole blog
Jason Todd ramble :> - @sugugori = Does this even need an explanation? She writes Jason so soft and so well, I’M OBSESSEDDD
Jason is the type of boyfriend - @moviecritc = I’m kinda obsessed with her whole blog, but this is the first one of hers I saw and made me fall in love
La Vie en Rose - @mostly-imagines = Just look at her masterlist for other amazing works, but I love all of their writing and 4 in 1s and such, it’s so good
IN EVERY UNIVERSE - @pluvoia = LITERALLY THE INSPIRATION FOR MY FIRST BLURB, it’s just so adorable and you can feel the love in this one, I definitely recommend part 1.5 too
For You - @soulsforsales = I don’t know how many times I’m going to say fics are cute in this list, but this fic just melts my heart, I love it (also thank you to them for reblogging so many amazing fics, I swear I find so many through them lol)
Thinkin about you - @amnxp = More angst!! Another one I just ate up, IT’S SO GOOD and it really gets the emotions across
That’s All It Took? - @fluentmoviequoter = Most recent one on here so I can recall how my eyes were GLUED to my phone while I read this, it’s great
SHEEP - @moratorya = Does handle heavy themes and is genuinely gut-wrenching but it’s so gripping and just fantastically written
Mistletoe Memories - @froggibus = It was genuinely difficult to decide which of her fics to choose to put here, she is soso talented
in your hands - @sanguineterrain = I’ll admit that I found this from another recommendation but it’s so angsty but fluffy and I love it, I couldn’t not include it
Him taking care of you - @dhazefawn = They write so cute that I’m jealous of the kind of love he has with reader :>
The written word is not child porn, it is not abuse, no children were harmed in its creation.
It was written by a minor, not a predator.
A minor that may not want to create a new account or ever write again because their work was attacked and taken down.
You probably don’t want to hear this, but you have likely done more harm to that minor than their work ever did to any other minors.
It’s too late now, and as you say it’s not the end of the world, but please take a moment to consider if reporting and blasting that person really, truly did any good beyond making you feel good about yourself.
Hey so me reporting isn’t what took them down I hope y’all know that.
It was the fact the post was against Tumblr’s guidelines. I am, if anything, a middle man, and was probably NOT the only one who reported it.
Written word can porn, and therefore can be child porn. Especially when written with the intent to help others get off to the idea of it.
Helloooo❗️❗️ I just saw your recent post and I can't believe people are disagreeing with you?? I'm glad that shit was taken down so I wanted to so thanks for making the community a better place and not harboring an environment for preds to prosper
yes apparently I’m a conservative because I reported cp.
