just think about it— it was morning and you’re on the bed, sheets pulled to your chest as a way to cover your naked body after a night with him. and even though you didn’t wake up to his warmth and touch, the sight of it all made up for it
there he was, standing in the middle of your shared bedroom and pulling his sweatpants back on. you shifted your body to get a good angle at the view, tracing his scarred back with your gaze. faint, red claw marks were visible all thanks to you
and when he turned around, the hickeys and bites were now in view— some on his collarbone, others on his abs, any piece of skin your lips could get
maybe it was the afterglow or the sleep, but jason looked so… soft. he always was whenever he was with you. the fact that he loved and trusted you so much to let his guard down around you and just be himself made you feel cherished
it made a small smile form on your lips absentmindedly, your gaze softening as you just stared at him. but your eyes must have lingered too long because he glanced over and caught you staring. a faint smirk tugging on his lips
your smile softened when you saw him silently walk toward your side of the bed, noticing how his lips curved into a smile of his own before leaning down to cup your jaw and give you a soft, slow kiss— a kiss that made your smile widen on his lips, a kiss that felt less like desire and more like devotion, a kiss that made your chest ache in the best way
a kiss that made you fall in love with him all over again
—————————————————————————
masterlist!
(a/n: smth about morning intimacy just scratches my brain perfectly)
Summary & CW: fluff, suggestive content, on a mission, established relationship, batfam dynamic, crack fic, pride & prejudice mention, catwoman protégé!reader, second person, no use of y/n
Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1.5k
A/N: Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to @inesvisible for requesting, I had sm fun with this one! Inspired by that one youtube video (it’ll make sense at the end). I hope you enjoy my lovelies
“How much you wanna bet that Bruce and Selina are making out on some rooftop right now?”
“You know, I’d really rather not.” Jason’s face contorts in disgust. Anything that involved thinking of Bruce and his dating life always made him squirm, it was hysterical.
They were all like that. All the Robins viewed Bruce as this ancient fatherly figure. To you, he’s just Bruce. Maybe it was because of all the times you caught him doing the walk of shame from Selina’s room, but it never bothered you to talk about it.
Selina was more… open when it came to her romantic life. A lot more open than Bruce you were willing to bet.
It was so different than to how they were raised. Bruce was a father to them, he was this brooding figure who relished in seriousness. Selina was like an older sister to you, she taught you how to take a shot without reacting.
“I didn’t have pegged you for such a virgin Jason.”
He freezes, burger halfway in his mouth and turns to you. A deadpan plain on his face.
“You know I’m not a virgin.”
“Oh? Do I?” He was so fun to tease, especially when that one eyebrow on his face rose. Danger dancing across the arch.
“Oh I would hope so.” He decides to start playing back. “Otherwise I’m going to have to have a long conversation with who left that hickey on your thig-”
“Aaaaaaand that’s enough you two.” Dick’s voice rings through the comms. “We have minors on this line.”
You snort and Jason rolls his eyes from where he’s sitting next to you.
“While I find there topic of discission crude,” Damian starts to pitch in. Obviously offended that his age is a discriminating factor for the conversation. “Todd and his special friend need not to shy away the topics of sexual intercourse for my sake, Grayson. They ought to do it to retain some level of decency.”
Damian starts squabbling with Dick on their own end your gaze shifts sideways to Jason, his eyebrows are twisted together in amusement. He meets your eyes and you mouth “special friend” to him. And that devastating Jason Todd grin breaks out on his face, the one that had angels singing and clouds parting. It’s toothy and too big for his face, too innocent for the scars.
He shrugs and mouths back, “improvement.”
It’s your turn to bite back a laugh and your neck strains from the grin.
Muting yourself from the comms this time, you scrunch your nose to get his attention. “Circling back to my initial question,” he groans. “How much would you be willing to bet I’m right.”
“I don’t want to play this game.” He grumbles into his burger after muting himself.
“Too bad.”
Huffing out a breath as if this question has personally wronged him, he ponders for a moment . “If they aren’t,” he pauses. “I’ll do dishes for next two weeks.”
Jason Todd rarely complained about household chores with you. He loved the domestic side of life you gave him in breaths stolen from Gotham. A secret part of his heart warmed when he caught himself wondering if he took the trash out on Tuesday mornings, or if he picked up the almond milk for you coffee at the corner store, or if he remembered to move the clothes from the washer to the dryer. It was the simple little things that were now intertwined in his life that reassured the quiet peace fate finally granted him.
However, washing dishes was the exception.
He’d dry them, put them away, reorganize them anyway you wanted. But he hated washing them.
So you met him halfway. After all, he did essentially everything else.
“That’s big from you.” It comes out like a tease and he sticks his tongue out at you.
“I don’t see him doing that stuff on patrol.” That’s when you knew you won. It’s unfair, but you’d heard stories form Selina. Stories that assured you, you were right. “He’s too anal about this stuff- patrol is life or death for him.”
When you hum noncommittedly, he scoffs. “You start patrolling with us one year ago and you think you have us all figured out.”
“Maybe I do.” You answer, your voice light and fun in the way that draws him in. “If I win, you have to do anything I want tonight.”
“How is that different from any other night?”
Those words land somewhere you don’t want to name. It’s true. He never told you no. Jason had spent his whole life pushing back against people, challenging them, yet he never did that with you. In small everyday moments maybe, it was to be expected; to grow together, it was necessary. Yet when push came to shove, Jason Todd was at your beck and call and always said yes.
“You’ll see.” Is all you offer him when you unmute the call.
“Oracle,” your voice cuts through Dick, Damian, Tim, and now Steph’s bickering.
“I don’t like the tone of your voice.” Barbara’s voice sing songs through the earpiece.
Jason’s eyes stay locked on yours with a squint. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“What’re Bruce and Selina doing right now?”
A smirk pulls at your lips and Jason starts shaking his head when the click-clacking of Barbara’s computer sounds through the speakers. A deep sigh from her is the sound of victory for you.
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“Oh I think I do.” The remaining gang of bats that was on the line start yelling protests when they hear the grin in your voice.
“BABS NO-”
“PLEASE DON’T-”
“I’m going to be disappointed aren’t I?”
“FREAKS! ALL OF YOU-”
Jason’s snickering while accepting defeat. Then, Barabara’s voice rings like a melody in your ears.
“They’re… otherwise engaged on a rooftop off eleventh and Washington.” Her words are chosen carefully and muffled groans echo after her.
“Thank you lovely.” Your voice is sweet as honey and Jason’s still shaking his head next to you.
“Do I even want to know why you asked?”
“Probably not.” And with that, you mute your mic again.
Looking over at him, even with defeat lingering in the wrinkles of his smile, he looks gorgeous. It was gut-wrenching that he didn’t see how beautiful he was. He put everyone else to shame. No one should look as heavenly as Jason Todd did with grease coating his lips and neon lighting his eyes.
Yet here he was, an angel plucked from the sky.
“Okay doll,” resignation dripping from his teeth. “What do you want me to do.”
“Oh you’re cute,” you purr. Your thumb wipes the ketchup on the corner of his mouth, his face brightening to the color of the condiment as you lick it off your finger. “You think I’m going to tell you now? Where’s the fun in that pretty boy.”
He scoffs with no heat behind it. Even as disbelief bleeds from his forehead, you can tell he’s exactly where he wants to be. “You’re a dangerous thing aren’t ya? We gotta put a warning label on you or something.”
“As if you’d shy away from a warning label.”
He snorts because he can’t say that you’re wrong. Nothing could ever keep Jason Todd from running back to you.
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
“-but said not a word.”-pant- “After a silence of several minutes.” -another pause- “he came towards her in an agitated manner, -gasp- and thus began- Baby please.”
He sounds cute like this, and you’re almost tempted to grant him the reprieve he wants.
But he looked too good.
Sitting on the foot of the bed, you merely watched him. You watched as Jason Todd remained in a plank after being stripped down to his underwear. Sweat was beginning to coat his back and you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a more divine sight.
The small black boxers were leaving little for the imagination as the book laid under his head.
“Not yet honey,” you remind him, enjoying this a little too much. “You have to finish the chapter or go until failure. And you wouldn’t fail me now, would you?”
In light of winning your bet, you decided to make your lovely boyfriend get undressed to almost nothing and read Pride and Prejudice. This was your favorite chapter, and he loved to tell you how he loved you “most ardently” all the time.
Might as well make him prove it.
Maybe it was a little cruel to make him do this after patrol. But he agreed.
“I won’t.” He’s panting like a dog starved of water.
“Then get back to reading.” You hum.
His head hangs low for a second, curls bouncing in his face. His back muscles are so defined in this position, your tempted to lick the sweat straight off him.
“In vain have I struggled. -deep breath- It will not do. My feelings will -another pant- be repressed. You must allow me -another deep breath- to tell you – a wrecked groan- how ardently I admire and love you.”
And just like that, you realize you were going to have to start betting on Selina and Bruce more often.
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
A/N: inspired by this lovely post (asia I love you)
cw: dick grayson x gn!reader, dick grayson is in dire need of therapy and a hug, hurt and comfort
a/n: my last post was about Dick comforting reader, so obviously i have to balance things out.
—
There is nothing Dick hates more than making you worry about him. He loves you endlessly, and of course he trusts you with his secret identity, he just… he hates worrying you.
Even when his body feels broken, even when he feels like he’s on the verge of falling apart. He’s good at hiding it, at shoving the pain down deep inside himself where it festers.
Sometimes it weighs him down, the tight vault he keeps it all locked in cracks under pressure, fissures forcing their way to the surface. It overflows, rarely, but it’s messy when it happens. The light in him dims, and he slowly slips away.
Tonight was rough on him. It started bad and ended worse. His body feels broken, his mind fractured.
He stumbles into your shared apartment through the window you always leave unlocked for him. He tries to be quiet, he really does, but his breaths are too loud and his footsteps too heavy.
Dick clutches his side as he makes to the bathroom. He took a bad hit to the ribs, some thug had a crowbar and Dick missed the block. Blood drips from a gash on his brow, stinging his eyes and making them water.
He doesn’t bother with the lights, just makes straight for the shower. Dick tries to get his suit off, but he can’t reach the zips without the sharp pain in his ribs growing unbearable.
Choking on a ragged breath, he forgoes getting undressed and gets into the shower fully suited. The water’s cold, running red down the drain as it rinses off his blood and the grime of the city. Leaning against the tiled wall, he tries desperately to mend the seams.
But try all he might, the darkness rises, slipping through the cracks. Dick slumps to the floor of the shower, curled up in the corner, and lets it swallow him whole.
Sleep threatens to pull you back under as you lie waiting. You had heard him come in, apparently his stealth had expired for the night, and you want to be awake when he joins you in bed.
You listen to the sound of the shower, warmth slowly filling you at the thought of him curling up into bed with you.
But time starts to drag, the shower is still going, and Dick’s not in bed.
Worry begins to nag at you, replacing the warmth. You drag yourself up and out of bed, crossing to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, you find him curled into himself on the shower floor, and your heart breaks.
You’re quick to cross the room, turning the water off and sinking to your knees just outside the shower. “Dick?” He doesn’t look up, and his eyes are squeezed shut like he’s hiding from something you can’t see.
Your pyjamas grow damp as you scoot closer. “Please, Dick.” You whisper, reaching out to cup his jaw. Dick’s eyes flutter open, but they’re blank.
It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him like this, and for a moment you forget what to do. If you push him too hard he’ll retreat into himself. Your mind scrambles, until you land on a gentle approach. “It’s cold in here.” You whisper. “Come to bed, okay?”
Dick nods absently, your words penetrating the thick haze that has consumed him. His breath leaves his lungs in a hiss as he stands, and he sags against the wall. Your concern grows so thick you can almost taste it, he’s so unlike his usual self that it makes you feel sick.
He’s hurt, that much is obvious, but where? “Dick,” You plead as he pushes past. He’s determined to not be a burden, to be okay so that you won’t worry. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what happened.”
He doesn’t answer, of course, but the way he’s clutching his side gives you some idea. You catch him just inside your bedroom, tugging him to a stop by his wrist. Dick stops and stands with his head hanging low.
Getting him out of his suit is difficult when he’s hurt, soaking wet, and freezing cold. Once he’s bare you get him dressed into his warmest pyjamas. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders drooped like a puppet that’s had its strings cut. You kneel in front of him, first aid kit at your side, and get to work on patching up the cut on his brow.
Dick doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. You know he’s lost in his own head, stuck deep in the grief and guilt and whatever else plagues him. Your worry grows so thick it’s almost tangible, bitter in the back of your throat, but you’re scared that expressing it will only make him worse.
Once the cut is cleaned and patched up you sit beside him on the bed. He doesn’t move, so you lean against his good side and rest your cheek on his shoulder, and you wait.
It takes a couple of minutes, which you spend listening to his heavy breaths. Then he somehow slumps even more. “I’m sorry.” Dick whispers.
Your gaze snaps to his face in dismay. You never want him apologising just for feeling, but your protests die on your lips when you see the tears. You reach for him immediately, and his surrender is instant.
The first sob is gut wrenching, that place he keeps everything locked in spilling open, creating a wave of grief. Dick’s tears wet your skin, his hands fisted in the back of your shirt. You only give yourself a second to be surprised, and then you’re rubbing his back and whispering soothing words against his hair.
For a while he’s inconsolable, and all you can do is hold him as he breaks apart.
Eventually his chest stops heaving, his sobs softening into muffled tears.
Dick pulls back and you know he’s going to pull away, to try and bottle it back up and keep it hidden. You reach out and cup his jaw, a hand sliding into his damp hair. Your lips ghost over his forehead and he lets out a shaky exhale.
You gently kiss each closed eyelid, his tears salty on your lips. He tries to apologise again, but you cut it off early by pressing your lips to his.
He melts into you immediately, shaking hands cupping your jaw. He tastes like tears and grief.
You break the kiss to urge him into bed, and he goes willingly. The sheets are still warm from where you slept earlier, and he curls into the space like it was carved out just for him.
You ease in next to him, and he reaches for you instantly. “What happened?” You whisper, when you’re finally certain that he’s not going to retreat into himself.
He buries his face back into your neck, his breath warm on your skin. “Nothing.” He whispers. “Everything. I don’t know.”
Sighing, you slide your hands under his sleep shirt, rubbing the warm skin of his back. He shudders, pulling back enough to meet your gaze.
There’s a sadness in his eyes you rarely ever see. You give him a small smile, and the one he returns is so small and shaky that your breath hitches.
“I got hit with a crowbar.” He whispers, explaining the nasty bruise you saw blossoming on his ribs. “It hurt.”
You hum softly, the sound coaxing him open further. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” He whispers, tone growing solemn. “By you, by everyone.”
“Every night is the same.” He continues, his tone so heavy it weighs you both down. “I’m not making a difference. I go out there and I fight and it’s always the same.”
Your hand abandons the warmth beneath his shirt to cup his jaw. He leans into your touch, like a moth drawn to a flame. “I’m not doing enough.” He chokes out, eyes growing frantic. “I’m not good enough.”
“You’re doing more than anyone else in this city.” You long to convince him of just how good he is. “Crime rate in Bludhaven has gone done by-“
“I don’t care about the crime rate.” His voice cracks, expression crumpling. “People are still getting hurt.”
You draw him back in, knowing words aren’t what he needs right now. His face finds its home where your neck meets your shoulder, and he stays there.
You offer him quiet words of love, tracing mindless patterns over his back. He’s quiet, and still, and soon he falls into a deep sleep, emotionally exhausted.
You wake early the next morning. The bed is empty, cold where Dick’s body should be. Unease simmers low in your belly as you get up and leave the bedroom.
You find him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his head hanging between his shoulders. Dick doesn’t look up until you press against his back, arms easing around his middle. He shifts, turning in your arms, bringing his own around you and resting his cheek atop your head.
“I’m sorry for last night.” He whispers, hands smoothing up your back beneath your shirt.
You shake your head, pulling back to meet his gaze. “You’ve gotta stop bottling things up, Dick.” You say gently. “It only hurts you more.”
He lets out a self deprecating huff. “I don’t like worrying you.” He says quietly, and you know he means it.
Sighing, you cup his cheeks in both hands, bringing him down to your eye level. “Dick,” You start sternly. He smiles, cheeks smooshed, when he hears the endearment in your tone. “What worries me the most is when you breakdown like that, which wouldn’t happen so much if you just let me bear some of it with you.”
He blinks, cheeks flushing. “But I-“
“No. No buts,” You end his excuses before they can even start. Letting go of his face, you press one hand against his chest, over his drumming heart. “Let me in.”
His breath hitches and leaves him in a rush. “You are in, that’s the problem.” He whispers, voice so tender it makes your chest ache.
He pulls you into his arms again, more for his own comfort than yours. “I promise.” He whispers against your shoulder. “I promise to let you bear it with me.”
.ᐟ After a devastating breakup, you let your friends drag you out to a party, meant to distract you momentarily. There you meet BRUCE WAYNE, and what started off as another innocent candlelit dinner—became much more. But Bruce’s entire existence is the textbook definition of complicated. And when the arguments start becoming constant and distance becomes a necessity, you couldn't help but ask yourself: Was loving him always going to end up the same way?
.ᐟ CONTENT: angst, miscommunication, relationship issues, emotional unavailability, some fluff and crack, bruce kept a secret from u, i gor lazy at the end so the writing might be sloppy, not proofread as always wc: 6.6k
.ᐟ a/n: i love this album ehehe wow this my 1st time writing 4 bruce ALSO u guys have to deal with the corny dialogue mwah plus me making bruce unable to cook is just self projection
𝓗𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓦𝑒 𝓖𝑜 𝓐𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛...!
Love 💗
Hey, I hope you're feeling great. This might be sudden but I think it's time we took a break, so I can grow emotionally.
In other words? I'm breaking up with you and I'm never going to show my face to you ever again.
You’ve been staring at the message lit up on your screen for who knows how long now. A flurry of emotions rush through you: heartbreak, disbelief, and anger.
Did he really not even have the guts to break up face to face? He had to hide behind a contact number and a screen, what a coward!
Your grip tightens on your phone, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before reluctantly tapping away from his message. Hell, he didn't deserve your reply now. You blink, trying to get rid of the way your eyes glossed with tears. He didn't deserve that either.
You sat up straight on your twin bed, letting out a shaky breath. You know the feeling settling down on your chest all too well. It's quiet, sudden, and heavy. Too much for your heart to handle even if it's felt this way many times before.
Almost like it was second nature, your thumb moves until you find a familiar contact. You press call. And the ringing barely lasts two seconds when you hear two voices you could recognize from a mile away.
“Hey, girl!”
“Hey, what's up?”
And just like that, your voice breaks as all of your emotions were let out like a dam.
“He broke up with me..”
For a moment, there was only silence from the two other ends. Like they somehow had expected this already.
“Seriously?! I told you before that I had a bad feeling about him..” one of your friends, Sienna, groaned through the speaker, her irritation mixing with concern.
“Okay, wait—” your other friend, Clara’s voice cuts through, her motherly worry evident even from behind the screen. “Are you okay? What happened?”
A humorless chuckle escapes your lips, you could honestly only shake your head at the situation. “He said he needed to grow emotionally. Whatever that means.” you practically scoff, sinking further into your bed. A part of you honestly wanted for it to swallow you whole at this point.
“Oh my goodness.” Sienna gasped in disbelief. “That’s the most breakup text I’ve ever heard. I bet he would say something cliché like ‘It’s not you, it's me.’ or something stupid like that!”
You let out a sniffle, and a choking sound that was sort of a mix of a sob and laughter. You couldn't say you were surprised, but it still didn't change the fact that it hurt.
“I don't understand.” You rest your head against your cheek, feeling how dampened it was from tears you had no idea were even falling. “We were literally fine yesterday.”
Silence again. Like they had all gotten used to this cycle already: breakup, ice cream and ranting, getting over them.
“Alright.” Clara says in a firm tone, the one she uses to let you know that you aren't getting out of this that easily. “We aren't letting you rot and cry over this for the rest of the week.” You could hear Sienna’s hum of approval from the other end.
“You say that like I have a choice.”
“You do,” she replies. “We're going out this weekend.” You stare at your ceiling light, as if you wanted it to just claim you already. How did your life choices come to this?
“...Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes!” Both of them exclaimed in unison.
—
That's how you ended up here. In a party fancier than you had originally anticipated, but at least the ambience was nice and the music was calming. Otherwise you might've just sunk your head into a bowl of wine and drowned yourself right there.
And of course. Your friends brought their boyfriends along with them. Just your luck that you were third wheeling tonight. But on the bright side, you haven't shed a single tear tonight. That was still something.
After a while, you let yourself stray away from the group. It wasn't the hardest thing to do considering they were mostly occupied by their partners. You walk over to a more secluded corner, champagne glass in hand as you plan to simply watch the event unfold from the sidelines.
The wall was cool against your back as you leaned against it slightly. You finally let yourself breathe properly. Everything actually feels peaceful for a moment, like you weren't actively at war with the demons in your mind.
Then, it's warm—the wall is warm. You simply can't have nice things, can't you? You blink in confusion, adjusting your position before you turn around to see what it was. Or who, rather.
You were surprised to see that the wall you had been leaning on wasn't actually a wall at all. It was a person. A very still, expensive looking person who was already looking down at you.
Bruce Wayne.
Oh.
Oh shit.
You've been leaning against Bruce Wayne, like he was the finest piece of architecture here. Your whole career might've been over.
He doesn't move. You don't either, you could barely even breathe because the man in front of you could probably buy your whole existence with the snap of his fingers. The music continues playing anyway.
“I–uh…” you start, already dreading this entire conversation. “I really…did not mean to uhm..I just didn't-I wasn't..” Great. A third grader could construct a better sentence than this.
You quickly step back upon noticing how close you two were. Gosh, he was probably thinking about how personal space was probably a foreign concept to you.
”I am so sorry.” you blurted out, looking so incredibly apologetic. “That…That wasn't on purpose, I didn't mean to do that. I just–uh…thought you were the wall.”
A beat passed, but that beat felt like it was going to determine your fate. Then, a small exhale followed by a controlled chuckle came from Bruce. “It's alright,” he said calmly, and you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”
His gaze flickers over you briefly—not judging, just observant. “You look like you need a quiet corner.” Your embarrassment melted into something different when you nodded. “...I did.” you admitted quietly, and he looked like he had expected it.
“Then you're fine,” he says. “Stay.”
You hesitate for a moment.
Stay?
That felt like a generous invitation coming from a man like him. Still, you don't move. “Okay,” you say carefully, as if you were still testing out the waters. “Thank you again.”
He nodded once, and everything was settled.
Neither of you spoke, just basked in each other's silence as the both of you took in the party continuing. Glasses clinking, friends laughing—but every sound from here felt muted and distant.
“You're not used to these, are you?” he asks eventually, not condescending. “Is it that obvious?” You huffed out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your glass.
“Just a hunch.” You gave him a skeptical look, it couldn't be just that. “...It's the expression.” he replied mildly, scanning your face.
Your eyes shot up slightly, you’d be lying if you said you weren't even just a little bit curious. “Wow, okay. Hm…what does my expression say then?”
His eyes swept over your face for another time, like he was actually considering this and taking the question seriously. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says. “But you're trying not to show it.”
That was…uncomfortably accurate.
“...Yeah.” you admit quietly. “Something like that.” You take another pause, as if you were still testing out the waters around him. “You don't seem to be enjoying this either.” You gesture over the party.
“I don't really attend things like this for enjoyment.” That much was obvious, considering how he’s probably been here in the corner for the majority of the party. “Then why do you attend them?”
“Obligation.” he says simply, like there was never another option. “That sounds miserable.” You gave him a sympathetic look, it sounded unbearably boring.
Something unreadable flickers under his expression, before a soft yet tired looking smile appears on his face. “It can be.”
Somehow, the conversation continued after that.
And it also somehow ended up with you and Bruce exchanging each other's phone numbers and planning a dinner date next weekend.
—
You’ve been staring and checking your phone for approximately twelve times in the past fifteen minutes. Your lips twitch slightly despite yourself, and that little reaction doesn't go unnoticed by your friends. Damn them for being so observant.
“Oh my God.” Sienna pauses from across the couch, a knowing smile on her face. “You're smiling. Who are you talking to?”
“I’m not smiling.” you dismiss, trying to feign nonchalance. “And I’m certainly not talking to anyone.” Sienna rolls her eyes, evidently far from believing you.
“Yeah, and we're supposed to believe that?” Clara chuckles, looking up from her drink. “You're definitely talking to someone, babes.”
You knew there was no denying or hiding it from your friends now. Whether or not you’d tell them, they would find out one way or another. They could compete for the title of World's Greatest Detective.
“It's nobody.” You trail off, and Sienna narrows her eyes. “Just someone I met at the party.” The room goes silent, Clara raises a brow while Sienna gasps in disbelief. No wonder, Clara noticed you being gone for a portion of the party.
“Who's the mystery man then?” Clara leaned in closer to you, before being shoved to the side (gently) by Sienna whose eyes were still wide in shock. “Tell us!” Clara glares at her, but Sienna pays no mind to it at all.
You hesitate, just long enough for them to notice but not enough for them to point it out. “...Bruce Wayne.”
Clara blinks. Sienna blinks. They both share a look before looking back at you. “Bruce Wayne?!” They shriek in sync, looking mildly impressed but also horrified.
You wince immediately, but you weren't surprised by their reactions. You just told them you were talking to one of the richest men ever like it was nothing.
“You met Bruce Wayne at a random party?!” Clara looked horrified. “And you're only telling us now?!” Sienna added.
“It's only been a day—”
“Still!” They both said in unison again.
It takes a few minutes to calm the two of them down. Clara didn't fail to threaten Bruce (spiritually) if he ever hurts you, while Sienna collapses back onto the couch, sighing dramatically.
“Do you think he can pay off my student loans?”
“You don't even have any student loans—”
“I do now.”
—
You don't know how long you've been staring at the multiple outfits you've laid out. None of them felt perfect. You were starting to stress and overthink again. It was a miracle that Sienna and Clara were there to help you like the godsent angels they were.
“You can literally wear a trash bag and I’m sure he’d find you stunning.” Sienna raises her hand and swears with her life, promising that her opinion was completely unbiased.
“If you really can't decide, I think that dress looks gorgeous on you.” Clara added in, pointing to the navy blue dress. They both knew very well that you were probably the most indecisive person on this planet. “Yeah, I second that! It really brings out your smile.”
You take a second look at the dress, before nodding. “Thank you, guys. You're literally lifesavers.” They both shoot you a smile before shooing you off so you could change.
After a few minutes, you step out casually, like you weren't practically a walking and living goddess. The pair squeal in unison, gushing over you.
“It's just dinner.” you mutter for the sixth time this whole evening. But Clara and Sienna could literally care less.
“With Bruce Wayne.” Sienna says immediately, emphasizing his name like you got amnesia and couldn't remember who he was.
“You really got to stop saying his full government name like that.” Clara gives Sienna another look, before turning back to you and giving you a reassuring smile and hand to your shoulder.
“We're just one call away, in case you need us.” You nodded, you've always known that the two of them had your back. No matter what.
Then—the doorbell finally rings. And the most awaited moment of the night has started. You wave to the two of them, thanking them again as they encouragingly push you to the front door.
They not so subtly watch you step out of the house, hand in hand with Bruce. Sienna swears she wasn't crying, your…lightbulbs just look really interesting. Might need a change soon.
“We're totally following them, right?” she whispers.
“Oh, definitely.” Clara replies, already grabbing her keys.
—
The drive to the restaurant was quieter than you expected. Not awkward, just calm in a strangely intimate manner. The soft glow of the streetlights passing through the window catches your attention. Gotham feels a lot more peaceful like this, in its own twisted way.
You glance over to him briefly.
He had one hand resting against the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Hm. You did like safety and protection. His expression was relaxed, not in the way you’ve seen on TV. No rehearsed smiles, just him.
“You're staring.” he says suddenly, eyes still fixated on the road. Damn his peripheral vision. Heat reaches the tip of your ears, you instantly look away. “I was not.”
“Right.” He sounded far from convinced. You just slump down on the fancy leather seats, wanting it to swallow you whole if it was possible. The corners of his lips curl up slightly at the sight of you.
And something in your chest flips. Because you recognized this awful and dangerous feeling.
The restaurant slowly comes into view. It was elegant and polished, in a way that didn't make it seem like it was trying too hard. Bruce stepped out of the car first, making his way to the passenger door to guide you out.
“Careful.” He placed a hand on the small of your back, closing the door behind you. The warm lighting and soothing music of the restaurant, usually would've made you feel welcomed. But tonight, it was different. It didn't feel like you belonged.
The waitress straightens almost instantly upon seeing Bruce enter, but he barely reacts to it. It was just another Wednesday evening to him. Plus, his attention was on you.
“Right this way, Mr. Wayne.”
You try to ignore the glances people give you as you walk besides Bruce. Some whispered under their breath to their friends, some didn't look surprised.
Bruce notices immediately, of course he does. This obviously wasn't his first rodeo.
“We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.” The offer surprises you enough that your brows practically shoot up to your hairline and you look up at him.
You were quick to shake your head, you couldn't let the stares ruin your night with him. “No, I'm okay.” you assure him. “Just not…used to all of this.” You gesture to the place.
His expression changes slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues guiding you to the table. Once the two of you are sat down across from each other, a waitress arrives to carefully place menus in front of you both.
“I'll get you two started with some drinks.” she says politely. But before she walks away, her gaze flickers over to you for a moment that you barely see it. A look.
Not impolite. Not judgemental either. More like curiosity hidden under a practiced customer service smile.
And in that moment, it became painfully obvious to you who exactly was sitting across from you. And there's a strange feeling that comes with it.
You grab the menu and quickly lower your gaze, and when you open the selection, it feels like your eyes are being flashed. The prices alone make you want to put the menu down, grab your purse and just walk out of here.
And across from you? Bruce doesn't look phased at all. Unsurprisingly. He was probably in his element here. He looks perfectly at ease, blending in with the environment effortlessly.
“Your expression is telling me something again.” he says after a moment. When your head snaps up from the menu, you find him staring at you. “And what exactly is it saying this time?” you ask carefully, wondering if you even want to know.
“It means,” He places the menu down, folding his hands together. “That you've been looking at the same page for the last two minutes.” Heat creeped up your face instantly.
“I'm just reading it.”
“You haven't turned the page.”
“Oh my God…” you mumble, burying your face in your hands. At this point you were questioning yourself if you even wanted to be seen out here like this.
His gaze softened, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his expression. “I can promise you,” he says calmly, wanting to soothe your worries. “Nobody cares as much as you think they actually do.”
Slowly, you remove your hands from your face. You study him carefully for a moment after that. You expected someone like him to feel intimidating up close, the kind of intimidating that was too polished, too distant, and intensely aware of the effect they had on people.
Instead, he was just easy to talk to. Dangerously easy.
—
Dinner somehow stretches far longer than you intended it to be.
Between the conversation flowing with ease and food being better than anything you're used to, you end up losing track of time. Like the clock behind you or the watch on his wrist was simply a suggestion.
The tables around you empty one by one. And by the time you've managed to glance around, the restaurant is nearly empty. Still, Bruce and you barely make any effort to leave.
Eventually, reality catches up with you two when a waitress approaches and politely informs the both of you that the restaurant would be closing soon. You blink in surprise, finally taking a look outside.
Darkness has already fully washed over the skies of Gotham, the city lights glittering against the glass like scattered stars. And judging by the look on his face, you weren't the only one surprised by it.
A quiet laugh escapes from your lips as you gather your things and clean as you go, mildly surprised at how easily you lost track of time while talking to him.
Bruce stood from his seat, reaching for his coat before moving to pull your chair out for you. The gesture was simple, yet the effortless way he does it makes your heart stumble anyway.
A few moments later, the two of you step out of the restaurant with your fingers loosely interlaced with his. The cold air instantly hits you right in the face, sending a shudder down your spine.
Bruce, of course, notices. Without a word, he slips his coat over your shoulders to shield you from the cold before gently guiding you towards the passenger door.
The city feels different this late. Quieter. But never asleep, because Gotham never sleeps.
The drive back to your home passes far too quickly. Before you know it, the familiar street you live on slides into view, pulling you back into reality.
Bruce parked smoothly in front of your apartment building, stepping out first and then walking around to open the door for you before you even get the chance to reach it.
“Thank you.” you mutter as you step out carefully. “For dinner?” he asks casually, holding your hand so you wouldn't stumble in your heels. (God knows how people walk in them..)
“For everything, I guess.” Something in his expression after that.
The two of you linger near the entrance for a moment afterward, neither of you ready to say goodbye yet. Then, the weight of his coat around your shoulders served as a reminder.
“I should probably give this back.” you say quietly, starting to slip it off of your shoulders. “No, keep it.” He quickly raises a hand to stop you, putting it back on.
Your breath catches slightly, still holding onto the fabric. “It's a little big on you. But you pull it off anyway.” There it is again. That…awful feeling in your chest. The one that whispered trouble into your ear.
“Text me when you get inside.”
—
One dinner turns into several. Then, text messages turned into late night phone calls that somehow stretched for hours after work. Somewhere along the way, both of your homes were filled with traces of each other. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the corners of your apartment, your house slippers sitting at the shoe rack of the manor like it belonged there.
And maybe the part that unsettles you the most, is how natural it all feels.
The line between it being something more than just seeing each other had quietly blurred along the way.
“The gossip pages already think we're dating, y’know.” you joke one morning, scrolling through an article with a photo of you and Bruce being spotted together one evening.
Bruce glances up from his cup of black coffee. (How could he drink that without being disgusted??) “They're late.” he says simply as he takes a sip from his mug, barely sparing a glance at the article.
“What?” you try to hide the surprise in your voice, but he catches on like he always did. Bruce looks at you for a moment before answering. “I was under the impression that we already belonged to each other.”
—
The relationship settles into your life far easier than you expected it to.
Some days are glamorous—expensive candlelit dinners at fancy restaurants, charity galas, cameras flashing.
Others are painfully ordinary, but familiar. Late night takeouts for whenever the two of you were too exhausted to cook, double dates with your friends, resting your head on his shoulder while he responds to e-mails.
And somewhere in between everything, Gotham begins to see the two of you as something permanent. More importantly, so do you.
—
You stop checking the time after the fifth time you've glanced at your phone. No calls, no messages. Nothing.
The food sitting across from you has gone cold in the hands of time. And around you, conversations continued easily. Couples and friends laugh over shared drinks, waitresses slip between tables with practiced ease, carrying fresh meals you don't have the appetite for anymore.
Still, your gaze lingers at the entrance anyways. Still hopeful. Just in case.
Finally, your phone rings. You scramble to get it (gracefully).
Bruce 💕
I'm sorry, dear. I don't think I'll be able to make it tonight.
You stare at the message for a moment, all hope and anticipation in you disappearing as you exhale softly. Forcing yourself to relax into your seat.
You tell yourself it's nothing personal. It's fine. It's Bruce.
And everyone wants a piece of him.
The city. The media. His company. Strangers who think they know him just because they constantly see his face splashed on television and magazine covers.
So when plans get changed or canceled entirely at the last minute, or when his attention starts to drift elsewhere more often than not. You try not to let it bother you.
You keep telling yourself that loving someone like Bruce comes with the cost of sharing him with the rest of the world.
By the time Bruce arrives at your apartment, you had already convinced yourself not to bring up the cancelled dinner last week. It would be unfair to him. You knew he had a lot of things going on.
He looked like absolute hell (affectionate) when he walked in, dark circles sinking beneath his eyes, tension weighing down his shoulders.
So instead, you simply let him pull you into an embrace and pretend that the disappointment wasn't still lingering inside your heart.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
Those were the only words he has said in the past twenty minutes of you talking about your day. He's distracted and on autopilot. And before you could think, you spoke up.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I'm trying to.”
You decided to whip up some dinner for yourself and Bruce one evening. Nothing fancy—just something warm and homemade that was sure to fill up your stomachs after a long day.
For once, you let yourself feel hopeful again. Especially when your phone lights up with a message from Bruce, telling you he's on his way.
Maybe tonight will be different. Better.
You hear the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door before he enters, looking as exhausted as ever, dark hair that was usually so neat now messy, tie slightly loosened.
Still, something in his eyes softens when he sees you.
Before you could greet him, he was already in front of you, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead while his hands rested around your waist instinctively.
And just like that, it was like you were never frustrated with him to begin with. “You're late.” you mumble, but your words lack any real bite to them.
“I know,” His voice was quieter now. “I'm sorry.”
The apology sounds sincere enough that you decide not to press further. Not yet, at least.
Instead, you take his hand and gently guide him toward the kitchen. The smell of the home cooked meal filled the apartment, enveloping the two of you in a way that made everything feel comforting and warm.
“You made dinner?” he asks, curiously glancing towards the stove. “I figured one of us should probably eat something that didn't come from a personal chef for once.” you joke lightly, heading to the stove to heat the meal up.
A hum of amusement comes from Bruce as he carefully watches you move around the kitchen like a natural. “You're telling me I can't cook.”
“You burnt toast so badly last time that it looked like ash.” You don't deny it, he was a walking tornado in the kitchen. “That was one time.” Bruce exhales through his nose, making a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.
For a moment, things feel light again. Normal. Like you were simply dating a man—not the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, just him. Like he wasn't something you had to share with the rest of the world.
You hand him a plate before settling beside him, talking absentmindedly about your day while he actually listens quietly and provides occasional short comments and reactions.
It was nice enough that you almost forgot and forgave him for the past week. Almost.
Then, his phone lit up with a buzz against the counter. He glances at it automatically. And even though he doesn't say anything about it, you notice the shift. How his attention shifts, how his gaze grows distant for just a second too long.
Something inside of you sinks before you can stop it.
“You can answer it.” you say, trying to sound more supportive than disappointed. “It's probably not important.” Bruce looked up immediately.
Still, the two of you couldn't exactly ignore the persistent buzzing coming from his phone. The sound felt unbearably loud inside the quiet apartment.
Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone. Just to check. Just to see if everything was alright.
Bruce's eyes scan whatever was on the screen, his expression tightening almost instantly. Not dramatically, just enough for you to notice like you always did. You know that look.
“Is everything okay?” you ask. He doesn't respond immediately. “...Yeah.” It was automatic, something that told you he didn't mean it entirely. And somehow that bothered you even more than if he had simply admitted something was wrong.
He sets his phone back down after, trying to return his attention to what was in front of him. To the conversation, dinner, and you.
He really does try. But you continue to notice it anyway.
The way his gaze unconsciously drifts back towards the phone beside him. The tension returned to his shoulders. The halfhearted replies he gives you.
And suddenly, the apartment doesn't nearly feel as warm as before.
“I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that this doesn't hurt.” you admit quietly through your clenched jaw, trying to keep your composure.
The already quiet apartment falls silent after your words. Bruce finally gives you his full attention. No distractions, just you. “Do you think I want to hurt you?” Your chest twists immediately. “Bruce, that's not what I said.”
“But it's what you meant.”
“No,” you exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of your thoughts. “I'm trying to say that I miss you all the time and we've been feeling distant, and I don't know if you even notice.”
“I'm doing my best.” he says quietly, not defensively or angrily. And his words scare her even more. If this was his best, what could happen later?
For a while after that, things between the two of you improve. Or maybe the two of you had simply gotten better at pretending that they have.
Bruce starts making more of an effort again. Missed dinners became less frequent, late night phone calls turning into nights actually spent together, remembering little details you mentioned in one of your ramblings.
But some part of you still notices some of the things that haven't changed.
The way he occasionally disappears without any explanation. The mysterious wounds and bruises that he brushes off too casually. (He couldn't have fallen off the stairs a third time in a week.) The phone calls he takes in private.
At first, you try not to think much of it. After all, everyone’s entitled to their privacy, right? Even then, you still catch yourself wondering if you even know Bruce at all. When entire pieces of his life are tucked away from you behind polite smiles and charming deflections.
This wasn't the first time you’d been over to Wayne manor. But this was the first time you’d used the keys Bruce had given you. It feels strangely intimate somehow. A quiet acknowledgment that you belong here now, that you had a place in his life now.
At least that’s what you tell yourself when you click the heavy wooden doors shut.
Alfred had informed you that Bruce was running late. As always. And with nothing else to do, you decide to wander around the manor for a bit.
You spot a pair of boots by the door. They seemed way too small to belong to Bruce, Dick, Jason, or even Tim. You pause for a moment before shrugging it off, it may have been one of their old pairs that Bruce was too sentimental to get rid of.
The manor’s kitchen has always been a lot more welcoming compared to the rest of the estate. Less grand and more lived in. The kind of room that always felt warm no matter the season.
You grab a glass from the cabinet and casually fill it with water. That's when something catches your attention mid-sip.
A textbook sat on the counter, a pencil neatly tucked in between its pages. You pause, then curiously take a look at the cover. Algebra.
Your brows knit together. You knew the boys were nerds in their own ways but you doubt they want to spend their evening reading an Algebra textbook. Despite that, you shrug it off after a moment of staring.
A lot of people come and go in the manor. It's probably nothing.
And if that wasn't enough, when you turn around, your gaze finds a drawing pinned on the fridge. A drawing of Bruce. The pencil strokes are…surprisingly skilled, capturing Bruce’s likeness with unsettling accuracy.
As if on cue, Alfred enters the kitchen. You offer him a smile. “Who drew this?” you ask curiously, staring at the drawing for another moment. Alfred’s posture straightens ever so slightly. You didn't think much of it, Alfred always carried himself with that composure.
“Someone in the family, miss.” You blink, and before you can ask another question, Alfred glances at his watch and excuses himself. Which honestly just left you more confused to begin with.
The drawing, the textbook, the boots. The pieces don't quite fit together. You decide to brush it off again, wanting to keep your peace.
While continuing to wait for Bruce’s arrival, you wander into the library. You let your fingers mindlessly run through the rows of books, trying to pass the time.
That's when something catches your eye again. You stop in your tracks, then you see a photograph tucked in between the books. It was small enough that you normally would've walked past it.
Bruce is in it. Of course. But standing beside him is a boy you don't recognize. It isn't Dick. It isn't Jason. And it certainly wasn't Tim either. And what unsettles you the most is the resemblance the boy has with Bruce.
The same dark hair, the same brows, even the slight almost permanent scowl was there. It was like looking into a younger version of Bruce. You barely notice how your fingers tighten around the frame. Who was this?
“There you are.” You nearly drop the frame. You didn't have any time to put it back or hide it when you saw Bruce standing in front of you.
Neither of you speak for a moment, but you see it. How his gaze moves to you then towards the photograph. Something flickered in his expression. Not shock, not panic, not even anger. Just recognition.
“Who is this?” you ask quietly, your fingers still curled around the wooden frame. The question cuts through the air, and Bruce doesn't answer immediately. The hesitation tells you more than his words ever could.
“Bruce?” You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, like you were drowning in the ocean while Bruce just stared at you with a life jacket in hand.
You’d seen this look before, the one he had whenever he didn't want to talk about something. Something he wasn't ready to share. “Who is he?” You repeat.
This time, Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. Like he was weighing his options. His eyes linger on the photograph for another moment before answering. “His name is Damian.” You wait for him to continue, for him to say more about this Damian kid you didn't even know the existence of until now.
But he doesn't. And the silence stretches uncomfortably. “...Okay.” you pause. “And who’s Damian?” His jaw tightens again, and suddenly you already know.
Not the full truth. Not yet. But enough for you to understand his hesitation. Enough to understand why Alfred had to choose his words. Enough to understand the boots, textbook, and drawing from earlier.
“Bruce.” This time, your words were a pleading demand to know the truth. “He's my son.” The room goes completely still. You stare at him and blinked once. Twice.
You waited. You weren't sure what for. Maybe a punchline, maybe even a laugh. But nothing comes after. “Your…son?” The words struggled to come out, as if they were stuck to your throat.
Because this wasn't a nephew, not a cousin, not even another child he took in. It was his son. His biological son. Bruce nodded once.
And somehow that single nod was worse than any explanation he could've given you. Because it was final. A confirmation that it was real.
Your hands loosen against the frame slightly, like your body was struggling to function properly. Your breath catches. “You have a son.” you say slowly, like you were still bracing yourself.
He doesn't correct you, doesn't hesitate or try to soften the blow. Just—”Yes.” You stare at his face, searching for anything that suggests that he understood what you felt in your perspective.
But Bruce just looks steady. Like he was already bracing for impact, like he expected this to happen. That was worse somehow. Your throat tightens, and you look down at the frame again. You weren't even sure why you were still holding onto it.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to be. Less angry, more hurt. You watch him closely, and the brief silence says more than enough.
“I know you keep a lot of parts of your life private, and I respect that.” you try to ignore the slightest shake in your voice. “But this isn't just privacy.” You gesture at the photo faintly.
“This is your child.” You couldn't help the way your voice wavers at the last word. “I didn't–” he started, pausing. “I didn't know how.”
His words land wrong, it lands worse even. And suddenly, all you can think of is how he knew. He simply didn't tell you. Something twists in you immediately. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “What does that even mean?”
“I didn't plan to keep him from you.” he says quietly. “That's not what I asked, Bruce.” You blink, and he pauses.
“I know.” He looms away for a moment. “...It's complicated.” You couldn't help the short humorless breath you let out. “Of course it is.”
He knew it wasn't a reasonable explanation, knew it wasn't what you deserved. “I kept thinking it wasn't the right time…Then it just kept not being the right time.”
“That's not a reason.” you whisper. He doesn't argue, doesn't deny it. And that might be the worst part of it all. “I know,” he admits, but it doesn't make it any better.
You carefully set the frame back where you took it, like anything sudden might shatter the entire room. “I was here, in the manor. Sleeping in your bed, sitting in your space.” You manage the courage to look at him again. “He was here too, wasn't he?”
He doesn't answer immediately, doesn't have to anymore. The answer was written all over him like a neon sign. “He was here.” you echo. “And you just didn't tell me.”
You take a step back away from him before you even notice it. Like being in the same space as him right now was unbearable. “I need..” your words struggle to catch up with you. “I need a minute.”
You turn slightly, already heading to the door. “Wait–” It was a plea, and despite everything you still pause. Behind you, Bruce doesn't do anything to physically stop you. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't close the distance.
“I should have told you.” You let out a small broken laugh, not turning around. You couldn't face him now. “I didn't mean for it to be like this.” That makes you turn slightly, just to look at him from over your shoulder.
“I kept telling myself that there would be a right moment,” he says. “That I’d explain it to you, that I’d…” “And it never came.” you finish for him, and he doesn't deny or correct you anymore.
And he's looking at you like he wanted to reach out and not let go, but he doesn't. That's the problem. And for once, he doesn't know how to make things right either.
You don't say anything else, he doesn't either. So you leave. Not dramatically, not with a loud door slam or anything. Just a quiet click of the door shutting behind you.
You don't remember the walk back home clearly. Just the feeling of your phone weighing down your hands. Your thumb hovers over your contacts, your friend's names sitting at the top.
The same two people who carried you before when it felt like you were crumbling apart. You exhale shakily, then you press call.
And before either of them could speak. “Can you guys come over?” you try to hide the tremble in your voice. “Please.”
wc : 2.2k || ac : Stefphe || like & follow 4 more :3
summary : Jason is trying (and fumbling) to be normal. He’s not performing the gruff Red Hood persona here. instead, he’s quietly learning how to exist in a soft, everyday space without the constant edge of violence. He is trying to be gentle, which comes through in small, tender moments — the way he holds a knife like it might explode, how he softens his voice, how he second-guesses every touch until you reassure him it’s safe to just be. CW: mentions of redhood business, gun and knife mentions, fluff as frick.
a/n : I’m about to explode Word. my word count has been so wrong recently I’m SO sorry. Also can you tell I like writing cooking fics…
The kitchen smelled like slightly burnt garlic and nervous energy.
Jason stood at the counter in a plain black t shirt and grey sweatpants, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking at the cutting board like it had personally offended him. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he’d taken after patrol - the white streak at the front flopping messily over his forehead. No leather jacket, no guns, no mask. Just Jason Todd, attempting to make dinner like a normal person.
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with open affection. He’d shown up at your apartment twenty minutes ago with a paper grocery bag and a quietly determined look that said he’d been thinking about this all day.
“I said I’d cook,” he muttered without turning around. His voice was low, almost hesitant. “You’re supposed to sit and… I don’t know. Look pretty or something.”
You laughed softly. “I can do both. But I’d rather help. Or at least watch you not murder that onion.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softening the second they landed on you. The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, more like a shy half-smile he only let out when no one else was around. “Fair. Just… don’t expect gourmet. I mostly know how to heat up MREs and order Thai.”
You crossed the small kitchen and hopped up onto the counter beside the cutting board, swinging your legs. The apartment was warm, lights dimmed to a golden glow. Outside, Gotham’s usual chaos felt far away for once.
Jason picked up the chef’s knife you’d left out for him. He held it carefully - fingers positioned exactly as you’d shown him last week, but his grip was still a little too tight, shoulders tense like he was handling a live grenade instead of stainless steel.
You noticed. Of course you did.
“Jay,” you said gently. “It’s an onion. Not a suspect.”
He exhaled through his nose, a short, self-deprecating sound. “Old habits. Feels weird holding something sharp without… you know. Intent.”
You reached over and lightly touched his wrist. His skin was warm, scarred knuckles brushing yours. “No intent needed tonight. Just dinner. With me.”
He looked at your hand on his wrist for a long second, then nodded once. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He started chopping - slow, deliberate slices. Each cut was precise, but there was a carefulness to it that went beyond technique. Like he was reminding himself with every motion that this knife didn’t have to draw blood. That the world didn’t have to end in violence tonight.
The onion surrendered without a fight. Jason’s eyes watered anyway. He blinked hard, muttering, “This is bullshit. I’ve taken beatings from Killer Croc and I’m crying over vegetables.”
You grinned, hopping down to grab a tissue. “Here, tough guy.” You dabbed gently at the corners of his eyes, then kissed the tip of his nose. “Better?”
He blinked again, this time not from the onion. His expression went soft - the guarded edges melting away until he was just Jason, standing in your kitchen, looking at you like you’d hung the moon and stars. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Better.”
You moved on to the garlic. Jason watched you demonstrate crushing the cloves with the flat of the knife, then tried it himself. His first attempt was too hesitant; the clove skidded. The second was perfect - clean, controlled. He let out a small, surprised huff of satisfaction.
“See?” you said. “You’re getting it.”
He set the knife down and wiped his hands on a dish towel, then surprised you by stepping behind you and wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. No pressure, no weight - just presence. Like he was still learning how much of himself was allowed to touch you without overwhelming.
“Feels… normal,” he murmured. “Weirdly normal.”
You leaned back into him, covering his hands with yours where they rested on your stomach. “That’s the point. Normal can be good.”
He was quiet for a moment, just breathing with you. Then, softer: “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like someone’s gonna kick the door in and remind me I don’t get to have this.”
Your heart twisted. You turned in his arms, facing him. He didn’t step back; he just let you settle against his chest, your hands coming up to rest over his heart.
“You do get this,” you said firmly. “We both do. One dinner at a time.”
Jason searched your face, eyes uncertain but hopeful. He lifted one hand - slowly, telegraphing every movement - and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheekbone with the lightest touch, like he was afraid even that might be too much.
“You’re really patient with me,” he whispered.
“You’re worth it.”
He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you - gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like second chances. No rush, no hunger born from adrenaline. Just Jason learning how to be soft with someone he loved.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Okay. Back to dinner before I burn the place down.”
You smiled and let him go, though he kept one hand on your hip for a few extra seconds, as if reluctant to lose the contact.
The sauce came next. Jason stood at the stove, stirring the simmering tomatoes with a wooden spoon like it was a delicate operation. You handed him spices one by one - basil, oregano, a pinch of red pepper flakes. Each time he added something, he looked to you for approval, eyebrows raised in silent question.
“More garlic?” he asked after tasting.
“Always.”
He added another clove, then offered you the spoon. You blew on it gently and took a sip. The flavour bloomed - rich, a little sweet, with just enough heat.
“Perfect,” you declared.
Jason’s shoulders relaxed another notch. A real smile broke through this time — small, crooked, the one that made the scar on his lip crinkle. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. See? You’re a natural when you stop overthinking it.”
He set the spoon down and turned the heat to low. Then he surprised you again by pulling you in for another hug - this one a little firmer, but still careful. His arms circled your waist completely, but he kept his hands open, palms flat against your back instead of gripping.
“I like this,” he said against your hair. “Coming home to you. Not having to suit up again right away. Just… chopping onions and not thinking about patrol.”
You hugged him back, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear - a little faster than average, but calm. “You’re doing great at the normal thing.”
“Still feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life sometimes.” His voice dropped, vulnerable in the quiet kitchen. “Like any second I’ll wake up back in the dirt or in the Pit and this - you, the apartment, the stupid sauce - will disappear.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “It won’t. Because I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once - a tiny, decisive movement. “Okay.” He kissed your forehead, lingering there. “Okay.”
Dinner came together slowly after that. Pasta boiled on the back burner while Jason carefully plated everything - twirling the spaghetti with a fork the way you’d shown him, spooning sauce over the top, even grating fresh parmesan with a focus that made you bite back a grin. He set the small table with mismatched plates and lit a candle you didn’t even know you owned.
When you both sat down, he waited until you took the first bite before trying his own. His eyes lit up at the taste.
“Holy shit,” he said, genuinely surprised. “This is… actually good.”
You laughed. “Told you.”
He reached across the table and took your hand, thumb stroking gently over your knuckles. No roughness, no calloused grip that could bruise. Just warmth and quiet wonder.
The conversation flowed easily after that - not about cases or villains or the Batfamily drama, but small things. Your favorite book you’d been reading. The stray cat he’d started feeding near one of the safehouses. How he was thinking about getting a houseplant because “even I can’t kill something that just needs water, right?”
You teased him gently about the plant. He teased you back about your terrible knife skills. Laughter came easy in the warm light.
Halfway through the meal, Jason went quiet again, staring at your joined hands.
“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly.
He hesitated, then spoke in that low, careful voice. “I keep thinking about how I used to hold guns. Knives. How everything I touched ended up broken or bloody.” He swallowed. “And now I’m holding your hand. Making dinner. And it doesn’t feel… wrong. It feels like maybe I can learn how to do this without fucking it up.”
Your chest ached with how much you loved him in that moment.
“You’re not fucking it up,” you said. “You’re learning. And I love watching you do it.”
He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you. For letting me try.”
After dinner, you did the dishes together. Jason washed while you dried - a simple rhythm that felt achingly domestic. He was careful with the plates, setting them down like they were made of glass. When soap suds got on his nose, you wiped it away with the dish towel and he let you, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Once everything was clean, he pulled you into the living room. No TV. No patrol reports. Just the two of you on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you. One of his hands rested on your stomach, fingers tracing idle, gentle patterns through your shirt.
You talked for hours - about nothing and everything. He told you about the first time Alfred tried to teach him to cook as a kid (it ended with smoke alarms and Bruce looking vaguely disappointed). You told him about your worst cooking disaster. He laughed - a real, warm sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.
At some point you turned in his arms so you could face him. Jason’s expression was open, unguarded. No front. No sarcasm shield. Just soft green eyes and a slight flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the apartment and the wine you’d split.
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the faint scars on his cheekbones. “You’re really good at this domestic thing, you know.”
He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Only because it’s with you.”
You kissed him then - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that had no urgency, no adrenaline behind it. Just two people learning how to be gentle with each other in a world that had never been kind.
Jason kissed you back with the same careful reverence. His hands stayed on your waist, never wandering lower, never gripping too tight. When you deepened the kiss, he made a soft sound in the back of his throat but still held back, letting you lead.
You pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips, “You can touch me, Jay. I’m not going to break.”
He exhaled shakily. “I know. I just… I like making sure.”
You smiled and kissed him again. “I know you do. And I love that about you.”
The night wound down naturally. Jason carried you to bed when you started yawning — not sweeping you up dramatically, but lifting you with easy care, like you were something precious. He set you down on the mattress gently, then climbed in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you.
You curled into his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you — loose, warm, protective without caging.
“Stay the night?” you murmured, already half-asleep.
“Wouldn’t leave even if you kicked me out,” he whispered back. His fingers stroked slowly through your hair. “This… this is the best part of my day. Coming here. Being normal with you.”
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “Then keep coming back. Every night if you want.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then, so softly you almost missed it:
“I think I’m starting to believe I can.”
You fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest — no nightmares tonight, no Red Hood lurking at the edges. Just Jason learning how to be home.
In the morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jason humming off-key in the kitchen as he attempted pancakes. He was still in last night’s sweatpants, hair sleep-mussed, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.
When he noticed you watching from the doorway, he gave you that shy half-smile again and held up the spatula like a peace offering.
“Round two?” he asked. “I promise not to burn them this time.”
You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his back.
“Round two sounds perfect.”
And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd believed it might actually be.
( PART ONE & PART TWO / comic masterlist / main masterlist / taglist )
⋆ starring: ONLY JASON MF TODD!
⋆ cw: NSFW 18+ mdni, f!reader, TOXIC behaviors, slight angst, explicit texts, swearing
⋆ a/n: unfortunately i could only write a continuation for jason. the rest of them gave me the ick BAD so they'll stay blocked!!
‣ jason is the type to act annoyed when you steal his hoodies, but secretly loves seeing you wear them. every single time he catches you walking around in one of his oversized sweatshirts, he'll roll his eyes and tell you that you have your own clothes. the thing is, he never actually asks for them back. in fact, he'll intentionally leave his favorite hoodies draped over chairs or hanging by the door because he knows you'll take them. if you ever return one, he'll probably stare at it for a second and ask why you aren't wearing it anymore.
‣ he leaves his books everywhere. you swear he owns multiple bookshelves, but somehow every surface in the apartment ends up covered in novels. there'll be one on the kitchen counter, three on the coffee table, and another balanced on the arm of the couch. sometimes you'll pick one up to move it and find little sticky notes that have scribbled writing fall out of them. jason claims he's organized because he "knows where everything is," but you'll never understand how he manages to locate a specific book among the chaos.
‣ grocery shopping with him is dangerous. you'll enter the store with a perfectly reasonable shopping list and leave wondering how the bill doubled. jason somehow sneaks random snacks into the cart whenever you're distracted. you'll be comparing pasta brands, then look down and discover three different types of cookies and enough cereal to survive an apocalypse. the worst part is that he always acts innocent when you call him out, even though he's absolutely guilty.
‣ he loves cooking for you. jason genuinely enjoys being in the kitchen, especially when he's making something he knows you'll love. if you've had a bad day, he'll quietly start cooking before you even have a chance to complain about it. the apartment fills with the smell of your favorite meal, and suddenly the day feels a little less awful. he'll act like it's no big deal, but he pays attention to every little thing you like and remembers it.
‣ movie nights are mandatory. jason will complain endlessly if you choose a romantic movie, claiming they're all predictable. then he'll proceed to watch the entire thing while providing commentary on every scene. he gets weirdly invested in side characters and starts making predictions about the plot halfway through. if he's right, he'll spend the rest of the night bragging about it. if he's wrong, he'll insist the writers changed the ending just to spite him.
‣ jason pretends he doesn't like cuddling. if anyone asked him, he'd probably deny being affectionate at all. yet somehow every movie night ends with him stretched across half your body. he'll start by sitting on the opposite side of the couch, then gradually move closer until you're practically trapped beneath him. once he's comfortable, he's not moving for anything. at that point, you've basically become his personal pillow.
‣ he remembers tiny details about you. jason notices things most people overlook and stores them away without saying anything. he remembers your coffee order, your favorite candy, and which songs you always replay in the car. weeks later, he'll casually show up with your favorite drink and act like it's nothing special. meanwhile, you're standing there wondering how he remembered something you mentioned once three months ago. he'll never admit how much attention he pays to you.
‣ arguments never last long. jason can absolutely be stubborn when he's upset. he'll cross his arms, glare at the wall, and insist he's fine when he's clearly not. but no matter how irritated he is, he hates sleeping while things are unresolved between you. eventually he'll wander into the room and sit beside you in silence for a minute before quietly asking, "you still mad?"
‣ the apartment is filled with little signs of him caring. your phone charger mysteriously gets replaced before you even realize the old one is broken. your favorite snacks somehow appear in the pantry whenever you run out. the blanket you always steal is folded neatly on the couch after he notices you left it somewhere else. jason isn't always great at expressing his feelings out loud, so he shows them through actions instead. the apartment becomes full of tiny reminders that he's always thinking about you.
‣ he absolutely loves when you read while he's reading. some of his favorite moments are the quiet ones where neither of you says much. you'll be curled up together on the couch, each lost in your own book for hours. every once in a while he'll read a line he likes and slide the book over for you to see. there's no pressure to fill the silence because being together is enough. to jason, those peaceful moments feel just as meaningful as any big romantic gesture.
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ featuring: bruce wayne, wally west, jason todd, tim drake x reader!!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, little angsty (sorry), established relationships & situationships, resolve!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ a/n: heres part two!! YAY! i intentionally left out dick, hal, and damian as i feel that their parts were fine to leave off where they were in pt 1 (ofc dick does no wrong) also peep how many times in my smaus i reference that "italian restaurant"
check out my other smaus and pt 1!!
thanks for reading lovelies <333 (ps. i love wally sm, wally's my baby)
hiii!! i love your smau so much and you write their vibes really well!! i have a request if you want where reader is going out and sends a photo of their outfit and we get the batboys + wally reactions <3
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ ・you show them your outfit・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ
‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ·❉· ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ︵‿︵‿︵‿ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ·❉· ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ featuring: dick grayson, bruce wayne, wally west, jason todd, hal jordan, aged up!damian wayne, tim drake, roy harper x reader!!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, fluff, innuendos, crack, established relationships
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ a/n: hiii thank you for the request and kind words, angel!! we have batboys & wally!! plus a couple additions...tehe 👀 hope u enjoy <3
A girl never grows out of smaus lol can we have some jay? i love that emotionally stunted nerd so much
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ ・texts w/ boyfriend! jason todd・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ
‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ·❉· ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ︵‿︵‿︵‿ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ·❉· ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ featuring: jason todd x reader!!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, fluffy, slice of life, crack, mentions of oral, established relationship
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ a/n: FINALLY finished this one
thank you for the request <33 much love 😽
I LOVE ME SOME JAY
also HAPPY INDIGENOUS & PRIDE MONTH
