I'm starting to get REALLY sick of the hate they're getting. you're all for heated rivalry and so horny for men but you cant possibly let the already underrepresented lesbians have one season of a show. why do we have to be fetishized to be seen? sighhhhh
summary: your soulmate has ghosted you? time to become an international terrorist.
wc: 5.3k
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Questions used: 10. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
---
The first day you thought he was just napping.
By day three, you stop checking the window every time headlights pass your apartment building.
By day five, you start doing it again.
Jason should have been back by now.
Because logically, Jason being gone longer than expected is not unusual. Vigilante adjacent mercenary work probably does not operate on clean scheduling. There are explosions involved. International airspace violations.
Still.
A week feels strange.
The apartment feels wrong too.
His stupid boots are not by the door. His jacket is not slung over the couch. Nobody is stealing bites of cookie dough directly from the mixing bowl while claiming it’s “quality control.”
The reading nook sits empty. Fatson Todd has somehow migrated into Jason’s usual corner like he’s inheriting territory.
You stare at him suspiciously while curled beneath a blanket.
“This is bad, right?” you ask the plushie.
Fatson Todd offers no useful insights.
Which had not actually answered anything.
Next, you texted his family. Unfortunately, all they had to say is that Jason is fine. Dumb, but fine. Apparently he threatened them with bodily harm if they gave you any details.
After that, you waited. Because Jason had a key.
And the thing about Jason was that he appeared in places unexpectedly all the time now. Fire escapes. Balconies. Your couch at two in the morning claiming he “was in the area.”
So naturally, you kept expecting to hear the lock click.
You figured eventually he’d appear in your apartment like nothing is wrong. You even rehearsed your response. Or variations of responses depending on how mad you want to act.
Cool and casual:
oh wow look who remembered i exist
Maybe slightly emotional:
i was worried, idiot
Possibly dramatic:
i almost filed a missing persons report with batman
But the lock stayed still. The apartment stayed quiet.
By day six, desperation won and you decided to try the old faithful. You dragged your cooler down to Crime Alley with enough cookies to feed a small militia and left a note tucked beneath the lid.
for jason <3 pls stop acting mysterious and text me back
It had felt solid at the time.
Romantic, even.
Unfortunately, when you returned the next morning, five homeless men had somehow picked the cooler lock and were happily eating chocolate chunk on the curb.
One of them waved. “Those peanut-free?”
You blinked.
“…yes?”
“Oh good,” another said around a mouthful of cookie. “Frank’s allergic.”
So now this was your life. You got bullied by five homeless men and volunteered to bake them cookies weekly. You stared darkly at the tray of fresh snickerdoodles sliding into the oven.
That is when an idea struck you. If being nice and baking cookies doesn't wrok… you will have to get Jason’s attention some other way.
You have to become a criminal.
—
Post your latest cookie drop off (Anthony loved the snickerdoodle but asked if you can add caramel next time), you are contemplating your life of crime as you walk home.
You needed to do something dramatic enough to get the Red Hood’s attention. Preferably not dangerous-dangerous. Just a little concerning.
A little criminal.
You chew on your lip thoughtfully while waiting at a crosswalk.
What crimes even existed?
Grand larceny?
Absolutely not. You did not have the upper body strength for grand anything.
Auto theft?
You pause.
“…I don’t even have my full license yet,” you mutter to yourself.
Also Gotham cars probably exploded when hotwired wrong. That felt like important information.
Arson was obviously out.
Tax fraud sounded boring.
Blackmail required confidence.
You pass a tagged wall.
Graffiti, though…
Now there was something with flair.
Low stakes.
Artistic.
Very Gotham.
Batman probably saw graffiti constantly.
The Red Hood definitely did. And it is enough a crime where people intervene but criminals don't get arrested.
A tiny spark of determination settles in your chest.
Yes, this could work. You nod to yourself decisively and step off the curb—
A horn blares beside you.
You freeze mid-step.
The walk signal is still red.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
You just jaywalked.
Your heart launches directly into your throat while a taxi speeds past, the driver glaring at you through the windshield.
For one horrifying second, genuine panic grips you.
This was it.
Your descent into criminality.
First jaywalking.
Then graffiti.
Then somehow you’d end up with a rogues gallery nickname like the baker or something and several unresolved issues with Batman.
You stand there for a moment, breathing hard.
Then slowly you push the panic down.
You needed to get used to this feeling now.
The adrenaline.
The danger.
The lawlessness.
This was your life now.
You were living a life of crime.
Baby steps.
—
CRIME ATTEMPT #1
—
The spray paint situation is your first obstacle.
“This is criminal discrimination,” you mutter under your breath while standing in the Michael’s craft aisle at eight thirty at night.
Apparently Michael’s Arts & Crafts did not cater to aspiring vigilante bait.
You pick up the glitter silver can with deep resentment.
“…Fine,” you whisper. “We adapt.”
Ten minutes later, you are speed-walking through Gotham with a tote bag full of craft-store spray paint feeling profoundly unqualified for organized crime.
The December cold bites instantly through your coat. Wind whips down the alleyways hard enough to sting your eyes, but you keep going, scarf pulled high over the lower half of your face like the world’s least threatening supervillain.
Honestly, you look less like a criminal and more like someone about to lose a fight with seasonal allergies.
Still.
Commitment mattered.
You finally find the wall near Crime Alley by complete accident.
Tall brick.
Mostly empty.
A battered NO TRESPASSING sign hanging crooked nearby.
Your pulse spikes immediately.
Perfect.
This was exactly the kind of place vigilantes probably monitored.
The Red Hood would absolutely investigate suspicious graffiti activity here.
You glance around nervously before ducking into the alley, boots crunching against thin patches of snow.
Time to become mysterious.
You pull the silver spray can from your tote bag with trembling fingers. The little metal ball inside rattles ominously. Your breath fogs through the scarf while you stare at the blank brick wall.
Then you realize something horrifying.
You never actually planned what to paint.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Your brain immediately empties itself.
What did criminals even paint?
Threats?
Symbols?
Cryptic warnings?
You panic instantly.
The spray can hisses accidentally when your finger jerks.
Twenty minutes later, the alley is covered in glittering silver and blue snowflakes.
The glitter paint catches the alley light beautifully, sparkling softly against the dark brick while snow falls around you in lazy white drifts.
You step back slowly, breathing hard through the scarf.
“…Wait.”
It’s actually kind of cute.
Not intimidating.
Not remotely criminal.
But cute.
The problem is that now you’ve committed to the bit.
So you shove your hands into your coat pockets and linger awkwardly near the alley entrance waiting to be arrested.
Or confronted dramatically.
Or at minimum mildly questioned.
This was still Gotham.
Surely suspicious alley graffiti would trigger SOME kind of vigilante response.
You wait ten minutes.
Nothing.
Fifteen.
Still nothing.
A stray cat walks past and ignores you completely.
“Oh, come on,” you mutter.
By twenty minutes, your toes have gone numb.
The Red Hood does not appear from the shadows.
Batman does not descend dramatically from a gargoyle.
Nobody even yells at you.
Eventually you trudge home offended.
Honestly?
Rude.
You committed crimes for him.
The least he could do was acknowledge them.
—
The next morning, Gotham Instagram discovers the alley.
You learn this while eating cereal in your pajamas and scrolling half-asleep through your phone.
@gotham.city.aesthetic: ❄️ whoever made the snowflake alley downtown… i owe you my life actually
Attached is a professionally edited reel of your graffiti set to melancholy indie music.
You sit bolt upright.
“What.”
More notifications flood in.
People are taking photos there.
Someone proposed there apparently.
A local influencer called it: “a symbol of fragile beauty surviving gotham’s darkness 🥺”
There is now a location tag called:
#snowflakealley
You stare at your screen in horror.
This was not the intended outcome.
This was supposed to summon Jason Todd.
Not accidentally improve Gotham morale.
—-
CRIME ATTEMPT #2
—-
Mugging, you decide, is probably the fastest way to get the Red Hood’s attention.
Vigilantes loved muggings. That’s how Jason and you met after all.
Which means all you have to do is create one tiny robbery scenario where you steal from a sweet grandma and Jason will practically materialize from the shadows himself.
Perfect.
Unfortunately, Crime Alley at nine p.m. contains absolutely no muggable people.
This city was unbelievable.
Where were the old ladies with purses?
Where were the businessmen carrying suspiciously robbable briefcases?
You specifically picked nine p.m. because movies suggested that was prime mugging time.
Instead Gotham apparently believed in bedtime.
A taxi splashes through a puddle nearby.
You sigh dramatically into your scarf.
Maybe you needed to think bigger.
Big risks equaled big rewards.
That was probably what criminals said.
Your eyes narrow on the next pedestrian approaching down the sidewalk.
Not an old lady.vBut non-threatening.
Average height.
Beanie.
Holding grocery bags.
You could absolutely rob that man.
Probably.
Your pulse immediately skyrockets as you step into his path.
The poor guy startles hard enough to almost drop his groceries.
“HEY,” you blurt.
Excellent opening.
Very criminal.
The man blinks at you cautiously.
“…Hi?”
Okay.
Commit.
You square your shoulders and point at him dramatically.
“Hand over your money.”
Silence.
A car alarm chirps somewhere in the distance.
The man stares at you for a long moment. “Are you lost?” he says.
You panic slightly.
Stay focused.
You lower your voice another octave, which unfortunately just makes you sound congested.
“Give me money.”
The man’s expression shifts instantly from confused to deeply concerned.
“I mean…” He adjusts the grocery bags awkwardly. “I can buy you a bus ticket if you need help?”
You stare at him.
“No,” you say carefully. “This is a robbery.”
The man goes pale. “Oh my god.”
Finally.
Recognition.
Fear.
Respect.
“You’re being robbed?”
“What?”
His gaze darts around the alley frantically. “Did somebody take your wallet? Are they still here?”
“No! I’m robbing YOU.”
Then his entire expression softens in a way that immediately offends you.
He lowers his grocery bags carefully onto the pavement like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says cautiously. “Can I call someone for you?”
You stare at him.
“What.”
“A friend? Your parents? Somebody who can pick you up?”
“I’m committing a CRIME.”
“You seem overwhelmed.”
“I’m threatening you!”
Before you can recover, headlights suddenly sweep across the alley.
A police cruiser rolls slowly past the entrance.
The man’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh thank god.”
“No no no no—”
The cruiser stops.
A cop steps out, one hand already resting near his belt while he looks between the two of you.
The man points directly at you.
“This poor girl needs help.”
You actually recoil. “WHAT.”
The officer’s expression shifts instantly into concern.
“Miss?” he asks carefully. “Are you alright?”
“I’m robbing him.”
The cop blinks once.
The man gives him a deeply sympathetic look. “I think she’s having some kind of episode.”
“I AM ACTIVELY THREATENING YOU.”
“You’re shivering pretty badly,” the officer notes gently.
“That’s because crime is stressful!”
Ten minutes later, you are sitting in the back of the police cruiser wrapped in an emergency blanket while the officer gives you hotline numbers and tells you that “vigilante-adjacent emotional situations” are more common than people think.
—-
By late Christmas eve, you are officially out of ideas.
Crime has failed you.
The Gotham Police Department had gently encouraged therapy.
And Jason Todd was still ignoring every single attempt you made to reach him.
Which meant you were now curled sideways in his armchair in the reading nook at one in the morning feeling deeply, catastrophically pathetic.
Fatson Todd is tucked beneath one arm like emotional support artillery while snow taps softly against the apartment windows.
Your chest aches.
Maybe honesty really is the best policy.
No more crimes.
No more emotional terrorism.
No more failed muggings.
Just try talking to him.
You open Twitter for the first time in years because it’s probably the only place where he hasn’t blocked you yet. You smile when you see the handle. @boomeringue. It used to be the username you used for everything from twitter to club penguin.
You try to keep it brief. You don’t want to seem overbearing:
@redhood city square. christmas eve. 8pm.
You stare at the tweet for a long moment before hitting post.
Hopefully, by some miracle, he’ll see it and you can finally talk.
—
Wayne Manor is miserable on Christmas Eve.
The tree is lit.
The garlands are up.
There’s music playing softly somewhere down the hall.
And yet the entire manor somehow feels like somebody kicked a puppy directly into the holiday spirit.
Jason is sitting in the armchair nearest the fire looking like human seasonal depression in a leather jacket. Which means everyone else is suffering too.
Dick breaks first. “This sucks,” he announces.
Nobody disagrees.
Even Alfred pauses briefly while serving dessert.
“Master Richard,” he says diplomatically.
“No offence, Alfred,” Dick says immediately, “but if she was here we’d have chocolate mousse right now instead of fruitcake.”
“None taken, sir.”
Tim pokes at his slice with visible despair. “She would’ve decorated the cookies.”
“She would’ve made hot chocolate,” Steph mourns.
“She would have laughed at my joke about superman and mistletoe," Duke adds quietly.
Damian scowls down at his tea. “Todd has ruined morale.”
Jason doesn’t look up from the glass in his hand.
“Can all of you shut up.”
“No,” Dick says instantly. “This is weird. You’re weird.”
Jason’s jaw tightens.
For the last week he has been moody, snappy, and Cass once caught him sobbing to All too Well on his bike.
Which, in fairness, narrows his behavior down very little.
Steph finally snaps.
“Okay, I’m saying it,” she declares. “Go apologize to your girlfriend.”
Jason’s expression hardens instantly.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh my god,” Tim mutters.
“And she’s not my soulmate,” Jason says flatly. “Drop it.”
Silence falls across the room.
Even Alfred stops moving for half a second.
Dick stares at him. “Jason.”
“I mean it.”
Something ugly twists briefly across Jason’s face before disappearing behind that familiar hard expression again.
“We got confused,” he says shortly. “That’s all.”
Nobody responds immediately because that explanation makes absolutely no sense and noody believes it.
And because Bruce, unfortunately, now looks like he wants to have a father-son conversation.
Before that catastrophe can occur—
Ping
Barbara’s laptop lights up on the coffee table.
Everyone turns automatically.
Barbara frowns down at the incoming alert. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Duke asks.
She opens the file.
Then immediately straightens.
“Oh, that’s bad timing.”
The room shifts instantly.
Jason sits forward slightly.
Bruce is already on his feet.
Barbara answers the incoming GCPD call on speaker. “Oracle.”
“We’ve got a flagged threat tied to tonight’s Christmas market,” a dispatcher says quickly. “Cybercrimes escalated it to major incidents.”
Barbara’s eyes skim rapidly across the report.
The dispatcher lowers his voice ominously.
“We think the suspect may be operating under the alias Eringue.”
Silence.
“Potential extremist,” the dispatcher continues confidently. “Possibly foreign.”
Bruce’s expression sharpens immediately. “What’s the threat level?”
“Potential bombing,” Barbara says grimly. “Christmas Eve market. High civilian density.”
That gets everyone moving instantly.
Finally,
Action.
Dick stands so fast he nearly knocks over the fruitcake.
Duke’s already reaching for comms.
Tim peers over Babs’ shoulder for the report.
Damian actually looks excited for the first time all evening.
“The mayor doesn’t want the festivities disrupted publicly,” she says. “So GCPD’s sending bomb squads in plainclothes while we establish perimeter positions.”
Bruce nods once. “Assignments.”
“Nightwing and Spoiler cover east exits. Robin with Red Robin on rooftop surveillance. Signal monitors crowd movement.” Barbara pulls up the city map. “Red Hood takes the central market.”
Across the city, entirely unaware you had accidentally triggered Gotham’s anti-terror response, you were standing in a flower shop holding two bouquets with increasing distress.
“Do these look too breakup-y?” you asked nervously.
The cashier blinked. “The… roses?”
“No, roses are romantic.” You frowned down at the white lilies in your other hand. “The lilies feel profound.”
Outside, Gotham police quietly established a bomb perimeter around the Christmas market.
You picked carnations.
—
The Gotham Christmas market is operating under active anti-terror surveillance.
Fortunately, none of the civilians know that.
Families drift between vendor stalls beneath glowing string lights while Christmas music crackles softly through overhead speakers. Kids clutch cups of hot chocolate with mittened hands. Someone nearby is aggressively roasting chestnuts.
Meanwhile every available vigilante in Gotham is perched somewhere overhead waiting for a potential bombing.
“East side clear,” Nightwing says through comms.
“Couple arguing near the skating rink,” Spoiler adds. “The boyfriend definitely cheated but probably not terrorism related.”
Robin crouches at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the market, cape snapping sharply in the winter wind.
“A man near the fountain has been pacing for seven minutes,” Damian reports.
Red Robin glances down at his scanner. “He’s waiting for his wife. Elevated heart rate but no weapon signatures.”
“Disappointing,” Damian mutters.
Below them, plainclothes bomb squad officers weave carefully through the crowd pretending to browse holiday stalls.
Oracle’s voice cuts cleanly through the comm network.
“Reminder: the mayor's office does not want panic. Keep movement controlled unless we confirm a threat.”
Jason stands on a roof closest to the square with his helmet on, arms crossed tightly over his chest while snow drifts slowly onto his jacket.
“West perimeter,” Signal says suddenly. “Guy in the green parka keeps touching his pockets.”
Jason’s attention snaps over immediately.
The man pulls out:
“A candy cane,” Nightwing sighs.
“Oh come ON,” Steph groans.
A child drops hot chocolate nearby. Jason flinches instinctively at the sound hitting pavement.
Oracle’s voice crackles suddenly through the comms.
“Hold.”
Every channel goes quiet instantly.
Barbara’s typing echoes faintly in the background before she says:
“Red Hood.”
Jason straightens automatically. “What.”
“Your soulmate just entered through the west gate. I see it on camera three.”
Silence detonates across the network.
Every Bat immediately turns toward the west entrance.
Jason’s stomach drops hard enough to hurt.
“No,” he says instantly.
And then he sees you.
Winter coat.
Scarf.
Flowers tucked carefully against your chest.
Flowers?
Nightwing squints through binoculars from the rooftop.
“…Is she on a date?”
Jason’s grip tightens so hard around his gun holster it creaks.
Spoiler gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD SHE’S ON A DATE.”
“She brought flowers,” Duke says weakly.
“Perhaps she finally located a man with emotional intelligence,” Damian offers.
Jason genuinely considers violence.
Not because you’re on a date.
You should be on a date.
You should move on from this entire disaster and find someone normal and alive and uncomplicated who doesn’t vanish for two weeks because he’s too damaged to process affection correctly.
Still. It's been two weeks.. Did you move on that quick?
The sight of those flowers in your hands makes something ugly twist low in his chest.
Dick’s voice softens slightly. “Jay…”
“She deserves better,” Jason says flatly before anyone can say it first.
The words land heavily across the comms.
For one brief second, nobody jokes. Then Oracle cuts through the silence sharply.
“Can you people be serious for ONE second?”
Barbara sounds genuinely appalled.
“There is an active potential bomb threat at this location,” she snaps. “And his soulmate is standing in the middle of it.”
Jason freezes.
Right.
The threat.
Your flowers suddenly stop looking romantic and start looking terrifyingly vulnerable.
Oracle’s voice hardens instantly into mission mode.
“Red Hood, get her out of there now.”
Jason moves before anyone can say another word.
“One minute,” Batman says sharply through comms.
Jason ignores him completely.
The rooftop door slams hard enough behind him to rattle the stairwell as he tears downward three steps at a time. Snow and cold air still cling to his armor while Oracle continues talking in his ear about evacuation routes and threat containment.
He barely hears her.
All he can think about is you standing in the middle of a potential bombing with flowers in your hands.
Idiot.
His idiot.
Jason yanks the helmet off halfway down the stairs and shoves it into an abandoned maintenance cabinet without slowing. Next go the guns. Holstered beneath his jacket where civilians won’t see them.
By the time he hits street level, he barely looks like Red Hood at all.
Just Jason.
Just a man sprinting through Gotham Christmas crowds with panic clawing up his throat.
He spots you near the center fountain immediately.
You’re standing on your toes slightly, scanning the market crowd with your bouquet tucked against your chest. When he shouts your name. Your head snaps toward him instantly.
Your entire face lights up.
Relief crashes across your expression so openly and immediately it almost stops him in his tracks.
“Jason!”
You hurry toward him through the crowd, smiling so brightly it physically hurts to look at after two weeks of silence.
Jason reaches you and immediately grabs your hand.
“We need to go,” he says.
“What?”
“There’s a threat. C’mon.”
He starts pulling you quickly through the market crowd toward the nearest exit, grip tight around your wrist while his eyes scan rooftops and civilians automatically.
Behind him, Oracle is feeding him updates through comms.
“No suspicious movement near the north barricade—”
“Bomb squad entering west side—”
“Red Hood, keep moving.”
You stumble slightly trying to keep up.
“Jason, wait”
“No time.”
“What do you MEAN no time??”
“There’s a potential attack here.”
Your eyes widen instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Exactly.”
Jason keeps moving, pulse pounding violently now.
If something goes off before he gets you clear—
“Jason,” you say again, tugging against his hand this time. “Wait, hold on.”
“We are literally not holding on.”
“No, listen to me first!”
Jason finally slows just enough to look back at you.
You stare up at him, confused now.
“…Did you get my message?”
Jason pauses.
The crowd noise dulls strangely around him.
“…What message?”
“The tweet,” you repeat slowly. “I asked you to meet me here at 8”
Jason stares.
Snow drifts lazily between the market lights while Gotham continues bustling around you completely oblivious to the active anti-terror operation currently unfolding in the background.
“You…” Jason says faintly. “You sent that?”
“Yes?” Your eyebrows knit together. “Why else would you be here?”
Oh my god.
Behind Jason, somewhere across the rooftops, half the Batfamily is currently preparing for a bombing because of a twitter account you made when you were 12.
You keep talking before he can process that information.
You shift awkwardly beneath his silence.
“…Okay, well now I feel stupid,” you mutter. “But you blocked my number, which was honestly insane behavior by the way, and nobody would tell me where you lived, and I even tried the cookie cooler thing again but homeless people stole them—”
Jason actually stops breathing for a second.
“Who?.”
“That’s not important.” You wave it off immediately. “The point is I had to escalate.” You sound genuinely defensive about this.
Jason’s eyes sting suddenly. There is no threat. For a moment when he saw you standing there, he was terrified. All his neurons fired with a single message of get her out.
He pulls you into him so suddenly you gasp.
The bouquet crushes awkwardly between your coats while his arms lock around you hard enough to almost lift you off the ground. Jason buries his face against your hair immediately like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.
His shoulders shake once.
“Oh,” you say softly.
His breath catches sharply against your temple.
“I missed you.” You keep talking. “I almost became a criminal.”
“Almost?”
“I jaywalked.”
“…Oh my god.”
“And then I did graffiti but it accidentally became an Instagram spot instead of a threat to society.”
You keep ranting on but Jason is barely hanging onto your words because a realization washes over him like warm water. You came here for him.
Not because fate told you to.
Not because a timer forced you to.
But because he disappeared and you refused to let him go quietly.
Your voice keeps tumbling out in nervous little bursts.
“And then the mugging thing didn’t work either—”
“The WHAT.”
“Again, not important.”
Jason’s chest cracks open.
Because suddenly he sees it.
Not a mistake.
Not confusion.
Not some dead soulmate’s empty place he accidentally crawled into.
You.
Choosing him over and over again anyway.
All his life Jason had wanted one impossible thing: Someone who would fight for him back.
Willis didn’t.
Catherine couldn’t.
Bruce loved him, yes, but even that love always came tangled in grief and rules and distance.
But you committed crimes for him.
Badly.
Terribly.
Emotionally.
But still. His shoulders shake once before he can stop them.
He is such an idiot. He was so scared that he wasn't your soulmate that he failed to consider that you are exactly what he needed. Someone who’ll fight for him. Of course the universe gave him you.
You’re still talking softly against his chest.
“…and honestly the graffiti turned out kind of nice actually—”
Jason laughs once.
You pull back just enough to look at him properly and see that his eyes are wet.
Your entire expression crumples instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Jason.”
He looks wrecked. Like he’s been holding himself together by force for weeks and finally ran out of strength.
“I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
And that’s when you realize.
He thought you were really angry.
“Oh no no no,” you say immediately, grabbing his jacket. “Wait, Jason, it’s okay. I’m not really mad, you’re here now!”
That undoes him completely.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, like the words aren’t enough but he has nothing else to offer. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Then quieter.
Smaller somehow.
“I thought…” His jaw tightens painfully. “I thought I was ruining your life.”
Your face falls instantly.
“What are you talking about?”
“The bracelet broke,” he blurts suddenly. “And your timer stopped before we met and I just—I thought maybe your real soulmate died and we got it wrong somehow and you deserved someone better than—”
You cover his mouth with your hand. “Do not finish that sentence, Jason. That is the dumbest thing I have ever hear”
He laughs into your palm before gently removing it. “I love you so much.”
Your breath catches sharply enough that Jason’s expression immediately shifts into panic like maybe he said too much..
So you kiss him.
Immediately.
One hand grab his face at once as you pull him down into you, flowers crushed hopelessly between your coats while Jason makes this startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back like he’s starving for it.
Jason’s hands slide into your hair while your fingers curl tight into the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer every single time he tries to breathe. The cold air disappears beneath the warmth of him entirely. Snow melts against your cheeks. Christmas music hums faintly somewhere behind you but it feels very far away now.
All you can process is Jason.
Jason kissing you back like he means it.
Like he’s relieved.
Like he’s still a little afraid this might disappear if he stops.
Around the square, Gotham’s vigilantes are collectively witnessing far more intimacy than anybody signed up for tonight.
Then Jason’s comm crackles violently in his ear.
“HELLO?” Oracle snaps. “Potential bomb threat? Massive public gathering? Ringing any bells??”
Jason breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.
His eyes are still half-lidded when he presses a hand to the comm.
“There’s no threat,” he says hoarsely.
“…What.”
Jason glances down at you.
At your flushed cheeks.
Your crushed flowers.
The fact that you are very obviously not an international terrorist.
His mouth twitches helplessly.
“Go home,” he tells Barbara simply.
He kisses you again.
The bouquet finally slips from your hands somewhere between kisses.
Flowers scatter across the snow near your boots.
You pull back suddenly.
“Oh!”
Jason looks alarmed for half a second like maybe something exploded after all until you crouch quickly to grab the roses.
“No wait,” you mumble, laughing breathlessly now. “I forgot.”
Jason’s still staring at you like he hasn’t fully recovered from the fact that you kissed him back.
You straighten again and hold the bouquet out toward him properly this time, cheeks pink from cold and kissing and emotional terrorism.
“I got you these.”
Jason blinks.
The market noise seems to disappear completely around him.
“…You got me flowers.”
You frown slightly. “Well, yeah.”
Like that’s obvious. Like people bring Jason Todd flowers every day.
“It’s a date,” you explain softly. “I was trying to be romantic before you started your mysterious self-destructive disappearing act.”
His throat works visibly.
“Oh my god,” you say immediately. “No wait, are you crying AGAIN?”
Jason laughs once through it, embarrassed and wrecked all at once while taking the bouquet from your hands with absurd care like it might break.
“Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely.
You smile a little helplessly at that, shifting closer automatically beneath the market lights while snow drifts softly around you both.
Around you, the Christmas market buzzes warmly with music and laughter and the smell of cinnamon.
A perfect date setting, honestly.
You open your mouth.
“So,” you say carefully, “do you maybe wanna—”
“Can we go home?”
The words leave Jason immediately.
Jason looks suddenly overwhelmed by the entire concept of being perceived.
“I just…” He exhales hard through a laugh, eyes still suspiciously wet. “I think if we stay here much longer I might actually lose my mind.”
Your chest aches so violently it feels unfair.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Jason reaches for your hand automatically after that, intertwining your fingers like it’s instinct now. The flowers remain tucked carefully against his chest while the two of you begin walking slowly out of the market together.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his while weaving through the crowd.
“I still cannot believe you ghosted me over a bracelet,” you mumble.
Jason looks offended immediately.
“It was broken.”
“I have, like, twenty bracelets.”
“It symbolized you.”
“It was from a retreat gift shop.”
Jason tightens his grip on your hand slightly. “It mattered to me.”
Your expression softens instantly.
Then you remember something and squint at him again.
“Well I can’t believe you thought I’d stop talking to you forever.”
“You accidentally became a terrorist to contact me.”
“I became emotionally resourceful.”
“You triggered bomb squad deployment.”
“You blocked my number.”
“That does not justify federal crimes.”
“I also jaywalked, did graffiti, and tried mugging.”
He shook his head at that and slung an arm around you, pulling you closer to kiss your temple.
“I’ll let you know the next time I have a self destructive spiral”
“That’s all I ever wanted” You say, “Now come on, Fatson missed his papa”
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a/n: so you can probs tell how long this sat in the drafts from the christmas eve setting. also add me on club peguin @boomeringue
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taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
I hate when I’m reading a smut/spicy fic and the author just drops the most devastating angst in the middle before going back to smut. It makes me feel like a dog who only takes their meds if it’s wrapped in cheese
I still think it’s so funny that shane was assigned gay by rose landry and his reaction was WHEW! thank god someone else decided that for me. anyway I’m off to get my man I can sense that he’s making bad decisions in a club somewhere
pairing: adrian chase x reader
summary: you are sick and horny. he sees it as an opportunity to help and bond with his bestfriend
word count: 1.7k
tags: afab!reader (but description that are not about the boom shakalaka is gn), nsfw, smut, 18+ mdni!, oral sex, porn w some plot, masturbation
a/n: lets just say i can attest to the part where *loud train noises passing by*
Saturday. It was the one day of the week dedicated for you and Adrian to hangout at each other's place — ordering chinese takeaway and watching some cliche B-grade horror movie. Or chick flick, depending on the mood.
Unfortunately, you came down with a horrendous cold, most likely catching it from a coworker who refused to take the day off despite them coughing and sneezing as if they were the patient zero of a virus outbreak.
Heaps of used tissues were piled up by the bedside. The flu medication you received from the clinic you visited earlier that day was strewn all over.
'Man, I feel like a sick child in the Victorian era,' You thought to yourself, sniffling and using a new ply of tissue to stuff into the runny nostril as you lay in bed like a dying person.
You had already taken the medication as the labels instructed, slowly feeling its effects. Before succumbing to a deep temporary slumber, you quickly texted Adrian:
sorry, gotta cancel our weekly hangout
down with a cold :(
don't want you to get sick too
Chucking your phone aside, you made yourself comfortable before closing your eyes. Minutes passed by and yet, you found yourself floating between consciousness and a dreamlike state, unable to fully fall asleep. A loud sigh reverberated off the walls of your room — a wave of lethargy hit you as you rested in bed. Maybe sleeping too much the previous day was a bad idea after all.
The sunlight that streamed into the windows of your room gradually disappeared. You were bored. So bored to the point you started to feel horny. It was ridiculous but, there was nothing you could do except indulge in it in order to make it go away. You could only hope you could finally get the much-needed rest and doze off.
You shrugged your pants, leaving you in only your undies. With haste, your right hand made its way south, lightly rubbing circles over the fabric — feeling yourself slowly getting worked up. It didn't take long for your panties to be moved aside for easier access. Wet slick noises filled the room as you move your fingers in circular motion around your clit. To your dismay, you just couldn't reach the point where you could feel the blissful build-up before the mind shattering orgasm.
You groaned, stopping your movements and slumped against your bed. Sweat trickled down your forehead and the back of your thighs. As you were about to resume in getting lost in the frustrating pleasure, your eyes glanced at the door. Your entire body froze as you made eye contact with none other than your bestfriend — fingers still on your sopping core.
"What the fuck man!" You shouted, burning in shame as you throw the duvet over your body. "Ever heard of knocking? I thought I texted you not to come over?"
Adrian whose eyes were glued to where your pussy was, finally blinked to reality, looking up to your face. "Yeah about that, was worried and..." He got distracted, eyes lowering to where he was staring at previously. You suddenly felt self-conscious, wrapping the blanket even tighter around you.
"I brought chicken soup," He spoke, breaking the brief silence that befell you two. "Thanks..." You replied, still flustered at being caught. "Sorry for making you come all the way here but you can head back or stay. Make yourself at home... Wait, no! Don't want you to be sick too..." You mumbled towards the end, eyes averting his gaze.
"Do you need help to orgasm?" He asked bluntly, making the heat rise up your neck.
"Are you insane?" You replied exasperated, covering your head in shame at his question. "Don't friends help each other out?" He frowned as if you were the one who was crazy to reject his offer.
"Adrian– bestfriends don't do that. And frankly, I'm mortified you saw me like this," You grumbled from under the covers.
"I don't get it?" He replied, genuinely confused at your reaction. You could feel a pounding headache coming your way.
"I see it as way to get closer and bond with your BFF." If you were drinking, you would had spat the water straight at his face. You peeked out from under the blanket, eyes widened in shocked at how unbashful he was to the circumstances presented before him.
"I can masturbate just fine," You quickly dismiss the idea even though deep down you knew you would take longer or even not be able to get off as you wished. That was when it hit you. Your eyes shut, realising why you were having a hard time to do something that could be done in half an hour. Or much lesser.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, just pl–" You took a deep breath and left the words hanging.
"Its because of the meds, isnt it?" Silence.
"I don't know what you're trying to say," You scoffed, pretending to not know what he was talking about.
"Kinda been through that. It was hell. Like dont get me wrong, I usually do not like to participate in such acts unless its with Chris–"
"You and Chris fucked?" You exclaimed so loud you were sure your next door neighbours could hear you.
"No! Like threesome together. Not with each other," He clarified, his forehead contorted into a furrow.
"Oh my god just stop talking for a moment," You replied, feeling the full force of the pounding headache. You finally let the duvet dropped to your waist, looking at your bestfriend while trying to figure out how all of this didn't bother him.
"Point is, been there, done that purely on accident. Which is why Im asking if you need help."
It felt as if you were at a crossroad; to seek his assistance or pretend this whole thing never happened. The answer, however, was pretty straightforward as you felt the dull ache between your legs.
"Promise me things won't get weird between us," You warned him, swallowing hard when you saw him slowly approaching the bed.
He only nodded, lowering himself so he was eye level with your covered cunt. Even though there was no words spoken between you both, he silently looked to you for permission. With a meek nod from you, he lifted the covers. You shuddered a little when the cold air hit your bare skin. All of a sudden you felt so exposed, reminded of who it was currently having a whole view of your glistening folds.
Your pussy clenched onto nothing, growing wetter after having seen how blown his pupils were. Without warning, you let out a cry, fingers tugging at his curls the moment you felt his tongue lick a stripe against your cunt. Looking down, you could only hold onto his head for support as he eagerly lapped at the juices, swirling the muscle against your bundle of nerves.
"Shit, fuck– Adrian!" You moaned, feeling him slowly getting into a rhythm. It was weird but you couldn't deny how hot it was seeing your bestfriend using your thighs like an ear muffler, enthusiastically eating you out like you were the best damn dessert he ever had.
Any initial thoughts of not being able to cum went out the window when you felt him flattened his tongue harder against your pleasure button.
He's a munch alright.
"When the fuc! W-when did you learn how to eat pussy? No offense," You couldnt help but ask him, biting your lower lip to prevent loud moans from escaping you as you felt that familiar ectasy sparked from beneath your stomach.
He stopped for a moment, removing his mouth from you, making you whine at the loss of contact. He adjusted his fogged up glasses before answering you. "Lots of experience," He shrugged, infuriating you at how nonchalant he was.
"Holy–!" You mewled, melting into the bed — hands fisting the sheets below you when his lips connect with your cunt. Your back arched off the bed at his relentless assault on your clit.
Incoherent words and profanities left you as you shake and moan from the abrupt climax that coursed through you. Despite being crushed by your thighs, Adrian kept on going, savouring you as if you were his last meal on Earth. His hands grabbed onto the flesh of your inner thighs, prying them apart so he could delve deeper into the crease of your sex.
Your eyes rolled back, your entire nervous system buzzed as you felt that same feeling at the pit of your belly again. What tipped you over was his hand, squeezing and fondling one of your tits. Creamy liquid gushed against his tongue and he reveled in it, lapping at your cunt hungrily trying to coax more out of you.
"Sensitive..." You manage to muster a weak response, toes curling and leg quivering around his head. Seeing that that didn't worked, your right hand reached out to tug at his hair. Hard.
"Sorry," He sheepishly grinned, finally releasing his hold on you. He looked downright filthy — the glint of your essence apparent on his chin before he wiped his lower face with the back of his hand. Fuck. That was oddly attractive.
He suddenly got up and left the room, leaving you to question where he went. "Here," He returned, handing you a glass of water before settling to sit at the empty area of the bed. "You should eat this too," He looked over at the takeaway container filled with chicken soup he placed on your bedside table.
You could only nod, still exhausted as you catch your breath. "Thanks," You took a sip and smiled weakly before setting the cup aside. You were then reminded once more that you were sick, reaching out for the box of tissue to stuff your leaky nose with.
To your horror, you felt none. Panicked, you looked in it to confirm there wasn't any left. "I'll go get new ones," Adrian quickly stood up, leaving the room to find you a new box of tissue. A soft chuckle left your lips as you rested your head against the pillow, your right arm covering your eyes as you try to comprehend — what the heck just happened.
everyone needs to get weirder, yes, but also get kinder. get more supportive. get more loving. be good to your fellow fans, especially the creatives who give you art and gifs and fics and fancams and and and. treat each other well because on tunglr dot hell, we are all neighbors. and neighbors look out for each other
shout out to the mutuals ive never spoken to. i am sitting in the same room as you doing my arts and craft while you read your book. we are vibing and chilling.
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kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
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discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
