Arguing with Jason or just trying to have constructive conversation with him and he just keeps evading you and brushing you off so you grab his jaw and pull him towards to you
"Look at me when Im talking to you!"
And Jay lowkey pops a boner from that
I’m also imagining “Um I didn’t say you could go?” And him like freezing in the doorway and doing the walk of shame back trying not to get hard Too Fast lmfao HES EMBARRASSED the first time! The second time he’s ready for you.
HE’s so funny tho … he loves it when you abuse men EVEN IF IT MEANS you lowkey abuse him too💔💔💔
our silly little goose stomping to the bedroom for his reward after you’ve scolded him… for his treat ……. When you come back in the room still annoyed but like. Willing to touch him EENRMTJTHT he’s so spoiled
Genuinely being friends w like. Straight boys is like. They take sooo long to be vulnerable around you but when they finally are they’re like , straight up calling you a dumbass fucking idiot right to your face .but like meaning it in a brotherly way
…jason and the crazy amount of things he’d actually do for you if only you asked. Getting a tattoo for you … benign. Killing someone. Like duh. self inflict pain. ……… mmmm yeah . but most importantly lying to Batman !
jason todd x reader - roy's got a not-so-wild hair up his ass about some changes that have been made to jason's apartment...and he's determined to get him to spill the beans. 1.8k ish?
(warnings: fem!reader w/ she/her, this is pretty explicitly gendered: you are mentioned wearing a pink thong, cooking, etc., some cussing, mild possessiveness / lewd talk abt women, boys being dudes...............more focused on roy and jason, sorry!!)
It starts with a pair of panties.
Pink ones. Soft ones. Thin ones–with a crotch so tiny it has Roy genuinely worried for someone’s asscrack for all of two seconds–left bunched up, in the open, on the top of Jason Todd’s laundry basket in the small half-bathroom of his most permanent residence.
He spots them when he’s taking a piss, then grabs them on his way out, whistling–
“Nice one, man! Pink? We love a pink girly over here, don’t we?”
But Jason doesn’t laugh. Not that he’s all that much of a fan of Roy’s shitty humor to begin with (or even is that funny of a guy, if Roy were honest, God love him though), but they’ve always shared excitement and little perverted chuckles over whatever woman one of them has managed to charm into their bed for a night or two.
This time, however, Jason is stomping out of the hallway and grabbing the cotton right out of his hands, face twisting in something oddly scary, something usually saved for debriefs about infiltration tactics or mishaps in the field (or… arguments with B).
“Don’t touch my laundry, Harper.”
“Oh, my laundry,” Roy parrots with a grin. “You wearing panties now? Or did you have a girl over–”
“No!” Jason spits, then, as he’s trying to push his way around the redhead. “I mean, yes. And this is my prize or whatever. Big deal.”
Roy whistles low and triumphantly. “Damn. And she left you her thong in full view? Sounds fun.”
Jason says nothing, just crumples the wrinkled cotton in his fist and shoves them deep into his pocket, as if that’ll somehow make the whole thing less suspicious. Jason is not the type to keep random panties in his possession longer than it takes for his dick to go soft and for him to wake up in the morning (not that he isn’t a gentleman about it, but he’s been up for hours and Roy would know if he somehow had a panty collection hidden away somewhere in his apartment.)
He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in amused suspicion. “So, tell me about it?”
Jason doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even smirk. Again, unusual for a man who’d normally at least give Roy a bra size or a landing strip to fantasize about.
Which is off. Way off. Jason may not be the most open and willing of men… but he’s not exactly shy with those he’s close to, and now he’s avoiding eye contact altogether. And his jaw is tight. All because of some chick’s panties.
Jason slips on his own tongue, trying to play it off, but the words come out a mess. “No way. It wasn’t. It’s not…just don’t go digging through my shit, okay?”
Roy straightens, brows raised. “Dude. What’s the problem? It’s a pair of undies.”
But Jason is shooting him a glare, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something that is undeniably ready to come out.
“Drop it, Roy,” he spits, flat, final, and almost too fast. Which tells Roy (expert marksman, certified flirt) everything he needs to know–they’re not just some undies.
-
Then, it’s a butter dish that catches Roy’s attention next.
Yes, a butter dish. Innocuous in many ways, but… in a home like the one it currently occupies, of a man who refuses to buy milk because of the risk it might go bad before he finishes it… it’s strange. One might not normally be so alarmed by the sight, but in Jason Todd’s kitchen? It's suspicious. Borderline shocking, enough to stop Roy’s rummaging through the fridge, and causing him to squint at the thing perched so neatly on the top shelf.
It’s not so much alarming as it is simply… conspicuous. Because Roy, perhaps more than anyone (least, he knows, that’s how he comes off), is more than uncomfortably (and lamely) familiar with what it means to be a bachelor. He knows what being a man without a woman looks like, and how that translates to owning exactly three forks, storing leftovers in old salsa jars, and wiping sticks of butter directly on hot pans when you need it, not cutting off little “pats.”
So yes. A butter dish. One with a matching lid and everything. That’s not something a man just has… it’s something someone brings into the space.
Roy, not that he ever does, doesn’t even try to play it cool.
“A butter dish?” he says, smirking like he’s caught the tail end of Gotham’s most juicy gossip. He practically has. “You think I wouldn’t notice a butter dish after you practically lit me up for pointing out the panties that were hangin’ over the sink in your bathroom like they wanted to be found.?”
Jason, busy futzing over a takeout menu, is clearly doing a terrible job of trying not to prickle from where he leans over the nearest counter. The words cause him to tense, and by the way his eyes narrow, he looks about ready to run over and hit Roy over the head with a soured, mostly-empty soy sauce bottle for getting in his business.
“They were in the laundry,” he corrects stiffly instead, blatantly ignoring the new discovery even if he is correcting Roy’s initial observation.
Despite being friends for so long, there are still parts of his life that Jason shies away from sharing. It’s something Roy has grown used to, even if it still causes his ass to itch when Jason is sitting on something extremely interesting and personal he refuses to divulge. Not that he isn’t open about the majority of his more personal affairs, but real, genuine relationships have always been…different. Maybe because he considers Roy a grade-a playboy and doesn’t feel like being nagged at to shave his nuts, maybe because he doesn’t want to fuck anything up. That knowledge, however, doesn’t stop Roy’s onslaught.
“You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”
Jason barks out the fakest laugh Roy’s heard since he tried stand-up comedy that one time.
“You think I’m getting ass on the regular because I have a butter dish?”
“Um, obviously,” Roy scoffs, like a prosecutor with good enough findings to prove a point in court. “Since when has any man who lives alone ever owned a butter dish?”
(Which is true, for the most part. Sure, B might own a butter dish, maybe even a butterbell, the fancy asshole, but it’s only because he was raised by Alfred, the same grandpa who basically raised Jason. Still, Jason’s never exactly been one for presentation…his only towel is covered in bloodstains and who knows what other fluids, and he still calls it clean.)
It’s not just the dish, though, that enlightened Roy to the realization. It’s the opened bag of spinach on the bottom shelf. It’s the little red and purple row of flavored sparkling waters sitting next to the six-pack of beers, and the fucking package of prosciutto and provolone. The dish is just the flare, practically waving its little glass ass for all to see, and Jason being tight-lipped about… pretty much everything never stopped Roy from prying into his business (especially when it came to girls).
“Since,” Jason mutters, throwing down the menu with an agitated sigh, “I got tired of greasy fingers every time I make toast. Good lord.”
Roy grins, letting go easy, if only because Jason is his best friend.
Not that easy, though.
“Toast? Or toast for two, Jay?”
Jason doesn’t answer, but then he’s stalking over and trying to shut the fridge door on Roy’s orange head, and Roy knows.
-
Finally, it’s a pile of brownies. Not a tray of brownies, haphazardly sliced, with the knife still sitting under the cellophane waiting for whoever gets there next. No. It’s a neat pile of brownies on a plate that’s ceramic, ceramic! Not even paper or plastic, each neatly trimmed into a perfect square, like something off the front of a Betty-Crocker box mix package.
Roy eats two before the accusation, while Jason is hunched over the dining room table, glowering at a glowing laptop screen. He’s fussing with some police precinct map he hacked into for a lead that’s probably confidential in at least three surrounding counties.
Roy stands just off to the side, chewing slow, arms crossed; highly aware he might be lighting the fuse on Jason’s temper, but not particularly caring.
“So…” he starts, calm and casual as if normalcy ever made anything easy with Jason. “Who made the brownies, Todd?”
Jason doesn’t even glance up. His fingers clack out some command like he's not in the middle of fucking around in something that likely dictates happenings throughout the whole city.
“I did.”
Roy raises an eyebrow, pointedly looks down at the plated brownies again, then back at his so-called best friend.
“Bullshit.” There’s a long pause, too long of a pause, really, then, “The brownies are on a plate. Sliced.”
“Fine,” he purses his lips, pressing another button. “I picked them up at B’s. They’re Alfred’s.”
Roy squints. Jason finally closes the laptop to stare him down.
It could be the truth. But Alfred’s desserts are almost always served on china, and while these are plated, they’re on Jason’s regular chipped dinnerware. If Jason weren’t already guilty of the panties and the butter dish (and the three-ply toilet paper as opposed to the two-ply from the bodega, the cut up fruit cubes in the fridge, and the women’s deodorant), it might be a little easier to let slide…
(Which… sure, a man could wear the scent, Vanilla Cashmere Coconut by a brand called… Sexy Midnight Island, or whatever the hell it was. But not any man who sweats like Jason Todd sweats.
Listen, when being a dead eye is the only thing you’re good at, you learn to pick up on the little things.)
But since Jason is guilty? This won't slide.
“I said, who made the—”
“I heard you. And I said Alfred.”
The silence festers again, tension blooming into something that seems to heat up the room with nerves.
“We both know you’re lying, Todd.”
The men glare at each other, Roy’s look sturdy, incredulous, and waiting. Todd’s defensive, annoyed, and recognizably avoidant.
But Roy isn’t here to argue. He’s here for the truth.
“I’m your best bud, man. Who is she?”
The pause is longer than either man would like, and only the fan of Jason’s overworked laptop can be heard heaving in the interim. Jason shifts from where he’s planted himself, looks away, looks back, and runs a hand through his hair…and he still can’t bring himself to say your name.
He must know it’s see-through, must know that Roy sees it all anyway, otherwise, what kind of friend would he be? What kind of friendship would they have? They aren’t the same young, reckless and lonely men they were when they first started hanging out together, as outlaws, as allies.
Jason covers his mouth with his hand, looks to the ceiling, and sighs. Then he says your name.
“Been official three months. She thinks I eat like crap and live like a fratboy.”
Even if there’s still more prying to do (about the fact “official” doesn’t exactly translate to how long you’ve known each other… and also maybe bra size, your landing strip) Roy can’t help but smile at his friend, trotting over to slap him excitedly on the back.
“Thought so, jackass.”
And even Jason begins to grin.
-
(Roy is on his fifth and what is unfortunately his final brownie on his way out the door, when Jason is giving him those scary blue eyes one last time.
“Just for the record, Harper?” he warns, fingers wrapped around the hard edge of the door. “If you ever touch my girl’s panties again, I’ll string you up with the lace.”
But Roy only laughs.
“So long as she picks out Lian’s next birthday gift, you’ve got yourself a deal.”)
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Writing Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.
The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.
“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“That’s accurate.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”
“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”
Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
“How much?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna offer money.”
“I was gonna offer money.”
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”
“No.”
“You’re working doubles.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Which should’ve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“You paid my fucking rent?”
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah?”
“You are insane.”
“You still love me though.”
“I’m considering arson.”
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”
Jason’s smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”
The criminal went pale.
“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”
“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
boyfriend who’s hairs turn gray if you go one day without calling him or at the very least sending him a picture of your meals ….. you are so dear to me .
Last rb one nice thing abt my dad being the black sheep, drug addict messed up son of the family is that everyone already thinks/knows I’m broken just by being his daughter so it’s pretty easy for me to hate them but for them to still want to love me
no one care me so I’m just gonna say it . I think I need to get into. Superbly prime or whatever bc I need a man with stupid problems I don’t need to pay attention to
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
