── 𝒩ana ౨ৎ apollo’s dearest poet 5w4 avid music lover jason grace’s love #1 gracie stan cabin seven sweetheart biggest ancient history lover enthusiast of the arts melomaniac est. july 2026 . ⊹ ࣪ ˖
── dean winchester ౨ৎ. dean winchester x reader. established relationship (or not, take your pick). pathetic attempt to write angst. canon-typical violence. kind of yearning themes if you squint. codependency themes, too. emotional vulnerability. corny david bowie references. 0.6k words. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
the motel room smells like gunpowder, cheap whiskey, and something faintly metallic—blood, probably. dean doesn’t bother checking whose.
you’re sitting on the edge of the bed when dean winchester walks in.
he doesn’t say anything at first, just shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. his knuckles are bruised. there’s a cut along his jaw, already drying. his jacket hangs loose off his shoulders like it weighs more than it should.
you hate how used to this you’ve become.
“you’re bleeding,” you say softly.
dean glances at you, then down at himself, like he’s just now noticing. “it’s fine,” he mutters. “just looks worse than it is.”
“dean.”
he exhales through his nose, something halfway between a sigh and a surrender. “it’s not a big deal.”
you stand anyway, closing the space between you before he can step back, before he can pretend he doesn’t need this. your fingers hover for a second before touching his face, careful, like he might flinch.
he doesn’t.
“sit,” you murmur.
he gives you that defiant look—but it doesn’t last long. it never does, not when it’s you asking.
“yes, ma’am,” he says, quieter than usual, dropping into the chair by the table.
you grab the first-aid kit without thinking, muscle memory by now. cotton, alcohol, gauze. the ritual of putting him back together again. you stand between his knees, tilting his chin up gently.
“this might sting.”
“i’ve had worse.”
you almost smile. “you always say that.”
“because it’s always true.”
you dab at the cut, and he hisses—just a little. your grip tightens instinctively, thumb brushing along his jaw in apology.
the tv hums in the background and neither of you says anything. dean watches you instead. you can feel it—his gaze, steady and heavy, like he’s trying to memorize something.
“what?” you ask without looking up.
“nothing.”
you glance at him. “that wasn’t nothing.”
dean hesitates for a beat. “just…” he starts, then stops. swallows. “you don’t have to do this.”
“patch you up?” you say lightly. “kinda comes with the job.”
“no,” he says, softer. “this. staying.”
that lands somewhere deep, so you pull back just enough to look at him properly.
“i’m serious.” his voice is rough now, like he’s forcing the words out past something stuck in his throat. “this life? it’s not— it’s not exactly built for people like you.”
“people like me?” you echo.
“people who deserve better.”
you stare at him for a second, then let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“you really don’t get it, do you?” you set the gauze aside, your hands moving to cradle his face instead, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes. “i’m not here because i couldn’t leave,” you say. “i’m here because i choose you.”
he doesn’t answer. it is written all over him—in the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl like he doesn’t know what to do with them, the fear sitting just behind his eyes.
“dean,” you whisper, “look at me.”
he does. slowly. carefully. like it might hurt.
“we’re not heroes,” he says after a moment, voice low. “not the kind that get happy endings.”
you tilt your head, studying him. “maybe not,” you admit. “but we try,” you continue. “every day. we save who we can. we keep going, even when it sucks.”
he huffs a quiet, humorless laugh. “that doesn’t make us heroes.”
“doesn’t it?” you lean in closer, your forehead brushing his.
“we can be,” you murmur. “for one day,” you add, softer now.
“you really believe that?” he asks.
“i believe in you,” you say.
that’s what does it.
“that’s a dangerous thing,” he whispers.
you smile, small and a little sad. “so is loving you.”
he lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“yeah,” he says. “guess that tracks.”
for a second, you just stay like that—close enough to feel his heartbeat, steady and real beneath everything else.
── jason todd ౨ৎ. jason todd x reader. sweet boy!jason. dick grayson (not so?) brief appearance. batfamily dynamics. mentions of guns and weapons. poor attempt at writing humor (condiment king shenanigans). canon-typical violence. established relationship. comfort undertones. non-sexual intimacy. fluff and domesticity. 0.7k words. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
“gotta go, dick.” jason todd doesn’t even look up when he says it—just checks the chamber of his gun out of habit, already shifting his weight like he’s about to disappear.
“no,” dick snaps immediately, breath a little uneven from the chase. “no, you absolutely do not get to ‘gotta go’ right now.”
somewhere across the rooftop, the condiment king cackles, a jet of mustard narrowly missing a gargoyle. “you hear that?” jason jerks his chin in that direction. “you’ve got this handled.”
“handled?” dick repeats, incredulous. “he just tried to relish-trap me.”
“wow,” jason deadpans. “that was bad. even for you.”
“jason.”
“dick.”
“this is still a job. we finish what we start.” dick says, more grounded now, less sarcasm, more weight.
jason exhales sharply through his nose, like patience is something he used up years ago. “and i told you—she’s waiting for me. it’s book club day.”
“oh my god,” dick runs a hand over his face. “you are not ditching a live takedown for a—what, a cozy little reading date?”
“it’s not ‘cozy,’” jason mutters, offended on principle. “it’s structured. we have a system.”
“you have a system,” dick shoots back. “with books.”
“yeah? and you’ve got one with acrobatics and color-coordinated suits. we all cope differently.”
another splatter of ketchup hits the wall behind them.
“guys!” condiment king shouts, genuinely offended. “this is a hostile takeover!”
“see?” jason gestures vaguely. “he’s monologuing. you’ve got time.” dick steps in front of him now, blocking his path. “you are not leaving me alone with him.” jason arches a brow. “you’ve fought clowns, assassins, literal death cults—but the guy with the squeeze bottles is where you draw the line?”
“it’s not about him!” dick insists. “it’s about you walking out mid-mission.” jason’s jaw tightens just a fraction. “it’s handled.”
“by who?”
“by you.”
“jason—”
“dick,” he cuts in, sharper now, something stubborn settling into his tone. “i showed up. i helped. no one’s dead. the city’s still standing. i’m clocking out.”
“you’re leaving me to get mustard-gunned for a book club.”
“you’ll survive. and stink.”
dick shakes his head, somewhere between annoyed and fond despite himself. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you’ll be fine,” jason says, already stepping back toward the fire escape. “just—aim for the bottles. he gets weirdly defensive about them.”
“this is not over!” condiment king yells.
“jason!” dick exclaims as jason walks out with a shrug. sure, dick needed him—but he couldn’t care less. how could he focus on catching bad guys, saving people when you were waiting for him at his apartment?
the moment he crosses the threshold of his apartment, something in the air shifts—his hand finds your wrist without hesitation, warm and certain, pulling you into him as though gravity had always intended it. “missed you, ma.” he murmurs, a crooked smirk ghosting his lips before it disappears into the quiet refuge of your neck.
he lingers there until you whisper a ‘missed you, too’. jason never understood you—why you stayed when nobody else did. and yet, here you are. patient. steady. unafraid of his internal and external scars.
“so here’s the plan,” you murmurs, a smile threading through your voice as your arms find their way around his shoulders, soft and certain. “while you shower, i’ll get our books ready for our reading date.”
there’s a quiet kind of excitement in her tone, something warm and anticipatory. their weekly ritual: soft pages, shared silence, the gentle turning of time. it had taken weeks of jason asking, half-joking, half-hopeful, before you finally said yes.
jason pulls back just enough to look at you, his lazarus green eyes gentling in that rare way he never lets the world see something almost boyish.
he knows he smells like gunpowder, like rain-soaked concrete and the lingering echo of something violent. the mission still clings to him, stitched into his skin. but now his arms are around him you.
he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before stepping away. “alright,” he mutters, already halfway between here and the pull of the shower. “jane austen, right, ma? please?”
“oh, god,” you sigh, but there’s laughter tucked into it. “only if we watch the movie next.”
and then he’s gone—vanishing down the hall, the sound of running water following almost immediately, steam beginning its quiet claim over mirrors and glass.
jane austen is about to witness something far sweeter than anything she ever wrote.
── jason todd ౨ৎ. jason todd x reader. sweet boy!jason. canon swearing. intimacy (kissing). pet names (sweetheart, ma). minimal mention of jason’s angst (like, once). fluff, once again. 1k words. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
quiet.
such a strange word for jason todd. after sixteen years of sharpened edges and survival, a brief interruption called death, and five more years of something harsher than living, he had decided—almost stubbornly—that he wanted a quiet life. with you.
you met in gotham’s public library, in the aisle that smelled like dust and old paper and soft, forgotten things. classics. of course it was classics. you were reading the same book. jason stood there with a worn copy of pride and prejudice in his hands with such endearment that made your head turn. you noticed the contradiction before anything else—the sheer weight of him, all muscle, scars, and leather and danger, holding that ‘lady book’ like it mattered.
you approached jason first, naturally. he was too unsure to say anything first. being red hood doesn’t come with much social interaction, especially not with captivating people. after making a silly joke about ‘being on the same page’, you two had started talking about books.
now he was twenty-three, and two years into loving you, and somehow that felt more terrifying than anything he had ever survived. today, he was going to ask you to stay. officially.
the apartment felt too small for his pacing. jason placed his fingers against his chin—deep in thought. the ticking sounds of the clock were like mocking beats in his ear as he paced his apartment, waiting for his lover to come over.
“you got this, jason." he tells himself over and over until the front door clicks open.
“hey, sweetheart,” you called, stepping inside. the lock slid into place behind your back. you paused, inhaled, eyes lighting up. “what is that smell? oh my god—what are you making?” you asked with an expression of delight.
he leaned against the kitchen counter, something softer settling into his shoulders at the sight of you. “hey, ma. you like it?” he asked, voice roughened around the edges of a chuckle. “carbonara. figured i’d try something new. thought i owed you something special, since…” damnit! he thought to himself, walking over to the kitchen where the carbonara was simmering on the stove.
“since what?” you stepped closer, already smiling. “c’mere.” your lips curved, expectant, waiting for a welcome kiss.
he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but his hands found your waist anyway—like they always did. “since i’m about to ask you something real fucking stupid,” he murmured, pulling you in. his kiss lingering a second too long before pulling back with a hesitant smile. “like… very stupid.” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure in a way that didn’t suit him. not anymore. not after a couple years of pulling his guard down. “move in with me.”
it came out more like a demand than a question.
“oh.”
you froze for a moment, surprised by his bluntness. “…straight to the point.” you blinked a few times, still processing his request.
he crossed his arms, defensive instinct snapping into place before he could stop it. “yeah, well, i don’t—” he cut himself off, scoffing under his breath. “i’m nervous. you make me really nervous.” that part slipped out quieter.
he gestured vaguely around the apartment, like the evidence was everywhere. “you’re already here half the time, anyway. your books are mine. your shampoo’s in my shower. your fuckin’ socks are in my laundry, damnit—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “…just make it official. please.”
“you just caught me off guard,” you said finally, voice gentler than his. “it makes sense. it really does. i just… wasn’t expecting it.” you moved past him, turning off the stove before the carbonara could burn, practical even in the middle of something life-changing. then you looked back at him, something bright and certain settling into your expression.
“…i have one condition.”
his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. “there’s conditions now?” a smirk tugged at his mouth, fragile but real. “what’s the deal?”
you stepped into him again, arms sliding around his neck like you belonged there. “i want a house made for us. built from scratch. architects, engineers—the whole thing. i want something that’s us.”
he blinked once, then twice. then laughed—sharp, surprised, a little disbelieving. “christ, you don’t do small shit, do you, ma?” he shook his head, but the fondness in his voice gave him away. “fine. a house. custom-built. but if you make me live in some pastel nightmare with weird angles and fuckin’ pretentious bullshit—”
you flicked his forehead.
“—i’m out,” he finished, though he was already smiling. he added, knowing you would rather die than live in a monstrosity like that.
“i want a cinema.”
“i want a library.” jason chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a competitive edge.
“deal.” you chuckled lightly, cupping his face and pecking his lips. he leaned into it for a second, just a second, before pulling back with that familiar edge returning to his grin. “i’m picking the colors.”
“black and red,” you guessed easily. “classic red hood.”
“don’t act like you don’t love it—”
“then i want leopard print carpet on the stairs,” you added, entirely serious. “and black lace curtains over red ones.”
he stared at you.
“…i’m reconsidering everything.”
you ignored that. “and we’re getting another cat. mr. darcy will be lonely in a house that big.” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “oh, come on. using our cat against me? that’s dirty.”
you just looked at him.
that look that always won.
“...fine,” he sighed, dramatic, defeated in the way he never was anywhere else. “only because mr. darcy is going to have an existential crisis otherwise. but we’re naming her elizabeth bennet.”
“the perfect pair.” you beamed, tapping his chest lightly. “great talk, sweetheart. now i’m starving—let’s eat.” he rolled his eyes, but the softness stayed. it always stayed with you. “you know, most people say ‘thank you’ when someone cooks for them.”
“i’ll say thank you if the food deserves it.”
he grabbed two plates from the cabinet. served you first anyway. “yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “eat before it gets cold, ma.”
── jason grace ౨ৎ. jason grace x reader. au where jason lives. established relationship. fear of parenthood. mentions of jason’s past trauma. canon typical references to praetor duties. mild angst with tooth rotting fluff. 1k words. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
you had been with the blond pontifex maximus for a long while—long enough to know his favorite tea (chamomile, always with a spoonful of honey), the way he exhaled soft, reverent sighs whenever someone mentioned history—and how jason grace feared parenthood like a quiet, creeping plague.
you had agreed, once, that engagement could wait. that growing old together did not hinge on a single piece of jewelry, nor on promises spoken aloud when they were already etched into the marrow of your bones.
but lately, something in him had shifted.
during your daily walks, jason would fall into silence, his attention drifting—not away from you, never that—but toward the world around you. toward families. toward small hands tucked into larger ones, laughter spilling into the air like something sacred. he watched them with a softness that made your chest ache. he never spoke of it. only carried the quiet question of whether he was allowed to want something like that at all.
it took him months to gather the courage.
as if somewhere, faint and unkind, a voice still whispered.
what could he have done?
should he have been a father?
and when he finally did, it was in the gentlest of moments: your head resting in his lap as you shared a worn copy of dead poets society, the pages yellowed with time.
“love,” he murmured, voice warm—sweet as the espresso brownies he favored. you looked up. “hm?”
he hesitated, only for a breath. “i can’t help but wonder,” he said slowly, “how a…child of ours would look like.”
the words settled between you like something fragile. sacred.
“…honey,” you whispered, a little breathless, your eyes searching his as though he might dissolve if you blinked. “i thought you’d never want that.”
jason’s shoulders loosened instantly, as if he had been bracing for a storm and instead found sunlight. his blue eyes softened—the kind of softness reserved only for you. “you… want that too?” he asked quietly, wonder threading through every syllable.
his hands found your face without thought, gentle, reverent. his thumbs traced the faint freckles he knew by heart, like constellations only he had memorized.
“i want to have children, love.”
“you do?” you pressed softly, a crease forming between your brows. “i mean…are you sure?” your fingers twisted together, betraying your nerves. “you’re the praetor. the legion depends on you. camp politics are relentless, and children—they’re loud, and messy, and need so much of you. i just thought… with everything you carry, there wouldn’t be room for something like that.”
he listened. truly listened.
then, slowly—carefully, as one might approach something delicate—he took your hands in his, lacing your fingers together.
“love,” he said, voice steady now, grounded. “being praetor is my duty. it is not my whole life.” he brushed a strand of hair from your face, a quiet smile curving his lips. “i can step back when i need to. others already carry pieces of that weight.”
your breath caught. “jason…” you whispered, lifting your hands to cradle his face. “are you sure?”
he leaned into your touch, eyes closing for the briefest moment, as though anchoring himself there. when he opened them again, they were impossibly blue—bright with something tender, something unguarded.
he took your wrists gently, pressing a soft kiss to each palm before speaking.
“i want children,” he said. “not just… children. i want our child.”
a pause, full and trembling.
“i think about it all the time now,” he admitted. “a little girl with your hair. or a boy who inherits my terrible eyesight.”
a quiet laugh slipped from you, your forehead falling against his. “we’d get them glasses long before you let them struggle,” you murmured.
his smile—small, certain—felt like home.
silence settled, but it was no longer heavy. the world moved on beyond you—wind through leaves, distant laughter—but within that small space, everything felt still. rooted.
“i used to be terrified,” he confessed softly. “of being responsible for someone like that. of failing.” his fingers tightened around yours. “i didn’t have… an example. not a good one. you know what my mother did. and my father—” he stopped, the words thinning into quiet. “i thought maybe that meant i shouldn’t try at all.”
you lifted your head, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.
“jason grace,” you said gently, “you are the most careful, kind, and selfless person i know. if anyone is meant to be a parent, it’s you.” your voice softened. “the way you cared for nico during our mission in the house of hades—it told me everything.”
he swallowed, as though your certainty was something he did not quite know how to hold.
“and… i think about it too,” you admitted, softer now. almost shy. “not always. but sometimes.” a small smile tugged at your lips. “a tiny version of you, trying to organize everything like a miniature praetor… gods, that sounds terrifying.”
his laugh came warm and light, brushing against your skin.
“they’d definitely inherit your stubbornness,” he teased.
“and your sense of responsibility.”
“that’s worse.”
“much worse.”
your laughter met in the space between you, dissolving something unspoken that had lingered for months—perhaps longer.
jason leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“we don’t have to rush,” he murmured. “i just…didn’t want to be afraid of wanting it anymore. not with you.”
you closed your eyes, letting the words settle deep within you, warm and steady.
“we won’t rush,” you agreed. “but maybe… we won’t pretend we don’t want it either.”
his arms wrapped around you, drawing you close until you fit against him as though you had always belonged there. after a moment, he reached for the book again—but neither of you read.
instead, his fingers traced absent patterns along your arm, and your hand rested over his heart—steady, certain, unafraid.
and for the first time, when you imagined the future, it was no longer something distant or uncertain.
