Juniper

21 |any pronouns| Student

[pixzeestyxxs]

Hello! I’m Juniper! Get to know me!

I’m 21

She/They/He pronouns

I’m a student so I’ll be spotty in posting

I like writing mostly fluff pieces but want to dabble in smut. Requests are open!!

Masterlist

Will write:

Fluff pieces

Smut pieces

I’m very bad but want to get better at angst

Polycules

Won’t write:

Incest

DubCon

Other just yucks

Aged up minor characters in smut, fluff is okay

DNI:

Minors

Homophobes/Transphobes/Racists/You get the deal

[fancy-possum]

New Cut, Same Heart ◞ Jason Todd

summary : Your boyfriend has a new haircut.. not only were you not expecting it, you didn’t expect to find it so.. hot?

masterlist ◞ DC Masterlist ◞ ac : @/twalxx

You were halfway through making dinner when the front door clicked open. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the apartment, the low hum of the radio playing some old rock song in the background. You’d had a long day — work, errands, the usual Gotham chaos — but coming home to cook for Jason always made it better. He usually got back from patrol around this time, still wired but softening the second he saw you.

You turned, wooden spoon in hand, ready to greet him with a smile and maybe a quick kiss.

Then you saw him.

Jason Todd stood in the doorway, kicking off his boots, hair still slightly damp from whatever he’d done to it. The usual messy, slightly-too-long style was gone. In its place was something sharper, cleaner — a baby mullet. The sides were trimmed close, the back longer, just enough to curl at the nape of his neck. The white streak stood out even more now, bright against the dark, freshly cut hair. It made his jaw look sharper, his eyes more intense. He looked… dangerous. Hot. Like the kind of man who could ruin your life in the best way.

You stared. Openly. The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the pot.

Jason raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “What? Alfred finally convinced me to get it cut. Said I looked like a stray dog. You hate it?”

You shook your head slowly, mouth dry. “No. I… God, Jason. You look…”

He stepped closer, still in his Red Hood jacket, the leather creaking as he moved. The new haircut made him look taller somehow, broader, the sharp lines of his face even more striking. You couldn’t stop staring at the way the longer pieces in the back brushed his neck, the way the sides were faded just enough to show the strong line of his jaw.

You reached out before you could think, fingers threading through the longer hair at the back of his head. It was soft, freshly washed, still a little damp. Jason’s breath hitched as you tugged gently, testing the length.

“God,” you whispered. “You look so good. Like… stupidly good.”

His smirk widened, but there was a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You stepped closer, pressing your body against his, one hand still in his hair. The other slid under his jacket, palm flat against his chest. “I can’t stop looking at you. The mullet… it’s hot. Really hot.”

Jason groaned softly, hands settling on your waist, pulling you tighter against him. “You’re gonna make me blush, baby. It’s just hair.”

“It’s not just hair,” you murmured, tugging again, harder this time. His head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat. You leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the skin just below his jaw. “It makes you look… dangerous. Like you could throw me over your shoulder and carry me off somewhere.”

He laughed, low and rough, but his hands tightened on your hips. “Maybe I will. If you keep pulling my hair like that.”

You smiled against his neck, nipping lightly. “Promise?”

Jason’s breath stuttered. He walked you backward until your back hit the counter, lifting you easily onto it. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, pulling him closer. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin as he kissed you — deep, hungry, full of all the want he usually kept so carefully controlled.

You kept one hand in his hair, tugging gently as you kissed him back. The new cut gave you something to hold onto, something to grip when he pressed closer, grinding against you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

“I love your hair like this,” you whispered when you broke apart for air. “It’s so soft. So easy to grab.”

Jason’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. “You’re gonna kill me tonight. I can already tell.”

You grinned, tugging again, harder. His head tilted back with a low groan, exposing his throat. You leaned in, sucking a mark just below his ear, then another on his collarbone, leaving little bruises that would peek out from under his shirt tomorrow.

He let you. He always let you.

His hands roamed your body — sliding up your back, down your sides, gripping your thighs as he pulled you closer. Every touch was reverent but hungry, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You kept playing with his hair, running your fingers through the longer pieces in the back, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “My handsome boyfriend with his new haircut. I can’t stop touching it.”

Jason laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a groan when you tugged again. “Keep doing that and dinner’s gonna burn.”

You glanced over at the stove. The pasta was still simmering, but you didn’t care. You kissed him again, deeper, grinding against him as your fingers stayed tangled in his hair.

“Let it burn,” you whispered against his lips. “I’m busy.”

He groaned, hands sliding under your thighs as he lifted you off the counter, carrying you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, still playing with his hair, tugging gently every few seconds just to hear the little sounds he made.

When he laid you down on the bed, he hovered over you, eyes dark and soft all at once. “You really like it, huh?”

“I love it,” you said, reaching up to run your fingers through it again. “It makes you look… dangerous. Like you could ruin me and I’d thank you for it.”

Jason’s breath hitched. He leaned down, kissing you slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your shirt to rest warm against your stomach. “Then maybe I will,” he murmured against your mouth. “Ruin you. Just a little.”

You smiled, tugging his hair again as you pulled him closer. “Promise?”

He did.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of kisses and touches and soft laughter. Jason was everywhere — hands on your waist, lips on your neck, body pressed against yours as he moved with that effortless grace he always had. He let you play with his hair the whole time, tugging and scratching and holding on as he kissed you senseless.

When you finally fell asleep, tangled together under the sheets, Jason’s head was on your chest, your fingers still loosely threaded through his new haircut.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

And you? You were right there with him.

a/n : my eyeliner ran out I don’t feel like myself I’m gonna cry

[queen-of-gotham]

Happy Garden

(Taishiro Toyomitsu x GN!Reader)

🌼This fic is part of my 4K Special🌼

Word Count: 1,150

Debrief: the flower box on your balcony breaks only to land on a pro hero.

Case Notes: thank you so much for your order, @smashley351 !! I was so excited to write this one. I hope you enjoy it!

There was a very specific sound that preceded disaster. A metallic creak. You frowned, watering can halfway tipped over the overflowing petunias lining your apartment balcony, “…Huh.”

You glance to either side of your wooden flowerbox, looking for the source of the offending sound. Then there’s another creak. Then a sharp snap.

Your eyes widened, your body quickly turning to try to set the watering can down as you realize what’s happening, “Oh no.”

The flower box lurched forward, “Oh no, no, no, no!”

You lunged for it. Your fingertips brushed damp wood for exactly half a second before gravity made a very compelling argument sending the planter to disappear over the railing.

There was one impossible moment of silence.

Then the impact of the flower box echoed loud enough to make your stomach drop, “…Please tell me that landed on a parked car.” You muttered softly to yourself as you leaned over to check.

A cheerful voice floated up from the street, “…Well! That’s one way to brighten somebody’s patrol.”

You froze, yelling down, “I’m so sorry, wait right there!”

By the time you reached the sidewalk, nearly tripping over your own shoes in your rush downstairs, a small crowd had already gathered.

Your flower box had exploded spectacularly. Potting soil covered the pavement. Purple petunias had been reduced to tragic confetti.

One geranium sat upside down in the middle of the crosswalk like it had accepted its fate of being ran over by a passing car.

Standing in the center of the floral crime scene was none other than pro-hero Fat Gum. His bright yellow hero costume was dusted with dirt.

A daisy clung stubbornly to one shoulder. A trailing vine had somehow wrapped around his arm. A single pink blossom rested neatly atop his blond hair, his hood having fallen off during the whole kerfluffle with the florals.

He looked like spring itself had punched him. The crowd was already laughing, people with their phones out recording as he politely guided the crowd back with humor.

“Oh my god!”You skidded to a stop in front of him, “I’m so, so sorry! Are you okay?!”

Fat Gum looked down at the crushed remains of the planter. Then at you. And just as he opens his mouth to answer your question, he forgot every language he’d ever learned.

‘Pretty.’

That was the first coherent thought his brain managed. Pretty eyes. Pretty voice. Pretty person currently apologizing so quickly you were running words together.

“…Fat Gum?”His sidekick nudged him from behind, dark hair and white cowl as he quietly talks to his mentor, “You’re staring.”

“I am?” He asks, golden eyes still on you as he speaks to his sidekick.

“For, like… twenty seconds.”

“…Really?”

“I’m so sorry!” you repeated, gesturing helplessly toward the battlefield of flowers, “The brackets must have rusted out! I was watering them and they just…” You mimed an explosion, “… Dropped.”

Fat Gum finally remembered he was supposed to respond, “Oh!”

He laughed, waving off your apologies, “No worries! Honestly, I’ve had worse.”

You blinked, “… Worse?”

“I got hit by a vending machine once.”

“…”

“It wasn’t even during patrol.”

“…”

“…Long story.”

Despite yourself, after getting over the initial shock, you laughed and Taishiro was certain his heart did a backflip.

He looked up toward your balcony, “I’m sorry about your flowers. I can fix that.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“I’m gonna.”

“No, really, it’s okay.”

“Nah.”

“I can ask my neighbor.”

“I’m right here and offering.”

“…”

“…”

You sighed, head tilting a bit as you looked up at him, “… You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

He smiled.

“Nope.”

🌼😄🌼😄🌼

Twenty minutes later…

“…Well.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Your flower box is dead.”

The wood crumbled between his fingers. One side simply… detached. There was no saving the pitiful thing after a three story fall.

You nodded solemnly, “I was emotionally prepared for that.”

“The flowers…” he continued, pulling plants from remaining soil, both of you looking at the wilted casualties, “… Unsaveable.”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a couple beats before he grins again, wide and bright, “…Wanna go buy a new one?”

You looked up at him, “What?”

“I kinda owe you one.”

“You absolutely do not.” You say, confused by his continued offer of generosity after being attacked by your wooden planter.

“I insist.”

“You were the one who got hit.”

“And now I’m helping. I am a hero after all. It’s like the whole point of my job.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“You really don’t have to.” You try once more, sighing as your lips quirk into a soft smile at the sight of his bright one.

“I know.”He grinned, “I want to.”

🌼😄🌼😄🌼

The garden center smelled like fresh soil and warm sunshine.

You wandered between rows of colorful blooms while Fat Gum, Sorry— Taishiro, he informed you— followed with one of those oversized rolling carts. Every time you admired a flower… It mysteriously ended up in the cart.

“Lavender’s nice.”

Into the cart.

“I’ve always wanted climbing roses.”

Into the cart.

“Oh! These little daisies are cute.”

Into the cart.

You finally noticed, once the cart started looking like a small field of wildflowers, “… Taishiro.”

“Hm?”

“…How many flowers are in there?”

He looked, making a face in thought as he looked, “A few.”

“There are at least twenty.”

“…Twenty-two, actually. I counted.”

You laughed so hard you had to lean on the shopping cart, trying to no avail to explain why this was so unnecessary for your little apartment.

He decided then and there that making you laugh might actually be his new favorite hobby.

🌼😄🌼😄🌼

By the time you reached checkout, you reached for your wallet. Taishiro gently pushed your hand away, “My treat.”

“I can’t let you buy all of this.”

“Sure you can.”

“I really can’t— I should be buying you something for attacking you with my old planter—“

He’s not listening to your argument though, handing over the appropriate amount of yen to the cashier.

“…Do you do this for everyone who accidentally hits you with planter boxes?”

“Hmm…” He pretended to think, agrin spread across his face, “Nah.”

You tilted your head, unsure of what he was going to say next, “Normally I just take my dates out to dinner.”

Heat rushed into your face, your breath catching. He scratched the back of his neck, “I gotta admit though…”

His smile turned wonderfully sheepish, “This is a nice change of pace.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced down at the overflowing cart of flowers before looking back up at him, “… So… Does this count as our first date?”

Taishiro’s smile could have lit up the entire greenhouse, “I sure hope it does.”

The cashier quietly pretended to be very interested in scanning a bag of potting soil, smiling to herself as she watched the beginning of what was probably going to be one very happy garden.

💥MHA Masterlist💥 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

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[pixzeestyxxs]

why are you posting abt your daily life and tagging it as an x reader

Full confession?? I just autotag some of this. If it’s the first suggested tag? *click* it’s a bad habit i know if it annoys you ignore it :3 I also am deeply unaware of how a lot DC fandom base is with this I haven’t been active in fandom spaces like this in years

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ MR. AND MRS. TODD!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jason todd x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you cannot believe this day is real; the day you’re marrying the love of your life, jason todd.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, absolute fluff, corny ahhh vows, bruce giving a speech, batcat + dickory crumb(s), brucejason moment, also someone PLEASE lmk if the read more thing works!, 2.3k words

Jason plays with his tie for what feels like the hundredth time. His reflection looks like the picture of calm, but inside he’s a jumble of nerves.

“She can still run away.”

Jason glares at Damian from over his shoulder. “Don’t you have some sword to play with?”

“I am attempting to prepare you for all possible outcomes.”

Before Jason can snap something back, Dick steps in—are his eyes red again? “You're getting married. You're allowed to freak out a little.”

“I’m not.” He deadpans.

Tim has his hands shoved into his pockets. “I've checked everything three times. Nothing's on fire.”

“Right.”

Roy grins. “You’re totally nervous.”

Jason huffs. “You four are the worst groomsmen ever to exist.”

A chorus of protests ensues. While they bicker amongst each other, Jason goes quiet. It still feels surreal to him that, in less than an hour, you’ll become Mrs. Todd. He has more contingency plans than what's deemed sane for today, and yet Jason can’t help feeling nervous because what if? What if somebody barges in? Or there’s a breakout at Arkham? Or whatever else might happen that will ruin today.

He’s spent most of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now that he’s so close to a future with you—he doesn’t want to lose it like all of the other good things he’s ever had.

“Where’s Biz anyway?”

Everyone pauses for a moment, then Roy says, “I think he said he wasn’t going to eat.”

Jason curses.

He knows it’s stupid; there’s less than half an hour left before you two pronounce your vows and get legally married. But. He needed to see you. The sky is blue and the grass is green; it’s another universal truth that your sole presence calms Jason.

He knocks on the door of the room you’re in. Hands in his pockets, still as a rock.

Steph pokes out her head. “You can’t see the bride just yet. So, shoo!” She motions with her hand for him to leave.

“I need to talk with her.”

Steph’s eyes soften and she lets out an over-exaggerated sigh. “You are literally the most dramatic groom I've ever met.”

She then shuts the door in Jason’s face. Wow, rude.

There’s chattering inside, a few noises of protest, but slowly all of the bridesmaids trickle out. Before Jason can step in, you take hold of the door.

“You can’t see me yet, it’s a surprise.”

He slumps against the door. “Mhm. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then you sound closer—you must be in the same position he’s in. “Hey, Jay?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Do you… do you feel slightly nervous?” Before he can answer, you continue. “It’s not like a bad nervous, it’s like a… rollercoaster. Yeah, that’s it!”

“You’re comparing our marriage to a rollercoaster?”

You laugh. “It’s those same nerves, exciting but you still have a funny feeling in your stomach.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He pauses. “I had to get out of there. It’s just—I want today to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

“You bastard.” There’s a sniffle on the other side. “You can’t ruin my makeup before the pictures are taken.”

Jason widens his eyes in panic, almost getting up and barging in. He cannot handle it when you cry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“Because I love you so much.”

His shoulders slump; what a relief. “I love you too.”

“I don’t need today to be perfect, just by being with you it already is.”

Jason grins, head tilted against the wall. “You’re not getting rid of me now.”

It’s only Jason and the wedding officiant in the room. It’s a beautiful room, with a massive marble fireplace, wooden floors, details on the walls and columns. There’s a large window at the back that shows the sprawling gardens of the estate. To the side, a mahogany desk with all of the paperwork and pens for everyone to sign.

The light trickles in and hits Jason on the face, but he doesn’t blink once, completely absorbed by the still-closed door.

Then it does, with a light click. Jason’s world tilts.

Jason is not a religious man, but he knows an angel when he sees one. You look absolutely stunning; he swears his heart stops.

He picks at the collar of his suit. “Yeah— that’s not fair.”

You laugh and walk over to him at the window. Your fingers gently readjust his collar. “You look stunning, Mr. Todd.”

He can’t help the expression of pure adoration that is written all over his face.

“Shall we begin?” the officiant says.

You nod and release Jason’s collar. To be honest, Jason doesn’t hear a single word of what the officiant is saying—he's too busy looking at you.

“I do,” he manages to say.

And then, “I do.”

“You’re now husband and wife.” The man smiles at the two of you. “Now for the personal vows.”

Jason slips a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. It’s been touched and folded far too many times. He actually doesn’t need it; he knows the speech by heart, but still.

“I never thought I'd be standing here.” He looks at the floor for a second before locking eyes with yours. “Not because I didn't believe in love or anything. I just never thought I'd be lucky enough to keep it. I've spent most of my life fighting; fighting to survive, fighting to be understood, fighting against the parts of myself I wish I could leave behind. Then you came along, and for the first time, being with someone didn't feel like another battle.”

Small tears are already blossoming in your eyes, a lonely tear or two falling down the slope of your cheek, and you’re fighting a smile.

“You saw me at my worst and stayed. You saw the anger, the scars, the mistakes, the things that keep me awake at night—and somehow, you loved me anyway. I don't know if I'll ever deserve that. What I do know is that every morning I wake up beside you, I'll spend the rest of my life trying. I promise to be honest with you, even when it's difficult. I promise to trust you with the pieces of myself I've always kept hidden. I promise to stand beside you when life is easy and when it isn't. I promise that no matter what happens, you'll never face it alone.

“I can't promise perfection. You know better than anyone that I'm far from perfect.”

Jason is not even hesitant; he delivers his words like gospel—a mix of unwavering security and blind faith.

“But I can promise this: you will always have my heart, my loyalty, and a home with me. And if the world ever comes for you, it'll have to go through me first. I love you. Today, tomorrow, and every day I have left. And I choose you. Every single time.”

Tears are freely falling from your eyes, and he’s quick to wipe them away. You let out a small laugh and start yours.

“Jason,” you let out a small laugh and shoot him a pointed stare. “You can’t laugh.”

Jason’s eyes are absolutely soft. His entire body is relaxed, and you’re sure he doesn’t realize he’s inching closer. “Wouldn’t dare to.” You take a breath. “People see your strength first. They see the confidence, the stubbornness, the way you walk into every room like you're ready to challenge the world. But that's not the man I fell in love with. I fell in love with the man who cares so deeply it hurts.” You smile, getting emotional again. “I mean, remember when we met?”

Jason smiles.

“I fell for the man who would give everything he has for the people he loves. The man who pretends he doesn't need anyone, but reaches for my hand when he thinks no one is looking. You have the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. And it is the greatest privilege of my life to be trusted with it. I promise to love every version of you: the fearless one, the angry one, the gentle one, the kind one. And the one who is still learning that he doesn't have to carry everything by himself. I promise to remind you that you are worthy of love on the days you forget. I promise to laugh with you, argue with you, grow with you, and stand beside you through every chapter of our lives. I promise to be your peace when the world becomes too loud.

“Your partner when the road gets hard. And your home, wherever we are. You once told me that trust doesn't come easily to you. So thank you for trusting me. I choose you too, in the good and bad days, no matter what happens because, Jason, I love you. With my whole soul.”

Jason says nothing for a second, a thousand thoughts and feelings crossing his face. You instinctively brush one of his hairs away from his forehead; he closes his eyes briefly. Moves closer, his hands gravitating to your waist to kiss you—

The officiant coughs, and even he looks moved, but he snaps out of it and redirects the two of you to the table. “We need the two witnesses now.”

Roy and Dick are there in less than a second, eagerly picking up the pens and signing. You and Jason do too—you even share the same blue ballpoint.

The officiant reads over the document, making sure nothing is amiss. “Perfect. You’re now legally husband and wife.” He smiles. “Congratulations to both of you.”

Jason captures your mouth. The kiss is both sweet and hungry, and by the time you two remember that you can’t kiss for eternity, he smiles, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you, Mrs. Todd.”

You kiss him again. “I love you too, Mr. Todd.”

The wedding is perfect. Or rather, it’s perfect because Jason is there enjoying it by your side.

There’s dancing and drinking, laughter and cheering, and the constant congratulations! The muscles of your face hurt from how much you’re smiling, but you won’t stop.

Time moves far too quickly, and you’re caught in a dream you don’t want to wake up from. You see the world through a sparkling filter; everything is bright and good, and what could ever go wrong if you and Jason are together? Then comes Bruce’s speech.

He stands up, perfectly poised and straight. Beside him, Selina is looking up at him with a look of pure love. She squeezes his arm, and he gives her a small private smile.

“I’m not fond of speeches. Most of you know that. Yet somehow my children keep finding reasons to put me in situations where public speaking is expected. Tonight is no exception.”

There’s a small ripple of laughter.

“When Jason was young, there was never a quiet moment. He was curious about everything, stubborn about everything, and absolutely convinced he knew better than everyone around him. Some things never change.”

Some more laughter, and you lean against your husband’s arm—you’ll never get sick of saying that. He presses a kiss to your hair, eyes slowly moving from you to Bruce.

“What has changed is the man he's become.” Jason suddenly finds the tablecloth really interesting. “People see Jason's strength first. His determination. His ability to keep moving forward no matter what stands in his way. What I've always admired most is his heart. Jason cares deeply. Sometimes more deeply than is good for him. He loves fiercely. He protects fiercely. And when someone earns a place in his life, he never stops fighting for them. That has always been true.

“Today, I watched him look at the woman he loves, and I realized something. For a very long time, Jason spent his life surviving. Now he's building one with this lovely woman by his side.”

He looks at the two of you, smiling at you first— it’s not wide, but it’s honest— then settling on Jason.

“And there is nothing I could be more proud of. To my new daughter—thank you. For standing beside him and seeing the good in him that has always been there. And to Jason—there is very little left for me to teach you. But if I can offer one piece of advice, it's this: the people we love are not burdens we carry. They are gifts. Cherish this one every day.”

He raises his flute of champagne, and the rest of the guests follow.

“Congratulations. I love you. And I'm proud of you. To the happy couple.”

Dick starts crying immediately, Roy pretends he isn't emotional while actively crying into his drink, and Damian acts disgusted by the display while secretly recording it.

Those are just a few of the reactions Jason catches before raising his glass to Bruce and then slowly drinking. Things are not perfect between them—they may or may not ever be—but this, this is progress.

The cake comes next; exactly like the one on your Pinterest board, made from a mix of yours and Jason’s favorite flavors. You cut it together, but the moment the knife is away, you sink your fingers into it and smash it all over his face.

Everything stops for a second, and then Jason is laughing. Bright and loud, before he takes another piece and does the same thing to you, aiming for your mouth instead (he doesn’t want to ruin your makeup).

The world fades away when you and Jason have your first dance together. Your head is pressed to his chest. Looking up, you find he’s already looking at you before making you spin. You giggle and pull him down for another kiss (Damian pretends to be disgusted in the crowd).

The dancers come onto the floor; Roy and Lian, Kory and Dick, Damian and you (though he claims he does not dance but does so anyway), Bruce and Selina, Artemis and Jason at some point…

Jason and you end up exhausted, tipsy, and drunk on your love for each other. Buzzing with excitement for the honeymoon.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Todd!

[dontyouworrydaddy]

btw you’re missing out if you’re not reading this

[anxietyismyspideysense]

Bruised

Bruce Wayne x Reader

Soulmate AU

The first time you felt it, you were sixteen.

Three in the morning, dead asleep, and then suddenly — not. Pain cracking across your ribs like something had hit you, sharp and immediate and real enough that you fell out of bed gasping, clutching your side, completely convinced for one disorienting moment that something had happened to you.

Nothing had happened to you.

You were in your bedroom. You were fine. But your ribs ached with a depth that didn't belong to you, and when you turned on the lamp and pulled up your shirt there were bruises blooming across your side in real time — dark, mottled, the specific pattern of an impact — on skin that had touched nothing.

Your mother sat with you until four in the morning with her hand on your back.

"Your soulmate," she offered quietly. Like it explained everything. Like it was supposed to be comforting.

It explained everything. It was not comforting.

Because whoever was on the other end of this — whoever you were cosmically bound to — was getting hurt. Badly. Regularly. The bruises faded by morning but the ache took days, and it happened again two weeks later, and then again, and then with a frequency that settled into something you could only describe as a schedule.

Every few nights. Sometimes every night.

Always between midnight and four in the morning.

Always the kind of pain that meant serious, the kind that meant your soulmate was out there somewhere doing something that resulted in cracked ribs and split knuckles and once, memorably, a dislocated shoulder that had you weeping on your bathroom floor at two in the morning unable to lift your arm.

By the time you were twenty and had moved to Gotham for work you had developed a whole system. Extra painkillers. An ice pack in the freezer. A specific pillow arrangement. You kept loose shirts for the mornings when the bruises were bad, covered them at work with practiced ease, told no one because how would you explain it, what would you even say.

My soulmate is out there somewhere doing something that keeps putting them in the hospital, probably, and I feel all of it, and I've never met them, and I don't know if they're okay.

You thought about that last part more than you let yourself admit.

Whether they were okay.

The Gotham Preservation Gala was not your idea of a Tuesday night.

It was your boss's idea of a Tuesday night, specifically the idea that you attending would be good for the company and that your presence was required and that the dress code was black tie which meant an hour of your life spent doing something with your hair that it didn't naturally want to do.

You went. You smiled at people. You accepted a glass of champagne you didn't particularly want and stationed yourself near a window with a view of the city and did the mental math on how long you had to stay before leaving was acceptable.

"You look like someone calculating an exit strategy."

You turned.

Bruce Wayne was, apparently, a person who existed in real life and not just in the society pages. You knew his face from years of Gotham news — the square jaw, the dark hair, the eyes that were a complicated shade of blue-gray that photographs had never quite captured — and here it was in person, closer than expected, wearing an expression of mild amusement that sat slightly oddly on features that seemed more naturally suited to the cover page of a magazine.

"I'm calculating an exit strategy," you corrected, because lying seemed pointless.

Something in his expression shifted. Warmed, slightly. "How long have you given yourself?"

"Twenty more minutes. Forty if the food is good."

"The food is good."

"Forty minutes then."

He almost smiled. It had the quality of something that didn't happen easily, that had to make its way through considerable resistance to get to his face. "Bruce Wayne."

"I know." You told him your name. "I know who you are."

"Most people here pretend they don't, as a courtesy." He settled beside you at the window, looking out at the city with an ease that suggested he'd done this at many galas — stationed himself somewhere peripheral, watched the room, kept an exit available.

"That seems exhausting," you mused.

"It is," he agreed.

You stood together for a moment in the particular comfortable quiet of two people who had both independently decided the party was better from the edges. The city glittered outside, and you thought — as you sometimes did, looking at Gotham at night — about whoever was out there somewhere in it, doing whatever they did that hurt so much.

The pain had been bad lately. Last week had been one of the worst — something that had woken you at one in the morning with a blinding headache and what felt like a gash across your left forearm, the skin raised and stinging, gone by morning but vivid enough while it lasted that you'd sat in your kitchen until sunrise.

"You're rubbing your arm," Bruce Wayne stated, curiosity in his gaze.

You stopped. You hadn't noticed you were doing it — the left forearm, automatic. "Sorry. Old habit."

Something crossed his face. Fast, almost invisible. "Does it hurt?"

An odd question. "Not right now. It's just — a thing I do."

He looked at your arm for a moment with an expression you couldn't quite read — too many layers to it, something careful and controlled at the surface and something else underneath that the control was working hard to cover.

"Enjoy the gala," he stated charmingly, flashing you that award winning smile. And then he was gone, smooth and unhurried, absorbed back into the room.

You watched him go with the distinct feeling of having missed something.

You ran into him again because Gotham was simultaneously enormous and very small.

The coffee shop on Seventh — your coffee shop, your Tuesday and Thursday morning ritual, the place that knew your order — and there he was, at the counter, in civilian clothes that were expensive in the way of things that were trying not to look expensive, looking at the menu with the focus of someone making a genuine decision.

He saw you at the same moment you saw him.

"You come here?" you asked, because it seemed impossible somehow. Bruce Wayne had a manor. Bruce Wayne had, presumably, staff who made him whatever he wanted.

"I come here," he confirmed. "Alfred's coffee is better. I come here to think."

"The noise?"

"The anonymity." He glanced around the shop — small, slightly scruffy, not the kind of place anyone looked for Bruce Wayne. "Nobody here cares who I am."

"I care who you are."

"You're the exception." He said it simply, without deflection, and the directness of it caught you slightly off guard. "Can I join you?"

You sat together for an hour. That was the thing that surprised you — not the sitting, but the hour, how quickly it went, how easy it was. He was different here than at the gala. Still contained, still careful, still with that quality of a person who monitored themselves constantly. But the performance of Bruce Wayne, Gotham's most eligible socialite, was absent. What was left was quieter and sharper and considerably more interesting.

He asked questions and actually listened to the answers. He had opinions he stated without the social lubrication of pretending they were suggestions. He drank his coffee black and read the room around him in a way that was so continuous and automatic you almost didn't notice he was doing it.

"You do that constantly," you stated observantly, "Watch the room."

A pause. "Old habit."

You smiled at that — your words, back to you. He caught it and something in his expression did the almost-smile again, more visible this time, closer to the surface.

You left with his number in your phone under Bruce W., which felt both completely ordinary and slightly surreal.

It became a thing.

Coffee on Thursdays. Occasionally dinner. The particular rhythm of two people finding each other in the margins of their separate lives, which was how you thought of it — neither of you were people who made a lot of room, and somehow you were making room, and neither of you were commenting on that directly, which suited you both fine.

You liked him. Considerably. More than was probably wise given how little you actually knew about him — because for all the ease of the coffee shop conversation, there was a wall in Bruce Wayne, solid and carefully maintained, and you could feel exactly where it was even when he was being generous on the other side of it.

You didn't push. You figured the wall had reasons.

The pain was getting worse.

Or not worse exactly — not more severe. More frequent. Hardly a night went by now, and the accumulated tiredness of it was starting to show in ways you couldn't entirely manage. Dark circles. A slowness in the mornings. Your boss had asked twice if you were sleeping.

You were sleeping. You just kept getting interrupted.

Three months into knowing Bruce Wayne, on a Thursday morning, you arrived at the coffee shop with a bruise along your jaw that concealer had mostly handled but not entirely, and the particular careful way you were holding your left side that you'd gotten good at disguising but apparently not good enough.

He saw it immediately.

You watched him see it — the almost imperceptible shift, the way his eyes moved over you in that room-reading way and stopped, and then the stillness that came over him that was too controlled to be casual.

"What happened to your face," he asked you, not unkindly, worry evident on his face.

"Nothing happened to my face."

"There's a bruise."

"I walked into a door."

The look he gave you was exceptionally flat. Bruce Wayne had a very effective flat look. "You walked into a door."

"It was a very sudden door."

"And your side?"

You straightened automatically. "My side is fine."

He was quiet for a moment. The coffee shop moved around you — orders called, chairs scraping, the ordinary noise of a Thursday morning — and he sat across from you with his hands around his cup looking at you with an expression that was doing something complicated.

"You don't have to tell me," he finally. Carefully. "But I'd like you to know that I'm — that I notice. And I've been noticing for a while."

Something in the honesty of it made your chest tighten.

"It's not what you think," you stated firmly.

"What do I think?"

"That someone is — that it's happening to me." You looked at your coffee. Then at him. "It's the soulmate thing. The connection. Whatever they're — I feel it too. It shows up." You gestured vaguely at your jaw.

The silence that followed was long.

When you looked up, his face had done something you hadn't seen it do before. All the careful management of it had gone briefly, completely offline — not long, just a second — and what was underneath was raw enough that it took you a moment to process.

Then it was back. Controlled. Present.

"Your soulmate," he started, his tone very even.

"Whoever they are, they do something — I don't know what. Something that hurts. A lot and often." You tried to keep your voice neutral, the way you'd learned to. "I've been feeling it since I was sixteen."

Another silence. Different quality to this one.

"That's a long time," he rasped.

"Yeah."

"Do you—" He stopped. "Are you angry? At them?"

The question surprised you. People usually asked if you were scared, or sad, or whether you'd tried to find them. Nobody had asked if you were angry.

"Sometimes," you replied honestly, "At two in the morning with a dislocated shoulder, yeah, a little." You turned your cup in your hands. "Mostly I just worry. Whoever they are, they're — they've been doing this for years. Whatever it is. And they keep going back to it." You looked out the window at the Gotham street. "That takes a certain kind of person."

Bruce Wayne was very still across from you.

"What kind of person?" he asked quietly.

You thought about it. About sixteen years of midnights, of pain that didn't belong to you, of the particular rhythm and frequency of it that you'd lived with long enough to know like a language.

"Someone who thinks it's necessary," you stated, tilting your head, "Whatever they're doing. Someone who's decided it matters enough." A pause. "I don't think they do it because they want to get hurt. I think they do it in spite of that."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You're very understanding," he observed gently, "About something that costs you a great deal."

"They don't know it costs me," you said. "I've never met them."

Something moved through his expression — something that looked almost like pain, separate from whatever the bruise on your jaw had been. Self-directed, internal.

"What would you say?" he asked. "If you met them."

You considered. Outside, Gotham went about its morning, loud and indifferent and entirely itself.

"I'd probably ask if they were okay," you replied, "First. Before anything else." You met his eyes. "The rest of it can wait. I just want to know they're okay."

Bruce Wayne looked at you across a small table in a coffee shop on Seventh Street, and something in him — some load-bearing thing, carefully constructed and long maintained — shifted.

His left hand was on the table. He turned it over slowly. And there, on the inside of his wrist where his sleeve had pulled back slightly, was a scar — thin, silver-pale, the kind that came from something specific and serious — that matched, with precise and impossible accuracy, a scar on your own wrist that had appeared four years ago and that you'd never been able to explain.

You looked at his wrist.

You looked at your own.

You looked at his face.

He was watching you with an expression that was completely unguarded for the first time since you'd known him — all the walls down, or not down exactly, but transparent, the structure of them visible but no longer blocking the view. And the view was — a lot. The view was a person who was very tired and very sorry and had apparently been sitting across from you for three months with this knowledge living in him like a held breath.

"Bruce," you started.

"I know," he rasped quietly. "I know. I should have—"

"Are you okay?" you asked him softly.

He stopped.

He looked at you — really looked, the way he hadn't let himself — and whatever he found in your eyes seemed to take him slightly apart at the seams, gentle and irreversible.

"No," he replied, like it was honest in a way that clearly cost him, "Not always."

"Okay." You turned your hand over on the table, an offering. The same scar on the same wrist. "That's what I needed to know."

His hand moved to yours slowly. The contact of it was — warm. Solid. The particular weight of something that had been a long time coming finally arriving.

Outside, Gotham was loud and difficult and entirely itself.

Inside, Bruce Wayne held your hand across a small table and said nothing, and you let the nothing sit there, and it was the most he'd given you yet.

It was enough to start.

[merletka]

[jtoddsbaby]

i'll always choose you

IN WHICH... jason will fix every inch of himself if it means he gets to keep you

aka: a continuation of always

warnings: fluff, f!reader, established relationship, bf!jason x gf!reader, domesticity, probably (definitely) ooc!jason, just tooth rotting fluff, lots of pet names, erm jason calls reader mama once SUE ME i like it, just pretend that "obsession" is already available on like disney+ or smth

wc: 1.4k

It's been 6 months since you'd finally had your last straw of Jason and his temperament issues. 6 (long) months of weekly therapy sessions in a stuffy office full of too many fake plants sat on a too-small couch. As much as Jason hated speaking to some stranger about how he was feeling, it let him keep you. That was all he cared about.

Therapy or me? That's what you had said to him all those months ago. That was the agreement. And he'd made damn sure that he'd followed through with it. You were his baby, after all—he'd do anything to keep you happy.

"Baby, pass me the...uh...oh! The brown sugar, please," you ask Jason, taking glances down at the recipe on your phone to make sure you're getting everything correct.

Ever since Jason began therapy, your relationship has only strengthened, solidified. He's calmer now, less uptight. His shoulders don't carry that familiar coiled tension all the time. He doesn't hold a constant scowl on his face as he walks around your apartment. He communicates with you when he needs a minute, when he's feeling angry.

He'll never admit it, but as much as he hates therapy, it is helping him—a lot. He's never felt so at peace with himself. Perhaps he just needed an outlet for his feelings, an outlet that wasn't personal to him like you were. An outlet that constantly remained objective on everything he said, one that wouldn't be heartbroken by his anger.

Wordlessly, Jason rummages through your baking cabinets before finding the bag of brown sugar and planting it on the counter. Noticing your hands busy with whisking, he asks "how much, babe? I can pour it in."

"3/4 a cup. Thank you, Jay."

"Sure, baby."

He pours the sugar into your bowl, watching as you whisk it in with the rest of the batter. You spare a glance over your shoulder at him, smiling that pretty smile he loves so much. "You've been baking with me more often," you observe.

He shrugs, eyes locked on your face. "I like spending time with you."

"But it's different now. Ever since you started your therapy, you've been doing this with me. Every Sunday."

He continues adding ingredients to your mixture, cracking two eggs over the bowl. He's quiet for a bit, thinking of how to respond. Eventually, he finds the words. "I guess being in that office the past few months made me realize how close I came to losing you," he admits. "How alone I made you feel...I don't ever want to see you like that again, ma."

Your expression softens, your whisking pausing momentarily. "Oh, Jay..." you sigh. "You didn't lose me, though."

"But I almost did. It shouldn't've ever gotten to that point." The sad, guilty look swimming in his blue-green eyes puts a painful ache right in the center of your chest.

You clean your messy hands on a tea towel before walking over to him, wrapping your arms tight around his middle, face burying in his chest.

He pauses for a moment, just looking down at you—his sweet baby—holding him. After a moment his arms find purchase around your neck, wrapping around you protectively. A hand holds the back of your head, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your hair.

You rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him with the biggest, most forgiving eyes that Jason will never feel worthy of seeing. His thumb brushes your under-eye as if he's handling fine china.

"Y'know, the fact that you were so willing to get help proved everything to me," you whisper to him, eyes flicking across his face—his handsome, rugged face. Your face to look at. "It let me see how much you really cared."

"Did you ever doubt my care for you?" he queries.

"I...honestly?"

He nods. "Lay it on me, babygirl. I can handle it."

"A few times, yeah. I did. You had weeks where you did more yelling than consoling, more ignoring than talking. Those were times that I doubted things." You shut up when you see the pure heartbreak in his eyes. Even though he insisted he could 'handle it,' last thing you need is him spiraling, his brain plaguing him with reminders of all his mistakes.

"But, again, Jay, you getting help meant a lot to me," you reassure, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, forcing his gaze to yours. "I know now, undoubtedly, how much you love me. I'll never question it again so long as this keeps up. You're good like this—this is the Jason Todd I fell in love with."

A small smile tugs at his lips, his spirits lifting at your encouragement. "Yeah, baby? This is me, in the flesh?" he teases, tilting his head to kiss your right palm, keeping it pressed warmly against his cheek with his own hand.

You nod adamantly. "My Jason."

"I'm always your Jason," he says cheesily, making you giggle and him groan. "Erase that."

"No shot," you laugh, holding him close as he buries his embarrassed face in your neck. "Aw, you're so adorable," you coo at your big boy—he's adorable in your eyes, so what?

He only grumbles, arms enveloping your waist as you arch into him, your bodies practically fusing together. "I love you, Jay."

"I love you, too, mama. Forever and always, m'kay?" he mumbles in response, lips moving against your neck with each word. He presses a few gentle kisses there, also stealing a few licks to taste your salty sweat on his tongue.

"M'kay," you echo sweetly, fingers combing through his hair, paying extra attention to his little white streak.

"Now, c'mon, doll, are we gonna make these cookies or what?" He gives your ass two little pats before untangling himself from you. "Lets get to fucking work!" He claps his hands enthusiastically.

You giggle at his clear excitement. He's so free like this, so authentically and unabashedly himself. Not Red Hood, not now. Just Jason. The Jason who, ironically, has a goofy side. The Jason that belongs to you, the one you thought had slipped through your fingers all those months ago.

2 hours later...

A plate full of delicious, gooey cookies sits on the coffee table while you and Jason are curled up on your shared couch—well, you're curled up. On his lap. Jason is manspread in the middle of the sofa, one arm around your waist and the other clutching the remaining half of his 3rd cookie.

You and Jason look like a bunch of gluttons as you lounge, a movie Dick recommended you playing out on the screen as the two of you stuff your faces full of your creation. Some crumbs gather in Jason's lap from your own eating, and your hand constantly comes up to brush some off his face. Jason knows he'll have to vacuum after this, but he lets you have your moment for now.

"This guys fuckin' crazy," you comment, the words muffled from the cookie you're chewing.

"What's his name again? Bear? Yeah, a freak name for a freak dude. I mean, seriously, how odd—who has to do all that just to get a girl to like them?"

You giggle, glancing at him. "Okay, cocky."

"I'm serious, baby! A whole ass black-magic spell just for a little love. It's weird," he persists, his hand on your waist rubbing soothing, warm circles. "Just do it the classic way and, I dunno, ask her out? It works quite well—I'd know."

His hold on you tightens to both arms, tugging you down so you're both laying down across the entire length of the couch. You snuggle against him, his body warm and hard beneath you.

He kisses your temple, a hand brushing your hair from your lovely face. The touch is protective, gentle, caring. He continues, stroking your hair in a petting motion as his eyes (reluctantly) drift back to the screen.

"Thank you for movie night," you say to him. "I missed this, a lot."

"You're welcome, doll. Can't you tell by now that I'll do anything for you?"

And the answer? Yes, you can. He's proven it by walking to his therapist's office for 2PM sharp every Thursday—not biking, because he knows you hate his 'death machine,' as you call it, even if it takes him triple the time on foot.

He's proven it by dedicating his Sundays to baking a sweet treat with you to enjoy during movie night.

He's proven it, most importantly, by holding you close every night and talking about his grievances, not shouting bitter words at you and storming off.

It's become increasingly clear that Jason would truly always choose you, no matter what.

a/n: i kinda hate this and feel like it's all over the place but i hope you guys enjoy🫩 it took me a while so let me know what you think! xx

[pixzeestyxxs]

It's my 8 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

Holy fuck how has time passed and now.

[pixzeestyxxs]

My next post is taking forever to write, thank you my internship for stressing me tf out, anyways hopefully this week!

[jtoddsbaby]

Jason Angst?

Reader has finally reached their limit of Jason’s temper. He’s working on it, of course, but working on it snd change are two different things. After he accidentally yells at them for the nth time, Reader gives an ultimatum. Either he go to therapy, or they’re done. Jason’s a bat, and bats should be able to handle their problems without therapy… right?

always

IN WHICH... you're sick and tired of jason taking all of his frustration out on the person he's meant to love. if he doesn't fix his problems, you're going to have to pull the plug.

warnings: angst, anger issues on jason's behalf, f!reader, cussing, pet names, mean!jason, 2nd person pov, y/n used like twice, open ending sort of

wc: 2k

Life as Jason's girlfriend wasn't always like this.

He didn't always yell at you after he had a bad night out on patrol. He didn't always snap at you when you were excited to ramble about your passions. And he certainly didn't always spend his nights asleep on the living room couch, mulling over everything he said to you.

Somewhere along the 5-month mark, though, Jason stopped masking his uncontrolled anger issues. Before that, he was almost...good at regulating them. He'd mutter a simple "sorry, love, but I need a moment," before slipping out onto the fire escape for a smoke. Perhaps once he finally got comfortable with you he figured he didn't need to hide it anymore, but this version of things was only hurting you more than his previous dismissal.

And tonight was just another one of those nights. Another night spent sitting numbly at the kitchen island while Jason spits cruel words in your face as if they have no consequences. You just stare at him tiredly, tears spilling down your face—you no longer have the energy to yell back.

All you'd done was ask him how patrol was when he'd gotten home around 11:30—late, as per usual. He'd ignored you. You pushed—maybe that's where you went wrong, because he just...exploded.

"Like, seriously, baby!" he yells—the juxtaposition of such a sweet name amongst the mean things he's yelling isn't lost on you. "You're just...so fucking annoying sometimes! When're you gonna give me a break, huh?"

"Jay-"

"No, I'm sick of it! Jay, how was patrol?" he mocks cruelly. "Jay, cuddle me! Jay this, Jay that– just shut up already! You don't need to be in my space 24/7!"

You sigh, reaching a hand up to wipe your now-wet face. "I'm sorry."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna go shower—don't join me."

You're forced to sit there, watching as Jason retreats to the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. As you hear the shower begin to run, you zone out, stewing in your thoughts.

I miss the old you, you think to yourself, and you're almost ashamed at the thought. As Jason's girlfriend, you're meant to love every side of him...right? But how can you love them all equally when one treats you like this?

On Jason's behalf, he's still grumbling to himself about a clingy girlfriend who's so fucking obnoxious as he undresses for the shower. When he finally steps under the scalding spray—alone—he lets himself begin to relax.

And only then does he reflect on how he just acted toward you, his babygirl. He'd told you to leave him alone...told you that you're annoying...told you he was sick of you. And on top of it all, he just stood there, watching as fat tears slid down your cheeks, weighing your pretty lashes down.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, letting the water soak into his dark hair and slide over his body. As much as he hates to admit it, he wishes you were here with him. In a perfect world, you'd be washing his hair and back, listening to him ramble on about everything that was wrong. Instead of being something to attack, you'd be his teammate, his companion that he goes to.

Silently, he goes through the motions of a shower: shampoo in hair, rinse. Wash body, rinse. Wash face, rinse. He does it all with a heavy heart and a clouded mind. The same thought repeats in his head like a mantra: Why do I treat the love of my life like this?

As he shuts the shower off and wraps his soft white towel around his waist, he half-expects to walk out of the en suite bathroom to see you sat on the bed, patient and eager to help him unwind—to be there for him.

But of course, you're not.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he slips himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, shaking his wet hair out with a towel. Twisting the door handle slowly, he creeps it open. "Sweetheart?" he calls out tentatively.

No response.

He inches out of the room, eyes scanning the apartment floor for you. Not in the kitchen, not in your office, not...

Oh, there you are. Curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book in your lap. So precious he thinks to himself, then silently curses himself for it. He shouldn't be allowed to think such soft things of you after how he treated you. "Hey..."

You glance up, look into his eyes with your sweet, gentle ones, then look back to your book.

His heart squeezes so painfully that he has to reach a hand up to rub his aching chest.

"Ma, please talk to me. I'm sorry," he murmurs gently, as if he's speaking to a wounded animal and not his girlfriend.

"I know."

"You know what...?"

"That you're sorry," you reply, looking up at him again. "You're always sorry, Jason."

Against his will, his temper begins to flare once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You come home from patrol, explode on me, leave for an hour or so, then seek me out to tell me you're sorry," you say. "That's usually how my nights go nowadays."

"You can't just pin that all on me," he argues. You gently shut your book. Here we go. "It's not my fault that you just...piss me off so badly."

You nod. "Okay, Jason," you mutter, lifting off the couch and walking toward the bedroom. You dump whatever wine was left in your glass down the sink on the way.

He hates that he can see the dried tears on your cheeks. He hates even more that he can't shake this inexplicable anger he feels.

"What do you mean 'okay'?"

"I mean okay," you reply gently. "I'm going to bed."

He blinks, standing in the middle of the room like a lost dog. "You're just...going?"

You nod.

"O...kay. Why?"

You let out a sigh. "Really, Jason?"

"Yes, really!" he exclaims. "Why're you just leaving?"

"I don't wanna be around you, quite frankly," you murmur, walking closer to the bedroom.

His shoulders sag as he hears the click of the bedroom door shutting. Your words repeat in his mind, paining him.

I don't wanna be around you.

Of course you don't, because why would you, what with how he's been treating you. He glances at the microwave clock—12:15am. Simply seeing what time it is seems to make Jason's exhaustion weigh heavier on his shoulders. He yawns, rubbing his eyes softly.

Couch...or bed?

He's been sleeping on the couch for god knows how many days now, one more day wouldn't hurt. But at the same time, he misses his baby. He misses feeling you snuggle up against his chest, wanting to be held and loved. He smiles faintly at the memories of all the times you've nudged up into his hand, silently asking for him to play with your hair.

He doesn't deserve to have that anymore, he knows it. But still, he makes the decision that tonight, he is going to sleep where he's meant to: in his bed, next to the woman he loves.

He shuffles into the kitchen, washing your wine glass for you as well as the new dish you bought the other day but hadn't gotten around to cleaning. Then, flicking the light off, he makes his way to the bedroom door.

As he enters, he's met with a pitch black expanse of nothingness. The only light is the faint moonlight peeking through the curtains, perfectly illuminating the slope of your nose for him to see.

You're not asleep, he can tell from your breathing. Gently, he crawls in beside you, scooting close enough that he can spoon you. He hates the way your body tenses when his arms envelop you before releasing, hates that you're no longer used to his cuddles.

"It's just me, baby," he whispers softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I'm not really in the mood to cuddle, Jay. Sorry..."

He blinks. "Oh. Yeah...sorry, love." His arms release from around your waist, and he slides back until he's on his side of the bed.

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the spin of the fan in order to avoid looking down at your pretty self. His strategy only works for a solid two minutes before his eyes instinctively flicker down to you.

His eyes trace you—your relaxed forehead, your soft brows, your shut eyes, those beautiful lashes, the slope of your nose...all the way down to those plush lips he loves so much.

"I don't know why I act the way I do," he whispers shakily, as if he's admitting his deepest, darkest secret. "I..."

You look over your shoulder at him. "You what, Jay?"

"I'm not...a violent dog. I don't why I bite..."

The pure sadness and insecurity in his voice does truly make your heart ache, but what about you? What about all the times he's lashed out on you without reason, making you feel unwelcome?

"I know, but..." you sigh. "I'm so tired, Jason. You didn't always used to treat me like this...you used to, I dunno, regulate it better."

"Tired of me?"

"Of how you treat me, like you're not afraid of losing me."

You can physically hear his breath catch. "But...oh, baby, no..." he whimpers softly. "Do I really make you feel that way, my love?" His hands cup your cheeks, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones.

Softly, your hands find his wrists, removing his hands from your face and placing them in his lap.

"You're...you're losing me, Jay," you murmur. His eyes are immediately glassy, you can tell. You want to do nothing more than kiss that sadness away—but you can't. "You're definitely going to lose me if you keep treating me like I'm disposable."

"I'm trying to get better for you, baby, I swear I am–"

"I know you're trying, but nothing's actually changing, babe..." you pause a moment to look into his eyes, trying to truly get your point across. "I...I've considered leaving if this keeps up."

His breathing is labored and uneven as he imagines a life without you—it's a horrible, pain-riddled, miserable one. "No..."

"Jay..."

"Baby, no," he's actually crying now, tears streaming from his beautiful blue-green eyes. "I need you, ma, I–"

"Then you'll get help and fix your problem," you say. Your fingers twitch, aching to brush the tear away that's sliding down his cheek.

"Help?"

"Y'know, like therapy."

Immediately, his mood shifts. It's so quick, you'd miss it if you blinked. His eyes sharpen, his face hardens, and his body becomes more alert. He wipes the wetness off his face. "I don't need therapy."

"Then how else are you gonna fix this?"

"I don't know, Y/N, but I don't need therapy," he doesn't catch the way his voice is rising. "Me, Jason Todd—'son' of batman—therapy?"

"You're doing it again," you murmur numbly.

"What?" he blinks.

"Yelling. You're yelling at me, and you don't even realize it."

His eyes soften. "Oh."

"Yeah," you mumble. "You do that a lot, Jay."

"Okay, but I'm...I'm not getting therapy."

You look down, debating whether to say exactly what you're thinking or to just agree with him and move on, to let the cycle repeat.

"It's either therapy or me, Jason."

He blanches. "What?" he whispers, wondering if he heard you correctly.

"It's therapy or me," you repeat a little more firmly, looking into eyes when you say it this time.

"I'm a bat, Y/N. I don't do therapy," he defends.

"Jay, for christ's sake!" you exclaim. "Are you not like, processing what's happening right now?" You say your next words slowly, trying to get them through his head. "If you don't go to therapy and get help for your anger management, you're going to lose me. I'm going to leave. I won't be your girlfriend anymore.

"I can't just keep being your punching bag forever, baby, no matter how much I love you—how much I know you love me. So what's it gonna be, Jason? Your ego or our relationship?"

a/n: enjoy😘 lmk if u want pt2

[waltzingphantoms]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ all the little birdies on Jaybird Street jason todd headcanons

This man is a huge book nerd. I’m pretty sure it’s canon too, but I can imagine his apartment with stacks of books dangerously piling on top of each other as he keeps picking up some new ones on his way back from early patrol on a second-hand shop. Personally, I believe he would enjoy more classical books, from Ancient Greece and Rome specifically (Aristophane’s comedies would get an actual laugh from him), but he reads everything he gets his hands on. Overdue library books when he was little, the habit of regularly visiting the place still snuck into his adult years, but now everything is returned on time. Notes on the margins of re-read books, whenever he’d run out of space, he would just use a notebook to write down his thoughts.

This leads me to my next point, he has tried journaling at some point and the habit just stuck even if he didn’t expect it to. Originally recommended off handedly by Tim as he talked about one of his friends who got into it, it started as an actual mental challenge he set for himself. He read that one of his favourite characters enjoyed writing down their thoughts down on paper instead of letting them spiral, and so that was just the push he needed. Over time, he developed a quite nice collection of fancy notebooks, papers and even fountain pens. Ironically, he uses either black or red ink to write in.

Music addict, you cannot tell me he wouldn’t have music playing in the background every second of the day. What started as a way to tune out his thoughts, he invested more and more time every day listening to every music genre available on Spotify, which lead him to having a ridiculously long playlist of every song he has ever liked. He has a personal preference for classic mainstream rock, knowing the whole discography of queen, bowie, oasis and the Beatles, punk bands playing on repeat too. He’s willing to give everything a listen but he is a bit snob regarding the songs he plays inside his actual apartment: he will listen to everything while he’s away, but in the comfort of his own walls, only his true music is allowed.

He’s such a feral girl cat owner. Coming from patrol way before meeting you, he found in an alleyway a box that made noise and as he peered over the edge, he found a tricoloured kitten scared in a corner. Afraid out of her mind, she was hissing and against his better judgement, he just picked her up and took her home after careful consideration of her future needs. He took her to the vet first thing the next day to get vaccines and to make sure she didn’t have an actual owner, and totally enamoured by her, she just stuck by his side. Tricolour cats are typically females and a bitch to everyone but their owners and she was just as expected: she hissed and scratched everyone that somehow found their way in inside his apartment, only accepting Jason, you and Damian (only because he spoiled her rotten every time he shamelessly snuck in to hang out).

Jason, contrary to popular belief, is quite shy in romantic settings. He didn’t have any romantic attraction when he was a little kid, and when he met you, he just was a bit awkward and aloof because he truly didn’t know how to act. His only tips came from books from the 18th century and whatever nonsense he saw within his family, which they weren’t the perfect role models to follow in this area. As cliché as it may sound, you two met on a bookstore when you commented on a book he picked up as you stood on the same aisle near him and he furiously blushed as he struggled to come up with a response to your off handed words.

His ideal first date is as follows: he picks you up with a bouquet of your favourite flowers he learnt after a late-night talk, and you two set off for a dinner at a nice restaurant where he was known by name by the employees. Conversations flowing in your own bubble without a care for the rest of the world, you talked about everything and anything, silence in between the gaps filled with longing gazes and accidental grazes. After finishing there, he would take you for a walk until you reached your apartment, opting a small detour to get a shared dessert on the way. When the moment came to say your goodbyes, he stood in front of you anxiously looking everywhere but your eyes until he finally focused on you as you gently kissed his cheek and he froze up completely. He closed his eyes, savouring the moment even when you pulled away and saw the dumb grin on his face, laughing when he tried to act all smooth and pretending your affection didn’t move him as much as it actually did.

It wasn’t an easy relationship despite how much the connection flowed. He was full of reasonable trauma, and it was a slow, slow process to get him to build trust around your person. At first, he acted all cool, nonchalant and careful not to show his true colours until one rough patrol quite deep into the relationship left him ruthlessly bare to you. There were civilian casualties on a complex mission, people there at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it greatly took a toll on him. Coming home with the mental and physical wounds still fresh, he forgot you were spending the night at his and that resulted in a very long and vulnerable conversation where he stripped himself bare of some of his greatest fears, not daring to mention the harder ones. That was when you learnt the truth about Jason Todd and the dangerous and deadly Red Hood, that he was worried and afraid of being judged off of what he had done and who he was by you, and in an endless cycle of self-destruction, he refused to deal with it until it couldn’t be avoided anymore.  

He’s clingy. Undeniably. He always had a weird relationship with physical contact because when he was a kid, it wasn’t uncommon to have his cheeks squeezed by someone dear to him, and he used to love hugs too. After his resurrection, he was so touch starved during years that he became actually repulsed at the thought of someone standing to close near him, and it took years of work to become used to feeling the warmth of the skin of his family beside his own body without recoiling away. Overtime, he started to look forwards to it, even daring to reach out first to his brothers. With you, he had come a long way already, and he was actually almost proud of himself to crave your closeness, allowing him to feel human again after a long time. Unaware of all of this when your started dating, you just liked the warmth his body radiated and the feeling of his body near yours, so everything fit together without any reason to worry. Huge arms engulfing your body, lips pressed to every inch of your face, lingering touches when you were near him, touch became a constant in the relationship that healed something in him.

a/n: hi hi!! I wanted to try something new with the headcanons and it sure was an experience! These are way less descriptive and more dialogue-based than what i’m used to, so let me know your thoughts on them and if i should keep making these with other characters, PLUS i added a collage bcs i've done like a hundred of them in the last month and i love them sm :D

[honeysucklewatr]

someone followed me with “proud zionist” in their bio and i immediately removed and blocked them. in my real life, i am very vocal about my support for palestine and i will never be silent during a systemic and deliberate cultural genocide. so i will gladly repeat this as many times as i need to.

this is NOT a safe space for zionist’s.

this is NOT a safe space for israeli apologists.

get the fuck off my blog you absolute clown.

do not engage with my content. do not read my fics. do not follow me because i will block you. mind you every character i write for would HATE you.

free palestine until palestine is free and FUCK israel.

[totallynotashieldagent]

Accidental Forced Confession

"Are you cheating on me?"

Wally froze. Did he hear that right? No no. You couldn't possibly-

"Walls. Are you cheating on me?" You repeated.

"I heard you the first time but I'm just... I'm not computing it." He blinked with confusion.

"It's a yes or no question." Your gaze narrowed at him.

"Uh.. no? I'm not?" He answered slowly. "Why would even-"

"Yeah? You don't sound very sure." You glared. "Are you or are you not cheating on me?"

"Jesus- Babe! No- No, I'm not. I'd never!" He said quickly, "Where is this coming from?"

"Oh- I don't know-" You shrugged, "Maybe it's because you disappear!!" You scolded him, "And don't answer your phone! And are chronically late everywhere and your excuses are so bullshit!"

"I can explain!" He waved his hands.

"Okay then. Explain." You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Wally paused then swallowed. He couldn't really explain. What was he supposed to say? Babe- I'm not cheating. I'm the Flash. Yeah, right. You'd throw him out of your apartment before he could even finish the sentence.

"Well?!" You repeated again.

"Work?" He said unsurely.

"You're an engineer at Holt Industries." You glared. "Why in the world would that require you to come home at midnight or skip out on date nights?!"

He was at a loss for words. His mouth opened and closed like a fish- No words coming out as he stared at you. And that made him look even guiltier.

You swallowed, your throat closing up as your eyes began to water. You clicked your tongue and nodded. "Right- Okay." You laughed, "I'm- I'm gonna need you to leave."

"What?" His eyes widened, "Wait- Wait-" He stood up from the couch and stumbled over his feet, trying to get to you.

You grabbed a duffle bag from the closet and started shoving his things into it. His clothes in your drawers, his toiletries next to yours in the bathroom- Even his snacks from the bedside table. You threw everything in the bag and Wally followed you with panic, begging for you to stop.

But what the hell was the supposed to say? That he leaves because Grodd attacked downtown again? Or that he sometimes gets stuck in the time stream? Or that the Justice League sends him off planet every now and then?

"Baby- Please-" He begged, "I swear I'm not cheating on you."

"Then where the fuck do you disappear off to? Huh?" You snapped.

"I- It's complicated." He whispered, knowing full well that this was making it worse.

You laughed loudly, wiping the tears from your eyes. "Oh my god-" You shook your head, going to the kitchen and tossing his mug into the bag. "I can't believe I was so fucking blind."

"Stop- Just- Hey- Listen to me-" He tried but you kept moving away. "Stop." He used the tone he ever only used with villains when he was done goofing around.

Your eyes widened and you stared at him. There was actual fear in your eyes and Wally wanted to rewrite time.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face.

"I swear I'm not cheating on you." He said softly, "I've been lying but I promise I have never cheated on you. You're it for me, okay?"

You nodded, frozen where you were.

Wally sighed and then he moved. There was a whirl of wind around you and you closed your eyes. When you opened them, Flash was standing infront of you. Gently, he pulled back the cowl, and there he was. Wally.

"Not cheating. Just... trying to have everyone all at once." He explained.

"You're the Flash." You stared at him in shock.

"Ta-da..." He said weakly, his arms spread wide.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You let out a long exhale and then opened your eyes. You turned around and put the duffle bag on the kitchen counter.

"Babe?" He swallowed. You weren't exactly the quiet type.

Honestly, if he hadn't been the Flash, the shampoo bottle would've hit him square in the noggin.

"What the fuck?!" He squeaked, dodging your attack and catching the bottle.

"You let me think you were cheating?!" You scolded him, throwing another thing from the bag at him. "And all this time, you have been in danger?! Fighting monsters and getting hurt!?"

"Hey! Woah! Stop!" He dodged easily but it was the principal of the matter, alright? "Stop throwing things at me!"

"OR WHAT!" You yelled, throwing more stuff at him. "All those unanswered messages! Disappearances! Missed birthdays!"

"Hey! It was one birthday!" He defended himself, catching things you were throwing and putting them down properly.

"It was my birthday!" You reminded him and he paused for a second.

You weren't sure if you wanted to strangle him, hug him, stab him or throw him out of the apartment. All the times you spent worrying, anxious, sad that he might be with another woman- He was out there saving people and putting himself in danger.

"Hey..." He approached you slowly. "Baby?" He cupped your face, tilting it up. Your eyes were filling up again.

"You could die..." You whispered. "I would've preferred cheating over this." You sniffed. "At least that won't kill you."

Ah. The oldest worry in the book for any hero.

"I'm not gonna die. I promise." He smiled softly, kissing the tip of your nose.

"You don't know that!" You cried out.

"I do. Happened once- Didn't stick." He winked, giving you his best smile.

"Wally!!" You slapped at his chest. "What?!"

"Come on. Let me order us food and I'll tell you everything." He moved for a second and was in his PJs again.

"Everything?" You asked as he made you sit on the couch.

"Everything." He promised and sat down beside you.

This was going to be a very long night.

.

.

.

DC Drabble Masterlist

[recklessmoss]

WEEE!! WEEEE!!! WEEE!!! YAYYY!! YIPPIE! WAHOO! AWAWAWA!!! WEE WEE WAA WAA WAA! ZWEEM !! BABABABA! YAHOOO WEE YAY WYEE !! WEWEWEE!!

[pixzeestyxxs]

I’m cooking some ideas up in here 🧠🧠

Help me decide which one first

which??

Kyle Rayner Yearning for you (your taken though)

Wally West and you are on a break

Domesticity w/ Jason Todd

Damian fluff piece

John Constantine smut

Voting ended onJun 15

[px41]

It's june