"Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they've got ambition, and they've got talent, as well as just beauty. I'm so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for".
Jo March, my soulmate.
My inbox is open for requests from Jason Todd, the only man my writing can contemplate. But feel free to contact me on my profile to talk about anything. 💘
masterlist
just write a lot about Jason Todd
We are not children anymore, darling (Jason todd, fluff)
- THREE TIMES YOU TRIED TO SAY YOU LOVED JASON AND ONCE HE TOLD YOU (fluff, Jason todd)
- who are your boyfriend? (Jason todd, fluff)
- Favors in exchange for kisses (Jason todd, fluff)
pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader
disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ nsfw 18+. pwp. oral (f!receiving). fun uses of champagne. fingering. mild intox cuz champagne. swearing. MDNI. dick grayson being the best wingman one could ask for. not proofread.
a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ The 2025 season has come to an end but the celebrations have just begun. It was truly my team's year. Despite a few challenges along the way, we persevered and ultimately succeeded. This victory was hard-earned and well-deserved. Cheers! (Also an early Christmas present for y’all.) Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡
Part 1 | Part 2
Jason’s focus was a fraying thread, stretched taut across the pulsating heart of the victory party. The technicolor strobe lights bled into a nauseating smear and the thunderous bass of the celebratory anthem—a fan-made track that had somehow become his unofficial theme—thumped against his ribs like a second, more irritating heartbeat. A sea of well-wishers ebbed and flowed around him, a continuous tide of backslaps, shouted congratulations and raised glasses. Their faces were a blur of genuine pride and boozy camaraderie but their words dissolved into static before they reached him.
His gaze, again and again, was a homing beacon locked onto the club’s main exit. It was the only point in the room that held any meaning. The real trophy wasn’t the massive, gleaming cup currently being used as a champagne bucket on the DJ’s podium. The real victory wasn’t etched in polished silver. It was waiting for him, in the quiet of a hotel suite several blocks away, probably curled up with a book and room service fries, wearing one of his old hoodies.
Y/N. She’d had to stay behind at the broadcast booth to wrap up her post-race commentary segments, the professional obligations of her own career keeping her from the chaos of his celebration. He understood it, had made a grumbling peace with the schedule clash, but understanding did nothing to dim the acute, physical pull he felt toward her. Every laugh that wasn’t hers, every touch that wasn’t hers, was just noise and interference.
He’d been a good sport—or as good a sport as Jason Todd could ever manage. He’d endured being hauled onto the dance floor by overzealous mechanics, had submitted to the indignity of a group stage-dive, a tradition he found profoundly stupid and had accepted countless shots of something amber and burning. He appreciated the sentiment, he truly did. But the sheer, unrelenting volume of it all—the people, the noise, the forced merriment—was sandpaper on his nerves. He stared into his glass, sloshing the dregs of some top-shelf liquor he hadn’t even chosen, his expression one of a man plotting a tactical extraction.
The cushion beside him sank abruptly. Dick Grayson collapsed into the space, the embodiment of disheveled celebration. His shirt was hanging open, damp with the salty evidence of body shots and dance-floor sweat, his hair was a glorious wreck and he radiated a chirpy, infectious energy that felt like a personal affront to Jason’s current desire for a dark, silent room.
“You know,” Dick said, his voice carrying easily over the music as if he were commenting on the weather, “I heard from one of the producers that Y/N’s wrap-up segment finished about forty-five minutes ago. Traffic at this hour is a nightmare but even with that… she’s probably back at the hotel by now. Settled in and all.”
The words acted like a key turning in a lock. Jason’s head snapped toward his brother, the glass in his hand forgotten. Every ounce of his feigned party spirit evaporated, leaving behind a raw, undisguised desperation in his eyes. It was a look that communicated a novel’s worth of yearning: Get me out of here.
He opened his mouth, a plea or a demand on his lips, but Dick was already smirking. He tutted softly, a sound of mock-disappointment and made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire roaring spectacle. “All of this,” he announced, his voice pitching into theatrical wonder. “This grand, glorious, once-in-a-season riot! This is all for you, Little Wing! The music, the adoring crowds, the free-flowing… whatever this is.” He nudged Jason’s glass. “They’re playing your song, for God’s sake. And what does the guest of honour want to do?”
Jason didn’t miss a beat. The deadpan in his voice was absolute, cutting through the party din like a blade. “I want to go home to my girlfriend. Thank you very much.”
There was no irony in it, no joke. It was a simple, immutable statement of fact. The greatest party of his career was a distraction. The only place he belonged was wherever she was.
Dick sighed, a long, theatrical exhalation of put-upon brotherhood. He cast a wistful glance back over the glittering mass of the party—the very epicenter of Jason’s professional triumph. “Oh, well,” he conceded, his tone laden with melodramatic resignation. “It is your night, after all. I suppose I could be persuaded to aid and abet your great escape.” He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing, and the helpful facade melted into something far more mischievous. “However—” The word was drawn out with devious implication.
Jason was already half off the couch, his body thrumming with the need to move. He cut Dick off with a wave of his hand, his patience a thread worn impossibly thin. “Whatever you want, Dick. Name your price. An all-expenses-paid trip to wherever. The keys to the Aston Martin—hell, take the Bugatti, I never drive it anyway. A blank cheque. Seriously, I could not care less.” The offers spilled out, grandiose and utterly transparent in their desperation. They both knew money held little sway; Dick, as Bruce Wayne’s first adopted son, had a trust fund that could probably buy a small country, though he took a perverse joy in pretending to be perpetually broke. This wasn’t about payment. It was about Dick’s amusement.
Dick pretended to ponder the extravagant bribes, tapping a finger against his chin. “Hmm. Tempting, tempting. But I’ll take a raincheck.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Take the service entrance in the back, by the kitchens. I’ve already smoothed things over with the concierge. Your car should be pulled around and waiting in…” He made a show of checking his sleek, expensive watch. “…two minutes. Don’t wreck it on the way. Have fun~”
Jason was already moving before Dick finished the sentence. A clap on the shoulder, a grunt that might have been gratitude and he was weaving through the crowd with a single-minded intensity that parted the sea of revelers more effectively than any announcement.
The moment the heavy door of the party hall sealed shut behind him, the world changed. The thunderous bass was reduced to a muted throb, a phantom heartbeat in the walls. The sterile, quiet elegance of the hotel corridor was a balm. He didn’t walk— he strode, his shoes clicking a rapid, impatient rhythm on the polished marble.
At the front desk, the night concierge—a sharp-eyed man who had clearly been briefed—offered a professional, knowing smile. “Mr. Todd. Your vehicle is ready. Right this way.” He escorted Jason through the grand lobby and out into the cool night air, where a low-slung, matte-black supercar sat purring at the curb, a beacon of silent power.
The drive to her hotel was an exercise in agonizing restraint. Every instinct, every fiber of his being forged on steel and rubber, screamed at him to unleash the machine, to turn the city streets into his personal circuit. He could already map the fastest route in his mind, calculating vectors and overtaking points. But he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white and kept the speed just north of legal. The last time he’d raced to her after a win—the Qatar Grand Prix—fan footage of his insane dash had gone viral. Bruce’s ensuing lecture about “unnecessary scrutiny” and “maintaining a semblance of public decorum” had been lengthy, icy and effective. The old man’s disapproval was still a potent deterrent, even for the Red Hood.
He didn’t need to stop at her hotel’s front desk. He knew her room number by heart—it was more familiar than his own pit lane coordinates. He bypassed the bustling lobby entirely, heading straight for the bank of elevators reserved for the upper floors. A staff member, recognizing the world champion with the intense expression, was already there with a discreet smile. Without a word, she tapped a master keycard to the panel and pressed the button for the penthouse suite. The doors slid shut, granting him a private ascent.
Fame, he mused as the numbers climbed, had its rare, useful moments. It could silence questions and open doors. Right now, it was delivering him to the only place that mattered, at a speed that almost, almost, felt fast enough.
He hesitated, his finger hovering over the doorbell. A strange, fleeting sense of déjà vu washed over him—the champion returning, the quiet hallway, the anticipation. But he shoved the feeling aside; this moment was his, clean and new. He pressed the bell and immediately propped a shoulder against the doorframe, striking what he hoped was a casually triumphant pose. Cool. Nonchalant. The image of a man who hadn’t just sprinted through a five-star hotel.
The door swung open. Y/N stood there, backlit by the warm glow of the suite, her face instantly transforming. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a smile so bright it seemed to eclipse the memory of every circuit floodlight he’d stood under that night.
“Hey—” he began, aiming for that same effortless cool, the single syllable dripping with pretended ease.
He never got to finish.
All plans for cool nonchalance evaporated as in a blur of motion as her hands shot out, fisting in the fabric of his dress shirt’s collar. She yanked him forward with surprising strength, her mouth meeting his in a kiss that was less an invitation and more a declaration. It was hungry, immediate and utterly silencing turning his words into a muffled sound of pure surprise against her lips.
For a heartbeat, he stiffened, caught off guard by the ferocity of her welcome. Then, with a low groan that vibrated from his chest into hers, he reciprocated. All the pent-up energy from the track, the stifled impatience of the drive, the forced sociability of the party—it all funneled into this one, consuming point of contact. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, while the other arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He stepped forward, guiding them both inside and the door swung shut behind them with a soft, definitive click.
He broke the kiss just long enough to tap her thigh twice, a silent, urgent question. She answered it by jumping, her legs wrapping around his hips, her arms locking around his neck as their mouths found each other again. He carried her, his steps sure and urgent, across the plush carpet until the backs of her thighs met the solid edge of the mahogany dining table. He propped her there, the kiss deepening, turning messy and breathless.
Her hands were a frantic counterpoint to his, flying over the buttons of his ruined dress shirt, pushing the expensive fabric aside to map the familiar, solid planes of his chest and shoulders. His own hands slid down the slender straps of her silk night slip, easing them off her shoulders. The delicate fabric pooled just above her breasts and he wasted no time, his mouth leaving hers to blaze a trail downward, marking the newly exposed skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses that drew soft, shuddering whimpers of ecstasy from her.
Drunk on the taste of her and the sheer relief of being here, Y/N pushed herself off the table’s edge, intending to let the slip fall completely away. The moment hung, charged and perfect.
And then the doorbell rang.
A bright, cheerful, professional chime.
Both of them froze. A beat of disbelieving silence was shattered by a muffled voice from the hall. “Room service!”
Jason tore his mouth from her skin, letting out a sharp, creative curse that was more a growl than a word. He pressed a hard, swift kiss to her forehead—a promise, an apology—and gently set her back on the table. “Gimme a sec doll,” he breathed, his voice ragged.
Striding to the door, he ran a hand through his already-wrecked hair, willing his pulse to slow. He schooled his features into what he hoped was mere annoyance, not homicidal rage and opened the door just wide enough to block the view inside.
“What?” he snapped, the word a blunt instrument.
The sight that greeted him almost short-circuited his brain. Standing in the hallway was the reserves driver of Wayne Racing, Tim Drake, wearing a comically ill-fitting hotel busboy’s uniform complete with a gold-braided epaulet that was on the wrong shoulder. A pathetic, wispy fake mustache was pasted haphazardly above his lip. Beside him was his girlfriend, Stephanie Brown was stuffed into an identical uniform, her blonde hair tucked under a pillbox hat. She held a silver-domed room service platter with excessive ceremony.
Tim cleared his throat, puffing out his chest. “Ahem! Room service,” he announced in a truly atrocious, wavering French accent making him sound like a cartoon character with a sinus infection. “Ordered by, eh… Monsieur Dick Grayson.” He thrust forward an ice bucket holding a bottle of outrageously expensive champagne.
Stephanie, with a flourish worthy of a stage magician, lifted the silver dome. Beneath it was not food but a simple, white ceramic bowl. And it was filled to the brim with condoms in a riot of colors and textures.
“Enjoy your night, Mr. Todd,” Stephanie chirped in an accent just as bad as Tim’s, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee as she presented the bowl.
A kaleidoscope of vivid, cinematic fantasies of extreme violence flashed behind Jason’s eyes—specific, detailed and involving various parts of the hotel’s plumbing system. He could hear Dick’s laughter echoing from some distant, safe place.
But then he glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Y/N on the edge of the table, hastily pulling her slip back up followed by a soft, incredulous ringing in the suite. The sound, even though laced with secondhand embarrassment worked to calm him down. He looked from the bowl of prophylactics to his siblings’ poorly concealed smirks.
Not tonight, he thought, the anger dissolving into a grim, determined amusement. Without a word, he snatched the champagne and the bowl. He gave Tim and Steph one last, dead-eyed stare that promised elaborate future retribution.
Then he shut the door in their faces. Firmly. He threw the deadbolt with a satisfyingly loud thunk, turned the security latch, and for good measure, slid the heavy-duty chain into place.
The lock clicked home, sealing the world—and his idiot family—out. Turning back to the room, to Y/N who was now laughing freely, her hands covering her face, he held up their “gifts.”
“And... this is?”
“Courtesy of Dick’s.” He set the items down on the either side of Y/N with a soft clatter. But the room service was instantly forgotten. His full attention snapped back to her as if pulled by a magnet. He crossed the short distance in two strides, his hands finding their familiar, possessive place on her waist. The silk of her night slip was cool under his palms but the warmth of her seeped through. She had to lean back, a soft laugh escaping her as she clutched the front of the garment to keep it from slipping entirely off her shoulders.
Y/N glanced over at the tray, then back up at him, her eyes alight with a sparkle of pure amusement and wicked understanding. “Fun family you’ve got,” she remarked, her voice a soft, teasing melody.
“You have no idea,” Jason muttered, the words a low rumble in his chest, laden with a lifetime of fond exasperation and brotherly chaos. His gaze was fixed on her face, on the curve of her smile, on the way the soft light from the city beyond the window caught in her hair.
Then she leaned in, her body arching against his hold. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear and her whisper was the very picture of innocence, a sweet, breathy contrast to the devious promise woven into her words. “Well... let’s not let it go to waste, then.”
In one fluid, deliberate motion, she let go. The slip—already hanging precariously—slid from her shoulders. It whispered down her body, a cascade of silk, before pooling in a soft heap at her feet.
She stood before him, illuminated only by the ambient glow of the penthouse. The sight was like a physical blow, a knockout punch that stole the air from his lungs and short-circuited every coherent thought in his head. All the noise of the victory party, the roar of the crowd, the adrenaline of the race—it all evaporated into a silent, roaring static. There was only her: the elegant line of her neck, the dip of her collarbone, the fierce, unapologetic look in her eyes that held both a challenge and a welcome.
Jason watched her, the world narrowing to the space between them. The soft rustle of the foil as Y/N peeled it from the champagne bottle was the only sound that registered. She bit her lip in concentration, a faint, endearing line appearing between her brows as she twisted the wire cage while keeping the bottle on the table. Each movement, each small sign of her effort, sent his heartbeat into a heavier, more insistent rhythm, a drumbeat of pure anticipation thrumming in his veins. This was easily more intoxicating than any victory party could ever be.
He saw her hands struggle for purchase on the stubborn cork. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, a frustrated laugh in her voice.
A low, soft chuckle escaped him. He closed the distance in one fluid step. “Here, let me,” he murmured, his voice already thick. His arms came around her from behind, his larger hands closing over hers on the cool, damp glass. The motion brought his entire body flush against her bare back—his chest meeting the soft warmth of her skin. The contact was electric. He felt the immediate, undeniable response of his own body, the sudden, tight strain against the fabric of his trousers.
She felt it too. A small, knowing laugh vibrated through her, felt where their bodies connected. “Someone’s excited.”
He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear just as she did earlier, as he kept his focus on the bottle, a valiant attempt to keep from devouring her with his eyes right then and there. “I mean, it’s kind of expected,” he reasoned, his tone a mockery of casual. “You’re literally naked. It would be medically concerning if junior here didn’t react.” He gave the cork another expert twist. “Besides,” he added, the pretense of nonchalance crumbling into raw honesty, “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
A lovely, deep blush bloomed across her chest and crept up her neck. She tilted her head back against his shoulder. “Stop it,” she whispered, but her smile betrayed her. “I’m trying to be all seductive and sexy here. You’re ruining the vibe with sweet talk.”
The old, familiar banter, the easy back-and-forth that was the bedrock of them, bled through the charged air, making the moment feel both wildly intimate and comfortably theirs.
Jason laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “Can’t help it.” With a final, practiced turn, he coaxed the cork free. It came with a soft, celebratory pop that seemed to release the tension in the room. A geyser of bubbles shot forth, some of the sparkling liquid arcing through the air to land in cool, effervescent droplets on the slope of her neck and the swell of her chest, tracing glistening paths down her skin.
He looked at the trails of champagne, then back up at her face, his eyes darkening. “You already are those things,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Without even trying, doll.”
Setting the bottle aside on a nearby table with a soft clink, he sank to his knees before her. His hands settled on her hips, steadying her, as he leaned forward. His gaze held hers for a molten second, full of intent, before he lowered his head.
His tongue, warm and deliberate, traced the path of a single rivulet of champagne from the valley of her breasts down to her torso. The touch was a brand, a promise.
Y/N’s breath hitched audibly, a sharp, sweet intake of air the second he made contact. One of her hands flew to his shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, while the other slid into the soft, dark curls just above the nape of his neck, holding him to her.
He looked up at her then, from his position at her feet. His expression was pure, unadulterated devilry—a look of sinful promise and possessive delight that made her knees weak. A droplet of champagne clung to his lower lip. “Hmm,” he hummed, the vibration against her skin making her shiver. “That tastes good. Mind pouring me some more, doll?”
The request, laced with that wicked grin, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through her. The air in the room, already thick with the scent of his cologne and the sharp, sweet tang of champagne, seemed to solidify around them.
Wordlessly, Y/N reached behind her, her fingers finding the cool, damp glass of the bottle. She didn’t lift it to pour. Instead, she brought it down slowly, tilting it just so, letting a single, deliberate stream of golden liquid spill from the lip. It didn’t arc toward his mouth. It traced a new, shimmering path from the center of her collarbone, over the gentle curve of her breast, down her stomach, disappearing into the dip of her navel.
Her eyes never left his. The blush was still there, but it was now underscored by a boldness that matched his own. “Is that enough,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper above the frantic beat of her own heart, “or is my champion still thirsty?”
The challenge in her tone, the visual feast she was offering, was his undoing. A low, guttural sound escaped him, part groan, part laugh. “Parched,” he corrected, his voice rough.
He didn’t wait for another invitation. His hands tightened on her hips and he leaned forward again, but this time there was no teasing slowness. His mouth found the new trail with a focused hunger, his tongue following the champagne’s decadent course with a reverence that was anything but holy.
He kissed and lapped at every inch of the skin of her being, his light stubble a delicious abrasion against her softness. Each touch was a claiming, each press of his lips a silent, fervent prayer of gratitude—for her, for this, for the quiet after the storm of the world.
When his mouth reached her lower stomach, his hands gently parted her legs, placing one leg over his shoulder. He looked up again, his face now level with her core, his eyes stormy with need. The devilish look was still there, but it had softened at the edges, tempered by something infinitely more tender.
“You taste like victory,” he murmured, the words a hot breath against her damp skin. “Sweeter than any podium.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor herself. The sensation was overwhelming—the contrast of his warm, seeking mouth and the evaporating chill of the champagne, the sheer intimacy of his worship. “Jason,” she sighed, his name a plea and an answer all at once.
The soft, gasped permission was a trigger released. Jason didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head, his breath a hot promise against her inner thigh before his mouth found its true destination. He pressed his tongue flat and firm against her core. Y/N’s reaction was immediate and utterly visceral. Her back arched clear off the table, a sharp, strangled cry tearing from her throat that was more sensation than sound. “Jay—” His name was a shattered fragment, an attempt at speech that dissolved into a breathless moan as the sensation ceased her higher brain functions.
His hands dug into the yielding flesh of her thighs, not to hurt, but to claim, to steady her, to keep her exactly where he wanted her with his knees settling more firmly into the plush carpet. He tasted the sweet champagne, now mingled with the deeper, musky, essential flavor that was purely, uniquely her. It was an intoxicating blend, a private vintage more precious than any trophy. He lifted his head just enough for his voice to rumble against her soaked folds, the vibrations a unique, devastating thrill that made her hips jerk. “Don’t stop pouring, sweetheart,” he muttered.
Y/N, lost in a haze of sensation, couldn’t have disobeyed if the world depended on it. Her hand, trembling, found the champagne bottle beside her. With a slowness that was both awkward and profoundly erotic, she brought it to her mouth. She kept her lips parted, her tongue extended, and tilted the bottle. The golden liquid cascaded over her tongue, overflowing to dribble in twin, glistening streams down the corners of her mouth in utter and decadent surrender.
The sight nearly undid him. With a guttural sound of approval, he returned his mouth to her sex, his focus absolute. He pushed his tongue as deep as he could inside her, a stroke that made her cry out again, her fingers twisting in his hair. He set a relentless pace, his tongue working with a fierce, fast precision that coiled the tension in her belly into a tight, burning knot. Then, just as suddenly, he slowed, shifting to a languid, maddening rhythm that drew out each sensation until it was an exquisite torture. Y/N’s cries became a continuous and pleading, her body moving helplessly against his mouth.
When he felt her teetering on that knife’s edge, he changed tactics. His tongue abandoned its deep forays to focus on the tight, aching bud of her clit. The contact was direct, purposeful. Y/N’s entire body bowed. A shocked, keening wail escaped her as her hips bucked towards his face, an involuntary reflex to the sheer intensity of the sensation. Her legs began to tremble violently, muscles taut as bowstrings.
Jason smirked against her, a rush of pride and deep affection flooding him at the raw effect he had on her. He knew her body’s language, could read every tremble and gasp. He knew how to make it more.
Slowly, deliberately, he inserted a finger into her sopping wet heat. She was drenched, impossibly tight and her inner walls clenched around him instantly in a velvet vise. He added a second finger, stretching her gently and began to pump them in a slow, deep rhythm that counterpointed the rapid, focused circles his tongue was now tracing on her clit. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a sensory overload that had her sobbing his name, her pleas becoming fragmented, incoherent.
He could feel her walls beginning to flutter and twitch around his fingers, the sign of her impending climax. With his thumb, he pinched her clit lightly, sending a sharp, bright bolt of pleasure-pain through her that made her squirm and cry out. His other hand, splayed across her lower abdomen, held her firmly in place, refusing to let her escape the onslaught of sensation.
“Jay, I’m close, I— I can’t—” Tears, born of overwhelming pleasure and the sheer inability to contain what she was feeling, welled in the corners of her eyes, sparkling in the low light.
Jason looked up then, his gaze traveling the length of her trembling, gloriously wrecked body to her tear-streaked, blissful face. In that moment, with her laid bare and shattering for him, he could swear, with every fractured piece of his soul, that he had never seen anything even close to this beautiful in his entire life.
“Cum for me, doll.”
The words were a low, gravelly command, vibrating through her where his mouth was still working its devastating magic. Y/N’s eyes, which had been squeezed shut in rapture, flew open. They locked with his.
The sight was nearly enough to send her spiralling all on its own. Jason’s face was a beautiful wreck. His mouth and chin were glistening, slick with a mixture of champagne and her own arousal, catching the low light of the room. But it was his eyes that held her captive. They were heavy-lidded, dark with an intensity that was almost feral. There was a devious, dangerous glint in their depths—the look of a man who knew exactly the power he wielded and reveled in it, a conqueror claiming his most cherished prize. It was a gaze that saw straight through her, past every defense, to the raw, trembling core of her desire.
That look was the final trigger.
A sharp, ragged cry tore from Y/N’s throat as her entire world shattered into a supernova of sensation. Her back arched back against the table in pure ecstasy. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat as her eyes rolled back, sightless with pleasure. Her hands, which had been tangled gently in his curls, now gripped his hair with a fierce, possessive urgency, her hips moving against his mouth in an instinctual, desperate rhythm, riding the wave of his tongue and the relentless pressure of his lips.
The intensity was so overwhelming it felt disorienting. For a dizzying second, as the tremors began to subside, she felt weightless, untethered, as if she might simply float away or collapse backward into nothingness.
But Jason was there. He always was.
In one smooth, powerful motion, he rose from between her thighs. His large, calloused hands settled on her waist, fingers splayed possessively, anchoring her trembling body. He pulled her upright, against him, until she was flush against the solid, heated wall of his chest. She could feel the rapid, matching hammer of his heart against her own, the dampness of his shirt from where her skin met the fabric, the unmistakable, hard evidence of his own need pressed insistently against her stomach.
Before she could catch the breath that had been stolen from her, he captured her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss.
The taste was a complex, intoxicating cocktail. The sweet, dry tang of champagne blended with her flavor that still lingered on his tongue. She gasped into the kiss, trying desperately to draw air even as he stole it away again, her mind still swimming in the hazy, golden aftermath of her climax.
Jason broke the kiss first, but only just. A thin, glistening string of saliva bridged their lips for a fleeting second before snapping. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against hers. A slow, utterly smug smirk spread across his slick, handsome face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Gotta say,” he rasped, his voice rough with desire and satisfaction. “That’s my new favorite way to drink champagne. Beats a crystal flute any day.”
Y/N could only manage a dazed, blissful smile in return, her limbs still feeling like honey, her brain struggling to form a coherent thought, let alone a witty retort.
He didn’t wait for one. His hands slid from her waist, one moving to cradle the back of her head, the other sweeping beneath her knees. In one effortless movement, he lifted her into his arms, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.
He nuzzled his nose against her temple, his breath warm on her skin. “Now,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a intimate growl that promised everything that was yet to come. “Let’s take this celebration to the bedroom, shall we? The night’s still young and I plan on earning a few more trophies. The kind only you can give.”
Every nerve in her body sang in agreement, a chorus of yes, yes, now. The weight of him, the heat, the heady scent of his victory mixed with his own unique spice, was a potent drug. Her hands, which had been tangled in his hair, now slid down to rest against the solid wall of his chest. She pressed her palms flat, creating a sliver of space between them.
She looked up at him, her eyes soft with affection but firm with resolve. “As much as I would love to,” she said, her voice a husky echo of his own desire, “there’s a non-negotiable pit stop first.” She gave his chest a gentle, playful push for emphasis.
Jason blinked, his lust-hazed mind struggling to process the delay, carefully setting her down. “Pit stop?”
“You,” she stated, wrinkling her nose in a way that was both adorable and immovable, “have got to shower first.” She traced a fingertip through a faint, glittering smear of dried champagne on his collarbone, then tapped it against a patch of his dress shirt that was stiff with evaporated sweat from the stage and the dance floor. “You are a delightful, handsome, champion-shaped mess. You smell like a strange, wonderful cocktail of exhaustion, adrenaline and cheap party sparklers. And while that might be the scent of victory,” she leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s not the scent I want on my sheets, or,” her eyes darkened with a promise of her own, “on me, when we get to the real celebrating.”
He stared at her, a protest forming on his lips, but it died before it was born. He saw the logic, even through the fog of want. He saw the love in her eyes, which was why she wasn’t just putting up with him, but caring for him. The post-race high was a brutal, draining thing and he was still buzzing with it, still coated in the grime of the day’s extremes.
A slow, surrendering smile spread across his face, one that held no real defeat, only a deep, abiding affection. He caught her hand, the one that had been tracing idle, possessive patterns on his chest, and brought it to his lips. His kiss against her palm was a vow, soft and lingering. “Won’t be an issue,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of acceptance.
But the acceptance was a feint.
In the next heartbeat, his arms—strong from years of wrenching on cars and now honed by the specific rigours of a Formula 1 driver’s training—snaked around her waist. Before Y/N could process his agreement, the world tilted on its axis. He moved with the explosive, graceful power that made him a legend on the track, hoisting her up and over his shoulder in one fluid, effortless motion.
A startled, undignified squeal ripped from her throat as her view flipped upside down, the room a dizzying swirl of carpet and ceiling. “Jay!” she gasped, laughter and shock warring in her voice. Her hands instinctively braced against the solid muscles of his lower back. “What are you—put me down, you maniac!”
He adjusted his grip, securing her with one arm banded firmly around her thighs, his other hand splayed on the curve of her rear. He didn’t put her down. He began a determined march toward the en-suite bathroom, her weight nothing to him. “You told me to take a shower,” he stated, his tone laced with triumphant, boyish logic. “You were very clear. ‘Go shower, Jason.’ You never said,” he emphasized, giving her a gentle, teasing bounce that made her gasp again, “that I couldn’t take one with you. Ergo, you’re coming with. Consider it… efficiency. We’re saving water. Very environmentally conscious of us.”
She pounded a fist lightly against his back, her protest dissolving into helpless giggles as he pushed the bathroom door open with his foot. The spacious, marble-clad room was cool and shadowed, awaiting their arrival. “This is kidnapping! Champion or not, this is a felony!”
“It’s consensual expediency,” he corrected, finally lowering her—but not to the floor. He set her gently on her feet in the center of the vast walk-in shower, the smooth tiles cool under her bare soles. He reached past her, his body caging her in and turned the faucet. A cascade of water, quickly heating to a perfect steam, began to rain down from the oversized rainfall showerhead above.
He stepped in after her, closing the glass door and sealing them in their own private, mist-filled world. The water plastered his dark hair to his forehead and soaked through his shirt instantly, turning the crisp white fabric translucent. His eyes, gleaming with mischief and undimmed desire, locked on hers.
“See?” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur as he began to slowly unbutton his ruined shirt, the water flowing over his hands. “Problem solved. I get clean. You get to supervise. And we,” he leaned in, his lips a breath away from hers as the steam rose around them, “don’t waste a single, precious second.”
╰┈➤ A/n: Ngl it was a lot harder than I imagined. And also do we want a shower fic with jaybird 👀👀??
a sprinkle of . . . 🗞️ ⋆˚꩜｡ emotionally constipated disaster boy shows up bleeding at your door again, yearning so loud it’s practically a third character, domesticity in denial, “this is not a relationship” (it is), flirting through blood loss, friends to something else, jason todd needs therapy but goes to you instead, slow burn but also extremely not, both of you definitely have issues, stubborn idiot x even more stubborn idiot..⠀𓂃⠀( wc 1.4k )
a love letter⠀❤︎⠀i honestly dont really like this & my writing is waaayyy too rusty but i felt like i had to write an actual fic between all my smaus.. (ik this is gonna flop buut wtv) i am well aware 'patching up [character] after a fight' is sooo cliche and has been done a billion times. also i called his suit a shirt bc i have no idea how its taken off 💔 injuries are probably inaccurate, reminder! i am a teenage girl writing fanfics not a doctor.
1:58 am. the universe doesn't call ahead.
it arrives as a drenched silhouette hammering at your door—three staccato knocks, a pause, then that fourth tap he always adds out of stubborn muscle memory.
you’re already moving before you think, bare feet hissing against linoleum. the apartment's stale air hangs suspended as the deadbolt slides free. the door creaks open, and there he is. jason’s slumped against the doorframe, half-lit by the hallway’s dim light, chest rising and falling as though he’s been sprinting through the night. brown jacket streaked with rain, black gloves split at the knuckles. that smirk of his is more warning than greeting—don't ask, don't fuss—but the split in his lip and the rust-dark stain creeping down his collar beg otherwise.
“hi,” you speak, because what else is there?
there's a stillness before he speaks. it settles between you, quiet and comfortable. he just looks at you, gaze tracing the slope of your nose, the dip of your throat, confirming you're still flesh and not some fever-dream. then, rough as gravel:
"hey."
the absurdity of his word claws at your ribs. this boy who treats near-death like a mild inconvenience, coming back from whatever the hell he’s been through and offer nothing but ‘hey’, like it’s any other night. but then again, any other night with him looks like this. your fingers itch with the urge to cradle his face in your hands, press your thumbs to the corners of his mouth and reshape the syllables into something softer, press your thumbs to the bruises until they bloom into apologies instead.
before you can even form a reply, he’s already moving past you, boots thudding against the floorboards, leaving behind traces of something dark and damp on the rug, mud, blood, you don’t ask.
you lock the door out of habit.
there’s a moment where you just watch him. the way he peels off his gloves, one finger at a time, slow and deliberate. it almost looks graceful, if you didn’t know better.
when he finally speaks, it's with the cadence of a weather report: “someone tried to kill me.” his gloves hit the counter with a wet slap. “again. so, you know. same old.”
you blink. “and?”
“and i didn’t let ‘em.” his grin is pointed, humorless.
you’re across the kitchen before the last word fades, first-aid kit already in hand. no protest from him, no thanks—just that practiced smirk, the one that pretends this midnight triage is normal. (it is. has been for years. you sew him shut at 3 AM; by dawn you're strangers passing coffee mugs.)
“jacket. shirt. off.” you say, popping the kit open with more force than necessary.
jason’s grin widens, despite the twitch in his shoulder. "woah, already?" he leans back against the counter, wincing when the shift pulls at torn flesh. "you haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet." he drawls, like this is all just foreplay.
you stare.
“buy me dinner first.”
“jason.” his name cracks between your teeth like a warning shot.
"fine, fine." he relents, gradually shrugging off his jacket and tugging his shirt over his head, hissing when the fabric peels away from his abdomen with a sickening tack.
your shitty apartment lighting catches every ridge of his abdomen as he braces a hand on your counter, abs flexing. it's ridiculous. no one bleeding this much has any right to look like that. marks crisscross his ribs, old scars from bullet wounds, a keloid along his obliques, a burn near his collarbone.
the wound beneath is an ugly thing—purpling flesh split open like overripe fruit. "you could at least pretend to flirt back,”
“you’re bleeding out on my floor.”
he chuckles. “romantic.”
you roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. you wet a cloth, the antiseptic dripping onto your wrist as you press it into his wound. it meets his skin with a sting, and he jerks back, breath catching between his teeth. “jesus. you tryin’ to baptize me?”
“you could use it.” you shoot back, dabbing at his blood.
he laughs, “god, you sound like dick.”
“and yet you’re here.”
“yeah,” he admits, voice dropping low. “guess i’m a masochist.”
the gash isn't deep, just long. a crimson comma slashed across his side. your hands move with a kind of second nature, his blood hums against your fingertips, warm and insistent. it’s obscene, really, how alive he is. how warm. as if he’s daring fate to take that from him again.
his gaze burns the top of your head. “you’re shaking.”
“i’m holding forceps, jason.”
he exhales through his nose, his breath warm against your temple. “still shaking.”
you don’t look up. “then stop staring.”
he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t.
“you’re good at this,” he murmurs, watching your hands smooth the tape over his bandaged skin. “patching me up.”
“i’ve had practice.”
“that supposed to be comforting?”
“no.”
a breath escapes him, a laugh, almost. but half-choked and twice as bitter. "you ever think about how fucked up this is?"
“constantly.”
“yeah. me too.” he looks down at his hands, flexes them. “but then i think about not coming here. and that’s worse.”
you tape the gauze down. “you think everything’s worse until you’re bleeding.”
“hey,” he murmurs, the word unraveling at the edges. he's relieved someone still bothers to call him on his bullshit.
the silence stretches as you swipe antiseptic along his ribs. you watch the tension bleed from his shoulders, the way his exhales grow longer between your hands. the adrenaline ebbs away, the sharp angles of him blurring into something almost approachable.
he sits on the counter, legs swinging like a kid's, watching you toss bloodied gauze into the trash.
"you hungry?" you ask, while scrubbing red from your hands under the sink.
he hesitates. you see the lie forming on his face, before he gives up on it entirely. "starving."
you raid the cabinets like an archaeologist, pulling out relics disguised as food, unearthing whatever hasn’t turned to dust yet: a half-stale loaf of bread, a dented can of soup, a packet of crackers that might predate gotham’s founding. you arrange them on the counter with a dramatic flourish.
"gourmet selection tonight," you deadpan.
jason huffs a quiet laugh, eyeing the spread. "looks fancy."
"yeah, well," you sigh, twisting the stove knob until the burner clicks to life, "you get what you pay for."
there’s a moment of stillness. you can feel his gaze on you, steady, intent, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. the wound at his ribs weeps through the gauze, blood seeping through it in slow, creeping blossoms—crimson against white, vivid as poppies.
you nod toward it. "what was it this time?"
"deal went sideways," he says, shrugging his good shoulder. "some idiot thought he could short me."
"and you shot him?"
"nah." his mouth quirks. "let him run. i’m trying this new thing called restraint. very out of character."
you snort. “how’s it feel?”
“boring.”
the laugh slips out before you can cage it—a bright, traitorous thing—and something in his expression flickers toward genuine for the first time in months.
he puts down the empty soup can, his gaze fixated on the empty space between you. “you know i don’t mean to drag you into this shit, right?”
“i’m already in it.”
“yeah,” he says, softer now. almost to himself. “guess you are.”
he slides off the counter, standing close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. too close. the air smells like blood and coffee and his leather jacket. his hands hover uselessly at his sides, like he can’t decide whether to touch the wound, the counter, or you. for a second, neither of you move. you’re both waiting for something that won’t happen.
“you should sleep,” you mutter, turning away to throw away the empty soup can.
“you first.”
“don’t be an ass.”
“too late.”
you roll your eyes, gesturing towards the hallway. “bed’s there if you want it.”
he hesitates. “you sure?”
“if i wasn’t, you’d already be in it.”
that earns a real laugh this time. the kind that makes the room feel briefly, stupidly, human. for one fleeting moment, he's not the red hood at all. just some kid who jacked batmobile tires once.
he goes, eventually. leaves the door cracked behind him, just enough that you hear the familiar click of his holster hitting the nightstand, the mattress springs complaining under his weight.
you linger at the counter, staring at the bloodied gauze in the trash, the scuff marks his boots left on your floor.
somewhere down the hall, jason’s breathing evens out into sleep.
october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good
𖥔 ✴️ . ノ His brothers like to crash at your place . . .
with JASON TODD ◜ content ⸝⸝ short n' sweet . i didn't mention the girls :( ! ୧ head empty just batfamily ♡
It's quiet when you both turn in to sleep ― warm, comfortable ... shielded from the filth of Gotham. His heavy duty and your deep-rooted fears, far from your guys mind. Your face is turned towards his, head nestled comfortably under his chin, and ... Jason breathes softly, in n' out ... It's calm ... quiet ... Maybe even a little too quiet ? You hear the faint noise of the city below your apartment complex and all the way down the streets. Traffic, sirens ― it's all a familiar sound that would usually lull you right to sleep. Even the light rumbling of your partners' chest ― not quite snoring, but something close ― normally has you knocked out in under five minutes. But ...
The doorbell. It's a sharp tone in the otherwise silent apartment, that has your eyes wide open again, and Jason on his last nerve. You hear him sigh. Annoyed, yes, but also in a way that tells you ― he has an idea of who that might be. It's still dark, and you can barely see just what he's really doing, but you feel how he peels his side of the blanket away, muttering something like 'jus' sleep, i'll check' which is barely audible by how sleep drunken he sounds. Then, he's already out of the bedroom, lazily walking towards the door, already dreading which bat will greet him at such an hour ...
When he finally opens it, it's ... Richard Grayson, grinning. The sight has another heavy sigh escape him. "Yeah?" Jason liked to pretend that it was unusual for his brothers to show up ― which it wasn't. He also liked to pretend that he never lets them stay ― but he does. And it ― embarrassingly so ― never even takes that long to convince him. When asked, though, Jason claims it's because he rather gets right back to sleep than argue with any of his brothers.
Everyone believes him. Not.
So, Jason just steps aside and lets a much too triumphal looking Dick crash on the couch.
You hear them talk, hushed, comfortable, and soon enough, Jason is back in your bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him as he crawls back to you and underneath the sheets. "S' he okay?" You ask softly, shifting back into your previous position, flush against his chest as you breathe out, content. You're used to Richard coming over and crashing, so you're more concerned on why. Wouldn't be the first time he came over bloodied and beaten, much more eager to let you patch him up than have the batman give him a lecture. "He's fine. Will be gone in the morning."
'He doesn't want to deal with Bruce today' is what he wants to say, but he doesn't want his father to be the last thing he thinks about before going back to sleep. So he just presses a kiss against your forehead and tells you to go back to sleep.
You do, for maybe a minute, then there's a loud crash somewhere, and you're obviously wide awake again. This time, Jason doesn't even pretend to 'go check' because it's one of two people ― and he has this vague idea that it must be Tim, by how stupid his landing was. Probably came through the wrong window and fell right into that new Vase you bought.
Great.
You quietly follow behind when he leaves the bedroom again. You carry a blanket and a smaller pillow that you know is more comfortable than whatever pillows you keep in the living room, handing both to a drowsy Dick when he opens one eye ― not even bothering to check what caused such a loud noise in your guys' apartment. He just thanks you, turns around and goes right back to snoring. It's sweet, you think, how he feels more at ease here, than the large Mansion of his father...
"Go home, Tim," You hear your boyfriend mutter and follow his voice to the kitchen. His brows are furrowed as he watches the boy ― still glad in his suit ― try and puzzle the vase back together. "It's fine, we'll clean it tomorrow..." you find yourself saying, offering the kid a reassuring smile when he sheepishly lets it all fall back together. You know why he's here ― Jason knows too... and it goes without saying that he, too, is always allowed to stay. Even when Jay plays the annoyed older brother, grumbling and huffing when you show Tim the foldable sofa in your bedroom ( the one you guys bought specifically for nights like this ... )
He gets the last spare blanket, and a pillow, and he's good to go, bright smile and rosy cheeks when he thanks you so genuinely, you almost tear up a little. Your boyfriend grunts something about it being 'the last damn time' and Tim just nods. It won't be the last time. Jason acts like his brothers are intruding ― you know better.
Then everything slowly settles. It gets quiet again, there is the occasional shifting of blankets and pillows ― but, everyone seems asleep. Jason is cuddled against you, you can hear the faint snoring of Dick, and even Tim smacks his lips in deep content.
Yet, you can't help but feel like something is still not right. And like the universe agrees with you because ― of course, someone is still missing ― you hear the noise of your window being shoved open, with careful, skillful little hands... and soon enough, a smaller body wedges itself right between you and Jason as if it belongs. You don't say anything, and neither does he ― Damian Wayne fits right in the middle, barely three apples, yet he gets comfortable as if he owns the place. And you know Jason is rolling his eyes, deeply annoyed and beyond done with having so many siblings seeking him out when he just wants to spend time at his apartment with his partner. But even he is quiet and settles easy, his arm lazily thrown over his youngest brother and you, shifting the blanket so that all three of you are warm.
It's the sounds of a full apartment that finally lets you find comfortable sleep ― the warmth of two bodies right next to you ( of which the smaller keeps his hand laced with yours, as if you would ever even dare leave during the night ).
When morning comes, your sofa is empty, the vase glued back together and one demon child can't even look at you because he knows you're aware he's been clinging. He's embarrassed, you ruffle his hair, and together with Jason you bring him back to the Manor. You know it won't be the last time... and you honestly don't mind.
someone take " ... " away from me / i wrote this for myself honestly ―
summary: In which your friends convince you to visit the iceberg lounge, not knowing it is owned by your favourite student's brother
wc: 7.3k
---
Christmas Eve in Gotham meant two things: freezing wind that cut straight through your coat, and a city that wouldn’t shut up about appearances.
Reputation was everything here. It was what you heard whispered in the hallways at Gotham Prep when the Board of Governors swept through in their tailored coats. It was what the other teachers gossiped about in the lounge, warning each other about which families expected holiday cards, which fathers had screamed at the principal last semester, which mothers had filed complaints because a test had one typo.
Reputation was why you had barely gotten the job in the first place. Fresh out of teachers college, your diploma still warm in its frame. They had smiled thinly across the interview table and asked if you were “sure” you were ready for Gotham Prep. Your age was the silent strike against you. Too young, too green, too liable to do something embarrassing that would tarnish the school’s spotless prestige. They had hired you anyway, barely. Which meant every move you made felt like walking a tightrope in heels.
So you didn’t slip. Not once. Not during the fall, not when the semester dragged you half-dead into November, not when one of your fourth graders brought in a solid gold Rolex for show-and-tell. You smiled, you graded, you attended staff meetings with your best cardigan and most reasonable earrings, and you stayed perfectly within the narrow lines that would keep you employed.
And now? Winter break.
Which should have been a relief. No grading. No emails. No GuppyBoard notifications pinging at you with cartoon fish and “reminders” to attend faculty development sessions. You should have been thrilled. But Gotham never really let you breathe, and the rules didn’t stop haunting you just because the hallways were empty.
Which was why, when your friends invited you out on Christmas Eve, your first instinct was horror.
“What if someone sees me?” you’d blurted, still clutching your mug of hot chocolate like it might save you. “What if another teacher’s there? Or—oh god—what if a parent’s there?”
They’d rolled their eyes in unison. “If another teacher is there,” Stacy had said, “that means they’re there. And if a parent is there, same thing. Nobody can expose you without exposing themselves.”
You had opened your mouth to argue, but… damn it. That was solid logic.
So here you were, standing in front of your closet on Christmas Eve, staring at your clothes like they were a multiple-choice test. You could choose the safe option: jeans, full sleeves, maybe a mask, look boring and anonymous. Or you could choose chaos.
And honestly? Chaos sounded better.
You wanted (needed) a night where you weren’t Miss Y/N, private school teacher, cardigan collector, woman constantly on the edge of losing her job if she sneezed too loudly. You wanted to be the kind of girl who could throw on a ridiculous outfit, stomp into Gotham’s most notorious nightclub, and laugh too loud without worrying who was taking notes.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, “slutty Mrs. Claus it is.”
The backless red halter you’d bought on sale last summer came out first. It plunged so low it felt like a lawsuit. Then the skirt was short enough that some states may classify it as a belt. Heels. Lip gloss. The pièce de résistance: a Santa hat, fuzzy and slightly crooked, because if you were going to humiliate yourself, you were at least going to be festive about it.
Your friends shrieked when they saw you. Good shrieks. They snapped pictures in the entryway while you tried not to laugh too hard. Jenny shoved a candy cane into your hand like it was a microphone. “See? This is exactly what you needed. Forget Gotham Prep, forget reputation. Tonight, you are Mrs Claus. On your way to find Mr. Claus.”
With that proclamation still ringing in your ears, you all clinked back your last pregame shots, tugged your coats half-on over glitter and velvet, and tumbled out the door toward the waiting cab.
–
Jason liked the Iceberg Lounge best from behind a desk.
The office was tucked on the third floor, half glass, half steel, overlooking the floor below without actually touching it. From here, the place looked like what it was supposed to be: Gotham’s sleekest club. Lights sweeping across the crowd, glitter spilling like confetti, music so heavy the bass shook the glass. You couldn’t see the mob money in the corners or the deals made in whispers. You couldn’t see the crooked books in the safe or the cameras that didn’t technically exist.
It was clean, from here.
He leaned back in the leather chair, boot kicked up on the desk, skimming paperwork that mostly came down to liquor orders and payroll. Passive income, Roy would’ve called it. A grown-up job. He owned the damn place on paper, and the managers ran it fine without him, but sometimes it was easier to hide here than at the Manor.
Especially on nights like Christmas Eve.
The Bats had done dinner earlier. Big table, too much food, Alfred humming carols under his breath. It had been fine. Nice, even. But holidays always carried a certain ache. The warmth of it all pressed against places Jason had walled off years ago. Catherine Todd, stringing discount tinsel across the cracked window of their old apartment. Cheap cocoa packets, watered down, but she always gave him the last marshmallow. Cold hallways in Crime Alley, and her voice trying so damn hard to make them feel like home.
The Manor was beautiful. Polished. Almost perfect. And sometimes that perfection made the hole inside him sharper.
The Iceberg was always packed on holidays. Gotham’s elite didn’t want to spend the night with their families either, apparently. They wanted overpriced drinks and bad decisions. Jason let them have it. The staff appreciated the extra hands on the busiest nights, and sometimes he played bartender or bouncer just to keep sharp.
He should have gone down already. Instead, he sat in the office, the quiet hum of the heater the only thing keeping him company, staring at invoices he’d read three times without processing a word.
Breaks were supposed to be relaxing. So why did it feel like something was missing?
Maybe because it was.
No GuppyBoard notifications lighting up his phone. No cheerful pings about recycling competitions or reminders to wear mittens. No bright updates from a certain fourth grade teacher. Damian had been out of school for a week, which meant Jason hadn’t been forced into a single dumb GuppyBoard reminder or glitter covered newsletter.
And Damian was restless too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Broody had gone full feral without his daily dose of Miss Y/N’s patience. He’d taken to sulking in Jason’s apartment, glaring at the TV, muttering about “structuring independent study time” like it wasn’t just a cover for missing class.
Jason told himself he didn’t care. That it was a relief not to get pinged by cartoon fish in the middle of a gunfight. That it was pathetic to notice her absence at all.
He still noticed.
The stack of invoices finally blurred. Jason shoved them aside, restless, and pushed to his feet. If he stayed in this office any longer, he was going to implode.
Downstairs, the bass thumped louder, muffled through the walls. It was early still, but the crowd would already be thick, all sequins and perfume and the smell of money. He could slip behind the bar, pour a few drinks, remind the staff the boss wasn’t just a name on their paychecks. Or he could walk the floor, play bouncer, make sure the holiday crowd didn’t start a fight.
Anything was better than sitting up here alone with paperwork and the silence of a phone that hadn’t buzzed in days.
Jason shrugged on his jacket, checked the safety on the gun at his hip out of habit, and headed for the door.
Hy hadn’t even made it three steps out of the stairwell before he heard it.
A laugh. Too loud, too bright, cutting straight through the bass and chatter. The kind of laugh that carried over fourth graders squabbling about crayons. The kind he’d heard drifting down hallways when he’d come to pick Damian up from school.
He froze. No way. Not here. Not tonight.
But when he turned his head, the universe confirmed it hated him.
Miss Y/N.
Or… some sparkly, half-drunk, Santa-hat-wearing version of you.
You were at the bar with two friends draped over your shoulders, head thrown back as you laughed like the whole world was in on the joke. The red halter was backless, the skirt so short Jason felt like calling Child Protective Services on behalf of his own sanity. You were swaying slightly on your heels, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, grinning like you had never heard of the concept of consequences.
Fuck. He should’ve stayed in the office.
He considered it. Turning around, hiding upstairs, letting you drink your way out of memory. But then your head snapped in his direction, eyes locking on him like he’d just walked on stage.
Your gasp could’ve shattered glass.
“JASON!”
Before he could blink, you were across the floor, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded determination of the very, very drunk. He half-lifted a hand in reflex, maybe to wave you off, maybe to steady you when you inevitably tripped—
Too late.
You launched herself straight into his chest, arms flung around his neck like you’d been planning the ambush all night. The force of it rocked him back a step.
Jason’s brain short-circuited.
CLOTH CLOTH CLOTH CLOTH WHERE IS THE FABRIC
Where the hell was the cloth? Where could he put his hands without getting slapped, sued, or struck down by divine intervention? Back? No, bare skin. Shoulders? Nope, bare skin. Waist? Absolutely not. Every instinct screamed danger.
Finally, he settled on the tiniest strip of safety, two inches of fabric at the bottom of your back where the shirt actually existed. He held on, stiff and awkward, more like catching a falling toddler than returning a hug. If he let go, you’d faceplant. If he gripped any tighter, he’d combust.
Meanwhile, you were having the time of your life.
“Jason!” you practically shouted in his ear, voice way too loud over the music. “Oh my god, what are you doing here?!”
He cleared his throat. “Uh. I… own the place.”
Your jaw dropped. “You OWN the place?” you gasped so violently people at the bar turned their heads. “Oh my god. That checks out. Yup. Checks. Out.”
Jason blinked at her. “It… checks out?”
“Yeah,” you nodded sagely, Santa hat slipping precariously. “Figures. You’re all millionaires. All of you.” You gestured vaguely at the ceiling, maybe at Gotham itself. “Private school families and their big stupid wallets. And now—” you poked him in the chest like you were discovering gravity— “you.”
Jason opened his mouth, shut it again. He wasn’t about to explain that he’d grown up stealing bread out of dumpsters. Not right now. Not while you were swaying like a metronome on heels that were clearly trying to kill you.
“And Damian!” you barreled on, not waiting for him to answer. “How’s Damian? Is he eating vegetables? Did he read the book I lent him? Does he miss me?”
Jason blinked, thrown. “Uh. He—”
“Because I miss him,” you said firmly, like you were making a declaration to the United Nations. “I miss ALL my kids. They’re so small and polite and, ugh, they deserve everything good in the world.”
Jason’s chest did something treacherous at that, but he didn’t have time to examine it because your friends had arrived.
Two women, hovering close, clearly tipsy but still balanced. They gave him a once-over, then looked at their friend hanging off him like a koala.
“Y/N…” one began carefully. “Why are you draped over a man who looks like he might actually be a criminal?”
Jason gritted his teeth.
You whipped around in outrage, nearly clocking him with your Santa hat. “Excuse you. This is Jason!”
The friends blinked. “…Jason?”
“Yes! JASON!” you beamed, tightening your arms around his neck like you were presenting him as Exhibit A. “ I told you about him! Damian’s Jason. GuppyBoard Jason. Mr. Todd Jason!”
Jason closed his eyes briefly. God, kill him now.
The friends’ expressions shifted instantly. Brows up. Smiles curling. Smirks that were way too knowing.
“Ohhh,” one drawled. “That Jason.”
“Got it,” the other added, eyes twinkling. “Makes sense now.”
Jason ground his teeth. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” you insisted, still glued to his neck like a barnacle. “Because he’s sooooo sweet.” You punctuated it with a sloppy pat to his chest, like you’d just presented Exhibit A.
Sweet.
Jason didn’t know whether to laugh, groan, or walk into the nearest wall. Nobody called him sweet. Not his family, not Gotham, sure as hell not anyone he’d gone toe-to-toe with in the alleyways. Sweet was not in the Red Hood brand guidelines.
Movement at the edge of the floor caught his eye, two bouncers cutting through the crowd. They were big, grim, and clearly unimpressed. One of them pointed directly at you, who was still welded to his chest, Santa hat askew.
Right. To them, you were just a random drunk making a scene on their boss.
Jason lifted one hand, a subtle flick of his fingers. Stand down. The bouncers froze, exchanged a look, and peeled off without a word. Perks of ownership: nobody questioned him.
He exhaled, then leaned down to murmur in your ear, trying to steer you toward the shadows. “How much have you had to drink?”
You tipped your head back to look at him properly, eyes wide and unfocused. For a second he thought you might actually answer. Then you gasped.
“Did you know your eyes are actually blue?” you whispered, like you’d just uncovered a government secret. “I thought they were green. But up close? Definitely blue. Like ocean blue. Like… like Crayola marker blue.”
Jason blinked. “That’s not what I asked.”
You squinted harder, nose almost brushing the edge of his jaw. “But also green. Blue-green. Like… a pond. A dangerous pond. You have pond eyes.”
He sighed, turned his head to your friends. “Any idea how much she’s had?”
The two women exchanged helpless shrugs. “Three? Nine? We lost count after the candy cane shots.”
Figures.
Jason shifted you carefully, keeping his hands firmly on the safety strip of fabric, and fished his phone out with the other. He held it out to the steadier-looking friend. “Here. My number. Call me if you need her back or something goes wrong. I’m taking her upstairs so she can sober up.”
The woman blinked at the phone, then at him, then broke into a grin that was way too knowing.
Jason frowned. “What?”
Her friend elbowed her, giggling. “She doesn’t shut up about you, you know. Mr. Todd this, Mr. Todd that. Damian’s guardian. The cool one. The one she actually likes.”
Jason’s ears went hot. “Fantastic,” he muttered.
In his arms, you hummed like you agreed. You patted his chest affectionately. “See? I told you you were sweet.”
Your friends burst into laughter, covering their mouths like they were trying not to howl.
Jason exhaled through his teeth, adjusted his grip, and started guiding you toward the “Employees Only” door. He told himself it was just logistics. Just damage control. Just keeping you from face-planting in the middle of his club.
You gasped so loud the second you saw the sign, heads turned from the bar. “Jason!” you whisper-yelled, tugging on his jacket sleeve like they were in a spy movie. “We can’t go in there. That says employees only.”
Jason shut his eyes for a second. “I am the employees,” he muttered, tugging you gently forward.
Your paused. “Right. I forgot. But do I need to be an employee to go through there?”
“No,” he said, swiping you both past with a nod at the staff posted nearby. “Not when I’m here.”
They shuffled through the door, and Jason braced himself for the next challenge: stairs.
The third floor wasn’t far, but you treated every step like it was Everest. You clung to the railing with one hand and his jacket with the other, talking nonstop between huffs of concentration.
“Why are stairs so… stair-y?” you demanded, glaring at the next step like it had personally offended you. “They’re so rude. Always up, never down.”
“They go down too,” Jason said.
You gasped. “Oh my god, you’re right.” You tilted your head at him, awe written across your face. “You’re so smart.”
Jason bit back a groan.
Halfway up, you stopped again, swaying dangerously. “Wait. Do you live here?”
“No.”
“Do you sleep in your office?”
“No.”
“Do you keep snacks in your desk?”
Jason sighed. “Sometimes.”
You lit up like he’d given her state secrets. “That’s adorable.”
By the time they reached the third floor, Jason was pretty sure he’d aged ten years. You were grinning like you’d conquered a mountain, cheeks flushed, hat sliding sideways.
“See?” you announced proudly as he nudged the office door open. “Told you we could do it.”
Jason just shook his head and guided her inside.
The second they made it into the office, you made a beeline for the couch. More accurately: you stumbled, flopped, and starfished across the cushions like she’d just finished a marathon. Santa hat tipped over your eyes, heels dangling halfway off your feet, grin wide and loopy.
Jason stood there for half a second, just… looking. Then he gave in with a quiet sigh, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before he did something insane like notice how much skin that halter didn’t cover.
“Cozy,” you murmured, tugging it tighter. “Smells nice.”
Jason’s pulse stuttered, but he said nothing. Instead, he crossed to the small cabinet, pulled out one of the laminated menus he kept for late nights, and dropped onto the far end of the couch. Close enough to keep an eye on you. Far enough he wouldn’t combust.
“Alright, teach,” he said, sliding the menu into your hands. “You need food. Look it over. Get whatever you want”
Your face went suddenly serious, like he’d handed you a pop quiz. You sat up straighter, leather jacket swallowing your frame, and studied the menu with absolute concentration. Lips pursed. Brows furrowed. For a long moment the only sound was your soft hum of effort.
Then, at last, you looked up with all the gravitas of someone making a life changing decision.
“You said I can have anything?” you asked, tentative.
Jason's eyes softened, “Anything you want”
“Then….. I want a vodka soda. With extra lime. And also, like, one of those cherries. But only if it doesn’t cost more. Please. Thank you.”
Jason blinked. Then he blinked again.
“No,” he said flatly, grabbing the menu from your hands “You’re getting food. Chicken wings. And garlic bread.”
Your whole face lit up, eyes shining like Christmas morning. “Honey garlic?”
“Yeah,” he said, warmth sneaking into his voice. “Honey garlic.”
You were beaming so bright it hurt. “I LOVE honey garlic.”
Jason texted the kitchen, tossed the phone aside, and leaned back. Food would be here soon. All he had to do was keep you upright until then. Easy.
Except you were already mid-story, waving your hands like punctuation.
“So Jenny and Stacy show up at my place and they’re like you’re coming out with us, and I was like nooo, Gotham Prep, reputation, parents with binoculars or whatever. But then Jenny goes, ‘if anyone sees you at the Iceberg Lounge, that means they’re at the Iceberg Lounge too.’”
Jason’s mouth twitched. “Solid logic.”
“Right?” You jabbed a finger at him like he’d solved world hunger. “So then they said, you’re gonna be slutty Mrs. Claus, and you’re gonna find your Mr. Claus.”
Jason raised a brow. “…That’s just Santa.”
You froze. Then gasped so loudly he thought you might choke on air. “HOLY SHIT.” Your hand smacked against your mouth. “IT IS.”
A knock at the door saved him. Jason pushed up to his feet, bracing for maybe one server.
Instead, half the damn kitchen had shown up. Three servers, a bartender, one busboy balancing bread, and he was pretty sure the DJ had tagged along. All of them craned their necks to peek inside.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what this was: curiosity. The boss, who never had anyone in his office, ever, suddenly had a girl.
Before he could bark at them, Y/N spotted the crowd and lit up.
“HI!” she called from the couch, waving both hands. “New friends!!”
Oh no.
“Did you know Jason owns this place?” you went on brightly. “He just told me. Can you believe it? So sneaky!”
The staff shifted like they’d just been handed the best Christmas gift imaginable. Jason grabbed the trays as fast as possible, muttered, “Out,” and shut the door in their faces before you could get to the part about the zoo.
When he turned back, you were still beaming like you’d just hosted a dinner party. “They were nice,” you said. “You should invite them back. We could all eat together.”
Jason set the food down on the low table and dropped into his corner of the couch again. “Not happening.”
“Boooo,” you muttered, already reaching for a wing.
You lifted it carefully, took one big bite, and immediately let out a noise that shot straight through him. A low, pleased hum, turning into a sigh, then a muffled moan of delight. You actually closed her eyes.
Jason looked away fast.
“These are sooooo good,” you declared, licking honey garlic sauce off her thumb. “Jason. Jason, oh my god. Whoever decided we should get food right now deserves, like, a prize.”
“Im gonna name my firstborn honey garlic,” you mumbled around a bite, eyes closed like you were ascending. “Like, Jay, you don’t even understand—oh my god, can I call you Jay?”
Jason froze. “Uh—”
“Jay,” you repeated firmly, nodding to yourself as if he’d agreed. “Yes. Jay.”
Jason’s chest gave a stupid little squeeze.
And then, without warning, your lip trembled.
“I miss my kids,” you whispered.
Jason blinked. “What?”
“My fourth graders.” Your voice cracked, and suddenly your eyes were glossy. “They’re so small and nice and I just wanna protect them forever. Give everyone an A+. Just all of them.”
“Hey—” Jason started, but you were already spiraling.
“But then—” you sniffled hard, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand—“this one kid turned in a worksheet, and it wasn’t about the pyramids, it was about… about Italian brainrot.” you gasped, hand flying to your chest. “It was so good, Jay. So well written. But the instructions were about Egypt! I had to give him a C. A C, Jay! For art!”
Jason pressed his knuckles to his mouth to hide the twitch of a smile.
“He put his heart into it,” you sniffled. “Ballerina Cappuccina and Tung Tung Tung Sahur had such a tragic love story! He used metaphors! I destroyed his dreams!”
Jason shook his head slowly. “You didn’t destroy anything. Kid’ll live.”
But you weren’t done.
Your eyes locked on his face, wide and wet. You sucked in a sharp breath, then outright sobbed.
“Your eyes,” you cried. “They look just like Damian’s.”
Jason’s stomach dropped.
“I miss him the most,” you blurted, words tumbling over each other. “He’s my favorite, don’t tell the others. He helps me in class. He made so much progress, Jay. He’s got friends now. Real ones. And he smiles sometimes, like, little smiles, and he’s just—” You broke off into hiccupping tears. “He’s so good. He’s such a good kid.”
Jason’s throat went tight. He sat there, frozen, watching this drunk, messy, beautiful girl in his jacket cry her heart out over his kid brother.
You sniffled again, wiping your nose on a napkin, and gave him the saddest pout he’d ever seen. “I just love them all so much. But Damian—” another sniff—“he’s special.”
Jason exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw to buy time. He couldn’t tell you you were right. He couldn’t tell you he saw it too, that progress, those tiny smiles. That he knew how much you mattered to Damian. That you’d already become something you had no idea you were.
You were still sniffling into your napkin, cheeks flushed from wings and tears, when suddenly your whole body stilled. Her eyes went wide. Too wide.
“Oh. My. God.”
Jason tensed. “What now?”
She leaned forward, horrified. “You’re. oh no. Oh no, no, no. You’re a Gotham Prep family member.”
Jason blinked. “I’m what?”
“A guardian!” you cried, pointing at him like you’d solved a murder. “You’re one of them! I just—” she gasped so loud the Santa hat nearly fell off—“you saw me here. In the Iceberg Lounge. In a skirt. Jason, this is—oh my god, this is career suicide.”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not—”
“It is!” she shrieked, clutching his jacket tighter around you. “They debated hiring me, you know. I’m too young, too inexperienced, too smiley. And now, if the board finds out I went to a shady club on Christmas Eve—” she dropped her face into her hands, muffled—“I’m done. They’ll fire me, maybe even murder me, they seem the type. I’ll never teach again. Please, please, please don’t tell them. I need this job. I love my kids. They’re all I have.”
Jason’s chest clenched. He moved before he even thought about it, sliding closer on the couch.
“Hey,” he said, low and steady, reaching out to gently pull your hands from her face. Your eyes were wet, frantic, darting like a cornered animal. “Breathe.”
You hiccupped, shaking your head. “I can’t lose this—”
“You’re not gonna lose anything,” he cut in firmly. “You’re fine. You’re not in trouble.”
Your breath stuttered, uneven. “But—”
“Y’really think I’d turn you in?” Jason said, soft but insistent. “This isn’t a parent catching you out. It’s just me. And the only thing I’m mad about is that you picked the sketchiest bar in Gotham when you could’ve picked literally anywhere safer.”
That startled a weak laugh out of you. Just a tiny one. But it was enough to loosen the knot in his chest.
“Y/N,” he said, gentler now. “You’re good. Okay? Nobody’s firing you. Nobody’s blacklisting you. You’re not gonna lose those kids. Not on my watch.”
You sniffled, peeking up at him through damp lashes. “…Promise?”
Jason nodded once, steady. “Promise.”
For a long moment you just looked at him, wide-eyed and searching, like you were trying to see if he meant it. Whatever you found there, it was enough because you let out a shaky sigh and sagged back into the cushions, still wrapped in his jacket like it was armor.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.” You slumped back into the couch cushions, head lolling to the side as Jason turned back to grab you a glass of water.
You didn’t even give him a warning.
One second, you were bundled in his jacket, eyes still watery but calmer, mumbling something about “The Principal having a third eye” The next, your head lolled to the side, hat slipping down over her face, and you were out cold.
Jason blinked at you. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Nope. Completely gone.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, debating whether to laugh or scream. Then his phone buzzed.
heyyyyyyyyyyyyy
we r gonnna dip
stacy thew up 🤮
all g w y/n? u kids have fun 😏
Jason stared at the screen, fighting the urge to throw the phone against the wall. Kids. Fun. Jesus Christ.
He typed out a reply, deleted it, sighed. He couldn’t leave you here. He sure as hell wasn’t letting you stumble back toyour apartment with two already half-dead friends. Which meant… he needed your address.
There was only one person insane enough to have it.
Jason hit call before he could think better of it.
The line clicked. “Todd.” Damian’s voice, clipped and formal, like he was standing at attention in the Batcave.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Jason muttered, shifting you so you didn’t slide sideways on the couch.
A pause. “Why are you calling me? You made it clear you did not want to spend time with us when you ran away from dinner”
Jason grit his teeth. “Do you have Miss Y/N’s address?”
The silence on the line was deafening. Then Damian hissed, sharp enough to make Jason wince. “WHY do you need her address?”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you have it or not?”
“Why would you need her address?” Damian demanded again, suspicion laced through every word. “She is my teacher. What business do you have with her home?”
“My intentions,” Jason drawled, “are to not explain myself to a ten year old. Now cough it up.”
“No,” Damian snapped. “She is my teacher. You will tell me why—”
Jason cut him off, voice dropping to a warning rumble. “Listen, demon. You owe me a favour. You don’t get to ask questions and need to pay up”
There was a pause, bristling with insulted dignity and a begrudging inhale. Finally, Damian bit out, “Of course I have it. I have files on all important figures in my life. Teachers. Allies. Alfred. Even Titus has—”
Jason barked a laugh. “You made a file on the dog?”
“That is irrelevant,” Damian snapped. “You will treat this information with utmost respect.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jason leaned back on the couch, looking at the girl snoring softly beside him, hat tipped sideways. “Just send it, gremlin.”
Another long pause. Then, grudgingly: “I am texting it now. But Todd,” his voice sharpened like steel “if Miss Y/N comes to harm, I will know. And you will regret it.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.”
The line went dead. A second later, a buzz: Y/N’s address, neat and precise, like Damian had it saved in triplicate.
Jason shoved the phone back into his pocket, then glanced at the mess curled on his couch. Then bent to scoop you up. You didn’t stir much, just sighed and nestled deeper into his jacket like he was some oversized pillow.
The second he slid his arms under you, Jason knew he was finished.
You were warm, all soft edges wrapped in his jacket, and you instinctively curled into him like you belonged there. Head tucked against his shoulder, breath warm at his collar. One tiny sigh, content and unguarded, and Jason nearly dropped dead in the middle of his own damn office.
He adjusted his grip, tightening just enough to keep you steady, and headed for the back exit.
Of course, nothing in his life was ever simple. Every staff member with a pulse suddenly materialized in the hallway. Bartenders, busboys, even the bottle girls loitering like he’d misplaced the beat. All of them blatantly staring.
Jason leveled a glare at the nearest one. “Don’t.”
A muffled giggle echoed down the hall.
He stopped dead, shoulders squared, voice dropping to lethal calm. “Anyone says a word, and the Christmas bonus is gone. All of it.”
That shut them up, mostly. Someone still snorted behind their hand as he passed, but Jason ignored it. He had more important things to focus on. Like the way your hand had fisted gently in the front of his shirt.
At least he’d brought the car tonight. The mental image of you on the back of his bike, skirt riding up, hat flying into traffic, was enough to make him break into a sweat.
The black car was waiting in the alley. Jason opened the passenger door with one hand and lowered you into the seat, careful, steady, like you were made of glass.
You murmured something incoherent, then tugged his jacket tighter around yourself, snuggling into the leather with another soft sigh.
Jason braced a hand on the roof, staring down at you. “Unbelievable.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t stir. Just breathed even and slow, looking entirely too at peace in a car that had only ever carried weapons and blood before.
Behind him, faint laughter carried from the loading bay. Jason snapped his head up, glare sharp enough to kill. The shadows scattered instantly.
Good. Jason was glad his staff felt comfortable enough to joke about their boss, but it gets to a limit.
He shut your door, circled to the driver’s side, and slid in behind the wheel.
The streets of Gotham slid by in a blur of neon and snow. The heater hummed low, the engine steady beneath his hands, and for once, Jason didn’t feel like filling the silence.
Because the silence wasn’t empty.
Every so often he glanced sideways, just to check. you were still curled in the passenger seat, cheek pressed against his jacket collar, Santa hat tipped low enough to shadow your eyes. Your lashes fluttered every now and then like you might stir, but mostly you just breathed soft and even, lips parted, peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen all night.
Jason dragged his gaze back to the road. His chest was too tight.
Halfway through the drive, you stirred. A little groan, then your head lifted, eyes bleary but clearer now. The moment you realized where you were, you froze.
“Oh my god.”
Jason glanced over. “Morning, teach”
Your hands flew to the jacket, clutching it tighter around your chest. “I fell asleep.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “About three wings in.”
You groaned, dropping your face into your palms. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t, oh my god, I wasn’t even supposed to—how do you even know where I live?”
Jason kept his eyes on the road, tone smooth. “You told me before you crashed.”
Her head snapped toward him. “I did?!”
“Mm.” He let the lie slide out easily. “Clear as day. Apartment number, cross street, all of it. You don’t remember?”
Your hands clutched the collar of his jacket, pulling it higher, like it could shield you from memory. “I fell asleep. In your office. Oh my god. what did I even say?”
“You’re fine,” Jason said evenly.
Your shoulders curled inward. “I’m not fine. I must’ve—oh my god, I must’ve embarrassed myself so much.” You groaned into the jacket, voice muffled. “Jason, please tell me I wasn’t that bad.”
Jason’s lips twitched. “Not really.”
You peeked at him hopefully.
He let it hang just long enough, then added, “I mean, aside from renaming me Jay and saying it on repeat all night.”
Your groan was immediate. You buried her face in your hands. “Noooo.”
Jason’s grin was quick, crooked, and gone again. He tapped his thumb against the wheel. “I liked it.”
That made you freeze. Slowly, you peeked through her fingers. “You… what?”
He glanced over, just for a second. Just enough to let his gaze linger, heavy and deliberate. “I liked it,” he repeated, low and even. Then he looked back at the road.
Your cheeks flushed deep red, heat creeping all the way to your ears. Then, you snapped your gaze toward the window, the reflection of your wide eyes in the glass. Silence stretched, heavier now, loaded.
When you spoke again, your voice was small. Sad. “You know Gotham Prep is… particular.”
Jason’s brow furrowed. “Particular how?”
“They debated hiring me in the first place. Said I was too young, too green. Fresh out of teacher’s college. I had to fight for that classroom.” You hugged his jacket tighter around yourself, staring out at the blur of streetlights. “One night like this—one mistake—and it’s enough to get me fired.”
Jason didn’t answer right away. He just listened, jaw tight, hands steady on the wheel.
“And if anyone even thought…” you hesitated, words catching in your throat before spilling out fast and sharp, “…if anyone even thought I had a relationship with a student’s family member? That’s it. Blacklisted. Not just Gotham Prep. Every school in the city.”
Your voice cracked on the last word, and you bit down on it, staring stubbornly out the window.
Jason exhaled through his nose, casual. Too casual. “Good thing there’s no relationship then.”
Your head whipped toward him, startled.
He kept his gaze on the road, tone smooth, almost bored. “It’s professional. Nothing more. You’re his teacher, I’m his brother. That’s it.”
But the way his voice dipped, low, steady, laced with something unspoken, made it clear the words were a lie. A cover. An agreement they were both pretending to believe.
It was dangerous. It was messy. It was anything but professional.
You knew it. He knew it. And still, neither of you said a word.
Your throat tightened, but you turned back toward the window, hiding in the reflection of holiday lights. Jason’s grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles pale against the leather, but his face stayed neutral. He didn’t let himself look again. Didn’t let himself risk what he might see on your face.
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of your building. Jason killed the engine, the sudden silence loud in his ears. For a second, neither of them moved. You stared down at your hands, still clutching his jacket closed like a shield, while he forced himself to breathe steady.
Finally, he swung his door open, circled around, and pulled yours open too. “Come on,” he said quietly.
You blinked at him, still hazy but steady enough to slide your legs out onto the curb. Jason offered a hand, too casual, too steady for how his chest felt, and guided you up the steps. You wobbled once, which made him place his palm firm against your back until they reached your door.
Keys fumbled, lock clicked, and then you were standing in the dim hallway, too close, the night still clinging to you both.
You turned, hands already at the zipper of his jacket. “Thank you. I should give this back.”
Jason’s throat went tight. The thought of that jacket coming off, of that outfit flashing under the dim light again, was more than he could handle. He caught your hands gently, stopping the zipper halfway.
“Keep it,” he said. The words came out rougher than he meant.
Your brows knit. “Jason, I can’t—”
Jason stepped closer. One step, then another, until the space between you disappeared and your breaths mingled. You froze, eyes flicking up to meet his, wide and uncertain but not pulling away.
His gaze dragged upward, landing on the crooked Santa hat still slipping down your forehead. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His fingers brushed your hair as he caught the edge of the hat, tugging it off with careful precision.
Jason then settled the ridiculous red hat on his own head. “Fair trade,” he murmured.
Your throat worked as you swallowed, stepping away and turning the doorknob. “Goodnight, Jay.”
“Goodnight, teach,” he said finally, low and steady, like it meant more than it should.
He lingered a beat too long, staring down at you like maybe if he memorized every line of your face, it would be enough to keep him warm on the ride home. Then, with effort, he stepped back, tugged the hat lower on his head, and forced himself to turn.
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him in the hall, pulse hammering, Santa hat tilting crooked.
–
Jason hadn’t planned on going back to the manor, but after dropping you off, the car just… drove itself there.
For a while, it even worked. Christmas morning at the manor was a sight he hadn't been a part of in a while. He leaned against the wall, listening to Damian lecture Duke about proper ornament distribution, letting the warmth of the room sink in. He didn’t think about your jacket-drowned silhouette in his passenger seat. Or the way you’d whispered Goodnight, Jay. Or how his chest hadn’t unclenched since.
He really thought he’d gotten away with it.
Then–
🫧 bloop bloop 🫧
Jason frowned, thumb swiping across the screen. GuppyBoard. Of course. He’d gotten used to the little notifications, the slice-of-life updates from Class 4B that felt more grounding than he’d admit out loud.
This one nearly killed him.
Miss Y/N: Spent Christmas morning and spending time with family! I would love to see what everyone has been up to 🥰
Attached was a photo.
You, grinning ear to ear, wearing what had to be the ugliest Christmas sweater ever knit. Neon green, cartoon reindeer, lopsided tinsel stitched in for good measure. You held up a tray of cookies shaped vaguely like stars and trees, hair pulled back in the messiest bun.
Jason blinked. Read it twice. Then looked at the attached photo again, you, in the world’s wholesome Christmas scene like you hadn’t been pressed against him in a backless nightmare less than twelve hours ago.
And then he laughed.
It came out sharp and sudden, startling Dick mid-sentence and making Tim glance up over his mug. Jason bent at the waist, shaking with it, laughter spilling into the living room until even Damian’s scowl deepened in suspicion.
“Something funny?” Tim asked slowly.
Jason swiped a thumb across his eyes, still grinning. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The caption had invited replies, hadn’t it? Would love to see what everyone has been up to. Well. Looked like she wanted family pictures.
Jason leaned back on the couch, eyeing Damian where he stood near the tree, arms crossed, already bristling like a cornered cat.
“Hey, demon,” Jason called.
Damian’s glare sharpened. “Do not call me that.”
“Stand in front of the tree.”
“What?”
Jason jerked his chin toward the pine, dripping with ornaments in every color thanks to Dick’s meddling. “She wants photos. You’re her student. Stand there.”
Damian's face immediately twisted into a frown. “Why?”
Jason smirked, already pulling his phone back out. “Because I need an excuse to text her back.”
The room exploded with Dick cackling, Tim choking on coffee, Damian sputtering indignantly. Bruce looked up from where he was standing with a mug of Alfred’s cider, brows climbing. “Text who back?”
“None of your business,” Jason shot back.
But Alfred was already corralling them, cane tapping sharp against the floor. “If you children are going to argue in my sitting room, you can argue in front of the tree. Stand together, all of you.”
What followed was chaos.
Dick tried to choreograph positions like it was a team photo, Cass and Steph ignored him entirely and made bunny ears behind Damian, Duke kept laughing so hard he nearly toppled the tree, and Tim muttered about “natural lighting” until Bruce swatted the phone out of his hand and told him to stand still. Damian protested every step of the way but ended up wedged between Alfred and Cass anyway, arms crossed but staying put.
And Jason? He stood at the back, small smile on his face, mysterious santa hat on his head, staring at the camera set up in front.
Click
The first picture they’d taken together willingly. No one storming out, no one glaring off-camera. Just… them. Cramped, imperfect, too many elbows and way too much tinsel, but them.
Jason stared down at it after, something warm cracking open in his chest. Yeah, it had started as an excuse. Just a way to text you, to make you laugh, to remind you of last night.
But looking at the photo now, he couldn’t deny it. For once, Gotham’s most impossible family actually looked like a family.
---
a/n: decided to do something crazy and edit this chapter instead of writing cover letters. then decided there is no point for it to sit in my google docs for another few days. also christmas in september sounded fun.
summary: In which you bump into gotham's heroes and the red hood becomes a single father of twins
wc: 2.5k
---
A quick trip to the Dollar Store. That was all it was supposed to be.
The kids had been good today. Shockingly good. Nobody forgot their homework, quiet time was actually quiet, and not once did anyone start chanting “six seven” in that cursed rhythm that spread like wildfire whenever you lost control of the room. You’d even wrapped the math lesson early because they’d breezed through it.
So you figured they deserved a treat. Cute fall decorations. Maybe some cookies. Something cozy to welcome the season.
What you didn’t expect was Gotham doing Gotham things.
A bottle-shaped cannon sprayed bright red across the hood of a parked sedan, steam rising as it ate through the paint. The man holding it wore a cape the color of mustard and a helmet shaped like a squeeze bottle. Condiment King. Gotham’s joke. Gotham’s nightmare.
“Citizens of flavor!” he bellowed, raising a second cannon. “Bow before your culinary overlord!”
A blur dropped from the nearest rooftop, cape snapping like thunder. The Red Hood hit the pavement hard, pistols already raised. Behind him, Nightwing flipped into view, escrima sticks sparking. Red Robin swooped low on his glider, cutting off Condiment King’s escape, while Robin vaulted over a streetlight with a snarl.
You froze. You’d heard of Gotham’s vigilantes, who hadn’t? The kids used them as inspiration for their drawings, little stick figures with capes and big blocky logos. But they were taller in real life. Taller and louder and terrifyingly fast.
A voice crackled sharp over comms in the ear of each vigilante: “Civilian at your six o’clock, Hood.”
Red Hood whipped his head around just in time to catch your squeak as you sidestepped a splatter of radioactive ketchup.
Of course it was you.
Scarf wrapped tight, nose red from the cold, hair catching the light from the dollar store’s flickering sign. Boots scuffed but polished, tote bag tucked under your arm like it mattered. You stood on the curb wide-eyed, watching Gotham’s worst food fight like it was theater.
Jason’s shoulders stiffened.
He holstered his pistols in one sharp motion, like he’d decided you didn’t need to see them, and stalked toward you, trying for calm, for casual.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
You nearly dropped the tote. “I’m sorry, please don’t arrest me.”
There was a pause. The helmet tilted. “…Okay. I clearly need to work on my approach.”
Another blast rattled the street. You flinched as relish sizzled across the asphalt. His hand landed steady on your arm, firm enough to steer you without feeling rough.
“You need to get out of here,” he said, voice low but sharp. “It’s dangerous.”
Before you could argue, he maneuvered you toward the shadows, crouching behind a dented car at the edge of the alley. The angle cut off most of the chaos. Just a flicker of Robin’s cape, the clang of Nightwing’s sticks, the hiss of condiments hitting steel.
“Stay down,” Red Hood ordered. “Don’t move until I say.”
And then, as casually as if this were just another Tuesday night, he straightened, rolled his shoulders, and sauntered back into the fray.
Condiment King swung his cannons wide, ketchup spraying in a sticky arc that hissed on contact with the pavement. Nightwing vaulted over it with a neat flip, escrima crackling against metal.
“Seriously?” Dick called, landing in a crouch. “We’ve fought you, what, five times this year? Still ketchup?”
“Relish in your defeat!” the villain bellowed, hose whipping dangerously close to Robin’s cape.
Damian snarled, sword slicing through the stream before it hit. “This is beneath me. This entire battle is beneath me.”
Jason should have been laughing. But his jaw was tight, helmet snapping back to check the alley every other second.
Tim noticed first. “Oh my god,” he said over comms, voice going sharp with glee. “She’s here, isn’t she?”
Jason growled. “Shut up, Drake.” He ducked under a mustard spray, slammed his pistol into Condiment King’s ribs, and shoved him back two steps.
Dick’s grin was audible even through the grunts of the fight. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the Miss Y/N? Fourth-grade teacher? GuppyBoard penpal?”
Jason fired a warning shot so close to Dick’s boot it sparked against the asphalt. “Focus on the fight.”
Tim cackled, glider swooping low as he lashed a cable around one of the cannons. “You know, Jason, it’s not exactly subtle when you check the alley every three seconds. What, worried she’s grading your performance?”
“Don’t you dare-” Jason started, but Damian’s voice cut in like a blade.
“She should not be here.” He leapt at Condiment King with vicious force, sword catching the edge of the helmet. “She should not see this. She should not see me.”
Jason grabbed his cape mid-swing, yanking him back before he impaled the villain on live TV. “She’s fine. I put her out of the way.”
“Not far enough!” Damian snarled, eyes wild. “She is my teacher.”
Condiment King tried to roar something about barbecue sauce, but it came out as a wheeze when Nightwing planted an escrima in his gut.
“Honestly?” Dick huffed, pinning the villain with a knee. “If she’s putting up with you every day, baby bat, she’s already seen worse.”
Tim’s laugh cracked sharp over the comms. “Jason, I hope you’re ready for tomorrow’s GuppyBoard notification: Today we watched Mr. Todd bludgeon Condiment King with a pistol butt.”
Jason ignored them all, eyes flicking back to the alley again, just to make sure.
Condiment King hit the pavement with a wet thud, cables wound tight around his arms. Mustard still hissed from the broken hose, puddling around his boots.
Damian planted a foot on his chest, chest heaving. “I will deliver him to GCPD.” His sword vanished into its sheath with a sharp click. “Miss Y/N must not see Robin.”
Jason blinked at him. “What?”
“She cannot know,” Damian insisted, already dragging the unconscious villain upright. “It will compromise my identity.”
Tim snorted, looping the last cable tight. “Can you even reach his arms to tie the handcuffs?”
“You have a point. Which is why you will assist me” Damian cut, voice firm. “You are the most likely to humiliate us in front of her. You will not go near her.”
Tim froze. “What? That’s not true! …Okay, it’s a little true. But come on. I wanna meet the teacher!”
Jason groaned, helmet tilting skyward.
“Absolutely not,” Damian snapped, hauling the villain toward the shadows. “Drake, you are assisting me. Far away from her.”
Tim sighed dramatically, trailing after him. “This is blatant slander.”
Dick clapped his hands together, grin wide enough to split his face. “Well, looks like that leaves me.” He spun his escrima once before holstering them. “Guess I get to meet her first.”
Jason swore under his breath.
The alley was quiet now, save for the drip of relish sliding off a busted dumpster. You stayed crouched behind the dented car, tote bag clutched tight, scarf wound up to your nose.
Bootsteps crunched. Then a voice, modulated but softer than before: “It’s clear. You can come out.”
You peeked up to find Red Hood standing there, arms crossed like he wasn’t vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Beside him, Nightwing lifted a hand in a little wave.
“Hey,” Nightwing said brightly. “Sorry about the condiment apocalypse. Hope your scarf is okay”
Jason shot him a look sharp enough to kill, but Dick just beamed wider.
You pushed yourself up, brushing grit from your knees. “I… I am so sorry if this is overstepping,” you started, heart still hammering. “But I’m a teacher. And my kids adore you guys. They draw you all the time. If I could show them a picture, it would make their whole week.”
Jason froze. “A… picture?”
Dick clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Absolutely. Totally. We love fans.”
Jason muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t say no.
You fished your phone out of your tote with trembling hands. “if it’s okay?”
Nightwing leaned into frame like a pro, grinning under the streetlight. Jason stayed stiff at his side, arms crossed, helmet tipped just enough to look begrudging.
You snapped the picture.
“Perfect,” you said, smiling for the first time since the chaos started. “They’re going to love this.”
Jason’s chest did that traitorous flop again.
Nightwing leaned casually against the wall, twirling one escrima stick like this wasn’t the most absurd Tuesday night ever. “So… dollar store, huh? Big spender. What’d you get? Fake pumpkins? Glow-in-the-dark skeletons?”
You smiled faintly, scrolling through your phone. “Leaves for the class boards. And cookie dough.”
“Classic. Nice. Seasonal. You know, Hood’s big on seasonal decor too—”
Jason whipped his head toward him, helmet glinting. “No, I’m not.”
But Nightwing just grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, don’t be shy. Guy practically had a wreath collection in his old apartment—”
🫧 bloop bloop 🫧
The sound echoed in the alley, cartoonish, humiliating. Jason’s blood ran cold under the helmet.
You perked up, eyes bright. “That’s so amazing! I’m really glad you make time for your kids while also—” you gestured vaguely toward the chaos of mustard sizzling on the asphalt “—doing all of this. It’s so hard to get parents to communicate with me. I teach at a private school, and they all have calendars with more items than I can count. Half the time I’m chasing them down for a signature.”
Jason didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Nightwing actually clutched his stomach like he was in physical pain from holding back laughter. “Yeah, the twins! Love those kids. Adorable. Hey, Hood, how’s your wife?”
Jason’s brain screeched to a halt.
It was irrational. Completely irrational. You didn’t know he was Jason. You didn’t know he is the guy you spent 8 hours at a zoo with. It shouldn’t matter whether the Red Hood was married or not. It shouldn’t matter if he had a fake wife.
But he wanted to look single in front of you.
So he turned to Nightwing, voice dropping an octave. “You insensitive bastard. You were at the funeral.”
You gasped, hand to your chest. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful.” Your voice softened, almost cooing. “You’re raising twins all on your own? That’s… that’s incredible.”
Jason could feel the ground opening beneath him. He should have shut it down. He should have said nothing. Instead, the words came out fast, like his lips moved before his brain did. “Yeah. Their mom… she died. Scarlet fever.”
Silence.
Nightwing made a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and covered it with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic, really. The Hood family has been through so much.”
You leaned closer, scarf slipping loose as your voice softened. “And you still make time for your kids. That’s… that’s wonderful. Truly.”
Jason’s pulse hammered against the helmet. He was in too deep now. No turning back. “They’re good kids. Advanced. Top of their class.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Nightwing cut in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Prodigies. I mean, the twins are reading chapter books before kindergarten. Learnt long division last month. Real Einsteins”
Jason’s hand twitched toward his pistol.
You lit up. “That’s incredible! I have a few like that in my own class, but it’s so rare to see. You must be so proud.”
“Every day,” Jason said, voice flat, betraying nothing.
Nightwing pressed a hand to his heart, fighting laughter. “Such an inspiration, Hood. A single father, a vigilante, and raising geniuses. Gotham salutes you.”
Jason muttered under his breath, “I will actually kill you.”
Jason needed this to end. Now. He couldn’t keep lying about scarlet fever and twins. Any second you were going to ask for their names, or birthdays, or what kindergarten class at Crime Alley Montessori even looked like.
But then your tone shifted. The sparkle in your eye softened, all the humor slipping into something real.
“I know it must seem hard sometimes,” you said gently. “Balancing everything. But I’m sure the twins adore you. You’re clearly doing your best. And that’s what matters.”
Jason froze. His throat went dry.
You offered him a small smile, scarf tugged tight against your neck. “Thank you for tonight. For saving me.”
Before Jason could answer, you turned, boots clicking softly as you slipped back toward the glow of the dollar store lot. Tote swinging gently at your side.
Silence hung in the alley.
Then a sharp clap landed on his shoulder. “Man,” Nightwing sighed, shaking his head with fake solemnity, “I miss Mrs. Hood every day. Gone too young. Scarlet fever’s a bitch.”
Jason shoved him off so hard he stumbled into the wall. “I will actually shoot you.”
Nightwing just laughed, hands up in mock surrender. “Hero, widower, single dad of prodigies. Truly Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.”
“Dead. To me,” Jason muttered, stalking off toward his bike.
–
The ride back was quiet, the thrum of the engine and the stink of half-burned mustard trailing them through the streets. Jason’s hands were steady on the grips, but his mind was buzzing.
At a red light, he fished his phone out one-handed, thumb swiping over the notification that had doomed him in the first place.
🫧 GuppyBoard Post from Miss Y/N 🫧
It was the selfie. Your scarf bright against the dark, Nightwing cheesing with a peace sign, and Jason in the back, arms crossed, helmet tilted just enough to look broody.
He was about to lock the screen when the caption caught him.
“Met Gotham’s very own heroes today 🦇🖤”
Jason stared at the word hero.
Nobody called him that. Not the cops, not the papers, not the other masks. Even the family barely threw the word his way. He was the blunt instrument, the cautionary tale, the one who took things too far.
But you had typed it so easily. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like of course he was a hero.
Something warm cracked open in his chest, soft and unbearable.
He shoved the phone back into his jacket, gunned the engine, and told himself it didn’t matter.
It still mattered.
--
a/n: for the record i thought this idea was really dumb but i cracked up writing it and i needed a quick little blurb to be filler cause the next chapter is set in december. realized all the other chapters are really plot heavy so i wanted a cute little chaos bit to fill the gap.
thank you all for all the comments on the last couple of chapters <3 i truly am kicking my feet reading all of them <33 I added descriptions of all the upcoming chapters to the masterlist, so now that i know exactly where the story is going updates should come sooner :)))
summary: In which Jason simps over miss y/n at the parent teacher conference, and gets called a book club nerd
wc: 2.4k
---
Jason had ignored the email for three days.
Parent–teacher conferences. Sign-up slots highlighted in soft pastels, Miss Y/N’s cheery note at the bottom: “Looking forward to meeting with each of you!” He’d opened it, snorted, and closed the tab before the guppy on his homescreen could so much as wiggle.
Not his problem.
Except Damian had asked.
Not directly, of course. Damian Wayne would rather swallow glass than request anything resembling affection. But two nights ago, while Jason was polishing his sidearm, the kid had appeared in the doorway and said, flat as a firing range: “You will be attending the meeting.”
Jason had opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. Because beneath the clipped words and sharp glare, there’d been something else. Not command. Not even expectation. Just… hope.
So here he was.
He scrolled through the digital sign-up sheet, every prime slot long gone to assistants with neatly typed email signatures and chauffeurs with Black Cards. His thumb hovered, restless. He wasn’t about to haul himself across the city at three in the afternoon just to sit in a tiny chair again.
Last slot. 8:30 PM. Practically closing time.
He tapped it before he could think better.
—-
Jason had taken longer than he’d admit to get ready.
Not that he cared. Obviously. It was just that his best leather jacket was out of commission. Still drying from the bloodstains he hadn’t gotten around to scrubbing out. So he’d pulled on the second-best one, the one with the collar that never sat quite right, and told himself it didn’t matter.
(It mattered)
By the time he left the manor, the sun had already dipped behind Gotham’s skyline, casting Gotham Prep in long shadows. The school always looked less like a campus and more like a medieval fortress: gargoyles hunched over the eaves, ivy climbing the walls like a slow invasion. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he climbed the broad stone steps, boots clicking against the same path he’d walked years ago. The halls smelled the same: polished wood, old plaster, money.
Familiar. Too familiar.
Jason muttered under his breath, “Fourth grade. Hell of a downgrade.”
He found the classroom by memory more than signage, the corner room down the hall from his own homeroom. Besides the meeting last month, the last time he had been here was four days before his own death.
Yes, he’d skipped school to go fight the Joker.
A mistake in hindsight. And, apparently, a lifelong PSA about staying in school.
Jason hesitated. Rolled his shoulders. It was just a parent–teacher meeting. He’d survive. Then he entered the classroom
You were prettier than he remembered.
Not in the end-of-the-day, cardigan-slipping, ink-on-your-hands way he’d seen last month. Tonight you’d dressed up. A soft blouse tucked into a skirt, a string of beads at your throat, shoes that clicked faintly on the linoleum. Professional, polished… but still you, the warmth shining through the polish.
Jason’s stomach did something traitorous. She’d done this for parent–teacher day. For all the parents.
But when your eyes lit up at the sight of him, for half a second he let himself believe it was just for him.
“Mr. Todd! I’m so glad you made it.”
Jason dropped into the tiny chair across from your desk, knees immediately slamming the underside. Smooth. “Kid asked me to.”
“Well, I’m glad he did,”you said warmly, pulling a folder toward her. “Because I have so much good news to share.”
Jason blinked. Teachers didn’t usually get this excited about Waynes. Or Wayne-adjacents. He braced himself.
She opened the folder like it was treasure. “First, look at this.”
She slid across a watercolour scenery. The Gotham Preparatory Academy school grounds in miniature detail. Everything from the school crests, to the dew on the grass. Jason leaned forward despite himself.
“You’re telling me he drew this?”
She nodded, clearly proud. “He insisted on using a ruler for every windowpane. Said it was for our architecture unit.”
Jason stared. No way. No way the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul sat at a desk and drew daisies
But hell. It was good.
She flipped to the next sheet, sliding over a math quiz with every answer neat and correct. “He doesn’t rush anymore. He takes his time. And he’s less… frustrated when he gets stuck.”
Jason blinked. “Less frustrated? You sure?”
“I wouldn’t believe it either if I didn’t see it,” you teased, eyes flicking up to his.
Jason looked away, scratching the back of his neck. God, you were cute when you smiled like that.
“And here—”you placed a poster between them. A two-person project. Carefully coloured diagrams of the water cycle, with Damian’s cramped handwriting alongside another kid’s messier scrawl. “He worked on this with Daniel. They even presented it together.”
Jason almost choked. “He collaborated?”
“Voluntarily,”you said, eyes dancing. “He even shared his ruler.”
Jason gawked. “You’re lying. Damian Wayne doesn’t share. He hoards grudges like other kids hoard Pokémon cards.”
You laughed, covering your mouth. “Well, he shared this time.”
Jason shook his head, disbelief curling into something warmer in his chest. He couldn’t decide what was stranger: Damian cooperating, or the way this woman’s laugh made the classroom feel less like a tomb of bad memories.
You kept going: an essay on ecosystems (“he argued with me about whether bats should count”), a spelling test covered in stars, even a candid snapshot of recess where Damian lurked at the edge of a game of tag but was unmistakably chasing.
Jason felt something squeeze behind his ribs. Kid was… trying. And you’d noticed. You'd noticed all of it.
When you finally closed the folder, you looked at him expectantly. “So. That’s your update. He’s been doing really well. You should be proud of him.”
Jason’s throat went dry. Proud wasn’t exactly in his vocabulary. He shifted in the too-small chair, leather creaking. “Yeah. He’s… not bad.”
Your laugh was soft, affectionate, like you didn’t believe for a second that was all he felt.
Then you tilted your head. “Before you go, I’ve been asking every guardian this, do you have any feedback for me? Anything I could be doing better?”
Jason froze. Feedback. Right. Like he was qualified for that.
He cleared his throat, trying not to squirm. “Uh. Yeah. You’re… good. At the teaching. Keep it up.”
Her eyes crinkled as you smiled. “I’ll take it.”
Jason glanced away quickly. If you smiled at him like that again, he was gonna embarrass himself.
She started stacking notebooks, hefting them against your hip with a little huff. “Would you do me a massive favour and walk me out? I hate walking out alone when the building’s this empty.”
Jason was on his feet before you finished, plucking the stack out of your arms. “Yeah, no problem.” He adjusted them easily in one hand, trying not to notice how grateful your eyes looked when you let go.
“Wouldn’t let you walk out here alone anyway,” he muttered, following you into the hall.
The school had gone still in the evening, every sound amplified by the stone walls. Jason and your footsteps echoed down the corridor, the faint hum of the old heating system filling the silence. you walked a step ahead of him, heels clicking lightly, your jacket swinging with the movement.
Jason found himself watching the line of your shoulders, the way your hair brushed against your cheek when you turned to glance back. Cute. you were cute. Abort mission.
“So,” you said brightly, filling the quiet, “how was your day?”
Jason huffed a short laugh. “You don’t wanna know.”
“Try me.”
He considered giving you the truth about late nights, bruised ribs, and a sidearm stashed under the floorboards but settled for, “Busy.”
She smiled. “That’s everyone’s answer this week. I think the city runs on people being perpetually busy.”
“Yeah, well,” Jason muttered, “better than idle hands.”
You turned a corner, the lights dimmer here, old portraits of grim-faced headmasters watching from gilded frames. Jason recognized the corridor instantly, though he hadn’t thought about it in years. His boots slowed against the stone floor.
“You okay?”you asked, noticing his hesitation.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Just haven’t been down this way in a long time.”
“You know the building well?”
Jason hesitated. Then, against his better judgment: “Used to go here. For a while.”
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with delight. “You did? That’s wonderful! Wait—oh my gosh.”you stopped in the middle of the hall, excitement sparking. “We have to find your old composite picture.”
Jason blinked. “What? No, we don’t—”
But you were already hurrying ahead, skirts swishing, heading straight for the Picture Hall.
Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he followed. “Unbelievable. You realize this is cruel and unusual punishment, right?”
She glanced back, grinning. “I think it’ll be fun.”
Fun for you, maybe. Jason’s stomach twisted as the hall opened up into a long gallery lined with rows of class composites, each year framed neatly in oak. His boots echoed against the polished floor as you scanned the walls, humming under your breath.
“Let’s see… what year would you have been here?”
Jason shifted uncomfortably. “Long time ago.”
“Mmhm,” you said, not looking up, fingertips trailing along the frames. “Which means I’m getting close.”
He wanted to bolt. He wanted to snatch the stack of notebooks back and make some excuse about needing to leave. But your face was so lit with anticipation, he found himself rooted to the spot, heart hammering.
“Ah-ha!” you stopped suddenly, pointing. “Here!”
Jason’s stomach dropped.
There it was: Gotham Prep, Seventh Grade Class. A row of small faces, all scrubbed clean and stiff in their uniforms. And right in the middle, twelve-year-old Jason Todd, hair neatly combed, grin just shy of cocky. He looked like he had somewhere to be after class, maybe a book club, maybe a soccer game. Bright-eyed. Alive.
You pressed a hand to your chest. “Oh, look at you. You were adorable.”
Jason’s ears burned. “Yeah, well. Camera angle.”
“You look so sweet,” you cooed, leaning closer. “I would’ve guessed you were the one helping everyone with their homework.”
Jason snorted. “More like stealing their lunch money.”
She shot him a disbelieving smile. “I don’t believe that for a second. You look like a reader. Like you were always sneaking a novel under the desk.”
Jason shifted, uncomfortable under your gaze. Because you weren’t wrong. And seeing that version of himself: smiling, open, unscarred, made something ache deep in his chest.
He forced a smirk, trying to shake it off. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Can we go now before you find my detention records?”
She laughed, the sound bright in the empty hall. “Fine. But I still think it’s sweet.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but it didn’t stop the heat creeping up his neck. His ears burned under the leather collar, and he ducked his head like that could hide it.
You shifted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, turning toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s get to the car. I feel bad for making you carry all those books.”
Jason fell into step behind you automatically, boots echoing your lighter steps. But just before the hallway turned, he glanced back.
His twelve-year-old self stared out at him from the frame, all bright grin and clean lines, a kid who didn’t know what was coming. For a second, Jason just stood there, notebooks heavy in his arm, heart heavier.
Then he tore his eyes away and followed you into the night.
Jason’s ears still burned as he caught up, the click of your shoes echoing ahead of him. you pushed through the heavy double doors and out into the evening air. The night was cool, Gotham’s skyline jagged against a slate sky, the parking lot nearly deserted. Only a handful of cars remained, scattered beneath the orange wash of old streetlamps.
You dug in your bag for your keys, shifting the strap on your shoulder. “Thank you again for staying so late. Most of the day’s been… well. Assistants, or last-minute cancellations.” you offered a rueful smile. “Maybe two actual parents.”
Jason adjusted the notebooks in his arm and let out a short laugh. The words came out before he could stop them. Low, almost rough: “The others are missing out.”
Your smile wavered for just a second, something warmer flickering there, and Jason had to look away, swallowing hard.
They reached your car—a small sedan, backseat littered with tote bags and what looked like a stack of poster boards. You unlocked it, and Jason opened the trunk with one hand, loading the notebooks in like they weighed nothing.
When he shut it, you were already settled into the driver’s seat, keys moving towards the ignition Streetlight haloed your hair, caught in the little beads at your collar. Jason stepped closer without thinking, bracing one arm casually against the top of the doorframe as you rolled the window down. Too close. Way too close.
You gave him that same soft smile you’d had all evening, the one that made his chest feel unsteady. “Really. Thank you for coming. Damian’s lucky to have you.”
Jason shook his head, forcing a crooked grin. “Kid’s lucky to have you.”
That made you laugh, quiet but genuine, and Jason felt the sound settle low in his chest.
You were saying something, he could see your lips moving, could hear the rise and fall of your voice, but Jason wasn’t catching the words. He was too busy taking you in. The way your hair caught the orange wash of the streetlight. The faint smudge of ink still near your knuckle. The curve of your smile, soft and tired but aimed at him anyway.
His chest felt loose, unsteady, like he’d been sucker-punched without warning. He wasn’t listening. Didn’t need to. Being this close was enough.
And then your eyes widened, delight sparking there.
“Really? Thank you!” you said, hands tightening on the wheel. “That’s such a relief. I’ll send you the chaperone guide before the zoo trip next week.”
Jason blinked. “…The what?”
But you were already turning the key in the ignition, engine growling to life.
“See you soon, Mr. Todd!” you called, waving as the car pulled away.
Jason stood frozen, hand still pressed to the top ofyourdoorframe even after she’d driven off, taillights shrinking into the Gotham dark.
A beat passed before the words caught up with him, sinking in like a brick dropped in water.
Chaperone. Zoo. Next week.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, dragging both hands over his face.
He’d just signed up for a field trip.
And the worst part? He couldn’t even regret it. Not when your smile was still burned into his brain like an afterimage.
summary : superman doesn't just help citizens from being trampled by aliens. he also helps you, a disheveled mess on a park bench after you might have ruined your career, and he doesn't only gives you hope — but also advice regarding your co-worker clark, who you've been harbouring a crush on
warnings : not fully proofread, sorry! <3
You're screwed.
You're totally, royally, screwed.
Your career might truly be over at this point. You'll have to do the walk of shame into the Daily Planet, and have everyone stare at you while you're forced to pack up all the stuff on your desk.
All your research and draft papers that have created a monstrous pile next to your monitor, the picture frame which proudly displays a snapshot of you, Lois, Jimmy, and Clark.
Oh, Clark.
He's the one you'll miss the most. During the last year and a half you've worked at the famous newspaper of Metropolis, you had grown to care for your co-worker. And not in a platonic way. Another sob escapes your mouth as you think of never seeing Clark again.
The highlight of your mornings at the office are when he would stumble in, his glasses askew and balancing four white coffee cups out of thick cardboard, heading straight towards you with that soft and boyish smile to hand you yours first.
Clark wasn't naive per se, but he did have a sense of innocence to him. You would prefer to wrap him up in a tight hug and never let him go, his tender heart so soft that your chest sometimes hurts for him.
Once, during a lunch break, you weren't able to hold it in. You sat cross-legged on the sofa of the break room, with Clark turned fully towards you and resting his chin on his hand, listening to you animatedly recount the latest gossip you had overheard between strangers on the train.
"So then, apparently, Evelyn went behind Mary's back and talked shit about her to their new neighbours. You know why?" You gestured for Clark to answer, and took another bite of the tiramisu he'd brought to work.
Between the two of you, a small tradition had come to life. Each Thursday, one of you brought a dessert to work to share together and it switched weekly.
"Why?" He raises his eyebrows, listening intently. You think he'd listen patiently even if you were reading a step-by-step thousand page manual on how to assemble a car.
"Because, you'll never guess this. Evelyn was trying to sabotage Mary because she was hoping Mary would move out! Afterwards, she wanted her new boyfriend to move in, because their apartment was sooo nice with high-rise windows. And when Mary found out, she got their landlord to kick Evelyn out. I mean, who wouldn't? Poor Mary. " You shake your head dejectedly.
"What? That's so mean though. Why didn't she just explain the situation to Mary? That's so malicious!" Clark's eyebrows had furrowed, and he had scrunched his nose up.
He had looked so wounded, as if he had personally been wronged. Perhaps that is what moved you. You had set your tiramisu on the coffee table, and reached up and cradled Clark's face, putting on the most sympathetic expression you could.
"Sometimes people just do mean stuff, Clark. It's not everyone, but some are just too self-centered or in denial that their actions had bad intentions. Some like causing pain to others if it means they get control over the situation. It's the way the world is. It shouldn't be though."
His mood had been dampened the entire afternoon after that, and he'd only cheered up when you'd brought him a piece of cheesecake from the shared fridge.
You pushed the sticky note that had hung to the container out of your mind, which now lay in the trash, still with "Jimmy's cheesecake!" scribbled onto it.
Sorry Jimmy.
And today might have been your last day at your dream job.
You don't think you've ever seen Perry this mad. He had covered his face with his hands, even putting his cigar out. At least he had the decency to berate you in his office, and not in front of your peers. But you knew that everyone had gotten wind of your mistake. How could they not?
In a rush to post one of your articles on time, after you hadn't published one in more than a week, you had clicked on the wrong article. You hadn't checked to see if the work you'd posted was the correct one, pressured to get started on your next project.
You had instead published your secret research that had initially been turned down due to it's scandalous nature. You'd been forbidden to look further into it, and had been advised to stick to your reports about the latest victories of superheroes like Superman or the "Justice Gang", as the Green Lantern referred to themselves.
"Is the newest CEO of the prestigious Velvet Capital Bank clean or corrupt?"
The article had been deleted after about twenty minutes when an intern had notified Perry, but it was too late. There were around 11 million people in Metropolis. Inevitably, word had spread.
You're thankful that you hadn't written your name on the article, but that gratitude evaporated quickly when you realised the Daily Planet could get hit by a lawsuit from that stupid billionaire you'd dug into.
The editor-in-chief had simply told you this conversation would be continued tomorrow, and had sent you back to work.
Which is how you've ended up on a cold and hard park bench in Centennial Park, mascara running down your cheeks and smeared over your face from rubbing your eyes. Your workbag sits abandoned at your feet, and the rustle of leaves and the fresh wind are a reprieve, letting you breath clearly again.
You didn't want to go back to your apartment. If you opened the door to your dark and lonely apartment, you'd spiral even further. You'd resigned yourself to walking around until you got tired before you headed back home.
Your breath catches slightly on the way out, and all your crying has sapped out all the energy left in you. A couple walks past, swinging their intertwined hands together and giggling. There's a big red lipstick stain on the guy's cheek, and the girl's lipstick is smudged at the corners.
Clark wouldn't judge you. Even though you made that grave mistake. You really wish he were here right now, squeezing the life out of you with his hugs. His hugs always make you feel better, compressing you with his strong arms, bending down slightly to reach you.
A deep, warm voice startles you.
"Are you alright Miss?" You whip your head to your left, to see- no. No way. You're dreaming. You must be.
You can't believe your first encounter with Superman is when you are mentally six feet away from the edge. You clear your throat, and roughly wipe your cheeks with your fingers. How embarrassing, he probably has better things to do than console a weeping woman whose makeup bears a resemblance to a panda.
"I'm alright, Mister…Uh…Sir? Superman, Sir."
"Just Superman is alright. Mister and Sir makes me feel old. But you don't seem alright. I mean, you just look upset, not that you don't look beautiful. Sorry." He winces and sits down next to you.
You don't want to burden Superman with your life (which might actually be in ruins and you don't want to think about that too intensely). But…he might give you some good advice. You hope.
You glance at him, he seems like he's truly concerned. "I messed up at work. Big time. Like, I made a major mistake. I might actually get fired for this, because I maybe damaged the image of my company. And the image of a really wealthy guy who could buy my apartment and it wouldn't even make a tiny dent in his wallet. But he's corrupt. I'm sure of it. That's how I got into this situation."
You stare at him with a blank face, curious on how he's going to respond to your rant. You doubt Superman has made experiences like this.
"Are you sure you're getting fired? I mean, everyone does mistakes. The severity of mistakes by people vary wildly, but from what I hear, you didn't do anything wrong."
You narrow your eyes. "No?"
"No." He adjusts his position the best he can on this small bench.
"Corrupt guy? If anything, you warned the citizens of our city that the man is corrupt and therefore not reliable. I'd appreciate it if someone informed me of something like that."
A deep sigh from you, coming from the depths of your soul.
"My work doesn't appreciate it. I can get a job as a journalist some other place too. But- ugh. The place where I work now has grown on me. It's my second home. My best friends work with me there, and I have so many memories there. I love my job. Sure, it's mentally challenging and sometimes I say I want to quit after a long grueling day, but I don't actually mean it.
"I don't want to have to get used to another company and new people. I don't like big changes. And my coworker. I'm not going to tell you his name. But I haven't confessed my feelings to him yet. I'm pretty sure he reciprocates them, but I fear he's too nervous or shy to outright admit it.
"And if I lose my job, I worry we'll fall out of contact. I don't want to lose contact. I want to keep having weekly dessert lunches with him, and I want him to keep looking at my work over my shoulder, leaning on my desk with one arm and the other resting on the back of my chair.
"He brings me coffee each morning, you know? He goes out of his way every day to do that for me. I want to be able to call him mine, and to press kisses to his handsome face. And to hold his hand and be able to initiate affection whenever he's so cute I could scream."
Your eyes have drifted more and more away from Superman, and you're staring up at the sky. The full moon is out tonight, and she is shining brightly down on you. The moon is a bit lonely too, you think. You'd like to give her a hug too. But at least she's peaceful and serene.
You turn back to look at the Kryptonian superhuman at your side. He's looking at you and you think you can see his eyes watering. His lips part, and he hesitates for a moment.
Hm. That's weird. His eyes remind you of someone. They're the same shade of blue as Clark's eyes. Almost like the snowflakes you see in animated movies, icy blue. But not cold, no. Never cold. A snowy blue, but with warmth in his expression.
Even his eye shape is the same. You file that away for later.
Superman is nice company, and this could be your chance to interview him and save your career, now that you think about it.
But it seems rude to take advantage of the superhero who keeps everyone safe, especially when he's helping you right now.
"You should talk to him. About your feelings. Though I truly don't think you're going to get fired, you have to shoot your shot. Life isn't always as easy as we think. But it's nicer to navigate the hardships with someone at your side. Trust yourself." He softly claps his palms against his thighs, and goes to stand up. You follow him with your eyes.
"Here. If you are really at risk of getting laid off, text this number. I'll convince your boss to not do it, and to keep you on his team. You seem like a very ambitious worker. Not many are brave enough to call out people with the wrong morals." He hands you a small slip of a white card, with a number on it.
His business card.
Superman has business cards. You chuckle.
"Thank you…"
Superman is gone. You raise the card, as if to examine it.
It's just you and the moon now, in silent company to each other. You look up. The moon rises each night, even when her light is dimmed and not fully noticeable.
You can do that too.
The next morning you take a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open, giving you a full view of the loud and tumultuous office.
Clark, surprisingly, is already sat at his desk, and his expression softens the moment he sees you, his lips curving upwards. He beams at you, and beckons you over. You make your way over to his desk, trying not to crush the note in your hand.
"Good morning Clark. You're early for once."
"Good morning! A construction site outside my building woke me up early. Listen, I heard about what happened yesterday. But it all worked out." He gestures to Lois, who is hastily jotting down notes with a telephone pressed to her ear, and to the stack of photos littering Jimmy's desk as he fiddles with his camera.
Clark leans towards you, whispering in a conspiratorial manner. "The Daily Planet has been getting an influx of calls by whistle blowers who heard about what you wrote. This could be a major piece!"
A heavy weight drops from your chest, and you press your mouth to your hand. You weren't going to get fired.
Superman was right.
Hope fills your chest, and your confidence surges. You open your mouth before you chicken out, and your short sleeve button down is sticking to your skin, and you desperately hope you're not sweating through it out of nerves.
"That's amazing, thank you Clark. Do you want to go out to dinner with me?"
Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, repeats like a mantra in your head.
His face takes the color of a pinkish hue, and he painfully hits his knee on the underside of his desk as he hastily stands up.
"Ouch, I- yes! I'd love to." He swallows nervously. "Like, like a date?" His voice gets quieter towards the end of the sentence.
You nod, smiling up at him. You stand on the tips of your feet to lean up, and plant a kiss on his cheek. Some of your lipgloss sticks to his face, and his face turns even more red.
"Let's go after work." You slip the note onfo his desk and your heart pounds in your chest as you head to your desk quickly. You're officially going on a date with Clark Kent. Jimmy stares at you with his mouth agape, being ignored as you walk right past him.
He snaps his head between Clark and you, pointing with his finger, absolutely baffled.
Clark can hear the quick thumps of your heartbeat, accompanied by his own accelerated heart. He reaches his hand up to his cheek, where he can feel the stickiness of your makeup. His lips stretch upwards, so wide his face hurts.
He catches your eyes from where you sit at your desk, and a happiness so deep hits him that he might cry. He cannot wait to build a deeper relationship with you. He can't wait to hold you, and to love you with everything he has.
A white folded paper next to his keyboard catches his attention, and he looks around. You must have left it here. Slowly, he unfolds the note to see your handwriting, neat and elegant.
His breath stops as he reads the note.
Thank you for the advice, Superman. You were right, I long to have someone by my side in my life, and that someone is and always will be you.
The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:
Mr. Jay.
He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.
And somehow? He loved it.
Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.
He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."
And he hadn’t told a soul in his family
Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.
“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”
Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.
Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”
“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”
“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”
Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.
It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.
Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.
“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”
Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”
“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”
He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”
You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”
Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”
“Haikus?”
“Very serious educational practice.”
You smiled. Something clicked into place.
It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.
That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”
Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”
What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.
Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.
He just wanted this one thing for himself.
And somehow, it worked.
You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.
By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.
Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.
And it was home.
He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."
He didn’t correct her. Not once.
You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.
You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”
Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”
So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.
“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.
“Go save the world, I have this covered.”
You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.
“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”
Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”
Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”
What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.
Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.
It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.
The door creaked open.
Jason glanced up.
And froze.
Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.
“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.
“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.
Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”
Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”
She froze when she saw Bruce.
Bruce froze when he saw her.
There was a long, loaded silence.
Jason opened his mouth.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”
Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”
Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”
“COOL,” she whispered loudly.
“She looks like you,” Bruce said.
“WHAT?!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you WHAT?!”
“That you have a child.”
“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”
Bruce narrowed his eyes.
“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”
A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”
Jason died.
Bruce looked like he had transcended.
“She calls you—”
“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”
“She has your nose.”
Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”
Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”
Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”
Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.
“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”
“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”
Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”
Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.
Jason shrugged helplessly.
Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”
When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:
Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.
And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.
He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”
You blinked. “Is it real tea?”
“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”
“Ah.”
“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”
You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”
“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”
You blinked. “Okay. And?”
“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”
“... Did you correct him?”
Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”
Jason groaned into his hands.
You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”
Jason looked up.
You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”
Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You smiled. “Love you more”
Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”
You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”
summary. after your last meeting with jason, you find yourself thinking about him (more than normally that is), a memory lingering in the corners of your mind. until one night after your bar shift, your relationship undergoes a metamorphosis. (word count. 3.9K)
content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, med student!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???, confession of feelings
warnings. injuries/blood, stabby stabbing, making out?, reader gets mugged oof, jason, reader gets called sweets (not by jason lol)
author's note. it's finally here!!! yayayayayay!! thank everyone for the patience, i recently started a second j*b so i've been too tired to write, but once it get my schedule more stable i'll have much more time! thank you all who showed love on the first barkeep! i hope this is a worthy conclusion <3
It’s been a week since you’ve seen Jason.
Not that you’re counting or anything. But you have caught yourself checking your apartment door more than usual. Glancing up too quickly from your book when you hear footsteps pass in the hallway outside. Feeling your heart hitch, tight and quick, in your throat whenever someone knocks at the door.
Midterms had crept up on you way faster than you expected they would this semester. Soon enough, you were buried in flashcards and caffeine, ambushed by back-to-back exams and relentless study sessions. You're still recovering from the academic whiplash.
Due to some of your testing times being later in the day, you had to swap out a few shifts, taking the earlier ones so your coworker could cover your normal night shifts. You really hope Jason doesn’t think you’re avoiding him. And you also really hope he hasn’t come crashing into the bar, bleeding out hoping to find you and getting your terrified coworker instead. Hoping to find the hands that knew how to stitch him back together, waiting for the practiced way they moved.
Aside from studying until your brain aches and your fingers are numb, you spend an embarrassingly long time thinking about Jason. Last week’s overnight stay at your apartment solidified the depth of the feelings you harbored for him. Whenever you were in public, you would catch yourself looking for him. You’d wonder about what he thought of the books you’d lent him, how far he’s gotten, who his favorite characters are.
You find yourself in a deep spiral of wanting to know everything about him, wanting to know him. Every little detail, you want to know—what’s his favorite color, when’s his birthday, is he a light or deep sleeper, does he annotate his books, if he sleeps with socks on, how does he like his eggs cooked?
Jason has lodged himself into your brain, like a splinter, small, deep, and impossible to ignore. It’s like he’s your little secret, even though he isn't yours at all. You don’t know what you mean to him, if you mean anything at all. But you know what he’s starting to mean to you.
After collecting your paycheck—and counting the bills to ensure you actually were given the right amount this time—you began traversing the streets of Gotham. Your money is safely tucked deep in your bag and your windbreaker zipped up to your chin—a false sense of protection. The sounds of Gotham drift into your ears—honking cars and sirens filled the air with a low, steady hum.
The bus stop wasn’t far. Less than two blocks from the bar, just past the convenience store with the flickering sign that buzzes loudly as you pass. You had checked the schedule earlier; there was one last bus, just before midnight. You even left early, trying to give yourself extra time to get there.
The wind stings your cheeks and you clutch your coat tighter around your body as you briskly continue to walk. A chill creeps down your spine, your eyes flicking to look down every dark alley you pass. The streets are damp, slick with rain that hasn’t fallen but still lingers in the air. This night in particular makes you feel uneasy—something about it feels like the city is closing in on you, breathing down your neck. Lost in your paranoia, you just barely register the hiss of breaks and the low rumble of an engine as the last bus starts pulling away.
“Shit,” you mutter, breath puffing out visibly in the night air as the bus disappears down the block. The headlights turn the corner and vanish, leaving you alone with the hum of a flickering streetlamp and the distant groan of traffic. It does little to fill the empty space around you. For a moment, you just stand there, your shoulders sagging, alone on the deserted sidewalk with cold fingers.
Eventually, you sigh and begin the walk home, your footsteps echoing against the damp pavement. The streets have quieted, and the lack of noise brings you no comfort—no signs of life, just you and your heartbeat. You try to keep yourself in the center of the sidewalk, far away from the mouths of the alleys looking to swallow you whole. But the feeling of being watched doesn’t leave you, your stomach turning sickeningly inside you.
You’re just paranoid, you aren’t being watched, everything's fine, you repeat like a prayer internally. You turn down the road that cuts between a construction site and a row of closed businesses, their windows boarded up. This part of your walk is awful at night—the looming steel beams from above cast large shadows onto the stone brick of the abandoned stores as you pass.
At first, you think your head is playing tricks on you, because you swear you hear footsteps behind you. Swallowing thickly, you risk a glance over your shoulder and your heart drops. Not too far away, you spy two men in their thirties at earliest. One is smoking a cigarette, the red embers flare like an alarm bell in your head. His gaze flicks to yours when he sees you looking, and he grins.
You whip your head forward and pick up your pace, fast enough that your boots begin to slap wetly against the concrete. You dig into your pocket with trembling fingers until you find the small pocketknife attached to your keychain. The blade is barely two inches long, but your hand tightens around it anyway, sweat making the metal slick against your warm palm.
“Hey, sweets,” one of them calls, his voice echoing through the abandoned streets. “Late night, huh? Need help carryin’ that?”
You don’t answer and don’t dare look back, blood rushing through your ears. Walking so fast it’s nearly a jog, you round the corner to your street. As you turn, you can see they’ve gotten much closer, too close for comfort. Fear is clutching at your chest.
You could run to your apartment, lock the door—but then they know where you live. Screaming wasn’t an option, unfortunately it would probably be brushed off by anyone who heard. You want to call Jason, but you don’t have his number—if he even has a phone at all. Your fingers clutch the strap of your bag.
“No need to make this difficult,” the second guy says, this time way too close for comfort, “just give it here.”
You bolt, so quick you barely register your own movements, but you’re jerked back by the back of your coat. The hand yanks your collar hard and as you try to twist free, you stumble and your back is slammed hard against a brick wall.
“I don’t have anything!” you lie, your voice strained and too shaky. You hear one of them chuckle, the one who has you pinned against the wall smells like cigarettes and stale body odor.
“Don’t be difficult,” the man grunts, his sour breath washing over you as he tries to wrestle your bag from your grip. Panic flares in your chest, the position not allowing you to grab the knife tucked away in your pocket. You fling your elbow at him, shoving him off the best you can.
He grunts, holding his nose, about to knee you in the gut before the distinct sound of a gun firing stops him. You flinch violently as a spray of blood hits the pavement beside you, the mugger who had you pinned cries out. He crumples to the ground, holding his ankle as it spurts blood from the fresh bullet wound. A shadowed figure drops down from the scaffolding above, landing on the concrete with a crack.
Relief floods through you as the sight of Red Hood’s signature helmet and a familiar red bat symbol fills your vision.
The mugger farthest from you doesn’t even have time to react. In two swift movements, Jason kicks his legs out from under him and slams him into the nearest wall, his forearm crushing the man’s jugular. The man lunges—knife out, fast—but Jason catches his arm. He efficiently twisted it back with a sickening crack, then drove the butt of his gun into the man’s mouth with enough force to send teeth clattering onto the wet concrete.
You watch frozen, chest heaving. The man who tried to pin you is groaning beside your feet, rolling slightly, but your attention is locked on Jason. He turns to glance at you, you can’t see his eyes through the helmet, but you know he’s scanning you for injuries. There’s a beat, but then the man in his grip surges back upward, jabbing the blade in his hand towards Jason’s side.
Something like strangled gasp leaves you involuntarily as the blade catches his side. Jason jerks back, pressing his hand to his side for a second before firing his gun again. The shot is sharp, the bullet striking directly in the middle of the man's kneecap.
The alley falls into a strange silence, broken only by the sputtering groans of the two attackers. You stand there, breathing hard with your heart in your throat. Jason nudges the man at his feet with the toe of his boot, assessing if he’s lucid. Seemingly satisfied, he finally turns towards you. The crimson red of his helmet gleams under the flickering streetlight above.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low and rough, distorted slightly by the modulator.
You nod, still too stunned to speak. Your eyes flick down—he’s gripping his side, fingers pressed to a spot near his ribs. Blood leaks between them, staining the leather of his gloves.
“You’re hurt,” you breathe, stepping toward him, your hands shaking.
“It’s nothin’,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“You’re bleeding.”
He turns his head slightly and shifts his weight, avoiding your gaze. The soft rain slides down the sleek metal of his helmet, soaking into the leather of his jacket.
“I said it’s nothin’.”
“I’m sorry,” you murmur—guilt catching in your throat—and the clouds start to cry, the patter of rain on your jacket filling the empty air, “I missed the bus.”
“I can see that,” Jason breathes out, his free hand reaching out and gripping the hem of your jacket. “And don’t apologize.”
He tugs at the crinkly fabric gently, starting to walk in the direction of your apartment. You want to protest him moving, worried his wound will get worse, but you keep your mouth shut and follow him without question. Just like any other night Jason walks you home, he stays close, but this time your shoulders only bump because he’s swaying on his feet from blood loss. His pace is steady from beside you, but you notice the hitch in his breath every few steps, the subtle way he holds his side.
“How did you find me?” you suddenly ask after a stretch of silence, turning your head toward him. His fingers tighten a little at your windbreaker.
“Was gonna give your books back,” Jason mutters, his voice rough. “Ya’ haven’t been at the bar. Figured I’d drop them off, but you weren’t home.”
“Sorry. I—I had midterms. Had to change my shifts,” you reply softly, searching for the words that invaded your brain. “Jason, if you hadn’t-”
“Don’t,” he says, almost too soft for this voice modulator to pick up, “I wouldn’t have let them touch you.”
You snap your jaw shut, the finality in his words silencing you as soon as they hit the cool Gotham air. The walk to your apartment is quick, only a block or two from where the muggers grabbed you. Both of you clamber up the steps to your apartment and Jason leans heavily on your doorframe. The key trembles a little in your grip as you unlock your apartment door.
“Sit. Please,” you murmur gently, urging him towards the couch as he hesitates in the doorway. The door shuts behind him with a soft click and instead, he sinks down against the living room wall. You toss your keys into the dish by the door and hurry to the kitchen. The first aid kit—left out from when you sliced your finger making dinner yesterday—is still open on the dining table. You snatch it up and turn on your heel.
By the time you return, Jason has peeled his leather jacket off—tossed in a heap beside his helmet. His undershirt clings to him, soaked with dark blood, his hand still pressed on the wound on his side.
“‘M gettin’ blood on your rug,” Jason mumbles, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Kneeling, you start sifting through your first aid kit, you stare at him as you shake your head.
“I wanted a new one anyway,” you reply noncommittally, leaning forward and slipping your hands under his shirt to pull it up, peeking at the wound. The injury doesn’t look as deep as you feared, but still deep enough to need stitches. Older, dried trails of blood crust around the edge of the torn skin at his ribs and run down his side.
Sucking in a breath, you quietly speak, “shirt off, Jay.” Your voice as you speak isn’t as steady as you would like it to be. You nudge his arms up over his head and carefully peel the bloodstained fabric from his body.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen him fully shirtless, but a prickle of heat still curls down your spine regardless. It’s not just because you get a good look at the soft dips of his toned abs either. The idea that he trusts you enough to let you see does too. It also doesn’t help that you’re so close, on your knees between his legs as your fingertips brush his skin. Quickly, you pull your eyes away, afraid he’ll think you’re staring at the scar that runs up his stomach and deviates near his sternum.
Instead, you busy yourself with dipping a cloth into just a bit of water and spare a glance up at him. Jason’s eyes rage like a storm over the ocean as you meet his gaze, realizing he’s already looking down at you. You swallow thickly and your eyes dart away from his.
“This is gonna sting.”
“As always,” he mumbles, the muscles on his stomach tense in anticipation. You press the cloth gently to the cut and above you, Jason lets out a huff of air through his nose. He doesn’t flinch or make any more noise, but you can feel the way his muscles twitch under your hand. Taking your time, you carefully clean and disinfect the area. Your knuckles occasionally graze the curve of his ribs as you clear away layers of blood. It feels oddly intimate, more than normal. Neither of you are speaking, but you can feel Jason’s intense stare boring into the top of your skull as you work.
“I was thinking about you,” you say softly, not quite looking at him as you reach to grab your suture supplies. “All week. I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you.”
He exhales through his nose, something quiet and ragged. “Didn’t think that.” You hum in acknowledgement, pressing the suture needle to the edge of his wound.
“I’ll be quick,” you murmur, piercing into his skin. You try to move quickly and efficiently, ignoring the way it’s obviously hurting him—trying to not focus on the way his hands clench tightly and his jaw clenches. You sit on the floor in front of him, quiet for a long moment as you finish closing the wound. You could say thank you. You could say I was scared. Because you were, it wasn’t even the muggers. It was that he got distracted, by you none the less, and he got hurt because of it.
Quickly, you finish wrapping his side, hands slow, reluctant to be done. Selfishly, you want to keep touching him. Want to press your palm flat to his chest and feel the beat of his heart.
But instead, you murmur, “All done,” and reach to close the kit, your hands trembling slightly. He’s watching you—not even bothering to hide it—and you can feel the weight of his stare. Your throat feels tight and the silence crackles like static between you two.
Without your permission, your eyes flit up to his face. Your hand twitches, resisting the urge to brush his damp, dark curls from his forehead. But you don’t, you stay kneeling between his legs, heart a mess in your chest, fingertips still tingling from where they touched him.
“You should lie down,” you say quietly, trying to shake yourself from the trance his gaze put you in. “You can take my bed this time. I’ll take the couch.”
“I—” he pauses, jaw working like he’s trying to bite something back. His eyes dart away from your face like it burns him to meet your eyes. . “Should head out. Actually.”
You lean back slightly, onto your heels, drawing your hands into your lap. “What? Why?” Your voice shakes despite yourself, your brows pinch. Jason doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, shoulders hunched forward like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are still stained with dried blood, twitching faintly where they rest atop his thighs.
“I just—I shouldn’t,” he mutters, voice faltering. Though he makes no effort to get up, like he’s frozen in place. The moment stretches, your heart pounding against your rib cage.
“Don’t do that,” you whisper, “don’t pull away like that.”
Jason hangs his head, his gaze locked on his lap. You can tell he’s staring at the pale, jagged trail that cuts down his torso like a brand of his past. He looks like he wants to disappear inside himself, as if letting you see him this close was a mistake he can’t undo.
“Please. Talk to me,” you plead quietly. Your fingers almost reach out to grab his hand, hovering just above it. Jason exhales, slowly, ragged, like it hurts him to breathe.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” Jason says, voice raw. You stay silent, stiff as you process his words.
“I’ve thought about tellin’ you,” Jason murmurs, barely audible. “But every time, I stop myself. Because you deserve someone safe. Someone whole. Not…” He trails off with a harsh breath, his hands clenching against his thighs. Jason’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. “Not me.”
“It’s bad enough you know as much as you do,” Jason mutters, “if somethin’ ever happened to you because of me—”
He cuts himself off and your breath catches. Jason finally lifts his eyes to look at you. They’re slightly glassy, glinting with fear. Your face pinches together at the sight, because he looks so young. He doesn’t look like the man you know at this moment—he doesn’t look tall and burly, he doesn’t look battered by life. Jason looks like a boy—a boy who’s lost, a boy who’s scared.
“You’re not just someone to me,” he goes on, voice hoarse and fraying, ”I thought I could ignore it. Tried to act like I didn’t—like this didn’t mean anything. But it does. And it scares the hell out of me. Because I’m not safe. And I need you to be.”
Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears.
“I keep tellin’ myself to stay away,” Jason continues, like he can’t control the words he’s kept bottled in his throat for months. The dam that’s been holding back his feelings has broken, and there's no way to stop him from spilling them out. “To not drag you into my mess. I keep findin’ excuses to see you. And when I can’t, it’s like—like I can’t breathe right.”
Your eyes sting and you blink hard. Jason finally looks at you, his eyes stormy, pupils large and dark as they practically swallow his irises with how big they are. You’re leaning forward before you know it, gently resting your hand on his—lose so he can pull away if he wants. His fingers twitch beneath your touch before his larger pointer finger links with yours.
Jason’s nose brushes yours and his hair tickles your forehead. His other hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you like he’s afraid to break you. His lips barely ghost over your cheek, your temple, your jaw—like he’s memorizing every inch of you. Each touch is careful, like he’s savoring the feel of your skin against his.
“You just sounded like you were out of a Jane Austen book,” you breathe out, your eyes feel heavy and hazy.
“That a compliment?” Jason murmurs, his hand slides up to cup your jaw—callused skin brushes against the corner of your lip and you shiver.
“Maybe,” you respond, your foreheads pressing together and the air is hot, heat emanating from your skin. “Yes…”
Jason huffs, like a poorly contained laugh, before his eyes are focused on you again. Your breaths mingle in the space between you, shallow and warm. You can feel how hard he’s shaking, like he’s holding himself back from
“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes along the curve of your neck, trembling.
“I don’t care,” you say softly with a shake of your head, your hands sliding up to cup the nape of his neck.
Within the second the words leave your lips, his own find yours. The kiss is slow but full of months of want, Jason’s hands sliding back into your hair as he pulls you closer to him. You gasp against his lips as your knees shift forward, half in his lap and half hovering over him. Jason tentatively moves his lips against yours, prying them open to combine the heat of your mouths. His lips are warm, kissing you like it could be the last time he could get the chance. He tastes like copper and rain, like desperation.
Your hands are lost in his dark head of hair, cradling his head in place as you swipe your tongue along his lower lip. Jason makes a quiet, almost involuntary sound in the back of his throat as he brushes his tongue against yours. Panting slightly, you pull away and open your eyes slowly—lashes brushing his heated skin. It’s just enough to see the flush on his face and the glisten of saliva on his reddened lips. His breathing is ragged, eyes heavy lidded and searching. Your noses brush and you nudge his against yours gently.
“We should do that more often,” you say lightly, “payment for patching you up so many times.”
Jason laughs shakily, breath hitching on the exhale. “Deal.”
The corners of your eyes crinkle and your nose scrunches, the ache in your chest lessens and you huff a laugh. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You cradle his large frame against you, pressing your lips to his temple.
“Can you read to me before bed, too? As part of my payment. Obviously.”
Jason tilts his head, gently pressing his lips to the column of your throat, his hands resting on the small of your back. His voice is low, rumbling against your throat, his words pressed into the very fabric of your being.
