☆▪︎the library▪︎☆

run by an adult :)

[rowans-library]

Welcome to the library!!

I really like fanfics, and I needed a place to save them for later, so here we are. Also, I'm an adult, and I like adult content, so expect that on here as well.

Tag system

#media:___ -> what series, show, game, etc its from

#character:___ -> who its about

#type:___ -> fluff, smut, angst, etc

[gracerecs]

jason todd fic recs

✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 18+ below the cut

@njghtiee

✧.* do you wanna make out? jason is busy minding his own businesses, you're not even sure what he's doing, but whatever that is, it's taking a lot of time and you're bored. so you decide to simply ask him "wanna make out?" and you can bet your ass he wants to. ⚠︎ you die laughing joker kidnaps you, jason's girlfriend, and take his revenge on jason and the bats. he wants to see jason suffer and after all he's gone through, his only weak spot now is you. ✧.* you're freezing jason running hot with a partner who runs cold, both of you seeking each other out before you even started dating. needing each other more than the other realizes. can't go more than a day without each others touch

@oncasette

⚠︎ Meet You There the one where you call jason during a panic attack.

@cipheress-to-k-pop

✧.* daddy j.t. Despite the title i swear this is an innocent fic

@bloomcissa

✧.* Meet...crash? In which you hit a vigilante with your car

@er-osion

⚠︎ Fights Like These Reader and Jason get into a fight which causes Jason to storm out, in the separation, both you and Jason begin to fear the worst

@frogsnknightlilies

✧.* making an ass of u & me Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family—really! At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything, his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just—honest to god—forgot to mention it?

@kthologue

✧.* the bet ✪ it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)

@iydiamartinx

✧.* RIDDLE ME THIS, HOODS GOT A GIRL? ✪ The Bats need information, Jason has an informant...who might also be more.

@fluentmoviequoter

⚠︎ That's All It Took? ✪ Gotham's newest it girl makes the mistake of going after something that's yours: Jason Todd. It takes two failed plans to learn what it takes to deal with her and your jealousy.

@amoebadue

✧.* Wear whatever you want, I can fight “You’re uh,” you clear your throat, “You’re okay with me wearing this?”

@cosmicfireheart

˚꩜｡ Do you love me? ✪ you just discovered you got pregnant from your ‘casual’ sort of boyfriend. Jason just knows you’re hiding something from him, can’t blame the poor guy for thinking the worst.

@annaevermore

✧.* I'm so lovesick After complaining about the lack of founding, Gotham's library gets a donation.

@ifyouweremine

✧.* I Prefer You Your wedding is coming up. Dick goes to great lengths for Jason’s bachelor party, but he… simply doesn’t want to stay.

@amoreselli

🔞 PROVE IT when a rant about her disappointing date turned into a challenge, jason realized just how thin the line between best friends and something far messier really was. she asked him to prove it—and jason never did anything halfway.

@rskdoll

🔞 blow her mind Jason wants to push his girlfriend to achieve a specific thing he’s seen in porn videos.

@sweetpogue

🔞 STILL OBSESSED Motherhood looked good on you.

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[bucksplum]

❝ 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐮𝐩 ❞

corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you find out just how much Clark keeps inside...

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: mild angst; 18+ mdni; smut—and I mean smut!; p in v sex; unprotected sex (pls use protection irl!); vv wet blowjob; dry/wet humping; Clark's massive CAWK; needy!reader is a freak for her man (who wouldn't be?); Clark is just as needy; lots of making out; even more cum; they both love creampies; little bit of cockwarming ; lemme know if I missed any!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.1k 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: after much contemplation, ive decided that ive missed clark and that I want you guys to witness this filth...enjoy reading and tell me what you think!

The suspicion was easy.

He made it so easy for you, you wondered if he was doing it on purpose, maybe he was soft-launching it—giving you clues.

But you knew he wasn't doing it on purpose when he would exclaim an extremely delayed—albeit adorable—'ouch!' when taking a baking sheet from the oven with his bare hand. Pretending to run it under cold water even though the faucet lever was in the wrong direction.

And you, you made it even easier by pretending you didn't notice.

Because you knew that if he admitted it, you'd do nothing but spiral.

It had always been a problem with you—spiraling to the point of not communicating.

You'd be so caught up in your head that even your questions would remain inside your brain and you'd continue life confused and uncertain simply because the moment your brain talks and talks, your mouth decides to stitch itself shut.

It's what came naturally to you. Previous partners had complained, even with preamble, quickly growing tired of your habit and ending things.

None had the patience like Clark.

Though Clark, your sweet Clark, had thought the same as them.

Your motorcycle vibrated beneath you, the engine revving up alongside your excitement, and unbeknownst to you, Clark could already hear your approach.

Blue eyes stayed in focus precision on the chopping board but his ears had tuned everything out except you.

The air shrills, however, echoing across your small abode and forcing his feet toward the direction of his phone on the counter. 'Lois L.' flashing across the screen before slid to answer, footsteps fading back to his earlier spot.

"Hey, Lois." He beamed.

"Where are you right now?" The woman ignored him, getting straight to the point. "Are you going with the plan—"

"I'm preparing her dinner, then," Clark paused, worry building in his gut, as it always does when revealing this massive secret. "Maybe, I'll tell 'er."

"Maybe?"

"Yes, Lois. Maybe." He heard her sigh—heavily, as though she was reprimanding a child. "This is a massive secret Lois," It was his turn to release a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his mind jumps between trusting you—trusting that you'd understand why he kept this to himself for so long—and the extreme possible chance that you'd run. "I don't think I can say it yet."

"It's almost been a year, Clark."

Silence.

"She deserves to know."

"Lois—" He turned around, only to face you in the doorway of your kitchen.

You stood there, motorcycle helmet under your arm, with a furrowed brow and increasing worry the moment he ended the call in haste.

"Honey, you're—"

"What was she talking about?" The question came out shakier than you'd prefer, knuckles turning white as your whispers started slowly invading corners of your mind.

What was this secret? How life altering could it be that he's hesitating on telling you? How did he even manage to keep it for so long?

What did Lois know about it?

"Answer me, Clark." You hear him gulp audibly as he stepped towards you, cautious yet hopeful that you'll let him explain.

"Honey…C-can we sit on the couch for this?"

Clark released a breath when you let him hold your hand, guiding you quietly to your couch. "I want to clarify that this has nothing to do between me and Lois. I swear."

"I don't doubt that."

Of course you don't doubt that. Clark couldn't harm a fly, how could you think that he'd cheat on you?

"I-uh…" He sniffed, eyes already watering. He couldn't help but think that this was it—this was where he loses you. "I'm not from…here—here as in this planet, um."

A beat passes.

"You're Superman." You breathed.

So quietly, Clark almost missed it. Almost.

"Wai—what?"

You replied with a soft chuckle, fondness coating your gaze.

"Yes—yes! Uh, yeah. I, um," Clark cleared his throat, hand shakily hovering above his glasses' leg before ripping the thing off his face.

Letting you see him.

Clark held his breath, and for a moment, when the warmth in your gaze didn't falter, and when you stepped up to him, cupping his cheek, eyes never straying from his own, he thought he was in the clear.

But you cleared your throat, face falling as you looked away, doubt melting your face.

Then, you confirmed what he feared.

"I think I need space, Clark…" You continued speaking but Clark heard none of it, all his mind could grasp was that one word: space.

You wanted—no—needed space.

Away from him.

Away from Clark.

You sweet Clark. Your sweet Clark who walked the outer side of the sidewalk, Your sweet Clark who always seemed attuned to you and only you in the room, Your sweet Clark who managed to figure out when you've had enough of crowds.

Your Clark.

"—Clark?"

"Hmm? Yeah! I'll, uh, give you space. You take all of the time that you need, my phone'll be ready—or not—you know, you're not obligated to call or—" Clark wouldn't meet your eyes, hurriedly snatching his glasses from the table, useless now, and putting on his coat but not before passing by the kitchen and turning off the stove all the while you followed his hasty footfalls.

"Clark!"

BANG!

The sound of the door slamming was sharp, shaking every surface of your apartment.

You stood there with hanging limbs, mouth agape in disbelief at both the secret and the volume.

It took you five days. Five agonizing days, two hours and thirty-four minutes for you to pick up the phone and ask Clark to come back over, but who was counting?

His steps caused a creeeeek on the hardwood floors of your apartment's hallways, wringing his hands and wiping them against his slacks, having ran here in the middle of his shift.

Clark took out his copy of your key but paused before the doorknob, tucking it back in his pocket before knocking instead, heart clenching at the muscle memory he might have to forget.

To his surprise, you immediately swung the door open, tackling him into a hug.

Massive hands splayed across your back, face nuzzling itself in the crook of your neck. The door was cold against your back when he pushed you back in your apartment, never parting from your touch.

"'m sorry." Clark felt your mumble vibrate against his shoulder, heat rising from his neck at your closeness before pulling away from yours.

"Why? I should be—"

"It took me almost a week to talk to you, Clark." His hands tighten their hold on your waist, "It wasn't fair to you."

"I was the one who kept secrets," he watches your mouth part in rebuttal, "And before you try to defend me, yes, it was reasonable, but I still kept it to myself. I should've trusted you more."

Having missed the feeling of him against you, your hands ran through his curly hair while he spoke, nuzzling your nose against his cheek, "I'm still sorry," you pressed a soft peck against the skin, "I just, had a lot in mind so it took me a while to pick up the phone properly."

He replied with a hum against your forehead, lips traveling to your temple, "What were you thinkin' about?"

You ignored the soft whine that left his throat when you pulled away slightly, fingers playing with the hair on his nape. "Just the mental toll it would've caused you to save people and have a life of your own, keeping it a secret your whole life. And… some other stuff."

Clark flushed red. Instead of thinking about the massive difference between both of your lives that he thought would part you, you were mulling over how he was feeling instead.

A thought made him pause. "What other stuff?"

His eyes squinted behind his glass when you remained silent, ears picking up the small jump your heart rate took, and when he looked down at you with scepticism, he was faced with the sight of your thighs clenching. Subtle, but it was there.

Clark smirked, the indents in his cheeks appearing deeper. The tilt in his head was immediate, aware of your tendency to avoid his gaze, and he immediately pushed your chin up with his thumb, palm still cradling your cheek.

"What stuff, honey?"

"Nothing important." You breathed, those inappropriate thoughts creeping back into your mind now that he was practically molding himself into you.

You were well aware of how massive your boyfriend was, who wouldn't when he made everything in your home look smaller that it is, but after he revealed his secret the difference in your biology became even more prominent.

Everything about him now has escalated and your mind couldn't help but question just how much and, well, where it escalated.

Now, now he was looking at you like he knew exactly where your mind was at. Proving it by effortlessly carrying you by your thighs, planting his growing erection right against your clothed cunt.

You let out a whimper at the contact, hands clenched amidst his curly strands.

"Nothin' important still?"

"Mm-mm."

"Alright." He pulled away abruptly, causing you to let out such a pathetic whine, you immediately slapped a hand over it. Embarrassment flooded your veins while he chuckled, approaching you again and prying your hand from your face.

Clark tilted his head, looking frustratingly innocent juxtaposing his next words. "You wanna tell me now?" He nuzzled his nose against your temple, glasses hitting your cheek, but he didn't even let you speak before pressing a bruising kiss on your lips.

The contact made you gasp, legs spreading instinctively, and he took it as a sign to immediately cup your pussy. He hummed when you whined against his lips, entirely too smug at his effect on you. "Tell me, honey. Don't go shy on me now."

"Clark…" You warned, though the shakiness in your voice gave away your neediness. "I was-um—just—thinkin' 'bout your—hng!" Your attempt at grinding against his hand was futile, it moved slightly away every time, making sure there was no friction.

"My what?"

"Your cock, Clark! How you—shit—I've always known sex with you was so different and now I know—CLARK!" The man's large palms suddenly grip the backs of your thighs, hauling you effortlessly, reminding you of his strength, before he dropped you onto your sofa.

Your lamp bathed him in a soft orange glow, contrasting the intoxicating look he was giving you through hooded eyes. The blues if his eyes nothing but a thin ring behind his dilated pupils.

The entire living room was silent save for the mix of heavy breathing that slipped past both your lips, and the clink of his belt that had a whimper escaping your throat in anticipation.

Clark made a show of slowly unbuttoning his white dress shirt, a proud smirk dimpling his cheeks. He had always known the effect he had one you—you never shied away from admitting how much you wanted to jump him in the most inconvenient of times; from a balcony at a press gala to his childhood room the first time you visited the Kent's—but now it was different.

A good different.

It was like you were getting to know his body once again.

You would've felt embarrassed at the speed of which you climbed his lap when he finally sat down next to you, clad in only his boxers that strained against his still growing erection. But all you can think about now is the overwhelming strength that coursed through his veins and how he'd been holding it back to prioritize you.

You claim his mouth with your own, not even waiting until he'd given you proper entrance to shove your tongue against his. His warm muscle barely fights yours when you pushed through and flicked the roof of his mouth, swallowing his moans at your obvious lust.

Clark chuckled lightly when you pull away to remove the shirt of his that had now become your pajamas only to surge forward once more when the fabric wasn't even all the way off, trembling fingers pushing off his glasses and throwing it carelessly somewhere as though it offended you.

His nose nudges your cheek when he nudges you away slightly, your breathy 'mngh' making him groan.

With ease that had arousal drenching your underwear, he stood up with your legs still wrapped around his waist, lips dragging kisses down his throat, one hand dragging his boxers down just enough for his erection to spring out and the other splayed across your back.

When he dropped back down the couch, you wasted no time spitting on your hand and wrapping a tight fist around his cock.

His immediate groan rings in your ears and you realize just how much you missed it. How much you missed him.

Those seven whole days were torturous ones. You were left in your empty apartment, mulling over how he was able to keep this a secret his whole life before those sympathetic thoughts melted into lewd ones.

Now, now you had him back. And it seemed like he was more than willing to show you just what he'd kept from you. The most important one being just how long he could keep coming.

Clark was nothing if not an attentive lover, always seeking your pleasure first, and while you appreciated it during the first few months, it started worrying you when he would refuse your offers to make him cum.

You wondered if it was a mental block because it clearly wasn't a physical one—his boners could practically rip the seems of his pants whenever you were coming aport on his finger or mouth.

Your tugging on his cock slows, leaving him thrusting up, trying to find friction. You push at his stomach but your own flips when he didn't back down, easily overpowering you and finding the tiniest bit of friction in your palm. "Fuck, that was—"

A beat passes and he "gives up" in his pursuit of your hand, slumping in defeat against your couch cushions and running his massive palms up and down your sides. You could only look at him with a parted lips before you knelt down in front of him.

"Honey…" Clark breathed, cock twitching at the sight of your hungry eyes.

He felt your warm muscle against the underside of his cock, slowly, reverently, as if you were memorizing every ridge and the prominent vein that ran up his shaft. Your pretty eyes were shut, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as the muscle narrowed approaching his tip.

The tip of your tongue teases his glans, your fingers dragging the flesh down, exposing his tip even more, before you teased his leaking slit with quick relentless kitten licks.

The groan that escaped his chest was guttural, heavenly, you thought, the sound going straight to your core. Clark's fingers tentatively runs through your hair, before he cups your chin in his hand, looking at you with eyes that incentivized you to shove his entire girth down your throat.

And when you did, you would've thought somebody punched Clark right in the gut with the way his entire body curled, balls tight against your chin. His hands curled into your corduroy couch, and your brows raised at the instant tear.

You couldn't even be mad. Not when you looked up to see Clark trying to breath through his building orgasm, head thrown back, his hips completely uncontrollable. The muscles jerk and twitch, inadvertently pushing himself further into your gaping mouth.

You choke slightly at the intrusion before you relaxed your muscles, breathing through your nose and pulling off of his hot flesh. Your cheeks hollow out as you go, tongue swirling around him before lapping at his tip frantically—the liquid that now drips from the corners of your mouth a mix of saliva and his incessantly leaking spend.

"That's it—" He breathed, looking down at you again while you twisted your wrist at his base, pulling his foreskin further. The tip was an angry red now—repeatedly buried beautifully inside your warm mouth. "Oh fuuu—gosh, honey!" Your lips puckered, sucking his head with the tip of your tongue still flicking his slit before you pressed him right against your puckered lips.

You swipe his cock head across your lips, its flushed color akin to a lipstick shade you wore. The sight made him whimper, hips jerking before you took him in, all in one go.

"Lookit you." He murmured, hand still placed firmly underneath your chin, gathering slick as well as guiding your movements. Clark's eyes widens in admiration when he felt your flesh expand, letting him know just how full your mouth is of him.

And boy did you fill full.

He was heavy when it was just his tip you were sucking, but now? Now that you were taking him in slowly, you could appreciate the drag of his cock against every surface of your warm channel, leaving you whimpering when you realized just how heavy he was.

One of your hands pry away from digging into his thighs to cup his balls and fuck.

He was even heavier.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his tip goes past your uvula and you feel his balls tighten when your throat gags around him—the movement squeezing his cock head and drenching his cock with even more of your warm saliva.

The heavy ringing in your ear wanes when you hear him mumbling. "How, gosh—good g—oh you're doin' so fuckin' good."

With the right flick of your wrist and the thumbing on his taint, his hot flesh throbs inside your mouth, twitching as his balls tighten in your grip.

And now you understood why he kept refusing your advances to make him come.

You felt it before you tasted it; hitting the back of your throat. It spurted out of his slit in hot insistent ropes, making him pull you off slightly. But you, you only stared at him through your lashes, keeping your mouth clamped around him—determined to swallow all of him.

Only his spend didn't stop after a few seconds. Your throat worked in gulping down his warm and viscid load but could only swallow so much when he kept filling your mouth.

Clark's seed spurts after each and every throb of his cock, trickling through the corners of your lips and causing your eyes to water.

His groans were violent—vibrating through his chest and echoing across your apartment. His adam's apple bobs, curses and whimpers swallowed before they could reach your ears and you moan at the sight of him undone.

The palm that's been cradling your chin finally pulls you off and on top of him.

With your mouth still full of his spend, he wastes no time slotting his lips against yours. Clark hummed when he tasted himself on your taste-buds, smiling against your spit and cum stained lips when you whimpered.

His tongue tickled the roof of your mouth, entirely enjoying the way you tasted together. The feeling of your dripping chin against his didn't even bother him, it only exhilarated his pleasure—the true essence of him is all over your mouth and dripping down your chin, slwoly making its way between the valley of your breasts.

It seemed he wasn't the only one to feel the rush down his spine as he swallowed your every moan, soft hands carrying setting you on his lap.

Your breathy 'mngh's were going straight to his still sputtering cock, making it twitch against his belly.

It wasn't the only thing dripping against him. Clark was always hyper aware of your body and now, now your dripping pussy was flush against his throbbing cock. His wide hands spread your ass cheeks, exposing both your holes to the cool air, and guiding your hips to a soft grind.

"Clark." You whined, hiding your face in the crook of his neck when he chuckled, smug at his effect on you. "I need you inside me. Please."

Your whisper against his flushed skin sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn't any better than you. Neither he couldn't wait to finally feel you around him—to stuff you full of him.

Moans tore itself out of your lungs when he notched his hot tip against your twitching hole, its slit leaking pre inside you. You pressed your thighs flush against his, your pussy stretching, muscles contracting to accommodate his size.

"Kal..." The name had Clark short circuiting, nails biting into your skin as he thrusts into you.

You hadn't meant for it to leave your lips—hell, you only found out a couple days ago—but by his reaction, you wished you knew if for longer. It felt like the name had a grip on him, like hearing it coming from your mouth and accepting the difference with pleasure was enough for his mind to melt.

The moan that left his lips bordered on a whimper. His hands, needy and shameless, start directing your hips up and down, fingers digging into your soft flesh. His hips follow your movements not a moment after, pushing up into you every time yours descends.

"Say it again, honey—mnnggh—say my name again." Clark whined against your temple. "Please…"

"K—ah-!" You try your best to do so, but fail considering how his cock was spearing itself into you—feeling like its reaching your lungs with every thrust.

"Please, honey, please."

You could only whimper in response, shakily leaning away from him with a hand steadying yourself on his shoulder. You groan at the pressure in your belly the new angle brings, head feeling fuzzier when he let out a cry at the loss of contact.

It was as if your hand had a mind of its own, dragging your fingers through his thick spend dripping between the valley of your breasts to circle your hardened nipples, chest hot to the touch.

You keen when Clark snatched your hand away from your breast, only for him to surge forward, lather his tongue across your and his mixed juices and take your nipple into his mouth, pistoning never yielding beneath you.

He hummed against your chest, sending vibrations through your nerve endings, the tip of his tongue lapping at the hardened peaks.

Though suddenly he pulled away and a jolt of electricity ran down your spine when he blew extremely cold air on the already sensitive nipple, causing his name to rip out of your chest.

"Fuck, Kal—!"

Clark let out an unbridled whimper at the name, one hand pulling you in by your waist as the other spayed across your back, keeping his mouth firmly wrapped around your nipple as he tucked you against his chest.

At this point, he wasn't helping you bounce on his cock anymore—he was borderline using you. You were nothing but a mess of limbs against his chest, fingers sharply tugging at his curls, and letting out ah's every time his tip repeatedly hits that spongy spot in your pussy.

Your warm cunt was was so clenched so tight, you could feel ever twitch and throb of his cock—his cock barely leaving you before he shoves it right back in.

The coarse hairs on the base of his cock was rubbing right against your clit with every grind, and the combination of that; his continuous suckling of your breast, and the repeated pounding of your sweet spot had stars shining behind your eyes—the tight rope snapping in your belly.

And he was right there behind you. His hips stutter against yours before he firmly planted your hips against his, leaking slit right against the crux of your cervix.

Ropes upon hot ropes of spend squirt out of his cock, flooding your entire cunt with its warmth until you were full. But even as he slowly retreated, rubbing your hip softly as he does so, his cock continues to spill inside you—still throbbing, still twitching.

Not that you were any better; the grip you had on his girth was unyielding.

So you both stayed there. With his load mixed with yours spilling through your puffy folds. You look at Clark from your spot in the crook of his neck, his lips part slowly from your nipple, a string of saliva connecting him to your flesh.

He laps at the sensitive skin teasingly, chuckling breathlessly when you whined and twitched in his hold. His lips leave a fleeting kiss on your forehead before looked at your wrecked form.

"What?" You ask, breath hitching when he readjusts your positions on the couch, head lying against the armrest, pussy clenching with a sick squelch when he shifted inside you.

Clark's dimples appear when he smiles and you rub your thumb on the indent. "We could've been doing this the whole time if I'd told you sooner."

"Who says I'm done making up for lost time?"

💌 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞: the dean fic is next guys!

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

[ems-typewriter]

Dreams of You

pairing: jason todd x reader

summary: jason has a nightmare and reader goes to help comfort him

word count: 1.3k

warnings/tags: sfw, fem!reader, cursing, mention of death and injury, description of reader getting hurt from the joker in the dream, angst, comfort, no y/n, use of pet names

Your mouth feels dry where it rests against the pillow, while a shiver runs down your spine at the cold that now runs through your bones. You turn around, throwing your arm out to pull Jason closer, but you're met with empty sheets that hold a lingering body heat. Blinking harshly to adjust to the darkness of the room, Jason is nowhere to be found. 

The faint sound of the living room window snapping shut catches your attention. You reach aimlessly toward the nightstand, sending something crashing to the ground in the process, before you grab your phone and turn it on. You're forced to squint against the blinding light of the screen to make out the time on the background: 04:17. You brows furrow slightly and you try to recall Jason having patrol this morning, but nothing comes to mind. The only thing you can think is that it would be an emergency, but even then, he’d leave a post it note on top of your phone so you know where he is. 

There’s a sinking anxiety in your gut that makes you carelessly toss the comforter aside, slip on Jason’s worn-in hoodie that engulfs you in fabric, before padding out of the bedroom. As the window leading to the fire escape comes into sight, you see all 220 pounds of muscle hunched over on the escape looking over the still bustling city with an unlit cigarette in his hand. 

In the hopes of not startling him, you make sure when you slide the window open it makes that familiar squeak to alert him. His shoulders tense up at the sound, but when he glances over and sees you slipping through the window to join him, they ease back down. You take the spot next to him sitting criss-cross to take up as little space as possible. 

You’ve learned the quickest way for Jason to shut down is to push him to talk, so you patiently wait for him to say something—if he says anything at all—first. You look up at the sky in hope to see the brightest of stars shining down on you, but the light emanating from Gotham drowns them all out.

“I thought I lost you.” 

Your attention shifts from the night sky to narrow in on Jason. Tilting your head in obvious confusion as you ask, “What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“It’s stupid but I—I had a nightmare.” He mumbles it so quietly like he’s ashamed of the fact that something he deems so childish could have him so shaken up. 

It’s now that you notice the mild tremor of the unlit cigarette still held between his middle and pointer. You reach over, removing the cigarette from his grasp, and softly intertwining your fingers against his calloused grip. His hand still shakes, but less so now that you’ve extended a silent lifeline. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He waits so long to respond, that you think he chose to ignore your question, before finally, “Everything that happened to me… it happened to you instead.”

The sinking you felt earlier is nothing compared to the anchor of emotions that now weighs you down at the thought of him being stuck in inner turmoil. You don't say anything, just squeeze his hand in support for him to continue if he wants. 

“The Joker got to you instead of me. I was forced to see you get beat and tortured to death, when it was supposed to be me. I was stuck watching him give you all of the scars that weigh me down—the J he carved into my cheek, was engraved on yours.” He takes a shaky breath. “All that pain happened to you and I couldn’t make it stop. I can’t stop hearing your screams and pleading.

“Then the dream shifted from that fucking warehouse to your grave. Nobody was doing anything, they all just stood there, but I figured because I came back then so would you, so I dug. I thought—hoped you’d still be alive, so I clawed through the dirt till my fingers were bleeding but there wasn't even a casket. You were just… gone.”

That's when he finally glances over at you for the first time, and the lights from the city dimly reflect the two tears that have run past his cheeks, gathering at his jaw. You carefully uncross your legs, and swing one over so you're straddling his lap. His hands automatically come to rest on your hips, his grip tighter than normal, like he’s making sure this is real and he's not still stuck in the dream.

You lift your hands to wipe the tears from his face, but as another one makes a new path in its place, you quickly wipe that one away too. You gently take one of his hands away from your waist to place it against the steady beat of your heart. “I’m right here, baby. My heart is beating and nothing happened to me.”

“But the feelings are lingering. I still feel the fear and helplessness I did in the dream when I couldn’t save you.” His voice breaks slightly and his forehead drops to your chest. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Jay, honey, it's okay. It wasn’t real. None of it was real, okay? I'm here in your arms, safe.” You run your fingers through his hair, gently trying to coax him to lift his head again. 

“You’re never gonna be safe with me, though.” 

“That’s not true.” You lift his head up, and he looks more like a sad puppy than the intimidating Red Hood that makes grown men cry. “I’m safer with you than I could ever have been. I mean you literally had Tim install tracking on every device I own, and on my purses. It took a lot of pride for you to ask Tim for a favor, but you did for my safety. I text Duke close to everyday and get coffee with Cass every Thursday. Damian randomly shows up to our apartment when the manor becomes too much and Dick invites us over for dinner twice a week. And like it or not, Bruce is the Batman. You can’t get much safer than literally being surrounded by vigilantes on a daily basis.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you, so you continue talking. “I get nightmares too sometimes. Ones of you dying on patrols, Dick knocking on the door saying that you won’t come back this time, and having to live without you. I get those too, but then I look over and you're fast asleep drooling on the pillow.” You add the last part in with a soft smirk on your lips. 

“I don’t drool.” He says rolling his eyes, but you already heard the slight huff of laughter that came from him. 

“Debateable.” 

His gaze turns solemn again. “I just—I can’t live without you. I can’t.” 

“And you won’t,” you whisper against his skin before pressing a kiss to his temple. “Because most of all, I’m surrounded by you, Jason Todd. You’ve always shown up every time I’ve needed you and I know that no matter what, I have nothing to worry about, because you’ll show up. I’m not going through this life without you either.”

His hand gently cups the back of your neck and brings you to rest your forehead against his. “Can we stay like this for a while longer? I need to know this is real.” 

You nod, pressing a barely there kiss to his scarred cheek. “We can stay out here as long as you want, Jay. I’m not going anywhere.” 

He pulls you impossibly closer to him, and you bury your face in his neck, trying to steal as much of his warmth as you can. You feel your eyes getting heavy from waking up at such an odd time in the morning, but just as you’re about to fall into sleep again, you faintly hear, “I love you,” followed by a kiss to your forehead.

authors note: im backkkkkkkk!!! technically my classes dont end till tomorrow, but ive been writing down so many ideas during this break and i wanted to start writing this one because it kept coming to mind!!

[jaythes1mp]

A lifetime of silence

Yandere Damian Wayne x Soulmate Reader

Everyone had a soulmate.

It wasn’t all romantic. Not inherently.

Some people met theirs at six years old. Others died without ever learning their name. Plenty divorced them. Plenty married someone else entirely. There were support groups, government registries, psychologists who specialised in soulbonds, and entire supermarket aisles dedicated to products designed around them.

Soulmates weren’t fairy tales. They were biology. Or fate, depending on who you asked.

An overwhelming majority of the population shared pain. 75%, according to the latest census.

A scraped knee here became a scraped knee somewhere else. A headache echoed across cities. Broken bones were shared. Childbirth had become an odd source of sympathy from complete strangers who suddenly found themselves doubled over in agony while their soulmate was on the other side of the world.

The remaining 25% were… stranger.

Shared dreams. Shared senses. Shared emotions. Occasionally something so rare that medical journals spent decades trying to categorise it.

Writing was common enough to earn its own chapter in school textbooks.

Anything written directly onto one soulmate’s skin would appear on the other’s moments later. Ink. Paint. Marker. Charcoal. Anything that bonded to skin.

The world adapted.

The first time a corporate lackey woke up with eyeliner because their soulmate had gone clubbing the night before, an industry had been born.

Make-up companies sold soulmate-safe eyeliner, lipstick, sports chalk, and any makeup that used synthetic compounds specifically designed not to transfer across writing bonds.

But it cost a shit tone more than the ordinary stuff, so most people didn’t bother.

It was just another part of life.

Damian Wayne had never considered himself lucky. He simply acknowledged facts.

His soulbond was uncommon, but it suited him.

Charcoal had always stained his fingertips. From the time he was old enough to hold it properly, he’d sketched anatomy, architecture, animals, weapons, portraits.

His mother insisted observation was as important as combat. His grandfather insisted beauty existed to be conquered.

Damian decided beauty should simply be understood.

As his sketchbooks multiplied, so did the messages.

A doodle across his wrist. A rough smiley face. Practice strokes. Sometimes things he assumes to be his soulmates friend’s crude humor. Occasionally an absent-minded note written during lessons somewhere across the globe.

He never replied.

Not because he lacked curiosity. He was plenty curious.

But curiosity was a weakness.

That lesson had been taught long before he could remember learning it. The League did not celebrate soulmates. They acknowledged them.

A soulmate was another variable. Another vulnerability. Another weapon waiting to be used.

Children raised within the League were instructed never to trust the bond. Never to assume affection. Never to reveal themselves first.

If your soulmate became known to your enemies, they ceased being a blessing and became a target.

His grandfather called them leverage. His mother called them responsibility. Neither called them love.

By the time Damian was ten, he’d already concluded that the outside world was naïve.

Children giggled over mysterious wounds appearing on their arms. Teenagers filled notebooks trying to guess who was on the other side. Adults got tattooed to find the other before they’d ever exchanged names.

Ridiculous. Your soulmate was simply another person. Potentially useful. Potentially dangerous. Nothing more.

Then Father took him to Gotham. The city believed in soulmates just as readily as it believed in monsters.

Robin learnt pretty quickly that civilians asked too many unnecessary questions.

“Have you met your soulmate?”

“What bond do you have?”

“Is it true you bats don’t have soulmates?”

He ignored every one.

His bond remained hidden beneath gloves, sleeves and armour. His teammates knew he possessed one, none knew which.

Which was intentional.

Dick guessed shared pain, trying to bond with him. Drake theorised dreams. Todd insisted it had to be shared aggression.

Damian allowed the misunderstanding to continue. Knowledge was power, there was no reason to surrender it.

Besides, his soulmate had never written anything worth answering.

Not yet.

You’d spent most of your childhood convinced you were defective.

Not in the way children sometimes decided they were adopted because their parents said no to dessert, no. You thought that something inside of you had been assembled incorrectly.

That fate hadn’t seen your file cause the page accidentally got stuck to another’s.

Everyone had a soulmate.

It was one of the first things children learnt in school, somewhere between tying shoelaces and basic maths. Teachers would explain the different soulbonds with colourful diagrams while students excitedly compared scraped knees and odd dreams.

“I saw them by the ocean last night!”

“My soulmate likes spicy food.”

“I broke my arm when I was five because my soulmate fell out of a tree.”

Children always had stories. You never did.

No mysterious bruises. No shared dreams. No sudden cravings. No inexplicable emotions. Nothing.

At first your parents smiled. “They’re probably just a late bloomer.” “Some bonds take longer to show.” “Just wait.”

So you waited.

You turned seven. Nothing.

Eight. Nothing.

Ten. Still nothing.

Eventually your parents stopped saying, “Just wait.” And started booking appointments instead.

Doctors asked endless questions. Had you ever blacked out unexpectedly? Experienced vivid dreams? Random pain? Hearing voices? Objects appearing? Writing?

You answered no so many times it became automatic.

Test after test came back blank. There wasn’t anything medically wrong with you.

“Symptoms usually present in early childhood,” one specialist explained gently while flicking through your file. “It’s… unusual.”

Unusual.

That was the word everyone preferred. Not broken. Not defective. Just unusual.

Children weren’t nearly as polite.

“What do you mean you don’t have one?”

“Everyone has one.”

“You must be lying.”

Some looked at you with pity. Others with suspicion. One kid had actually asked if soulmates could reject people before they were born.

You laughed along.

Then cried in the bathroom afterwards.

By fifteen, you’d stopped expecting anything to happen. You’d accepted it. Maybe fate had really skipped you. Maybe whatever invisible force connected billions of people had simply… forgotten.

Life moved on. It had to.

School still expected assignments. Friends still invited you out. The world didn’t stop just because yours felt slightly emptier than everyone else’s.

There was only one strange thing.

Your fingers.

Every now and then they’d end up stained a dusty grey-black. Not all of them. Usually just the pads of your fingers. Sometimes the side of your palm.

Like charcoal.

You’d notice it halfway through class or while eating dinner.

“…Huh.”

You’d scrub at it absent-mindedly. Soap didn’t work. Water didn’t work. Hand sanitiser didn’t work.

It never smudged onto anything else either. It simply existed. Then it’d disappear by the next morning as though it’d never been there at all.

You blamed whatever you’d touched that day.

Cheap pencils, old books, dust, maybe the graphite from your mechanical pencil had somehow stained your skin.

It wasn’t worth thinking about. There were bigger things to worry about than mysteriously dirty fingers.

After all, if you actually had a soulmate..

Surely something would’ve happened by now?

↑↓←→

The questions never really stopped. They just became less frequent. Less innocent.

Children asked because they were curious. Adults asked because they couldn’t imagine another answer.

“So..” a co-worker leaned against the break room counter, stirring too much sugar into their coffee. “Have you met your soulmate yet?”

You smiled automatically. “No.”

“They overseas or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Long-distance must suck.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

They laughed.

You laughed too. It was easier. People preferred believing your soulmate was somewhere out there rather than accepting you might not have one at all.

The truth made them uncomfortable.

Eventually the conversation drifted elsewhere. It always did. You’d become good at redirecting it. Years of practice had a way of doing that.

Nowadays, the mention of soulmates barely stung. It was more like pressing on an old bruise. Tender, but manageable. Something you’d learnt to live around.

Your phone buzzed. A message from a mate.

Movie tonight?

You smiled.

Only if you’re buying popcorn.

Hell no.

Then no deal.

A few more messages followed before the conversation inevitably dissolved into memes and poorly edited reaction images.

Normal.

Wonderfully, painfully, normal.

You slipped your phone into your pocket and reached for your bag.

Halfway there, you paused.

“…Seriously?”

Grey-black dust coated the tips of your fingers again.

You rubbed your thumb over your index finger. Nothing came off.

“Must’ve touched something.” You couldn’t even remember saying it aloud anymore. It had become a habit.

See charcoal → Blame the environment → Move on.

You grabbed your bag anyway. By tomorrow morning it’d be gone. It always was.

Outside, the city carried on around you. People hurried between work and home. Couples argued over dinner plans. Parents held children’s hands as they crossed busy streets.

A teenager absent-mindedly scribbled something across their forearm while waiting at the lights, grinning when fresh handwriting appeared beside it a heartbeat later.

Their soulmate had replied.

Lucky them.

You looked away before they noticed you staring. There was no point wondering what it felt like. You’d made peace with the fact that you’d probably never know.

Or at least, you’d gotten very good at pretending you had.

Jason had made every news station in Gotham before breakfast.

Damian hadn’t intended to watch it. He’d walked into the kitchen cause Alfred had insisted everyone eat together while they were all in Gotham, only to find the tv already running quietly in the corner. A familiar image occupied nearly every channel. Red Hood disappearing across a rooftop. The freeze-frame paused just as the damaged plating along his hip shifted enough to expose black ink beneath.

A soulmark.

The reporters seemed incapable of discussing anything else.

“The identity of Red Hood’s soulmate remains unknown…

…social media has already begun comparing the mark to historical soulmate registries…

…raising renewed questions about whether Gotham’s vigilantes are adequately protecting those connected to them…”

Damian looked away before the segment finished.

People had always been intrusive where soulmates were concerned. They asked strangers questions they’d never dream of asking otherwise. When were you meeting them? Were you together? Were you trying? Had you rejected them? Did they reject you? Had they wanted you when they saw you?

It was strange what the existence of a bond entitled complete strangers to know.

Todd hadn’t commented on it once. Neither had Father.

Though, neither needed to.

The manor simply carried on as though nothing had happened, despite the fact every member of the family had undoubtedly seen the footage already.

Alfred served breakfast. Dick complained about the coffee. Tim answered emails between bites without looking up from his phone.

Only the occasional glance toward Jason betrayed that anyone had noticed at all.

Damian appreciated that.

If the mark had belonged to him, he would have expected the same courtesy.

←↓→↑

He found himself wondering whether his soulmate had seen the broadcast.

Statistically, they probably had. Everyone watched the news after a vigilante was involved.

Would they have recognised the mark for what it was? Would they have wondered what sort of person belonged to Red Hood? Would they have imagined someone dangerous?

The thought irritated him more than it should have.

His soulmate had no reason to concern themselves with another person’s bond. Their attention belonged elsewhere.

His gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to the inside of his own wrist.

Nothing.

No fresh handwriting wound around his skin. No absent-minded doodles.

Nothing had appeared there in years.

When he was young, the messages had arrived often enough that he eventually began expecting them.

Never on a schedule or enough to establish a pattern. Just, frequently enough that every few weeks he would wake to find unfamiliar handwriting stretching across his arm.

Are you there?

Sometimes that was all. Other times there was more.

Today’s been really bad.

I don’t want to be by myself right now.

The handwriting had always been clumsy.

Large letters that struggled to stay in straight lines, becoming neater with every passing year as childish motor skills gradually matured into something steadier. Occasionally there would be little smudges where the side of a hand had dragged through still-wet ink.

He had read every message.

Yet he had never answered one.

At the time, the decision had been obvious.

The League did not encourage soulmates. They acknowledged their existence because denying reality served no purpose, but sentiment had never held any value there. Your soulmate represented another avenue through which enemies might reach you. Another weakness to be managed.

Replying achieved nothing.

Years later, Father had reached the same conclusion for entirely different reasons.

Bruce had never instructed him not to respond, but he had agreed that anonymity offered protection. A soulmate nobody could identify was a soulmate nobody could target.

Objectively, Damian knew he had done the correct thing. Which only made one question increasingly difficult to dismiss.

Why had they stopped?

They had simply… disappeared. The last message had appeared years ago. Nothing after that.

No questions. No frustrated scribbles written during boring classes. No childish attempts to reach whoever existed on the opposite end of the bond. Just silence.

He had assumed, at first, that they were waiting. Perhaps they expected an answer. When none came, they would eventually try again. They always had before.

Except this time they hadn’t.

It should not have occupied his thoughts as often as it did.

People moved on. Children abandoned imaginary friends. Adults stopped believing in impossible things. Perhaps they had simply reached an age where writing to someone who refused to acknowledge them became embarrassing.

A reasonable conclusion.

One he found himself disliking more every time it occurred to him.

Because that implied they had given up.

On him.

Damian closed the sketchbook resting on his desk with more force than intended. The sound echoed briefly through his room before the manor settled back into its usual quiet.

He remained staring at the cover for several long moments.

He had done exactly what he was taught.

Exactly what logic dictated.

Exactly what would keep both of them safest.

So why did it feel strangely.. wrong that they had finally listened?

Your parents used to joke that they had never really known privacy.

If your father stubbed his toe in the kitchen, your mother would wince from the garden. If your mother caught the flu, your father would spend the week curled beneath blankets beside her, feverish despite never catching the virus himself.

Broken bones, headaches, paper cuts, childbirth. Nothing belonged to just one of them. The pain had always been shared.

But in a way, so was relief.

You grew up watching them laugh over bruises that appeared in matching places, your father kissing your mother’s scraped knuckles that had never touched the pavement because he had been the one to fall.

They carried each other’s suffering so naturally that neither of them seemed to remember there had ever been a time when they hadn’t.

“That’s what soulmates do,” your mother would say whenever you asked.

“No one hurts alone.”

It was spoken like a promise. A fact as certain as gravity. As ordinary as breathing.

You believed it. Everyone did. Then, slowly, your parents stopped talking about your soulmate.

First, they stopped asking whether anything new had appeared. Then the appointments became routine instead of hopeful. Then they stopped mentioning them altogether.

Your father buried himself in research.

Your mother lingered outside your bedroom more often than she used to.

One night, you woke to voices drifting through the hallway.

“…there has to be something they missed.”

“They didn’t.”

“They’re wrong.”

“They’ve repeated every test.”

“They’re still wrong.”

Silence.

Then your mother’s voice, barely louder than a whisper. “What if…”

Another silence, longer this time.

“What if there isn’t anyone?”

You had never heard your father shout before. “There has to be!”

“There doesn’t.”

His voice cracked. “Don’t.”

“You know it’s possible.”

“No.”

“If they’re right..” she whispered. “…then one day they’ll get hurt, and no one will feel it with them.”

The house fell silent.

You stared at the ceiling until morning.

After that, something changed. Your parents still loved each other. They still loved you. But grief settled into the spaces between them.

Your father refused to accept the diagnosis. He found specialists halfway across the country, obscure researchers overseas, experimental studies no one had ever heard of. Every answer that came back the same only convinced him the question hadn’t been asked correctly.

Your mother went with him every time. But eventually even she had stopped believing that there would be a different answer.

When she stopped asking for another opinion, your father never forgave her for it.

Years later, they divorced.

Two people who loved each other deeply enough to share every wound, discovering there was one pain they couldn’t carry together.

You.

Neither of them blamed you.

They looked at you with the same expression people reserved for tragedies no one had caused.

You grew older. Doctors wrote papers about you. Researchers asked for blood samples. Every form returned with the same impossible conclusion.

Inconclusive.

You tried telling yourself it didn’t matter. People survived without parents. Without friends. Without homes. You could survive without a soulmate.

Except no one else ever had. Not once. There hadn’t been a single case of someone born without a soulmate ever.

You weren’t unlucky. You were impossible. And impossibilities weren’t supposed to exist.

Sometimes you’d catch your parents looking at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention.

You couldn’t tell if it was disappointment, resentment, or grief.

You stopped wondering why fate had forgotten you.

It followed you through school. Through birthdays. Through every doctor who couldn’t explain you. Through every pitying glance. Until, one day, it stopped sounding like fear.

It simply sounded true.

You should have never been born.

The food on the plate in front of you had gone cold a long time ago.

You’d bought it mostly to justify occupying the table, pushing fries around the paper tray more than actually eating them.

Around you, the food court buzzed with the usual afternoon crowd. Children tugged exhausted parents toward the dessert stands. Teenagers laughed too loudly over shared drinks. Somewhere nearby, someone dropped a tray, followed immediately by the chorus of sympathetic groans from strangers.

You were halfway through convincing yourself to leave when a shadow fell across your table.

“Mind if I sit here?”

You glanced up.

Whoever this person is was about your age, maybe a little older. Attractive enough that a few nearby heads had already turned in their direction before looking away again.

“There are plenty of empty tables.”

“There are.” They smiled easily. “But you are sitting at this one.”

You stared for another second before giving a small shrug. “If you want.”

They slid into the seat opposite you without hesitation.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You expected the silence to become awkward. Instead, they stole one of your fries.

“You weren’t eating them.”

“I was considering it.”

“Well, now you have to. Can’t let me win.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised both of you.

Then they were grinning. “I knew you could smile.”

You rolled your eyes, though there wasn’t much annoyance behind it.

This person was.. easy. Felt like the sort of person who filled silences without suffocating them.

Conversation came pretty naturally after that. Nothing particularly important. Complaints about the shopping centre. The impossibility of finding decent coffee. A movie neither of you had actually finished despite insisting you’d eventually get around to it.

It was pleasant. Dangerously so. You caught yourself relaxing.

Then your phone buzzed and you caught the time.

“I should get going.”

“So soon?”

“I’ve got things to do.”

“Fair enough.” They stood as you gathered your things, rocking back on their heels for a moment before patting their pockets.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“I don’t have any paper.”

“…Congratulations?”

They laughed. “I was trying to ask for your number.”

“Oh.”

You hadn’t expected that.

“I mean…” They rubbed the back of their neck sheepishly. “You’re hot. So I thought I’d at least give it a shot.”

You hesitated just long enough for them to snap their fingers.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Before you could ask what they meant, they reached for your wrist, uncapping a pen they’d pulled from their pocket.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Without really waiting for an answer, they turned your arm over and, with surprisingly neat handwriting, scribbled a phone number across the inside of your forearm.

The pen tickled against your skin.

“There,” they said, clicking the cap back on. “Now you don’t have an excuse.” They winked, gathering their things.

You looked down automatically to the black ink stretching across your forearm.

Their name: Ash. Their number: 0401 863. ‘Call me’ written smaller underneath.

It should have been nothing. Just ink. Just another stranger taking a chance.

Instead, it made your chest tighten. For a fleeting, impossible second, your mind brought up a memory your body hadn’t forgotten.

Small hands. Crayon pressed too hard against skin.

Are you there?

Another message.

Please answer.

Another.

I think something’s wrong with me.

You blinked hard.

The memory vanished as quickly as it had come.

“…You okay?”

You looked back up, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah.”

Your fingers unconsciously drifted over the fresh ink. “I just…”

You couldn’t explain why seeing words on your arm suddenly made your chest ache.

“…haven’t written on myself in a very long time.”

The afternoon was loud. Far too loud for Damian’s liking.

He sat at the edge of the group, his posture perfect, expression a mask of practiced indifference. Public outings required a level of restraint that felt unnatural to him.

Dick was laughing at something Jason had said, and even Bruce seemed slightly less tense than usual.

Damian didn't care about the noise. Or about the conversation. He was mostly preoccupied with the sensation of the sunlight hitting his forearms. For the first time in years, he wasn't wearing the long sleeves or the tactical gloves he used to shroud his skin.

He had decided, with a cold sort of logic, that the bond was dead.

The silence from his skin had lasted so long years of nothingness that he had finally accepted the most likely reality: his soulmate had stopped looking for him. You had given up.

He was fine with that. It was efficient.

Then, the sting began.

It wasn't a sharp pain, but a slow, itching warmth, as if a heated needle were dragging across the underside of his left forearm. Damian stiffened. He kept his hands resting on the table, but his heart gave a singular, heavy thud against his ribs.

No, he thought. Not now.

He watched the skin. It started as a faint, dark smudge, then the lines began to bleed through the surface of his flesh, as if an invisible hand were pressing a pen into his muscle.

Dick was the first to notice the change in his posture. "Dami? You okay?"

Damian didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy staring at his own arm.

The writing was appearing in elegant, sweeping loops. Cursive. It was beautiful, flowing, and utterly offensive.

Ash

0401 863

Call me ;)

Damian’s breath hitched. His eyes scanned the script, his brain overworking with the mechanical speed of a detective.

He knew your handwriting. He had spent a decade studying the messy, jagged print of the messages he had received as a child.

His soulmate’s handwriting had always been blunt. Childish, hurried, and unrefined. You’d written in print, scrawled in desperation.

This wasn't it. This was polished. This was intentional. This was the handwriting of a stranger.

Someone had held your arm. Someone had pressed a pen to your skin. Someone had dared to claim a space on a body that belonged, by divine right, to him.

"Whoa," Jason leaned in, his eyes widening as he spotted the dark lines on Damian's arm. "Is that... is that a soulmark? Since when do you have a writing bond?"

The table went silent as the family stared. For the first time in his life, the secret was out. The quiet, private connection he had guarded like a weapon was visible for everyone to see.

"Damian?" Bruce asked, his voice low, laced with a rare note of surprise. "You never said-"

"Be quiet," Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

He wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the name. It felt like a slur.

Ash

He could feel the phantom sensation of the stranger’s hand on his skin, a greasy, intrusive warmth that made him want to scrub his arm until it bled.

It had been years. He had waited in the silence, convinced you had forgotten him, convinced you had moved on to a life where he didn't exist. And then, finally, the silence broke. The bond had screamed back to life after years of dormancy.

But it wasn't a "hello." It wasn't an "are you there?" It wasn't a cry for help.

It was a phone number. It was an invitation. It was a stranger's attempt to steal the only thing Damian was supposed to truly call his own.

His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles turning white. The rage was quiet, but it was absolute. Someone was touching you. Someone was talking to you. Someone was trying to take the person who had spent a lifetime writing into the void, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.

And the response was a stranger's name.

"Damian, you're shaking," Dick said softly, reaching out a hand.

Damian pulled his arm back, tucking it close to his body, hiding the elegant, loathsome cursive from their eyes.

His gaze was dark, focused, and predatory.

The sound of the city became nothing more than a dull roar in the background. Damian didn't hear Bruce's worried voice or Jason’s insensitive joke. He didn’t see Tim and Dick’s shared glances. The only thing that existed was the black ink on his skin.

He slid out of the booth, his movements jerky and frantic.

"Damian, where are you going?" Bruce asked, his voice sharp and commanding.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. If he spoke, he was afraid of what might come out.

He stormed away from the table, ignoring the confused looks from his family, and practically ran toward the restroom.

The moment he locked the door behind him, he collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile. He yanked his sleeve up, his fingers digging into the skin around the words.

Call me ;)

He hated it. He hated the person who had written it. He hated the precision of the cursive, how confident and sure it looked. This was a person who had no idea who they were dealing with. They had no idea that by writing on his soulmate, they had essentially written a death sentence for themselves if he could ever find them.

But as he stared at the ink, the rage began to ebb, replaced by something far worse.

He felt sick.

He felt small.

He hadn't answered his soulmate.

For years, he had read your heartbreaks, your fears, your lonely pleas, and he had met you with sterile, echoing silence. He had waited. He had played a game of patience, convinced that if he just waited long enough, you would eventually find him on your own.

And now you had. You had found someone else.

"You should have kept writing," he whispered, his voice cracking. He pressed his forehead against his knees, his eyes burning. "You should have waited for me."

He felt pathetic. The great Damian Wayne, the heir to the League of Assassins, was currently huddled in a public restroom tearing up over a phone number.

He felt like a child again, the one who would read the messages on his arm and then uselessly try to rub them away with a damp cloth, pretending they never existed, even as he felt his heart break every single time.

He reached for the paper towels on the dispenser and grabbed a handful, soaking them in water. He held his arm out, his hand shaking, and began to scrub at the ink.

At the name.

He rubbed harder. The skin turned red, the water and rough paper scratching at the surface of his flesh. He wanted it gone. He wanted the name to vanish, to disappear as if it had never been written. He wanted the stranger to be erased from existence.

But the ink wouldn't budge.

"I'll find you," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I'll find you and I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He didn't have a plan. He didn't know who the person was or where you were. But as he sat there in the dim light of the restroom, his chest heaving and his arm raw and red, there was a new, sharper purpose in his eyes.

He had ignored you long enough. Now, he would be the one doing the hunting.

The evening had passed in a blur of crowds, train announcements, and familiar exhaustion that settled over Gotham once the workday ended.

By the time you unlocked your apartment door, your attention was fixed on the familia routine. Keys in the bowl beside the entrance. Bag on the chair. Shoes kicked off near the wall.

You were halfway through rubbing at your eyes when something on your arm had caught your attention.

For a moment, your brain failed to make sense of what you were seeing.

The writing was gone.

You stared down at your forearm.

The name that had been written near your wrist had disappeared beneath a thick streak of black ink. The number stretched somewhere underneath it, hidden beneath layer after layer of aggressive, uneven marker.

Whoever had done it had covered the writing completely, obscuring every letter beneath a blown-out dark smear.

A hundred explanations flashed through your head, each more ridiculous than the last. None of them made sense.

Slowly, you turned your arm beneath the light.

The ink stayed where it was. Fresh enough that it still looked almost glossy beneath the overhead lamp.

Your fingers brushed across it. Dry.

You frowned.

The stranger's number should have still been there. You'd checked it at least three times on the train ride home.

Twice because you were considering calling, then again because you couldn't quite believe someone had actually flirted with you so outright.

Now it looked as though someone had taken a marker and buried every trace of it.

Your stomach tightened. Your mind going back years ago.

To one of many small examination rooms. Familiar bright white walls. The smell of disinfectant.

You were eight years old, legs dangling from a chair too tall for you.

"Have you ever tried writing on yourself?" the doctor had asked gently.

You remembered laughing.

Of course you had.

Every kid who hadn’t gotten hurt by another yet did.

You'd covered your arms with marker for years. Names. Questions. Drawings. Entire conversations directed at a person who never answered.

Nothing had ever happened.

The specialists called it unusual. Some forums called it heartbreaking. Or fake.

Your gaze dropped back to the black ink covering your arm. Something had written over that number. Something had responded.

You didn’t feel any excitement. Or hope. If anything, what you felt seemed closer to dread.

Hope was dangerous.

Hope was what had kept your parents scheduling appointment after appointment, convinced the next specialist would finally have an answer. Hope was what left your mother crying behind closed bathroom doors after another inconclusive test. Hope was what taught you, over and over again, that wanting something badly enough didn't make it real.

You'd spent years trying not to care. Years learning how to ignore the empty space where everyone else seemed to carry certainty. One strange mark wasn't enough to undo that.

You pulled your sleeve down over your arm. The black streak vanished beneath the fabric. Better. Safer.

"Means nothing," you muttered.

You didn't believe your own words.

The rest of the evening passed normally enough. Dinner. Dishes. Television playing quietly in the background. The ordinary rhythm of a life that had long since moved on from childhood fantasies.

Yet every so often, your hand drifted toward your covered forearm.

Every time it did, the same feeling returned. An uncomfortable awareness that something had changed. After years of silence, something had finally answered.

And you had no idea whether or not that was a good thing.

→↓←↑

You shuffled into the bathroom still half asleep, already thinking about getting an energy drink more than anything else.

The mirror was fogged around the edges from the shower running in the neighbouring apartment, and the cold tiles beneath your feet made you wish you’d bothered finding your slippers.

You rolled your sleeve up almost absent-mindedly. The black streak was still there.

You reached automatically for the sink, wetting a corner of the hand towel before rubbing experimentally at the edge of the ink.

Nothing.

“Figures.” The muttered complaint barely left your mouth before something caught your eye.

You frowned. The towel paused against your skin.

You leaned closer to the mirror.

Yesterday, the marker had been solid. Messy, thick, almost violent in the way it covered the stranger’s handwriting. Now there was a gap big enough for your skin to show through.

You were certain it hadn’t been there before.

For a ridiculous moment, you wondered whether you’d accidentally rubbed some of the ink away on your sleeve.

Then you noticed the line beneath it. Fresh ink.

Your stomach sank. The handwriting wasn’t yours. It wasn’t the stranger’s either. The stranger had written in looping cursive, every letter rounded and practiced. This was precise. Almost painfully neat. Each stroke looked deliberate, measured before it had ever touched skin.

Three words.

Don’t call them.

You read them once. Then again. Your eyes drifted over the sentence a third time, as though repetition alone might make it mean something different.

It didn’t. It remained exactly what it had been the first time. An instruction.

Not a greeting. Not a question. Not even an explanation. Just…

Don’t call them.

You found yourself looking around the apartment before you could stop yourself. The living room. The kitchen. The locked front door. Empty.

“…Okay.” You laughed under your breath.

Nothing about this was funny, but the alternative felt insane.

You’d spent most of your life wishing something - anything would happen. That one day there’d be a mistake. A delayed bond. An explanation.

Now, standing alone in your bathroom with unfamiliar handwriting on your arm, you wanted a perfectly rational answer more than anything.

Your fingers hovered over the words. Careful not to smudge them. The ink was dry. As though it had been there for hours.

You swallowed.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you walked back into the kitchen, dug through the junk drawer until you found an old biro, and returned to the bathroom.

The tip hovered over your forearm.

You stared at the empty patch of skin beneath the unfamiliar message for nearly a minute.

This was stupid.

You knew exactly how soulmate writing worked.

Or rather, you knew how it was supposed to work.

Children discovered it by accident. Teenagers filled each other’s arms with jokes. Adults stopped because texting was easier. Nobody your age stood in their bathroom writing into empty space. Not unless they’d completely lost it.

“Whatever.”

The pen touched your skin. Your handwriting hadn’t changed much since childhood.

Still print. Still slightly untidy. Still pressed a little too hard.

Who are you?

You capped the pen almost immediately afterwards.

Nothing happened.

You’d expected as much.

You were already turning away when warmth spread beneath your skin. It wasn’t painful, just unexpected.

You looked down instinctively.

The place beneath your question tingled, the sensation travelling slowly enough that you could follow it with your eyes.

And then Ink.

Not appearing all at once. Growing. One careful letter after another.

The ink surface beneath your skin one deliberate stroke at a time, each line settling into place before the next began. There was no rush to it. Whoever was writing wasn’t hesitating, but they weren’t hurrying either.

Like they knew you would wait.

By the time the sentence finished, your pulse had climbed into your throat.

Don’t accept things from strangers.

You frowned.

That wasn’t an answer.

Your eyes flicked up to the question still sitting above it.

Who are you?

They’d ignored it completely.

Another line began to appear. The warmth returned beneath your skin, travelling just ahead of the fresh ink.

Don’t let anyone else touch you like that again.

Your eyebrows slowly pulled together. “…That’s what you’re worried about?”

After everything. After years of nothing. After every specialist, every appointment, every unanswered question.. Whoever was on the other end had apparently decided that the pressing issue was a phone number.

You looked down at the biro still resting in your hand.

It felt strangely inadequate now.

Slowly, you uncapped it again. Your handwriting looked clumsy beside the careful precision of theirs.

You didn’t answer my question.

You hesitated, then added another beneath it.

Who are you?

The reply came quicker this time. Almost immediately.

The familiar warmth spread beneath your skin, and before you’d even finished reading your own words, fresh ink had begun to weave itself between them.

That doesn’t matter yet.

The sentence continued without pause.

Tell me whether you called them.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

The absurdity of it almost made you laugh. That was it? No introduction. No explanation. Not even an acknowledgement that this was impossible. Just another question about someone you’d shared fries with for twenty minutes.

Your fingers rubbed absent-mindedly at the bridge of your nose. “This is unbelievable.”

You looked back down at your arm. The neat handwriting stared back at you.

You sighed through your nose before writing again.

No.

The ink had barely dried before another reply began. Only two words this time.

Good. Don’t.

You stared at them. The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“You’re bossy.” There was no irritation behind the words. Mostly disbelief.

You’d finally found the person who was supposedly meant to answer every question you’d spent half your life asking, and apparently they preferred giving orders instead.

Damian hadn't realised how completely his priorities had shifted until he found himself standing in front of the Batcomputer, staring at an unfinished mission report he'd been pretending to read for nearly ten minutes.

He couldn't remember a single word.

His eyes kept returning to the faded writing winding around the inside of his forearm.

Nine messages. That was all.

It should have been insignificant.

He had exchanged more words with criminals before incapacitating them.

Yet somehow those nine short sentences had managed to uproot routines that had taken years to build.

He read them again.

Who are you?

Don't accept things from strangers.

Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.

You didn't answer my question.

Who are you?

That doesn't matter yet.

Tell me whether you called them.

No.

Good. Don't.

His thumb brushed unconsciously across one of the final words. Good.

It shouldn't have brought him relief.

But it did. An almost embarrassing amount.

The stranger had failed. You hadn't called them. Whatever smile you'd given that person, whatever polite conversation you'd entertained, whatever curiosity they’d mistaken for interest had ended there.

You had chosen not to continue it.

Damian hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding himself together until that single word had loosened something inside his chest.

Not enough. Never enough. But enough that he could breathe again. For the first time since your messages appeared.

Then the relief faded. Because relief left room for thought. And thought was infinitely crueler.

Someone else had reached you first. Someone else had stood close enough to touch your wrist. Someone else had looked directly into your face. Someone else knew what colour your eyes were.

Damian didn't.

Someone else knew how tall you were. How your voice sounded. Whether you smiled with your mouth closed or laughed loudly enough to turn heads.

Someone else had information Damian should have had years ago.

The irrationality of the thought didn't make it disappear. He understood perfectly well that you hadn't betrayed him.

How could you? You didn't know him.

As far as you were concerned, your soulmate had ignored every message you'd ever written.

Every birthday. Every question. Every lonely evening. Every desperate attempt to find the person destined to answer.

He had been silent.

Not by choice. But silence looked the same from the other side.

He knew that.

If the positions had been reversed… If he had written for years.. If every answer had been met with nothing.. Would he have waited forever?

…

He wanted to say yes.

But he couldn’t.

His hand curled into a fist.

You'd lived an entire life while he wasn't there. Years of mornings. Of birthdays. Of scraped knees, illnesses, graduations, celebrations, disappointments.

Had someone hugged you when things became too much? Who comforted you when you cried? Who celebrated your successes? Who remembered your favourite food? Who knew your drink order? Who made you laugh after terrible days?

Questions multiplied faster than he could suppress them.

Did you live alone? Did you have roommates? Did you lock your doors? Did you own any means of defending yourself? Were you careful walking home at night? Had anyone ever hurt you?

Yesterday had already answered one of those questions.

Yes. Someone had.

Maybe not physically. But someone had ignored your discomfort long enough for you to write to a stranger instead.

To him.

You had reached for someone you couldn't even identify because the people around you hadn't been enough.

That thought settled somewhere deep beneath his ribs. Heavy and permanent.

He looked again at the sentence he'd written. Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.

He hadn't thought before writing it. There hadn't been time. Logic had come afterward. The wording had been possessive. Demanding. Unlike him.

No. Exactly like him. Just... stripped bare.

He closed his eyes. You must have thought he was insane. Some anonymous soulmate who vanished for decades only to return issuing orders. He would have been irritated too.

No.

He would have blocked himself.

Yet...

You hadn't.

You'd argued. Questioned him. Demanded answers. But you hadn't stopped writing.

Why?

Curiosity? Hope? Loneliness? Or had something inside you recognised the same impossible pull clawing through him?

He hated not knowing. He hated uncertainty. He hated relying on something as intangible as fate.

His entire life had been built on eliminating uncertainty. Gather information. Observe.Investigate. Prepare. Control what could be controlled. The League had taught him that. His father had refined it.

The soulbond ignored every single one of those principles.

It had expected him to wait. To trust. To believe.

He had. For years.

Where had it gotten either of you?

You alone in a shopping centre. Him halfway across the city learning about it after the fact.

No. Enough.

He opened his eyes.

The Batcomputer came alive beneath his fingertips. Monitors illuminated one after another, blue light reflecting across his face. Access permissions unfolded without resistance.

Traffic cameras. Retail security networks. Public transport footage. Cell tower data. Facial recognition databases. Search parameters. Time. Location. Shopping centre.

He could hear his father's voice in the back of his mind.

"People deserve privacy, Damian."

Normally, he would have agreed. He would have waited until you chose to reveal yourself. Normally.

Yesterday someone had approached you.

Tomorrow someone else might.

He had spent years believing fate would keep you safe until it brought you together. Yesterday had demonstrated exactly how fragile that assumption was.

For most of his life, Damian Wayne had believed his greatest weakness would be failing his mission.

He understood now that he'd been wrong.

His greatest weakness had a heartbeat.

That somewhere out there, someone was completely unaware that the heir to Batman was already searching every camera in Gotham just to catch a single glimpse of the face he'd imagined since childhood.

His finger pressed the key.

The search began.

↑←↓→

Finding you hadn’t been particularly difficult. Not once Damian started looking.

The shopping centre gave him a face. The face gave him transport records. Transport records became a place of work. A place of work became an address.

Within four days, he knew more about your routine than you did.

You bought the same energy drink from the convenience store three mornings out of five, apologised to inanimate objects whenever you bumped into them, and forgot to eat lunch often enough that the café downstairs had begun recognising the pattern.

You had a habit of reading while waiting for pedestrian lights to change. You wore headphones without turning any music on whenever you didn’t want strangers talking to you. You checked your pockets twice before locking your front door.

You laughed with your whole face. You rubbed your eyes whenever you became overwhelmed.

You were, Damian decided, catastrophically easy to lose.

And even easier to protect.

The first time he introduced himself, it was as Damian Wayne. Not your soulmate. Just the youngest Wayne.

Professionally interested in one of Wayne Enterprises’ newest projects.

Your company had recently entered into a partnership with Wayne Enterprises.

You’d smiled.

Held out your hand.

Introduced yourself with the same easy politeness you seemed to offer everyone.

He’d looked at your outstretched hand for the briefest moment before taking it.

His fingers closed around yours carefully. Almost reverently.

“So,” you’d said with an awkward laugh, “I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

“Yes.”

You’d mistaken the certainty in his voice for confidence.

It wasn’t. It was a statement of fact.

After that, he simply… remained.

Meetings that didn’t strictly require his attendance somehow did. Business lunches became routine. Coffee would already be waiting on your desk before you arrived.

When your workload became unreasonable, departments quietly shifted resources without anyone quite understanding why. When your apartment building’s security contract came up for renewal, Wayne Security acquired it. When your favourite café struggled financially, it received an anonymous investment.

You never knew.

You only noticed that life had become a little easier.

Financial inconveniences disappeared before they had the chance to reach you.

You thanked luck. Damian thanked himself.

The rest happened so gradually that even you struggled to pinpoint when it had changed.

His hand settled against the small of your back whenever crowds became too dense.

He began walking you to your car after evening meetings.

Your favourite snacks appeared in his office because “you always steal mine.”

He started calling you when you worked late.

Then expecting you to answer.

Then asking where you were if you didn’t.

“You don’t have to keep looking after me,” you’d laughed one afternoon as he wordlessly took the heavier stack of folders from your arms.

“I know.”

“You do realise I’m an adult?”

“I am aware.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

Damian looked at you for a long moment.

No. He thought quietly. I’m simply making up for lost time.

You never noticed the way his eyes lingered on your forearm whenever your sleeves rode up. Or how his expression softened whenever your handwriting appeared there.

The conversations continued. Always through ink. Never in person.

You still didn’t know.

You still believed your soulmate was someone else. Someone you hadn’t met.

Damian intended to keep it that way.

Not forever.

Just until he’d repaired everything the years of silence had broken. Until you trusted him without hesitation. Until you looked for him first. Until your apartment felt less like home than Wayne Manor. Until every decision you made instinctively accounted for him. Until loving him became as natural as breathing.

Then, and only then, would he tell you the truth.

By that point, Damian no longer believed it would matter.

Because by then, there would be nowhere else in the world you would ever want to be except exactly where he’d spent the years wishing you had always been.

Beside him.

You had skipped breakfast after oversleeping, rushed through the front doors of Wayne Enterprises with your hair still damp, and spent the next four hours buried beneath spreadsheets.

Around noon, someone knocked once on your office door.

You looked up. Damian stepped inside carrying a paper bag from the café downstairs. "I noticed you didn't eat."

You smiled despite yourself. "You came all the way down here for that?"

"You become irritable when your blood sugar drops." He set the bag on your desk with the same care he used when placing files in front of Bruce during board meetings.

"I thought you would appreciate the reminder."

It was thoughtful. You thanked him.

By the second week, he stopped asking if you'd eaten. He already knew.

"I brought lunch."

"I'm actually going out with the accounting department."

"You aren't."

You frowned. "We already planned it."

Damian removed a small container from the paper bag before speaking.

"They rescheduled."

"What?"

"They've been called into an emergency budget meeting."

Your phone buzzed. Every person in the group chat was apologising.

Sorry! Something came up.

Rain check?

You stared at the messages. "...That's weird."

"It happens." Damian placed a pair of chopsticks beside your lunch. "Eat before it gets cold."

You hesitated. Then opened the container.

It kept happening.

Whenever coworkers invited you somewhere, plans somehow dissolved before they happened.

A canceled reservation. An urgent meeting. Someone suddenly calling in sick.

After a while, people simply stopped asking.

It wasn't deliberate. It was just easier to assume you were busy. So lunch became something you shared with Damian.

Every day.

Without either of you ever discussing it.

↑←↓→

It was raining when you left the office.

Not super hard, just enough to make the pavement shine beneath the streetlights. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your coat and hurried toward the subway entrance, already thinking about the leftovers waiting in your apartment.

"You'll catch a cold."

You didn't have to turn around. "I'll survive."

Damian fell into step beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of you despite the fact that he'd appeared from nowhere. You hadn't seen him leave the building.

"You've said that before."

"I've also survived before."

"That isn't the point."

You sighed. "Then what is?"

"The point is that your zipper is broken."

Instinctively, you glanced down at your coat. The zipper caught halfway, as it always did. You gave it another tug before giving up. "I know. I'll replace it eventually."

Damian's eyes lingered on the torn seam near your wrist. "No."

You frowned. "No?"

"You won't."

"I literally just said I would."

"You said 'eventually.'" His tone remained perfectly even. "That generally means you have no intention of doing it until circumstances force you to."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

Something about the certainty in his voice irritated you.

"You don't get to decide whether I'm going to buy a coat."

"I already have."

You stopped walking. "So that's it?" You laughed once, short and incredulous. "You've decided for me?"

"You require one."

"I require money more."

"You have sufficient savings for the amount you have worked."

"How would you know what my savings look like?"

For the first time since the conversation began, Damian hesitated. Only for a fraction of a second. "It isn't relevant."

"It becomes relevant when you somehow know how much money I have."

"I know enough."

The answer settled uncomfortably in your stomach. You wanted to ask another question. Instead, you started walking again.

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the trip.

←↑↓→

Three days later, the receptionist downstairs smiled as you entered your apartment building.

"A package came for you this morning."

"I wasn't expecting one."

"It didn't have a return address."

The box was surprisingly heavy.

Inside was a winter coat. Not just any coat. The exact one you'd stopped to look at in a shop window two weeks earlier.

You remembered standing outside the display for maybe thirty seconds before deciding it was too expensive.

You'd never mentioned it to anyone. Not even Damian.

There was no gift receipt.

Nothing except a small envelope tucked beneath the tissue paper.

Inside was a single card.

Your previous coat no longer provided adequate protection. Dispose of it.

No signature. There didn't need to be one.

The coat fit perfectly.

→←↑↓

"You bought me a coat."

Damian didn't look up from the documents spread across his desk. "I replaced one."

"I never asked you to."

"No."

"I told you not to spend money on me."

"I didn't." He finally looked up. "I spent money on an item."

"...Which you then gave to me."

"Correct."

"So you spent money on me."

"No." His expression remained completely serious. "I spent money maintaining an asset under my care."

You stared at him. "An asset?"

He frowned slightly, as if that wasn't the word he'd intended. "A responsibility."

"I'm not your responsibility."

"You are."

"No, Damian. I'm not."

"You arrived at work soaked twice last week because you refused to replace damaged clothing. You developed a cough yesterday."

"I would've bought one eventually."

"You were cold."

"I said I would've bought one."

"But you didn't." He spoke with the same patient tone someone might use while explaining something obvious to a child. "Intent is meaningless if the outcome remains the same."

You opened your mouth to argue but he continued before you could.

"When Titus refuses to come inside during winter, I don't leave him outside because he wishes to stay there."

"...Did you just compare me to your dog?"

"I compared your behavior."

"No. You compared me."

"I compared two living beings who consistently underestimate environmental hazards."

"One of those living beings is a German Shepherd."

"Yes."

"And the other is me."

"Yes."

He didn't understand why that distinction mattered. You could see it in his face. To Damian, the comparison wasn't insulting. It was practical.

Titus couldn't accurately judge the risk of prolonged exposure to the cold.

Neither, apparently, could you.

The fact that you could speak, hold a job, pay taxes, and argue with him didn't alter the underlying equation in his mind.

Capability wasn't measured by adulthood. It was measured by whether you could reliably keep yourself safe.

He'd already reached his conclusion months ago.

You simply hadn't realised he'd been treating you accordingly.

↑←→↓

It started with coffee.

You'd been ordering the same thing from the café in the lobby since your second week at Wayne Enterprises. Large latte. Whole milk. Two pumps of caramel. It was practically muscle memory. Every morning you'd mumble, "The usual, thanks." Tap your card against the terminal, and collect your cup without thinking.

One Tuesday, you took a sip on the way to the elevator and frowned.

Less sweet.

You glanced back toward the café, wondering if the barista had simply forgotten the syrup. It wasn't worth walking back over, so you drank it anyway.

The next morning it tasted the same.

And the morning after that.

By Friday, you assumed they'd changed the recipe.

A few weeks later, you found yourself standing in line behind two coworkers from accounting. They were chatting idly while the baristas rushed through the morning crowd.

"The usual?" the girl behind the register asked as soon as she saw you.

"Yeah, thanks."

She nodded before you'd said another word. "Oat milk latte. One pump vanilla."

You blinked.

"...Sorry?"

"Oat milk latte?" she repeated, already reaching for a cup. "One pump vanilla."

"No, I usually get caramel."

She looked genuinely confused. "You used to."

"I.." You laughed awkwardly. "No, I still do."

She glanced toward another employee behind the espresso machine. "Didn't they change it?"

"They?"

"The gentleman who usually orders for you."

Your smile faltered. "What gentleman?"

"The one who's in here all the time." She frowned, trying to remember. "Dark hair. Gorgeous. Kind of intimidating."

Your stomach sank. "...Damian?"

"That's his name!" She smiled, relieved.

"He said you'd been trying to cut back on sugar. We've been making it that way ever since."

You stared at her. "I never said that."

"Oh."

Her smile dimmed. "I just assumed.." She looked embarrassed. "I thought he was your assistant."

You didn't answer.

You took the coffee she'd already made, murmured a thank you, and walked away before she could apologise.

Halfway across the lobby, you took another sip. It wasn't even bad. In fact.. It tasted exactly the way you expected your coffee to taste.

You couldn't remember when your own preference had changed.

Or whether it ever had.

That Saturday you decided to stop at woolies on the way home.

Your fridge was nearly empty, and for once you had no plans. No meetings. No dinner at Wayne Manor. No texts from Damian reminding you that you'd skipped lunch.

You grabbed a trolley and headed toward the produce section.

Before you'd made it ten feet, someone in the green Woolworths uniform looked up from unpacking a crate of avocados.

"Oh! You're here yourself today."

You smiled politely. "I usually am."

He laughed. "No, your assistant normally collects everything."

The trolley came to a stop. "My assistant?"

"The bloke."

He pointed vaguely toward the online pickup counter.

"Tall. Black hair. Doesn't smile much."

Your grip tightened around the handle. "I... don't have an assistant."

The employee looked between you and the pickup shelves, clearly thinking he'd made some sort of mistake.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I just figured.." He rubbed the back of his neck. "He knows your order off by heart."

"My order?"

"Yeah."

He gestured toward the refrigerated section. "Every Tuesday. Same online pickup. Chicken breast, brown rice, spinach, Greek yoghurt, blueberries, eggs, almonds..."

He kept listing items one after another. Healthy. Measured. Predictable. Almost identical to what Damian packed for lunch whenever he insisted on bringing you food. Nothing like what you usually got.

"You've got one of the easiest orders to pack in the system," he continued with an easy laugh. "Never changes."

You looked down into your empty trolley. "I don't remember ordering any of that."

He blinked. "...Really?"

"I haven't done online groceries in months."

"Oh." His smile returned, uncertain now. "I guess whoever orders for you just has your account."

You wandered the aisles in a daze after that.

You picked up a box of sugary cereal, then hesitated.

Hadn't you loved this?

Or had you only bought it once?

You reached for the frozen buffalo chicken protein pizza.

No. You preferred the greasy cheesy ones.. Didn't you?

By the time you reached the checkout, your trolley contained almost nothing.

A loaf of bread. Milk. Pasta.

You couldn't remember what else belonged in your kitchen. Everything you reached for came with a second thought.

Damian doesn't buy this.

Not I don't like this. Damian doesn't buy this.

Somewhere, without noticing, you'd stopped shopping for yourself and you'd started shopping according to habits that weren't yours.

When you unlocked your apartment later that evening, you opened the pantry and simply stood there.

Brown rice. Herbal teas. Wholegrain crackers. Natural peanut butter. Every shelf was neat. Organised. Restocked.

You tried to remember buying any of it.

You couldn't.

The only thing you were certain of was that Damian liked all of it.

For the first time since you'd met him, a thought occurred to you that made your skin crawl.

You couldn't remember the last decision you'd made that had remained entirely your own.

↑→↓←

Which doors you were expected to use. Which routes you naturally took through Wayne Enterprises without thinking. Which elevators always seemed to arrive when you were alone, and which ones never did.

It wasn’t obvious enough to call it anything. That was the problem.

If someone had asked you directly whether you were being controlled, you would have said no. You still had your job. Your own apartment. Your own name on the lease. You could leave the building whenever you wanted.

Except you didn’t, not without telling Damian first.

And somehow it had become normal.

It had started as courtesy. You told him when you were heading home so he didn’t “worry about your commute.” Then it became easier to mention where you were going so he wouldn’t text. Then it became automatic, like checking the weather before leaving the house.

Now, when you didn’t say anything, things got complicated.

A car would be waiting when you stepped outside anyway. A message would arrive asking if you’d changed plans.

Once, when you’d tried to leave without telling him at all, security had stopped you at the ground floor.

“Mr Wayne requested confirmation,” the guard had said, checking a list he clearly thought you belonged on. “Just routine.”

You remembered standing there, keycard in your hand, realising you didn’t know when your movements had become something that required confirmation.

You hadn’t argued. There was nothing to argue against that didn’t make you sound paranoid.

So you went back upstairs, and sent Damian a message saying you’d “forgotten something.”

He replied almost immediately.

Good. You’re learning to check in properly.

You stared at the screen for a long time after that.

The worst part wasn’t the obvious things. It was the gaps.

Like how your phone stopped suggesting certain places because you “never went there anymore.” Or how your usual café no longer even appeared in your saved locations. Or how friends stopped inviting you out because every time they tried, schedules collapsed in ways no one could quite explain.

You told yourself it was coincidence until coincidence became too consistent to ignore.

When you asked Maya, your coworker from accounting, the one person who still occasionally tried to include you in plans, she hesitated.

“I mean… it’s always something,” she said carefully one afternoon over coffee. “You’re either busy or something comes up right after you say yes. It’s like… bad timing, constantly.”

“I don’t cancel things,” you said automatically.

She gave you a look you couldn’t quite read. “I know. That’s why it’s weird.”

She didn’t say Damian’s name. No one ever did directly when it felt like it might matter.

But it hung there anyway. Unspoken.

The moment you started to properly feel it, really feel it, was the night you tried to stay out late.

It wasn’t even rebellion. It was exhaustion. You’d been at work too long, your head aching, your phone already buzzing with reminders you hadn’t asked for. So when Maya suggested grabbing dinner nearby, you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

For once, nothing immediately fell apart.

No cancelled booking. No sudden emergency. No interrupted plan.

You almost relaxed.

Then your phone rang.

Damian.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.

“You’re not home,” he said without greeting.

“I’m out.”

A pause. Not surprised. Measured.

“With Maya.”

“Yes.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“I see.”

Something in his tone made you feel sick. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it didn’t matter,” you added quickly. “It’s just dinner.”

“It matters,” he said simply.

Then, after a beat: “You’re deviating from routine again.”

“I’m allowed to have dinner with a friend.”

“You are allowed to leave the environment I’ve structured for your stability, yes.”

You closed your eyes. “There is no environment you’ve structured for me.”

Silence on the line.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You’re tired. Your judgement will be impaired tonight.”

“That’s not your call.”

“It is when you don’t recognise your own limits.”

Something cold settled behind your ribs. Across the table, Maya was watching you now, pretending not to.

“I’m fine,” you said, quieter.

“You’re not,” Damian replied.

And then, almost gently, “I’ll send a car.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You do.”

You stood up so abruptly your chair scraped the floor.

“I said no.”

The line went cold.

“I hear you,” Damian said.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, he added: “But you’re still not staying out late.”

You stood there holding your phone, realising slowly that he hadn’t threatened you. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even argued. He had simply stated the outcome as something already decided.

Maya said your name, cautiously, and you barely heard her..

You weren’t being managed. You were being kept track of. And you were just now realising how much of your life now required permission you didn’t remember giving.

↓↑→←

The sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb of the restaurant with a silent, predatory grace. The driver was a man who looked like he had been trained to move without making a sound.

He simply stood by the door, waiting. He didn't look at Maya. He didn't look at the other patrons. He looked only at you, with the expectant, neutral gaze of a handler waiting for a well trained pet to finish its meal.

You felt Maya’s eyes on you, heavy with a mixture of pity and confusion. "Are you.. is everything okay?" she whispered.

"It's fine," you lied, the words tasting like ash. "Just... a long day."

As you slid into the back of the car, the scent of the interior, expensive leather, rain, and that faint, sharp undertone of mint that always seemed to cling to Damian’s presence hit you.

The seat was heated, perfectly adjusted to a temperature you hadn't chosen but always found comfortable. The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing you into a private, silent world.

You didn't have to check your phone to know he was watching. You could feel the weight of his attention even from miles away.

When you finally reached the penthouse, the lights were dimmed to a soft, amber glow. The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the climate control. You kicked off your shoes, feeling the sudden, overwhelming urge to just crawl into bed and disappear, but the routine wouldn't allow it.

Damian was waiting in the living area. He wasn't sitting on the sofa like you expected. He was standing by the floor to ceiling windows, a glass of dark liquid in his hand.

He didn't turn when you entered. He didn't need to. He knew the cadence of your footsteps. He knew the exact moment you crossed the threshold.

"You're late," he said. It didn’t sound like a scolding.

"The dinner ran long," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. You walked past him toward the kitchen, but he moved with a sudden, fluid grace, intercepting your path.

His tall, lean frame cast a long shadow over you. He reached out, his hand moving to your chin, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with gentle pressure.

His touch was reminiscent of how he handled the high bred hounds at the manor. Firm, possessive, and entirely devoid of the hesitation one might show a peer.

"You look disheveled," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress, any sign of 'damage' caused by the outside world. "The city is loud, chaotic. It's too much for you. You shouldn't be out there so late, where things are unpredictable."

"I'm not a child, Damian," you said, though the words felt weak even to your own ears.

"No," he agreed, his thumb moving to brush against your lower lip. "You are much more precious than a child. You are.. delicate. You require a specific kind of stewardship."

He leaned in closer, his scent that cool, sharp mint enveloping you. "When you wander without a leash, you get lost. You get tired. You let people like Maya fill your time with trivialities that serve no purpose for your well being."

A shiver ran down your spine. He spoke of your life as if it were a garden he had planted. He didn't see your independence as a virtue, he saw it as a vulnerability.

"I have dinner planned for you tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, harmonic register that usually calmed you, but now made your heart race with a strange, trapped sensation. "Something light. Something that will help you recover from today's.. exertion."

He stepped back, finally releasing you, but the space he left behind felt cold. He turned his gaze toward the window again, the conversation effectively over.

"Go wash up," he commanded softly. "I've already laid out your clothes. The silk ones. They're softer on your skin."

As you walked toward the bedroom, you realised with a sinking heart that he hadn't even asked how your night was. He hadn't asked if you enjoyed the food or if Maya had said anything interesting. He only cared that you had returned to the enclosure. He only cared that his most cherished thing was back where it belonged: within his reach, under his eyes, and entirely under his care.

You felt like a bird in a gilded cage, and the most terrifying part was how much you had started to rely on the bars to keep you upright.

You had found it tucked away in a drawer of a desk in the library at the manor. A drawer you were never supposed to touch, a space meant for his private ledgers.

It was a small, leather bound sketchbook. Looked to be as old if not older than Damian himself.

You had opened it, expecting business notes or tactical maps.

Instead, you found your own soul.

Every "Are you there?" you had scrawled on your skin as a lonely child was there, preserved in his precise, elegant ink. Every "Please answer" was captured in his beautiful, sweeping script. He hadn't ignored you. He had collected you. He had been reading your heart for years, documenting your loneliness as if it were a sacred text.

The notebook slipped from your hands, hitting the thick rug with a dull thud.

Page after page of your own handwriting stared back at you. Preserved.

Every childish question. Every lonely afternoon. Every desperate, humiliating attempt to convince yourself someone might be listening.

You remembered writing most of them.

You remembered crying after some of them.

You remembered eventually stopping.

Your entire life reduced to paper.

"You were always a curious one," a smooth, deep voice drifted from the doorway.

You bolted upright, your heart hammering hard against your ribs. Damian stood there, silhouetted by the warm light of the hallway. He didn't look angry. He didn't look caught. He looked... satisfied.

"You-you’re.." you breathed, the words trembling. "My soulmate..?"

Damian crossed the room, his movements silent and predatory. He didn't stop until he was hovering over you.

He sank to his knees in front of you, reaching out. His fingers tangled in your hair, petting you with that same, terrifyingly gentle devotion he gave to his most prized pets.

"I was observing," he corrected softly, his deep emerald eyes locked onto yours. "I was waiting until you were ready. Until the world had finished bruising you so that I could be the one to mend you."

"You've been mending me?" You let out a breathless, hysterical laugh. "Damian, you've been curating me! The cars, the security, the 'routines'.. you weren't helping me live. You were making sure I didn't wander off!"

"And why shouldn't you be kept close?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

His scent that cool, intoxicating mint filled your senses, making your head swim. "The world is a jagged, cruel place. It doesn't know how to handle someone as precious as you. They see a person, they see a worker, a friend, a stranger. They don't see the miracle that you are."

"I'm not a miracle," you protested, trying to push his chest away, but your hands felt weak against his lean muscle. "I am a person. I have a life. I have choices."

"You have my choices," he whispered, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a rhythmic, soothing motion. "And they are all designed for your happiness. Is it so wrong to want to ensure your comfort? To ensure you are fed, rested, and loved without the interference of the mundane?"

He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. It burned. Felt nothing like the passion you’d always hoped for.

"You're sick.." you whispered, the word feeling absurd in the face of his overwhelming tenderness.

Damian pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a small, boyish grin the one that usually looked charming but now looked devastating touching his lips. "A harsh term. I prefer... devoted."

He stood up, reaching down to take your hand. He didn't pull you, he simply offered his palm, waiting for you to take it. It was an invitation, but you knew it was also a command.

"Come," he said, his voice a warm, melodic hum. "You've had a shock. You're trembling. Let's get you settled. I've had Alfred prepare that tea you like, and the new linens are ready." His voice was calm.

If anything, faintly disappointed when you didn’t move. Like bat-cow had wandered somewhere she wasn’t meant to and now required collecting.

You looked at him. Really looked. For the first time since meeting him, pieces that had never seemed connected began slotting together with nauseating precision.

The lunches. The phone calls. The coat. Your coffee. The security downstairs who somehow always recognised you. The reception staff who smiled before you’d spoken. The meetings that always happened to include Damian, regardless of whether they had anything to do with Wayne Enterprises. The quiet, invisible way your life had bent around him until his presence no longer felt unusual.

You couldn’t remember when that had happened. Perhaps that was the point.

“…It was you.”

It came out barely above a whisper. “The whole time.”

Damian crossed the room without hurry.

He stopped close enough that you could smell the familiar scent of mint clinging to his clothes. “I had intended to tell you.”

“When?”

“When it no longer frightened you.”

You laughed. A small, broken sound that didn’t resemble amusement.

“You’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”

“I omitted information.”

“You watched me tell you about my soulmate.”

“Yes.”

“You listened while I told you I wished I’d been born normal.”

His expression changed then. Something softened around his eyes. “I know.”

“I know,” he repeated quietly. “I read every one of those thoughts long before you said them aloud.”

He reached past you, lifting the notebook from the floor with surprising care before setting it back on the desk.

“I remember every message.” His fingertips rested against the worn leather cover.

“‘Are you there?’”

Your breathing caught.

“‘Please answer.’”

You couldn’t move.

“‘I think something’s wrong with me.’”

He recited them without looking.

He already knew them. Every single one.

“I was eight,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I thought…” Your voice failed.

“I know.”

You stared at him. “You don’t understand.”

“No.”

He looked back at you with complete certainty. “I understand perfectly.” There was no hesitation. No apology. No shame. “I know what you believed.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward your forearm before returning to your face.

“I know how often you blamed yourself.”

He lifted a hand, brushing an invisible crease from your sleeve with the same absent care he’d shown a hundred times before.

“I know you stopped buying caramel because I preferred vanilla. I know you only pretend to like herbal tea. I know you sleep better if the room is colder. I know you become overwhelmed when supermarkets are crowded. I know you forget to eat whenever work becomes stressful.”

“You don’t..” Your throat felt painfully tight. “You don’t know me.”

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. “I know you better than anyone.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Of course I have.” The answer came so naturally that, for a second, it almost sounded ridiculous that you’d asked.

“I lost so many years.” His voice remained even. “I have been correcting that.”

He looked around the room. At the books on the shelves. The chair by the window. The cup of tea growing cold beside the sofa. Your home.

Then he looked back at you. “I have spent every day since finding you making your life easier.” He smiled softly. “You call it manipulation because you insist on imagining the life you had before I arrived.” He stepped closer. “So do I.”

There was no triumph in his expression. Only something devastatingly gentle. “I remember the person who apologised for taking up space. The person who believed fate had simply… forgotten them.”

His hand settled lightly against your cheek. “I remember because I was the one reading it.”

“You keep looking at everything I’ve done and asking yourself how I could justify it.” His forehead rested lightly against yours. “You’ve misunderstood.”

His voice dropped into something almost unbearably soft. “I’ve never had to.”

There wasn’t the slightest doubt in him. Not after the notebook. Not after the messages. Not after so many years. In Damian’s mind, he’d already spent a lifetime loving you.

The only difference now was that you finally knew his name.

Please comment and reblog :)

13K+ words, 77K+ characters, 1K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 47 minute average reading time, 1 hour 11 minute average speaking time.

I lowkey really rushed this one to get it out before the end of the month, so I apologise if it’s obvious

Read Tim Drake’s part here.

Read Jason Todd’s part here.

Read Bruce Wayne’s part here.

Read Dick Grayson’s part here.

[lil0freak]

Wanting

Neighbor!Jason Todd x gn!Reader

Summary: Jason has a new neighbor that he can't help but notice.

Warnings: brief mentions of Joker and alludes to wanting Bruce to kill him, mentions of minor injuries, potentially bad writing

WC: 1,211

Fluff!, No use of y/n, reader is very cheerful

—

Jason wasn’t used to letting himself want things.  It’s easier if he doesn’t.  When he lets himself want things, when he lets himself hope, he’s met with disappointment. 

Did he even miss me? “It’s him or me, you have to decide.” Why won’t he choose me? “I’ve never seen you hit Joker that hard, and you hate him.” He won’t kill the Joker. “Doing it because… because he took me away from you.” He won’t kill the man that killed his son.

Sometimes, he comes home with his hands shaking.  Mostly on nights where all he sees is a vast expanse of darkness with rows of sharp teeth and all he feels is the hot breath of Gotham on the back of his neck.  He squeezes his hands a few times after he’s stripped off his gloves, ignoring the unsteadiness.  Thrumming under his skin is a deeply human desire, to be cared for, to matter to someone, to be chosen.  Not that he could identify that that was what caused the uneasy ache coursing through him.  It’s easier to not identify it, anyway, to pay it no mind as he eats and showers and passes out on top of his covers.  It’s easier this way.  It’s easier to not want things. 

He’s parking his bike when he briefly notices the moving van pulling away from its spot in front of the stoop, something he thinks about when he passes apartment 504, an apartment that he knows has been vacant for a couple of months by now, with a door mat sitting outside of it.  He briefly hums in acknowledgement of the new addition to the hall as he makes his way to his own door.

—

His new neighbor is… friendly.  

He’s carrying up groceries when he first meets you.  You had just locked your door as he rounded the corner and you waved, key ring around your middle finger as your keys swished against your palm with the movement, introducing yourself with an open smile that caused the skin around your eyes to crinkle. 

“Hey. Jason.” He smiles, awkwardly, he’s sure of it, slightly lifting the two paper bags he’s carrying from the bottom to keep them from ripping, and the helmet that dangles from two fingers under the brown paper, as a way of waving back. 

“Nice to meet you, Jason!” You took a step towards where he had just come from, ready to turn and leave, but not before you shot your hand up in a short wave once more, “Have a great day!” 

He eyes you skeptically as you walk away, digging out his keys and half-heartedly grumbling about someone being cheery today. 

Little did he know yet, you’re often cheery.  Not over the top, and he’s certain you don’t even think twice about it.  You smiled and waved and held the elevator open for people, you were just nice. You live in Gotham and you were nice. 

—

“Oof, that looks like it hurt.”  You grimace when you see him, stepping out of your apartment as he’s walking past the few doors between your two units, his bottom lip having obviously been busted, scabbing over and slightly bruised.  The pockets of his jacket hide his matching knuckles.  You fall into step with him as you both walk toward the elevator. 

He chuckles once, shrugs, “Nothing I can’t handle.”  He presses the down arrow through the leather as you look at him with a cocked eyebrow, gaze somewhere between concerned and humored.  It was your turn to chuckle.  

“Well that’s not ominous.” 

“I’m an ominous guy.”

“Yeah, I’m gathering.” You’re smiling as you say it, a somewhat confused mirth in your eyes as the two of you file into the elevator and you press the button for the ground floor.  

—

He likes that you talk to him in the hallway.  It’s often just pleasantries, “hey, how are you?”s and “any plans this weekend?”s and questions he doesn’t really see the point of, like, “did you see the sun was out for like a whole hour earlier? I hope you were able to enjoy it!”  You ask if he’s cooked anything fun recently when you see him carrying groceries.  You tell him he should grab a scarf because it’s “colder than hell frozen over out there.”  You point to his copy of “Wide Sargasso Sea” that he picked up on the way home and tell him “that’s a good one! You’ll have to tell me what you think,” with the same smile that’s always stretching your cheeks.  

He slides into the elevator, past your outstretched arm holding the doors for him, thanking you for doing so.  

You tilt your head up towards him, smiling, waving your hand and saying it’s not a problem. He’s standing too close.  Your arm brushes his as you drop it back down to your side.  He stares ahead.  Hard.  

“Long day?”  You ask, noticing the tension in his shoulders. 

He clears his throat, “Uhm, yeah, something like that.”

“Quite the normal answer you got there,” you quip back, slightly laughing, lightening the mood. 

“I’m quite the normal guy,” he can’t help it, he feels himself smiling back, stealing a glance at you.  He tries to come off cool, charming and sarcastic in the way that comes naturally to him, always having a joke at the tip of his tongue to hide behind.  He knows he’s not quite successful, his voice sounding just a fraction too… soft.  

“Well, normal guy, what have you got going on tonight?” You ask him so casually, as you grab your keys, sliding your middle finger through the key ring and holding them in the palm of your hand, the way you always do.  So casual, normal.  Things he was not, could not be.  

The elevator dings and you start walking before he does.  

“Normal things,” he catches up to you easily. 

“Riiiiight, well, good luck with all your normal things” you respond light-heartedly. You’ve stopped in front of your door, your back to it and today, he stopped, too, facing you. “I hope you have a good night, Jason," you’re looking up at him with a close-mouthed, pleased smile stretched across your face.  

He’s staring and he knows it.  A beat too late he says, “Yeah, you too,” and his head is slightly tilted to the side as he smiles back at you.  A smile that has long since stopped being so awkward around you, but also isn’t playing defense with a joke, isn’t asserting any aura of cocky self-assuredness.  Instead, there on his face sits a soft smile that’s a touch too vulnerable for his own liking. 

You shoot your hand up in a quick wave, keys swishing from side to side.  He nods his head as a goodbye and starts walking to his own apartment.  When he unlocks his door, he looks back to your own, only to see you already looking at him, key unmoving in your door.  You duck your head down quickly, and walk inside your home as he does the same. His hands shake as he takes the key out of his lock, an uneasy ache underneath his skin, sending nervous energy pulsing through his body and thrumming under his skin.  

Jason Todd wants something.

[wingfleur]

thinking about jason todd leaning down to hear you when you talk.

if i’m being honest, i feel like he does it often. sometimes, it’s because it’s a little too noisy where you’re at, and other times, it’s because you’re a little too soft-spoken, which makes it hard to hear you. overall, it’s because jason is just too damn big for his own good, so, most of the time, he just can’t hear you and has to lean in close so you don’t have to repeat yourself again for a third or fourth time.

it happens like this: he’ll be standing next to you with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused raptly on something going on in front of him. maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s a movie being watched on the couch by your friends— whatever it is, jason is locked in, jaw set in concentration as he focuses on what he’s seeing. then, when you quietly add commentary, his brows will twitch and he’ll mindlessly turn his head to the side, prompting you to say whatever you said again. it’s autopilot for jason— like it’s programmed into him already.

he doesn’t move all at once, either. his head turns first, then his body follows, but his eyes? oh, those fall to you last. his pretty blue eyes (that also flicker with this mysterious shade of green sometimes) stay trained on what’s in front of him for a few seconds longer. in comparison to the rest of his body, it’s almost as if they’re on a delay.

it’s only after he mumbles a quiet “hm?” to get you to speak again does he finally look at you, hinged at the hip with that white tuft of hair he has hanging in his face. all he’s met with in return is the lack of an audible response and the sight of you staring up at him in awe, your jaw slack and your eyes wide. whatever you were saying is clearly lost on you now, and jason realizes that, but it’s not a big deal. it would never be a big deal. you’re just nervous, and luckily for him, jason loves making you nervous.

“i didn’t say anything,” you lie unconvincingly, throat hoarse from this sudden bout of dryness that’s seemed to set in. you whip your head back towards the tv and jason snorts at your reaction, standing back up to full height with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

“yeah, okay,” he replies, doing nothing to hide the amusement in his voice. “whatever helps y’sleep at night.”

# — navigation

[amnxp]

Thinkin about you

Pairing: Jason todd x fem!reader

Summary:Jason just came home from a long mission and he just can‘t seem to fucking find you in your apartment.

Warning: panic attacks, kissing yk the usual

Wordcount: 2.1k

A/N: had to pump something out since ill see you in a minute is taking a little backseat also april dont use Frank Ocean songs as your title challenge GO all aside guys i have 100 followers thats insane!!the other day i was just celebrating having 20??? Now100????TYSM:^^

Aight Toodles!

Masterlist

ENGLISH IS NOT MY NATIVE LANGUAGE BE AWARE!

Jason kicked the door shut behind him, the weight of two weeks undercover in Narrows scum clinging to his shoulders like a second skin.

He was still in his tactical gear, boots scuffed, knuckles split, lip blood red and raw from him biting it too much and helmet hanging from his fingertips. All he wanted was a goddamn shower and to find you curled up on the couch, half-asleep in one of his old shirts, perhaps waiting on him even when he clearly told you he didn‘t know when he would return with something playing low on the TV that you weren’t really watching.

But the apartment was silent. Still. Too still. He frowned.

“Baby?” he called, his voice hoarse. Nothing. Not even the sound of you rustling around in the tiny-ass kitchen that barely had space for both your bodies when he pressed you against the counter. “You here?”

No answer.

He dropped the helmet onto the couch with a dull thud, scanning the living room- small, lived-in, your touch on everything. Blanket thrown over the armrest. Mug on the coffee table. One of your socks under the edge of the couch. The place looked like you'd just stepped out for a second. But his gut told him otherwise.

Jason moved fast when he was worried. But now in your way-too-small apartment he was bumping into the walls. Bootsteps heavy as he checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the closet you both swore you'd clean out last week. Nothing. No bag missing. No note. No message on his phone, not that he’d had service the last two days. "Goddammit..." he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. The apartment barely fit him on a good day — hell, it barely fit both of you, and that was half the charm. But now it just felt... empty. Wrong. Where the fuck were you? He felt his heart start to race and his breaths start to leave him in short, quick, strong breaths that hurt. Before he could start ripping the walls off of your apartment because maybe-just maybe-you were hiding underneath them as a prank a new thought entered his messed up brain. Maybe joker got to you. Maybe Joker got to….you. And he swore to whatever entity above if joker got his hands on you he would tear Gotham from limb to limb until there were ashes left in place of this godforsaken city. His shaking hands fiddled with his phone to try and call Dick. Dick was still on patrol around the area maybe he could go out and search for you as Jason gets every weapon known and unknown to mankind to torture any of Joker‘s goons for information because any other explanation wouldn‘t make sense to him.

He has you. He has you. He has you.

And maybe you were already dead.

His phone fell from his trembling hands as he tried to pick it up again but his heart was beating too fast his hands were shaking too much snd they were too sweaty and everything just fucking hurt and why the fuck weren‘t you here? On his knees now his hands found his hair as he digged into the strands.

„Jay?“

His head snapped over his shoulder towards the door and there you stood. Key in hand and your eyebrows furrowed and not a fucking worry in sight about perhaps being captured by the Joker. If Jason couldn‘t breathe before right now he certainly couldn‘t.

His eyes glossed over and he parted his lips to speak but before he could even think of saying anything you quickly close the door behind you, mindful not to actually slam it shut, and stalk towards him as you land on your knees before him. His face contores into a small grimace as your knees scrape against the rough hard wood floor you had. Your nimble hands cradle his face and he can see your mouth moving but he can’t hear anything. His ears are ringing and everything around him was going in and out of focus. All he could actually focus on was you. Your thumbs brushed over the stubble on his jaw as you tried to get him to look at you- really look at you.

“Jay. Jay, baby? Baby, breathe. It‘s Okay.” Your voice cut through the white noise like a lifeline, soft but urgent and in a whisper, your fingers slipping into his hair replacing his rough ones that pulled at the strands just to ground him.

His lips trembled. You were warm. Solid. Alive. And he was going to throw up.

Jason surged forward, his arms wrapping around you so tight it knocked the air out of your lungs, but you didn’t care and you were quite sure that he didn‘t either. You held him just as tightly, if not more. He buried his face in your shoulder and breathed. In. Out. In again. It was messy, shaky, and uneven, but the scent of you was familiar, grounding and enough to make the world tilt back into focus. Slowly.

"I thought-" His voice cracked. “I thought he had you.”

You felt it then- the wet heat of tears hitting your skin. He had cried in front of you before. Many nights where his nightmares were just too real for him to bear alone. He would softly wake you up and you would hold him as he silently wept into you and you never judged him. Not him or his past. You closed your eyes and pressed your lips to his temple.

“I just went outside for a second,” you whispered. “We were out of coffee. You always want coffee when you get back from a job. I wanted to get you some but i forgot my wallet. Kinda glad i did right now“ a soft chuckle escapes you.

Jason shook his head against you, still holding on like letting go might undo you, might unmake you and all the fragile peace you brought into his chaos. “Didn’t see a message. Nothing. Place was too quiet. I-I thought…”

“I know.” You combed your fingers through his hair again, slow and soothing, like you’d done on the nights the nightmares were too loud. “You’ve been out there too long. Everything feels wrong when you come back.” You place your chin ontop of his head as you keep ranking through the back of his hair.

“It wasn’t just that,” he choked out. “I felt it. That...in my chest. The panic. I couldn’t breathe. You weren’t here. I thought it was like that time. I thought-fuck, I don’t even know what I thought, just that it was happening again. I was there again with him..”

In that warehouse.

With death.

You tightened your grip around him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jay,” you said. “You hear me? You could raze Gotham to the ground looking for me, and I’d still come home to you.” He laughed then, but it was hollow, cracked down the middle, his forehead pressing hard against the crook of your neck. “Don’t say that. You shouldn’t have to come home to this.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Just held him. Let him collapse without shame. Because you knew better than anyone that Jason Peter Todd was the strongest man known. But even steel buckles under enough pressure.

Eventually, you pulled back, hands moving to cup his face again. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin, pale. His lip, cracked. He looked wrecked. Destroyed. “C’mon,” you murmured gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He shook his head in a frenzy. “I don’t want to move.”

“We don’t have to go far,” you promised. “Just the bathroom. I’ll draw you a bath. And we can sit. That’s it. Just sit me and you.”

You guided him up slowly, carefully, mindful of how unsteady he was on his feet, when you realised you wouldn‘t get another answer out of him. His grip never left you — one hand tangled in the fabric of your hoodie, the other on your waist. Like if he let go, the floor might open up and swallow him whole and he would be back there.

In the bathroom, you flicked the lights on and turned the faucet. The water hissed into the tub, and the steam quickly filled the room. Jason stood behind you, leaning against the sink. You turned and reached for the hem of his suit. Only now did you realize that he still had it on.

He flinched.

“Hey.” Your voice was soft, coaxing. “It’s me.” Jason closed his eyes. Breathed in again.

Bruises, fresh and healing, littered his torso like a road map of violence. The jagged scar near his ribs, the one that never fully faded, was red around the edges. You didn’t ask if he’d reopened it. You already knew. He had this tendency when he got anxious that he would just sit and scratch away at all of his scars as if it would make them dissapear. He didn’t speak, not for a long while, until your fingers ghosted too gently over one of the deeper cuts.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes distant, fixed on the tile.

“You didn’t,” you said. “You won’t.”

“You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

You met his gaze. “You’re not the only one who fights to hold on, Jason. I may not be out there on rooftops or in back alleys, but I fight every day to be here. With you. You think I’d let some clown-faced asshole take that away from me? Take you away from me? I wasn‘t there the first time and i won‘t let it happen a second time.”

He let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tumble from him often. Not because he didn’t feel them, but because he felt them too much. Too deeply. Like they were fragile, and precious, and terrifying all at once.

You stepped closer and pressed your forehead to his.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “Now get in that tub before your muscles lock up like last time.” He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

You helped him in and sat nearby, cross-legged on the bathroom floor. The bathwater lapped gently at the porcelain as Jason let himself sink deeper, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to bleed away.

A long silence stretched between you.

Then,

“You really went for coffee?”

You smiled. “Yeah. And those snacks you like.”

He blinked. “The spicy cheese ones?” You nodded. Jason tilted his head back and let out something between a sigh and a laugh. “I really do love you.” “You better. I’m the one who’s gonna be dealing with the tub drain full of your blood and war grime.”

He huffed. “Romantic.”

“Always.”

Afterward, wrapped in a towel and wearing the old hoodie of his you’d swiped years ago, Jason slumped onto the bed. You curled up beside him, throwing the blanket over both your legs.

Your head rested on his shoulder, and his arm wound around your waist, hand brushing against your side absently, like he still needed to reassure himself you were real. That you were there.

“I hate what this city does to me,” he said quietly.

You looked up. Jason frowned.

“How it makes you feel, Jay. How it makes you scared. That’s not weakness. That’s love. That’s being human.”

He was quiet again for a moment. “I couldn‘t stand living without you here. I think i would have gone mad.“ You shifted in his hold.

His eyes met yours.

“You don‘t have to worry about that.,” you said. “You came home, Jay. To me. And i will always be there for you..”

He leaned down and kissed you then. Soft. Barely there. But it lingered.

“Don’t ever disappear on me again,” he said against your lips. You pulled back just enough to smirk. “Only if you promise not to assume I’ve been Joker-napped every time I step out.”

Jason exhaled slowly, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Can’t promise that.”

“I’ll settle for a text next time you’re off-grid.” “I’ll try,” he said. And for Jason Todd, try meant more than most people’s swear.

You both layed there for a long while, tangled in each other and the quiet aftermath of panic. And while the city outside still breathed with crime and chaos, in this tiny, too-small apartment, with your heartbeat steady against his side, Jason felt maybe for the first time in weeks that he wasn’t losing everything.

That maybe, just maybe, he was allowed to have something.

Someone. You.

[annaevermore]

All That

Pairing: Jason Todd x librarian!fem!reader

Summary: After meeting the librarian, Jason becomes a regular at Gotham’s public library.

Word count: 4.2k

Tags/warnings: fluff, no use of y/n, jason is kinda awkward, reader wears glasses, literary references, this is yearner jason propaganda btw

A/N: To this day, this is my favorite thing I’ve wrote so far. The title is inspired by Carly Rae Jepsen’s song and the beautiful art in the header was made by the talented @dictearchive. This will probably become a series cause I have so many ideas for librarian!reader… English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes that’s the reason lol. Anyway, enjoy!

masterlist | series masterlist

Let's be honest, Jason Todd doesn't really need to go to the library to get his books. In his bedroom there's a pile of unread books so high that the fact that it's still standing could be considered a miracle. But no one necessarily needs to know this as he walks for the third time this week in what has become his favorite place in Gotham: the public library.

It all started when Damian had to work on a school project that required some specific materials that could only be found in the library. Coincidentally, Jason was the only one available to give the boy a ride. After some bickering with Bruce and a murmured 'you owe me one', he agreed to drive Damian to the library, not without grumbling and complaining the whole time on his way there.

When they entered the place, Jason stayed a few feet behind the kid, casually holding two helmets under one arm, and kept walking until Damian stopped at the front desk.

"Oh, hi! Can I help you?" you asked with a chirpy voice, straightening up in a worn out swivel chair.

Your glasses were sitting low on your face and your hair was pulled back in a bun held up by a pencil. Despite the lively tone, there was a tired edge to it, as if you had been desperately waiting for someone to walk in.

"Good afternoon, miss. I would like to know if these titles are available to borrow," Damian replied, taking an handwritten note out of the pocket of his blazer and sliding it over the desk. To do so, he had to stand on his tiptoes briefly – long enough for Jason to notice anyway and take a mental note to tease him about it later.

You, seemingly unfazed by the kid's formal tone, smiled kindly at him and opened the note, pushing up your glasses, and typing whatever book titles he had requested. Your fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, and Jason took advantage of the fact that your attention was entirely focused on the library's website to take a good look at you.

Despite being a Jane Austen lover, he has always been skeptical about typical romance tropes, such as the classic 'love at first sight'. Sure, he had crushes growing up, but they always took time to develop. Simply, he had never been the type to become infatuated with someone on their first meeting. So why was he experiencing a funny feeling in his lower belly just by looking at you?

His internal monologue was interrupted from the very subject of his internal conflict.

"Found it! Be right back," you said before walking away with the confidence that only someone who had spent hours on end in the same place could master.

Without realizing it, Jason's gaze followed you, body tilting slightly to the right, to be able to get one last glance at you before you disappeared around a corner. For the second time in mere minutes, he had to be brought back down to earth, only this time it happened because Damian cleared his throat, managing to make the gesture sound judgmental. The older brother straightened up, trying to look casual, almost bored, but by the look of the younger one, he was failing miserably.

After a few minutes had passed – but who was counting, right? – you came back holding two heavy looking books. Damian passed you his library card, and you scanned the codes on the inside and logged them on the website, absentmindedly gnawing your lower lip.

"Is that all?" you asked sweetly, looking up from the monitor and sliding the books over the counter.

"Yes–" "No."

Jason had talked before thinking, and he began to panic when he sensed two pair of eyes focusing on him – one confused, one expecting.

"I– Umh… Yeah, I need a book," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Surprising thing to want in a library, Todd," Damian deadpanned.

A small smile appeared on the your face, but it wasn't mocking. It was sweet, just like your voice when you asked him what book he needed.

"I was thinking about Pride and prejudice."

That got a barely contained scoff from Damian, who could swear Jason had his own well-loved copy of the book, but all that mattered to the man was the way your face lit up at his request.

"Do you have any specific edition in mind? Do you need it for academic research or –"

"Actually, I'm at first time reader."

At that point, Damian was unable to keep a straight face, opting to give Jason a pointed look instead.

"Oh, I love that! I wish I could reread it for the first time. That book is a classic for a reason…"

"Oh, yeah?" Jason said, trying to sound oblivious (failing, according to Damian).

When you went looking for the book, and the two brother were left alone, the younger one was the first to break the silence.

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish, Todd?"

The older grumbled something incomprehensible, trying to shut down the conversation before it could even start. Thankfully Damian didn't seem in the mood to discuss Jason's obvious, and quite frankly embarrassing, attempt to engage in a conversation with the librarian, so he dropped the topic, rolling his eyes at the man's antics.

When you finally found the book and logged it as well, Jason came to the realization that he obviously didn't have his library card with him. Most probably he had lost it after years of never using it. Ironically, you seemed able to read the panic on his face. You gently explained that he could simply tell you his name and give you any sort of ID, so that you could look him up in the server.

Jason told you his name, and he was half expecting you to make a comment about him being one of the many adoptive children of the famous Bruce Wayne, or at the very least have some sort of reaction to it. So he was surprised when you didn't bat an eye, and simply typed his name, even glancing at his driver's license to check the spelling of his last name.

"All done, Jason," you finally said, sliding the copy of Pride and prejudice across the desk, and giving him a sweet smile.

The way you said his name was enough to make Jason's brain short circuit, and make him want to hear that sound over, and over again.

"Thank you …?"

You told him your name, and Jason repeated it, rolling his tongue around every letter, a stupid smile appearing on his face.

Thankfully, Damian was there to snap Jason out of his haze, almost dragging him away from the front desk while mumbling some hurried goodbyes.

────୨ৎ────

After that first meeting, it's safe to stay that Jason's library card never left his wallet.

He came back after a few days, but it doesn't mean that in the meantime his thoughts didn't wander to a certain pretty librarian more often than he would like to admit. When he finally showed up again, he was not sure he would be lucky enough to find you once again sitting behind the front desk.

What would he even do if he didn't? Keep showing up until he sees you again? And after that, what?

Despite these doubts, Jason forced himself to pull the door handle and walk in the library, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

It seemed like someone or something from above was on his side. As soon as he stepped in the place, his eyes landed on the real life version of the girl that had been hunting his thoughts. You were focused scanning some books, which gave Jason some time to take you in. Some rays of sunlight were filtering through the windows, giving you an ethereal appearance, blurring the lines between reality and imagination.

You must have felt the weight of his gaze on you, turning your head in his direction. Recognition flickered in your eyes, and a smile followed shortly after. Jason felt frozen in place, suddenly unsure what he came there to do in the first place.

After a brief moment of internal turmoil, he kept walking, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he felt.

"Hi, Jason! Can I help you?" you said when he got within earshot, keeping the volume appropriate for a public library.

"I finished reading Pride and prejudice last night," he replied, talking the book our of his pocket and placing it on the desk.

"And did you like it?"

"I loved it."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that!"

You took the book back and started typing something on the computer, falling into a silence that was making Jason uneasy.

Usually he preferred silence over useless talking, but in your presence he couldn't help but feel like an awkward mess. All he wanted was to keep the conversation going, desperately thinking of an excuse to stay with you just a little longer.

"Also, umh, I wanted to ask you for some recommendations. I really enjoyed this book, so I thought it would be nice to read some other classics…"

After hearing his request, you stopped typing, looking up at him with excitement radiating from every pore. You then pulled yourself together, or at least tried, since an enthusiastic smile was still very present on your face.

"Would you like to stick to something similar to Austen's work or are you looking for a different vibe?"

"Dunno, maybe something different," he answered, knowing damn well that he had already read almost every Jane Austen novel.

"How do you feel about the gothic genre? I love reading gothic novels during fall."

"Yeah, same," Jason said, trying to suppress a stupid smile that was threatening to make an appearance on his face just by hearing how passionate you sounded talking about books.

"Then you absolutely have to read Carmilla. It's believed to be one of the first works of vampire literature, and the vampire is a woman!"

"Sounds great to me…"

────୨ৎ────

That day signed the beginning of a new shared routine that Jason cared about deeply.

Every few days, he would go to the library to leave the book he had just finished reading and pick a new one, chosen specifically for him by you. At a certain point, Jason began to find notes you carefully left scattered between the pages, written on pieces of paper in a handwriting that quickly became familiar to him. Sometimes they were thoughts about the book itself, others they were recollections about small mundane moments of your life, like how cute the elderly couple you saw on the subway looked or how much you love the sound that crisp leaves make when you step on them.

Jason would always take all of them out, saving them in an old shoebox stored in his closet, and replace them with some of his own.

His visits to the public library quickly became a moment that he looked forward to. At the same time, he always promised himself that he would ask you out on a date, but always managed to panic and chicken out.

But today is the day, he tells himself.

When he gets to the front desk, he finds it empty, but he doesn't worry too much about it. He has your schedule memorized, and he's sure you are working today. While he waits for you, he starts looking around, and spots some fliers, promoting an event hosted by the library to celebrate Halloween.

"You like them? I made the graphic," you say, announcing your presence.

"What is it?" Jason asks, leaning slightly on the desk, following you with his eyes as you get closer to him.

"It's an event that I'm organizing where we're going to read some gothic short stories to get in the Halloween spirit, you know? I had to fight for weeks with my superior to get his approval, but it was worth it. It will be fun…"

There's always something so captivating about the way you talk about books and your job at the library. Jason can tell that you care deeply, and it makes his heart flutter every time.

"Is it open to anyone?" he asks, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

"Yeah, sure. Why? Would you like to come?" you ask back, your lips curling into an hopeful smile.

"Yeah, why not?" he says nonchalantly, even though he's everything but.

Your smile grows even bigger, but you seem almost embarrassed by it, turning your head to the side to avoid his eyes. By doing so, your gaze lands on a book that you had placed on the desk near your water bottle. You pick it up and hand it to him, a trace of that beautiful smile – that Jason would have loved to take a picture of – still lingering on your face.

"I'll see you there, then…"

Jason glances at the title you picked up for him this time: White Nights by Dostoevsky.

────୨ৎ────

When the day comes, Jason is outside the library at 8 PM sharp, wanting to make a good impression. He knows this is not a date. Other people will be there. He also knows that you'll technically be working. But there's something about spending time with you for more than a couple of minutes that makes his feel anxious.

In the last book you gave him, he had found a note that didn't make it in the shoebox with the others. Instead he placed it in his wallet, near his library card, wanting to have it on him at all times.

You had placed the note in one of the last pages of the chapter where Nastenka was narrating her story, and you had simply rewritten a quote from that same page.

‘Oh, Nastenka! You know, we thank some people for merely living at the same time as we do. I thank you for the fact that I met you, that I will remember you for all my life!’

He read that same note so many times that he is now able to repeat it by memory, not helping him at all to get you out of his head, where you seemed to be stuck like the chorus of a catchy pop song. He was so affected by it that even his siblings noticed that he was distracted during his last night's patrol.

What did you mean by it? Is that how you feel about him or was it just a quote you liked? Is there a chance you reciprocate his feelings or is he just reading too much into it?

He puts aside his doubts as he steps into the building. You had put up some signs to guide people to a specific room of the library. Jason follows them, running his fingers through his hair trying to look presentable, grimacing at the realization that he started to care about his appearance, something he always made fun of Dick for doing it.

When he walks into the room, he immediately sees just how much effort you have put into it. Halloween themed decorations are scattered everywhere, but you have managed not to make it look tacky. Every fake spiderweb looks like it belongs, and the pumpkins and cauldrons aren't overly shiny, blending into the original furniture. The mahogany shelves and old books are the perfect background. The low, warm lights end up tying everything together.

After noticing the decor, Jason's gaze shifts on the empty chairs, wondering if he somehow got the time wrong.

"Jason, you came!"

He turns around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, following the sound of your voice like a sailor being drawn in by the enchanting voice of a siren.

You are holding a dangerously tall pile of books, so he steps closer, taking them off your hands and placing them on a nearby table. Only after making sure that the pile is steady enough, he allows himself to give you a good look.

You are wearing a black jumpsuit with a slit at the front, showing more cleavage that usual. As soon as Jason catches himself looking at your tits for a second too long, he diverts his gaze, feeling his ears getting warmer. Only then he realizes that there's blood on your face, specifically coming out of your nose.

"What happened? Are you okay?" he asks hurriedly, stepping closer to you.

You start giggling, earning a confused look from a pretty concerned looking Jason.

"It's just make up. I'm Fleabag! Can't you tell?"

Your answer seems to reassure him, but he still clearly has no idea who you're supposed to be dressed up as.

"It's a great show, you should watch it."

Jason nods, looking at you up and down one last time before clearing his throat.

"So… Looks like I was the first one to arrive. Does it mean I get a cookie?" he jokes, pointing to a plate full of cookies shaped like ghosts that he just noticed.

You laugh, playfully shaking your head.

"We're supposed to eat them when we'll be done. They're sort of a way to thank people for coming."

Jason looks at the ancient looking pendulum clock, and according to it, five minutes have already passed since the agreed start time. Your gaze follows his.

"It's fine. People are always late to this sort of things," you say, and Jason is not sure wether it's him or yourself that you're trying to reassure.

Another five minutes pass, and still no one shows up. You try to look unfazed, but Jason can see how tense your bare shoulders look. You grab a book from the pile he had previously placed on the table and take your designated seat. Jason follows you, dropping on a chair in the front row, placed directly in front of yours.

You smile nervously at him, your hands trembling almost imperceptibly when you open the book to a page you had previously marked.

"We can start reading something until the others join us, right?"

Your voice is as lively as usual, but the look in your eyes suggests otherwise. Sill Jason nods, adjusting in his seat, ready for you to start reading the first short story.

Your voice is smooth, and your inflection is engaging, managing to make the narration even more tense. Despite everything, Jason still zones out sometimes, focusing on the way your lips shape around each word, paying more attention to the way you are reading than the actual plot.

He only snaps out of it when you sharply shut the book closed, standing up and walking to the table, avoiding facing him. Jason is quick to stand up as well, carefully calling out your name. The book is long forgotten as you take a cookie from the plate and take a bite out of it, not caring about the crumbs falling all over your jumpsuit.

Your eyes are red and glossy, and your voice is strained when you finally talk.

"Let's face it: no one is coming. And the worst part is that my asshole boss was right," you say with a mouthful of half chewed cookie in your mouth.

Jason gives you a confused look. You sight, and after swallowing you explain yourself.

"This is not the first time it happens. I already tried to organize one of these events to get more people to come to the public library. I was so proud of these idea, but my boss was skeptical. When no one came, I reasoned that maybe the theme wasn't interesting enough, but I thought that this time things would be different. I even baked these stupid cookies."

Your words are laced with disappointment, and the sight of a few tears escaping your eyes makes Jason's heart ache.

He takes a cookie from the plate and takes a bite.

"They're not stupid," he mumbles, "and you did an amazing job. People are stupid. Your boss included."

You let out a snort, covering your mouth with your free hand.

"Thank you, Jason… You can go if you want, you know? I'm sure you have better things to do, and besides I think I'm gonna clean up and go home as well."

"I'll help you," he replies without thinking about it for more than a second.

"You sure?"

Jason reassures you that it's not a big deal, so the two of you start cleaning up. You fall into a comfortable silence, one that doesn't feel charged or tense. The both of you work well together, managing to put everything away in less than ten minutes.

When it's all done, you turn off all the lights, turn the alarm on, and lock the door. Tears have dried off your cheeks, but you still look disappointed, and Jason has to fix that. He can't let his girl go to bed sad.

"I think I know what you need to feel better."

You look at him perplexed by his statement, the streetlight reflecting off the white strand of hair falling on his forehead.

"What about some fries and a milkshake?"

You let out the first genuine laugh of the night, and that is enough to make Jason smile as well.

"What?" he asks.

"It's well past nine."

"And?"

You think about it, lowering your gaze to the point of your shoes, pondering your options.

"Alright… Lead the way."

You two start walking to a nearby diner, warm lights illuminating the sidewalk. It's the end of October, and your thin cardigan is doing nothing to protect you from the low temperature.

Jason notices you're shaking, and without a word he takes off his leather jacket and places it on your shoulders. The smell of motor oil and cologne envelopes you like a blanket, and a soft smile appears on your face, feeling better already.

When you get to the diner, Jason holds the door open for you. You walk over to an empty booth in the corner, and your heart nearly stops when he reaches over the table and wipes the fake blood off your face.

A tired waitress comes over to your booth and asks you if you're ready to order. You end up actually getting a chocolate milkshake and some fries on the side, and Jason smiles slightly as he orders the same.

You two start eating in silence, the headlights of the cars driving past the diner occasionally shining over your faces. After taking a sip of your milkshake to help you shallow a mouthful of fries, you break the silence, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward.

"So… Have you gotten the chance yet to start reading White Nights?"

He seems taken aback by your question, and you could swear his cheeks seem redder than usual. He hums, taking a loud sip.

"And, what do you think about it?"

He lowers his gaze to his plate before looking back at you and replying.

"I think it is one of the greatest love stories I've ever read. Well, except for Pride and prejudice."

You smile, stealing some of his fries. He glares at you, but you can tell there's no real malice behind the gesture.

"You really loved Pride and prejudice, uh?"

Jason rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and something about the way you're looking at him right now pushes him to tell you the truth about your first meeting.

"Well, about that… I might have lied when I said I was I first time reader."

You let out an incredulous scoff, and Jason keeps going.

"I didn't mean any harm by it. I just saw you and panicked, and that was the first excuse I could find to keep talking to you."

You are silent for just a few seconds, taking in this new information, but it feels like an eternity to Jason. He's afraid he misunderstood everything and that you're going to be mad at him for lying and tell him not to–

"Give me your phone."

Your requests takes him by surprise, but still he obliges, taking his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it, sliding it over the table.

You take it and start typing something. When you give it back, he sees that you've saved a new number. Your number.

"Now you can contact me whenever you want, without having to make up excuses. Still, I expect you to keep coming to the library. I can't lose my favorite patron, understood?"

Jason nods dumbfounded, and only recovers when your hand gives his a timid squeeze over the table, the sound of the city at night muffled by his own heart beating. And in that moment, Jason's reminded of another quote from White Nights.

May your sky be clear, may your sweet smile be bright and serene, may you be blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness that you gave to another lonely, grateful heart! My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?

A/N: This was the fic! Thank you so much for reading ♡ Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it’s criticism (as long as it’s constructive). I love to talk with you angels, so my inbox is always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

[chaotic-birds]

Finding Strays

When Jason stumbles upon a shiny, unscathed car in the slums, he knows something's wrong. Inside is a fearful driver—paranoid and anxious from being stranded. Jason could ignore you, but how can he when he's a mechanic and knows how to fix your problem?

🔧 P: mechanic!Jason Todd x Reader | G: Fluff, strangers to lovers | WC: 3k | 🔧 TWs: Reader has she/her pronouns, AU where Jason is not the Red Hood, nothing else I can think of but LMK! 🔧 A/N: Been writing this on and off for a while, so I'm glad I finally finished it! This is also the first time I've written Jason where I actively don't think of him as Red Hood 🥹 Look at me trying new things omg

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this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)

It's a rare sunny day in Gotham, and Jason takes advantage of it by having his lunch at a nearby park. Although he has an hour break from his job as a mechanic, he typically goes back early. It's not because he's a workaholic, though some will claim otherwise, but he simply enjoys his job. He enjoys helping people, and there's a sense of accomplishment in resolving problems.

Jason rests his back against the tree trunk; his motorcycle is parked beside him. He's silent as his eyes snag and follow random people milling about. People watching, some call it. He never considered himself a fan of it, but the more he watches, the more he's lured into the so-called hobby. Each of these individuals is experiencing life differently. Each of these individuals is going through their own challenges, even if they don't show it on their faces. He knows it's an obvious observation, but it's one he doesn't always think about.

Everyone has their own story.

By the time Jason has finished his food, thirty minutes have passed. He crumbles his sandwich wrap paper, dumps it in the nearest bin, then ascends his bike. After a last sip of water before he tosses it in his backpack, he slides his helmet on and sets off back to the shop.

Jason's used to seeing vehicles broken down or barely running in the neighborhood. Countless of them need a multitude of fixes and paint repairs; however, he knows a lot of them don't have the finances for it all. He tries to offer discounts when he can, but he can only do so much. Thus, there's still a good overflowing handful of beaten-up vehicles around. So when he drives by a shiny silver sedan parked on the side of the street with its hazard lights on, he knows it doesn't belong here.

Driven by curiosity, he makes a U-turn and slowly approaches the car. He parks behind it, trying to assess the situation as he turns off his ignition. He almost smiles when he spots a tire sagging. Easy fix.

Jason flips his visor and approaches the driver's side.

Inside is a frantic person, speaking in a hushed tone of panic and—is that fear?—into a phone by your ear.

When you spot Jason, you jump so high it's comical. Your eyes are wide, and your mouth is open in a silent scream. Jason grins in what he hopes is a friendly manner, forgetting his helmet is covering his mouth.

"Sorry," he says, speaking a little louder than normal so you can hear him through your window. "I saw you have a flat tire and wanted to ask if y'needed help?"

It takes you a second to compose yourself, then you're fiercely shaking your head and hands.

"It's okay!" you call out, voice wavering and eyes darting around. "I have someone coming!"

Perhaps it's all the people watching Jason has done, or maybe it's just so obvious, but he knows what's making you so anxious. This neighborhood isn't sparkly like yours. It's not sunshine and rainbows, but cloudy and stormy.

Jason tries not to take it to heart. He knows his home has a reputation, but there's also good here. Some people work every day to bring that sunshine here, too. He would like to think he's one of them.

"You sure? I'm a mechanic. I can probably get you out of here faster than your help on the way," Jason says. He wants to ask you to roll down your window so he doesn't have to talk loudly anymore, but he doesn't want to frighten you more than he already has.

You wince at being caught feeling uncomfortable, but try to plaster a smile to show differently. Even though it's fake, it's still pretty.

"Yes, thank you. They aren't far," you rush, then turn your head to speak into the phone again. Jason can't decipher your exact words; however, your rigid shoulders and fast talking let him know you're lying. Your help is either not close or not on the way at all.

Jason rubs his lips together in thought. Should he keep insisting or hope you're telling the truth?

Not waiting for you to turn around, he says, "Sorry to bother. Hope you get home safe."

Jason doesn't wait for a reply and heads back to his bike. As he swings a leg over his ride, his eyes linger on the poor tire. It would take ten minutes to fix it, but there's no point in trying to convince you.

When Jason peels away, he catches your stare for a second. It's not long, so he can't be sure, but it looks like there's a hint of relief in your eyes.

Curse his heart for drooping at the sight.

Not only is he aware of the reputation of his home city, but he's also aware of his appearance. He's a big guy. The combination of sharp facial features, muscles, and height is a recipe for intimidation. Although it comes in handy when he wants to ward off potential robbers or scammers, it's hard for people to trust him easily.

"Wow." Frank, one of his close coworkers, whistles when he sees Jason drive up. "Y'nearly took ya full lunch for once!"

Jason chuckles as he parks and removes his helmet. "I stopped to try to help someone."

Frank flips the wrench in his hand, then points it at Jason with a knowing smirk.

"Of course, that's why. Why would ya ever take the full break jus' for yourself?" he teases.

Jason shrugs and walks to the computer to check the work queue. He clicks on the next job in line, reading the details and notes.

It feels weird to continue his day as if he hadn't left you stranded. However, he tries to ignore the nagging guilt. He offered to help. That was better than ignoring you completely.

Yet, he can't let go of the thought of you staying in your car, scared and alone.

Jason works the thoughts away. He distracts himself with each part he repairs, getting lost in the familiarity. He doesn't see many customer faces since he's dug his nose into his work without a break.

It's not until he's covered in grease with a sheen of sweat coating his skin that his boss calls him over.

Jason steps into Elijah's stuffy office while wiping his hands on a towel.

"Hey, boss," Jason greets.

Elijah sits up from picking something from the floor, but he hits his head on his desk, causing a few pens to roll off the surface. Jason hides his smile at his boss's clumsy nature, bending down to pick up the runaway office supplies.

"Thanks." Elijah sighs and lifts a piece of paper he's scribbled on. "Do y'mind doing a quick errand run for me? I'd ask someone else, but Frank's dealing with an upset customer, and Seb's had'a leave early for a family emergency."

Jason takes the paper, glancing at Elijah's messy handwriting. Among the list of service parts is a pack of soda.

Seeing Jason's amused smirk, Elijah says, "It's for all of us, 'kay? Don't give me that look."

Jason shakes his head and tucks the paper in his pocket.

"I didn't say anything." Jason laughs.

"Ya face did," Eljah replies, smiling despite his words.

With a bid farewell, Jason sets off for the quick errand. Thankfully, what Elijah needs doesn't require him to go to the bigger auto shop. Their supplies are more vast, but it's a drive that Jason doesn't feel like taking.

Jason greets the employees as he typically does. He visits often enough that they know him by name, just as he knows the aisles like the back of his hand. Thus, it doesn't take long to gather the supplies needed. He's in and out within fifteen minutes.

When Jason begins his journey back, the unrelenting guilt creeps over his head again. The route to the shop is different than coming from the park, so he won't encounter you. He tries to tell himself to let it go. It's been over an hour since he last saw you. Surely, your help would've shown by now.

Regardless, he can't stop himself from taking a detour.

Jason repeats that you're not there in his mind. You made it to wherever you were heading safely. He says this so much in his head that he nearly convinces himself he's seeing things in the distance. However, the shiny silver is unmistakable.

He doesn't understand why he's parking his motorcycle for the second time. You rejected him. Perhaps he should've sent one of his siblings instead. Maybe one of the friendlier ones could've gotten you out of here sooner. Though there's no escaping when your eyes meet his in your rear-view mirror.

This time in your gaze, there's a hint of desperation alongside the alarm.

Jason tries a different approach and removes his helmet. He rakes a hand through his hair as he walks to your side again, hoping to add some volume to his flat locks.

"Hi," he says through your fully shut window.

Your eyes dance around his face, taking in his new appearance. It seems you remember him—be it from his clothes or his bike, he doesn't know.

"W-What are you doing back?" you ask, leaning slightly from the window. You probably think he's come back to rob you.

"I saw you still had a flat tire," he trails off. "You positive I can't help?"

You bite your lip as you glance at your phone again. Your finger taps the side of the device like you're waging a war inside your head. Finally, you nod.

"Fine. T-That would be nice," you reply.

Jason smiles and points to your trunk. "Ya got a spare?"

"I should," you answer, turning off the ignition and popping the trunk.

Jason moves to the back of your car and lifts the floorboard. Luckily, you have a spare and the tools needed.

Jason is taking them out when you round the car timidly. One arm is across your stomach, holding onto your other arm. Your eyes are constantly moving around you.

Jason wants to reassure you that you'll be fine, but he doesn't want to bring attention to your nerves. Instead, he begins his work. After all, Elijah is waiting for him.

Your eyes settle on him, and your body relaxes slightly. You still scan your environment, but at least you look less like you're about to bolt home and abandon your car.

"You'll need to get to a shop soon," Jason says while unscrewing the last bolt. "And don't drive too fast."

"H-How soon is soon?" you ask.

Jason peers up at you, analyzing your concerned expression. He pops off the tire and slips on the spare.

"I work at a shop nearby. I can replace it for you, if you want," he offers. He's not sure if you'll accept since it took a second try to get you to agree to just this, but from your expression, your destination must not be close.

Jason's screwing on the bolts as you ripple your fingers along your arm.

"It's not far?" you ask, debating internally again.

Jason lowers the car, then pulls the car jack from under it. He tidies the tools as he replies, "No, and I'll put you next in line, so you won't have to wait long."

"You won't get in trouble?"

Jason stands and shoots you a brief smile before returning the flat and tools to your trunk.

"You worried I will?" he asks with a teasing tone.

The corner of your mouth twitches as you fight back your grin.

"I just don't want to be the cause of it."

Jason shuts the trunk and shrugs. "You wouldn't. I'll be doing my job."

You nod, then glance at the spare. Jason stands next to you idly, letting you mentally weigh your options. After a few more seconds, you sigh.

"Okay," you relent.

"You can follow me," he instructs while moving to his bike. However, he stops when he sees you reach out. Your hand hovers in the air awkwardly.

"I—Uh, thank you," you mumble and drop your hand.

Jason chuckles and nods. "It's no problem."

By the time Jason returns, Frank is working on another car, and Elijah is checking a spreadsheet.

"Took ya long 'nough, Todd!" Elijah exclaims when he hears Jason's boots shuffle on the concrete.

"Found a stray." He laughs softly and places the bag of supplies and drinks on the desk. Elijah glances at the doorway and sees you standing meekly.

"I-I'm not a dog," you timidly defend.

Elijah quirks an eyebrow and slightly lifts one corner of his mouth at Jason. He seems amused to see someone like you on this side of the city.

Jason raises a shoulder and offers you a friendly smile. "Stray cats are cute too."

Your mouth drops lightly, and your eyes blink rapidly for a second.

"She's got a flat I'ma take care of real quick," Jason explains.

Elijah nods and tears off a soda from the pack. He glances at you. "If he doesn't do a good job, you jus' come to me, alright?"

You nod anxiously. You're not aware of Elijah's teasing ways, and Jason almost wants to smack his boss on the shoulder for making you more uncomfortable.

"Come on, you can wait in the lobby." Jason gestures to the door, waiting for you to exit before leading the way.

He spends a couple of minutes getting your information into the system. As expected, you live in the nicer part of Gotham that he doesn't often visit unless he's with Bruce. You seem apprehensive as he reads over your personal details, so he makes quick work not to linger.

Jason keeps his word and finishes your repair in under fifteen minutes. Throughout that time, your name lingers in his mind like a buzzing mosquito he can't swat. Something about you has intrigued him. He can't pinpoint the reason since he's used to the weary eyes he gets when he's around Bruce's so-called entourage. Perhaps he's just distracted by a beautiful face.

You're sitting ramrod straight in your chair when he returns to check you out. The second he nods you over, you briskly walk to the counter.

"You're all good to go." He slides your keys across the wood.

"Thanks. How much do I owe you?" you ask while taking out your wallet.

"Nothing."

"N-Nothing?" you squeak. "I don't know much about cars, but surely, I need to pay for your time at least."

Jason shakes his head. "No need. Just happy to help."

Your mouth dips. There's a second where you're both still, but then you pull out two fifty-dollar bills.

"A tip then," you declare.

Jason stops your hand from leaving the money on the counter. Your hand turns rigid beneath his, but there's an odd warmth creeping up his arm from the connection that distracts him from your reaction.

"How 'bout this," Jason says. "If you ever see me in need, then you owe me one."

Jason knows the likelihood of running into you again is slim to none, so he doesn't expect you to actually follow through. You seem to reach a similar conclusion, because you begin shaking your head.

"Please, uh, Todd." The waver in your voice suggests you had tried to recall what Elijah had called him earlier.

"Jason," he corrects kindly.

"Jason," you repeat. "Please take something."

Skepticism breezes through his mind. Your insistent plea and the amount you're offering make him wonder if you pity him. You probably think he needs the money to survive. While that intention is nice, if it's true, he doesn't like the idea of being someone's charity.

Jason forgets his hand is on yours until you pull away, leaving the bills under his calloused palm.

The soft, pleading look in your eyes makes him concede, but the stubbornness in his chest makes him come up with a plan.

He folds the money and slips it into his pocket.

"I'll bring your car to the front."

Your brows knit in puzzlement because you can see your car parked close by. Though, before you can interject, Jason is already halfway toward the door with your keys.

Jason can feel your focus on him as he reverses and drives the few feet to the entrance. He leaves the car running and leans on the open door—a silent summon for you to come out.

You gingerly step out of the building to stand behind the door.

"I appreciate the quick turnaround, Jason. I'm… I'm sorry about my rejection earlier."

Jason waves it off. "Don't worry 'bout it, Stray."

Your nose turns up at the nickname.

Jason laughs. "Kitty? Cat?"

"Kitty cat!" you exclaim with a small disbelieving laugh. It's the first time he's seen your smile not mixed with fear.

"You prefer Stray?"

"I prefer my name."

"If you insist, Yn." He makes a show of enunciating your name.

The small grin grows, but you tuck your chin and slip inside the car before he can admire it.

After ensuring all your limbs are tucked in, he shuts your door. When you roll down your window, he leans down to peer at you, one hand resting on the car's hood.

"Thank you for your help, Jason," you say.

"Anytime," he replies. "Get to where you're heading safely."

"Thanks… Maybe if I see you again, I'll let you call me Kitty Cat."

Jason smirks. "I'll hold you to that."

"Okay." There's a gleam in your eyes that tells him you wouldn't mind the nickname now despite your earlier protests, but he keeps it to himself.

Jason gives one final pat on your hood before he inches away. He offers you more than enough distance before you drive off. His gaze lingers on your shiny sedan as it moves along the uneven roads. There's a bittersweet smile forming on his face as you become a speck in the distance.

Jason meets a lot of people at his job, but none have left such an impression on him as you have.

As he turns to head back into the shop, one question lingers in his mind: How long will it take you to find the one hundred dollars he stuffed in your center console?

A/N: Part 2??? 🫣

For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics more anonymously and privately. ^-^

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

divider

[sanguineterrain]

most normal thing in the world | jason todd

Summary: You get hit with a love spell. Naturally, the first person you seek out is Jason Todd.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings/tags: love spell (so potentially mild dubious consent but all the feelings are reciprocated), lovesick you, lovesick jason, repressed jason, LOTS of cuddling/lovie stuff, needles, magic, pining, happy ending.

the divider

Jason's having a good night.

He made himself an indulgent lasagna, and now he's got leftovers for tomorrow. He's off from patrol tonight, which, he must admit, was nice of Cass to offer.

Yeah, Jason actually feels pretty normal. Feels like any young person would. Hell, he might put on a movie he won't pay attention to, or finally adopt a cat, just to keep the normal streak going. That's what young folks do, right?

(He can think of some other things young people do, things that Jason won't allow himself to dream of.)

Knock knock.

Jason sighs. Well. The streak was good while it lasted.

He gets up, shuffling over in his sweats. He undoes the four locks and opens the door to reveal... you.

"Uh, hey," he says, cracking the door wider. "Everything okay?"

It's late. You shouldn't be out now, even if the sun hasn't gone down yet.

Jason frowns when you sway in the doorway and don't respond.

Then you flash him the sweetest smile he's ever been on the receiving end of. Wow. Sure, Jason's seen you flash your pretty teeth before. But not like this. And not at him.

"Hi, Jaylove. Hi."

"Uh." He watches you walk right past him, into his apartment. He shuts the door. "Hi... What's goin' on? You alright?"

You turn to face him. "Why wouldn't I be? After all, you're here."

"What?"

You walk to him and take his hands in yours. Jason's eyebrows rise.

"Hey...?" Jason says, looking at your joined hands. You lace your fingers together.

"My prince," you say happily. "Your eyes are beautiful. Like emeralds. And you have a beautiful mouth. Your whole face is beautiful. I'd like to paint you."

"Are you on drugs?" Jason releases your hands to hold your face. He gently pushes your eyelids up to inspect your pupils. You just smile.

"I feel high when you touch me," you say. "Just being near you is drug enough."

Yeah, Jason's now feeling a healthy amount of paranoia. It's not that you don't stop by or that you're not nice. No, you're the sweetest creature Jason's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

But wanting to touch him? Thinking he's beautiful? Calling him your prince? Either you're drugged or he's died again and found paradise.

Then again, he probably wouldn't still be in Gotham if this were paradise. You'd definitely be here, though.

"Right. Your eyes are fine." Jason lets go of your face. "You sure you didn't take anything? Drink anything? Run into anyone?"

"I drank tea," you say, gazing up at him. "And I petted a fat orange cat. Don't you want a cat?"

"I surely do. You drank tea?"

"Mmhm. It was almost as amazing as you."

Jason nods and takes your hand. "Okay. We're going to the Cave."

"How come?" you ask, but you don't protest as he leads you out and into the elevator.

"Because I wanna make sure you're okay," he says, pushing the button labeled one. You're definitely not okay, but he doesn't want to worry you.

"Oh." You lean against Jason's arm. He stiffens and looks down at you. You just burrow into his side. "'Cause you love me?"

Breath catches in his throat. You can't mean that. Do you even know what you're saying? No, impossible.

You look up when he's silent for too long. "Jay-Jay? Didja hear me?"

"Yeah," he says slowly. "Yeah, I did."

You look at him, big eyes sweet. "Don't you love me too? I love you."

Jason swallows hard. "I, um, don't think you're in your right mind."

Your lip quivers. Oh, God. No, please don't cry, please don't—

"You don't love me?" you ask, tears welling.

"I do love you," Jason says quickly, panicking at your distress. "I do. Shit. Please don't cry, honey. I do love you."

You frown, cheeks wet. "You're just saying that! You hate me!"

Jason shakes his head. "No, no! Oh, never, I could never hate ya, honest! I was just... um, this is the first time we've said it to each other, y'know? I do love you. Have for a long time now."

He strokes your cheek with his thumb, soaking up your tears. You sniffle but accept this, nodding.

"Oh. I'm sure I've told you that I love you before. I love you so much, Jason. I'll never love anyone the way I love you."

God, this is fucking torture. As the elevator reaches the ground floor, Jason takes a deep breath, lets you link your fingers with his, and leads you out to the street. The universe is intent in never granting him a normal night. Noted.

There's no way you're in your right mind. Jason's figured this from the start. But that doesn't make the way you look at him, like he's anybody worth looking at, any less painful.

He pulls out his phone, shoots a quick text to Dick. ETA 10 min.

Dick responds two seconds later. What's up?

Possible Code 12.

Jason pockets his phone, running through potential reasons for what did this to you. Ivy's not wreaking havoc tonight, as far as he knows.

Meanwhile, you're in another world, humming and holding his hand. Jason's thought about this many times, holding your hand and taking you for rides, you adoring him, hugging him, kissing him. He's nothing if not a masochist.

"Okay, sweetheart," Jason says, and you immediately turn to him, like a flower showing its face to the sun. Jason is no one's sun, though. He's more like the worm under your boot.

"Hm?" you ask, stroking his arm. Jason does his best to be normal about it.

"We're gonna, um, go to the Cave. You okay on my bike?"

You glance at his bike, and there's a tinge of apprehension on your face. Jason reaches for your shoulder, stops, then forces himself to touch you. You're not going to recoil from him, not in this state. And he's not doing it for himself; he's only touching you so that you'll let him take you to the Manor and figure out what's what.

He's not a bastard for holding your shoulder, right? He's doing it just so that you'll be safe.

(It doesn't matter. Jason knows he's a bastard for being in your life at all.)

You lean into him when he touches your shoulder.

"Never been on your bike, Jay," you say.

"I know. But I swear to you that you're safe. You know I'd never let anything happen to you, right? Never."

You nod. "Yeah. You always look out for me. 'S part of why I love you so much."

Good God. Jason's going to be a ball of self-hatred for the next millenia over this.

He puts his spare helmet on you, helping you fit the chin guard underneath.

"Okay?" he asks.

You give him a thumbs-up. Jason smiles and puts his own helmet on.

"You gotta hold on real tight, okay? As tight as you can. Don't worry 'bout hurting me."

"Mmkay!"

He helps you mount the bike first, then follows. As soon as he's on, you wrap your arms around his middle and smush your helmet into his back.

How long has he dreamed about this? Taking you on late-night rides, feeling you pressed against him, squealing as he floats through traffic (he'd never speed the way he does when he's alone; Jason doesn't give a shit about his own body, but your safety matters).

"The bike is loud, so I'm not gonna hear you if you say something, but if you want me to stop, tap my shoulder three times, okay?"

"Okay, Jaylove." You squeeze him in what's clearly a hug. "Ready."

Jason's not sure he is. It's been a long time since anyone's touched him, much less someone he's head over heels for. You're so trusting, it makes him ache. Jason's just glad he's the first jerk you laid your eyes upon instead of the magic you're under pushing you into the arms of someone dangerous.

He starts up his bike. Jason's had guests on his bike before, mostly his brothers and, once, the old lady who runs the tea shop down the block.

He's never had a lovely thing like you snuggled up to him, clinging to him. Jason feels rabid. He feels like he needs to be shot and put out of his misery.

He follows all of the road rules so you won't be scared. You don't tap his shoulder or shake, so Jason figures you're fine. He's good. He's being good for you.

Jason slows as he goes down the ramp to the Cave entrance. He stops at the mouth of the Cave and dismounts first, pulling off his helmet.

"You alright in there?" he asks, offering his hand.

You wrap your arms around his neck and Jason wobbles as he recalibrates and snakes an arm around your shoulders instead and helps you off that way. He removes your helmet. You blink at the new light, then look at him, moony-eyed once again.

"I was kinda scared," you admit. "But I trust you, Jaybee. Always."

"Got you here in one piece, didn't I?" he says, winking at you.

"Uh-huh!"

Jason sees what you're going to do before you try. He sees the way you look at his lips, how you rear back, ready to leap and kiss him.

He redirects you immediately, preferring that to making you cry again. He hates it when you cry. Your soft mouth lands on his jaw instead.

Jason smiles, strained. You're annoyed at the fact that you missed, and Jason can see that you're about to try again when Dick and Tim come into view.

He's never been more thrilled to see his brothers.

"Fellow bretheren," Jason says. He knows his voice is thin. "Funny seein' you here."

You're briefly distracted and wave to be polite. But then you force Jason's left ear to your level and catch the lobe between your teeth.

Holy fuck. Jason nearly buckles at the sensation. He's never understood the ears as an erogenous zone before—now he gets it. He's ashamed of how heat pools in his gut as you nip his ear.

Jason balances you with an arm around your waist, gingerly trying to both hide his reaction and separate you. He accomplishes neither. Tim's eyebrows are at his hairline; Dick's mouth is open, no doubt ready to make a smart-ass comment.

"Well, it's nice to see you two so... affectionate," Dick says, holding back a grin.

Jason rolls his eyes. "I need you to run tests. They showed up to my door like this, all over me."

"Yeah, that is weird," Tim says.

"Thank you very much for that, Timbit," Jason grumbles. You kiss under his ear and weave your fingers through his hair. Jason manages to get your hands off, but your mouth is still firmly planted on his neck. He clears his throat. Normal!

"I dunno, Jason," Dick says. "It's not that weird. People fall in love every day."

And, okay. Jason can do teasing. He can even do borderline psychotic remarks. That's part of having siblings. He's made a few in his day. They've all stabbed or shot each other.

But now Dick is just being cruel.

Jason scowls. "Take their blood so we can fucking get this over with. They're clearly under a love spell."

His scathing tone surprises Dick, but it really startles you. You've moved away from his ear (Jason is both relieved and disappointed) and return to cradling his arm. You're alarmed by his reply.

"Jaylove?" you ask. "What happened? Are you mad?"

Jaylove? Jason sees Tim mouth. He forces himself to focus on you, be gentle for you.

"Hm, no, not mad at ya, sweetheart. Sorry 'bout that. But we need to run some medical tests on ya, 'kay? Can we do that?"

"Sure," you chirp, linking your arm with his.

Dick and Tim slip into Work Mode. Jason appreciates that. His nerves are frayed. He senses a self-destructive episode coming on after you're cured. Maybe he'll throw himself into a bar fight tonight.

"Symptoms?" Tim asks, going to the computer.

"Being in love with me," Jason says dryly.

"Besides that. Any physical symptoms like dizziness or nausea? Recklessness?"

"No, didn't notice any sickness. Not reckless; they did everything I said." Jason swallows, says the next part quietly, fearfully. "Probably jump into the Hudson if I asked."

Tim nods sharply. Dick prepares to draw your blood. Again, you're apprehensive. But Jason soothes you, pets you, and you're leaning into him like a cat in its favorite patch of sun as Dick takes your blood.

"I wanna get married," you say as red fills the second vial.

Dick shoots him a sympathetic look. Jason looks away.

"Soon, honey," Jason says, ignoring how his stomach's a pit.

He didn't think about love or relationships when he came back. Didn't care, not when he had revenge to plot.

But after all that was over, after he met you, after he found a reason to keep living, Jason started thinking about it.

And what he realized is that he's never getting married.

By choice? Yes, sure. Jason loves pretending he has a choice in anything. Sure, he chooses to abstain from marriage, like normal people out there do. But really, he avoids attachment because it wouldn't be fair to anyone. He knows he's not made for that. His death made him unsalvageable. It's a miracle he's here at all. How dare he ask for more?

And inside, he chokes on a vine of hatred for everyone else who can find someone. Who's capable of loving and being loved. It even, to Jason's shame, has reared its head at you, whispered in his ear about how you're not damaged, so of course you'll find someone one day. Of course you'll leave him eventually. It would be stupid of him to hope otherwise.

"When?" you ask as Dick starts on the third vial. You don't even notice. Dick could probably drain you dry as long as Jason's in front of you. "When can we get married?"

"How 'bout next month?" Jason says without thinking. He would. He'd marry you tomorrow.

You think about this for a moment, then nod. "Yes, that would be good. I've always wanted a fall wedding."

"Yeah? I always liked the idea of marrying in the spring. All the flowers."

"No," you say. "Pollen's out. You'd be sneezing your head off."

Jason laughs, then wants to cry, because you know that he's allergic to pollen.

"Yeah, y'right," he says, voice thick. "Fall wedding's better."

"Alright, all done!" Dick says, forcefully cheerful. He removes the needle and puts a Bandaid on the inside of your elbow. You rest your head on Jason's arm. Jason tries not to boil himself in a fire of misery. You probably won't even remember this.

Dick watches you both, then tugs your hand. "Hey, you mind helping me fill out some info? For the tests."

Your mouth shrivels. You look at Jason, and he can't believe he's your North Star, magic or not.

"I don't wanna leave Jason," you say.

"He'll be right here," Dick says quickly. "Won't leave your sight for a second. But I need your help."

"Just for a minute?" you ask.

Dick nods. "One minute."

You sigh and turn to Jason. "I'll be right back."

Jason nods, tries to smile. "Sure. I'll be here."

He'll be here. Forever and ever and ever...

Wait a second. Tea. Jason jolts.

"Tim. They said they drank tea. Could be something there."

"On it," Tim says. "Dick, we need a mouth swab."

"Right." He turns to you. "Can I—"

"No," you say, and march back to Jason. "You said a minute."

Jason would laugh at the pout on your face, the way you plop yourself next to him and curl around him like he's a new toy. He would laugh. If he could find the humor.

Dick looks at him. Jason sighs.

"Honey?" You hum. "We just need one more test, yeah? Q-tip on your tongue. Not the most pleasant, but it'll be quick. Promise."

"Okay," you say immediately, hugging his arm.

Jason knows it's a spell, or maybe a lab-made chemical. But he's still awed by how quickly you acquiesce. How you show no worry when Dick approaches because Jason's right there, patting your hand.

Dick swabs your mouth. You cough three times after, most of your body on Jason.

"Interesting how they're not lustful," Dick says.

"What," Jason says.

"Okay, the ear thing was..." Dick shrugs. "But it's not mindless. It's actually the most reasonable love spell I've ever seen. Like, their desires for you don't feel manufactured, they feel—"

"Don't," Jason snaps. "Don't fuckin' say it."

Dick holds up his hands. "It was just an observation. You've seen Ivy's pollen doses. This one seems different."

"Fine. Ivy's taking a break from the orgies. Doesn't mean this is real."

Jason's not stupid enough to hope.

"It can't be Ivy," Tim says, and Jason almost startles. He forgot Tim was there, so wrapped up in you. "No reports of Ivy attacks. And the substance, whatever it was, wasn't inhaled. It was injested."

You wrap your arms around Jason's neck and smush your face against his. You're warm and smell good. Jason feels feral.

He holds you with a hand on your back, mind turning.

"Sweetheart," he says. You hum. "You said you drank tea after work. Where exactly did you go?"

"Dunno," you say, spacey. "Went into a tea shop that's never been there before. And an old lady invited me in. She said I looked so sad. And I was, Jaybee! How did she know?"

"I don't know, honey," Jason says quietly, even though he has a suspicion. He's never letting you walk home alone again.

Tea shop. That's what he gets for trying to be a good Samaritan. How dare she drug you?

"Hm. Well, she gave me a tea sample, said it would make all my problems disappear. Then I petted her cat named Darcy. Like that book you like!"

God, Jason just wants to hug you tight and kiss your face. It's awful of him to think of you as cute in your state, he knows.

"Track their routes," Jason says. "They take two different ones home. One crosses Bank Street, the other goes over the bridge."

"I'd call you a stalker but I really have no right," Tim says, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"No shit," Jason mumbles, letting you play with his fingers.

"Jason," Dick says quietly. He glances at you, then at his brother. "If it's too much, we can sedate them."

"No. We don't know how it'll react to the tea. It's not Ivy's brew."

Dick frowns. He knows Jason's right. Jason knows he's right.

"Okay, I got something. Magic signatures from a building on Tenth Street," Tim says. "And I think I'm onto an antidote."

"I'll check it out," Dick says, going to suit up. He looks at Jason. "Are you-?"

Jason nods. "I'm fine. Go."

So Dick does. Tim is able to make an antidote within the hour. He gives it to Jason who injects it into your neck. He feels guilty even though this is what’ll cure you. You wince at the pinch but you don't so much as whimper, endlessly trusting.

"They'll probably crash soon," Tim says, out of your earshot. "I don't know if you should risk the bike."

Jason sighs. Tim's right, and it makes him all the more agitated that his brothers have been helpful and even kind of nice during the whole thing.

You're going to crash soon. Jason has no choice but to bring you up to the Manor.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, taking your hand and standing.

"Where're we goin'?" you ask, yawning.

"Goin’ t’bed, honey. Aren't ya tired?"

"Hmm. Mmhmm."

"Yeah, thought so."

Jason leads you up the stairs and out of the Cave. He helps keep you steady as you trip up the stairs. He's tempted to just carry you, but he feels like that might be overkill.

Once at the top of the stairs, Jason stops. Swallows.

He hasn't been up here in a while. He slept in his room once after he returned, after a nasty encounter with Scarecrow.

"Wanna sleep in your bed, Jay," you mumble, cheek against his arm.

Jason sighs. "Yeah. Okay, love."

You go to his room. It's clean, as usual—Alfred never let it get dusty. Jason had hoped that if you ever saw his room it would be in much different circumstances. Normal circumstances.

But, well. Here you are.

"Hmm, 's nice," you say as Jason pulls back the bedspread and helps you out of your shoes. You start to take off your pants and he panics.

"Uh! Uh, baby, maybe keep the pants on. You might get cold."

You frown in confusion. "Doesn't feel cold."

"Yeah, but, whew, Alfred blasts the AC! Jus' keep 'em on."

Jason cannot handle seeing you in your underwear. He draws the line there.

"'Kay," you say, and flop onto the sheets. You wiggle around, getting comfortable.

Jason sits in the fat armchair in the corner of the room. Immediately, you sit up.

"Why're you over there?" you ask, eyes wide.

Oh, boy.

"Oh. I was, um, gonna read for a bit. I'll come in in a while."

Your lip trembles. No—

"Don't leave me, Jaybee. Don't leave! Stay with me. I love you!"

Jason rubs his forehead. "Honey—"

"You hate me! You do! I annoy you." Tears gather in your eyes.

Jason hurries to the edge of his bed, climbing in in his jeans and socked feet.

"No, no, love, we covered this. I don't hate ya, hm? Where'd ya get a silly thing like that?"

You quiet as he scoots in beside you. Then you throw most of your limbs over him. Jason stiffens.

"Just got scared," you say, and kiss his chest. "Promise you won't leave?"

Jason breathes in. Breathes out.

"Yeah. I promise."

And he stays.

You wake up with a faint headache and a dry throat. Sunlight peeks through the blinds. You feel warm and safe and well-rested, despite the slight pains.

You stretch, expecting air. Instead, you touch skin. You open your eyes.

Oh. You're in a bedroom.

No, scratch that. You see framed pictures of the Bats, books on shelves.

You're in Jason Todd's childhood bedroom. With the aforementioned tucked under your arm and leg.

You jerk away so hard, you land on the carpeted floor below.

Jason's up instantly, head poking over the bed. His eyes widen.

"Shit! Y'alright? C'mere."

He gets up and practically scoops you into a standing position. Your brain short-circuits: big strong man strong big good nice. Then you recover.

"Um," you say. "Uh. Hmm. Hi."

Jason smiles tightly. "Hey."

"What... how-?"

"Right. How much do you remember?"

You try to think. You remember walking home, drinking tea, an affectionate orange cat. You remember hands on your face and your stomach swooping on a motorcycle and a gentle voice. So gentle.

"You were magicked," Jason says quickly. "It was a, uh, tea shop. Dick's checking it out. You, um, came to me and I took you here and you got an antidote and you didn't want me to, um, leave. So, yeah. Sorry."

You tilt your head. "Why are you apologizing, Jason?"

He sighs. "Just 'cause."

You have no idea what that means. But you feel like Jason's telling you a very condensed version of what happened.

"What was the magic?" you ask.

He winces. "Love spell. You thought you were... in love with me."

Jason says it like he's the one who charmed you. Like he's ashamed of it.

"Oh," you say. Well, you certainly didn't need a spell for that to happen.

"Yeah." Jason's staring at your and his shoes by the door. "But everything's fine now. I can take you home. Dick and Tim'll take care of the tea shop witch."

He doesn't wait for a response, darting to the door and slipping into his shoes. You rush forward and close the door as Jason opens it. He looks at you in confusion.

"Jason," you say softly. "What happened?"

"Whaddya mean? I told you."

"Jason. I've known you for three years. You think I don't know when you're not telling me something?"

He looks at his feet. One of his socks has a hole in the toe.

"There's nothin' to tell," he mumbles. "Magic stuff. Happens all the time. Business as usual."

You frown. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jay. I admittedly don't remember a lot."

Jason's expression is relief but there's a heaviness to his shoulders. "Well, 's for the best, really. Magic messes with your head."

"Did I make you uncomfortable, Jason? Not letting you leave and—God, I can't imagine how I was on the spell."

He shakes his head fervently. "No! No, no, my God, no. You didn't—you could never—I mean, I wasn't... fuck. No. You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"If you're sure," you say.

He nods. "Hundred percent."

Jason doesn't sound like he's lying. You're pretty good at detecting it, especially when it comes to his feelings.

So why is he acting weird?

Well, duh. A love spell. You probably freaked him out, especially since you really do love him.

"I hope we can still be friends," you offer.

Jason turns to the door.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "'Course we're still friends."

It shouldn't make you ache. Jason's perfectly in the right to not reciprocate how you feel. How can he reciprocate something he doesn’t even know exists?

"You, uh..." Jason scratches the back of his neck. He faces you once more. "You said last night that you were sad. When you were coming home. I just wanted to say, y'know... you can talk to me. 'Bout anything."

This will make all of your problems disappear, she had said. It'd tasted like kombucha—you hadn't had a lot of faith.

Jason begins to open the door. You slide in front of him and slam the door shut with your back. He steps back in surprise.

"Wh—"

"I have to tell you something!" you blurt.

Jason stills. "Okay."

"I adopted you a cat," you say.

He squints. "What?"

"Well, she's still at the shelter but I put her on reserve. Of a sort. I have a friend who works there. She's black and white and likes to cuddle and has two different colored eyes but she can't see very well. Her name is... whatever you want to name her. Because she's yours. And I think you'll love her."

He nods slowly. "I, uh, thanks. Thank you. I was thinking about adopting a—"

"I was sad last night because I kept thinking about how you're gonna love this cat I got you but you'll never love me, and how that's the fucking worst feeling in the world."

You've stunned him silent. Shit.

Seconds tick by. A minute. Two minutes.

"Okay," you say, wanting to jump out of Jason's two-story window. "I'm gonna go drop off the face of the Earth now. Bye."

You open the door. Jason closes it by caging you against it.

And then he kisses you.

Jason pours everything into the kiss. He's not a perfect kisser but it's good. It's magic. He holds your face completely, shuts out the entire world. Kisses the breath out of you.

Yes, you could go on. It's fantastic. It's fireworks. It's sunbeams.

And actually, it feels like the most normal thing in the world, kissing Jason Todd.

[agnustar]

jason todd x f. reader | puppy love

contents :: fluff, just fluff. established relationship. wc. ~1.3k

The apartment was warm when Jason got back home. Real warm, home warm.

Goldish lamp light spilled across the living room, the dishwasher hummed softly from the kitchen, the line of shoes by the front door was crooked – it always was, no matter how hard you tried to keep it neat – a mug half filled with cold, forgotten tea was left on the coffee table.

It was home.

Jason stood by the front door a little longer than necessary, his helmet tucked in his arm, between his side and the crook of his elbow, and he just listened.

Until he heard it, the sound of running water from the bathroom. His entire face changed in a second. It should have been embarrassing how immediate it was. How one moment he looks like Red Hood, all tough edges, bruised knuckles, spit and anger and Gotham grime to last for days, and the very next he’s just … a boy.

A very happy one.

“Oh, thank fuck,” He whispered to himself, dropping his helmet on the couch as he passed. He was grinning before he even turned into the hall.

He appeared in the bathroom mirror behind you moments later, when you were half bent over the sink, toothbrush still in your mouth.

There he was. Hair messed up from his helmet, eyes exhausted, leather jacket half unzipped. You could tell it had been a rough night, and somewhere under his clothes bruises were already blooming. But he was looking at you like he had just walked through Heaven’s gates instead of into your slightly cluttered, too small, too expensive apartment at 1am.

“There’s my girl”

It comes out of him soft, and delighted, and terribly fond.

You barely have time to spit the toothpaste and rinse your mouth before he’s on you. Jason does not enter spaces normally when he’s this happy. He arrives in them entirely, every piece of him committing to it at once.

“Hi, baby” You laughed as his arms came around you from behind, picking you up and bringing you to the bedroom. He practically dropped you onto the bed, before plopping himself down on top of you. Heavy, warm, large. All dramatic deadweight, burying his face into your shoulder with a deep groan.

“There she is,” He mumbled, “I missed you”

“You were gone not even five hours” You replied, trying to shift yourself into a position more comfortable. But it was no use.

“It was five hours. And fourty-six minutes. And it was the worst five hours and fourty-six minutes of my life”

“You know you say that every patrol is the worst time of your life ?” You asked him

“Yeah. I do. And I mean it every time.”

He shifted, pulling his weight off you and wrapping his arms tighter around you as he spoke, like he all of a sudden developed a deep fear of somebody prying you off of him if he let go even for a second. He smelled like the city. Like smoke, and chilly air, rain damp leather, gunpowder, sweat and the faintest trace of blood.

But underneath it all, he still smelled like Jason. Jason who was home, and safe.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw, then another, and another right after because he’s decided that taking a break was optional for him tonight.

You laughed, trying to push at his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “Jay”

“Nope”

“Jay.”

“Nope,” he repeated, grinning against your skin as he kissed you again, pressing a new one on every inch of skin he could reach. “Can’t hear you. I’m busy”

“Busy doing what exactly ?” You asked

“Kissin’ my girl.” He answered, as if it was obviously the most important thing in the world for him to be doing right now. The sheer amount of joy put into a single phrase made something ache sweet in your chest. Because he means it every single time he says it. My girl. Not in the sharp possessive type of way. He said it with reverence, in a Look-What-I-Get-To-Have-Way.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, hands coming up to cup your face, making sure your eyes stayed on him and nothing else. And there it was, that smile of his. The real one, the one where his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched up. The smile that was too big to hide, and too bright to try and play cool. But Jason had never been able to even think about acting normal when it came to loving you.

“You stayed up for me,” He said proudly

“I always stay up for you”

“I know” His grin somehow got even brighter “That’s the best part”

It was immediately followed by: “Do we have any snacks”

You laughed so hard you snorted. “You are unbelievable”

“Hey. I deserve them. I got stabbed a little”

“You did not” You gave a playful smack to his arm. You would have known the second he walked through the door if he got stabbed.

“Emotionally. Because I had to be away from you”

“That does not count as being stabbed, Jason”

“It should” He grumbled, flopping sideways again until nearly his entire body was draped over yours. Clingy in that absurd post-patrol way he allows himself to have when he makes it home. He propped himself half up on his elbow, and just stared at you. You stared back.

He started laughing first, warm, loud laughter. The kind that shook his shoulder and made him duck his head into your neck when he was catching his breath afterwards, still grinning helplessly because he had lost all control over it.

He couldn’t contain it. Not here, not with you. Outside of this apartment he could keep himself locked up so tight sometimes he feels like he might crack under all of it. But here ? With you curled up under him, the sheets freshly washed, the lights dimmed and warm, everything overflows. Affection, relief, want, joy so pure and earnest it becomes boyish.

He steals kisses between sentences, and smiles for no reason, and touches you over and over, every place he can reach.

When you brush his hair back from his forehead he melts. Eyes closing, face going soft, leaning into your hand with a little sigh that makes you laugh again.

“There he is,” You teased, softer this time “Big scary crime lord.”

“Don’t ruin my reputation” He teased back. But his reputation was clearly not as important as having his face pressed into the palm of your hand.

“You are laying across me like a large dog”

“Yes. A guard dog.”

“A lap dog” You corrected

Jason let out a dramatic gasp, head popping up from your hand before he grabbed your face and kissed you three times in rapid succession.

“That is defamation,” "A kiss “Slander,” another kiss “Character assassination” A third kiss.

You were breathless, still laughing, when he finally settled again, heavy with contentment, head tucked against your chest to listen to the sound of your heart beating.

Neither of you said anything for a while, instead Jason just listened. Breathing slowly, rubbing his thumb in slow circles against your side, still smiling.

He never really thought he’d get to this part of things. He got the dramatic parts of life, the life-or-death parts, the yearning so deep it ached.

But he didn’t think he’d get this. The coming home part. The being loved openly and dearly part. The getting to collapses into the arms of the girl he loves and hearing her laugh while the city spins outside and he is untouched and unbothered for a few hours.

His head tilted up again suddenly, eyes bright.

“You know what ?” He asked

“What ?”

“I think that I am devastatingly in love with you”

You smiled at him, fingers brushing through the white streak of hair above the center of his forehead.

“Oh yeah ?”

“Yeah.” He beams, “It’s awesome.”

[girl-wnder]

Batfam Fic Recs

Updated 5/24/2026

Jason Todd

Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.

Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.

Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.

How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.

Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.

Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.

Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)

Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!

A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.

Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.

Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.

Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.

The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.

Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.

Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.

So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)

The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him

Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.

Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.

The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.

Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.

Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.

When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.

Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.

Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?

La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.

Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.

Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.

Glad It Was You Prove It To You Hit Me

The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.

Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?

Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.

Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.

Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.

It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.

Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.

Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.

Random blurbs Old habits Revealing Secrets I'm still right though Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée Interrupted Dates First Time Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss Random Headcanons My pretty, pretty girl Collar Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up Jason is insecure about his scars Jason Todd is hungry and impatient

Dick Grayson

Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.

The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.

Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does

The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)

Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.

Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.

Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.

Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.

Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.

Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.

Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.

His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.

Random blurbs Take him back, please! Revealing Secrets Interrupted Dates Sleeping in his bed turns into something more

Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)

Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.

Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.

When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.

When The Spite is Desire (sequel)

The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.

The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.

Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.

Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic

Tim Drake

If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.

Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates

Bruce Wayne

The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.

Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.

The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.

Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.

The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.

Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.

Random blurbs Revealing Secrets

[patientofarkhamasylum]

grunge!jason todd headcanons (ft. grungebf!jason)

grunge!jason who discovered Nirvana during his angry Robin years and never looked back. Bruce got used to finding him in his room after missions with bleeding knuckles and 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' on repeat.

grunge!jason who owns five leather jackets that he takes care of religiously. The one with sewn-on patches (Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and some local Gotham punk band that broke up years ago) is his favorite. The stitching is aggressive and uneven because he did it during a particularly bad week.

grunge!jason who wears the same pair of Doc Martens he's had forever. They're held together by spite, shoe goo, and three resolings. He refuses to break in new ones.

grunge!jason who has a matching stick-and-poke tattoo with Roy from a drunk night. They're objectively terrible with wobbly lines and uneven ink. Neither of them regret it, but neither of them will admit how much it means to them, either.

grunge!jason who sleeps in band tees so worn they're practically transparent. The worse the condition, the more he loves it. There's a Pearl Jam shirt that's more holes than fabric at this point. Barbara offered to buy him new ones and he looked personally offended.

grunge!jason who writes poetry in cheap spiral notebooks he'd rather die (again) than show anyone. It's raw and visceral in a confessional poet meets gritty realism way. Think Eileen Myles meets Charles Bukowski. The notebooks are shoved under his mattress like he's hiding porn.

grunge!jason who reads a chaotic mix of Dostoevsky, Hubert Selby Jr., and beat-up Chuck Palahniuk paperbacks he finds at used bookstores. His copies are dog-eared and marked up, margins dense with his messy scrawl.

grunge!jason who has a voice like cigarettes and whiskey, rough especially in the morning. It sounds like he's been screaming at concerts for twenty years. He smokes regularly, bumming them at shows, chain-smoking after bad patrol nights, but stays away from anything harder. That's a line he won't cross because he grew up seeing what drugs did to Crime Alley.

grunge!jason who thrifts absolutely everything. He takes you thrifting every other weekend and gets genuinely excited when you find a good band tee or the perfect worn-in flannel. Definitely has strong opinions about authentic thrift stores vs. gentrified vintage shops and negotiates prices in cash. Nothing over $10.

grunge!jason who burns cds with handwritten tracklists. He made one for Roy (who cried) and one for Dick (who pretends he doesn’t listen to it on loop). Yours get progressively more vulnerable. The first one is all brooding alt rock, but by tape three he's including The Cure and you realize he's confessing his feelings for you in the only way he knows how.

grunge!jason who collects vinyl records. His apartment has milk crates full of them, organized by a system only he understands. He refuses to use streaming services. "It doesn't sound the same, Dick, I'm not explaining this again." Lets you flip through the collection, and if you pull out one of his favorites? He's gone. Heart eyes. Sits you down, tells you everything about the album, and then listens to it with you start to finish with his hand in yours. This is intimacy for him.

grunge!jason who has a garage band with Roy on drums, Cass on bass, Steph on occasional keyboard and backup vocals, and himself on guitar and vocals. They practice twice a month, have three complete songs, and refuse to play for anyone. Except you're allowed to sit in during practice. Jason will never admit he performs better when you're watching.

grunge!jason who lets you, Cass, and Steph paint his nails. He insists on black polish, though he'll tolerate white, and they always end up chipped 0.2 seconds later. Cass does neat, careful coats. Steph does designs. You're messier. He likes all of it.

grunge!jason who lets you wear his leather jackets and beat-up hoodies and tries to play it cool every time he sees you in them, but fails miserably. You might as well have hung the moon. He absolutely pick fights with anyone who looks at you wrong while you're wearing his clothes.

grunge!jason who used to cut his own hair with kitchen scissors when it got too long. Now he lets you do it, sitting still for you in a way he doesn't for anyone else. It always ends up slightly uneven, but he loves it regardless.

grunge!jason who takes you to shitty dive bars to support local bands. He refuses to buy tickets through Ticketmaster on principle as he would rather the money go to actual artists than resellers. Stands behind you with his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, and fingers drumming to the beat against your skin while you both get lost in the music.

grunge!jason who writes song lyrics on your skin with sharpie when he's bored. Your arm becomes his notebook. Half the time they're lyrics that mean something about how he feels about you.

grunge!jason who lets you read those poetry-filled notebooks he's so embarrassed of. Only you. It takes him forever to work up to it and his hands shake when he hands them over. He watches your face the entire time you read, especially once you reach the ones about you.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

[greenunoreversecard]

Hello, how are you doing? I hope you're having a great day :) I was wondering if I could request for Lloyd headcanons, perhaps a royalty AU where Lloyd would take the role of a knight and reader of an emperor or king of sorts. Romantic if possible, if you could add a bit of that "forbidden love" trope too that would be nice! Anddd if you'd like to add a small one shot or drabble at the end that would be cool too, though it's not necessary. That would be it! Take your time and make sure to drink water, thanks!

A/N:Sorry for taking so long on your request; I was trying to finish up the last little crunch of the quarter for school, cannot afford to fail jr yr. But now I'm on spring break!! so here's a treat.

Also, more drabble then Head canons, I apologize. Whoopsie. Hope you enjoy! I tried to look a bit into medieval court stuff.

Knight! Lloyd x Royal! Reader HCs/Drabble

Firstly, I think Lloyd would value his job more than you in the beginning.

He'd be very serious about it, taking his duties in stride and doing them above and beyond, which is what caused him to be put up for suggestion when there was a position available in the King's personal guard.

And when you did observe him working initially, he was the perfect candidate- He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. It also helps that he's quite attractive.

Which is exactly what landed him in this position.

"Thank you, my Lord, for this Opportunity. Rest assured, you will not be let down." Lloyd says as he approaches your thrown, bowing deeply, and you can hear the dull clink of his armor as he clamors about to show his deep appreciation and loyalty.

You can do nothing but smirk at the boy, Head resting in your hand as you observe him, the Silvery glints of his armor in the evening light streaming through the window, the glimpses of the green eyes he sports sensationally, the light blonde hair like a halo Apon his head, a crown of beauty marking him as a saint, an angel, among men.

And thus, he became a hand-picked member of your personal guard. And, through time, you two grew closer.

He even became your closest member of staff, right behind your political advisory, seemingly even closer than the appointed king's confident.

But Lloyd, he never realized how close he got. The poor boy was rather oblivious to your advances, although rather tame as they were.

But you're Confident, Kai, was very much aware.

"This isn't wise, My Liege." Kai huffs, and I roll my eyes, fixing the collar of my nightshirt.

"Again, Kai, just call me by my name. we are friends, are we not?"

He rolls his eyes. "Y/N, this is rather unorthodox and not at all withholding of tradition. A King and a Knight? The people would have your head on a stake."

I hum. "Then we must ensure that the kingdom does not become aware of my affections for the member of my vangaurd, should we not?"

Kai looks like he wants to say more, but a swift glare from me makes him think better of it. He warily sighs.

"yes, My Lord."

"Y/N~" I tease.

He snaps back a witty retort, and I laugh.

And so the months go on, the air growing stale with cold, and you continue to delve into the true depths of Lloyd, who he is beyond his beauty and beyond his position as a knight of your guard.

You find he is responsible and kind, yet mischievous. He's wise beyond his years and adorkable in the best ways. He has had a hard life but doesn't let it define him. that he has the cutest face when he's shocked or asleep, and is chivalrous to a fault.

And also, so. SO. OBLIVIOUS.

if it was any other being blatantly ignorant to the king's advances, you'd probably be rid of them.

But not Lloyd. Damn him, and his perfection.

And, as fortune has it, it comes to a head one evening.

There he is, standing opposed the morning sun, training with another member of the vanguard. He looks ethereal in this light, with the sweat gathering in bunches on him from the strain of his training.

The fast-paced parry-block-parry-strike I tune out, as well as Cole; his opponent, instead watching him enraptured. Kai is by my side, watching oogling Lloyd's opponent.

The two continue on, But Lloyd glances where me and my confident stand, and his attention is taken from the spar, Cole knocking him flat with the moment he was given.

I can see Lloyd Huff, and Cole help him up as me and kai start to wander closer to the duo. As we get closer, I catch a wide, gummy-like smile grace Lloyd's features, and i feel a array of butterflies in my stomach.

"Good match, you two."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Thank you, Y/- Your Majesty." Cole and Lloyd bow, and Cole side eyes Lloyd with a teasing smile I can't particularly decipher at his slip up. As they rise, Cole Spots Kai, and waves, and I dismiss the duo to catch up on Cole's request, leaving just me and Lloyd.

"Pray tell, what distracted you, Lloyd?" I smirk, glancing at him from the corner of my eye as I notice a small blush rising on his cheeks, as we start for the knight's bathroom.

He stutters a moment, before landing on; "I- Uh, wasn't expecting spectators."

"Just spectators, or was it something more?"

He huffs, and looks off to the side, blush deepening only the slightest bit.

"You looked quiet entrancing, might I add, Lloyd" I say, keeping my voice a softer tone than I normally do. The blush on his face continues to rise, and I smirk. "You looked good enough to eat, might I say-" He smacks my arm.

"What are you playing at?"

I turn to look at him fully, in the abandoned corridor just before the knight's bathroom.

"Excuse me?"

I raise a brow.

"What are you playing at? You keep saying things like that, like your flirting with me-"

"Because I am."

He seemingly shorts circuits, mouth floundering for a response but finding no reprieve, face now a vibrant hue.

"I- What?"

"Because I am flirting with you. I have been for months. It astounds me you've taken until just now to notice."

He continues to flounder a moment more.

"I- but that- we can't-"

"Why not? 'Because the kingdom will have our heads'? Don't fret; kai's made the same retorts, thus, we would just keep it within my circle if you'd like..." I trail off. "If you feel the same, as well."

He fumbles a moment more, blushing, deepening impossibly darker, his Adam's Apple bopping as he swallows, but nods despite it.

"I... I Do. But its uncouth. And-"

I grab his hand, stroking his knuckles.

"Fret not, please, My Lloyd." My voice is tender. "We'll keep it safe, and if it becomes a station of trouble, we'll deal with it when the hurdle comes."

He melts under my small touch, and after a moment's hesitation, sighs and finally nods.

"So it shall be, then," He murmurs, and I leave a lingering kiss on his forehead, feeling the heat of his flush under my lips.

And so it was.

--

The End!! Hope you enjoyed!!!!

[selinakylelove]

Library Meet-Cute

summary: Jason goes to the library only to find his spot taken up but someone who proves to be his type more than he though anyone could

a/n: another new series mayhaps? I don’t even know how much I like this first one so we’ll see lol

———————————————————————

Dickens. Shakespeare. Jane Austen of course.

For a little over twenty minutes , Jason had be roaming his way around the library. It wasn't huge but it was stuffed with as many books as they could get.

Something he greatly appreciated.

Lately he'd been expanding the genres he read but he couldn't deny he was already missing his classics.

Ending up with about three in hand before deciding to head over to his small corner spot to read before heading home.

Jason wasn't big on a routine life. Everything was too unpredictable so he left it up to fate or whatever could be controlling the people on earth like little puppets.

However, one place he could never stop visiting, was his little library. Yes, he called it his own. He was most likely the one who came in the most, plus he beat up a few drug dealers who were going to make the alley beside the shop their own meeting place.

Jason couldn't let that stand because he couldn't let the risk of the librarians or the building get destroyed.

And they were drug dealers too, right. Jason totally did it because of that, not just the books.

Anyways, here he was at almost midnight. Arm full of books, comfortable hoodie and pants on in trade of his Redhood outfit. Heading straight for…

Someone was in his spot.

Jason's brows furrowed immediately as he stepped into one of the rows, not to make his staring obvious.

Who the hell was in his spot at this time of night? Once he finally got a good look, his heart stuttered a moment.

You were cute. If not a little intense with the amount of focus that radiated from you.

Your bag beside you was littered with different pins and clip ons. Clearly well loved. He could see even a few books stuffed into them.

A bunch of study material was littered around your table. Computer open in front of you as you went back and forth between that and your notes.

You even had a baggy leather jacket stuffed beside you. Jason wasn't sure he had a type but if he did, it was you.

And because of that…he may have been lurking a bit suspiciously, not realizing how much he had been leaning out of the row to look at you.

When your eyes shifted up and immediately frowned at him, he was all too aware of how this looked.

Quickly standing up straight and clearing his throat.

"Uh- sorry. I just realized how creepy that must of looked."

"Oh no, a random man staring at me from a behind in a library at midnight isn't creepy at all."

Jason chuckled softly. Shit you were sarcastic too. Maybe he did have a type.

"Yeah…yeah. This is usually where I sit when I come here. I saw you though and well you're…"

"I'm what?" He noticed the raised eyebrow you gave him. Somewhat engaged but also annoyed someone was disrupting you.

"Hot."

Jason immediately winced. Only looking through his humility when he heard a sudden burst of laughter.

"Wow, I've never had a man be so blunt and then feel bad about it. Though I guess if you're reading Jane Austen that would teach you a thing or two."

Recovering like nothing happened, he was completely perked up, already grabbing the book to put at the top of his little pile.

"Yeah, she's a wonderful author. I re-reader her stuff a lot."

He took you gentle nod as a good sign.

"That's really nice. I read Pride and Prejudice when I was younger and I did enjoy it but I think it's something I should re-read. I know there was a few things I probably missed completely."

Mindlessly his feet brought him closer to you.

"I'd definitely recommend it."

The conversationed ended there and suddenly Jason felt like he couldn't think properly. What did he say now? Awkward silence filled the space between you. Your own eyes already glancing back to your work before realizing he was still standing there.

"You can sit if you'd like."

Silently Jason nodded and slid in the seat across from you.

"So uh- where'd you get your pins from?"

You spared a quick glance back to your bag before looking back to him. "Oh all over really. I think mostly thrift stores, I get lucky. Other times there's been specific vendors and stuff."

"You're kind of a collector then?"

"Yeah I guess I am."

Quiet yet somehow meaningful talk filled your little corner of the library. Jason felt easy to talk to. Like he didn't judge any normal person for just living their life.

He didn't speak over you and he seemed to really listen. His responses actually made sense and related back to what you had said in the first place which felt rare to hear for you lately.

"So yeah, that's what I think about the book anyways."

Jason nodded firmly. "Yeah I agree. It would have been cool to see her keep the ending just as good as the rest of the book. Something just kind of fell short and it's like it was just rushed to be done with."

You couldn't help but admire him now. His eyes a beautiful blue colour that looked strangely green in some lighting.

The little tuft of white hair in the front of his otherwise black strands. He had scars yes, but the look in his eyes seemed to bring a whole different vibe.

He was still human. That much was clear.

Jason's eyes locked onto yours now.

"I still wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to freak you out or anything. With the staring or the uh blunt way of calling you hot. I mean you are don't get me wrong, but you're beautiful as well and- sorry I'm gonna get too cheesy if I keep talking."

That pulled another laugh out of you.

"You're sweet you know. And hot too." Jason's face warmed at the compliment, even if you were slightling making fun of him with it.

"I wouldn't mind getting your number either."

He looked up slightly startled.

"Really? I mean I was going to ask you but I really felt like I was digging my grave deeper and I-" He stopped himself from making one of those jokes.

You handed over your phone with the contact information ready to be filled in. His hands were a little shaky as he did so.

Apparently he could take over a drug ring without the slightest dent in his composure but the second it came to someone like you, he was a mess.

"Perfect. Now I'd ask for your name but I actually like Jane Austen guy better. Sounds like the perfect contact name to me."

A soft laugh left Jason's mouth.

"Yeah that's not bad is it? Its Jason, though. But you can call me whatever you like."

"Good. I'll be calling you tomorrow."

Suddenly you were up, walking away with an air of confidence. He hadn't even realized you packed your stuff up. Was he that down bad?

———————————————————————

taglist: @ilocuras24 @elsyageorgia @maradcrs @i-dearbambi-dxx

[thelazyauthorsblog]

Key⋆˙⟡

⟡ SMAU 🖂

⟡ Written work ✎

⟡ Angst ☾

⟡ Fluff ✮

⟡ Smutty 𖤓

Multi-characters ꨄ︎

⟡ Less than polite makeup names 🖂✮

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⟡ Solo shower shenanigans 🖂✮

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⟡ Vampire wannabe 🖂𖤓

⟡ Still rocking your hoodie 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⤷ Part 4

⤷ Part 5

⤷ Part 1.b

⤷ Part 2.b

⤷ Part 3.b

⟡ Done with your ex? 🖂✮

⟡ Impossible choices 🖂𖤓

⟡ Princess treatment 🖂✮

⟡ A small thing that happened 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⟡ Clipped wings 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⟡ Saw it coming 🖂☾

⟡ Love me like i love you 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⤷ Part 4

⟡ Realistic costumes 🖂✮

⟡ Reading into every word 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⟡ Sour grapes 🖂✮

⟡ Seems like you're mine 🖂☾

⤷ Part 2

⤷ Part 3

⟡ Shaved or unshaved ✎𖤓

⟡ Midnight terrors 🖂✮

Jason Todd ꨄ︎

⟡ Headcannon ✎✮

⤷ Part 2 ✎𖤓

⟡ The one who gets under the hood 🖂

Bruce Wayne ꨄ︎

⟡ Headcannon ✎✮

⤷ Part 2 ✎𖤓

Damian Wayne ꨄ︎

⟡ No one to save me 🖂☾

Back to Masterlist ꨄ︎