welcome to my corner of this chaotic place, aka my mind palace! idk it's messy in here & u might find a spare braincell somewhere but have a look around <3
music — taylor swift, sabrina carpenter, olivia rodrigo, lana del ray, ariana grande, bts, twice, new jeans, le sserafim, aespa, enhypen, seventeen, ive, txt, skz, kiss of life
of all my clothes, my favorite growing up was always my grandma’s old cardigan. it was a hand-knitted thing, lopsided—ugly, really—but i loved it with all my heart. even then, i had a penchant for broken things.
i was the kind of kid who could never throw away stuffed animals no matter how ragged they got, the girl whose most beloved toys were the ones worn in so many times they turned grey. if someone didn’t want something, that was reason enough for me to want it all the more. what else is compassion if not pity?
maybe they reminded me of myself, in a way. the second choice, the forgotten one. i was never popular in school, never the one my parents chose to praise at family gatherings. it’s like i was that cardigan, stuffed to the back of the closet, kicked underneath a bed to never be worn.
and then you came along, chestnut hair and carefree smiles, smiling at me like i was the prettiest girl at the parties i never attended. you and your vintage tees, your brand new phone; you pulled me out under the streetlights and spun me around until i was drunk on your laughter.
you said my grandma’s cardigan was gorgeous on me, too. the crooked stitches like uneven scars; you made every single one a star to me.
and when we kissed in the back of cars and downtown bars, i finally knew what it was like to be someone’s favorite.
a favorite that they could come back to. a favorite that you would come back to.
but chase two girls, lose the one; i should have known better than to think someone would choose me first forever.
my grandmother’s cardigan collects dust under my bed.
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"I'm not eating, Your Highness," Jason repeats for the fifth time, arms crossed over a bulky armoured chest, eyes narrowed to slits as he stares down at you across the table from him. "I'm here to guard, not to consume your food. Nothing more, nothing less."
Obviously it'd be more if he could have it, but to the first heir of the kingdom, he is nothing but a guard dog. Violent but trained, quick to bite if provoked—and above all, utterly and completely loyal to the person sitting in front of a feast as tantalizing as the first fall of snow.
There is nothing more speaking of devotion than the dedication of one's life to someone else, body and soul. He cannot have you, that much is true; but at least he can kneel at your throne and pledge allegiance to your cause. His body is yours, if not in the sense of intimacy, then at least in the truth that he would shield you with his own heart.
Even if there were not the class difference, you are too different to ever survive each other. Jason is a shattered mess of a man, with a path too broken for that of a royal to ever walk; you would never know the way it feels to go hungry for weeks on end, to fight tooth and nail for every single necessity. To not wear silks embroidered with the finest imported gold.
He is far, too, from the rest of the palace knights. No pampering, no preparation, no family status and nothing in his possessions but the clothes on his back and a hunger to be more. He fought quick, he fought dirty. They didn't bother him after he knocked two teeth out of the first squire who made fun of his heritage.
In a way, it wasn't unlike the streets Jason was used to. Kill or be killed, befriend only to use, do anything to survive. There's a reason he keeps his distance even now, hovering at the opposite end of the table, staring at food he will never be able to afford.
What does he know of touch save for the clash of blade on blade, the impact of skin on skin? There is nothing but violence in his veins.
tim: did you know demon spawn still sleeps with his stuffed giraffe?
damian: is that so?? well i heard you still sleep with the night light on.
jason: *walking past* you're both amateurs.
tim: oh yeah? and what do you sleep with?
jason: y/n.
THE SOFT HUM OF THE CITY OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW HAD QUIETED TO A RARE WHISPER TONIGHT, a lull in Gotham’s usual chaos that felt like a blessing. Sirens, so common they were practically part of the soundtrack of your life, had faded into distant echoes, while the occasional honk of a car horn or the rush of tires on wet pavement seemed farther away than usual. It wasn’t complete silence—Gotham never truly slept—but it was as close as the city could get, a fleeting moment of stillness.
Inside, the warmth of your room cocooned you in a comforting contrast to the winter outside. The radiator hummed softly in the corner, its gentle heat mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle you’d lit earlier to help you focus. The flame flickered now, casting shadows that danced along the edges of your desk and walls, though the main light came from the golden glow of the lamp beside your bed. It bathed everything in a soft, inviting yellow light, the kind that made you want to sink deeper into your blankets and let the night carry you away.
But there was no time for that—not tonight. Your bed, usually your sanctuary, had become a battlefield. Textbooks, notebooks, flashcards, and stray pens were scattered like the aftermath of an academic storm. A bright pink highlighter sat capless somewhere near your elbow, while a pile of dog-eared textbooks loomed over you, threatening to topple if you so much as shifted the wrong way. You were surrounded on all sides by the evidence of your late-night cram session, the weight of the information you were trying to absorb pressing down on your already heavy eyelids.
The soft cotton of your oversized sweater brushed against your arms as you adjusted your position, tucking one leg beneath you and letting the other dangle off the edge of the bed. You propped your chin in your hand, squinting at the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The words blurred and swam on the page, merging into an indecipherable wall of text as your brain fought against the exhaustion creeping in.
Your eyelids drooped again, the soft weight of exhaustion pulling them down as if gravity itself was conspiring against your efforts. You blinked hard, shaking your head slightly to snap yourself out of the haze creeping over your thoughts. The neat black ink on the page swam in and out of focus, words smudging together in a taunting blur. Focus, just focus. But no amount of repetition could make the phrase "mitochondria: powerhouse of the cell" feel less like a mantra from a far-off dream.
“Powerhouse,” you muttered again, your voice low and groggy, as if repeating it would anchor your wandering mind. “Powerhouse of . . . ugh.” You tossed the pen down onto the bedspread with a soft thud and buried your face in your hands, groaning into the quiet sanctuary of your room.
Your head sank forward, pressing against the cool surface of the open textbook. The faint scent of paper and ink tickled your nose as you let out a long, frustrated sigh. The night had started with so much ambition—a cup of coffee you swore would keep you awake, a meticulous plan to conquer this section of the syllabus—but now? Now, all you could think about was how soft your pillow looked, just a few inches away from your outstretched arm.
At least it was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that you could hear the rhythmic hum of your radiator and the occasional groan of the building settling. The sounds wrapped around you like a soothing melody, a rare lullaby in the city that never stopped moving. There was no blaring of police sirens, no shouting from the streets below, no low thrum of distant helicopters scanning the skies. It felt almost unnatural, this stillness, like the city was holding its breath.
But it was a welcome kind of calm. For once, there were no distractions, no sudden noises to pull your focus away from the monumental task at hand. You adjusted your position on the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath your weight, and let yourself soak in the serenity. Just you, your books, and the glow of the lamplight. Quiet enough to think, to study, to—
A faint creak echoed outside your window, cutting through the silence like a needle dragging across a record. You froze, your hand halfway to turning the page, and lifted your head slowly, ears straining to catch any further sound. The fire escape of your apartment didn’t creak like that, but you knew the noise well. It was the sound of weight shifting against metal, deliberate and steady, and it was coming from outside.
Your pulse quickened, and you instinctively turned toward the window, where the dark glass reflected nothing but the warm glow of your room. Shadows danced faintly against the curtains, swaying with the breeze outside, but nothing seemed out of place. You frowned, brushing the thought away as paranoia. Maybe a branch had fallen or some stray cat had climbed up the fire escape again.
Jason wasn’t supposed to visit tonight. You’d both agreed on that earlier in the day, a mutual understanding that life—his, out on the snowy streets of Gotham, and yours, buried in exams and deadlines—was too demanding right now. He had patrol; you had textbooks. It was supposed to be a quiet night for both of you, separate but enduring, each fighting your battles alone.
So when you heard the soft scrape against your window, you froze, heart leaping into your throat. It wasn’t loud enough to be an accident, too deliberate to dismiss.
And there he was.
Jason stood there on your fire escape, the shadow of his imposing figure framed by the glow of your bedside lamp spilling through the curtains. Snow clung to the edges of his black and red suit, catching in the mess of his dark hair, the frosty crystals melting into droplets on his skin. His helmet was gone, his bare face illuminated in the low light, and for a fleeting second, you could almost convince yourself he looked shy, hesitant. But no—Jason Peter Todd didn’t do shy. Not really. He was here for a reason, even if it wasn’t the one he’d planned.
Your breath hitched as your gaze dipped lower. His jacket was torn along one sleeve, the fabric shredded, and beneath it, a wound marred the pale skin of his arm. Fresh blood seeped through, staining the snow-dusted fabric and dripping slowly down to the black of his gloves. The edges of the wound were jagged, raw, like it had been inflicted during a fight—one that he’d won, no doubt, but not without cost.
You were on your feet before you realized you’d moved, the fortress of textbooks and notes forgotten in an instant. “Jason,” you whispered, his name barely audible over the rush of your pulse. He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, wasn’t supposed to need you like this, but here he was, leaning against the window frame as though standing upright was an effort.
Your fingers hovered near the lock on the window, hesitating for only a moment before you slid it open. The cold night air rushed in, biting against your skin and making you shiver, but Jason barely seemed to notice. He stepped inside with a deliberate slowness, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he moved past you and into the warm glow of your room. His boots left faint, wet prints on the floor, the snow melting quickly in the heat.
“You’re bleeding,” you said, the words tumbling out instinctively, your voice tinged with worry. It felt stupid to say—it was obvious, painfully so—but seeing him like this had your mind scrambling to keep up. “You weren’t supposed to—what happened?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His lips quirked into a faint, almost sheepish smirk as he glanced down at the wound on his arm, as though it wasn’t worth mentioning. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, brushing it off in that gruff, nonchalant way of his. But the way his hand pressed against the injury, as though to stem the bleeding, told you otherwise.
You crossed your arms over your chest, fixing him with a look that you hoped conveyed both your concern and your impatience for the truth. Because nothing didn’t leave his suit ripped to shreds and blood dripping onto your floor.
“Jason, sit down,” exclaiming, your voice was firmer than you thought it would be. Worry surged through you as you closed the window behind him, sealing out the chill. The warmth of your room clashed against the icy snow clinging to his battered suit, the droplets melting and dripping onto the floor. You barely noticed. All you could see was the wound on his arm and the way his jaw tightened like he was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.
“I told you, it’s fine,” he muttered, brushing past you with a tired shrug, his usual swagger diminished by the faint limp in his step. He leaned against the edge of your desk, scattering a couple of your neatly stacked flashcards with the motion. His gaze flicked to you then, softening just slightly, like he knew exactly what you were about to say and was already bracing himself for it.
“It’s not fine.” You stepped closer, reaching for his arm. He tried to pull it back, but you were quicker, your fingers ghosting over the torn fabric and the angry gash beneath. His muscles tensed at your touch, but he didn’t stop you. Not completely. “You’re bleeding all over my floor. At least let me—”
“Later,” he interrupted, his voice low and firm, but soft for you. “I’ll deal with it later. It’s just a scratch.”
Your eyes narrowed at his deflection. “Jason—”
“[Name],” he countered, your name falling from his lips like a warning and a plea all at once. He reached for you then, his uninjured hand brushing against your wrist and tugging you closer with gentleness that contrasted starkly with the blood dripping from his other arm.
The shift was dizzying, pulling you from worry to something softer and harder to resist. You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could get the words out, he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek, and the sharp edges of his usual bravado softened in the intimacy of the moment. “I didn’t come here so you could play nurse,” he murmured. “I just . . . needed to see you.”
Your heart clenched at the quiet honesty in his voice, but you refused to let him distract you so easily. “You needed stitches,” you shot back, trying to keep your resolve, though the way his thumb traced slow circles against your hip wasn’t helping. “Jason, you can’t just—”
Whatever you were about to say was lost as he kissed you. His lips captured yours with a sudden intensity that left no room for argument, silencing every worry you’d been about to voice. His fingers trailed from your neck up, landing on your cheek with a gentle caress, anchoring you to him, and for a moment, all you could do was melt into his touch. You felt his tension ease slightly, the weight of whatever he’d been carrying fading just enough as he pressed closer, as if kissing you was the only medicine he needed.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead still resting against yours, you opened your eyes to find his staring back, dark and unreadable but softened by something raw and unguarded. “See?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “I’m fine.”
You sighed, shaking your head, your hands instinctively resting on his chest. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” Jason teased, that cocky grin returning even as the blood continued to drip from his arm.
You groaned, pushing lightly against his chest. “Fine. But I swear, if you pass out on my floor because you were too stubborn to let me help, I’m drawing on your face while you’re out.”
His laughter was quiet but genuine, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate. You didn’t give him the chance to argue this time. Grabbing the first-aid kit from your bedside table, you set it down on the desk beside him with a decisive clatter. Jason raised an eyebrow at your determination, the faint smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth, but you were too focused to care.
“Jacket off,” you mumbled, your tone leaving no room for debate.
He sighed, tilting his head back slightly like he was preparing for a lecture, but he complied without protest. With a grunt, he shrugged off the battered leather jacket, hissing slightly as the movement pulled at the torn edges of his suit. You caught the flash of discomfort in his expression, but he said nothing, tossing the bloodied jacket onto your chair.
“And the top half,” you added, gesturing toward the suit. Your voice was softer this time, less demanding but no less insistent. His hands hesitated briefly at the hem of the torn fabric before he pulled it up and over his head, revealing the pale, scarred skin of his chest and shoulders. The gash on his arm looked even worse without the fabric covering it, the torn skin deep and angry. Blood smeared across his bicep and dripped onto the floor, and you had to swallow the lump in your throat at the sight.
Jason glanced at you, the teasing light in his eyes dimmed now, replaced with something quieter, more vulnerable. “It’s really not that bad.”
“Jason, it’s bad,” you countered, shaking your head as you grabbed a clean cloth and antiseptic from the kit. He didn’t argue this time, watching you silently as you tended to his wound. The warmth of his skin under your fingers was a reminder of how human he was—how breakable, despite the armor he wrapped himself in every night.
The first dab of antiseptic against the wound made him flinch, a soft hiss escaping through his teeth. “Sorry,” you murmured, glancing up at him.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. Just do what you need to do.”
And so you did. Your hands moved with careful precision as you cleaned the wound, biting your lip in concentration. Jason stayed still, his muscles tensing under your touch but his expression relaxed—at least outwardly. You knew him well enough to see the subtle shifts, the way his eyes darted occasionally toward your face, as if he were studying you just as much as you were tending to him.
“Why didn’t you do this yourself?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. “You have supplies at your place. You didn’t have to come here like this.”
He was quiet for a moment, the question lingering between you like smoke. Then, finally, he sighed, his voice low and rough. “Didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
The simplicity of his words made you pause, your hands stilling briefly before resuming their work. You didn’t press him further; you didn’t need to. Jason never came out and said it, but moments like this told you everything you needed to know. Beneath the sharp wit, there was a part of him that needed the quiet comfort of your presence, even if he didn’t know how to ask for it outright.
“Well,” you said gently, wrapping a bandage around his arm with practiced care, “you’re not alone now.”
His gaze softened, green eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He reached out with his uninjured hand, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than it needed to. “Thanks,” he whispered, the word heavy with meaning.
You smiled faintly, finishing the bandage and tying it off securely. “There,” you said, leaning back to admire your work. “Good as new. Or, at least, good enough to stop bleeding all over my room.”
Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt the tension in your chest ease slightly. “You’re wasted on studying,” he teased and with that, his smirk returned. “You could make a pretty decent field medic.”
Rolling your eyes at him, you packed up the first-aid kit neatly. “Yeah, well, let’s not test that theory any further tonight, okay?”
As you turned to put the bloodied gauze and scattered supplies away, Jason’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist, stopping you mid-step. His grip wasn’t firm, but it was enough to tug you back toward him, enough to make your heart lurch at the vulnerability written across his face. You froze for a moment, your eyes meeting his. The usual sharpness in his gaze was softened now, dulled by exhaustion, pain, and something quieter—something unguarded. His bravado, the cocky smirk and dismissive sarcasm that so often served as his shield, was gone. He looked at you like he was searching for something, something only you could give.
“I mean it,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but steady enough to hit you square in the chest. “Thanks. For . . . this. For being here.”
The words felt heavy, like they carried more weight than just tonight. They weren’t just gratitude for the bandages or the antiseptic or the quiet space you’d made for him in your small room. It was more than that. It was for the safety, the warmth, the acceptance you gave him so freely, no matter how broken or battered he was when he came through your window.
Your breath caught, and for a moment, you just looked at him, your throat tightening at the raw honesty in his eyes. “Jay,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. You didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to put into words how much it meant to you that he was here, that he trusted you enough to let his walls down like this.
Instead, you slid your hand over his, the one still wrapped around your wrist, and gave it a gentle squeeze. You leaned down slowly, your fingers brushing against the edge of his jaw as you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His skin was warm beneath your lips, and you lingered there for a second longer than you meant to, closing your eyes as a quiet promise settled in the space between you.
“Always,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with every ounce of certainty you had.
When you pulled back, his eyes followed you, still searching, still vulnerable. His hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing lightly against your pulse point like he was grounding himself in the feel of you. For a man who was usually so composed, so quick to hide behind sarcasm, he looked achingly human in that moment—like he wasn’t Red Hood, wasn’t Gotham’s vengeance, but just a man who needed someone to remind him it was okay to bleed sometimes.
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unpopular opinion: jason todd is NOT jane austen coded. he is mary shelley, he is shakespearean tragedies, he is oedipus rex. he is a monster formed of bloodshed that yet longs to be connected to his creator, he is a man of honor and justice whose fatal flaw was nothing but circumstance, he is a victim who cannot escape his prophesized fate. in this essay i will
THIS!! But walk with me and hear me out… he’s allowed to be two things at once… an important note here is that Austen is NOT just a romance writer, she writes ironies, satires and comedies… And Jason is nothing, if not a walking juxtaposition. He’s a yearner, a melancholic and tragically sensitive man. But on the contrary, he’s also impulsive, vexed and a totally complicated, stubborn mess.
You’re right, Jason is a walking tragedy, he is haunted by his narrative, but he’s also plagued with the curse of feeling so gravely and passionately. He’s stuck with this deep-seated sense of morality… that in itself is the core of Austen’s work. Austen often wrote about women and marriage, but her stories critiqued societal norms, morality, and the virtues of people. Her characters are profound and varied, they can’t be characterized in a box—just like Jason in my opinion!!
Also not to mention in URTH and Arkham Knight, Jason’s literally a sarcastic and menacing little bitch so like there’s that too
As small footnote to this amazing character analysis, and in favor of furthering the Jason Todd is Mary Shelly coded agenda, I invite you to consider how Mary Shelly's lover, Lord Byron, basically popularized the archetype of Byronic hero that, in my opinion, both Jason Todd and Victor Frankenstein fall under. I also urge you to consider the staggering parallels between The Last Man main character, Lionel Verney, whose main conflict is loneliness, and perseverance in the face of devastation.
"i'm in love with you," she blurts out, the words tumbling out like crimson on white snow.
no. no, no no no. "you shouldn't—"
her fists clench at her sides, a frown creasing her mouth. "stop telling me what i should or shouldn't do! i'm my own person, ajax, you have to stop ordering me around." her eyes flash. perhaps it'd be a little more intimidating if she were a smidge taller. "or is it because you don't like me the way i do?"
i catch her wrist before she can step closer, fighting the familiar urge for the feel of a bone crushed beneath my hands. i can't hurt her, not her, anyone but her. is this not precisely why she should stay away from me?
"it's not you, sweetheart. i'm a bad person—"
"stop saying that!" she twists free of my grasp and swats my arm away. "you're not bad. you're misunderstood. they made you out to be the villain, the enemy—"
"sweetheart." a beat. she pauses, cheeks aglow in candlelight, nose crinkling the way it always does when she's frustrated. "i've hurt people. i've killed people. i've blackmailed, stolen, manipulated, tortured innocent people for a cause i didn't even think twice about. i've left more bloody entrails in my wake then i've ever left goodness."
i can see her struggle, conflict clear in her eyes. even now, hurt and perturbed, she's a vision of loveliness—an image someone else deserves. "but i've seen you with your sister. i've seen you with the maids' children, the horses. you care about life, ajaxter, all that happened in the past isn't your fault—"
"i meant it." i'm close before i know it, inches from her face, breath hovering over those pretty lips and angel eyes. is it anger or desire that makes her chin tilt up? does it matter? "and for the record, i enjoyed it."
the words are like venom on my tongue; i let them linger in the air, hissed, sinking into the space between like blood on a faultless carpet.
i enjoyed it.
a second longer is all it takes before she pulls away, gaze grief-stricken, shaking her head as she slowly backs away.
unpopular opinion: jason todd is NOT jane austen coded. he is mary shelley, he is shakespearean tragedies, he is oedipus rex. he is a monster formed of bloodshed that yet longs to be connected to his creator, he is a man of honor and justice whose fatal flaw was nothing but circumstance, he is a victim who cannot escape his prophesized fate. in this essay i will
i came across a quiz the other day. what's your love language? the question asked in grey font, bold san serif against a light pink background,
that was easy. physical touch, no doubt.
i am a physical person, quick to hug, even quicker to kiss. where my hands linger, my heart bleeds through fingertips; i am soft and warm and curved under palms. friends know my presence through the subtle brush of my hips, a head on their shoulder, arms linked between.
but my finger hovers over the mouse, waiting to click.
am i not a person of words? sometimes too little, more often too many? i have never known a friend who i do not call by some endearment or another, never known a birthday card or a love letter that goes unread. my friends know i am the first person to scream 'gorgeous' at them in all caps.
then those words come with actions, as my mother has taught me.
i would stay up til 4am to read your texts, fold paper into mini origami hearts to tuck into your bookbag in between classes. servitude does not come easily to me by nature (i am a pink pilates princess in every sense of the phrase) and yet i would make you a spotify playlist in less than a heartbeat.
do those count as gifts? i love gifts.
gifting, receiving; christmas has always been my favourite holiday of the year. what is only better than unboxing a much coveted pair of heels is watching my friend's face light up as she does hers. generousity is not a fault in which i find myself lacking; to be rich is to give as freely as one gets.
but if there are gifts, then there are the gifts of time.
there is nothing i love more than spending a day at the mall with a horde of friends, giggling and laughing and gossiping about every person we know. there is nothing that compares to getting boba after and flirting with cashiers and living in the moment, because time is short and life is to love.
what is your love language? the question repeats, and i pause.
Tim Drake has a hatred for Sherlock Holmes, has he ever read the books? No but his dad used to insultingly call him Sherlock as a kid when he was being too nosy or curious and now even when people say it as a compliment it just irks him
Jason being the resident classic literature nerd is dead set on at least having Tim read the books so he can either A. Actually like the books and accept that Sherlock is actually a pretty cool guy to be compared too, or B. Give actual tasteful criticism and insults based on the contents of the book
Jason could care less which happens he’s just tired of Tim ranting about his hatred for Sherlock despite not knowing a thing about Sherlock
——
Tim: Sherlock this, Sherlock that, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that stupid hat
Jason: The hat really isn’t even mentioned in the books, You’d know if you read them
Tim: I’m not reading them, they really can’t be that good in fact Sherlock was so bad even his literal creator wanted nothing to do with him
Jason: Your dad wanted nothing to do with you and you’re still a pretty good detective
*Cue Dick yelling at Jason cause “that wasn’t nice”
