pairing: jason todd x gn!reader
synopsis: getting out of bed in the morning is never easy with him...
cw: none, fluff, established relationship, jason being clingy
wc: 600
a/n: wrote this half asleep, so it's ass but idc
art creds: the talented @ciricearts!
Jason masterlist
You slam your palm against your alarm before it can ring a second time—a habit you’ve developed out of your hatred for it.
You take a moment before stretching and yawning. The heavy arm draped over your waist twitches before it tightens its grip on you. You let your head fall back and sigh.
Not again.
He nuzzles closer, slotting his face right in the crook of your neck.
“Baby?” You whisper.
No response.
“Jay,” you mutter, a little louder.
He stirs, his eyes fluttering open. He lets out a groggy groan.
“‘S too early… go back to sleep,” he mumbles, his words slurring together as he speaks against your neck.
“No, it’s not early. I have work in two hours. So could you please get off me? I need to get ready.”
“Don’t go, stay with me.” He finally pulls away and looks up at you with those hypnotizing green eyes.
They’re dim and half-lidded from sleep, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.
You smile at the sight. He always made it hard to get out of bed.
“I can’t, you know that.” You lean down to kiss his forehead.
He seems to take that as an invitation because he immediately props himself up with his arms and moves to loom over you, before peppering your face, jaw and neck with lazy, sloppy kisses.
“Jason—“ you click your tongue in annoyance.
“Yes?” He asks in between pecks.
“We’re not doing this again— get off me!”
He pulls back to stare down at you with a serious expression, as if this were life or death to him.
“Just gimme a minute,” he mutters before leaning down again, this time meeting your lips with his, effectively stealing the air right out of your lungs.
He breaks the kiss for just a second to stare at you, before diving back in.
You turn your head to the side, making him miss his target, but he instead just resorts to pressing a tender kiss to your cheek.
“I’m gonna be late!”
“Jus’ one more, please.” He mumbles, chasing your lips and splitting them apart with his tongue. He swallows the little gasp that escapes you.
You kiss him back, letting him have this one. When he's finally done, you speak again.
“Satisfied? Can I go now?”
He looks down at you, eyes foggy and face blank. “... fine." he releases you, and you take the opportunity to quickly get up before he can change his mind.
He slumps against the mattress again, face smooshed against the pillow.
You make your way to the bathroom to shower and get ready.
Once you come back out, you rummage through the dresser and find your clothes.
Finally done, you make your way back to his side of the bed. He's still half asleep.
"Jay," you whisper.
He lets out a small hum, his eyebrows lifting, as he opens one of his eyes to look at you.
"I'm gonna go now, okay? Leftovers are in the fridge." you brush his hair out of his forehead, and cup his jaw, before landing a soft kiss on his lips.
You try to pull away, but his arm has already snaked itself behind your neck, keeping you close to him. His other hand finds your hip, and he tugs you back down on the bed with him.
You gasp, and try to get out of his hold but it's no use. "Jason, I have to go!—" you mumble against his lips.
"I know, just give me a minute," he breathes out.
You giggle despite being mildly irritated, unable to help yourself.
Maybe you should make him sleep on the couch from now on to avoid having to deal with this.
they warn you about your neighbor jason todd the same way they warn you about black cats. and on halloween, you meet his cat in an alley, see through the superstition, and choose kindness where others always chose fear.
people in the neighborhood don’t really talk about jason todd so much as they talk around him. half-sentences, raised brows, little warnings passed along like they’re being helpful. don’t park there. don’t get involved. don’t expect anything nice.
you hear it through open windows when you walk past, through chain-link fences and over low music, through the way voices dip when he’s mentioned like he might hear them anyway. like he’s listening from the walls.
but jason never does anything that matches the reputation. he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, fixes things that don’t belong to him without asking. you’ve seen him patch the broken gate by the alley late at night, quiet and focused, like it matters to get it right even if no one thanks him for it. mean people don’t do that.
so when you hear about the cat, you already know not to trust the story.
someone tells you it’s aggressive, feral, unpredictable. says jason dragged it home off the street like that explains everything. someone else adds, offhand, that it’s black—like that alone settles the argument. bad luck, they say. bad omen. the kind of thing you’re supposed to keep your distance from. you just hum and keep walking, already guessing how much of that is projection.
it’s halloween when you go looking for him.
the neighborhood’s louder than usual, porch lights blinking orange, fake cobwebs sagging between railings, kids running in packs with sugar-high laughter that carries a little too far.
people say it’s harmless, say it’s tradition, say it’s just jokes. you hear someone mutter something about bad luck and black cats and you feel that familiar, irritated pull in your chest.
you grab a jacket and your keys and head out before you can overthink it.
you don’t have a plan, exactly. just a feeling that sits wrong in your chest, heavy and insistent. the kind you’ve learned not to ignore. halloween does that to people—gives them permission to be cruel and call it tradition, lets them dress it up in superstition and laugh while they do it.
you cut through the block behind the strip of houses, where the lights thin out and the noise dulls into echoes. trash cans line the alley like a bad idea, lids dented, wheels squeaking when the wind nudges them. one of the dumpsters is tipped slightly open, lid rattling every time a car door slams somewhere nearby.
something’s been left behind near it—a kid’s bike tipped on its side, one wheel bent in on itself like it was kicked too hard. a plastic pumpkin is still taped to the handlebars, cracked straight down the middle, grin split and useless now. it feels intentional. like someone decided it was easier to break something than carry it home.
at first you think you’re imagining it.
then you hear it—soft, panicked, trapped.
you slow to a stop.
there’s laughter, too. not close, but close enough. you round the corner and catch the tail end of it: a group of kids in cheap masks, one of them kicking the side of the dumpster before darting off. “bad luck,” someone says between laughs, like it’s the punchline.
“hey,” you snap, sharp enough to cut through them. “get out of here.”
they scatter, startled, bravado evaporating the second they’re noticed. the alley goes quiet again, except for the rattling lid and the small, broken sound coming from inside the metal bin.
you crouch immediately.
“it’s okay,” you say, softer now. “they’re gone.”
a hiss answers you—thin, defensive, more fear than threat. you peer inside and see him pressed tight into the corner, fur puffed up, eyes blown wide. black as midnight except for a clean white stripe cutting through his fur, stark and unmistakable, like it was painted there on purpose.
someone wedged the lid down.
your jaw tightens.
“that’s not superstition,” you mutter. “that’s just being cruel.”
you don’t reach in. instead, you grab a stick from the ground and use it to prop the lid open, slow and careful so it doesn’t clang shut again. the sound makes him flinch, body tensing like he’s bracing for another scare.
“hey,” you murmur. “i see you.”
your voice comes out softer than you expect, like you’re talking to something fragile instead of something everyone keeps calling dangerous. you don’t move closer. you don’t reach in. you just stay right there, knees pressed to the pavement, hands loose in your lap so he can see you’re not a threat.
he only settles when your hands stay where he can see them, fingers still.
his body stays coiled tight, every line of him drawn inward, claws scraping faintly against metal as if he’s deciding whether fear or hunger gets the final say.
the sound is sharper than you expect. harsher. it makes something flicker in your chest, a brief, unwelcome thought slipping in before you can stop it—maybe they’re right.
you let him.
you breathe slow on purpose, make yourself small in all the ways that matter. the night air smells like candy wrappers and cold metal and something burnt from down the block. somewhere a car passes, bass rattling windows, and he flinches again, a sharp little shudder that pulls at your chest.
“you’re okay,” you say gently, like reassurance is something you’re offering, not demanding. “i promise.”
you reach into your pocket carefully, narrating the movement without thinking about it. “i’m just grabbing something, sweetie. that’s all.”
when you pull out the treat, you don’t hold it up like a prize. you set it down instead, just outside the dumpster, sliding it across the pavement with one finger before pulling your hand back into your lap.
then you wait.
it takes time. long enough for your legs to start aching, long enough for another burst of laughter to float down the block and fade again. every sound makes him tense, but he doesn’t retreat further. that feels important.
finally, he leans forward. sniffs the air. pauses like he’s waiting for punishment.
none comes.
when he jumps down, it’s clumsy, awkward, like he hasn’t trusted his own footing in a while. he eats fast, eyes darting up between bites, waiting for the trick, the grab, the laugh.
you don’t give him any of it.
you just sit there, quiet company in a loud world, letting him finish.
when he’s done, he stands there uncertain, tail flicking once, twice. you slowly extend your hand, palm open, stopping well short of him.
“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say softly. “i’ll still stay.”
that’s what finally breaks something open.
he steps forward and presses his head into your palm like he’s been holding the night up by himself and finally decided to put it down. his purr starts hesitant, like he’s embarrassed by it, then grows steadier when your fingers scratch gently behind his ear.
you smile without realizing it.
“hi baby,” you whisper, fond and warm. “there you are.”
he looks up at you when you say it, really looks, and that’s when you notice his eyes—green, bright even in the low light, sharp in a way that feels more observant than aggressive. they soften a little when your fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like you’re not afraid of what you’ll find if you linger.
you smile without thinking.
“what’s your name, cutie?” you murmur, like it’s the easiest question in the world.
he blinks at you, purr stuttering for half a second, then continuing like he never meant to stop. you laugh softly and reach for the tag, careful not to tug, reading it by the streetlight’s glow.
ONYX.
you hum. “onyx,” you repeat, trying it out. “yeah. that fits.”
he leans harder into your hand, like he agrees. you think about the way people talked. aggressive. feral. dangerous. you look at the way he lets you cradle his head now, the way his claws stay tucked in, the way his whole body relaxes like he’s been waiting for someone to get it right.
“they really don’t know you at all,” you say quietly, more to yourself than him.
onyx flicks his tail.
you shift closer, careful, and when he doesn’t pull away you scoop him up just enough to rest his front paws against your chest. he stiffens for half a second, then melts again when you keep petting him.
“so scary,” you murmur, affectionate and teasing. “so mean. clearly a menace to society.”
he purrs louder, offended on principle.
you laugh, soft and breathy, and before you can second-guess it you lean in and press a kiss right between his ears. your lipstick leaves a bright little mark against black fur, messy and unmistakable.
you already brace for it—the scramble, the hiss, the way trust evaporates the second it’s asked to stretch too far. you accept the risk as soon as you take it, hands staying open, still, ready to let him bolt if that’s what he needs.
you stroke his back, slow and soothing, and think about how easy it is for people to mistake silence for hostility. how often stillness gets read as threat. how often something hurt gets called dangerous just because it doesn’t beg to be loved.
“you’re not bad luck,” you tell him softly. “you’re just… misunderstood.”
onyx presses his forehead into your chin like he’s sealing the agreement.
then he pulls back, not startled, not afraid—just done, the way cats decide a moment has reached its natural end. he hops down from your arms with a little huff of independence, tail flicking once like punctuation.
“hey,” you laugh softly. “okay, okay.”
he pauses a few feet away and looks back at you, green eyes catching the light. calm. like he’s committing you to memory instead of running from it.
he blinks slow.
then he turns and trots off down the alley, quiet and sure, lipstick mark still stamped right on his forehead like a secret only the night knows about. you watch until he disappears between the houses, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of halloween.
you sit there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle back in. thinking about reputations. about how easily people confuse silence for danger, fear for cruelty, scars for intent. about how some things don’t need to be fixed—just seen.
you stand eventually, brushing off your jeans, the feeling in your chest lighter than it was when you left.
and somewhere, not far from here, someone else with the same reputation has no idea that tonight—of all nights—the story is already starting to change.
jason comes home late, jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, the night still clinging to him in the form of cold air and old exhaust. the neighborhood’s mostly asleep now, halloween burned out to candy wrappers and sagging decorations, porch lights flicked off one by one like the block’s finally exhaled.
he sets his keys down. toes off his boots. routine. quiet. the kind of careful movement you learn when you don’t want to wake anything that might already be on edge.
“onyx?” he calls, low.
there’s a pause.
then soft footsteps.
the cat appears in the doorway like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. tail high. eyes bright. whole. he pads over like he owns the place, hops up onto the counter with practiced ease, and sits.
that’s when jason sees it.
he stops short.
right between onyx’s ears, stamped clear as day against black fur, is a smudged lipstick kiss. unmistakable.
jason just stares.
“…what,” he says finally, flat and confused, like the word might rearrange itself into an explanation if he waits long enough.
onyx blinks at him. slow.
jason steps closer, squinting like maybe the light’s playing tricks on him. he reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups the cat’s head, thumbs careful, like he’s afraid to break something.
he makes sure his hands stay visible, movements slow and cautious, like he’s learned that some things only relax when they can see you coming.
his chest does something weird.
“someone touched you,” he mutters. not angry. not upset. just… stunned.
onyx purrs, leaning into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
jason exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “guess they didn’t think you were so scary after all.”
he scratches under onyx’s chin and the cat melts, trust absolute, like tonight taught him something important about hands and voices and the difference between cruelty and care.
jason leans back against the counter, watching him, the quiet settling in around them. he doesn’t know who you are. doesn’t know where you found his cat or what made you stop or why you left your mark like a promise instead of a claim.
but he knows this much: someone saw gentleness where everyone else kept insisting on danger.
and for reasons he can’t quite explain, that thought stays with him long after the night finally goes still.
he doesn’t wipe the mark off right away. later, when the apartment’s quiet and onyx is curled up warm and safe, jason finds himself standing by the window longer than usual, looking out at the dark like he’s waiting for something he doesn’t know how to name yet.
It was 2:59 am. when they found you outside. The warmth of your body fading as you lay motionless on the ground. Your body bruised and beaten almost beyond recognition. Your costume torn, exposing parts of your body to the cold January night. The mask you wore slowly peeling from your face. Blood pouring from your body as the Gotham rain washes it away.
You were only 16 when you died.
A funeral was held a few days later. Soon after, a version of your costume stands next to Jason's never to be worn again.
The world continues to move on.
Battles were fought. New people came into your family's lives. They found love. They continued to save the world all while you lay in the ground, body slowly being reclaimed by the earth.
The world didn't need you to exist.
-
It's 2:48 pm. When Dick walks into the coffee shop. A case between black market dealers in Gotham and Blüdhaven keeping him here longer than it should have. He places his order and waits off to the side, scrolling through his phone.
“Hi- can I please get a uh.”
That voice is familiar. Someone he went to school with, or maybe an old acquaintance? But when he looks up, he sees you, or at least someone that looks just like you. But the more he stares, the more he's sure it's you. Your features have rounded out and matured slightly, and you've grown a little bit taller, but it is you he's sure of it.
How? How are you standing in front of him? How are you standing in front of him with not a single scar on you? When they found your body, your face was almost beaten beyond recognition. Even with numerous surgeries, there should have still been some scarring something that showed what you have gone through, but there is none.
You finish giving the barista your order and walk over to wait close by him. He can get a closer look at the work ID hanging around your neck and make a note of the details.
He has to tell the others about this.
That through some miracle you're alive.
-
Note: Based on this post I made. May make more may not. Also it's kinda late so ignore any typos
summary: something something… damian wayne x wavy haired! yapper! reader…
tags: just fluff
a/n: i got airbuds and now i can’t listen to kpop cus everybody ik will see that im listening 💔 RELEASE ME I HATE THISSS
“I swear, Dami, it was the worst presentation I’ve ever seen.” You groan. You and damian are in your dorm, surrounded by the obscene amount of posters decorating your walls.
Damian complained about them when you first met but quieted down when he noticed the handful of Robin posters and knick knacks you’d collected.
Damian is all for efficiency, which somehow meshes well with your love of decorations. Figurines of characters from books and animes and movies are perched nicely on your shelves, with small, simple garlands wrapped around them to add a festive touch.
The two of you are lying in bed together and chatting about this and that. Honestly, you were the one doing all the talking, while Damian listened and played with your hair. Damian loved the way your hair curled and bounced when he tugged on it.
In fact, that’s what he was doing now. Damian gently pinched the ends of your hair, then tugged lightly, watching it spring back into place. Damian is propped up against your headboard, with you halfway in his lap.
Damian snaps back into reality as you continue your rant about your classmates. “I’m so sick of being in a class full of dumbasses,” Damian hums in agreement immediately. “Some guy said he thinks we should stop using radiation to treat cancer because it causes cancer! Like the doctors are just supposed to let the cancer fester instead of treating it?” you scoff and lean your head on Damian’s shoulder as he watches another curl bounce back into place.
“It’s just, everybody sucks so hard.” you joke. you internally giggle at the reference, but damian nods solemnly at your remark. He completely agrees, and that’s the funniest part.
a smile curves your lips and you lean in for a kiss. Damian tilts his head and leans in as well. your lips meet in a warm and lazy kiss. You intended a cute, chaste kiss, but as you try to lean back, damian chases you down and brings a hand to cup your face and bring you forward.
when you finally manage to separate from him a laugh tumbles from your lips. “What?” Damian questions with half-baked scowl. “Nothing,” you murmur while pecking his cheek.
As you settle back into his arms the flow of gossip starts back up. “Oh my god! I forgot to tell you that Vicky and Eric got back together,” you exclaim, then roll your eyes just thinking about it.
“She’s always complaining to me about how he tells her he needs to “focus on basketball” then ghosting her, but now she gets back with him whenever he calls?” you scoff.
Just as you’re about to elaborate further on your friend’s ridiculous love lives, a familiar chiming rings through the air. you groan and wrap your arms around Damian tightly. You know better than anybody what that chiming means, and you know that your time with Damian has come to an end.
Even though you know that he has to leave, that he has to protect the city, that doesn't stop you from trying your hardest to get him to stay
“noooo,” you protest as Damian begins to slip out of bed. You watch from your fluffy blanket as Damian walks to the closet and meticulously picks out his Robin gear. Much like everything in his life, Damian uses a tactical efficiency to get dressed. Not even a second is wasted, he's all about purpose, after all.
"Can't you stay home for once? Get one of your brothers to patrol for you?" You question as Damian finishes swinging his cloak over his shoulders. He shakes his head as he walks over and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'm sorry, beloved. I'll make it up to you." Damian promises. You look into his eyes, and god, you could just fall into them. There are few times when you wished to be something you weren't, but right now you wished you could be an artist like damian, so you could paint his eyes until you'd memorized every last detail. Every speck and change in depth, the cords that make up his verdant irises, all of it.
you're drowning in his eyes as he kisses you goodbye.
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ Gothams most famous ballerina is on a rooftop with the vigilante Nightwing !
word cnt. 1.4k
“You’re upset I didn't buy you a milkshake,” he mumbles finally, watching the way you keep fiddling with the flimsy plastic lid of your drink cup, tapping it, twisting it, bending it just enough that it pops back into shape with a tiny hollow click.
“Oh, was it that obvious?” you mutter back, sarcasm practically dripping as you stab a clump of ice with your straw like it personally wronged you. Tea. You love tea. You also love milkshakes.
“That bad?” Dick—now fully suited up in his Nightwing gear, mask and all—laughs beside you, taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake as if the universe placed him here solely to taunt you.
You look at his milkshake with the yearning of someone staring at a Renaissance masterpiece, eyes softening with tragic longing, and Dick only smiles more, reaching out to tug the fluffy fur lining of your jacket closer around your face like he’s tucking in an offended kitten.
“Once the show is over, I’ll buy you three,” he promises lightly, brushing a thumb over your sleeve. “Different flavors too. You shouldn’t have sweet things before a performance—you get all loopy.”
You let out a theatrical groan, shifting just enough to dig your chin into his shoulder in what you hope qualifies as gentle retaliation, even if it mostly just looks like you’re trying to burrow into him for warmth. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“So… always?” Dick chirps, painfully pleased with himself.
You pinch the side of his waist in a futile attempt to wipe the grin off his face, your fingers digging into the kevlar plating and doing absolutely nothing, and Nightwing snorts—because to him it feels like little more than a playful tap, a feather brushing over reinforced armor.
But he leans into you anyway, milkshake in one hand, your stubborn weight pressed against his shoulder on the other side, as if he has no intention of going anywhere until you stop stabbing your ice like it owes you money.
“Did the dress rehearsal go well?” Dick asks quietly, and there’s something about the way he asks—soft, careful, like he’s offering you a place to set your worries down—that makes your shoulders loosen just a little.
“Hm.” You hum, letting the sound sit for a second while you think it through, because Dick never rushes you, never pushes for an answer before you’re ready, “I… I think the show will go well.”
You aren’t the main role, but God, you still feel spoiled by what you do get—the solo that winds its way through the middle and then blooms again at the end, the duet at the beginning that makes your ribs feel warm every time you run it, the choreography you worked so hard for actually feeling like it belongs to you. Your partner’s good, too. Gentle. Serious. Trustworthy. You’re proud. Really, truly proud.
“What about you?” you ask softly, tilting your head toward him while Gotham’s night glitters like something sharp and strange and very much alive around you. It’s almost 1 a.m., your performance is at 10 tonight, and every nerve in your body is too wired to sleep. Dick only just finished patrol, insisting on walking you back to the theater roof after dropping Damian off with Jason.
“Patrol?” he echoes, and you watch him think, his blue eyes flicking upward for a second. “Ah… well... Damian got a punch to the ribs.”
You wince immediately, twisting toward him. “Oh no, is he—”
“So he broke six of the guy’s ribs.”
You go still, then slowly rotate your gaze back to the skyline. “…Well. At least he didn’t rip any out this time.”
“I’d say it’s improvement,” Dick agrees, sipping from his milkshake like he absolutely isn’t recounting a near-homicide committed by a ten-year-old with a sword complex. “Jason was really proud. Don’t tell Damian I said that, though.”
You chuckle softly, pushing yourself up from the ledge because—sure—you love Dick Grayson with your whole damn soul, but that doesn’t mean you love dangling off rooftops at one in the morning just because he feels more at home in the air than he does on the ground. He follows you with that warm, tired smile, still sipping his milkshake like he isn’t wearing full armor and hasn’t just come back from a patrol that definitely shortened someone’s lifespan.
“My partner finally figured out the move I’ve been trying to drill into him for months,” you groan, stretching your neck until it pops, though the smile on your lips makes it obvious you’re more relieved than annoyed.
Dick Grayson has a deep, spiritual dislike for your dance partner. And it’s not the jealous kind—well, he has a tiny sprinkle of that too—but mostly it’s because Dick is convinced the man’s technique is an affront to the art of movement itself. He’ll say nothing out loud, of course—because he refuses to accidentally belittle your work—but internally he is absolutely certain his seven-year-old self could outperform the guy blindfolded, upside down, and hopping on one foot.
He could dance onstage with you in a heartbeat. He won’t say it, but he thinks it every time the two of you talk about your show.
“What move?” he asks, brow raised, tone soft in that way he reserves only for you.
You turn over your shoulder, pausing for a second, and then—without warning—you slip into position right there on the rooftop. He watches you like he’s witnessing something holy as you flow through the short sequence: fluid, balanced, precise, ending in a posture so clean and poised it makes the wind hesitate.
“It looks odd,” you say while relaxing out of the stance, brushing hair from your face, “but it works, since my movement matches his.”
Dick doesn’t answer.
He blinks, sets his milkshake carefully on the ledge, and hops down from the perch with the effortless grace of someone for whom gravity is merely a suggestion. There’s something almost shy in his expression, but the smile stays, softening his whole face as he steps toward you—like he’s remembering an old language his body still speaks fluently.
And then he tries it.
He mirrors your sequence with the exact kind of elegance that makes you understand why the Flying Graysons were legends. His muscles loosen, shoulders dropping into a natural rhythm as if his whole body is sighing with relief, like it’s waking up a piece of itself it hasn’t touched in years. It feels like watching a grown man pick up his favorite childhood toy and suddenly remember what joy feels like.
He moves through the steps with that quiet, instinctive precision you’ve seen in him a thousand times—not as Nightwing, not as the overworked eldest son, but as Dick Grayson, the boy who learned to move before he learned to speak. Even in the stiffness of armor, even in boots instead of ballet shoes, he falls into the shape of the choreography like his body remembers a language it hasn’t spoken aloud in years.
And God, he’s beautiful doing it.
Not perfect—his turnout is off, his timing a breath ahead of yours, and the suit restricts him just enough that one line doesn’t extend the way he wants it to—but he’s graceful. Effortless. Alive in a way you only ever see when he’s flying.
When he finishes, he stands there catching a quiet breath, waiting for your reaction like he hadn’t just stolen the entire rooftop from underneath you.
“…Okay,” you breathe, blinking once, twice, because you didn’t expect your heart to do a full somersault. “Show-off.”
Dick’s smile breaks slow, sheepish at the edges, boyish at the core. “I did it wrong, didn’t I?”
“No,” you huff, trying—and failing—not to grin. “You did it like someone who’s been retired from dance for years but is still annoyingly good at everything he tries.”
“Annoyingly?” he echoes, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “That’s harsh. I was going for breathtaking.”
“You were,” you admit, rolling your eyes as you reach out to fix a small angle of his arm he hadn’t placed quite right. “Stop fishing.”
He goes very still the moment your fingers graze his wrist. Not because he’s embarrassed—though he is, a little—but because he always freezes for a second when you touch him gently, like his heart needs time to catch up.
“Do it again,” you say, stepping back. Your voice is steadier now. “Slower this time.”
He nods, and there’s something reverent in the motion.
And as he runs through the movements again—slower, softer, but still unmistakably Dick—you can’t help the warmth that coils in your chest.
Now he really looks like someone who could dance beside you onstage. Not because he matches your partner.
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ CHAPTER IX | ✧ CHAPTER X | ✧ CHAPTER XI
Y/N POV:
The car is already moving when Gotham begins to thin.
Constantine doesn’t rush.
No sharp turns, no aggressive lane changes, just steady hands on the wheel, the radio left off. The city passes by the windows in fragments, streetlights blurring into one another, buildings shrinking until they’re just shapes against the dark.
Y/N watches it happen without comment.
They don’t look back for long. Gotham has a way of making you feel watched when you do.
The road grows quieter the farther they go. Fewer lights. Fewer signs. The hum of the engine settles into something almost soothing, and for a while, that’s all there is—motion without pressure, silence without expectation.
Then Y/N’s phone buzzes.
They glance down, frowning when they see the name.
“Duke?”
Constantine flicks his eyes over for half a second, then back to the road. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once.
Y/N answers.
“Hey—”
“Is it true?”
Duke doesn’t bother with hello.
Y/N blinks, momentarily thrown. “What?”
“The note,” Duke says, voice tight. “I came home early and I found the note on your bed. Are you—are you gone?”
The words land heavier than they should.
“Oh,” Y/N murmurs. “Yeah. I… I wanted to tell you. Just— not like this.”
There’s a pause on the line.
“I didn’t want to call,” Y/N continues quietly. “You were having fun. You don’t get a lot of time like that, and I didn’t want to ruin it. And… you weren’t going to be back at the Manor before I left.”
Still silence.
Y/N shifts in their seat, thumb worrying the edge of their phone. “Duke? Hey.”
“I’m here,” Duke says quickly. “I’m still here. Just—” He exhales. “I’m just surprised.”
“Surprised?” Y/N echoes.
“Yeah,” Duke admits. “I guess I… forgot. That you weren’t placed with us permanently. I forgot there was still a chance you could be moved. Or leave.” A beat. “I didn’t think about it until now.”
Y/N doesn’t answer right away.
The road stretches on ahead, dark and open. Gotham is already starting to feel unreal, like something seen through glass.
After a moment, Duke asks, softer, “Can we… can we keep in contact?”
“Yes,” Y/N says immediately. No hesitation. “Of course. Anytime you want.”
Duke lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. “Okay. Good. I’ll text you. I promise.”
“I know,” Y/N replies, even though they’re not sure that’s true. “I will too.”
They say goodbye the way people do when they don’t know what the next version of things will look like—too many words, not enough meaning. Then the line goes dead.
Y/N lowers the phone to their lap.
The car fills with silence again, but it’s different now. Heavier. Final.
Constantine doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask if Y/N is okay, doesn’t comment on the call. He just keeps driving, steady and unhurried, as Gotham finally disappears from the rear view mirror.
Ahead of them, the road opens up.
The car stopped in front of a small, brick apartment building somewhere on the outskirts of Chicago.
Constantine grabbed the keys from the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Home sweet hell,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Y/N followed him inside, carrying their suitcase. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and cleaning solution. Nothing dramatic. Nothing magical. Just… a place.
The door closed behind them. Y/N paused, letting their eyes scan the small flat.
“Gonna love it,” they said, mockingly.
Constantine rolled his eyes. “Can’t ya feel it, kid?”
Y/N turned slowly, letting their gaze drift around the room. Something was off. Not bad, just… strange. A glint along the ceiling caught their attention. Subtle. Intricate. A charm spell.
They looked up at Constantine, who was already moving further into the flat.
He snapped his fingers.
The charm vanished.
The apartment was the same flat, but it felt larger. More open. The clutter hadn’t disappeared; it had multiplied in scope. Books with indecipherable symbols lined the shelves. Papers littered the floor, some inked with strange incantations, others illustrated with creatures Y/N had never seen.
Even the furniture seemed to occupy more space than possible. Chairs, desks, and cabinets were normal enough, but each carried a subtle aura, an unnatural hum that Y/N couldn’t place.
Y/N turned back to Constantine. He let out a soft huff of amusement at their expression.
“Follow me,” he said, nodding toward a hallway.
They walked down a narrow corridor and reached a door at the end. Constantine opened it.
“This is yours,” he said. The room was empty, save for a bed and a small dresser. “Not much, but you can decorate however you like.”
He set the suitcase down by the bed, insisting he carry it in. Y/N didn’t protest.
“Thanks,” they said quietly.
Constantine ruffled their hair. This time, Y/N didn’t pull back. They let themselves smile.
He gave a small nod and left, letting them unpack.
For the first time, Y/N was able to unpack everything from the suitcase. Clothes, notebooks, a few personal items—they spread them around the room with no rush, no fear of being moved again.
When it was done, Y/N stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. The flat, the space, the things that weren’t quite normal. They wondered if they could get permission to go gather some things to decorate.
Finally, Y/N lay down on the bed. Eyes closed. Quiet. Safe.
And for the first night in a long time, they slept without the weight of someone else deciding where they belonged.
Morning came slow. Y/N blinked awake, the unfamiliar ceiling above them pulling them fully out of sleep. For a moment, they weren’t sure if the previous day had been real. The move, the paperwork, Constantine’s place, they wondered if it had all been a dream, one of those vivid nights their mind conjured when reality was too heavy. But the light spilling through the blinds, the scattered items from their unpacked suitcase, the faint scent of old books and cleaning solution, it was all real. They were really here.
Y/N sat up on the bed, legs hanging over the side, fingers tracing the edge of the mattress. The flat was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scrape of metal from the kitchen. They let themselves breathe, slow and careful. This was new. Different. Not perfect, but better than anything they had known for a long time.
After a few moments, Y/N stood, gathering their necessities: toothbrush, washcloth, and a small bundle of things they wanted with them while freshening up. The bathroom was tiny but functional. Water ran over their hands and face, cold and grounding.
When they emerged, the kitchen was warm with the smell of something sizzling lightly on the stove. Constantine was there, flipping eggs and humming under his breath. A small coffee cup sat in front of him, dark and steaming. He glanced up and gave a half-smile.
“Morning,” he said. “Coffee?”
Y/N shook their head and let out a soft laugh. “No, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I promise I haven’t spiked it yet,” he added, the barest hint of a joke in his voice while waving the small flask that he always had on him, no matter when or where. Y/N just huffed, amused, and moved to sit at the small table.
Constantine plated the eggs, sliding one plate toward Y/N. “Help yourself,” he said. Then he sat down across from them, coffee in hand. Silence stretched for a few seconds, not uncomfortable, just natural.
Finally, Y/N broke it. “This is… nice,” they said quietly, looking around. “I mean, your place. It feels normal.”
Constantine raised an eyebrow. “Normal?”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, shrugging slightly. “Not… empty. Not lonely. Not like the last place I stayed.”
He smirked. “Ah, so you approve.”
They both laughed lightly, and it hung in the room, filling the air with something neither had said out loud yet.
They ate slowly. Eggs, toast, coffee, or juice in Y/N’s case, and talked about nothing particularly important at first. The flat was small, but the space felt big. Time stretched differently here. No alarms, no rush, no one else dictating what they could do or where they could go. Y/N found themselves relaxing in a way they hadn’t in months.
“You gonna be okay with breakfast?” Constantine asked after a while, noticing Y/N barely touched their toast.
Y/N shrugged. “Yeah. I’m just… not used to actually eating around someone.”
He nodded. “Figured. Habit, I guess.” He smiled faintly, a small acknowledgment of their shared understanding.
The conversation drifted. Constantine asked about small things from their past lessons. Not heavy questions, not probing into anything personal. Just practical things, spells they had tried, exercises they enjoyed, little discoveries they had made with their magic. Y/N answered, quietly at first, then slowly with more confidence.
“And the one with the fire last week?” he asked. “You felt that spike, yeah?”
Y/N nodded. “I think I got it under control, mostly. It didn’t… do anything.”
He smirked. “Mostly is good for now. You’ll get better.”
There was a pause. A soft one. No need to fill it. Then Constantine leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over the table. “You know, kid, you’re not just doing magic. You’re… noticing things. Seeing the world differently. It’s subtle, but it’s there. That’s important.”
Y/N blinked, unsure how to respond. They weren’t used to compliments, especially not from someone like Constantine.
“I mean it,” he added, half-smiling. “You’ve got instincts, curiosity… and a patience most people lack. That’s why this thing, whatever it’s gonna be, works better with you than almost anyone else I’ve met.”
Y/N just nodded. “Thanks.”
He waved it off, then added quietly, “Anyway, you’re settling in. This place might not be perfect, but you’re making it yours. That matters more than perfection.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Y/N allowed themselves to relax fully. The edges of tension softened. They laughed a little at something small Constantine said, and he ruffled their hair. This time, Y/N didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. They let him do it and actually smiled.
Time passed. Breakfast plates cleared. Silence returned, but now it felt good. Easy. Comfortable. Y/N leaned back in their chair, letting the quiet sink in. Constantine reached across the table and lightly nudged their arm with his hand. Not pressing, not intrusive, just a reminder. A small acknowledgment that he was there. That he wasn’t going anywhere.
Then it happened. A sudden burst of smoke behind them, dense and sharp. Y/N and Constantine both turned, eyes wide, as the room filled with a strong scent of brimstone and candle wax.
When the smoke cleared, a woman was standing there.
She was tall, dark-haired, dressed in a sharp jacket over something that looked far too impractical for a normal morning. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were bright, intense, almost glowing with irritation. There was something about her presence that felt… heavy. Like the air itself had shifted around her.
She stood with her arms crossed, posture rigid, jaw tight.
“John,” she snapped immediately, turning toward Constantine. “I have been trying to call you for days. Days. Do you have any idea what’s happening right now? You keep not answering your phone, and the situation is getting worse by the hour.”
Constantine opened his mouth. “Zee—”
“And don’t interrupt me,” she continued, pacing a step forward. “This isn’t something we can just ignore. We need to act now. Raven is barely holding things together on her end, and if this keeps escalating—”
“Zatanna,” Constantine tried again.
She kept going. “—Because if this spills over, it’s not just going to be contained to one city, and I swear to—”
“ZATANNA.”
She spun on him. “WHAT?!”
That was when she finally noticed Y/N.
Her words cut off instantly. Her posture froze. The room went completely still as her eyes shifted, narrowing slightly as she took in the third person at the table. Y/N felt that same heavy presence settle on them now, sharp and assessing.
No one spoke for a few seconds.
Constantine cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. This is… my kid now.”
The woman just stared at Y/N, dumbfounded.
Y/N looked at Constantine, smirked, and said softly, “Your kid now, huh?”
He gave a small shrug. “Technically, yeah.”
The room stayed quiet for a moment. Y/N’s smile lingered. Zatanna was still frozen. Constantine looked slightly uncomfortable.
And that’s how the day began.
And now we come to the end of ARC II!! Next ARC we will have a new perspective
Also, it might take a while for next ARC to start since my next semester of university is starting next month and I have somethings stuff to get done before then
Could you do jason x gn reader where reader faints durring sex? Not because of how good it is but because something is wrong. Like theyre sick or hurt or smth.
Idk man I just like whump lol. 😔
Also I know your requests are currently closed so please feel free to ignore this or save it for later. I just got the idea and didnt want to forget.
synopsis: you accidentally get caught up in the heat of the moment, luckily your boyfriend is here to take care of you
notes: mature; for vague depictions of sex and non-sexual nudity but also kinda sexual?
tags: fluff, vaguest hurt/comfort, passing out during sex, whump, soft!Jason, gn!reader, wc: 1.6k
this has been sat in my drafts for far too long, hope you enjoy! ☆
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
You hadn't noticed yourself grow so warm—Jason was on top of you, mumbling soft praises into your skin as he rocked his hips into yours, large hands wrapped gently around your waist, pulling you back onto his dick with every thrust.
You did notice the sweat gathering on your brow and the back of your neck, your heartbeat steadily grew faster and faster. You noticed the way your vision swam as you stared up, the swirls in your ceiling's paint coming to life, like lazily, hazy rivers.
But that was just the approaching orgasm.
"Baby?"
Just like that, your heart fell and you went limp.
Waking to Jason gently taping your cheek was definitely a first. You meant to ask what he was doing but all that came out was a dry, garbled sound from the back of your throat.
"Oh thank fuck," Jason mumbled as he sat up a little, no longer leaning over you, but still within your line of sight. The back of his hand gently along the side of your arm, light enough that you hadn't even felt it at first, but the more you focused on it, the more it lulled you, almost hypnotic in its repetition. "Gonna have to stay awake for me, sweetheart."
The petting stopped, brushing your hair out of your face. Jason pressed his fingers to your forehead, then your neck, humming softly in what you could vaguely guess was concern? Not that you quite understood why. The world was still swirling and the heat was making it a little hard to think.
"I need to go grab you a towel," Jason said. He cupped your face, so your unfocused eyes could find his. You weren't entirely sure was he needed a towel for. You were a little sticky — were you already done? Jason was still naked but other than that… you didn't note anything else. What did you want to know? You watched Jason's frown deepen a little as he looked for something: it always bothered you when he did that. It felt like you had spinach in your teeth and he just refused to tell you.
"You're going to faint again." Which wasn't a question, per se. You watched as he glanced between you and somewhere behind him, chewing his lip as he thought. You were reaching out before you realised you were—the tips of your fingers felt a little numb as you raised them but you could just about feel the warmth of Jason's cheek under your skin.
"Hey," Jason gave you a gentle smile as he looked back towards you, gently clasping your hand in his own—his hand was so much bigger than your own. His everything was so much bigger than you. There was no way avoid feeling like the biggest pick-me when you compared his body to you—but it was so fun. Watching his fingers curl over the top of yours, climbing up on various boxes and odd objects laying around to 'see what he sees'—it was fun. Why had you been comparing hand sizes again?
"You fainted," Jason said, his voice pulling you back to shore where you had been lost to the currents, "I'm gonna carry you to the bathroom so I can help you cool down a little, okay?"
Your head bobbed a little, "Okay."
Straining your voice was worth it for the bright smile you got in return—it was almost boyish, his excitement and relief. There was something so pure about Jason's joy you hope he never lost.
Your heart leapt into your throat for the second that Jason dipped out of your view, only to reappear at your other side. He gave a quiet countdown as he gathered you up into his arms before standing and your world spun. You clenched your eyes shut as you tucked your face against Jason's bare chest.
"Baby?"
"Mhm?"
You felt his chest cave as he let out a sigh of relief—Jason readjusted his grasp on you before he began making his way to the bathroom; usually, any other occasion you would be delighted. You loved being carried in Jason's arms. You felt like a princess, watching his biceps flex to support your weight—and if he struggled he certainly didn't make a sound.
But right now you just wanted to laid on the cool, hard tiles of the bathroom. You wanted to be let down. You were squirming in his arms like an impatient cat—which arguably, this amount of activity was supposed to be reassuring, right?
Your wish was granted soon enough—but still yet you squealed softly as the feeling of the cold tiles against your back. Jason bent your legs, cushioned your head with a clean towel before kissing your forehead and kneeling beside you.
"Still feeling faint?"
"A little bit," you mumbled as you closed your eyes, the only thing you could think of to dull the growing ache in your head. "M not warm anymore."
"That's good." Jason's hand was warm against your belly but you didn't mind much—his thumb idly pet your skin as Jason watched you breathe. "I'm going to get you a glass of water and then I'm gonna clean you up. Does that sound okay? Sweetheart?"
"Huh?" You looked up at him, and you didn't want to admit just how blurry his face had become in the span of no time. You blinked away the fog before nodding. "That's… that's fine."
"We should get you down to Doctor Thompson's-"
"Nooo." You sounded like a whining brat but the thought of standing and leaving the cold hard ground made you want to cry and heave. "Later."
"Later," Jason agreed before setting off to work.
Jason stood, and even in your less than ideal state, you could appreciate the view in front of you—his ass wasn't within reach, curse his long legs, but the urge to pinch his ass was still. You still tried though, which got you a snort and soft chiding.
"Even when you feel like shit? Really?"
"Mmh, always."
Getting you to sit up was a bit of a challenge—Jason helped you lean against his chest as you sat up, before helping you bring the glass he filled for you to your lips. You were trembling a little more than you realised you would, holding something fragile was a bit of a risk right now.
"Slow sips… that's it, baby." You followed his instructions as best you could, especially as his praises reached you, filling you with a soft pride—which was so silly, but it worked. Jason set the glass to the side once it was empty, but didn't lay you back down, both of you content with your current position. "Would you like to wipe yourself down?"
You nodded—you could now identify the stickiness for what it was, which was not in fact cum like your muddled brain had first assume. It wasn't gooey like that, instead just sweat and lube and other bodily fluids that had cooled against your skin, leaving you feeling quite unpleasant, even with the whole feeling faint thing.
Jason handed you the damp rag, and pretended not to notice as you struggled a little, your trembling hands try to wipe away the mess from between your legs. It only took thirty seconds of struggling before you wordlessly held out the towel and he took over for you, apologising softly when you shivered.
"Better?" He waited for you to nod before he wiped himself down quickly with a clean corner of the rag and tossed it into the sink above you.
"Sorry."
"Hmm?" Jason looked down at you before kissing your temple, "What are you sorry for, baby."
"Fainting." The moment the word left your mouth, you pulled a face—it sounded, stupid, to put it lightly, but you meant it. You hadn't meant to faint, obviously, but you felt bad for prematurely ending the sex. You already had such limited time together, and usually that time together was spent sleeping because you both had such busy lives. Sex didn't happen nearly as often as either of you would like, and when you finally manage to, you pass out.
Jason laughed, and it wasn't mean but you still buried your face in his chest, unable to face him as your face warmed.
"You know that's fucking ridiculous." You grumbled. "It's not like you chose to faint."
"Yeah, but still."
"No." You squealed as Jason pinched your waist—you glared up at him with all the effort you could muster, which wasn't much, even if you felt significantly better than you did twenty minutes ago. "Don't say dumb shit like that. I'm sorry for not noticing."
"It kinda just… crept up on me. I don't know what happened."
"We should definitely get you down to Dr Thompson," Jason said before kissing the crown of your head, "I didn't count, but your heart was definitely beating a little fast for my taste."
"I'm probably just a little deficient in something."
"Still." He brushed his knuckles across your stomach. "Do it for your scaredy cat of a boyfriend."
"Fine… can I take a nap first?"
"After we get some food in you. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Oh, by the way, baby?"
"Oww! Quit pinching me!"
"Quit scaring me like that."
I love whump too ♡ I should honestly write it more often
anyway ☆ more from me here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°) — for requests please check this post ✧˖° thank you
𝐜𝐰. 3.3k words, reunion, mutual pining, friends(?) to strangers to lovers, probably not canon compliant (mb), swearing, grief, long-term yearning (is that a thing?), confession, hurt/comfort, bsf!dick, probably ooc, reader drinks coffee, unrealistic (😔), angst with a happy ending, food mention, arguing, author knows nothing about cars or motorcycles, reader knows about vigilante stuff, no use of y/n
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. and if i say i haven't gotten around to reading any official jason material yet... will i be beaten with crowbars... did i do him justice anyhow...
𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.
“Fuck, I needed that,” Dick gasped, practically slamming his now-empty cup on the cafe table. You watched him curiously. You’d be concerned, but you knew better than to worry over how he downed a small coffee in practically no time at all.
“Yeah?” Seeing your expression, he became equally unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that, I worked late last night.” You knew exactly what work he was referring to.
In fact, you were actually really grateful that he still made time to hang out with you. He probably could’ve slept all day (he’s accidentally missed plans that way before), but he actually got up before noon to meet you at a local coffee shop to chat. You’d been spending more time with him since you were both in Gotham at the same time for a bit, and it was nice. You’d started seeing him less when he moved on to Blüdhaven, and lesser still after some… unfortunate family circumstances of his. You didn’t like to talk about it, so you never did. It suited you just fine.
You raised your own coffee cup to your lips, but spoke before taking a sip.
“Oh, don’t worry, I read all about the takedown this morning. Big news.” He rolled his eyes, but grinned at you. He clearly loved the attention, loved knowing you were reading about him in the media.
“Psh, it wasn’t that big, only like, two news outl—” He cut off abruptly at the sound of his phone, face-up on the table, buzzing. He must’ve seen the notification when the screen lit up, because his brows furrowed and he paused his sentence to fully read it and respond.
“Something wrong?” With him, it could be literally anything. He shook his head, still typing.
“Nah, just Jason.” Your blood ran cold.
You hadn’t heard that name in years. You know, because of the whole not-your-favorite-conversation-topic thing. You were sure the shock showed on your face and the way your grip on your coffee faltered, the cup slipping until the lid caught loosely on your fingers and prevented a big mess. And yet, Dick didn’t seem to catch on. The stupid detective must’ve been in his own little world. Maybe he’d just absent-mindedly let the joke slip, but you liked to imagine that he was better than that, that he wasn’t thinking of hurtful things to say and simply keeping them to himself all the time.
“Dick.”
“Hm.”
“That’s not funny.” He set his phone back down and looked at you, really looked at you. Confusion drew lines across his forehead.
“What? I wasn’t making a joke or anything, Jason was just letting me know he was dropping by the manor to pick something up and asked me where it was.” You closed your eyes and drew in a firm breath.
“Dick, Jason died. Years ago. I—you know what, I don’t want to talk about this.” You turned around in the sun-faded booth to throw his empty cup in the conveniently-placed trash can behind you. It gave you something to do and was something of a way to end the discussion.
When you sat forward again, Dick was staring wide-eyed and his jaw was slightly agape. The creases between his brows had eased somewhat; he was less confused and more… incredulous. As if he was surprised to hear that you didn’t want to hear about your dead… friend? Lover? It had been ambiguous at the time, back when you were teenagers. You’d liked him, and you’d known he liked you too, but no one made any big move to change anything; there wasn’t a line crossed or a point of reference to show where you two became something more than friends but something less than a couple. Sometimes, though you didn’t want to, you wondered if the two of you were just comfortable and complacent with how things were, so caught up in your lives that you missed what you hadn’t even known was your last chance to make it something real. That still hurt, after all this time.
“You don’t—he didn’t—what? This whole time?”
“I’m done, Dick, this conversation is over.” You sighed. “I’m sorry for being so… agitated about it, but I don’t want to hear about him, and I don’t want you to joke around like that.” Ugh. You could see in his eyes that he was pitying you. He reached across the table and grabbed your forearm gently.
“You seriously didn’t know that Jason is alive?” Your eyes stung, vision blurring. “He didn’t reach out to you or anything?”
“Bruce told us what happened himself,” you hissed, yanking your arm back. A moment passed.
Dick stood so fast he bumped his knee on the table, but besides stumbling out of the booth a little, he didn’t seem troubled by it at all. He hastily fished his keys out of the pocket of his jeans and reached out to you with his other hand.
“Come on, we’ve gotta go.” He yanked you by the hood of your jacket and, with no other option, you followed after him clumsily, barely bringing your drink with you. As confused as you were at the sudden switch up, and angered by Dick’s refusal to just fucking drop it, you were kind of glad to be getting out of there. Maybe it was the hot burning behind your eyelids, or maybe it was the hot burning in your heart.
“Dick, what the fuck are we doing?” You snapped, sliding uncoordinatedly into the passenger seat of his car. You were dimly relieved that he had spotted the newly opened parking spot in the front when you had initially arrived. He nearly threw himself into the driver’s seat, immediately turning the keys and preparing to back out.
“I’ve gotta get you to the manor before he leaves,” he responded breathlessly. His oceanic eyes were crystal clear, dead set on the mission he’d put in his sights (“I’ve gotta get you two back in each other’s lives again,” he left unsaid).
You wanted to remain mad, you really did, but he was making it increasingly difficult. Dick might enjoy pulling your leg from time to time, after all, that’s what good friends do, but he never took it too far. He wouldn’t practically abduct you to prove that… what? That Jason really was dead the whole time, as you’d stated, and that he’d wasted your time and your patience? No, he wouldn’t. You hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t. Still, you tried not to get your hopes up that somehow, someway, he had made it out alive.
The cafe hadn’t been too far out, but even so, it took startlingly little time to reach Wayne Manor. Dick parked in the expansive paved space before the grand stairway to the front door. As quickly as he could, he hopped out, and you followed, nearly tripping over your own feet.
“Dick, I—” He silenced you with a hand, outstretched behind him to stop you. He scanned the area, then locked his gaze in place when he found what he had apparently been looking for; a motorcycle parked up ahead, just at the foot of the stairs.
“We made it.” As if on cue, the impressive front doors opened and out strode a handsome young man, bangs white and face scarred. A jacket you’d seen Dick wearing a few times lately (“Totally not your style,” you’d told him) was hanging off his shoulders and there was a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
But the resemblance was unmistakable. Despite years apart, years of trying to forget the searing pain in your chest when you remembered his smile, years that had clearly worn him down considerably, he was Jason.
And that was almost worse.
You were brought back to the moment at hand when you felt Dick, now behind you, clap a hand against your back. He was grinning, but there was an edge of uncertainty, of apprehensiveness, to his look. As if he has anything to be nervous about. “Go get ‘im,” he offered. It didn’t feel like encouragement, but you took it anyway. You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a few steps forward. Jason was looking at his shoulder, pulling the jacket back up as it tried to fall away in the light wind. With his other hand, he held up his sandwich and took a bite.
You began climbing the stairs. Your mouth was dry and your heart pounded. You wondered if you could even muster up… well, anything for the impending interaction. What do I say? What do I do? How is he here? How long? How… how?
Jason continued making his way down, you making yours up, until only a few steps separated you. He looked. He faltered.
His eyes widened, the blue as striking as ever. The sandwich slipped from his fingers, falling miserably onto the concrete (you heard Dick wince from back where he leaned against the side of his car). He pursed his lips, then opened them, then shut again. He looked away.
“Jason,” you choked. His gaze met yours again. He had the decency to look guilty.
“Hey…” he trailed off awkwardly. You couldn’t decide between being utterly enraged and hopelessly overjoyed to see him again.
“You—how—why—” All of your questions tried to come out at once. His now sandwich-less hand clenched and unclenched at his side, like he couldn’t decide what to do with it or couldn’t stand it remaining unoccupied. He huffed, staring somewhere over your shoulder.
“I just—came to get my jacket. That’s all,” he stated plainly. As if that explained anything at all.
“You’ve—you’ve been alive this whole time.” It came out as a fact.
“Not the whole time.” You glared. “It’s—forget about it.” He was antsy. Uncomfortable. “It’s a long story, and I was just heading out.”
“Why didn’t you reach out?” You said quickly, stepping to obstruct his path when he tried to get around you.
“I—” He dragged a hand down his face. “Things are different now, okay? I’m not Robin, I’m not happy-go-lucky Jason anymore, I live a very dangerous and different life, and I’m—yeah. It’s just different.” And here you thought nothing could sting more than losing him. But no, here he was, brushing you off, telling you things were different.
“Different,” you echoed quietly. He tried to nod but it was more along the lines of a quick jerk of his head. Your skin burned white-hot. Your heart thundered in your chest and you could hear your pulse in your ears. “Right. Things are different now,” you snarled. “My apologies, I didn’t know we were throwing away years of trust and friendship.” You internally tried to convince yourself that your eyes, blurry with tears, were playing tricks on you when you saw his mouth twitch at friendship. “I wasn’t aware that everything between us and everything we went through meant absolutely-fucking-nothing to you. Thanks for the heads up! Thanks for letting me know!” Jason scoffed. “I mourned you.
“I cried for weeks, I was a shell of myself for months. My favorite person in the whole world died, and I just… I made it this far, somehow. And then I’m having a pretty good day and I find out from Dick Grayson that you’ve been around, alive and well—fine, alive—and you’ve probably been in contact with practically everyone else, and decided not to reach out. Dick assumed I knew you were alive. He lost his shit and broke every traffic law for me to get here to see you and I’m met with—with this.” You gestured at him, at his whole existence. “You never said a single fucking thing, never tried to talk to me or at least let me know that you wanted nothing to do with me anymore—”
“Oh you just know everything there is to know, don’t you?” He interrupted. “It’s not that fucking easy, believe it or not. There’s no guidebook to coming back to life.” You clenched your jaw. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks. “It’s not like I asked for it,” he continued, a bit softer but no less intense. “I’m hardly the same person anymore. I kill people, I’ve tortured people, I was with the League of Assassins, believe it or not, I’m not exactly on the best of terms with Bruce, I’m so fucking angry all the time, I—” he paused his rambling to take a deep breath.
For a moment you thought he was about to do something horribly irrational. Instead, he steeled himself and made direct eye contact, letting you see the rawness on his face. “It’s been really hard and… frankly, a scary time. For everyone. You wouldn’t have wanted to know that… that that’s what had become of me.” Your stomach dropped. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. I didn’t want you to see me like this, I wanted you to be able to live your life and remember me the way y—the way you liked me.”
Incensed as you were, your heart broke at his words. Did he really think you wouldn’t follow him through literal hell? Did he really think he needed to protect you from himself?
Without thinking, you stepped forward, tentatively reaching out. He didn’t dodge or push you away, but he watched you closely. You gently put your hands on his arms, holding him while maintaining some distance. Now that you’d already mindlessly done the scary part of initiating contact, you wanted to simply test the waters.
A weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders when you touched him. He relaxed in your hands, his head bowing slightly.
“Do you still read Jane Austen?” Though he didn’t fully smile, you did catch a quick glimpse of his teeth.
“Of course.” Your hands glided up and down his arms, almost absentmindedly.
“After you died, I read Pride and Prejudice. Just because I knew you liked it.” He opened his mouth, then, thinking better of whatever he thought he’d say, closed it. But he changed his mind again.
“I didn’t want to avoid you, I just—I thought it was best.” You let out a gust of breath that you didn’t know you’d been holding.
“I don’t forgive you, at the very least not yet, but I understand.” His fingers twitched at his sides. Unbeknownst to you, he wanted so badly to touch you too, but there was no way he deserved it, not after everything. He was still too compassionate; that part hadn’t changed.
“I missed you every day. I wished there was another way, I just… couldn’t bring you into any of”—he gestured vaguely from within your hold—”this.”
“What about now? Will you—you won’t shut me out again, will you? Now that you have me, you don’t have to miss me anymore.” You worried you sounded too desperate, especially since your grip on him had tightened, but then again, you’d just had an (albeit quick) argument with him. You couldn’t really be insecure about how you came across, not after tumultuously giving him a piece of your mind. Besides, you were much too relieved that Jason was alive, warm in your hands, and above all else, missed you too. Funnily enough, it almost made you angrier to know that he yearned for your company the way you did for his and he still denied the both of you the gratification of simply reaching out.
He shook his head, his hair falling messily onto his forehead. Instinctively, somehow now unhindered by the weight of self-punishment, his hands came to hold your waist. They found their old home, sliding smoothly into place where they once caressed you years prior.
“If you’ll give me the chance, I want to try again. I want to do what I should have done before it was… too late.”
You couldn’t hold back the smile that broke onto your face; one that was a mix of relief, nerves, and wistfulness. Spurred by the comforting sign of him holding you familiarly, you came forward and leaned against him. Your hands snaked from his arms to his back, holding him tightly in a hug. You inhaled his scent; though different from before, it was undeniably him. He took one of his hands off you only to replace it on the back of your head, cradling your skull and holding you against him.
“What should you have done?” You whispered. You wanted—no, needed—to hear him say it, what you had been dying to hear for who knows how long, what you yourself wished hadn’t been left unsaid.
After a shaky breath, he murmured, “I should have told you that I love you, and that I want to make this real, because I haven’t stopped loving you. I want to call it what we know it is.” Hiding your face against him, you beamed. Feeling it through the fabric of his shirt, he held you tighter. “I’m still… I don’t know. Things are still going to be different. I don’t want you to have to deal with all of that.”
“It’s my choice,” you replied. “I already basically went through hell and back in the past hour. If I haven’t given up by now, who’s to say I will?” He laughed stiffly.
“I’m sorry. About everything.”
“I know.” A beat passed in comfortable silence.
“You didn’t say it back. You didn’t say ‘I love you too.’” You bit your lip. Was it too soon to tease him again?
“I’m still mad at you.” He snorted.
“Right, I forgot. My bad.” But your hands rubbed along his back, and his thumbs circled along your hips. You knew everything was going to be, as he said, different, but it was going to be okay.
Your mind was fogged by the rage of radio silence from a somehow alive Jason, the disappointment of the admittedly not-his-fault emotional rollercoaster Dick put you on earlier, and the dejection of knowing that your Robin, as you knew and loved him, was gone. But through it all, there was a beacon of clarity; this Jason was still here, and still loved you. This Jason was still a caring bookworm that was determined to protect. This Jason was going to make it up to you. You could feel it in your bones.
“So did you guys make up or is this one of your weird things I wouldn’t understand?” Dick called from the bottom of the stairs. Fuck, you’d forgotten he was there. You’d forgotten everything, really, except for you and Jason. You partially pried yourself from him to glare back at your chauffeur. “Shame about the sandwich, by the way.” Jason very nearly growled, and you could feel the rumbling in his chest.
“Come on,” he grumbled, squeezing your hip lightly. “I’ll take you home. This dumbass can fuck back off to Blüdhaven.” You couldn’t help but giggle.
“So do I get a gold star? An MVP award? This is all thanks to me, you know.” Ignoring Dick, Jason led you to his motorcycle.
“It’s gonna be dangerous. I hope you don’t mind.” You bit your lip.
“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” You asked rhetorically, though you were only trying to convince yourself. “Besides, I think I can trust you. I love you.” Jason smiled for real this time, lips parting and curving in that way that tugged at your heart the same way it always did. Butterflies erupted in your stomach. This felt like a new beginning, one where you fell in love with Jason all over again. This felt right.
