#jason dc

[calicotopia]

Jason Todd is both street smart and book smart. Saying he can’t be book smart because he was homeless is CRAZY WORK. That man is smart, every Robin is smart actually. All of them. They’re all smart. Steph and Jason are the ones i see most often be watered down to just “reckless and dumb” and it’s giving classism. AND MISOGYNY.

[torupng]

⤷ ALMOST SAID , JASON TODD .

summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.

cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)

tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.

wc 𓂃 2.1k.

— oneshot request ! part two of this series.

Snow.

It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.

Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.

That posh dickhead Oliver.

Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.

Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.

Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."

Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.

He looks like he walked into the wrong building.

And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.

It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.

Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.

"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.

"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."

He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.

But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"

Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.

He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.

You'd laughed.

He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.

"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."

He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.

Jason's pen snaps.

The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.

"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"

"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."

You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.

He looks away before you can ask.

Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.

Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.

He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.

He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.

You've never treated him like a ghost.

You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.

You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.

You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.

"I'm cold," you'd whispered.

"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.

"Not without you."

You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."

Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.

He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.

The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.

Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.

You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.

"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.

"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.

Jason wants to shake you.

He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—

"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.

Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.

He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.

The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.

Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.

I've known you since we were nine.

I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.

I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.

You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.

And I can't—

"Jason!"

Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.

"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.

You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.

"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"

"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."

You don't drop it. When do you ever?

Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.

"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."

Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.

He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.

"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.

You blink. "Who?"

He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.

"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

The rest of the walk is silent.

He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"

He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.

But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.

You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.

"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Jason Peter Todd."

He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.

"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."

He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."

"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."

Fifteen years. God.

Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.

Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.

He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.

You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.

And you're still here.

You're still here.

"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.

"Who?"

"Oliver."

You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."

"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

"I'm acting like one."

You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.

"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"

Because I love you.

Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.

Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.

Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.

Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.

He doesn't say any of it.

He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.

"Jason," you whisper again.

And he thinks — maybe.

Maybe this is the moment.

Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.

His hand moves before he can stop it.

His fingers brush against yours.

You inhale sharply.

And then—

"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.

"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."

You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.

Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.

Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.

"Jason."

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.

"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.

He stares at you.

"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."

"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.

"Goodnight, Jason."

"Goodnight."

He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—

Maybe.

Maybe next time.

A/N : He’s such a chud loser I love him

[msgorillagripcoochie]

rocking horse

pairing(s): (platonic) batmom!reader x arkham knight!jason todd

summary: armor can't hide the fact that jason todd needs his mama

warning(s): mentions of violence, trauma, grief, death, injury, family tension and unedited work

a/n: this is an old ass jason fic i wrote but i rerad it and thought it was cute so here you go !

"i'm uninterested in whatever game you and batman are playing." you deadpanned, looking at the arkham knight.

you expected the knight: the voice, the armor, the faceless cruelty of it all. but when he stepped into the low light of your living room, you didn’t see the monster everyone else feared.

you saw the way his shoulders slumped, like the weight of the city wasn’t just on his back but in his bones. no grand intimidation, no menace. he shifted in place, boots scuffing against the floor like a child would. —like jason would when he was being scolded for doing something: when he’d broken a window, when he’d stayed out too late, when he thought you’d stop loving him for it.— you shook the thought from your head, tilting your head at him. "why didn't you leave town?" the question caught you off guard, causing your mind to stall for a quick moment.

"what?" you blinked, confusion wrinkling your brow. why would he care if you left town or not? "you should go." his voice is stern, making you snort at him, but truthfully his voice was softer than you expected. not a threat. not a warning. something caught in between that you couldn't place: quiet disappointment.

you crossed your arms. "and where exactly was i supposed to go? metropolis? i’m sure superman has enough on his plate." you laughed, shaking your head at him. "i’m not scared of you or scarecrow." he shifted in place, the sound of his boots scuffing the floor too familiar a nervous tic.

for half a second, you almost pictured jason there instead, fidgeting under your gaze like he had after dented walls with a thrown ball, or when he thought you’d be disappointed in him. the memory lanced sharp, and you shoved it down hard.

grief was cruel like that, painting ghosts onto strangers.

it happened to you far too often than you'd like to admit: when tim showed you his robin costume, when dick was making your dinner, and even sometimes you'd get the urge to call him. your baby. you'd grieved, but the grief never left and that pit in your stomach never faded.

the knight tilted his helmet toward you, head cocked —in that same impatient way jason had when he didn’t like an answer.— "you should be," he said, but there was no venom, no promise behind it. he sounded like someone mimicking what they thought a villain sounded like.

"are you here to scare me then? kill me? take everything i have?" you rolled your eyes, gesturing around the small apartment. "i don't have anything for you. i haven't worn my suit in years or helped batman, so trust me, i'm not any leverage to him. so why you are here, i do not know."

"you think batman cares about leverage?" his voice wavered, bitter, anger dancing in his words. "he doesn’t protect people. he destroys them."

you frowned. the cadence was too sharp, the words too personal, like someone who’d argued with bruce a thousand times before.

for a dangerous second, you swore you almost recognized him, his familiarity running too deep within you, but still, you couldn't place it. "you sound all studied up in all things batman." you mocked him. it made him huff, standing tall before you, but then, just as quickly, his hand flexed at his side, thumb rubbing against his palm like a nervous tick. you were terribly good at reading people, one of your many good abilities, but you didn't understand this one. he had broken into your home, and yet, he was nervous. a shyness to him almost mixed in with all the anger brooding off him.

for a moment, you’re not in your living room at all.

you’re back in the kitchen, light flickering overhead, jason 14 years old and pacing with the same exact twitch, muttering about how bruce never listens, how he doesn’t need someone hovering over him. that he could handle himself. you remember telling him that you didn't care if he could handle himself; you'd be there to handle the brunt of it anyways, that you’d never stop loving him no matter how hard he tried to test it.

the memory slices through you so sharply that you almost call his name. almost.

"yeah, well, we both know him better than most, ma." you blinked hard, throat tightening, and the knight’s silhouette swims back into view. not your boy. not jason. just another ghost wearing his shadows. grief was cruel like that, conjuring pieces of him where they didn’t belong.

like your mind needed to fill in the blanks with him to survive.

the words lingered as you tried to tell yourself you imagined, that the memories were all mixing together into one.

your eyes traced him again, desperate for reassurance that this was just a man in a mask, an enemy like the many you had faced before—nothing more. but every detail refused to cooperate: the restless thumb against his palm, the shift of weight from one boot to the other. your stomach twisted because you wanted it to be him. and that was worse than if it truly was.

"you should go."

he froze at that, helmet tilting the faintest bit like your words wounded. the silence stretched, and in it you could almost feel him staring. like if he took the helmet off, you’d find those green eyes looking back at you.

but he didn’t. the silence swallowed you whole. "how'd you even get in here."

“you never lock the back door.” the words landed like a stone in your chest. your breath stuttered before you caught it, forcing your face into something flat, unimpressed. anyone could have figured that out, you told yourself. anyone watching long enough.

“been stalking me, then?” you shot back, the edge of your voice a shield. “what, did you make a list of my bad habits to throw in my face? next you’ll tell me i leave the porch light on too.”

he shifted, and though the helmet revealed nothing, you felt the weight of his stare. too heavy. too knowing. then a small chuckle: “you do,” he said simply. no mocking lilt. no satisfaction. just… fact. your laugh was brittle. “lots of people do. doesn’t mean you know me.”

but the truth was crawling under your skin, buzzing in your bones. he hadn’t just broken in. he remembered.

"what do you want?" your voice soft, quieter than you meant, as if you were afraid of the answer.

he stilled, and you hated how your chest tightened in the silence. if he were just another villain, he would’ve already spit out demands, threats, ultimatums. instead, he just stood there, shifting once, boots dragging like he couldn’t stand still.

finally, the modulated voice broke through the heavy quiet. “...to make sure you’re safe.”

you blinked. your head tilted, frown cutting sharp across your face. that wasn’t the answer. it wasn’t his answer. it was too… tender. too careful. like words you’d heard before, whispered at your doorway when a boy swore he didn’t need you waiting up for him, but loved that you always did.

your heart lurched, and you forced a scoff up your throat. “you’re doing a terrible job of it,” you said. “breaking into my home, creeping around like a shadow. you want me safe? stay the hell away from me.”

but he didn’t move. didn’t argue. just stood there with his hand flexing at his side again, like he was biting back something you weren’t meant to hear. his laugh is dry: "you know you never used to tell me to go." your stomach felt like it was plummeting, and your throat felt dry. you couldn't speak. "in fact you used to beg to stay." he walked further into the room, closer to you. "used to let me sleep in your bed, the old man hated it." he shook his head at the memory while you felt like you couldn't move.

felt like your skin was vibrating.

“i don’t expect you to remember,” he said, voice tight, almost bitter. “especially since you forgot me so quick.” his fingers curl tightly into his hand, he's upset, angry.

all the same tells.

but it couldn't be…

"jason?" the name left her lips for the first time in what felt like years. he visibly relaxed at her voice, like he had spent this whole time just waiting for his mother. he reached up, opening his mask. "hey ma." you want to break down, you want to crumble

you can't. it feels like you don't know how. every emotion washing over you. you took a slow step forward, gulping, "jason-how-“ he took a sharp step back, and it broke your heart. it tore something in you that you didn't know could be broken.

"don't."

he flinches, stepping back again, and your chest tightens. he looks different, scars covering his face that broke your heart, but the boy you remember is still there, buried under the armor and the anger. "i’m not-" he starts, voice bitter, then cuts off, unsure. like he wants to tell you he's not who he used to be, he is a shell of himself. a part of him feared you'd never love him the same again.

"my baby," a soft whisper that shatters him, that tells him that all he needed was his mother, who had spent all night crying in that abandoned wing. his mother.

he had scripted a thousand things to say to you, to yell at you, to tell you off, but all he saw when he looked at you was the woman who had loved him ever since the day bruce wayne took him in. he saw his mom, the woman who held him when he cried. the one who had made his robin suit especially just for him.

and when you saw him… you only saw the poor boy who you had caught trying to steal your husband's tires.

your jason.

a/n: idk if i like this too much but tysm for reading and i hope u liked. feel free to request!

[gojoidyll]

idk jason is hot, send post

[inkbug0]

The silly little murder man Jasoon Toodie

[miwsolovely]

—HOLLOWED PLACES

𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason almost loses you. you who built his world, you who is his world.

JASON TODD x READER mimi spitting out fics like crazy era , hint at reader being a vigilante but you’d have to squint, can also imagine reader as like a reporter / someone who searches + reports crime , . requested <3

The air reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and rotting metal. Rust dripped like blood from the beams overhead, and the shattered windows of the abandoned warehouse let in only slivered moonlight—pale and watchful. You ducked behind a rusted-out crate, heartbeat rattling like loose screws in your chest, breath caught somewhere between panic and instinct.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel-strewn floor. Not yours.

You’d come here on a hunch—stupid, reckless intuition. A whisper about a drop spot. A stolen phone pinging in this dead zone on the edge of Crime Alley. You hadn’t waited for backup. Hadn’t told Jason.

Because some part of you still believed you could handle it alone.

A flashbang cracked in the distance—followed by a scream, then silence.

You pressed a hand against your stomach, where the edge of a steel crate had kissed too hard. Bruised, but not broken. Not yet.

With a loud crash that reverberated in your bones, the back doors blew open like a bomb had gone off. Smoke spilled into the room in a crawling, living cloud, and through it walked a figure dressed in blood-red and black—shoulders squared, helmet glinting in the firelight like a demon had risen from the ashes.

Red Hood.

You didn’t even have time to say his name before he opened fire—precision sharp, brutal grace in motion. Two thugs dropped before they could turn their weapons. A third tried to run, and Jason threw a knife with an effortless flick of his wrist, pinning the guy by his jacket to the wall.

He didn’t speak as he approached.

Didn’t say a damn word as he took down the last straggler with a fist to the throat and a low, seething growl. Didn’t even flinch as a glint of a knife in his hand caught skin and pulled.

Only when the silence fell—thick, ringing, and absolute—did he finally turn to you.

His helmet came off with a jerk.

And Jason’s eyes burned like open flame.

“The hell are you doing here?” His voice was a snarl, barely leashed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer right away. The adrenaline was still draining from your limbs like water through a cracked dam.

“I was following a lead,” You said, quieter than you meant to. “I thought—”

“You thought?” He cut in, voice slicing sharp and clean. “You thought this was a good idea? You didn’t even call me. You just waltzed into a goddamn death trap like it’s some kind of—what? Solo mission? Do you think you’re bulletproof?”

The hurt behind his fury made your chest tighten.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it if it turned out to be nothing,” You muttered. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Jason’s expression twisted—shock, heartbreak, and fury mingling in a storm behind his eyes.

“A burden?” He repeated, voice hoarse. “You think I care about being dragged into danger? That’s my job. My whole life is built around pulling people out of burning wrecks—especially you.”

The words punched the breath out of you.

“I thought I lost you,” He added, quieter now. It was raw and it scared you. “You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the ping on that burner you took and by the time I got here. . .” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna find your body.”

Your heart cracked at the edges.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint tremble in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek, but there was fear underneath all that anger—a bone-deep terror carved into every word.

You reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

Jason exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding it in for hours.

He didn’t raise his voice again. He just wrapped an arm around you, sudden and fierce, pulling you against his chest like he needed to feel you breathing just to believe it.

“Next time,” He said, voice low and ragged into your hair, “we go together. Or not at all. Got it?”

You nodded, face buried in his armor. His scent was smoke, leather, and something painfully familiar—home, even when everything around you burned.

“Got it,” You whispered.

He kissed your temple, lingering there like he could imprint safety into your skin.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself feel safe—tethered to the one person who would always come for you, even if it meant tearing down the city to do it.

Jason didn’t let go of you for a long moment. His arms were wrapped around you like he was anchoring you to the present, as though if he let go, you’d disappear into the rubble and smoke like a dream he’d wake from too late.

Then, finally, without a word, he slid his helmet on your head and gently guided you toward his bike.

The ride home was silent—save for the roar of the engine and the occasional sharp gust of wind that tugged at your clothes. Your arms were tight around his middle, face pressed to the worn leather of his jacket, and though the ache in your body hadn’t subsided, something inside you settled with every mile that carried you away from that godforsaken warehouse.

When you finally reached the apartment, Jason parked the bike with precision, killed the engine, and peeled his helmet off your head, smoothing down your hair with a worried look, the lines of tension still hardened on his face.

The lock clicked under his fingers. He ushered you inside with a hand on your back—gentle, but firm, like you were glass and he still hadn’t forgiven himself for watching you crack.

Inside, the low lights flickered on, casting everything in a gold-dusted hush. The apartment smelled like cedarwood and lingering gun oil, the kind of scent you’d once found intimidating and now found oddly comforting.

Jason crossed the room ahead of you, tossed his helmet onto the couch already shedding off his body armor, then turned back with eyes that scanned you top to bottom. “Sit,” He said. “Living room. Let me see.”

You didn’t argue.

The moment you sat, he was already kneeling between your legs, hands surprisingly gentle as they swept over your arms, your ribs, your thighs—checking for bruises, breaks, blood. His brows were furrowed, a storm still quietly raging behind his eyes, but his touch was reverent. Almost apologetic.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, but your voice came out thin. Unconvincing.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and solemn. “Let me take care of you.”

There was no room for pride in that request. No sharp edges, no armor. Just the quiet plea of someone who needed to make sure you were still here, still whole.

You nodded.

He moved like a ghost then, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom with all the familiarity of ritual. When he returned, he cleaned the gash near your hip—nothing deep, but raw and angry-looking. The alcohol stung, but he didn’t flinch when you hissed. He murmured something low—an apology, or maybe a reassurance—as he worked.

His fingers were stained with your blood, but his hands were steady.

When he was done with you, you gestured for him to sit. “Your turn.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

A breath escaped him—half a sigh, half surrender. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the mosaic of fresh bruises blooming along his ribs like stormclouds. A long scrape ran across his side, angry and red.

You worked in silence, the antiseptic sharp between you, the quiet hum of the city outside the only sound. As you pressed gauze to his wound, your hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the sudden, sobering awareness of how close this had been.

“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” You whispered.

Jason looked at you then—really looked—and something in his gaze softened. “So could you.”

You pressed the bandage into place, helped him put his shirt back on, then rested your palm over his chest, just above his heart. It beat strong beneath your fingers, steady and alive. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” You said. Gentle.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly like your hand was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. “You didn’t just scare me,” He said, voice low. “You wrecked me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so instead, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The space between you buzzed with things left unsaid—fear, anger, relief, love—all wrapped in the same silence that hung heavy in the apartment like smoke that never cleared.

His hands found your waist, careful and grounding. Yours rested on his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage you’d just placed.

And together, under dim lights and aching hearts, you held each other—not because either of you were broken, but because in the wreckage of that night, this was what survival looked like.

Quiet. Steady. Earned.

You stayed like that a while—knees brushing, foreheads touching, hearts slowly finding the same rhythm again. The world outside could fall apart, and maybe it had tonight, just a little. But here, in this pocket of warmth and gauze and unspoken promises, you both breathed a little easier.

Eventually, Jason eased back and stood, offering you a hand. His palm was calloused and nicked from years of holding guns and gripping rooftops, but when he held yours, it was soft—like even with all the danger in his bones, he remembered how to cradle something delicate.

“Come on,” He said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Let’s get some rest.”

You followed him into the bedroom, the floor creaking underfoot like it, too, exhaled after the night’s tension. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, but still warm. Jason tugged his shirt over his head again, a wince catching at his side, and you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

“Don’t push it,” You said.

“’m fine.”

“You’re not made of titanium, Jay.”

He snorted faintly, then let you guide him to the bed. The two of you slipped beneath the covers without ceremony, just quiet, exhausted gravity. You settled into him like muscle memory, head tucked under his chin, his arm looping around your waist.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city bleeding in through the windows and the soft cadence of his breathing.

Then, quieter than before, Jason spoke.

“When I found you in that warehouse. . .” His voice cracked a little, like something raw split open beneath the words. “I saw you—on the ground, blood on your shirt, that look on your face. I—” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

Your chest ached.

You looked up, and even in the dark, you could see the guilt etched across his brow, in the way his jaw clenched like he was still trying to keep something buried.

“I’m here,” You whispered. “I made it. Because of you.”

Jason’s arm tightened around you. “You don’t get it,” He said hoarsely. “You’re the one thing I can’t lose. Not after everything. Not you.”

And just like that, the last of the night’s defenses cracked.

You leaned up and kissed his temple, slow and lingering, like a benediction. “You won’t,” You murmured into his hair. “You won’t lose me.”

Silence stretched again—but this time, it was full. Of trust. Of breath. Of healing.

Jason’s breathing slowed, and you felt the tension bleed out of his body bit by bit, until he finally melted into the bed, into you. And you followed soon after, both of you bruised but whole, fragile but stitched back together in the places that mattered.

Outside, the city kept its noise, its violence, its ghosts.

But with him, under the soft hush of shared blankets and battered hearts, there was peace.

It wasn’t perfect or clean; but it was real. And that was enough.

It was the kind of peace that didn’t sing or shine, but rather breathed—low and slow, like the final exhale after a storm’s last crash. It settled in the hollow places: in the cracks beneath your ribs, in the ache of bruised skin, in the place between Jason’s shoulder and your cheek where your breath fogged against his bare collarbone.

The room was dark, but not empty. The quiet wasn’t silence—it was safety. The distant drone of traffic and the occasional siren became nothing more than white noise, swallowed by the warmth radiating from Jason’s body and the slow, syncopated beat of his heart under your hand. You could feel it, solid and relentless beneath your palm, a pulse like a war drum that had finally quieted to a lullaby.

He had one hand curled at your waist, fingers twitching in his sleep like his body didn’t quite trust that you were still there, even now. His other arm was tucked beneath the pillow you shared, cradling your head. Every inch of him—this man built of muscle and scars and rage—was wrapped around you like he was made for it.

And maybe he was.

Jason Todd was not a soft man. He was fire and steel, vengeance with a loaded gun and a restless soul. But in this hour, in this bed, he’d folded down all his edges just to make room for you. Every breath he took was a vow spoken in silence: I’ve got you. I won’t let go.

The ceiling above you was cracked and dim, a canvas smeared by passing headlights, and the shadows that moved across it were slow and reverent—like even the night didn’t dare disturb the stillness that had grown between you.

You didn’t sleep right away. Your body ached too much, and your thoughts—though gentler now—still flickered like old film reels. But you stayed close. You listened. To him. To yourself. To the miracle of being here, alive, and held.

And when your eyes did finally close, it was not from exhaustion, but from surrender.

Not to weakness—but to rest. To the quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. The kind that waited through the worst of you and met you in the wreckage, hands steady, heart bruised but unwavering.

You drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his shirt and his breath warm against your forehead, knowing—deep in the marrow of you—that tomorrow would come, full of city noise and unspoken danger and all the chaos that living beside him brought.

But tonight? Tonight, you had this: blood and balm, thunder and tenderness, wrapped up in the arms of a man who would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.

And that, you thought as sleep finally claimed you, was more than enough.

And as sleep finally threaded its fingers through your hair and pulled you under, you didn’t think of the warehouse, or the bruises, or the mistakes that had almost cost you everything.

You only thought of him—the quiet strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you home—and how, in this fragile sliver of night, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos and care, you were no longer afraid.

Not of tomorrow. Not of falling. Not with him beside you.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[sketchbook-fiend]

I lived bitch