“my boyfriend wants to show you his books, and you better say they’re cool,” you demanded while glaring at the camera. an amused jason could be seen in the back as you made way for him to take center stage. “go, babe.”
“hi,” your boyfriend awkwardly greeted before showing off the two paperback books in his hands. “so this one is ‘frankenstein’ by mary shelley. i know we all dreaded reading it in high school, but i really relate to frankenstein’s monster, and the story’s pretty good if you just give it a chance. plus, it’s a pioneer for the science-fiction genre, so that’s cool.”
you could be seen behind jason making threatening gestures with your hands, almost as if to say, ‘leave a nice comment, or you’re getting blocked!’
“and this one is ‘pride and prejudice’ by jane austen. another oldie but a classic,” jason said with a nonchalant shrug. “the writing’s beautiful, and i love elizabeth’s character because she reminds me of a certain someone. probably one of my favourite books of all time and just a really good comfort read.”
he turned to see your face quickly morph into heart-eyes and a sweet smile.
“good job, honey. that was a great presentation,” you praised before giving his cheek a loving kiss.
“oh, and i’m also part of a book club. we meet at the community center in the bowery every thursday evening. new members are always welcome,” jason off-handedly added.
“and new members are always welcome,” you sharply reiterated, glancing at the camera with a scary scowl and furrowed brows. “see you thursdays.”
gothambaddiexoxo commented: this man was written by a woman lol
singleasapringle commented: girl, where can i get myself a boyfriend like this 😭
birdzofprey0 commented: sooo does everyone in this book club look like him or?? asking for a friend
inspired by this video here. REBLOGS and COMMENTS are greatly appreciated
Summary: Ever since you walked into Jason Todd's life, your relationship had been complicated. But when you are in danger? There will be no mercy, even if you two are fighting.
Pairing: Jason Todd/doctor!reader (gender-neutral)
Tags and warnings: angst without distinct resolution, more of an open ending. Detailed wound descriptions including blood, gunshots, hostage situation, toxic relationships, swearing
Author’s Note: Something a little darker with less resolution than I usually write - mwah!
Word Count: 3.8K
Jason sighed, staring down at his phone. The screen slightly blurred from fingerprints slicked in gun oil. Brightness dimmed. Cracks fenestrating at the edges from carelessness on patrol and otherwise.
Over the course of your… whatever this was, he was used to staring at unanswered messages and a glaring read receipt. It was usually his fault, he couldn’t deny that. But tonight, just when he needed the confirmation most, the nine-letter word burned back in his face.
D-E-L-I-V-E-R-E-D.
He threw his head back in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe you were home, on the couch, curled up in front of one of your trashy television shows. Better yet, maybe you were finally tucked into bed at a reasonable hour, your chest pulling with gentle tidal respirations as your soft skin melted into the sheets. That, he could live with.
Hell, even if you were out - somewhere, anywhere - and choosing to ignore him, that would be alright. Anything but at work. Anything but the Emergency Room.
It was one of those rare occasions where Bruce had roped him into a mission, claiming he needed all hands on deck for the takedown of the century, that brought you to Jason. Even rarer, it had resulted in Bruce sustaining grave injuries. He remembered leaning against the cool metal railing of the Batcave, arms crossed over his chest, observing Bruce’s breathing become labored as he laid flat on the table. Alfred was peeling pieces of the suit off one by one, as hastily yet gently as possible, to reveal Bruce’s injuries while preventing him from enduring more.
The Batman, foreboding and terrible, scrunched up on a makeshift gurney, splinting, with his Robins of past and present perched in the periphery observing their leader fight for his life. Jason watched through the lens of the Red Hood at Dick shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nightwing dancing uncomfortably in place, unable to stay still. The prodigal son. Twitching like he had ants in his pants. Beneath the Hood, Jason rolled his eyes.
Tim’s fingers clipped away at the Batcomputer keyboard, but Jason noticed the way his scowl deepened when Bruce would groan. His eyebrows would twitch, imperceptible to anyone else, before he forced them to stay in place. Typing away to distract himself.
“Call the doctor.” Bruce huffed. The admission in itself was enough to raise a chill down the spine of anyone who knew him.
“Already on the way, sir.” Alfred confirmed.
The butler pried away a piece of the chestplate, releasing blood that instantly stained the cuffs of his white shirt, to reveal a deep, spreading bruise at the fringes of a gash. His right hand clasped around a stack of gauze without his eyes leaving Bruce, pressing the linen against the cut with deep pressure that drew another gasp from the Batman’s lips. The tension among the room grew palpably, before it instantly dissipated at the sound of one of the Cave doors sliding open.
Footsteps, carefully plodding down the metal staircase at an unbothered pace, echoed in the expanse of the room.
“Well, you’re still breathing on your own.” A voice, strangely youthful, tone light despite the situation. “Color me impressed.”
It was clear that Jason wasn’t the only one surprised by the delicate timbre that rang out into space. Tim’s neck could have snapped from the torque he generated, twisting his gaze from the computer screen to the source of the voice at once. Dick’s feet finally stopped their restless tapping and he planted himself, somewhat defensively, reaching slowly but noticeably for the weapons slung over his back. Jason remained composed. Fuckin’ amateurs, he thought to himself.
As the footsteps drew closer, you came into view, Jason’s eyes sweeping your figure for the first time. Bulky, crossbody bag slung across your torso to rest on your hip. Clad in dingy, ill-fitting unisex scrubs that looked like they had been through the hospital laundromat thousands of times until they were thin and papery. Your face bore a curious expression: concerned - hidden, but noticeable by the glint in your eyes - yet calm.
No, you weren’t Dr. Thompkins. Jason knew that from the moment you entered the cave, by your gait as you clipped down the stairs. Your initial comment confirmed his theory: tone decades younger than Leslie’s dry vocalizations, without as many years of exhaustion dampening your inflection.
“No, I’m not Dr. Thompkins.” You replied. “I’m her relief.”
As you entered the makeshift trauma bay, you ignored the audience observing your every move, setting your bag down on the side table. As you pulled a small tablet from the luggage, you placed a gentle hand on Alfred’s shoulder, ushering him aside politely so that you could begin your work. A packet of gel torn by the edge of your teeth. You pasted it over his ribs, Robins watching the clear substance tinge pink from the blood.
“Well, that’s what I thought, based on your call.” You said, clicking your tongue in disapproval. “Popped a lung.”
“Is it fixable, Doctor?” Alfred asked, his concern gently bleeding into his typically articulate speech. It seemed that no matter how many times he had seen Bruce on death’s door, it still had the same effect on him.
“Definitely fixable.” You replied. You set your ultrasound down by your bag, the wand dangling from the table uselessly with gravity. “I can re-inflate the lung, no problem. But the chest tube should stay in for a couple of days and you should avoid any strenuous activity for four to six weeks.”
“That,” Your eyes flickered up to meet Jason’s gaze, the unexpected confrontation jolting him internally before you finished your recommendation. “I bet is not going to happen.”
The shimmer in your gaze, nearly mischievous, stuck to Jason like an adhesive he couldn’t rid himself of for the next couple of weeks. You finished the procedure, stated your precautions, and slunk out of the Batcave like it was any other Tuesday. It left him transfixed, unable to shake the encounter out of his mind as he replayed it involuntarily, over and over.
Months later, he was pulling himself through your window frame in the dead of night - address obtained from the full scale investigation that Tim had obviously conducted over you after your meeting. Jason didn’t know why, but he was drawn to your apartment like spiritual possession, covered in dozens of deep lacerations that would raise the eyebrows of any practitioner, even in broad daylight. He could have tugged a blunt needle and thread through each and every one of them himself, but his exhaustion and the thought of seeing the look in your eyes again - subtle but nearly amused - heightened the pull to your doorstep. Er, window sill.
As his huge body plunked gracelessly onto your living room carpet, you let out a reflexive shriek. Hands whipped themselves to your chest to clutch your metaphorical pearls. As soon as watched him writhe to get to his knees, like a trampled bug, and realized you were not at the mercy of a home intruder, you were at his side easing him to sit and bleed all over your armchair.
You had exchanged so little words, if any, but Jason memorized the way your hands ghosted over his skin as you pulled his shirt over his head. The way you patiently anesthetized each cut with generous lidocaine, despite his insistence he didn’t need it, and waited for the skin to blanch before wrenching the suture from the packaging with your needle driver. You diligently sewed him until the sun peaked over the horizon, working from the notch of his hip up to his collar bone, paying each wound more attention than Jason had ever received in his lifetime.
And by the time that you had gotten to the cut on his forehead, unknown if it had been thirty minutes or three hours since you started working on him, you were so painfully aware of the way his sleepy green eyes still picked you apart to pieces. The bundle of collagen as scar tissue over the cupid’s bow of his lip and how his tongue darted out to wet it when you dug the suture in slightly too deep or hit a flap of skin that wasn’t as numbed as the rest.
When you perched your hand against his cheekbone, fingers trembling slightly with the suture poised to repair the last wound, you gave in entirely to want and leaned forward, capturing his dry lips with your own. You savored the way he pressed back on you before your professionalism returned and you pulled back.
“I’m sorry.” You said, eyes cast to the ground. You shook your head ever so slightly with self-disappointment.
In that moment, Jason waged a war with himself. Digging into his internal pressure points and telling himself that you were too pure and he didn’t want to ruin someone like you to prevent something stupid from happening. But as his eyes fixed on your pink lower lip, a small, insistent voice inside of him nagged: why don’t I deserve something nice for once?
And his thick fingers found the nape of your neck, pulling you back in for more.
That was the inciting event that set off a chain reaction.
The beginning was wonderful, Jason feeling so high off of your embrace that it finally occurred to him that maybe he could have a normal life with you. He could take you out on dates, to dinner, to the movies, like normal people. Bring you flowers and eat the home-cooked meals you had made for him so that he was “eating something with nutrition for once.” Fall asleep nestled into your chest, feeling your fingers pull through the strands of his hair and card along his scalp, feeling truly comfortable for once.
But that was exactly the problem. It was too nice. Too comfortable. Too perfect. He starved off the self-sabotage for as long as he could - mere weeks - before letting it run buck wild. He pushed you away, shoved with all of his might in the form of hurtful remarks that he didn’t mean at all and avoidance that left you feeling perplexed and stung.
At night, pitched against some grimy alleyway, he yo-yoed with himself. Torn between crawling back to apologize and make amends, and digging in further to assure you’d leave him be. Some nights, the angel on his shoulder won and he was crooning apologies into the bend of your neck. Other times, the devil left your messages on read with tear-stained cheeks.
That’s where he had found himself tonight, looking at that dim phone screen and urging you to message him back. A “don’t text me Jason”, “leave me alone”, or even “fuck you”, he prayed for desperately. The letters in his hastily written texts, no care that he had broken the silence first, mocking him.
Jason had woke that evening from a shitty nap on a worn cot to a missed call from the person he wanted to talk to least: Batman. They had enough screaming matches to where Bruce got the gist that Jason didn’t want to hear from him, so seeing the notification stirred concern among annoyance in his chest.
Bruce picked up on the first ring.
“What?” Jason barked, more a perturbed statement than a question. He scrubbed a hand down his face to rub the sleep (or lack thereof) from his eyes.
“Zsasz is holding up six hostages in Gotham General ER.” Bruce returned, his voice steady. “PD has the place surrounded, but impenetrable so far.”
It made Jason seethe when his heart clenched at the statement. How immediately his thoughts turned directly to you. How you threw him a shy smile when you realized he was staring, the two of you cuddled up on the couch, each silently reading your own book with tangled legs. Your gentle eyes, always with a slightly impish glint. At Bruce’s words, his mind immediately flashed to the terrified look on your face, Zsasz holding a blade to the junction of your neck where weeks ago, Jason had been softly pressing kisses.
“Why are you telling me this?” He barked into the phone. Bruce always had a way of being obnoxiously all-knowing, which bothered him as a teenager but even more as an estranged adult.
“All PD units are gathering eastbound and down. Robin and I are heading to the intersection of North and Pine.”
Bruce hung up on him, further stoking Jason’s fire. Who the fuck was he to be implicating Jason in his mission plans?
That’s when Jason sent the texts, that fateful word - “delivered” - haunting him into action.
Jason continued to stew, but before he knew it, your radio silence had him slinging a thick thigh over his bike as the motorcycle growled to life. His ear tuned into the motor to drown out the memory of when he first had you as his passenger on the Harley, when he called you his “little backpack” and smirked as he revved the engine on purpose to make you cling harder. He wove through traffic recklessly, begging an officer to attempt to pull him over, racing towards the hospital with his mind swimming with thoughts and fears.
Batman and Robin were on North and Pine? Perfect. He would be staying the fuck away from there, then.
Jason threw down the kickstand of the motorcycle three blocks away from the Emergency Department, throwing a fresh clip into his pistol as he moved through the shadows. He quickly came upon the barricade that Gotham’s useless PD formed, dodging their officers easily with all of their attention focused on the hospital building.
Bruce’s voice echoed through his Hood - Tim must have hacked into his comms - but before he could make out what he was saying, Jason shoved a finger into the seam of his helmet and plucked out the earpiece, crunching it beneath his boot. It nearly made him smirk, but he forced the brief delight down to focus on the mission at hand.
It was almost too easy the way he slipped into the building from an auxiliary vent connected to the elevator shaft. Dozens of Gotham’s finest perched in a perimeter for the last hour and a half and he was in the building within fifteen minutes of arrival. Typical.
Jason held his position behind a blind corner, listening intently into the department, which was eerily silent. Not filled with the alarms and clamor that you had described to him after long shifts, tucked under his bicep as he brushed his fingertips back and forth along your skin. He crept along the hospital walls until he heard the torturous voice of Victor Zsasz, crowing his usual psychopathic drabble which Jason tuned out in his efforts of surveilling the department for your form. As he pushed forward through the hallway, Zsasz finally fell within his sight. Gesticulating like a madman, with one arm wrapped around the neck of a hostage and the other motioning wildly in the air, an eight inch buck knife within his grasp.
Jason strained, desperately trying to identify if the figure behind tossed in his grip was you, but there was a damned pillar in the way. He didn’t think it was, but that wasn’t enough to convince him, and his hand was steady as he raised his pistol, aligned directly to the back of Zsasz’s occiput. As his index put pressure on the trigger, images of you flashed through his mind. Shrieking in terror as you were coated in Zsasz’s brain matter, not in peril any longer, but god, at what cost. He had held you after nights where the worst of humanity reared itself through the trauma bay doors. He couldn’t stomach being the reason you woke up from sleep in a deep sweat.
At the last instant, he changed his trajectory, squeezing the trigger and firing a bullet through Zsasz’s wavering hand. He dropped the knife, clutching his destroyed palm, which is when Jason moved in, swiftly sending the butt of the pistol down on Zsasz’s skull and knocking him unconscious. As he kicked Victor’s body to the side, aiming directly for his ribcage for good measure, he turned to the newly freed hostage.
An elderly man, hair down to his shoulders, shaking visibly at the sight of Jason towering over him. White font, reading “XR Technician”, at the bottom of his badge. By the look in his eyes, Jason knew he feared that he was next.
All of a sudden, there was a flurry of bodies: a nurse picking up the corded phone to call 911, two security guards carding Zsasz off to an isolated room by the arms, the pharmacist bursting through the front doors to wave in police. Chaos erupted back into its natural order in the Emergency Room as if nothing had changed.
“Red Hood?” A small voice, shaky but ringing clearly out into the silence. Jason recognized it instantly from moments of permanent replay in his head.
He pivoted to the side, something taut in his chest releasing slightly as he saw you. You were crouched underneath the counter of the nurses station, arms spread, with at least three pairs of eyes peering from behind you. Children, he recognized, at once. Clad in hospital gowns. One hiding behind a splint covering their arm, another with a bandage wrapped around their head. Your wingspan was spread in protection, sheltering them from harm.
Jason’s bootsteps fell heavy on the department floor, and he tried to ignore the whimpers that came from the children gathered behind you. He holstered his pistol as he came to a stop, holding out a gloved hand, which you hesitantly accepted, pulling you to your feet. On the countertop behind you, he noticed your phone, abandoned and plugged into the wall. If he clicked it on, he bet he would see his unread notifications on your lock screen.
“Your shift’s over.” He said, his voice deepened by the helmet modulator.
Clasping your hand to where you felt like your fingers would get crushed, he led you out of the building, through one of the back doors that had been unlocked now that lockdown was lifted as he didn’t feel like dealing with Gotham’s police. His large legs moved quickly, striding yards in seconds, and you struggled to keep up with him, firmly in tow whether you liked it or not.
When you made it to his bike, your heart skipped at the familiarity. Without waiting for refusal, he slipped the bike helmet over your shoulders, tucking in the chin strap, and kicked the motorcycle to a start. You threw yourself over the hulking machine, arms snug around Jason’s torso with your eyes squeezed shut, thankful prayers cascading in your thoughts that he was taking you away from that horrible scene, no matter where you were going.
Before you knew it, adrenaline caught up to you. Terror, flooding your vasculature as Jason dodged and wove through Gotham traffic, causing your body to shake and your bottom lip to wobble. The tears started to flow in rough sobs as you cried against Jason’s muscular back, the what-if’s and bad endings drowning you in the aftermath now that you were speeding away from harm. Jason’s brow furrowed as he felt you convulse against him, your cries loud enough that he could hear even over the motor. He sped up, racing to get you home, in a locked apartment, where he was assured of your safety.
After what felt like eternity, the bike veered into the lot of your apartment complex. Jason dismounted the cycle, instantly turning to pull the helmet from your frame. His gut churned at the sight of your broken, red-rimmed eyes and the string of clear discharge stringing from your nose to the helmet. You were wrecked: devastated in a way that he had never seen before. It nearly brought him to his knees.
Without exchange of words, he wrapped his arms around you, snatching you into a grinding embrace. He held you tightly as if it was the last time he would ever have contact with you. Like his arms were in disbelief that you were actually safe. When he finally reared back, observing your shattered countenance once again, he placed a large palm on the small of your back and pushed you to the entrance of your front door.
Your hands were shaking so badly that you couldn’t thread the key into the lock. With gentleness in such shocking juxtaposition to his actions in the ER that evening, Jason took them from your hands, clicking open the deadbolt, and leading you inside.
For his own sanity, he made you stay in the entryway while he did a quick sweep of the apartment, and once he deemed it safe, he guided you further inside to rest on your armchair. The same one that he had been bleeding in half a dozen fights ago. Discarding the Red Hood on your kitchen countertop, he poured you a glass of ice water, thrusting it into your hands with insistence.
He took a seat across from you on the coffee table, watching the tears trickle down your face as you continued to drink. You tried to ignore the pain in your chest at the sight of him: his hair, tousled from the Hood and the softness in his mossy eyes scrutinizing your face. His palm reached out, finding your knee, and his thumb stroked back and forth to calm you as you finished the glass.
The two of you sat together in near silence, broken only by your occasional sniffle. It wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but having Jason back in your home placated a tortured part of you that had been hurting since the last time he stormed out. After God knows how long, Jason stood from his seated position, stalking over to the countertop to palm his discarded headpiece.
Just as he was about to pull it over his head and walk out of your life forever, a weak warble of your voice stopped him motionless.
“Jay…” You croaked, voice shredded with distress from the evening.
He let the helmet fall to his hip, returning to your side at an instant. Without thinking, his thick, gloved finger found its way underneath your chin, scrubbing at the skin soothingly with delicious texture. You took in every detail of his expression, burning the tenderness that he had for you into your mind’s memory.
“Yes?” He asked, his own voice so subdued it was barely audible. That gentleness that he had only reserved for you.
“Will you please stay?” You questioned, a begging undertone to your voice.
Whether it was for the night or for eternity, Jason had no idea, but hearing those words broke chains that had been coiling around his chest. The permission to wrap you in his arms, snug and slightly constricting, all night - permission granted not only by you, but by himself.
“Of course” was his soft reply, as he let the helmet fall to the carpet.
Dividers by: toxisyddy
Texts made with: chat tales app
You do not have permission to copy, edit, or repost my original work.
or jason finds you crying and decides to shoot first and ask questions later.
gn!reader
a/n: could be read as romantic or platonic
Jason is a lot like Bruce. He does not see this as a positive.
To be fair, "You're acting like Bruce" is the verbal equivalent of hitting below the belt for him and his siblings. Being compared to your parent is a devastating below in any sibling argument, but with their...respectively unique relationships with Bruce, it's downright lethal. Especially for Jason, who still hasn't found complete security with their father.
So, Jason only compares himself to Bruce with blinders on. He does it every time he snaps at someone just to get them off his case. He cringes every time he decides to go off the grid and shut everyone out instead of confronting his feelings. "You're acting like Bruce" echoes in his head as he draws a mental Venn diagram and desperately fills the opposing sides.
The worst is when he catches his reflection glowering back at him; if he had a nickel for every time he mistook it for Bruce sneaking up on him…
He only sees his father in himself when he's angry. When he's so blinded by the nauseating need for vengeance that the line between Hood and Bat start to blur. When all he can see is the mission. When he realizes just how much he’s chosen to isolate himself.
One of the reasons he hides as much of his face as possible is because then no one can tell him he looks just like a bat when he bares his teeth. He wears his emotions on his sleeve instead of leaving it to anyone's guess. He makes absolutely sure that there's no mistaking him for Batman.
All of this to mixed results, of course.
Because despite all of his valid issues with Bruce, deep down Jason knows that Bruce Wayne is still a good man.
And although he doesn’t quite realize it, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to admit that Bruce Wayne raised Jason Todd to be a good man.
Bruce is why Jason always holds the door open for the person behind him. Every time Jason buys a coffee, he pays for the next handful of customers, something he consistently watched Bruce do. Whenever a child talks to him, Jason always crouches to their eye level…that’s Bruce too.
That’s not to give Mr. Wayne too much credit. Jason Todd has had a good heart from the moment he was born. He never needed anyone to tell him to leave the world a better place than he found it. Just because he has an anomalous method of doing so doesn’t make that any less true.
But there are certain things, instincts, that Bruce cemented in his mind. Like knowing when to ask questions first and when to ask them later.
Like when he finds you crying just now.
He’d sent you a text earlier in the day. Something completely unrelated to your well being, something incredibly unimportant actually. Still, your lack of response made him anxious, so he went to check on you. Just to make sure you weren't, like, dead or something.
There's a split second of awkward silence as you both stare at one another. But you hardly have time to wipe your tears and blubber out, "Oh, hey, what's up," before Jason's engulfing you in a bear hug.
That's when you know you don't need to hold it together. That's when you know it's safe to completely fall apart.
Jason doesn't need to ask questions just yet. You don't need him asking questions. You both know he'll get answers, whether from you or his own investigation. For now he'll stay quiet, sans a few whispered comforts. He could try being a man of many words. He’s more than capable of waxing poetics. It’s just that he knows he can come across as mean and abrasive, even when he’s trying to be kind and soft.
Another way he’s like Bruce.
Nevertheless, he’s got two big strong arms that can speak for him. They’ve got you. They’ll protect you from whatever’s got you feeling like this.
One large hand anchors you to him. It holds you steady as your body shakes with sobs. The other cradles your head, every so often moving to pat your back whenever you hiccup.
You can hide your face in his chest. Ride along with the subtle rise and fall of it. Let the gentle sound of his heart beat drown out the sound of your stressors. He doesn’t care about the damp spot you’re leaving on his shirt. He just cares about you.
Jason is a rock, an absolute pillar of a human being. He can stand there for as long as you need. He can support your weight and hold you up if you’re too exhausted to do it yourself.
When you decide that you want to talk about it, then he tries to be all ears. He sits you on the couch and wraps an arm around you as you rest your head on his shoulder. Occasionally, his thumb drifts up to wipe your stray tears away.
He listens as best he can. He definitely would've dealt with your issue differently if he were you. In a different era, he would've let you know exactly what he would do - more likely, he would've just gone and done it for you. But he can recognize that this is probably a healthier way to deal with whatever upset you. And you know what, he can respect that too.
After you've vented until there's nothing left to say, Jason stays with you. It's that nagging voice that tells him that he has to make sure you're really okay, that you're not about to do something stupid as soon as he takes his eyes off you. After all, that's what he would do.
So he puts something on the tv. A show, a movie, a YouTube compilation, video essay - something he knows you like. He doesn't look away from you the entire time. He sits at the ready to catch any stray tears or soothe any sudden bursts of rage.
Until you fall asleep on his shoulder. He sits like that for another few minutes before he finally transfers you to your bed, tucking you in with so much care. The only sound he makes is a sharp gasp when he catches his reflection in your window.
Then he sits some more, still watching you closely. He watches until he's certain you're sound asleep, ignorant to the things that hurt you.
Then he slips out the window without a peep, off to get your justice.
something about jason todd with a touchy!reader s/o is literally so yummie.
You’ve got him on his stomach, regrettably, he thinks, as you watch the hills and divots of his muscles roll and flex as he gets comfortable. The scarred herculean expanse of his back is exposed to you as you sit on his butt.
“Dunno why I agreed to this,” he frowns, not bothering to move his head, unmuffling his musings.
He really doesn’t; ten minutes ago you two were having a very civil discussion (read: arguing) about something or other. Next thing he knew, he was in your bed, on his stomach, half naked and under you.
“Cause you like me,” you sing, breaking him from his thoughts, as you drag manicured fingers up his back, pressing into his taut muscle, deftly massaging each sore part of him.
“You like this. ‘S okay to admit it,” you add.
He gives a noncommittal noise that gets cut off by a strangled gasp when he feels your hands pressing into the upper muscles of his back.
There’s a deep discomfort that settles in his stomach; he’s never been touched so lovingly, not without hidden motives tainting said touch. He isn’t sure if he should push you off him or beg you to keep going.
You hum as you work his muscles, letting his inconsistent breathing and occasional gasps guide you.
You continue rubbing him down, occasionally pausing to apply more shea butter to your hands before resuming your work.
You reach up to his neck, as he sighs. You press just a hair harder, feeling a knot loosen at the pressure. Jason inhales, trying to steel himself from any possible reaction.
Regardless of his efforts, a low “Fuck,” reverberates through his chest. He internally frowns at the sound of his low whine, sounding like a wounded animal. He reddens as he hears himself, internally cringing at his neediness, at your willingness, and the intimacy of it all.
“That was pretty,” you murmur, teasing lilt in your voice. He’s fighting the urge to shut down this moment of vulnerability the two of you are sharing. You know he’s really pushing himself, so you try to keep the extra teases locked away for another day, another less intense moment.
You shut yourself up, instead focusing your attention to Jason’s expansive back. You press harder in the same spot, shameless in your attempt to illicit more noises from him as you whisper, “Give me another.”
He shudders, giving a shaky exhale as he composes himself.
“You’re evil,” he grumbles, despite almost leaning up into your touch.
“So evil,” You smile, “Totally evil.”
Not once does your touch on his back falter. He hums in agreement, softly smiling into a pillow.
“Incredibly evil,” Jason sighs. “Lucky I like your evil ass.”
“Aw,” you say, “Red’s finally going soft. I got you up under me and now you don’t know how to act. ”
Jason can hear the smile in your words. Choosing to ignore it, he closes his eyes and focuses solely on your touch.
“Yeah,” He mumbles, before pausing to consider his words, “Goin’ real soft, only for you.”
Summary: Tonight is the worst night ever--you just got dumped on your birthday, and all you want to do is cry in the restaurant bathroom in peace. That is, until, the Red Hood bursts in. This city just won't cut you a break.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings/tags: humor, mild angst, reader's ex-bf cheats and dumps her, jason is such a silly goose, flirting, meet ugly, canon-typical violence, awkward jason, comic relief dick grayson.
A/N: this is probably the silliest fic i've ever written LOL! i hope you guys enjoy it. please support your local jason todd enthusiast and reblog :)
the divider
Tonight sucks.
With a shaky hand, you attempt to soothe your swollen eyes. You’ve probably been in here for about twenty minutes. Your Uber has definitely left, as has your now ex-boyfriend of three years.
Yoga instructor. It’s always the yoga instructor. They’re always fucking the yoga instructor.
You swallow a mouthful of tears and phlegm and try not to let the wet sink touch your dress. You'd gotten dressed up for your dinner date at Prescott's, one of Gotham's upscale establishments. All you’d wanted was a little class on your birthday, maybe have some wine and play footsie under the table with your boyfriend. But no. That would’ve been too easy for you.
You’re starting to think this city is cursed.
The door slams open. The force of it shakes the bathroom, rattles the mirrors. You spin around.
A man slides across the floor and smacks his head on the opposite wall. Red Hood appears in the doorway, the eyes of his helmet glowing eerily.
Yep. Definitely cursed.
"Let's try this again," Hood says pleasantly, reloading his gun with a fresh magazine. "And in the interest of making myself transparent: when I ask you a question, Jerry, I expect a truthful answer."
He stalks over to Jerry and heaves him up by the lapels of his suit jacket. Hood's biceps bulge as he holds Jerry against the wall. You squish yourself against the sink. Water soaks the back of your dress.
"You're crazy, I didn't do anything!" Jerry shouts, feet barely scraping the floor.
"Volume, Jerry. People are trying to enjoy their meals.”
“Let go of me, Hood! I wasn’t anywhere near the Iceberg Lounge!”
“Yeah, see, words are coming outta your mouth, but they don't match the fact that I have three people who put you at the scene. How can we remedy this inconsistency? Any ideas?"
Jerry squirms, but he's no match for Hood's strength. Your heart pounds in your chest.
"Don't give me to the cops!" Jerry begs.
"Cops are the least of your worries right now," Hood snarls. "You're damn lucky Nightwing wants to talk to you, Jerry, or your head would hurt a lot more."
Slowly, you reach for your purse, trying to pull out your phone. Instead, you knock it to the floor. Tears gather in your eyes because this night just can’t cut you a break.
“Motherfucker,” you whisper.
Hood turns, those frightening white eyes now on you. Jerry also looks at you, legs still dangling.
“Hey,” Hood says without a sign of struggle. “Shit. Y'alright? Did I swipe ya?”
“No,” you say, voice shaky.
His posture softens. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”
“I believe you. But, um… you're in the women's bathroom.”
Red Hood gives the room a onceover.
“Huh. So we are. Dunno how that happened.” He shakes Jerry by the collar. “Why’d you run into the women’s bathroom, asshole?”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't kill me!” Jerry wails.
“Shut it, Jesus. I'm not gonna kill you. Not yet, anyway.”
“It's fine, I was just leaving,” you say, bending down to get your purse.
“Hey, no, don't let me push you out,” Hood says. “Sorry. I'll be gone in a couple minutes.”
Hood adjusts his grip so Jerry's face is against the wall, arms and legs restrained. Then he zipties Jerry and sits him down hard on the floor. Hood presses a button on his helmet.
“Yo, N, I'm at Prescott's. Yeah, with Jerry. No, I didn't tell him to run in here, he did that all on his own! Well, I chased him for ten blocks, so I’d prefer if you’d keep your bitching to yourself. Thank you… Okay, we're in the women's bathroom, so—well, I didn't do it on purpose! No, I’m—will you just come here? There’s a side window.” Hood presses the button again with a grunt. “Dickhead.”
“Are you gonna erase my memory?” you ask.
Hood jerks, turning back to you.
“What? Hell no, I'm not gonna erase your memory. I don't do that shit, I promise.”
You slump against the sink. “That's too bad. I would prefer it.”
He looks up from Jerry’s last ziptie and pulls it extra tight. Jerry whimpers.
“How come?” Hood asks.
You shake your head. “It's nothing.”
“Hm. Doesn't look like nothing. If you're in danger—”
“I'm not in danger. I…”
You glance at Hood. You can't see his face, but his body language seems genuine. From what you've heard, Hood isn't known for mincing words or doing things he doesn't want to. And he’s good to Gothamites. Well, the law-abiding ones, anyway. He’s even been endorsed by Batman.
What's the harm in telling him about your disastrous night? Not like you'll see him again. Or Jerry.
“I got dumped,” you say.
“Ah.” Hood nods. “Been there.”
Somehow, the idea of Red Hood getting dumped is weirder than him beating up a guy in the women’s bathroom of Prescott’s.
You sniffle, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.
“Yeah, um. It was our three year anniversary today. He took me here, told me he was in love with his yoga instructor, and then left.”
You tear up thinking about it. Hood makes a quiet noise.
“Shit. Well, I haven't been there,” he says. “But I know infidelity. I'm sorry. Dudes are trash.”
“And it's my birthday today,” you blurt, sniffling.
“Happy birthday,” Jerry says, clutching his stomach.
“What a fucking asshole!” Hood snarls, and lets go of Jerry, who crumples like a sack of potatoes. He’s out cold in a second, frozen on the floor.
Your brows rise. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. It’s his first time in Gotham.” Hood shrugs. “Anyway, where was I? Right, your asshole ex. Like it's not enough to publicly dump you, and then he goes and does it on your birthday? Who is this guy? I'll go talk to him right now.”
You laugh a loud, snorting laugh. It bounces off the tiles.
Hood tilts his head. “What’d I say?”
You catch your breath and wave your hand.
“No, nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crappy night and that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to me.”
“I mean it,” Hood says. “I’ll scare him if you want.”
“As tempting as that is, I don’t want to be an accessory to a crime.”
You also don’t want to put your ex in the ICU, no matter how much he might deserve it. Best to let the universe do its thing.
“You’d be acquitted, don’t worry.” Hood leans against the stall. “I’d never letcha go to jail.”
You smile, your ears growing warm. “You don’t even know me. What if I deserve it?”
“Nah. I got a good sense about people. I can tell you’re sweet. Probably don’t even go through yellow lights.”
“I try not to,” you say, heat spreading to your face.
“Yeah, a good girl. I figured as much.”
Your eyes widen. Hood coughs and rubs his neck. Even his coughs sound intimidating through the helmet, but that’s negated by his scrunched-up posture.
“Fuck. Sorry. That wasn’t a come-on,” he says. “I mean, it sounded like one, but I’m realizing what a creep I am, flirting with you in a bathroom with a zip-tied criminal. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I hate myself.”
You grin. “It’s okay. You made my night better, actually. Thanks.”
“That’s a testament to how terrible your night’s been if I made it better.”
You shrug. “Could always be worse. I bet Jerry had an even shittier night than me.”
“You’d win that bet. But I—”
The window swings open with a clunk. Nightwing pops his head in. He looks at Hood, then you.
“Uh,” he says. “Evening. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is it took you almost ten minutes to get here,” Hood says, back in Vigilante Mode. “Did you get lost?”
Nightwing smiles with all his teeth. “I was actually cleaning up your mess at the Bowery, Hood. You’re welcome.”
He looks at you. “Hi. Sorry about this. I hope we didn’t ruin your night. If there’s anything we can reimburse you for…”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. My night was already sunk. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for keeping Gotham safe.”
He lifts the unconscious Jerry, pushing him up to the window. He does so effortlessly, his jacket riding up to reveal his skin-tight jumpsuit.
You look away before he catches you staring. There’s definitely something wrong with you.
Nightwing takes Jerry and waves at you. Then he disappears.
“So, uh,” Hood says. “I gotta go.”
“Oh! Right, of course. Sorry to keep you.”
“Now what’re you apologizing for?” he asks, and it almost sounds like a tease. You wonder what his smile looks like. What color his eyes are.
“Well, I really didn’t mean to keep you…”
“You didn’t keep me,” Hood says, and you can hear the warmth even through his modulator. “This is probably the best arrest I’ve ever made.”
He starts to climb through the window, then stops. He digs into one of the pockets of his belt and pulls out a scrap of paper.
“This is my number,” he says. “Well, it’s kind of the vigilante hotline. But you can reach me here, in case you ever need help.”
Hood walks over to give it to you. He smells like gunpowder and oranges. He’s even larger this close, the width of his shoulders dwarfing you.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He nods and backs up, clapping his hands.
“Right. So I’ll go… Bye.”
Hood looks at you for a moment more. Then he hops up onto the window sill and slides out, somehow graceful despite his bulk. The window closes.
Your dress has dried, which is nice. You walk out of the bathroom. It’s a miracle no one else has come in.
You get your coat and this time, when you see the empty seat across from yours, you don’t burst into tears, which is progress. You call another Uber and go to wait for it at the front. The hostess approaches you.
“Ma’am?” she says, and holds out a small, plastic container. In it is a slice of tiramisu.
“I didn’t order this,” you say.
“It was called in and paid for by a Mr. R.H. He wishes you a happy birthday.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
You’re definitely leaving a five-star review on Yelp.
You never thought you'd see Jason again after he helped fix your flat tire two months ago, but you do. In the midst of getting to know him more, you realize you may be too different, and you fear Jason realizes it too.
🔧 P: mechanic!Jason Todd x wealthy!Reader | G: Fluff, angst, strangers to lovers | WC: 7.2k
🔧 TWs: Reader has she/her pronouns, AU where Jason is not the Red Hood, strict parents, petnames (princess, kitty cat), nothing else I can think of but LMK!
🔧 A/N: This turned out to be way longer than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! 😅 And thank you for all the love given to the first part! I wasn't expecting that! <333
Read Part One
masterlist | read on ao3
this blog is 18+. minors do not follow. plz & ty!
"Come on! Don't you think this will be perfect for your party?" Elli exclaims while holding a yellow sundress against her body.
You peer from around a clothes rack to see.
Rebekah tilts her head, then shakes it after a few seconds. "It washes you out."
"Ugh! Yn! What do you think?" Elli asks when she notices you tuning into their conversation.
Your eyes flicker between your friends. The dress Elli has is simple and cute, but unfortunately does not work with her complexion.
"Sorry, Elli. I agree with Bekah, but the style is nice," you reply.
Elli dramatically dips her mouth down and slips the hanger back on the rack.
You flip through the clothes in front of you again, mindlessly browsing. Since Rebekah's birthday is this weekend, she implored you both to go shopping for a new outfit.
Elli gasps loudly. Seems like she found something else.
"No, he's not wearing a uniform," Elli tries to whisper, but her shock makes it impossible.
"How has he not gotten kicked out yet?" Rebekah asks.
You glance at them huddled in the corner. You follow their line of sight and nearly gasp loudly, too. However, yours stems from a different reason.
The mechanic who had helped with your flat tire nearly two months ago stands on the other side of the store. He's with a younger boy who you can't really see, but from their body language, neither seems too thrilled to be here.
Jason nods in a direction, and the other turns to leave.
You throw a dekko at your friends. They've angled their bodies away, but you can tell they're still side-eyeing and complaining under their breath. You roll your eyes as anger licks up your arms. The emotion comes unexpectedly since you're not close to him. But you remember him being nice to you despite your standoffish demeanor.
If you didn't know Jason, would you be doing the same?
Disgust fills your veins. You would hope not.
Jason starts to walk out of sight. He could go about his day without ever knowing you were here. Heck, you probably wouldn't have known he was here either if it weren't for your friends. You wonder how many times you've passed him in your life without being aware.
Before your friends call you over, you slip between racks to get to Jason.
He's a few feet away, and suddenly, self-doubt clouds your decision. Perhaps this was a mistake. It's not like you were the most cordial when you first met, and he probably loathes the wealthy, considering where he works. Though it didn't feel like he hated you back then.
Perhaps that's what's drawing you to him, because this is out of character for you. This should've stayed a one-time interaction, considering the crowd he's involved with.
Will he even remember you? Most likely, but not for the reason you hope.
But it's too late to turn back.
Jason grunts in dissatisfaction as he spins around and slams into you.
"Shit," he mutters as he stumbles forward. His hands reach past your body to stop his momentum.
Meanwhile, your hands clutch his leather jacket at his sides while you try to get your footing.
Once his hands find something to latch onto, he stares down with concern.
"Sorry, are you—" His blue eyes grow; recognition sinks in.
"H-Hi," you say, utterly embarrassed. You're acutely aware of how close he is. He may not be pressed against you, but he might as well be with how you can feel his body heat radiate off him.
"Yn?" he asks, which makes your heart race faster.
"Yeah," you lamely reply.
He blinks as if he's imagining it's you he's caged in. Then, he chuckles.
"How's your tire?" That handsome grin from your nightmares appears.
"Fine," you say, because you can't think of what else to say that won't make you ramble off irrelevant information.
As he pulls away, you quickly retract your hands like they've been burned.
"Sorry," you sheepishly say.
"Don't worry 'bout it. You alright?"
You nod.
"What are you doing here?" He glances around. "In the men's section, for that matter."
"O-Oh, I'm here with friends, but then I saw you and wanted to say hi. I didn't mean to interrupt your shopping, though. I'm sorry for the trouble I caused."
Jason listens to your hurried words with soft eyes.
"You didn't need to know all that, did you? Sorry!"
"Stop apologizing," he says gently. "I'm just waiting for something."
"Are you here alone?" You know he isn't, but it felt like a reasonable volley.
"No, I'm with f—"
"Yn, is this man bothering you?" Elli's shrilling voice rings loudly in the store. No doubt did she speak clamorously on purpose.
You spin to turn your back on Jason and give your friends a subtle warning. You would've been grateful if the person were an actual threat.
"No, I know him," you answer just as loudly. The last thing you need is to attract attention to Jason. Which, now that you think of it, how can he afford to shop here?
Rebekah does a judgmental once-over. If it weren't for the clothes hung over an arm, she would've crossed them.
"Are you sure you're not mistaking him for someone else? Sorry, but he doesn't seem like someone you'd know."
There's an underlying accusation in her tone. Jason is someone you shouldn't know, nor is he someone who should be here.
Your friends' behaviors have sometimes gotten on your nerves, but never as much as they do right now.
"Actually,"—you shift so you can see Jason too—"I was just asking him if he'd like to be my plus one at your party this weekend, Bekah."
Jason quirks an eyebrow in question. He crosses his arms over his chest, and darn, does he look even scarier like that. Hopefully, that's not because he's annoyed with your unexpected invitation.
Your friends suck in a breath. It's either because of his daunting stance or your unforeseen invite. Elli stutters as she tries to form words.
"I-I thought you were bringing Nick," Rebekah says. You never said you were bringing your brother, but it seems that's who she would like to come.
"He said he was busy." You lie and gesture to Jason. "Anyway, this is who helped me with my flat months ago."
You say it as if it'll make them relax and say, "Oh! Thank you for helping our friend. Please join us this weekend!"
They don't.
Instead, they still seem apprehensive.
"I see," Elli murmurs and glances at Rebekah.
Jason clears his throat and opens his mouth, but someone else speaks first.
"Ladies, is everything okay?"
Walking up behind Jason is an all too familiar face.
Jason's amused expression turns slightly sour.
"N-No! All good, Mr. Wayne, sir," Elli says in a hurry.
"Glad to hear," Bruce replies, like he expected that answer. He lays a heavy hand on Jason's shoulder. "Your suit is ready, son."
Son?
Your gaze flickers down to see the younger guy you spotted earlier. Slowly, you realize who it is.
Damian Wayne looks eager to leave. He does a quick sweep of your small group before averting his gaze to the exit.
It makes sense now how Jason can be here. He's one of Bruce freaking Wayne's sons.
Elli and Rebekah stare at Jason with newfound adoration.
Jason says, "I'll be over in a second."
Bruce nods to show he got the cue to leave, but he lingers a few seconds longer than necessary before he turns.
"I'm grateful to have been invited," Jason says while uncrossing his arms. "But I've got work."
"Oh, right," you mumble, disappointed and ashamed that you forgot he probably still works on the weekends.
"If you change your mind, it'll be at the garden at noon. I'd love to see you there!" Rebekah says with a charming smile.
It's astonishing how she doesn't even try to hide her change in attitude towards his attendance. Jason must experience that a lot.
"Thanks," Jason says, then glances at you. "Can we have a moment?"
Your friends nod enthusiastically and scurry away, but they remain in sight as they watch with curious, beady eyes.
Jason steps in front of you, blocking their view. You're not sure if it was intentional, but you want to thank him anyway.
"Sorry I can't make it," he says lowly.
"No, I'm sorry I didn't properly invite you. To be fair, I wasn't thinking about it when I came over, but my friends can be so closed off sometimes. I wanted them to get to know other people. I should've been considerate about your work schedule."
Jason hums in agreement to your nicely-worded description.
"So, y'planned to use me as a guinea pig?"
Your mouth falls open. "What? No! Of course not, Jason. I just thought it'd be nice to have someone who wasn't so… um…"
"Stuck up?"
You sigh and rub one of your arms. Is that how he perceived you when you were scared of him and his neighborhood? You always thought you were more welcoming to "outsiders," but perhaps it was a false reality.
"I was kidding, but I get it," he replies. "Maybe another time."
You doubt there will be, but you had also believed you'd never see him again, yet here he is. And now that your friends know you know one of Bruce Wayne's sons, they probably will try to convince you to bring him over more.
"I'd better go before Bruce blows his top," he says.
You swallow the lump in your throat. "Right."
Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods.
"It was nice seeing you again, Kitty Cat."
Your sadness dissipates momentarily, and a grin overtakes your features. It's a cringy nickname, but because it was specifically given to you by him, it feels nice.
"You too, Tire Boy."
It's Jason's turn to scrunch his nose.
He steps away and says, "Next time I see you, I hope y'have a better nickname for me."
Next time.
"I'll try," you reply.
With one final wink, he heads off without a look back.
"You didn't tell us that mechanic boy was Bruce Wayne's son!" Elli whisper-shouts. It's not shocking that they've bombarded you the second Jason walked away.
"I didn't know either." You defend.
"You think he's doing spy stuff over there?" Rebekah asks.
You hadn't considered that being the reason he works in the poverty-stricken area of Gotham, but he seemed too content in the shop just to be doing it as a covert mission. After all, why would Bruce's son be chosen for something like that?
Your curiosity for Jason grows.
"No," you belatedly answer. Wanting to airt the conversation, you say, "What did you pick out, Bekah? Are you ready to try anything on?"
That gets them back on track again. Rebekah shows you what she's slung over her arm. After your approval, she goes to the dressing rooms. Elli follows shortly after.
While you're flicking through the clothes as you wait, you feel a pair of eyes on you.
Jason stares at you from across the store. He and Damian stand near the exit while Bruce is at the checkout counter.
The moment he catches your gaze, he smiles. He glances at the hanger you stopped on and tilts his head. Your brows kiss at his reaction.
You lift the item and see it's a form-fitting navy blue dress.
You peer at Jason, who shakes his head. You laugh softly when you realize what he's doing.
You hook the hanger back and sift through the choices again. You pull off a short, black dress.
Jason's mouth dips as his brows raise in a "not bad." You nod and hang it over your arm. After showing him six more dresses, you've added three more to your arm. They're a mix of red and black, which are not your typical colors for outfits.
Bruce walks over when you're in the middle of showing Jason another dress. The older man glances at you, then back at Jason. He must say something because Jason's mouth moves a few seconds later. He continues to look at you, though, which makes your heart flame.
"How's this, Yn?"
You tear your focus from Jason to Rebekah. She dons a pretty tan and white lace dress.
"That looks great on you," you answer. And it does by hugging her curves perfectly.
"You think?" She sighs. "Elli thinks it's boring."
"Classy isn't boring," you say and turn to see Jason. However, he isn't there anymore. You only see the tail end of a black car as it leaves.
A heavy sigh falls from your mouth as you set down the hanger you're holding.
"Hey, wait! That's gorgeous," Rebekah says.
"Huh?"
"That dress you have! It's totally different from what you normally wear."
You pull the dress out again. It's red with a tight bodice and flowy bottom. Although Jason isn't here to give his input, the color matches his preferences. It's silly to even consider his opinion when he's one, a man, and two, someone you barely know. Though the thought of him smiling widely at you wearing it makes you hang the garment over your arm.
Rebekah nods in approval and takes your hand. "Seems like you're ready to join us finally."
You laugh and let her lead you to the dressing room.
Even though Jason said he won't be able to make it, wearing something that reminds you of him is enough to have you swiping your card later.
When you first encountered Jason, all you could think about was the rumors you heard about the people in the slums. How they were slimy and manipulative, who would take advantage of your kindness to get you to empty your wallet.
But if that's the case, Jason is an exception.
However, being Bruce's son automatically puts him in another category. Is he not sleezy only because he doesn't need to be? He's surely well off already.
Perhaps the rumors are still true.
But even before you knew about Jason's family ties, you thought of him more than you would've liked. Especially after you found the tip money in your center console a few days later.
You were stunned to discover it since it was difficult to understand why someone with little money would turn down such an amount. It makes sense now.
Though it only proves Jason isn't a money-hungry man.
You can't remember the last time you were this hung up over a man. Your parents always try to shove a possible suitor in your face, but none of them have ever captivated your attention.
You had tried to get Jason out of your head because you knew your parents would never approve. It was an inane thing to fret over, considering you were not planning to go back and make friends with him. If you tried something now, would Jason just see you as a gold digger?
You groan as you set down your eyeliner. "Maybe it's good he's not coming."
"Who's not coming?"
You jump and glance at your doorway. Your brother wears a dress shirt and slacks with slicked-back hair.
"You look ridiculous." You huff instead. You didn't mean to voice your thoughts, so you hope Nicholas lets it go.
"So do you! I don't think I've ever seen you wear red."
"Maybe it's time for a change." You shrug.
"Has Mom seen you yet?"
You turn around, but you can still see him in your vanity's mirror.
"No, but I don't see why she would care."
Nicholas laughs with an eye roll. "Yeah, right."
"Did you have something you needed, Nick?" you ask and swipe on a matching wing on your other eye. You don't need a reminder of how your mom will claim you're dressing too "raunchy," and how no man will be attracted to someone who looks like they climb into any bed they see.
"I just wanted to see if you were ready," he answers and steps inside your room to sit on the bench by the foot of your bed.
"Almost."
You resume your makeup while he fiddles with his phone.
After twenty minutes, you're sliding on your heels and jewelry while Nicholas tucks Rebekah's gift under his arm.
You're almost to the door when your mom's voice stops you.
"Yn?" Her tone is harsh.
"Yes, Mother?" you ask, reluctantly turning around.
"Heavens, what is that dress?" She scrutinizes your look from head to toe.
"It's something new I bought," you reply. It's not one Jason chose specifically, but he chose the color indirectly.
"What about that baby blue one I got you last week? I think that'll be more suitable for Rebekah's birthday, don't you?" She eyes you like she's trying to entice you to agree.
While the dress she's referring to is nice, it's similar to several dresses in your wardrobe. They're almost like carbon copies.
"I wanted something different. I'll wear the blue dress another time."
Your mother clicks her tongue. "Darling, I think it'd be best if you change into that now. I'll have Francis return the one you're wearing."
Normally, you would relent to end the conversation, but the moment you had tried on the dress four days ago, you fell in love. It hugs your chest beautifully and flares slightly at the waist to give an ethereal look. You can't imagine giving it to one of your butlers to return.
"I would." You lie. "But we're going to be late if I do."
You grab your brother's hand and start dragging him out the door. "Sorry, Mom! I'll see to returning it tomorrow."
The moment you slide into the passenger seat, your brother huffs an "I told you so."
You stay silent, ignoring him as you smooth out your dress. Even though you defied your mother and lied about your intention to return it, you know you'll never be able to wear it again. You'll have to hide it, which may be nearly impossible when the staff comes to clean. They can be so thorough.
Annoyingly, a smidge of doubt wiggles its way under your skin. Your mother has always had a say in your fashion, so hearing her vehemently disapprove of your dress makes you both disappointed and irate. Although you were feeling pretty and confident in your room, your mom's words dimmed your lights.
"Don't drink too much," your brother warns while he parks.
"You're one to talk," you reply with an eye roll. Last weekend, one of his friends called you to pick him up because he was drunk.
"Whatever." He gruffs and slides out of the car, not bothering to wait for you.
"Prick," you mutter, watching as he greets his friends. You grab Rebekah's gift, then climb out of the car. Figuring Nicholas took the keys, you lock the car from the inside.
"Yn!" Elli hollers. She wears a similar sundress she found days ago, but in another color.
"Hi, Elli," you greet and exchange a hug.
"You look beautiful! I'm glad you chose to wear this one today." She beams. "It's so bold."
"Thanks. You look beautiful too," you say. Your friend's parents are strict about their fashion choices, too, but not so much with the colors.
Elli grins big and bumps shoulders with you playfully. She loops an arm through yours and guides you to where the main party is.
There are about thirty people here already. Some linger in the open grass field while others sit at the long table nearby.
Rebekah had wanted an outside party since the weather had been nice lately. The heat and humidity are reasonable, and a gentle breeze occasionally floats through the air.
Unlit string lights hang overhead while a vast array of flowers is scattered along the walkway.
"Wow," you mutter, eyes dancing around the venue.
"Gorgeous, right?" Rebekah says as she stops next to you. She wears the tan dress Elli deemed boring. Although you thought otherwise, her styling definitely elevates the look.
You hum in agreement and open your arms for a hug.
"Happy birthday, Bekah!" you cheer.
She smiles and leans in to reciprocate the embrace. "Thanks, babe."
When she sees your gift, she calls over a staff member to take it and put it with the others.
"I thought you said your brother was busy," Elli says as loud laughter echoes.
You glance around and spot him and his friends at the table. They already have cans of beer in their hands, which you internally roll your eyes at.
"His plans got canceled." You shrug and redirect your attention.
"I better go say hi," Rebekah says. She takes one step forward, then pauses. "Do you know if your mechanic is coming?"
"He's not—Ah, never mind. No, I don't," you reply.
"That's a shame," she says.
"It is!" Elli concurs. "I was hoping to get to know him more."
"It was Mason, right?" Rebekah questions.
"Jason." You correct, a spark of irritation igniting within you. It's understandable to forget someone's name, but you wonder how much is due to genuine forgetfulness and how much is due to carelessness.
Your lips purse as you refrain from adding a snide remark.
"Me too," Rebekah says with a small frown. "We'll start lunch soon. You both can sit next to me."
You and Elli nod before she leaves to welcome more guests. Although you get a few stares, you don't feel as out of place as your mother was making you feel. It restores a bit of your confidence, but not all of it.
Rebekah calls everyone to the table ten minutes later. She sits at the head while you and Elli flank her on the sides. The staff comes shortly after everyone's settled to serve the drinks and the first round of appetizers.
"It looks so good!" Elli says excitedly.
"Just wait until the dessert!" Rebekah exclaims. "I've only been here once, but I remember their—"
A low rumble of a motorcycle interrupts the conversations around the table. A few minutes later, a tall, handsome figure emerges from around the corner.
Jason's tousled hair and all-black attire make him stick out like a sore thumb. However, it's almost criminal how good he looks despite breaking the norm.
Your lips split into a smile at his attendance.
Jason finds you easily, and when he does, your heart bursts at his growing grin.
"You came!" Rebekah exclaims as she stands.
Jason nods and walks toward the table. Like before, a staff member quickly retrieves the small gift box in his hand. He mutters a thanks and readjusts the helmet that's tucked under his arm.
"I'm so glad you could join us," she says and holds a hand out toward the few available seats. "Please take a seat anywhere."
Unfortunately, there are no empty seats next to you, so he's forced to sit across and slightly to the right. The woman next to him looks conflicted, like she doesn't know if she should run for the hills or run into his arms.
You know which one you'd choose, and it better not be the same as her answer.
The thought has you tightening your hold on your fork. It's a ridiculous reaction. You still barely know him.
Jason catches your stare, and one corner of his mouth quirks up like he knows what you're thinking. Heat creeps up your cheeks as you avert your eyes.
This time, your brother snags your gaze. His lips are downturned, and he takes a sip of his beer as if he needs to forget he saw you interacting with someone who appears out of your class. If only he knew.
Conversation gradually picks up again. Jason doesn't get spoken to, but he doesn't seem offended. His eyes wander as the hour passes, and whenever he finds you staring, a small smile always forms.
"I can't believe he came," Elli says quietly from across the table.
Rebekah nods, but her eyes are on Jason. There's a spark in them that makes your skin crawl.
"What's he like?" Rebekah asks and turns to you.
You stare at her for a moment that teeters on being awkward. "Uh, he's nice."
"That's all you have to say?" Elli leans in as she does when there's gossip.
You raise your shoulders and move around the food on your plate.
"I don't really know him," you answer. Maybe that can change today.
Rebekah flicks her gaze in Jason's direction briefly. "But he didn't seem to hate us, right? Have you talked to him since the other day?"
"No," you say.
"To which one?"
"Both."
Your friends look pleased by your answer and resume eating.
When it's time for dessert, a big cake comes out and everyone begins singing in unison. Rebekah looks surprised, but you bet she had this planned.
"Thank you all so much for coming! It's so great to see everyone's faces," Rebekah says, eyes scanning the table. "The party doesn't end after dessert, so please feel free to stay and mingle."
"Don't forget to make a wish," Elli adds quietly.
Rebekah smiles and closes her eyes. She takes a big breath, then extinguishes the candles. Applause erupts around the table along with a chorus of extra "happy birthdays".
After the staff assists in cutting and serving pieces of cake, the table grows rowdy again. The conversations around you range from the latest technology advancements to Gotham's hottest scandals. Not entertained to listen further, you peer at Jason across the table.
Your heart nearly explodes when you see he's already looking at you.
He takes a bite of his cake, and you suppress a giggle when a bit of frosting lingers on a corner of his mouth. You lift a finger and brush along the edge of your mouth to send a silent message. He mimics your motion and chuckles when he sees the frosting. With his eyes still locked on yours, he brings his thumb to his lips and sucks it clean.
Your sight flickers down at your plate as an unusual tingle tickles up to your chest. Are you really reacting to something so simple? How juvenile of you.
Rebekah begins the mingling session by leaving her seat and heading to Jason. He peers up when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He had seen her stand, but refocused on his empty plate quickly after.
She shines a bright smile and starts up a conversation. You force your attention away so you're not caught staring, even though the devil on your shoulders prods you with her pitchfork to do otherwise.
Before temptation lures your focus back to them, someone calls your name behind you.
One of your brother's friends, Frederick, stands closely. He's a candidate your parents have chosen for your future spouse, but neither of you has made a move to get to know each other. He seems perfectly content drinking and enjoying his single life, so his presence is surprising.
"Hi, Frederick," you say.
"It's good seeing you again."
"You too."
"You, uh, look nice," he mutters.
"Thanks," you say slowly. Then, out of courtesy, you compliment him back.
"Hm," he hums and shifts his weight. "My parents are hosting a gala the weekend of the first. Are you free to come?"
"W-With you?" you wonder, hoping his answer is no.
He shrugs. "Yeah. I can have someone pick you up."
You try to keep your expression neutral. His flat tone evaporates any sincerity the question should contain.
"I'll check my schedule and get back to you, okay?" you ask, even though you know you don't have anything in three weeks.
"Yeah, I guess that works," he says, like he wasn't expecting that answer. He takes a step back. "I'll see you around."
You nod, turning to face your front again. However, the people around you are no longer present. Everyone's scattered around the lot to converse. Jason isn't in his seat either.
You push your chair back in preparation to stand, but a soft grunt and resistance stop you.
"Sorry!" you exclaim as you crane your neck to see who you hit.
Jason's hands grip the back of your chair, a smirk on his handsome face. "I figured you'd be more grateful toward me, but you just seem to keep putting me in dangerous situations."
"I'm sorry." You giggle. "Are you hurt?"
He shakes his head and carefully pulls the chair back, which earns him a small squeak of surprise from you.
"Fancy a getaway?" he asks, offering his arm.
Your hands ease from gripping the edge of the chair as a smile grows.
"Please," you say, curling your hand around his arm and standing. It's ludicrous how your brain picks up on the muscles in his forearm like some sick, giddy teenager.
He leads you behind a large tree that's at the edge of the field. It's quiet this far away from the party.
Jason shrugs off his leather jacket and lays it neatly on the grass. Your eyes widen in shock.
"Prefer not to sit on the ground, princess?" he asks teasingly.
"The ground is fine!" You huff quickly and lift your dress to sit. You sit on the edge so there's room for him, but it's a fruitless effort since there's not much space left.
"And I'm not a princess," you say defiantly. You're not that snobbish.
Jason bows anyway, a hand over his chest. "Apologies, Kitty Cat."
You scoff a laugh and reach out to playfully swipe at his leg.
"Sit down, Jason," you say in a gentle demand. A lightness fills your chest at the easy-going banter.
Jason laughs, plopping down directly onto the grass, not even attempting to fit on his jacket.
Your mouth falls in a gasp. "You're going to ruin more of your clothes."
"I'm not scared of a little dirt, Yn," he replies.
"Bruce won't get mad?"
You'd refer to him as Jason's dad, but since Jason didn't do that at the store, you don't either.
"He has other stuff to worry 'bout than clothes." Jason eyes you like he's analyzing your response. "Would you get into trouble if y'ruined your dress?"
You laugh dryly and straighten out the fabric. If you came home in filth, your mother would surely lecture you into the next century. This time might be an exception, however.
"Actually, my mother would probably be happy if I ruined it."
Jason scrunches his brows. "How come?"
You glance at him. You consider making a joke to keep the conversation light, but Jason's not like anyone you've met before. There's a feeling akin to comfort being near him. If you could have a deep conversation with anyone, it would be him.
"It would give her another excuse to get rid of it," you reply.
"Why didn't she like it?"
Jason could've ended the conversation there and redirected to another topic, but it's sweet that he's interested. Or at least, it's nice he's acting like he is.
You wave a hand like it's not a big deal. "She has a thing for hating red. She finds it too sultry and thinks it'll dwindle my chance of finding a husband."
Not wanting to seem like you're dumping your problems onto him, you question, "Does Bruce monitor your fashion choices too? Does he worry about you finding a partner?"
Jason's eyes are narrowed slightly, but he doesn't look at you with animosity.
"Is this your first time wearin' red?"
Out of all the responses he could've given, he gave that one. It makes you self-conscious, and you instinctively tuck your legs closer and cross an arm over your body.
"Was my mother right? Is it too unflattering?" you ask.
Jason shakes his head earnestly. "Your mother's very wrong. You look stunning today, Yn. I'm surprised one of those fools hasn't already asked for your hand today."
"I-I'm flattered, Jason." You laugh shyly. "But I've met them all before, and they weren't interested then. I highly doubt they suddenly find me wife material."
"Well, I did say they were fools, no?" He smiles.
You giggle and nudge his shoulder with yours.
"Is it one I chose?" he asks.
"N-No, sorry." You hope your voice isn't as shaky as you feel. You've never had anyone besides your mother and friends help choose clothes.
"That's a shame. I'll do better in the future," he says kindly, giving you the impression he's being genuine.
The flutter in your chest has you shifting.
"I—Uh, um, what about Bruce?" you stammer. "Does he care what you wear?"
From your understanding, a majority of your friends' parents are particular about their kids' lives. From their attire to their mannerisms. There's always something to pick on. While not all their reasoning seems sound, it's difficult to break away from the beliefs and standards you were raised with.
"Bruce only cares that we play the part," he says and leans against the tree trunk. "How'd you fare I'm doing?"
There's a mischievous glimmer in his ocean eyes that invites you to tease him.
You scan his clothes.
"Unfortunately, you fare badly," you say. "Black jeans and a black tee? You're dressed too casually and in too dark clothes."
Jason smirks. "That so?"
"You will scare off potential suitors," you parrot your mother's words.
"Are you scared?" he inquires in a lower register.
"W-What?" Your heart pumps rapidly at the idea of him thinking of you having a chance of being his wife.
He leans a hand on the jacket and brings his face closer. Your spine straightens, eyes unblinking.
"You were scared of me two months ago. Are you still scared?"
You swallow harshly and shake your head.
"You sure? 'Cause it looks like you're 'bout to take off running."
"N-No," you stammer.
"No, you're not sure?" he wonders.
You gasp. "No! I mean, yes! I mean… Dang it! No, I'm not running away. You don't scare me anymore."
Jason's quiet for a few beats, and then he's laughing.
"That's good to know," he responds, sitting back against the tree and leaving your personal space.
You exhale a long breath to rid your nerves and readjust yourself on the jacket.
"Are you not working today?" you question, recalling how he wasn't supposed to show up—not that you aren't glad for the change of plans.
Jason laughs. "When Elijah caught wind of me turning down a party to work, he sent me home."
"Really? He was serious?" You would think his boss would've needed two weeks in advance.
"Very! If I had tried to come back, he would've driven me here himself."
Elijah's older face pops into your head. You recall their friendly interaction and wonder if that's the norm for them. Is that common for all bosses and their subordinates?
"He seems… nice," you state.
Jason nods. "You should stop by again."
"O-Oh. I… I don't think that will be best," you deny as politely as you can.
"You said you weren't scared of me," he says.
"And I'm not." You pause. "But they're not like us."
"Like us?" The small smile that was growing quickly reverses.
You freeze at his change. It's clear you don't need to clarify what you meant.
Jason averts his gaze ahead to the sea of trees. "So, are you only not afraid of me 'cause I've got money?"
"No! But… But it did help."
He's silent.
Shame looms over you like a forbidding shadow. If you were discussing this with Elli and Rebekah, there would be no contemplation about your sentiment.
Jason shifts, and for a second, you fear he's going to leave. However, he only angles himself to face you more, making your heart both ease with relief, then speed up again from his intense gaze.
"I may upset you when I tell you this, but the people here are more likely to take advantage of your money than those at the shop."
"But not the slums in total," you refute.
Jason hardens his eyes. "Corruption, manipulation, and greed are everywhere. Gotham strives on it."
You remain idle as you try to listen to him objectively, but everything you've been told about the people there slams into you from the opposite side.
"There may be more crime there, according to the news, but what about the crimes here that don't get reported?"
"What do you mean?" you ask.
"What about the corruption in the police force? Or the manipulation and blackmail of some of the top corporations?"
"Is Bruce corrupt?" Considering Wayne Enterprises is amongst the top corporations…
"No."
Jason's haste takes your breath away. For some reason, you expected him to dance around the answer or make an excuse for why he is.
But he does neither.
It could be from his loyalty to Bruce being his father, or his obliviousness to the crimes.
Jason sighs and leans in until you're staring at him again. You hadn't realized you had even broken eye contact in the first place, but the war inside makes it difficult to think clearly.
"I hope one day you'll realize the people you are so scared of are more than their stereotypes."
His voice is slow, calm, and crestfallen. The weight of it all drags your heart to the pit of your stomach.
"I—" you start to form an excuse, a plea, anything to get him to stop looking at you like this.
"There you are." Nicholas interrupts as he rounds the tree trunk. Jason instantly starts to stand while you jerk back with a small yelp.
There's an odd clench in your chest seeing Jason pull away so quickly. You hope it's not from being ashamed of being caught with you; you two weren't doing anything.
Your brother doesn't cast his gaze at Jason despite knowing he's present.
"Mother's on the phone," is all he says. Your eyes land on his phone that's now outstretched toward you. Nicholas's expression is rigid and causes dread to weigh you down. However, you know if you don't take the phone soon, you'll have another issue to worry about.
You reluctantly place the device against your ear.
"Hi, Mom," you say.
"I just got off the phone with Mr. Sullivan," Mother begins her complaint. As soon as you begin standing, Jason's hand appears in front of you. You send a tight-lipped smile his way and take it. Its size and strength beneath your palm distract you from whatever your mom is saying.
"…to go with him. That's absurd, Yn! That was a wonderful invitation, and you just embarrassed him. You will find Frederick and accept his offer. Then, you will come home."
So, that's what this is about.
Your eyes are cast low as you subtly lower the volume. One, because her voice grates on your nerves. Two, in case Jason can hear.
You don't dare make eye contact with him as you're being scolded. You're well into adulthood, yet it never gets easier having your mother berate you like a disorderly child in front of your friends—if he even is that. You could have just ruined any possible chance of that with your prejudiced mindset.
And it's then that you start to realize you're similar to Elli and Rebekah in more ways than you had wanted to admit.
"Now, you're not listening?" Your mother scoffs with uncontained anger. "You have half an hour to accept Frederick's invite and get home before I start revoking your cards."
It should be an insignificant threat, but your life has always been about money. The thought of not having any scares you.
"Do you understand, Yn?"
You exhale slowly. "Yes, Mother."
"Good."
The line goes dead.
There's a second where the world feels frozen. The view of the green grass shatters into pieces, only to be rebuilt with new low-saturated panels. It invigorates you, yet there's a dullness that wades at the fringe.
You're reminded of the life you're meant to live and realize the escape you were subconsciously chasing was inevitably going to crumble.
You pull your lips into a smile and hand your brother his phone back, eyes moving to Jason. He stares at you with clouded concern, but you don't entertain it.
"I'm sorry we have to cut this short," you say formally. "Thank you for the chat. It was lovely speaking with you."
You don't see his response because you're already turning away. It shouldn't shock you that he doesn't call out, nor does he race to stop you, but there's still a pang in your chest regardless.
It was foolish to think you could have a life beyond your norm. Thank goodness it was brief, because you don't know if you could handle rejecting it if you were more involved.
Besides, you may never have been accepted, you think as you find Frederick by the bar.
Jason may not have hated you, but he's not like the others. They would've ostracized you.
It's better this way, you convince yourself as you agree to be his date.
Less inner turmoil. Minimal drama. Fewer risks.
Frederick has no reaction and informs you when his driver will drop by your house. You nod because that's what's expected of you.
You bid Rebekah and Elli goodbye because your mother is waiting for you.
Nicholas peers at you as he drives. He chuckles.
"Your rebellious phase didn't last long, did it?"
It's not the first time to be a victim of his teasing, but this comment makes you want to lean over and wring his neck. Your hands clench, and your jaw ticks. Leave it to your brother to awaken your violent thoughts.
"But your drinking phase did," you mutter.
Nicholas huffs. "I don't drink that often."
"If I drank as much as you, Mom would spiral more than she is now."
"That's because she cares about you more."
You laugh loudly, yet the humor is absent. "That's absurd."
He shrugs. A split second passes where you don't believe him, but it's a fact she doesn't dot on him as much as she does you. Your father does, but not to the extent that your mother does. You always reasoned it to be because you are older.
While the prospect of your parents not liking you is disheartening, you wonder what it'd be like to not live by their high standards.
Maybe you would still be under the tree with Jason. There's still so much you want to know about him. Why does he work when he doesn't need to? Does he live in the slums, or does he live in Wayne Manor?
Maybe you wouldn't need their approval for everything. You can't believe you once worried about your parents' opinion of him, as if that time would have come. However, now that you remember what's important to your parents, you realize they would have bypassed his poor fashion and mediocre job so you could inherit his wealth.
But it doesn't matter that Jason comes from one of the richest families in Gotham. He will never accept you as anything more than a civilian he helped with a flat tire, because you proved he was right about you.
You're stuck-up and judgmental. You'll always look down on those from the slums.
So, when you arrive home, you do as your mother requested that afternoon. You hand the red dress to Francis to return the next morning.
Red never suited you anyway.
A/N: Part 3 coming soon! I'm also welcome to any ideas for Jason's nickname! 😁 Whose POV did you like more? Jason's or the reader's? 🤔
For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics more anonymously and privately. ^-^
Big bulky jason who has so much trauma and issues and needs and why would you even dedicate your entire life being patient and kind with him
But that same jason refuses to let u out the bed. The jason that will press Your feet after HE is the one who just went crime fighting
Jason who Hates being separated on his days off and will sit beneath the table between your legs hugging your waist with his on your thighs if you're doing work or meeting or studying
Jason who literally Hates work, vengeance, revenge, mafia stuff , crime fighting , saving the world ..basically anything that makes him spend time away from you.
Jason who prolly just leaves all this behind and genuinely works at processing his trauam . Becomes a literature teacher in a nice university. Settles down with you and have a normal life...give you the life you deserve
Not before saving up enough from mafia/batpay to give you the best luxury
Jason who just wants to stare at you , Hold you, get kisses from you forever
in the darkness, i would never leave you | jason todd (18+)
summary: the bruises, the unexplained aches, the odd dreams of a lost childhood friend – you're beginning to wonder whether there isn't something greater going on. it's hard to blame fatigue when you wake up with teeth marks on your body.
or: when he came back, it wasn't entirely whole, and he brought with him a hunger he just can't quite seem to satiate...
always read the label and follow the directions for use .ᐟ extremely dubious consent/noncon elements, gender neutral reader (no specification of gender) non-consensual somnophilia, monster fucking, oral sex, horror, predator/prey dynamics
sleep sounds ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ dracula tame impala ⊹ obscene phone caller rockwell ⊹ somebody's watching me rockwell ⊹ talking in your sleep the romantics ⊹ thriller michael jackson ⊹ goo goo muck the cramps ⊹ pet sematary ramones ⊹ (don't fear) the reaper blue öyster cult ⊹ in the room where you sleep dead man's bones ⊹
wc: 3.6k
minors, ageless and blank blogs will be blocked + author's note at the end
masterlist ⊹ ao3 ⊹ more monster jason
The monster beneath your bed has a name.
It exists solely in shadow, keeps to the dark corners where sunlight cannot reach. It does not speak, does not rattle the legs of your bed threateningly; there are no signs of a presence at all, in fact. Yet you know this to be untrue – can feel it, after all, in the stillness of your home that you are not alone.
It latches around your ankle and does not let go. The unceasing weight of a gaze on you at all times, luminous, hungry. A constant promise that hangs over you – there is nowhere to turn that you will not be found, there is no path you could take that would not lead you right back into its jaws.
The fates had cast their judgment and something wicked had fashioned this monster in defiance of their sentence. But disobedience, rebellion could not go unpunished. So, too, were you punished for your longing, a cruel, corrupt mockery of your deepest desires delivered right to your hearth. This is what you wanted, yes? Caged by the very thing you had coveted most.
How had you gotten here? How had it all led to this? If you had to pinpoint the moment it had started, when this horror had first slunk through the crevice beneath your door through to your home, it would have been the dreams.
Yes, yes…it had begun with the dreams.
A herald of your fate, all you ought to have seen, you count them with every laboured breath. Vision fading, sleep-muddied reverie returns to you through memory, a mocking reminder, a high-pitched laugh. How could you not know? The signs had been beneath your nose all along!
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
In dreams, death returns what she has stolen from you.
Blue eyes meet yours when you turn your head. No longer obscured by wood panelling, clean of the blood and viscera you'd conjured in your worst thoughts. He stands only feet away. Warmth blooms through your very being and you shout, overjoyed. His answering smile makes you reach your arms out. Stay there, I'm coming!
Your happiness is short-lived. When you try to move forward, you find you cannot. The ground beneath your feet seems to swallow you whole, climbing up rapidly to encase your limbs. Though you strain with all your might, your steps are sluggish and he remains out of reach still.
Black curls fall as he tilts his head, eyes watching you blankly as your mouth begins to open. He makes no move to help, impassive as ivy and earth reclaim him once more. The dirt piles on overhead and you claw desperately at the rapidly closing mouth of your grave.
Jason!
You wake with a name on your lips that you haven't uttered in years and the smell of wet earth in your nose.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
When the vessel sinks into rippling, viridian water, it's long cold. Talia Al-Ghul waits with bated breath, sharp eyes fixed on the dark mass submerged in Lazarus' embrace. Time seems to stretch and then speed up suddenly, before coming to a standstill entirely. With every beat of her heart that passes, her hands curl into fists against the ground, rock scraping against the thin skin of her palms.
She pays no mind to the pain, does not turn her attention to the beads of blood that well, minute, diluting as water laps against the edge of the pit and washes it away –
Where is he? Had it not worked?
And then – there.
The water's glow, diffusing through the cavern in a soft green glow, grows dimmer and dimmer before her eyes. The very shadows seem to grow and stretch until they blanket the grotto in darkness so stifling Talia wonders whether it's stamped out all sound too.
But no, she can still hear the soft splashes of water, like the Pit is breathing, a current of its own making kept alive by something neither she nor her father, in all their years, have managed to discern.
Some things remain beyond reach. Some things cannot be explained.
Through the dark, she watches in growing dread, in mute terror, as two pinpricks of luminous green appear across the pit. So familiar is she with the Pit, Talia knows there is nothing there but jagged rock cutting sharply upwards and overhead to form the canopy that hangs above the water. But the twin lights blink slowly at her, wide, watching.
She remains as still as she can, eyes adjusting to the suffocating darkness. When she blinks, her heart nearly stops in her chest, making sense of the small, shadowy figure perched against the rock, lowered in a crouch like it might leap from its roost at any moment. Its head tilts, slow, the motion too smooth, too fluid for anything born of this earth, and she forgets to breath under its stare. About the time she begins to make out the beginnings of a grin on the – she had thought – faceless figure, she loses consciousness. Near asphyxiation or plain terror, she welcomes the reprieve it offers her.
When she comes to, there is still a dead body floating in the water. But when she wades across the pit, there are gouges in the rock, deep grooves that run through the mineral, sediment settling in the water.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
It is him, and yet an entity of its own. It feels his jagged edges, clumsily assembled with Lazarus running through the crevices. The boy enters, but something else comes back. Talia's plan thwarted by forces unseen, the wraith unravels, a mass of shadow hell-sent as it journeys. Towards what, it cannot place, only the hunger that drives it forward through terrains of every manner, through desert and snow and sea, rumbling through tall grass and slipping downstream.
Singed around the edges, sight malformed and fractured. Time does not exist to it, a notion so meaningless to a creature dulled down to its basest senses. Touch, taste – oh, this hunger, it longs to be fed – smell. What is time to a beast ruled by its need?
At the end of this invisible tether, its prey passes through the years, ignorant, oblivious to what will befall. It hunts, teeth aching, attempts to sate itself on the many that have the misfortune of falling into its path. Not good enough. Not nearly enough.
When it crosses through acrid water, the pungent smell of gasoline thick in the air, the edges of him ruffle, singed and cloaked in shadow. Here, your scent grows stronger – here, is where it is meant to be, was never meant to be away from.
Like oil he seeps through the keyhole, pooling against the baseboard of the small shelter you've acquired for yourself, travelling unseen through the onyx sea of your darkened floor. The scent of you is strongest in the room at the end of the hall; there, he funnels upwards, taking shape at the end of your bed to peer through the gloom at your sleeping form.
Lazarus gives him this hunger, and too, a vision keen enough to discern his prey. Every eyelash, every twitch and jump of the muscles beneath your thin skin (his mouth waters, his gums ache). He sees it all, senses the shift in your breathing, hears the rustle of your clothing as you shift. Memory, to him, is now muddied and veiled – images that no longer belong to him, but a life that has long since passed by. One such vision is called forth, a promise made, fingers interlocked and clumsy mouths pressing against each other.
His hunger alights anew, and he lurches forward.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Gotham exists to you in stasis, perpetually in Fall all round the calendar. The air forever holds the biting chill, the tense quiet of the first days marking summer's end. What little greenery manages to hold its own in the city's concrete maze quickly rots, death and decay all around you.
These days have neither an end nor beginning. They come to you as a reel of film, stitched together and spun unforgivingly to trap you in an unending cycle of labour. You arise in the pale dawn, stare at the cool blue with grit in your stinging eyes. The moon hangs high in the sky when you return, casting beams of light through the smog to pool on your bedroom floor. Time is for the more fortunate, those who do not have to slog through the day to keep a shelter over their heads, those who don't concern themselves with trivialities of the indigent.
Once, you might have been something more than this; this husk propelled forward by invisible strings. Once, there had been a you that knew the kiss of Gotham's pale sun, that turned your face to it and categorised its warmth.
That you lives deep in the recesses of your memory now, to be untouched for the rest of eternity, swallowed by whatever you'd fashioned yourself into following that April, 15 years old and tasting firsthand the fragility of your mortality, the depth of loss that one could know. Something had shattered then, pieces of you flung out to the ether, irretrievable. It'd been all you could do to survive it.
Lifting your head out of the fog is an alien sensation to you – hyper-aware of the water that hangs in the air and settles over your clothes in a fine mist, almost imperceptibly damp and yet just enough to make your skin crawl, cognisant of the way eyes pass over you and the weight each stare carries. It is discomforting, after hiding away for so long. You long to return to it but you cannot.
Something has drawn you out. The presence of an entity you cannot name, a disturbance in your sphere. An irregularity that cannot be traced.
Something isn't right.
The very air grows colder in your room as if to echo your worries, letting in a chill that bites you deep, icing over your bloodstream and locking your limbs tight. The central heating does little to combat the cold, and no amount of blankets help, either. Your roommates – other ghost ships in the night, known only to you in passing – voice their disquiet through text messages and signed sticky notes taped to your door. Can you stop messing with the thermostat? It feels like I'm being cooked live confirms there isn't a faulty wire that's turning the cooling on instead and PLZ GET A SPACE HEATER !! shames you enough to stop trying.
Through it all an invisible draught casts its frozen net over your room. You search endlessly for cracks in the windowsill, a sliver of plaster or wood that's rotted away to break the seal separating you from the world below.
Nothing. Not a hair out of place, nothing to suggest anything's changed, save for this gnawing feeling in your gut.
It leaves you stiff when you wake, muscles cramped as though you've been tensing them in your sleep. More, you become aware of a different kind of ache in your body, nerves raw and flayed so that a single touch leaves you wincing, each brush of the fabric of your clothes against your skin amplified in a way uncharacteristic of the softness you'd specifically purchased them for.
The sensitivity is reminiscent of mornings after, the lingering kiss of hedonistic, restless nights spent indulging yourself. Pleasure into pain, stubborn in the face of sleeplessness by pushing yourself to exhaustion. It's purely clinical, tipping yourself over the edge with such force it lacks the breathless gratification orgasms usually promise, instead leaving you with muscles aching from being contracted so long, sensitive and overworked. Putting your clothes on, those mornings, always makes you hiss, the friction of any fabric against your sex discomforting and a taunting reminder of your prior proclivities.
Only, and here's the odd thing…you haven't touched yourself.
Not for a while, in fact, too busy with trying to keep up in the unending rat race, too exhausted by the time you arrive home to even think of it. By the time your head hits the pillow after dinner you're always two minutes away from sleep; when it's been primarily serving as a sleep aid for so long, masturbation loses its purpose to your bone deep, work-induced exhaustion.
But the arduousness of employment, and your poor adjustment to your life cannot explain the bruises. Bruises in areas you can't account for, sore spots right beneath the crease of your thighs – on both your legs, in exactly the same spot, as though twin somethings had pressed hard enough into you to break the blood vessels, pooling beneath your thin skin and echoing their disquiet when you move. Your ankle smarts too, one morning. Marks rippling around the circumference of your leg, snake-scale wrapping tenderly around you.
The peculiarities, as they advance – rapidly gaining momentum, demand your full attention. Suddenly gone, the Gotham mist that descended over you one morning and refused to leave is nowhere to be found. Awareness, awakening is painful. Like stepping into sunlight for the first time after a lifetime of darkness, you're conscious of every small movement, every irregularity glaring, taunting. It looms over you, unsubtle of its threat.
It's the teeth marks that solidify your fears.
You wake once morning and feel the blood drain from your head so rapidly it leaves you dizzy. Indents, just deep enough not to break the skin but leave a mark, scattered all over you. Your neck, and when you undress, your ribs – your hip. Possessive, unyielding domination over your life and body.
Your bedroom window barely opens over a few inches, tracks too rusted over to give – it isn't enough for an intruder to slip through. But what else could explain this? You run your fingers over the marks, the hair on the back of your neck rising at the thought.
When you leave the house, you grip your things a little tighter, cast your gaze around you warily as though you might be able to spot the object of your worries. A lingering eye, maybe, a suspicious character you might haul to the nearest police station (a laughable thought, that Gotham PD would be of any help). There is nothing on the street but a few parked cars, ones you recognise as belonging to the neighbourhood. Nothing new. Nothing out of place.
It draws you down as you trudge through your morning commute, a weight on your shoulders, something weighing down your steps.
You think of the dream your alarm had pulled you from that morning. The memory is gauzy now, blue eyes and the sensation of warmth consuming you on all sides, softness at your back. Strength sapped, limp and sinking. Falling, ebbing away, always plunging down. Slowly, then all at once, your stomach dipping with the sudden speed.
The ground meets you as it's always coveted, your mass swallowed until out of the darkness you awaken, sweat slick and light-headed.
You cannot keep focus throughout the day, in fact the sun seems to shine a spotlight on all that worries you, anxieties that fester in the dark suddenly illuminated in all their ugliness. Your coworkers eye you curiously, lips forming words you're sure are well meaning but only seem to slip through one ear and fall out the other, are you sure you're okay's and maybe you should go home, you're not looking so hot…
Somehow, some way, you make it to the end of the day. Beneath your work clothes your body is tense. Unwilling to let you forget their presence, the bites throb, quiet flashes of heat at your neck and hip that stir your unease. Through the windows of the train carriage, Gotham flashes by you, a maelstrom of ink and polluted air, piss coloured lamplight cutting through the dark. Your walk home is relatively short, though you hurry forward as though the devil were at your feet, chasing you up the stairs and fumbling with your keys to let yourself into the apartment.
Your roommates murmur their hellos, eyes fixed on the TV, ignorant to the sweat that lines your brow and the poorly contained panic that radiates off you. You cast a glance around the living room, as though you might find an irregularity, a deviation that might be the answer for what's been happening.
You're losing your mind and nobody notices a thing.
The first thing that you notice when you close the door behind you to your room is the necklace, chain hanging from the curtain rod and swaying amongst the still curtains. Even in the dim of your room you can spot the glint of the red stone, catching the pale moonlight and glittering back at you.
It's as though the strings holding you up have been cut at the sight of it; you sag in the entry way, sinking to the floor with a quiet sob. Despite your efforts, memory dredges up all you've tried to bury, all you've cast out to the deepest pits of your mind, certain it'll never return. Grief threatens to outpour your senses, to wreak havoc on all that you hold dear if you allow it to reach shore.
Everywhere you look, you seem to find him, that lost boy of your childhood dreams.
Jason, Jason, Jason… Jason, 15 and dead and gone and buried.
The necklace mocks you – did you think you could outrun this? Did you think you could leave it behind? You weep silently before the relic, head bowed and shoulders trembling in prayer. Worship comes easy to the desperate, and you are the worst of them, streaming eyes directing upwards to a piece of worked metal gifted to you by clumsy fingers and a bashful grin, cheeks red.
You manage to drag yourself to your bed but sapped of your strength, you do not bother to undress. It's there that you remain, until your tears run dry and exhaustion pulls you under, forehead pressed against the sheets and cheeks tear-stained.
The veil between sleep and wakefulness is thin. Gossamer-like and sheer, over-exposed film, light-bleached vision. Each touch is purposeful, senses thoroughly heightened. The heat that crowds over you is molten and liquid, coursing through your bloodstream. Thick. Syrupy. Your breath travels out of you in slow, deep exhales, and the lungfuls you gasp in are cold, fresh.
Your eyelids are heavy and you struggle to open them, lashes fluttering as you fight against your fatigue. There, again – that agonising blue. Twin irises blink up at you when you lift your head – weighed down, heavy – to gain a better look, so familiar in their knowing-ness, it settles you a moment. And then they're shifting; aquamarine, into teal, into a vivid green so electric it burns you, ice washing over you. No longer are these the eyes you'd intimately known – you come to at once.
In the dark of your room, the shadows converge to hover over your supine form. You take note, groggily, how your legs lay apart, how pinpricks of pain shoot through your hips where sharpened nails hold you down – how your sex aches, exposed and throbbing.
The very air is sucked out of the room when you realise what it is you're staring at.
The thing between your legs feasts, maw covered in smeared, dripping drool. A tapered tongue laves at your hole, pulling a choked gasp from you. The strength in your body is nowhere to be found; you cannot do anything but lay there while this beast grapples and gropes, shadow soaked claws sinking into your fat. Your own claws, filed down and useless – every bit the prey it's been stalking – grip helplessly at the rumpled bedsheets beneath you, hospital corners you'd tucked in only this morning surely undone with the squirming.
Its eyes stare up at you, glowing and inhuman, and its mass swallows all the light in the room. Its mouth descends upon you again, massaging at your insides, almost worshipful in its pursuit of your ruination, in its consumption. The sensation makes you sob, a weak palm slamming against your mattress as your body gives over, weakened orgasm fluttering through you. It is, you suspect not the first this thing has pulled from you tonight. The sheets below you are damp with sweat and the heady scent of musk clogs your nose.
Oxygen deprived and insensate, your mind quickly comes to a conclusion as the monster draws up from between your legs:
You are going to die.
It is the only natural course of things – haunted, stalked by your tormentor born of the shadows, the only reason it has revealed itself to you must be for this. Your time has come. The reaper comes for you, waits for those claws to sink deep into flesh and gouge your heart out.
A tear carves its way down your cheek and into the soaked mattress. You cannot conjure any fear at the prospect. Your mind, now convinced it is dying, only brings forth a vision of the ghost you've tried in vain to outrun.
Oh, Jason.
In the decade since his death, you've refused to allow him to enter your heart. Forever banished to the depths of your memory, a spectre at the doorway to your mind, you allow him in now, in the final hour.
"Jason," you murmur, a weakened laugh. Your last words, you think deliriously.
The shadowed thing looks up from where it'd been feasting between your thighs. In the dark, your vision struggles to adapt, but as your pupils draw in what light they can, your breath shortens. Its eyes burn brighter than any flame, green and so different from the blue you knew in your childhood – but you would know him anywhere.
Blackened lips part and razor sharp teeth glint back at you in a smile.
Finally.
a major shoutout to my beloved sunnie @sunnie-angel for letting me share the brainworms this concept gave me! it gave me the opportunity to mix some of my favourite tropes ever. so. evil sexy boogeyman + childhood friends + came back wrong + obsessive lover all culminated in this fic.
i actually didn't think i was going to write this fic, i was happier keeping it as one of those passing fantasies, but it's been weighing on me for much longer than a fleeting fancy so here we are. this was mostly a challenge to myself to write something short and fun instead of the longfic projects i've been working on this year (i miss posting actual fics on here, i promise i'll be back with something long and with an actual plot at some point!!)
anyway i hope you freaks (affectionate) enjoyed this. if you didn't i hope you exercise your ability to block and/or scroll! love you, and happy spooky season!
