#my jaybird

[imightbeafaerie-official-offical]

ART BY @pip4everr!! CHECK THEM OUT THEYRE SO COOL

[aspiratinganxiety]

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Hey, guys! I know it has been an age since I updated or posted any fic. I uh... I’ve been going through a lot. 

Many of you, I’m sure, are now familiar with Omegaverse and A/B/O Dynamics. I have a deep and abiding love for this particular brand of trash, and I’ve recognized that there is a lack of it in the DC fandom. SO! Surprise, surprise! I’m coming back with Part I for a Jason A/B/O fic. 

Let me know if you want to see more of this story, and I hope you’re all doing well in this godforsaken hellscape of a year <3 

Tag List: @nxxttime , @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls, @sesquipedalian-aficionado, @reinathequeenofdreems, and @dcuniverse-fanatic (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

Making time for a meal was often too much work for Jason. He ate on the go, eight out of ten times. The rare occasions he sat still to consume food usually involved an invitation from Alfred, like today’s debacle of a lunch. Steph was fighting with Bruce (shocker), Barbara had the flu, and Cass was diligently working one doozy of case. Her brief email rundown was more than considerate, given that she was using a satellite connection on the ass-crack of the planet in some Godforsaken jungle.

Trying to find the time to arrange a date? Ridiculous.

           “C’mon, Jay,” Dick taps his shoulder with his knuckles. “I think you’d really like her. And her brother’s in the life, so it’s not like you have to deal with the ‘secret identity’ stuff.”

           Now that was a plus, just not enough of one to lure Jason out of his malcontent. “Who’s ‘er brother?” he asks around a mouthful of sandwich, hoping to change the subject.

           “Oh, a meta-guy I worked with in Spiral.”

           The deliberate nonchalance of the eldest Robin makes Jason bristle. “Yeah,” he reiterates, tucking the massive bite into his cheek to speak more clearly. “And his name was?”

           “Not the important part,” Dick dodges again. “The important parts are that she’s an omega living in Gotham who does charity work for a living. She is also very cute! I have a picture.” At this point, he sets down the family sized bag of plain Lays (abominable) and fishes his phone out of his back pocket.

           Tim, thank Christ, decides to weigh in on the matter. “I feel like who her brother is happens to be important, considering that you specified he knows who Jason is, and by proxy the rest of us…”

           “I didn’t say that!”

“You said I wouldn’t have to keep my identity a secret, because he’s in the life. That wouldn’t be relevant unless he knew me,” Jason motions to his chest vigorously, some stray shreds of lettuce escaping his sandwich.

“That’s not what I said” Dick insists.

“It’s what you implied with what you said.” Tim points at Dick with a cheese puff, pinky aloft, then pops the snack into his mouth to state another observation. “Also, regardless of whether or not he knows Jason, he knows who you are. That means he already knows who we are, and I’d really like to have his name, Dick.”  

“Tim, shut up. This isn’t about you.”

“Let’s watch our tone, boys,” Alfred says, breezing into the kitchen with a faintly disappointed air to have found them, not only arguing, but hunched vulture-like around the kitchen island decimating what would have been decent leftovers. “Master Dick, we all know how Jason feels about match-making: much the way Master Bruce feels about it.”

Outwardly admonished, Dick says something to schmooze Alfred while he slides his phone over to Jason. Never one to deny curiosity, Jason peers down to see the girl Dick’s pestering him about. She’s a round young woman in a dirty pink T-shirt holding up a mop-head of a puppy with a big, goofy smile on her face. Her hair is windswept, she’s clearly sunburned, her front teeth have a gap between them, and she’s possibly the most adorable human being he’s ever seen in his life.

Shaking his head, Jason says, “She’s not my type.”

Unrepentant and quick to ignore the wave of wry disapproval emanating from Alfred, Dick stops mid-excuse to say, “Oh, she is so your type. Don’t lie to me.”

“She looks twelve!” Jason recoils, scrunching his face and glancing back down at the sweet girl in the photo. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

“She does not,” Dick defends himself, using his back to block Tim’s snooping look toward the screen. He double checks the picture himself, and a few moments pass. “Okay,” he shoots Jason a resentful glance while swiping forward a few times. “She looks a little young in that particular picture, but she’s in her twenties. Here! Look at this one.”

Tim to the rescue again! “Uh, I thought you said you had a picture, Dick. As in one.”

Dick doesn’t bother to dignify that with more than a muttered, “Puh-lease.” Like they weren’t all aware that folders full of images on anyone were only a few clicks away. Tim, especially.

Jason tunes out of the bickering that begins between them as Dick continues to exclude Tim, physically using his body as a barrier and failing to hold the phone steady for Jason’s eyes. She’s in a bikini top seated in a cheap plastic kiddy pool, more tanned and freckled with her hair restrained somewhat successfully in a braid that sits over her shoulder. Three massive dogs crowd around her for attention, but her eyes, amber from the angle of the sun, are staring straight at the camera. This smile is shyer; lips hiding her teeth, shoulders bent forward to bring her chest in and mask the soft rolls on her stomach brought out by her position sitting upright. She does look to be markedly older in this particular photo.

“How many damn dogs does she have?” Jason returns to his sandwich, averting his eyes and willing his voice to be dismissive.

“She works at the new shelter in East End, bruh. These aren’t her dogs.”

Damian ghosted into the kitchen at some point and posted himself behind Jason. The older brother pretends that he’s not startled to hear the kid speak. “Really? I’ve been reading good things about their practice. No-kill, good rehoming rates. Working to coordinate with other shelters and founding a spay/neuter program...” he trails off, weaseling between the two oldest brothers to have a look at Dick’s phone. “Smart advertising too. A scantily clad omega female sitting a pool with freshly groomed dogs? Good call. I bet those three have already been adopted.”

“Scantily clad?” Tim prods, doubly straining to maneuver around Dick.

Mercifully, however, this brings the picture show to an end. Dick huffs, glancing uncomfortably at Damian and tucking his phone away. Apparently, an actual twelve year old commenting on a woman’s state of dress is enough to upset his sensibilities.

Damian looks at Jason, eyes piercing and the same green as his own. He digs a hand into Dick’s bag of potato chips and says, “You should date her. She was attractive enough, and I’m sure she’s a lovely person.”

The child is unblinking as he withdraws a handful of chips and begins to eat them while starting Jason down. He half expects the little fucker to wave his free hand and pull some Jedi mind trick gag, but remembers that Damian doesn’t do pop culture humor when Tim’s in the room.

Jason drops his sandwich on the naked stone counter as though he’s discovered mold. “Well, that’s it for me,” he says, edging toward the sunroom and the side door into the gardens. “I gotta’ go.”              

[aspiratinganxiety]

Omg thank you for opening the prompts and giving lists. If you have the time and inspiration how about from the Prompt sentence list #54 “They’re not your kids, back the fuck off”. Thank you again for taking prompt requests!!!!!

So, because you didn’t specify which character you wanted, I went on ahead and picked Jason. Prepare yourself, this turned into a somewhat cracky, heartwarming fic about Jason putting his foot in his mouth. Reader is in her very early 20s. Not six months out of 19, actually. 

This request is a winner, man. I had a much wittier and affectionate intro up here before tumblr let me down so hard and lost my draft. Now we’ve got this awkward paragraph…

Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @lovelywally, @thepuckishrogue (If you want to be tagged, let me know by dropping an ask or shooting me a message! For more Batfam, check out my masterlist.) 

This is it.

Finally the day your retail-ravaged soul, along with your psyche, snaps like one of those piddly rubberbands on cheap produce.

“Goddammit lady,” you snarl, slamming your palms down on the cash wrap with a meaty smack. “This is the seventh time I’ve had to ask you to keep your filthy little goblins away from my merchandise!” 

Embracing the inevitability of unemployment upon the horizon, you carry on. The words coming out of your mouth are spoken in the low, graveled tone most often associated with violent animals or an emissary of Satan. “Has your daughter ever seen a tissue? Or maybe a garbage can? And that is the fourth necklace he’s broken.” You jab a finger at the accused child, prowling around the register. “The fourth! Your children are terrible.”   

The little boy, probably around four years old, stands stock still with widening eyes and a face going pink with the flush of tears. It’s strange to see him so still after witnessing the boy tear through your store like a methhead on payday. He’s a cute enough kid, even with some tears spilling and the remnants of a PB&J smeared all over his cheeks as well as his marauding fingers. 

Tattered remains of delicate costume jewelry litter the display in front of him, and you don’t even want to think about how much of that child’s sandwich transferred from his grubby lil’ mitts to the stupidly expensive product throughout the store. 

The woman’s daughter (you’re not sure how old, but over six) shrinks from your stormy approach. She dodges away from the denim table where she shoved the wad of stale gum (or the proverbial straw, in this case) you’d seen her spit into her hand moments before (so, hopefully just one $90 pair of jeans you now have to damage). The girl hides back behind her gaping mother as though you’re brandishing a pistol instead of three years’ worth of rage.

The mother, a comfortably wealthy middle-aged blonde woman, looks to be the very stereotype of pushy, ungrateful, baby-boomed self importance. She is so utterly shocked by your hateful outburst that nary a peep escapes her open mouth.

What?

A salesgirl?

Speaking so rudely even after being treated with nothing but disregard and condescension for two whole hours?

Outrageous!

Ha. She’s not half as shocked as your boss is going to be when you throw up a double bird and back flip outta’ this bitch the very moment she wanders in for shift change. 

“Get some control over your spawn, make your selections, and get the hell out of my store.” You go in for the kill while the mother is still silent, absolutely fuming. “And here’s a tip, bitch: If you’re not going to teach your children any manners and you can’t find them a sitter, don’t go shop in a specialty boutique!”  

Your voice goes shrill as your volume ticks up at the last, and so you are brutally unprepared when an incredulous voice of a significantly lower cadence calls you out. 

“Jesus, bitch…” 

You spin on your heel, ready to relish taking a piece out of another customer. Unfortunately, in your anger, you don’t recognize that the additional voice belongs to a guy. 

A big guy. 

A huge, pissed off guy.

“C’mon, Jason.” You identify the face of a redheaded regular grimacing just behind him. She half-halfheartedly attempts to snag his elbow and pull him away. "Don’t engage. Please, don't engage?"

“Nah, shuddap Babs!” he spits over his shoulder. His attention returns to you. “Moms need pants too, ya’ know. They’re not your kids; that means not your business, first of all, and not you goddamn problem after they leave the store. So why don’t you just back the fuck off?” 

You are very embarrassed by your reaction to his interference. As suddenly as your anger possessed you, an overwhelming wave of anxiety and stress boils up in your lungs. It claws its way out of your throat and starts pouring from your eyes in a matter of seconds. 

“But it is my problem!” you sob, tears of frustration streaming down your face. “My associate number gets flagged for every item I damage. My record is penalized for not taking care of the merchandise when I’m not even technically allowed to ask people to stop breaking things. My commissions bonus is in jeopardy based upon the items I damage, no matter how many sales I make!” 

The man blinks down at you as though you’ve started speaking in tongues. He takes a clumsy step away from you, and the redhead sighs with the sort of perpetual exhaustion known only by elder sisters. You hear the door chime signifying the hasty departure of the blonde mom and her rotten kids.

“Oh, and I’m aware!” you continue. “I'm very aware that mothers need pants, you ass. I am a mother.” 

If the guy paled when you started crying, he goes absolutely pallid as the pitiful truths of your sad life rush, unbidden, from your tongue. 

“My daughter is 18 months old, and I work in this shitty store for shitty pay so that I have food for her dinner and hot water for her baths. All I do is work! My grandma is raising my kid, and I haven’t bought a pair of jeans for myself since I was in high school! A full eight hour shift in this hell-mouth of spoiled, snobby, rich bitches dropping over a thousand dollars on fucking baubles doesn’t even cover one single pair of jeans from that table! Even as a manager, the employee discount doesn’t make owning a stitch of this clothing feasible.” 

You take a few breaths to gather yourself. The guy’s face is a mask of social horror, and the features of the woman behind him fell into impassivity about the time you brought up sales and damages.

“You know what though,” you say, speaking in a surprisingly perky, conversational tone as you wipe your running nose on your sleeve and the last wavering trills of your bawling work their way out. “When I run errands, Gram Mary watches Rosie. ‘Cuz I know better.”            

[aspiratinganxiety]

And if I may make another request, anything with Jason taking care of the reader when she's sick from a recurring illness/chronic illness flare up.

I am pulling from a dear friend’s chronic condition here, as a specific condition/illness was not requested. If you are unfamiliar with fibromyalgia, it is a nerve condition that involves pain receptors communicating constant pain in the muscles and soft tissue all over the body. Inflammation, migraines, nausea, clouded thoughts, dizziness, and all sorts of other nasty symptoms are linked to those who suffer with this condition.

It is, as of now, incurable. There are methods of treatment. More often than not, however, people afflicted with Fibro just have to suffer through.  

Tag List: @nxttime​, @possiblyelven​, @thepuckishrogue​, @jinkies-its-a-writer (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

“It’s usually not so bad,” you say, head down with your chin to your chest in what you can only imagine to be an incredibly flattering angle.

You have to hide your eyes from the sun streaming though the windows, and you can’t curl your back. Your spine echos the throbbing in your head. Sporadic, painful waves that run all the way to your fingers and toes. A world of unique pain explodes when the swells of your migraine mingle with what you know to be Fibro pain in your limbs. The swollen knot on the inside of your left bicep is indicative of your flare up, and you suppress the desire to pop it back into place like a button. 

It does not feel like a button when you poke a pocket on nerves during a flare up.

From experience, you know that it does feel like a hot poker searing through your flesh.

You’re dead still, and doing your best to breathe normally when what you’d like to do is flop limply on the floor and heave for the pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” you repeat. “It’s really not this bad most of the time.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Jason reaches for you. 

You can feel the heat of his hand getting nearer. You tense, a preemptive grimace taking over your features as you prepare for the burst of agony sure to follow his touch.

He stops short of your shoulder, likely because he’s identified the involuntary expression on your face. 

His arm falls against the couch. “It’s not your fault.” 

“M’sorry.”  

Your words have grown so very faint, and it’s taking a lot more to keep from crying. The embarrassment of his timing is as upsetting as the intensity of the flare up itself.  

He sighs in response to your continued apologies, and you hear him get up to rummage around the room. He returns to the sofa, sitting carefully on the opposite side with his weight stabilized by the sturdy arm of the strategic location. The pages of a book rustle together, and you wonder if Jason’s finished the latest novel you picked up for him at the bookstore around the corner.

“Sound sensitivity too?” he asks, voice low and calming.

“Hm-mm,” you offer a negative. It’s the light that’s getting you. Light and touch. 

“You care if I read some of that book you got me aloud? You’ve read it before, right?”

You affirm, and some of the tension that had ratcheted into your brow when he reached for you eases.

“Kay, babe.” You hear the smile in his voice. He’s always so happy to find some way to help. “I’ll read soft, and you just tell me if you need quiet.”  

He begins promptly. He’s only about 50 pages into the story. Things are just starting to get good, and you devote all of your mind to compartmentalizing your pain and enjoying the narrative being read in the rhythmic, soothing cadence of your darling boyfriend.

You love it when Jason reads. Especially when he reads your favorite books. His pacing is flawless, his vocabulary is eloquent, and even when he stumbles he sounds practiced. 

[aspiratinganxiety]

So I love when you rant and give detailed explanations about certain topics so: was Jason better off not being adopted by Bruce?

So, I’m not sure if you’re asking about any particular story line or alternate universe in which Jason is not adopted, and so I am going to answer under the assumption that you’re referring to headcanons floating around about the way things would have gone for Jay if he’d never been taken in as a Robin. 

Furthermore, I’m going to answer this with absolutely zero self-pity. Do not mistake my relating low-income struggles that were present in my life as bellyaching. There were a lot of reasons why things were the way that they were for me, and I do not need an ounce of anybody’s pity.

So, without further ado, Anon, as somebody who was raised in an incredibly low-income environment with violence, drug abuse, and all other manner of illegal activity going on in my home through my childhood into adolescence: No. 

Fuck. No.

Jason remaining in a dangerous environment, no matter how he thrived there, would not leave him in a state that I consider “better off.”

Simply through the lens of base needs, no fucking way. 

Being from a home without resources was literally the worst part of all of that nonsense. At least, for me. 

The emotional/physical abuse lingers, whatever. The drug and alcohol use was a wild ride to witness as an outside party, sure.  

Not having hot water for a shower? Not having more than two pairs of pants that weren’t pajamas and no place to wash them? Not having a toothbrush or anything but cold canned carrots from the food pantry for supper?

Not having pads or tampons as a scared 12 year old girl who then has to bear the humiliation of my school nurse going out and buying them for me because everyone knew that my family was too poor and the government subsidies weren’t being spent on keeping our home livable and providing for our needs?

Yeah. No. Jason Peter Todd was a clever, gifted child who would do well in any environment. That doesn’t mean that squalor suited him better than an emotionally stunted man-child that did the motherfucking best he could to love him and give him everything that he could possibly need and then some. 

Making Jason Robin and putting him in danger was like handing-over your keys to a car thief and accepting that you were gonna be calling your insurance the next day. Bruce didn’t have a lot of choices there. Jason already had a thirst. He already sought the thrill. The only thing Bruce thought to do was offer him proper skills, training, and equipment. 

Along the way, he loved him. Grew alongside him as a person and a father-figure. He guided him to the best of his ability, and when that backfired?

It broke him too. 

I was taken in by my eldest sister. Granted, she’s no Bruce Wayne and I didn’t oil myself up to slide into a neon crime-fighting get up. I did, however, provide so much childcare and support that I was the only person to cook, grocery shop, meal plan, or be allowed by the baby to bathe her and brush her hair by the time I was 16. My sister didn’t mean for me to take over so much domestic responsibility, it just happened that way.

I was a profoundly grateful people pleaser desperate to be somebody (anybody)’s favorite, and she had a husband who worked nights and so was basically functioning as a single mom with a houseful of 4 kids (plus me) to worry about.   

And I hurt for the nervous disorders she fed by expecting me to provide as much or, in some cases, more care to her home and children than she did. The unhealthy dynamic we fell into left me an anxious mess with little to no self-value as a human being if I am not providing others some kind of measurable benefit.

Five years out of her house and I have to work on this mentality every day.   

All the same, I got the opportunity to live in a home that was well-managed. I had clothes, food, showers and baths, school, and adults who were invested in my education and development.

Jason's situation is similar, in my opinion. He suffers for some of the damage done by Bruce. Ultimately though, he is better and more loved for having been his son.

Having the unique experience of being literally saved from a broken home (which Jason didn’t even fucking have. Poor baby was on his own) and lifted up into a household with actual disposable income, affection, education, and delicious produce regularly?

Jason Todd was the luckiest boy in the world. 

The depictions of Bruce and Jay that have them being nothing but violent and hateful toward one another hurt my heart so much, I cannot even express with words the pain I associate with it. 

I would like to note here that I do understand the abusive link between Bruce and a lot of his kids. Being idolized as a parent and literal hero sets you up for failure. Nobody can ever hope to live up to those kinds of expectations, and Bruce is all kinds of fucked up in his own right. 

The physical abuse and resentment I understand from both sides, though it kills me.

One can see how Jason returning as a man who lived to spit in the face of everything he worked so hard to foster in him would push Bruce over the edge into more progressively abusive behavior, where before he had been emotionally neglectful and selfish as a parent. Blind, even, to the non-physical needs of Jason. 

I 100% relate to Jason’s shock and horror upon being utterly disillusioned with his hero, the man acting as his father. 

He failed to save him. He failed to avenge him. While he was alive, he failed to understand him. 

What more can you do? 

Jason gave it all. 

He gave his life.

And he’s still not good enough for Bruce?

Fuck’s sake. I’d blow shit up and put heads in a bag too.

Damn. 

Anyway, TLDR: Though the unhealthy/abusive aspects of the relationship between Jason and Bruce are brutal and heart-wrenching for all involved, I do not think that Jason would have been better left to his own devices. He was a child who needed a home with enough resources to care for him. 

Bruce provided that.

Additionally, they love each other.

This, of course, is not an excuse for abuse. 

Canon or headcanon, doesn’t matter: I argue that the love between Bruce and Jason was the first time Bruce truly felt a parental connection. Dick was like a younger brother. A nephew. A darling student. It wasn’t until he could contextualize his affection for Dick through the channels he developed toward Jason that Bruce realized the reason he could never see Dick as an equal companion was because he held him in his heart as a child. 

His child. 

Like Jason. 

All families are fucked up. They hurt each other. They shape one another through pain as much as they do love.

I can’t handle the especially hateful and violent depictions of Bruce and Jason’s relationship. It literally kills me, and I actively disregard them as shittily written canon with no deep concept of characterization.     

Same for Bruce and all of his other children.  

[aspiratinganxiety]

Dad's Here

This is my very first request ever! Yay! Thank you so much @fanboy4eternity Basically looking at Jason's finding comfort in working with Bruce.

-Dangerous endeavors around Gotham are basically an old hat for Jason at this point, right? We can all agree?

-Doesn't matter. He'd never admit it, but with jobs, every time is like the first time.

Coursing adrenaline

Shaking hands

Sensory overload

Unsafe levels of high alert

Fear

-He knows the skills are there to back him up. His aim is true, and he's not a twelve year old anymore. For the most part, the targets are going to have a helluva time trying to throw him around without some serious beating being passed their way.

-All the same, it's good to hear Bruce's voice on the com. It's comforting. Bruce speaks low into the communicator pre-mobilization in the same voice he uses to read stories and hum.

-Jason wonders if he does it on purpose to soothe all of the robins through the pre-pounce shakes, or if it's something he does for him.

-Maybe it's not even on purpose?

-He hopes Bruce doesn't know about the job anxiety. It's just a part of things. He doesn't want to be coddled for it, but damn.

- It is good to work with the old man on the occasion if for nothing more than a moment's peace before engaging the enemy.

-It is a simple reaction, he supposes. No shame in it. Most people feel better when they know their Dad is around to handle the big shit, and they get to drop some responsibility to become a simple cog in the works headed toward efficient success.

[aspiratinganxiety]

Hey! So I just remembered something I've really wanted to request for a long time- Jason Todd X little sister!reader headcanons. Basically how Jason would be with like a 5 or 6 year old sibling.

Ah! I love writing any kind of kid fics, as I adore children. I’m sure it surprises no one to hear that I have Opinions about the way that Jason would behave towards children, particularly endearing, precocious little girls with a nose for tender hearts under years of emotional repression...

Tag List: @nxxttime , @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer , @queeniepearls , and @sesquipedalian-aficionado (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

-At first, Jason’s just like: Ah, whatever. The old man has another one. Big whoop.

-Largely, for the first few months, Jason makes himself scarce around the new kid. He knows she’s younger than any of them ever were, and honestly that’s not what he’s about. 12 year old? He’s got ‘em. Do a backflip and bring them candy. Tease them only sometimes. 16 or older? Swear in front of them and help them hijack the batmobile once or twice. You’re a golden brother after that. Solid tactics that have held up so far. 

-What do you even do with babies? Like... kindergartners. Are they small humans yet? Or are their little noggins still germinating enough thinky-thinking bits to hold a decent conversation?

-How the fuck would he know???

-He’s been around young kids in short bursts, but never in a familial, permanent sort of way.

-Little children are small and tender-hearted. They want their moms, they get their feelings hurt when you pick on them (whether or not you’re being serious), and they don’t get sarcasm. That’s pretty much his whole schtick out the window, right there.

-Take away his guns and his black humor and what’s he good for? 

-Yikes.

-Ultimately, Jason has a lot of anxiety tied into the perception that his family (Bruce, in particular) has of him. He combats that anxiety head-on by emphasizing the traits and interests of which Bruce disapproves. When he lights up a cigarette in the batcave or throws a casual ‘motherfucker’ at Tim over the com, it’s his way of beating the old man to the punch. 

-Jason doesn’t have to wonder how or why Bruce is disappointed in him if he feeds the bat every line, yeah?

-It’s a subconscious control mechanism to cover his insecurities. Unfortunately, it does the exact opposite of that, but whatever. Nobody develops perfect coping skills. It’s fine. 

-He’s fine.    

-Jason knows better than to fall back on his usual misbehavior in the presence of such a Smol Bean. Because he’s not really sure how to act around his family in this new context. So, logically, he avoids the lot of them for an entire handful of months by dodging in and out of the batcave and sending e-mails or skyping rather than showing up for family brunch.

-Honestly, nobody really thinks much of it. Jason gets distant sometimes. It’s pretty routine at this point. Bruce assumes he’ll sort himself out, and that’ll be that. The only person who gets upset by Jason’s absence is the teeny batsis.

-She makes this known to all of her other siblings, going well out of her way to include Jason in all of her drawings and asking after him whenever possible. She doggedly questions Bruce when she knows he’s writing a response to Jason. If she hears his name spoken while someone’s on the phone, she flies in from a surrounding room howling that they need to tell him hi for her and she wants him to come over for dinner because Alfred is making her favorite (All dinners are her favorite, by the way. She was extremely undernourished and is still catching up to the other kids in her class as far as height and weight).

-Jason doesn’t pay mind to the small mentions here and there until he watches the puny girl full-body slam Bruce out of the way so that she can shove her lil' mug into the webcam and talk to him. Barely containing his laughter, Jason tries to process a fraction of the words that come roaring out of her mouth as she keeps her hand spread wide over one side of Bruce’s face in order to steal the spotlight and converse with “her new brother who’s still new because she never got to see him yet.”

-He couldn’t say no to her, with her sweet baby face all full of hope and so much excitement.

-The dry, long-suffering expression on Bruce may or may not have encouraged Jason’s choice to show up for a dinner. If this little firecracker was vaulting into Batman’s lap and bullying him out of his own video calls, what else was she accomplishing around that stodgy ol’ manor?

-All it takes is one (1) supper. 

-Jason, more so even than Dick (who makes a living entertaining adorable kiddos), is The Favorite™. 

-Jason Peter Todd is the most brotherly big brother that has ever brothered a small sister. 

Calls her baby-bat. Or sis. Or kid. Sometimes dummy, but only when she’s being a dummy. Really, he calls her anything that strikes his fancy as long as it’s not her actual name though? 

Teaches her to chug soda and belch very loudly at the most high-publicity inopportune moments. 

His piggy-back rides are Quality. So are his shoulder rides, because up on Jason’s shoulders she sits taller than even the funny ears on her new dad’s cowl.

He lets her pick her nose and encourages her to flick the bounty toward people they both decide look like they need a jolt of abject horror to complete their afternoon (Damian). 

Buys each of them copies of his favorite children’s books, and he reads with her over the phone until her scores are the best in her class.

Jason tells her only babies cry at movies, and nods when she tearfully calls him a baby too at the end of Old Yeller.  

-Basically, after an awkward do-si-do settling into new expectations, Jason would be excellent with the little sis. 

-She’s an endless source of chipper optimism and curiosity. She gives out hugs and kisses like they’re free. She makes surprisingly savage commentary toward everybody in the house and quickly learns to mimic Jason’s unique biting tone.

-Sometimes it’s sort of a swing and a miss situation where her jokes make zero sense and she can’t time a punchline to save her skin. But that's entertaining too.

-He’d do anything for her, and she wants to be him. Jason is the older brother who’s the rebel. The icon. The idol. 

-He also makes her toasted PB&J and invariably falls asleep beside her on warm Saturdays in the sun room when they were meant to be finishing up her language arts homework...           

[aspiratinganxiety]

sometimes i just can’t stop kissing your stupid face with jason todd pls domestic jason owns my whole ass xxxxxx

Oh, same baby. Saaaame. I am such a slut for Jason Todd, it’s frankly embarrassing. Especially in domestic/tender/caring situations. I loved writing this piece, even if it is short and sweet. 

Taglist: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy (just send me an ask or a message if you would like to be added to the taglist, fam.)

You can never remember being happier than you are the morning after Jason gets home from a mission away. Your worries and residual anxiety gets worked out fretting over every bruise and nick on the actual date that he arrives home, but the day after?

Perfection.

Even colored by nostalgia, no childhood joy or adolescent thrill can touch the rowdy bubbles of elation that roll and tussle through your chest and belly when the sun peeks through your sheer curtains. Not Christmas, not birthdays, not prom. That first morning waking up with the smell of him on your sheets and the sounds of him throwing together some breakfast down the hall makes you so freakin’ happy that you don’t know if you want to giggle or scream into a pillow.

Sometimes you do both. 

Always though, you slip out of bed and jog up the hall in your PJs. You wrap your arms around him from behind and nuzzle your face into the place between his shoulders. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He says this every time, like clockwork.

You return a mumbled, unintelligible greeting into his back. Like a desperate koala, thirsty for his smell and his touch and his warmth, you cling to any part of him that you can as he labors through cooking. Typically, he drags you all around the kitchen like a leggy barnacle for the better part of ten minutes before losing his patience.

“Babe!” he huffs, hauling you around to the front of him and staring down at you with exasperation. He lifts you with a hand on each hip and plops you down a free portion of the counter. “Stay here. I can’t handle you all up in my shit while I’m trying to be nice and make us some food. I’m hungry, and I’m gonna’ end up stepping on you or burn-”

You don’t let him finish, locking your feet together at the small of his back and planting a kiss on his lips. And then another. And one for his chin. Then for the nose and the nasty black eye with bruising stretching all the way down his left cheek. And another for that too, because that bruise looked especially owie. 

One more for good luck….

“Jesus, man.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and forces you back. He gives the tender flesh on the underside of your thigh a playful pinch in an effort to free himself, but you do not relent. “I missed you too, darlin’, but I’m right in the middle of this. That waffle is ruined now, ya’ know.” He points at the bulky kitchen gadget that’s beginning to billow smoke. “It’s gonna’ be the color of a tire, and taste about as good. It takes like 30 seconds of not paying attention to completely waste an entire pot of food! I swear to god I’ve told you this a hundred times…”

“I don’t care about the waffle,” you say as your hands roam lovingly down his back and you smile so wide that your face aches.

He’s somewhere between amused and genuinely offended, but he’s definitely riled up. “I do! I worked damn hard on that waffle. With that attitude, the burned one is yours, by the way.”

You hum, running your eyes from his mane of unkempt dark hair down to his chin and back up. “You’re home, and you’re safe, and I just can’t stop kissing your stupid face!” You press a few more quick pecks anywhere you can get them as he squirms away from you and toward the waffle maker. “I’ll eat the burned waffle for real if you come back over here,” you tempt, every toe still hooked in the waistband of his pants. 

“Get out of my kitchen!” he wails, half laughing and snagging the dishtowel from it’s drying rack and swatting at you. “Before you make me burn everything, go!”