INSPECTION REPORT: you challenge your husband by telling him that his dick isn't that big... and he isn't shy about proving you completely and utterly wrong!
ⓘ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃 SYSTEM OVERVIEW: 18+ CONTENT, fem! wife! reader, rough sex, big dick! jason todd, a shit ton of dirty talk, hair pulling, ass smacking, size kink, unprotected sex, breeding kink, dom! jason todd!
jason was just trying to get to bed.
he got out of the shower, shirtless and sweatpants sitting low on his waist. the towel was wrapped over his shoulders, his hair damp but trying to dry. his frame was getting your attention even when it didn't mean to.
you were on the bed in nothing but one of jason's shirts and nothing on the bottom, no underwear or no panties. you watched with a sharp gaze as jason walked around the bedroom, his steps soft. his figure never failed to turn you on, make your cunt so wet; his biceps that were too big for their own good, scars on his chest and jaw that became your favorite places to kiss over the years, his hair so perfectly sitting on his head with the white strands curling in front... he was too damn irresistible.
no wonder you had kids with this bastard.
he was muttering about how your teenage son was getting too big for his own good.
"hun, he's getting fuckin' huge. i wasn't his size when i was sixteen." he tells you, picking up something off the floor and putting it on your dresser.
you shrug, rubbing your thigh right above the end of the stolen shirt you wore. "jay, of course he's going to be big... he's your son anyway." you try to reason with him— telling jason todd that he was a big man isn't even a shocking thing to say... but you had a little idea in your mind.
jason rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "i am not that big, honey." he tries to argue with you, grabbing the towel on his shoulder to rub the water that's trying to drip down his forearm.
there you go. that's your entry. you smirk, and with no issue, your words left your mouth. "you're right about that..." you began, rubbing an itch behind your ear. "with your dick not being that big anyway..."
he stops his towel's movements; he looks at you like you just smacked him. his spine straightens, his eyebrows furrowing. no way you, of all people, just told him that. "what did you say, baby?" he questions you, his voice low enough that you could barely hear it, but the tone is what makes you not ignore him.
you shrug, watching him walk over to you on your side of the bed. "you heard me; your dick is not that big." you double down on your stance— which wasn't even true because that same dick was the same one that stretched you out like crazy.
jason doesn’t even give you a damn moment to speak or explain yourself.
he drops the towel to the bedroom floor, and before you could blink, he grabs your hips, shoving you face down onto the mattress. your face first in the pillows, hand immediately shooting to the sheets as your ass is put in the air. his hands are rough against your hips, shoving your shirt up and revealing your bareness to him. he gets on the bed, knees dipping into the bed and changing the weight.
"you really want to try that with me and have no underwear on?" he asks you, dragging his cock out of his pants and lining up the blunt head of his thick dick against your folds, slow and taunting to you. "you've carried my children, you've begged for this cock this morning and i gave it to you three times this week and it's barely wednesday... and now you're saying my dick isn't that big. say that shit again, do it."
you look up at him, whining as his tip gets sucked into your cunt so easily. you try to speak, you really do, but a moan suppresses that, a moan that was too loud for it's own good.
he laughs at your futile, downright pathetic attempt at speaking, his left hand holding his cock as his right hand presses down on your lower back and forces you to arch. "good, that's what I thought... now take it like a good girl."
then, he slams into you with no issue whatsoever, pushing into you with one slick thrust. your walls instantly open up to him, knocking the air out of your lungs in a breathtaking thrust.
his hands are enormous on your hips, his rough palms and fingers pressing bruises onto your hips as he pounds into your cunt, relentless and precise. each thrust rocks the bedframe against the wall, making the headboard groan and the bedframe creak.
all you can do is moan, your tone whiney. you can't get a damn word out, all that comes out is an incoherent sound, your messy little whimpers make jason's grip tighten and him grumble out a groan.
"not that big, huh?" he growls, pounding into you so damn hard that the wet sounds between your cunt and his cock sound pornographic. "funny, sweetheart, 'cause this 'not-that-big' dick had you screaming for more last night..."
your vision blurs, eyes rolling back as your hand shoots from the mattress up to the bedframe, fingers trying to get a good grip on the wood. "jason! o-oh— ngh! jay!"
"oh, so you're nice now?" his right hand moves up and grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up just enough to see your face, the arch in your back so damn sinful as your ass jiggles with each thrust. "just a minute ago you had all that mouth..."
moaning at feeling his fingers yanking on your hair, you nod your head, mouth too full with moans.
he grunts under his breath, voice dripping with a smug heat that makes your pussy flutter. "you carry my kids, you cum on my cock every night, you take every damn inch i give you, and somehow you still decide to run your mouth." your body jolts with each one of the snaps of his hips. "i'm starting to think you want me to break you..."
legs shaking violently, your chest heaving and your eyes rolling back, you can't help but nod your head at his words. "y-yes, jason, please— oh fuck! ru- ruin me..."
"oh that's it." he whispers in your ear, licking the back of it. "you just wanna be fucked so stupid by the daddy of your kids, by your husband. you want this pussy fucked?"
"fuck! ye-yes jason, fuck me. fuck me, 's-so good." you cry out, nails digging deeper into the headboard. his right hand stays in your hair while his left hand cups one of your asscheeks.
"that's it." he growls, rutting into you. his left hand lifts up and cracks against your asscheek, smacking it as the sound echos through the bedroom, mixing in with the bedframe creaking and the moans. "since you're so damn convinced i'm not that big, i think this pussy won't mind if i go just a little deeper, huh?"
he angles his hips a certain way, and with the same speed and same ferocity, he hits direclty on your g-spot, making you see stars and getting you so damn close.
"oh fuck! ja-jay! right there! oh right t-there!" you babble, feeling his hand smack your ass again before sliding down on your body.
his hand goes in between your thighs, thick fingers finding your clit and pressing down on it, rubbing circles in it mercilessly, his hand on your cunt keeping in speed with his thrusts.
"come on, mama." he murmurs, knowing what the pet name does to you, he used it to rile you on, especially in that low tone of his. "give it to me, cum on my cock, i know you want it."
and without needing any more, your orgasm slams into you so damn hard you scream into the mattress and your legs giving out completely. your body trembles violently as you sob out his name, cumming all over his cock and your vision whitening out.
jason grunts, feeling your cunt clench harshly down on his cock as he reaches his own orgasm, spilling deep inside of your folds with a groan, white painting your walls.
his right hand loosens in your hair, going to your shoulders and massaging them as you come down from your high, and the feeling in his sticky cum being shot into your cunt, his soft grinds from overstimulation slowing down and bringing you back down to reality.
"there you go... come back to me, hun..." he encourages, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto your cheek. still buried deep inside of you, he can't help but whisper next to your face. "not that big, my ass."
you move your head to the side to look into his eyes and press a kiss onto the scar on his cheek. "shush, big guy..."
click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃
AUTHOR'S NOTE: meow. dilf! jason todd got me going absolutely insane. he's so fucking hot, he's literally bruce's twin. dilf! jason todd and dilf! dick grayson, eiffel tower me, now! i saw him in 5 minutes and KNEW I had to write sum about him, he’s so fucking fine—
thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!
in which you leave gotham for a not-so-long trip, and a deeply anxious jason tries to hide how much he hates letting you out of his sight, only to refuse to let you go for days the second you return.
Jason had been standing by the counter for twenty minutes, ostensibly making coffee he wasn't drinking, his eyes fixed on the open suitcase lying on the bed down the hall. Every clothes hanger that clicked, every zipper pulled, every small, mundane action of your packing seemed to strike a raw nerve he was trying very hard to cover up behind a posture of bored indifference.
He came down the hallway with that quiet, heavy footed tread of his, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, shoulders broad and hunched just enough to betray the tension coiled in his neck.
"You really need three jackets?" he asked, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely lacking its usual casual bite. He gestured toward the bag with a sharp tilt of his chin. "It’s a trip, not an expedition to the arctic. You’re overpacking"
You paused, looking up from the bag where you were trying to fit the last few essentials. A soft, knowing smile tugged at your lips at the sheer transparency of his irritation. "It's cold where I'm going, Jay," you answered gently, folding the third jacket smaller to save space. "And knowing you, if I get a cold while I'm away, I'll never hear the end of it."
"I'm serious," he grumbled, refusing to look directly at you, though his gaze tracked your every move through his dark lashes. He stepped fully into the room, crossing over to the bed. Without asking, his large hands reached down to refold a sweater you had just set down. He did it meticulously, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles with unnecessary focus, just to have something to do with his hands. "Flights get delayed. Luggage gets lost. Half the places out there aren’t safe anyway, and you’re going to be carrying all this weight around by yourself."
"I can handle my own luggage, big guy," you replied softly, placing a hand over his busy ones to stop their restless movement. "I've planned out the route, the hotel is in a good area, and it's only a few days. It's going to go by fast."
"A few days is too long," Jason muttered under his breath, his hands coming to a halt under yours, though he didn't pull away.
As you reached down to pack a pair of shoes, his hand caught your wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his grip was absolute, grounding, heavy, and reluctant. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist once, measuring the steady pulse there, before he let out a short, harsh breath through his nose.
"Call me when you land," he commanded softly, the roughness in his voice slipping into something fiercely protective. "Not a text. A call. I don't care what time it is over there. You don't hit the pavement until I know you're off the plane."
"I will," you promised, turning your wrist in his grip so you could press your fingers against his palm. "First thing after I clear customs, I'm calling you. I swear."
He pulled you in then, sudden and unprompted, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into the crook of your neck. The embrace was almost suffocating, broad chest pressed solid against yours, his heart thumping a heavy, steady rhythm. For a man who spent half his life pretending he didn't care about anything, the way he held you right before you left was always a full body confession. He didn't say I'll miss you. He just held on until the very last second, his breathing warm and ragged against your skin, letting you carry the weight of his anxiety with you.
Three days later, the return trip felt like a haze of jetlag and noise, but the moment you stepped into the arrival terminal, the atmosphere shifted.
Jason was standing near the edge of the crowd, away from the main flow of traffic, trying, and failing, to look like a regular guy waiting for a flight. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark leather jacket, his eyes darting methodically over the faces coming through the gates. The moment his eyes landed on you, the tight, rigid set of his jaw visibly melted.
He didn't wait for you to drag your bag over. He closed the distance between you in four long, urgent strides.
Before you could even speak his name, he had hauled you straight off your feet, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and burying his face deep into your hair. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, taking in the familiar scent of you beneath the stale airport air, and held you suspended for several seconds just to prove to himself that you were actually there, solid and real in his arms.
"You took your sweet time" he muttered into your shoulder, his voice thick and rough. When he finally set you down, he didn't let go. One hand stayed clamped firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers threaded through your hair, while his thumb stroked your cheek bone with an intensity that bordered on fierce. His dark eyes searched your face, scanning every detail as if looking for any sign that the world had bruised you while you were out of his sight.
"Come on," he grunted, taking your heavy bag in his free hand without a second thought, while his other hand immediately slid down to interlock his fingers tightly with yours. "Let's get out of here."
The first night back, the clinginess wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
Jason didn't leave your side. If you went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, you’d turn around to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching you with quiet, hawkish intensity. If you sat on the sofa, he was right next to you, not just near you, but pressed up against your side, one heavy arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his side so tightly that your head rested against his chest.
By the second afternoon, the pattern hadn't broken; if anything, he’d settled deeper into it.
You were sitting on the couch trying to read, but Jason had effectively neutralized any possibility of productivity. He was lying down with his long frame stretched out across the cushions, his head resting squarely in your lap. One of his large hands was resting on your knee, his fingers lazily tracing random patterns over the fabric of your pants, while his other arm was tucked around your waist, tethering you to him.
"Jason," you murmured, running a hand through the dark hair at the crown of his head, your fingers catching slightly on the white streak near his forehead. "I need to get up for a second."
A low, rumbling groan came from his chest. His grip on your waist tightened instantly, pulling you down an inch lower.
"No," he said, simple and stubborn, his face burying deeper into your stomach.
"I've been sitting here for three hours."
"Good. You were gone for three hundred. You owe me." He turned his head slightly, peering up at you through dark, heavy lidded eyes. The sharp, violent edge he wore out on the streets of Gotham was entirely stripped away here, replaced by a quiet, protective possessiveness that he only ever allowed you to see. "You're staying right here."
"I was just going to grab my phone" you chuckled, your fingers massaging the base of his neck, feeling the thick tension in his muscles finally give way under your touch.
Jason reached down into his jacket pocket, which was tossed onto the floor beside the couch, pulled your phone out, and set it on your chest without even looking. "There. Problem solved. Don't move."
He brought your hand down from his hair to his mouth, pressing a long, warm kiss to the back of your knuckles, then to your palm, before resting your hand over his cheek. He held it there, his calloused skin warm against yours, his thumb absently rubbing your wrist where he had measured your pulse two weeks ago.
"I hated it," he admitted softly, the room quiet save for the distant murmur of Gotham traffic outside. He didn't look up, but the honesty in his voice was stark, stripped of any bravado. "Place felt like a morgue while you were gone. Couldn't sleep. Every time the floorboards creaked, I thought..." He let the sentence hang, shaking his head slightly.
He shifted, lifting his upper body just enough to rest his chin on your chest, looking up at you with a heavy, unwavering stare. His hand moved to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jaw line.
"You aren't going anywhere for a long time," he said, not as a command, but as a quiet, unspoken plea wrapped in his usual rough delivery. "Got it?"
You smiled, thumbing over the small scar near his lip. "Got it"
Jason grunted in satisfaction, leaning up just enough to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, slow, deliberate, and full of a quiet hunger that had been building for fourteen days. When he pulled back, he didn't move away; he just rested his forehead against yours, breathing in the quiet safety of the apartment, content to stay exactly where he was for as long as you'd let him.
── (18+) in which big strong redhood makes you choke him during sex! ꨄ︎ ; unprotected p in v, breathplay, cowgirl position, praise, pet names (baby)
JASON TODD who insists you choke him during sex.
it happened accidentally— your hand resting against his throat while riding him, pressing down a little too hard against the hot, flushed skin, and not noticing until he suddenly spoke up.
"you fuckin' choking me?" he makes a noise between a scoff and a groan, voice low and gravely, breaking you out of your pleasure induced trance. your hand flies away like you've been burned, your hips faltering in their desperate bouncing movement on his cock. "ohgod–" your eyes widen, "jay- m'so sorry baby" you rake your eyes over his body for any sign of discomfort, did you hurt him? is he okay? did he--
"i didn't say stop."
it catches you off-guard, that gruff voice telling you to do something to him rather than the other way around. his large, calloused palms meet the fat of your hips, directing your movements so that his cock starts plunging in and out of your sopping cunt once again. he's amused, watching your brows furrow softly in confusion and pleasure, a shit eating grin plastered on his face.
"cmon, baby" he gives your ass a slap, enough to have your velvet heat fluttering around him. "you're not dumb, are you?" he speaks so casually, taking entertainment in the way you can't decide what to do. you shake your head hesistantly, earning a low, soft chuckle from him. "yeah, you're a smart girl..." he trails off, taking your hands in his and bringing them to rest against his neck. "just press down, s'all you gotta do" he reassures you, practically cooing at you to strangle him.
and what can you do when he's looking at you like that-- eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and bitten, his face tinted a pretty pink, expression one of pure hunger, except for wrap your fingers around his throat and squeeze.
the smirk on his face falters, his face twisting in pleasure when you start bouncing on his dick again, lewd plap plap plap! sounds filling the room, your hands around his neck an added stimulation. you tighten your fingers where they rest around his throat, feeling the muscle and tendons underneath his skin. the hitch of his breath as that pressure increases.
"there ya' go" he wheezes out a string of praises, what's left of his breath fanning over your hot skin. his cock is practically impaling you, your orgasm building unusually quick low in in your tummy at the sight of him. the veins are popping on his forehead, skin a deep, beet red from the blood flooding his head.
his eyes are half-lidded, like he's about to pass out. his hips bucking up into your heat speak for him though, he's right where he wants to be.
you could laugh at this if he wasn't so deep that you could feel him in your throat, your big, burly boyfriend being choked by someone nearly half his size. you're barely scratching the surface of "hurting him".
his mind is clouded with arousal, he's so dizzy that all he can focus on is you-- how beautiful you look cutting off his air, and how good you feel wrapped around his shaft, a creamy white base of slick forming at the base of his cock from just how long the two of you have been fucking. how did he get so lucky with a girl like you?
he chokes out a raspy groan when your thumb presses down harder on his airway, the exact thing that sends him over the edge. you cum together, because god, it's hot knowing jason todd is a masochist, that you abusing him is enough for him to cum quicker than he ever has.
"oh fuck--! baby--" his name comes out in a cry, tearing from your throat as your pussy clenches around him, leading you to forget that you're still controlling your boyfriends air intake.
as for jason, he simply cannot make any noise, because of the two hands not allowing him to, except for a low, wheezing groan, while his load inside of you-- hot and sticky pulsing into your womb. he never signals for you to let up though, he wouldn't dare to tap out.
when you finally pull away, you watch him sputter at the sudden abundance of air, clearing his throat and letting that cocky smile take its place back on his face.
there's remnants of your hands— dark purple fingerprints blooming beautifully on the sides of his neck. you wish he could see, because you know he would get hard all over again from the prospect of his girl marking him up.
the bruises almost look like hickeys, something far more vanilla than what he just had you do to him.
he doesn't pull out, simply coaxes you down to rest against his broad chest, pressing soft kisses to your hairline like he's the one who should apologize.
"fuck-- we gotta start doin' that more" he's still catching his breath, chest heaving up and down. you can't exactly tell what he means by "more", if he'll make you choke him, or if he'll choke you.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 SUMMARY: lying to BOXER! JASON TODD about being a virgin… so don’t be that surprised when you cum so easy for him!
ⓘ CONTENT WARNINGS: lying about virginity, overstimulationnnn, teasing! boxer! jason todd! MINORS DNI! -> fem! virgin! reader ノgentle sex ノdirty talk ノ virginity loss ノ unprotected sex ノ multiple orgasms ノ praise kink ノ tiny bit of a strength kink!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: sorry, I’ve been on a boxer! jason todd high so muchhhhh, I just love him, sorry not sorry! this is inspired by the hot concept of men lying about being virgins and cumming prematurely but make it reader because lowkey? it’s just an excuse for jason to abuse that pussy 🫠 dare i say i have knight/medieval! jason todd in the works rn cause finn bennett as aerion targaryen awoken my soul for knight! characters.
honestly, you weren’t that much of a liar.
you didn’t like to lie— there was something weird about it. something weird about looking someone in the face and lying your ass off. you only lied a couple of times about small things; being sick, not wanting to go on a date, not wanting to hang out… simple things. not things like this.
and to be completely and utterly honest; you didn’t exactly stop lying when it came to getting into bed with jason todd.
you knew who he was— a famous boxer with too many wins to count, but you acted oblivious to his boxing resume when he first approached to you at a small diner. he found you attractive when he was eating with his big brother, dick— yes. his name is dick, doesn’t like going by richard— and dick encouraged him to approach you. so you shared your number with him and began to text him.
things fell into place and a month of talking… he invited you to one of his fights. a big boxing fight, he’s the biggest name on the card. and watching from the third row as jason knocked his opponent out in the third round… you knew damn well what was going to happen later that night.
the problem? you were not quite… experienced at sex.
you have masturbated, you have touched yourself and have used sex toys on yourself. you’ve kissed people in high school and you’ve let them touch you up… but nothing as far as that. just, it hasn’t happened naturally. it wasn’t some weird obligation thing, you weren’t saving yourself for marriage or for anyone special… it just didn’t feel right any time it came down to it, so now? as a hard working adult seeing this boxer? you knew damn well you’d have to face it.
so after celebrating jason’s win at his favorite local burger place— always feeling his rough hand on yours even as you ate, you brought him to your place… and of course, when two hot people who are very attracted to each other are alone… things get hot and steamy.
he got you over the finish line with ease the moment his mouth sucked on your clit, flicking his tongue up and down and using two of his fingers in your tight cunt to cum, eating the cum off his fingers with glee as clothes came off, hair was pulled, and jason was stroking his cock with lube (mixed with a little bit of your own cum cause how could he not?).
“jason… mhm…” you whisper, your legs already spread on the bed as your hands clasped in the bedsheets. you couldn’t lie; you were absolutely nervous.
sure, you’ve played with yourself before— you’ve stuck a dildo in your cunt a couple of times. you know what it feels like to be stretched by a silicone toy that was listed as six inches long and was about five and a half inches… but this was different.
this was a real dick, a real cock attached to a very attractive boxer that you just happened to get the attention of.
jason smiled down at you as his right hand stayed on his seven inch cock, his left hand gently stroking up and down your leg as his body keeps your legs open. “you’re pretty, baby.” he whispers, leaning down and kissing your left knee. “such a cute girl… all spread f’me…”
your face heats up internally at his compliments, it felt good to be flirted with, especially by jason with his stupidly hot voice and his demeanor. “jason, mhm…” you respond back, mentally preparing yourself for how this is gonna feel— it’s just like a dildo, the stretch and the feeling, you could handle it; of course you can!
jason lined his tip up with your folds and leaned down, kissing your lips and whispering against your lips. “if you can’t handle it, tell me sweetheart, ain’t trying to hurt you, promise.”
you nod your head, wrapping both arms around his neck. “of course, jay… now fuck me.” oh the confidence you have.
he smiles at your words and press against your cunt, his tip feeling the warmness of your cunt as you seemingly let him in with no problem. he’s slow to push into you, being oh so gentle with his hips as his left hand digs into the bed, his right hand pressed on top of your abdomen as he’s careful with his ease into you.
and fuck fuck fuck— it feels so good. it feels too good.
you could barely feel anything else besides jason stretching you with his cock— naturally, this felt different than the dildo, the skin of jason’s cock different than the silicone. he was so much better and thicker than the toy, warmer than the toy as well— everything felt overwhelming that you didn’t know if you could handle much more… and the pathetic part was that he was only three inches in, he still had four more inches to go and you already feel like this.
“jason! jason! oh fuckkkkk, jayyyy.” you moan out, fingers digging into the back of his neck, your pussy fluttering ‘round him as your toes curled in the air. “s-so good… so full… oh fuck.”
he smiles above you as he kisses your moaning lips, gently continuing his movements, taking your moans as good enough to keep moving. “good girl… taking me so fuckin’ well, bet this pussy misses being treated so good.”
yeah; my pussy has never been treated any which way, but obviously— you couldn’t fucking say that, so you just moan in response, vibrating against his skin.
you felt so warm inside, you couldn’t stop your pleasure from climbing just by him pushing into you and his lips on your skin, you just couldn’t help it. it felt too fucking good.
not knowing what to do— you couldn’t stop yourself, and with barely three thrusts in… you felt yourself slipping over the same edge that his mouth brought you over. his hips don’t sputter once, his face hidden in your neck as he pressed kisses in your neck— your eyes rolling back as your nails dug into his biceps.
it felt so fucking good, your pussy was fluttering and you felt pleasure push and flow through your veins.
jason mutters a curse as he watches you, star struck by your expression and almost surprised— he’s not mean about his expression either, he’s shocked he was able to make you cum this fast… “oh baby, you already cummed?” he questions, leaning down and pressing a kiss on your lips. “good to know i make you feel this good.”
“ah— ah! oh fuck, jay!” you moan in overstimulation, back arching off the bed and pressing your breasts against his broad chest. “ah— ‘m sorry! ‘m sorry… didn’t me-mean to.”
jason looks at you with soft eyes that even makes you tear up, leaning down and kissing your cheek. “don’t apologize f’me baby, don’t ever apologize for cumming so beautifully.” he encourages, continuing his thrusts even with your orgasm melting through you. “this pussy loves me, huh?”
your fingers digs down into his back as you whine, breathing deep as jason continues to ruin you. “jay— jay, c’can’t take it— oh fuck… oh fuck!”
“you’re taking it great baby, just hold out f’me, hun, you’ll feel good again.” he whispers, kissing your lips.
the kiss is sloppy and barely there on your side, but you try to kiss him again, heat overtaking your entire body as overstimulation slowly subsidies and suddenly feeling that same build up as last time.
you whimper against his lips as your hands both thread through his messy black hair, nails yanking on him as you feel his cock drag against your walls again, his balls slapping against your cunt.
he moans as you squeeze around him, both hands holding onto your thighs. “beautiful girl… betcha you need to cum again, huh?”
nodding your head, you bite into his shoulder, the pain of the overstimulation and the pleasure of your orgasm ruins you before you could confirm anything to him; your eyes rolling back and the scream of his name gives him the confirmation.
you just cummed again and he’s looking at you like a fucking angel on this earth.
“there you go… cum, cum all over my shit, baby.” he encourages. “lemme see this pretty face fucking wrecked for me again.”
maybe lying about your virginity to your boyfriend was the best idea ever, cause it got you fucked like this!
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"
“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.
“Jason, you’re joking.”
“I never joke about closing hours.” He muses.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
“Hey—”
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”
“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”
“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
“There a problem?”
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”
“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”
"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”
“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”
His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
“Jason.”
“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”
You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
⊹ ࣪ ˖ in which you and Jason place a bet to see who can go the longest without touching the other person.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: reader plays dirty, roy is kinda ooc, this is all Roy’s fault don’t look at me, jason goes insane,
The apartment was quiet for once, saved from the usual chaos of the vigilante lifestyle. Morning light streamed through the blinds of the kitchen, casting warm, golden bars across the worn wooden table. You were leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee warm between your hands, fully enjoying the rare, tranquil quiet.
Then, heavy boots thumped softly down the hallway, and Jason stepped into the kitchen.
He was wearing a faded gray henley, his dark hair a messy bedhead spike, and his eyes still soft with sleep. The moment his gaze found you, that signature lazy, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't say a word. He just strolled over, closing the distance between you, and dropped his hands onto the counter on either side of your hips, trapping you gently in his orbit.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
You let out a quiet sigh against his mouth, setting your mug down to wrap your fingers around his wrists. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes sparkling, before dipping down to press another short kiss to your cheek, then your chin, and back to your lips. It was sweet and lazy, and sickeningly affectionate.
"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
"Morning, Jay," you hummed, smiling against another quick press of his lips.
"Will you two please get a room? Or at least put a biohazard warning on the kitchen door?"
The familiarly obnoxious, loud and dramatic voice shattered the moment. Roy was leaning against the doorframe, a half-empty juice box in his hand, looking at the two of you with profound, theatrical disgust.
Roy Harper had a habit of inviting himself into your home and then acting like you were a guest.
"Seriously," Roy groaned, taking a loud sip through his straw. "It’s eight in the morning. You two physically cannot keep your hands off each other for five minutes. It’s sickening. I come down for apple juice and I’m subjected to a puke-fest"
You immediately pulled back from Jason, flushing slightly, though you pointed a defensive finger straight at your boyfriend. "Hey! Don't look at me! I'm not the clingy one, it’s Jason!"
"Me?!" Jason scoffed, dropping his hands from the counter and standing up straight, taking a step back with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Are you serious right now? I'm clingy? Sweetheart, you were literally gripping my wrists like a drowning person ten seconds ago."
"Because you came over here and invaded my personal space!" you shot back, stepping forward and poking him sharply in the chest. "You're the one who can't go two seconds without touching me, hugging me, or stealing a kiss! You're like a giant, heavily armed koala!"
"A koala?" Jason repeated, raising a single, sharp brow. "Me? No. Im a lethal vigilante. And for the record, you are the one who whines if I don't cuddle you while we watch movies."
"I do not whine!"
"You literally snuggled into my side so hard yesterday you almost knocked me off the couch," Jason countered.
“i was scared!”
“We were literally watching my little pony!”
“King Sombra is terrifying?”
"Face it. You’re attached to my hip. You'd lose your mind if I didn't touch you for an hour."
"Oh, is that a challenge, Todd?" you snapped, your eyes narrowing as a sudden, brilliant idea sparked in your mind.
For months, you had been trying to pay for dinner. One dinner. Just a single pizza, or a nice sit-down meal, or even takeout. But Jason was infuriatingly, pathologically stubborn about money.
The man would literally fight a waiter, hack a card reader, or threaten a host before he let you pull out your wallet. He claimed it was his ‘right’ and by paying, you were being oppressive and stealing his rights. It drove you absolutely insane.
And right now, standing in the kitchen with Roy watching like it was a soap opera, your golden opportunity had just presented itself.
"You know what?" you said, folding your arms and looking up at him with supreme confidence. "Let's put your money where your big mouth is. A bet."
Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "A bet?"
"Yes. A test to see who is actually the clingy one," you declared. "The rules are simple: we have to stay at least 10 inches away from each other at all times. No touching. No kissing. No holding hands. No leaning on each other. Nothing. The first person who caves and breaks the distance loses."
Jason hummed, rolling his shoulders. "And what are the stakes?"
You smirked, leaning in just a fraction before remembering the rule and stepping back. "Whoever loses has to let the winner pay for dinner. For the next three months."
Roy let out a low whistle from the doorway. "Damn. High stakes. Todd, your fragile masculinity is on the line."
Jason ignored Roy entirely, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The amusement in his expression shifted into a razor-sharp, ridiculously competitive glare. The idea of letting you pay for his food for three whole months was clearly appalling to his deeply ingrained, stubborn street-dog pride.
"Three months?" Jason murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You're dreaming, sweetheart. There is no way in hell you are ever paying for anything. I'm going to crush you."
"We'll see about that, Todd," you chimed, checking your watch. "Starting... now. 10 inches."
Jason took a deliberate, dramatic step back, maintaining a wide gap between the two of you. "Prepare to lose, clingy."
The first few hours weren't terrible. In fact, they were almost funny.
You sat on opposite ends of the couch, watching TV, both of you hyper-aware of the space between you. Every time Jason absentmindedly reached out to rest his arm behind your shoulders, he would freeze, remember the bet, see your smug grin, and quickly snatch his hand back, glaring at you.
By evening, however, the reality of the bet began to set in.
Normally, when you cooked dinner, Jason would stand right behind you, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder while you stirred the pot. Tonight, he stood exactly ten inches away, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, staring at the back of your head like a man dying of thirst while watching someone pour water on the ground.
"You know," you said casually, stirring the pasta sauce, "you can help."
"I am helping," Jason grunted, not moving an inch. "I'm supervising. From a safe, non-losing distance."
"You look like a statue, Jay."
"I am a fortress of willpower," he replied stiffly.
The real nightmare, however, began when it was time to go to sleep.
Sharing a king-sized bed sounded easy enough in theory, but in practice, it was pure torture. You were used to sleeping pressed against Jason’s chest, feeling the steady, warm rise and fall of his breathing, anchored by his heavy arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Jason was used to sleeping with you tucked securely under his chin, his protective instincts lulled to sleep by your proximity.
Now? You were lying on your side, staring at the wall, while Jason lay rigid on his back on his side of the mattress.
The gap of ten inches between you felt like a glowing, electric canyon.
Every time you shifted, the mattress moved, and you could hear Jason’s breath hitch in the dark.
"You asleep?" you whispered into the darkness.
"No," Jason’s voice rasped out. It was strained. "I am holding the line."
"You can just give in, you know," you coaxed softly, turning your head to look at him. "All you have to do is say I win, and you get to hold me."
"Nice try," Jason ground out through grit teeth. You heard his jaw clench. "Not happening. My credit card is ready for tomorrow's dinner. Go to sleep."
You sighed, turning back around.
It was a long, sleepless night. Every time you drifted off, you instinctively reached out, only to catch yourself at the last second and yank your hand back. And every time you did, you could hear Jason rustling frantically, physically fighting the urge to pull you into his arms.
When morning finally arrived, light crept slowly through the bedroom curtains. You stretched, letting out a soft yawn, and sat up on the bed.
"Jason?" you murmured softly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
Sitting on the very edge of his side of the mattress was Jason.
He hadn't changed out of his clothes. He hadn't pulled the blanket over himself. He was just sitting there, staring blankly at the far wall, looking like a man who had survived a war zone. His hair was wild and sticking up in every direction, deep dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and he looked visually exhausted.
Jason slowly, mechanically turned his head toward you. His neck let out a loud, alarming CRACK.
"Sleep is for the weak," Jason rasped. His voice sounded like he had spent the night swallowing glass. His left eye twitched again, hard.
"Jay, oh my god," you said, reaching out instinctively toward him—
"DONT!" Jason practically shrieked, flinching violently backward and throwing his entire upper body off the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a loud THUD.
He scrambled backward on his elbows until his back hit the wall, keeping a full six feet between you. He was panting, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and unhinged as he stared at your outstretched hand.
"Do not touch me!" Jason panted, holding up a warning finger, his hand visibly shaking. "I saw that! You tried to tag me while I was down! Disqualification! Foul!"
"I wasn't trying to tag you, you psycho, I was checking if you were having a stroke!" you yelled, sitting back on your heels on the mattress. "Look at you! Your eye is literally twitching! You didn't sleep a single minute, did you?!"
"I slept great," Jason lied defensively, his left eye twitching twice in rapid succession. He pushed himself up against the wall, standing on shaky legs. "I feel fantastic. I have never been more alert in my life. The distance is easy. Painless."
"You look like a caffeinated sleep-deprived zombie, Jason," you scoffed, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "Just give up. Let me pay."
"Over my dead body," Jason snapped, straightening his posture, though his eyes darted hungrily to your lips before he forcibly tore his gaze away. "Ten inches, sweetheart. Remember the rules."
By afternoon, the lack of touch and sleep had completely broken Jason’s brain, and you decided it was time to deploy heavy tactical warfare.
You knew Jason Todd better than anyone. You knew he was a tough, ruthless crime lord on the outside, but on the inside—especially when it came to you—he was a deeply protective, fiercely devoted sap who couldn't bear the thought of you feeling hurt, sad, or insecure.
If playing nice wasn't going to break him, psychological manipulation was.
You sat down on the couch in the main living room, intentionally slumping your shoulders. You let out a quiet, heavy, miserable sigh, dropping your head into your hands.
Jason was standing near the bookshelf, pretending to read a novel, but his eyes were darting toward you every three seconds. The moment he heard your mournful sigh, his body went rigid.
"Something wrong?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice was laced with immediate, low-level anxiety.
You didn't look up. You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs, making yourself look as small and vulnerable as humanly possible.
"I feel sad, Jay," you murmured, your voice small, flat, and hollow.
Jason’s hands tightened on the book so hard the leather spine creaked. "Sad? Why? Did something happen? Who do I need to shoot?"
"No one," you sniffled quietly, letting out another shuddering breath. "I just... I just feel like I wanna be understood."
Jason’s left eye twitched. He took two step toward the couch, stopping dead at the ten-inch boundary. His breath was coming in short, shallow puffs. You could practically hear his internal organs screaming. He wanted to throw the book across the room, drop to his knees, pull you into his lap, and kiss your forehead until you felt better.
"Understood?" he echoed, his voice strained to the absolute breaking point. "Sweetheart, I understand you. I get you. Talk to me."
"No, you don't," you whispered, turning your head away, dropping your chin to your knees so your eyes looked glossy and sad. "I just... I feel so unloved today."
THUD.
Jason dropped the book onto the floor.
His eyes were completely blown out, filled with a sudden, overwhelming, visceral panic. "Unloved?! What the hell are you talking about?! I love you! I literally love you more than life itself, you know that!"
He took a frantic step closer, his hands hovering in mid-air just inches from your shoulders.
"I don't know..." you whimpered softly, pulling out the absolute big guns, your voice trailing off into a pitiful murmur. "I don't feel pretty today, Jay. Am I ugly? Is that why no one loves me?"
Jason looked like he had just been stabbed through the heart
"Ugly?!" he roared quietly, his voice cracking with pure horror. "Are you insane?! You're the most beautiful person on the entire planet! Who put that garbage in your head?! I'll kill them! I promise i will. I’ll even torture them if you want. I will literally track them down and murder them!"
"I just feel so gross," you whimpered, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes, doing your absolute best to pout. "Like... I mean, look at me..."
He slowly began to sink to his knees in front of you, his face twisted in deep, genuine concern.
"Baby, please," Jason pleaded softly, his voice trembling as he reached his hands out, hovering barely half an inch from your face. "Don't say that. Look at me. Please look at me. You're stunning. You're perfect. I'm right here. I'm right here, baby, just..."
You let out a tiny, shuddering breath, a single tear spilling over your cheek—
And then, just as Jason was about to lose it completely, throw his arms around you, and cave...
He caught it.
A tiny, microscopic, triumphant little smirk peeked through the corner of your trembling lips.
Jason froze.
His brain processed the smirk in half a second. The realization hit him like a lightning bolt.
The concern drained from his face, replaced instantly by an expression of pure, unbridled, disbelief.
"You..." Jason whispered, his voice dropping into a deadly rumble. "You little—”
You immediately dropped the sad act, breaking into a bright, wicked laugh as you leaned back onto the couch. "Damn it! I almost had you!"
"You were faking?!" Jason practically yelled, standing up so fast his chair wobbled. He pointed a shaking finger at you, his eye twitching furiously once more. "You used psychological warfare on me! You pretended to feel ugly! You knew that would hit my weak spot! You almost gave me a heart attack!"
"All's fair in love and war, Todd!" you laughed, crossing your arms smugly. "You almost caved!"
"Almost doesn't count!" Jason shouted, pacing back and forth across the rug, keeping his ten-inch distance while glaring at you like you were a criminal mastermind. "That was evil! That was pure evil! You are a terrible person! And I am never letting you pay for dinner now! Never!"
If jason was bad one day one, it was nothing compared to day two.
The combination of zero sleep, the agonizing lack of physical contact, and the sheer mental exhaustion of resisting your psychological traps had pushed him over the edge.
He was an absolute, terrifying asshole to literally everyone who dared exist in his vicinity.
When Damian walked past the living room and made a snide remark about Jason looking like a defeated stray dog, Jason didn't even argue—he just pulled a batarang out of his pocket and threw it so close to Damian's head it embedded itself two inches deep into the doorframe right next to his ear.
When Roy tried to ask him a normal question about a case, Jason threatened to break all ten of his fingers and feed them to the sewer rats.
The only exception to his rage was you.
Toward you, Jason was agonizingly gentle, absurdly attentive, and sickeningly polite—which somehow made the whole situation ten times scarier.
"Do you need more tea, sweetheart?" Jason would ask softly, standing exactly ten inches away, his voice dripping with pure tenderness, his eyes soft and loving.
"I'm good, Jay, thank you," you'd reply.
"Okay, beautiful. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all," he’d murmur sweetly.
Then, the second Steph walked into the room, breathing, Jason’s head would snap around, his face morphing into a terrifying mask of rage. "If you make one more noise in this room, Brown, I will throw you off the roof of Gotham General."
It was absolute madness.
You were sitting on the edge of the kitchen island, kicking your legs softly, watching Jason aggressively aggressively sanitize the counter five feet away from you. He looked like he was one minor inconvenience away from starting a riot.
Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You pulled it out and unlocked the screen. It was a text string from Dick.
Dick: PLEASE.
Dick: I am begging you, on my hands and knees, cave.
Dick: please please please
Dick: He threatened to burn down the Batcave.
Dick: He is losing his absolute mind. End the bet.
Dick: WE ARE DYING OUT HERE. HE IS GOING TO KILL US ALL.
You bit your lip, holding back a laugh, and looked up from your screen.
Jason was standing near the sink, gripping the edge of the marble counter so hard his knuckles were snow-white. He was staring at you. His dark eyes were filled with a desperate, starved, exhausted hunger. He looked like a man dying in the desert staring at an glass of water, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, looking completely defeated, miserable, and utterly desperate.
He looked so pitiful, so thoroughly broken by his own stubborn pride, that your heart melted a little.
You let out a soft, defeated huff of laughter, tossing your phone onto the counter behind you.
"Alright, Jay," you sighed, taking a deliberate step forward and opening your arms wide. "I cave. You win."
You didn't even get to finish the last word.
The moment the words 'I cave' left your mouth, Jason's reaction time was terrifying.
He crossed the distance between you in a blur of movement, practically tackling you backwards onto the kitchen island.
His heavy, broad arms wrapped around you with a suffocating, desperate tightness, pulling you so close there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between your bodies. He buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, deep, shuddering groan of relief.
"Thank God," he gasped against your skin, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it bordering on bruising, anchoring himself to you as if he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. "Jesus fucking Christ. Never doing that again. Ever."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his massive shoulders, burying your hands in his soft, messy dark hair and massaging his scalp softly. "You were going insane, Todd."
"I was dying," he corrected aggressively, his voice muffled in your shoulder. "I was literally dying. My brain was melting."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were still tired, his eye still had a tiny lingering twitch, but the murderous rage was completely gone, replaced by a warm, smitten, completely victorious smirk.
"Damn right I win," Jason murmured, his thumb coming up to trace your lower lip gently. "You fought dirty with that sad act, sweetheart, but my willpower is legendary."
"You looked like you were going to cry when I said I felt ugly," you pointed out playfully.
"Shut up," Jason grunted, though a dark flush crept up his neck. "I was worried about you."
"Now," Jason growled softly, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he kissed the tip of your nose. "Get your shoes on, sweetheart."
"Where are we going?" you asked, smiling up at him.
"Out," Jason smirked, wrapping his hand firmly around yours and tugging you toward the front door, making sure to squeeze your fingers extra tight just because he finally could. "To the most expensive steakhouse in Gotham. And I am paying."
a/n i keep raising my own standards and then wondering why im single…
SYNOPSIS: "Sure, baby." He smiles down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, twirling it around his finger before tucking it behind an ear. "You'd think after the last-"
His body catches it before his mind does, and she watches in real time as Jason tenses, then trails off, the amusement draining from his expression. "What is it?" She whispers, confused. Her hand curls around his, squeezing.
Their front door breaks into splinters with a loud bang.
NOTE: It's actually been ages
MASTERLIST
"Let me up!" She giggles, trying to squirm away from under him. Jason is heavy, mostly muscle, and has no problem pinning her down with his body weight. A lazy smile stretches across his face, eyes glinting with amusement. "Jason!"
"Nah, you had so much to say earlier." He digs his fingers into her waist and yanks her back down under him easily. "Where's all that attitude now, huh?"
Rare were these days, where the Gotham smog cleared to show hints and flashes of the stars speckling the night's sky through their apartment's window. Days where neither of them came home with their shoulders set heavy, the slight weight of the world on them despite the years both of them have had to assimilate to the fact that that just is part of living in this city.
She doesn't even remember how they started play fighting, just that there had been a playful jab here, a chase around their kitchen table, laughter, and then the soft impact of Jason tackling her onto the couch cushions before dragging them both to the ground. Always careful, despite his strength, always cautious to cushion her landing physically and metaphorically.
It's carefree, for a moment. She's just her, and he's just Jason, and none of the darkness outside the rusty hinges of their front door exists.
Reaching around him, her fingers tangle in the hair near the back of his head, and she tugs him down. Jason fights it for a moment, just to see her giggle and then he relents, kissing her firmly, taking his time because God knows so much of it is already behind him. "I'm letting you win this time." She mumbles into his mouth, and Jason can't manage to hold back a snicker while he pulls away.
"Sure, baby." He smiles down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, twirling it around his finger before tucking it behind an ear. "You'd think after the last-"
His body catches it before his mind does, and she watches in real time as Jason tenses, then trails off, the amusement draining from his expression. She moves to sit up upon sensing the change, but a hand to her shoulder pushes her back down and still. "Stop." He says, head cocked to the side, brow furrowed in concentration.
"What is it?" She whispers, confused. Her hand curls around his, squeezing.
His eyes narrow. "I think-"
Their front door breaks into splinters with a loud bang.
Jason swears, immediately throws himself forward to cover her body with his own, arms around her head as pieces of wood fly over the couch. Her hands come to grab at him in shock, and once the dust settles they only have a moment to pull away and make eyes contact before Jason is ripped away and thrown against the coffee table hard enough to shatter the glass.
"What the fuck?" He snarls, sitting up with a wince, adrenaline catching fire in his blood. "Who-"
When Jason's finally calm enough to blink the sudden wave of anger out of his vision, his back stiffens. Caught between the smoking barrel of a shotgun and a headlock, is her.
To her credit, she doesn't look panicked. If the pinch in her brow is something to go by she's furious, but there's a controlled glint in her eyes that tells him she's tampering down her real fear to unpack later.
"Stay down." The man says. Two others in similar cloth masks scatter around the apartment, pulling out drawers and shoving things into bags.
Jason stands, and the man shoves the gun against his girlfriend's head hard enough for her to stifle a groan. He catalogues the sound, remembers it for when he'll pay it back tenfold later.
He's cautious, but knows that the man likely won't pull the trigger so soon, not when he has easy leverage against him. Was this a random robbery, or a personal attack on him, is the main question. By the looks of it there's nothing to suggest that anyone is really interested in Jason aside from keeping him from making a move.
"The fuck do you want?" He snarls, hands bunching into fists. Something dark thrums right under his skin, infecting his blood with a poisoning green that Jason has finally come to co-exist with.
"Nothing personal." Jackass 1 says with a shrug, and the inflection in his tone suggests he's smiling. "Running low on cash, my boys and I gotta keep the lights on."
No way Redhood just got caught in the middle of a random robbery.
If Tim was here he'd be laughing.
Jason feels the farthest thing from amused.
If this were just his place, he'd be less bothered about it maybe, but it isn't. It's theirs. Something crafted from years of living together, every corner holding something of value may that be monetary or sentimental. His and his girls. Their bed where they sleep every night, their kitchen table they use for those sleepless nights, their living room Jason often than not collapses in after a long patrol. Echoes of them live in the rooms, and it's one of the few sanctuaries Jason feels he can shed his armour without the fear of it getting thrown back in his face.
And now it's been tainted.
Drawers emptied out, photo frames on the floor, and a gun pressed to his girl's head.
The freak goes to say something else, maybe to taunt him or demand the location of whatever he thinks he's going to find, but nothing but a howl comes out of his mouth as Jason watches the woman he loves rear her head back and crack it against the bastards nose, her free hand pushing the barrel of the gun away from her temple just as it goes off.
The noise is deafening, leaves a ringing in her ears that's almost unbearable, but the momentum is enough for her to shove the man off and stumble against one of the walls, hand pressed against her ear in pain. She trusts him to handle it, trusts him enough to squeeze her eyes shut and focus on not throwing up all over their new rug.
'Atta girl' Jason thinks viciously, and after sparing a glance just to see her whole and in one piece, he launches himself forward with an amount of grace surprising for a man of his stature.
Jason snarls, rips the gun out of the man's hand and slams the rear end of it into his head, kicking him hard in the chest to send him crashing into the wall. The other two men have abandoned their pillaging in favour of pulling out small knives and jumping into the fray, trying to take him down.
Like hell.
They go down easy, further proof that this wasn't a professional job, just an unlucky encounter for both ends.
Jason disarms them both, knocks them out, and leaves them on the ground before picking up one of their knives and approaching the first guy on the ground who's struggling to push himself up against the wall.
He grabs the man by the hair and yanks it backwards painfully, standing over him with a scowl. "Bad day to be you, shithead."
Then he drives the knife straight into the man's wrist that held the gun, twisting until he's screaming and Jason can feel his bones crack and separate. He leaves the blade in their, tightens his grip on the bastard's head and slams it down onto the floorboards to knock him out.
Silence. The noise is over as soon as it started, the threat neutralised, but Jason still feels the tell-tale anger coursing through his veins. It's a struggle to soothe it, to remember that this isn't who he is now, that taking the lives of these three men would not make him feel better in the long run no matter how much his fingers itch to pull the trigger. Shaking it off, he turns to more important matters.
He's by her side in seconds, a hand on her back and urging her to straighten up from how she's standing all curled into herself.
"Hey." He breathes, voice dropped to a lower register. "We're good, it's alright, c'mon."
She shakes her head.
Alarm rings through him. "What's wrong?" Jason says, shifting to stand in front of her, hands on her shoulders. He practically pulls her upright
"Hurts..." She grits out, pale. "I...I can't hear clearly. Ringing." "Shit." She inhales with a shudder.
"Let me see." It comes out firmer, and this time when he tries to tilt her head up Jason doesn't let her fight it.
Blood drips down the side of her face, slick between her fingers that were pressed against the wound. Jason's breath hitches sharply as he brushes away her hair to inspect the damage. It's nothing severe, the gun firing just grazed the side of her forehead but everything's still intact, and she's still breathing, and Jason hasn't lost the best thing to ever happen to him over dumb Gotham luck-
A hand winds around his wrist, one that he hadn't noticed was shaking. "I'm fine." She finally says, blinking hard a few times and straightening up. She wobbles, and offers him a weak smile when Jason immediately steadies her by the waist. "It's okay, Jay."
"It's not." He swallows, glancing over his shoulder at the wreckage of their home. Bloodstains and dents in the walls, possessions thrown around, and blankets torn up. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, a heavy sort of sadness settles in him.
"I don't care about all that." She says softly, holding onto him as the tinnitus starts to fade. The sound is still dizzying, but much more bearable now. "Just that we're alright."
Jason lets out a long breath, and allows himself a moment to bury his face in her hair, breathing in her scent. He winds an arm around her, digs his phone out from his pocket with the other.
The screen is cracked.
"That'll need stitches." He mumbles, pulling away to frown at the bleeding again. "We're going to the cave, Alfred'll help."
Tired, she settles for a nod. They gather the few essential things they need and Jason kicks aside one of the men in front of the door roughly to get past and back outside. There's a little bit of satisfaction in that.
Tonight he'll watch over her, stay by her side and hover. That's just what he does, what Jason has always done after a close call. His bones ache with the need to protect, to stay close, to safeguard. Tonight is for soothing that rush of anger in him that he's barely keeping a leash on, just enough to make sure that she's settled and recovering well.
ᝰ.ᐟ can’t stop thinking about it being your first winter in gotham and jason cannot handle how underprepared you are. i’m talking, jason who can’t shut up about how you’ve gravely misinterpreted what winter in gotham is. for example, the coat you wear the first snow…is barely a coat. light, breezy, barely insulated. mostly cute rather than practical, and when jason lays eyes on it, he’s running his stupid mouth a mile a minute.
“fuck no. what in the absolute hell are you wearing, babe?” jason barks the minute you step outside. his hands have found their way out of his thick puffer coat’s pockets, snowflakes catching and melting on his black gloves as points to your attire.
you shrug, eyes already teary from the chill, “a coat? i wore it all the time back home.” you grab jason’s arm, pulling yourself into his warmth, “c’mon, i wanna get food before gotham decides to get colder. duke said freeze went berserk last year, i’m not jinxing it.
jason rolls his eyes at you, your sorry excuse for a coat, and the mention of mr. freeze, “we can get food after you come back out here in something built for the weather.”
you go to argue, but jason cuts you off with a tsk and an expression you would go as far to call snooty, “seriously. what the fuck were you thinking? we’ve already got five inches of snow and single digit temps through the night…and you come out here wearing a fuckin’ raincoat.”
“it’s not a raincoat, you ass!” by this point your fighting not to shiver in front of him. damn this gotham cold, and damn your gothamite boyfriend. it’s not your fault you underestimated how bad this shitty city’s winter could be.
jason looks at you for a long second. really looks. the way your shoulders are creeping up toward your ears, the way your nose is already running, the way you’re trying to pretend you’re not thirty seconds from becoming a human popsicle. his jaw tightens, “you’re literally vibrating.” he says flatly.
“i am not!” you immediately shiver. like, full body. teeth chattering and all.
he just stares at you. “fuck. i cannot believe you.” he’s glaring down at you, no hatred in it, just actual, jason todd, disappointment.
“you’re my girl, i can’t have you frozen in this city in the name of soup and hot chocolate.” and with that, he’s shrugging off that black puffer of his, exposing the obvious extra layers underneath it. you’re embarrassed he’s actually dressed for the weather. gloves, beanie, hoodie, thick sweater, and a thermal longsleeve. damn him to hell.
he’s shoving you into the (actual) coat before he even starts muttering, “wear this. you’re fucking crazy. actually fucking insane, babe.”
he doesn’t even wait for your permission. he just grabs your shoulders and turns you, shoves you forward a step, then swings the puffer around you.
it’s immediately too big. it swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past your hands.
but it’s also warm. so warm that is causes you to make a small, traitorous sound in your throat.
jason stops, slowly looks down at you, and squints.
“did you just fuckin’ purr?”
“no.” you lie.
he snorts and starts tugging the zipper up himself because of course his control freak psyche has taken the reigns. his fingers are quick and practiced even in gloves, like he’s stripping a gun instead of zipping up his girlfriend.
“unbelievable,” he mutters. “you come to gotham, walk out into a blizzard in a glorified windbreaker, and the second you’re too proud to admit defeat, you’re all, ‘oh, actually this is fine.’”
you burrow into the coat on instinct. it smells like his soap and cologne and a little like the metal of a gun, “this is really warm.”
“yeah. because it’s a real coat. that’s what they do.” he presses two fingers to your forehead like he’s checking for a fever, expression sardonic. “you got hypothermia already, baby? brain gone?”
you swat his hand. “be nice, todd. i just didn’t think it’d be that bad.”
he gives you a look. the kind that says he’s deciding whether to roast you alive, lecture you, or pick you up and carry you back inside your apartment.
he settles for the lecture, roasting hidden within.
“you’re in gotham city.” he says flatly. “winter here isn’t cute. it’s not a little chilly. gotham is actively trying to kill us all at all times. weather included, and sometimes with a guy in a cryo suit.”
“i already said duke told me about freeze—”
“yeah, and you still dressed like a—what the fuck is it called—uber outfits mannequin.”
you glare, “first of all, it’s urban outfitters. and second, i’m fine now.” you throw up your arms, puffer sleeves still covering your hands, “so can we…go? or are you going to starve me?”
“god forbid i starve you for five seconds to prevent you from becoming a human icicle.” he huffs, but holds his hand out for you to grab, “come on, let’s get food.”
you hum, both happy to win and happy he’s finally letting you live down walking out in basically a raincoat.
“i’m getting you actual winter clothes after this, you little fucking embarrassment.” he pulls you closer, guiding you through the snowy sidewalk. “walkin’ out here like it’s fifty out and not fifteen.”
he’s lucky he’s cute. and that you’re still too cold to move your arms away from the heat of your body. still, you let him be disgruntled about your poor taste in appropriate winter attire. it’s nice that he cares so much.
besides, he’ll end up paying for the, no doubt, hideous (weather-friendly) gear. might as well listen to him complain. you’ll get it right next year.
maybe.
WRITER’S NOTE
i’m snowed in, cold, and stir crazy. my laptop is away at war (being fixed) and there’s only so much stardew and cult of the lamb i can play before i go insane. so pls have this probably terrible blurb i wrote on my (new!!!) phone. if the formatting is stupid you have my permission to stone me. ik i’m barely here, but hopefully this was okay enough that you guys don’t hate me. having a full time job and doing school is not for the weak…and i am the weak :(
