SUCH a boobs man i’ll literally fight to the ends of the earth to prove you wrong.
bruce is sooo old fashioned that whenever you’re wearing a push up dress for a gala, his gaze would shamelessly lower to your boobs with his hands practically itching to cup and fondle them. to his defense, they were staring at him first
like i swearrrrrr his hands would be where your ribs were so he can press his thumbs on the lower part of your boobs
im also a firm believer that whenever this man would fuck you via doggy, the first thing his hands would be grabbing onto would be your boobs. his large hands would be groping them and pushing your body back on his over and over by your boobs, his thrusts rougher and burying his cock deeper in you
it would do nothing but make you gape your lips more and arch your back more into his cock with a moan. bruce let out a groan from your pussy walls clenching more as a response to his hands, his blue eyes darkened with desire and pinned on how his hips snapped at your ass repeatedly
bruce’s lips would trail kisses on your neck until he reached the back of your ear, lightly biting it before whispering filthy things in your ear
“fuck, look at my girls go” yes, he was talking about your boobs. “so warm—" thrust. “and soft--" thrust. “all for me”
—
DICK GRAYSON — both
dick grayson is a greedy man, he wants anything that he could grab
and YES, his hands would grip on your ass and push your pussy more to his length while you’re riding him, burying his face in your cleavage and letting out muffled moans absorbed by your skin from how good you were taking him
“attagirl” dick panted on your chest, his lips glistening with saliva and smeared all over your skin. “just like that— fuuuck, make this dick yours”
you couldn’t say anything. all you could do was mindlessly moan with your head knocked back and lips fully parted, your head dizzy from how his cock was hitting all the right angles in you and how big he was in you
you arched your back and buried his face even more to your chest, making dick moan and push another deep thrust in you. the depth made your hips jerk a bit, but his grip on your ass made sure you stayed on his lap as he slowly took over
your boobs were bouncing in dick’s face from how fast and deep he was dragging you in and out of his twitching cock.
“cmon gorgeous” dick murmured, licking a clean stripe on your cleavage before moaning from your pussy clamping around him. “let me see you make a mess f' me”
—
JASON TODD — ass
now dont get me wrong, jason todd loves every part and curve of your body. but if he had to choose, it would be your ass a million percent— bonus point for thighs too
honestly, he loves when there is something for him to grab on. yes, his hands would slither down your ass whenever you were sitting on his lap and talking to him about your day. yes, his hands would just rest between your thighs when sleeping
and yes, he would bend you anywhere just to see that back of yours arch and press your ass to his hips
a moan of jason’s name left your lips when you felt his cock give you another slow yet deep thrust, your walls fluttering from his size and arching your back to press your ass more for his length
when i meant he would bend you anywhere, i meant anywhere— including the kitchen counter
he would purposely send slow yet deep thrusts just to admire your ass, mesmerized by the way it kept making contact with his hips. it was enough for him to let out sounds of his own
“that’s it, sweetheart” jason grunted with another roll of his hips to send to your pussy, gripping your thighs to keep them spread and pinning his eyes on your ass. “just keep that ass up for me”
—
TIM DRAKE — boobs
timothy jackson wayne-drake is a boobs man, no argument needed
i mean, let’s be for real. it’s no stranger that tim was a workaholic and was often stressed from juggling his two secret lives as tim drake and red robin
but all it took to relieve himself off that stress was to have you sit on his lap and fondle your boob with one hand like a stress toy while the other was mindlessly clicking his mouse
“tim” you whined to get his attention, making him hum back a response without looking away from the monitor and still fondling your boob. the fact that he’s not paying attention to you made the heat between your legs unbearable
so unbearable you would start to slowly grind your clothed cunt on his thigh, biting your bottom lip to conceal your sounds as your eyes stayed focused on tim— blue eyes concentrated on the monitors, blue light reflecting the features of his face and lips pressed into a thin line from how focused he was
“tim please” you panted before a small moan left your lips, arching your back to press your boob more into his hand and trying everything you can to satisfy the aching heat in your core. “need you so bad”
you realized you finally caught his attention when his hand squeezed your boob a bit more, making you let out a whimper and place a hand on his cheek, wanting him to look at you and do something about your urge
“i know, love. i know” tim murmured softly, clicking another piece of evidence with his mouse and circling your nipple with his thumb. “im almost done with work. slide a finger in for me in the meantime, yeah?”
—
CLARK KENT — ass
guys, he’s a farmer’s boy. what else did you expect?
everytime you walked away from him to get or do something, clark’s eyes would always and i mean always trail down to your ass and how it swayed with your walk. and everytime, he would immediately fluster under his glasses and look away, pushing his glasses up as a nervous habit
but when you two were in bed and you were sitting on his face, the last thing this man would be was nervous
“more” clark blabbered on your cunt, gripping and squeezing your ass with your large hands as his mouth. only to bury your cunt more into his mouth and suffocate his face in the best way possible. “moremoremoremore—“
clark could be asking more for two things. more for your delicious pussy that he could never get over or more for his hands to continue fondling and squeezing your ass— knowing him, its both
you moaned from his nose now nudging your clit, tightening your grip on his hair and arching your back more on his mouth. “c-clark… oh my god”
your ass was spread more by clark’s hands that refused to let go and the angle his tongue reached in you made a loud moan of his name leave your lips, now grinding your clit on his nose for more
poor man couldn’t get enough that his hands on your ass kept pushing your soaked pussy more into his mouth, so much so that you thought he was gonna suffocate between your thighs
“taste so good, honey” this man was so pussy drunk it was pathetic. “wanna stay here forever”
—
SUPERBOY PRIME — boobs
clark kent may be superboy but he was still a #loser at heart, which was why he almost never let go of your boobs when he could.
when clark came back home after his shift at the comic store? he let out a tired sigh and immediately walked towards you, already lifting your shirt up and murmuring about his tired day with his face shoved in your boobs
when he would hug you from behind? his hands would slide under your shirt and trail up to cup your boobs. and he’d let out a small whine whenever you’d take his hands off
it’s safe to say that clark kent was obsessed with your boobs. so much so that when your legs were around his waist and his cock was disappearing in and out of you, his hands were groping your boobs. gripping them and playing with your nipples between his fingers as your soft sounds were entering his ears like a melody
“you’re so hot, babe” clark moaned with another thrust to keep up with his pace and depth. “feelin’ amazing, in and out” he gave your boobs another squeeze to make his point
the sounds were quick ‘clap!clap!clap!’ sounds repeating over and over and over in the room
his touch, his words, it was sending you into a frenzy. all you could do was moan and pant endlessly, arching your back and pressing your boobs more into his hands with a whine of his name leaving your lips, throwing your head back into the pillows with a pornographic expression on your pretty face
the new angle made him whimper out “shitshitshitshiiiit” and thrust his cock deeper in your pussy, feeling your pussy suck him in more and his cock already twitching. “im gonna cum already, baby”
—
ROY HARPER — ass
abosutely LOVES your ass its almost unhealthy
roy tries to keep his hands to himself whenever lian is in the same room as him (because he doesn’t play about his babygirl).
but when he looks over her shoulder during their pretend tea time and sees you bending down while rummaging through a cabinet… don’t get me started on that
his eyes would go to your ass and he quietly bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin and those dirty thoughts of his— before lian would make him snap out of it by reminding him to finish his ‘tea’, innocently oblivious from how distracted her dad was
but the minute lian left for a sleepover, the first thing roy made sure to do was to drag you in the bedroom and have you do reverse cowgirl
“uh huh, just like that” he panted, hands gripping on your waist t and watching your ass bouncing back and forth on his cock. a groan slipped out of his lips. “fuuuck, i love this ass. could stare at her all day”
the drag roy’s cock was giving you felt so good it was making you arch your back and moan for more, the wet sounds so filthy and loud it made you thank god lian wasn’t home
“royyy” you whined, feeling the pace of your hips falter despite your orgam just starting to build up in you. “c-cant… need you to t-take over”
you didn’t have to ask him twice. immediately, roy’s hands on your waist took over by dragging your warm walls more onto his length. you felt so warm that he couldn’t help but move his hips back on your ass and knock his head back onto the headboard with a moan
“attagirl” he let out a breathless chuckle from your sounds, lowering his head to admire the view one more time. “just sit there with that pretty ass and let roy do the work, yeah?”
—
WALLY WEST — boobs
if there wasn’t a day where wally west didn’t show love to your boobs, i can assure you that is not him
he loved your boobs. the warmth, the softness, the size, everything. burying his face in your chest with a lopsided grin was wally’s favorite thing to do in the world; nothing sensual, just him absorbing your body warmth and keeping you close to him
can we say he loved them too much? .. maybe
“w-wally! fuck!” you moaned, knocking your head back and burying your hands more into his ginger locks. wally’s mouth was full with the swell of your boob, sucking it while using his super speed to flick your hard nipple with his tongue. his hand gave your other boob attention by fondling it
you can feel your boob practically drenched with his saliva, the sensation of his warm tongue going at such a fast pace driving you crazy.
wally let out a muffled moan when you arched your back and pressed your boob more into his mouth, sliding another hand down to rub a slow circle on your clit with his thumb and hearing a breathless gasp leave you.
“fuck, you’re soaked” he said on your boob. “and i didn’t even touch you properly.” the vibrations of his voice making your clit throb in anticipation. and of course, wally just had to grin from that
“wally…” you panted, bringing your head up to look down at him with pleading eyes. “please.. i need you...”
“shh i know, beautiful” his fingers was tracing your entrance, feeling your folds pulse from how you need him in you. “let me finish giving my girls more attention and ill get back to her later”
—
—————————————————————————
(@patientofarkhamasylum enjoy <3) okay why tf did this take me three days to write bruh.. bring back the olden days where i would have finished this in one go
my train of thought destroyed
jason todd's three bs- back, biceps and brain!
playing | second nature- clairo
Honestly, the sight should be illegal.
After a long, tiring day of classes and running all over Gotham, you finally finished all your remaining assignments and errands to complete. To give yourself a tap on your shoulder from the hard work, you decided to get a fun dinner to take home to the safety of your apartment, where your boyfriend was waiting for you as he left his job just a little while before you were done.
Meddling with the keys, you managed to open the door and automatically went to leave the stuff you were carrying on top of the kitchen’s island, talking into the silence of the home as you began to explain how your day was. Still moving around to set down all of your bags from the day, you barely glanced at the man lying on your couch who was looking at you with his full attention diverted towards your actions since you arrived.
When you started to explain a more dramatic part of your day, you turned towards him for the first time since you entered, and you finally got to take a good look at him, action that left you very much flabbergasted, all thoughts running from your head as you stared at him.
Jason was just laying on the couch, perched in a way that should definitely be uncomfortable for anyone, but he kept insisting that it was perfect to support his back and neck. He was shirtless, muscles on his upper back moving as his head turned to keep you in his sights constantly as you moved with precision all over the place.
On top of his sweatpants, a book was lying there with his bookmark in the middle, possible from when you entered the room and he diverted his attention to you. He had a calm, easy expression on his face, not a full-blown smile but also not the tense furrow in his brow whenever he left the confines of your apartment. His hair was a bit tousled, as if he had been tangling it involuntarily and tried to fix it once he realised what he was doing.
You were a bit flustered in the middle of the living room in front of him, at which he just beckoned you forward until you stood in front of him. From there, you could see his muscles even better, now appreciating how slivers of the setting daylight found themselves lying on top of his shoulders and upper chest. He seemed to relish the feeling, curling towards those hints of sun as you cat did, who was also near those sparse rays sprawled across his abdomen, purring loudly.
He was now smiling softly as his hands entwined with yours, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as you melted internally at his affections. Looking at each other in fondness, you properly greeted each other with muttered “Hi baby”s and “Hey sweetgeart”s while he sat up, moving both the book which you now realised was one of your favourites, and your cat to the side to focus on you.
His arms rippled and moved as he began stretching a bit to dull the ache in his joints, and you used the occasion to shamelessly stare at him before you began to dote on each other.
You could appreciate clearly how hard he worked on his physique, a young teenager once filled with anger who re-focused it on getting stronger became what is now a wall of safety for you, his family and friends and anyone who needed help. His back and arms were littered with scars, some fading, some bigger that hurted when it got colder, and some other with backstories he feared to remember.
Nonetheless, there he stood, shoulders as big as your head creaking and groaning as he moved them over his head and to the sides, and in that latter position, his ridiculously huge arms spread out wide too. A funny fact you found out recently is that your cat also adored Jason’s biceps, as she also rested her head over the top of the big muscle while she cuddled up to both of you, mimicking her owner, aka, you.
His back looked a bit tight from the position, and you made a mental note to give him a gentle rub later, totally not using the opportunity to touch and admire his back in any way shape or form you could imagine. Sometimes, when he finished a workout and came home directly after instead of going to back to work, you swear you could see every individual muscle move as he made tea for you, also shirtless (you both knew what he was doing; neither said anything).
But being realistically, you also admired how his brain worked. He was so smart and so sharp in a way that never let you feel small of dumb that it got attractive over time: yes, you never thought he wasn’t intelligent, but seeing him solve a case Dick struggled with over a simple phone call with the younger one where he just figured it out instantly and gave him the following steps was still one of the hottest things he’d done.
Jason finally stood up and engulfed you with those muscles you were just daydreaming about and laid his forehead in the crook of your neck, sighing deeply as he tried to pull you closer to him. You also used the occasion to gently glide your nails over his back knowing how much he adored the feeling, and he shivered gently at the movements, never pulling away for a second.
Now feeling instantly recharged, he returned to his standing position, his hands moving to grab your waist as you kept shamelessly admiring his body. “Hey, sweetheart, eyes up here” he called over, bemused at the situation. “Hmm, but I don’t know where to look at. Like, yes, you are so face-attractive but goddamn, I come home to this every night and you have a proper personality and I know I sound like a fangirl right now but I don’t care, let me love on you a bit, you always do so for me either way” you replied with an amused glint in you eyes.
Grabbing tighter onto your waist as he smiled with a wicked grin plastered on his face, you could see the gears turning in his head as he quickly maneuvered to grab onto your tights and back to carry you bridal style. Letting out a silly noise and giggles in surprise, you were smiling widely as he looked at you and kissed you softly, moving you over to where he was before.
Caging you with his body, he laid you down gently on the couch and he finally rested his body on top of your, making sure that the position was comfortable and he wasn’t crushing you down. Your cat made her presence known again as she lazily stretched too from the corner where she was dozed off, and she paraded her way onto Jason’s exposed back, purring once again. Moving your hands to rest near her, you went back to scratching softly the area as your boyfriend melted deeper into you.
plot! joker kidnaps you, jason's girlfriend, and take his revenge on jason and the bats. he wants to see jason suffer and after all he's gone through, his only weak spot now is you. 7,2k words
warnings: contains violence, torture, kidnapping, mention of blood and injuries. real angst with happy ending. hurt/comfort. don't read if uncomfortable!
a/n: thanks for the request sweetie i love angst and my poor boy's been through so much. hope y'all enjoy!
part two
The Joker had been watching Jason Todd for weeks.
Not in the obvious way, no flashing teeth in the alleys, no maniacal laughter echoing across rooftops. No, Joker was smarter than that when it came to the Bats.
He knew how to get under the skin of the family. And Jason Todd, oh, Jason… the boy with too much fire in him, the one who came back from death with scars so deep they bled through every word he spoke.
Joker didn’t need to kill him again.
No, no, no. He needed to make him remember.
And when Joker learned about you, Jason’s girlfriend, the one he hadn’t exactly paraded around but hadn’t exactly hidden either, it was like a gift wrapped in bloodstained ribbon. You weren’t famous, not a cape, not a cop, not someone with the city at your back. Just someone Jason had let too close. Joker knew the type: quiet, grounded, the kind of person who looked at Jason and didn’t see Robin or a mistake, but a man worth loving.
The perfect target.
It started on an ordinary night. You left Jason’s apartment after a rare evening in: Chinese takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, his jacket tossed over the arm of the couch. He’d kissed you hard at the door, that mix of reckless affection and unspoken apology for every bruise he carried.
You didn’t see the white van until it was too late.
The alley shortcut, the one Jason always told you not to take, had been baited.
A flicker of movement—then the strike.
A rag reeking of chemicals pressed over your mouth. Struggling, scratching, the burn of chloroform in your lungs.
The last thing you saw before the dark took you was a painted smile glowing in the shadows.
When you woke, it wasn’t in a cell. It was worse.
An abandoned amusement park, long condemned, half-eaten by rust. The Joker’s stage. You were tied to a chair bolted to the cracked concrete floor of an old funhouse. The air smelled of mold, iron, and greasepaint. The lights flickered, casting warped reflections in shattered mirrors.
And then you heard him.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!” Joker’s voice sang from the darkness. He clapped his hands, the sound echoing sharp and hollow. “Oh, don’t look so gloomy. You’re the guest of honor! Well—second guest. The real star of the show will be along soon enough.”
You tried to speak, but the gag cut into your mouth. Blood tickled your tongue where it rubbed raw against your teeth.
Joker leaned in close, his breath sour with chemicals. His painted smile stretched unnaturally wide.
“Now, now. Don’t waste your strength. You’ll need it when your lover boy arrives. See, I thought about just sending him a card, maybe a gift basket. But our Jason doesn’t deserve a Hallmark moment. No, no. He deserves a memory. One that sticks. One that hurts. And trust me, this is going to hurt"
And it began with the crowbar. Of course it did.
“Tradition, tradition, tradition!” Joker sang, spinning the rusted metal like a baton. He tapped it against your legs, your ribs, the chair.
“Did you know your darling Jaybird and I had a dance once? Ohhh, it was beautiful. I hit him, he screamed, I laughed, he bled. Like music. And when I was done—well, let’s just say he had a little nap. Six feet under, HAHAHAHHA!”
The first strike cracked against your ribs, knocking the air from your chest. You bit down against the scream, but the gag muffled it anyway. Another strike followed, then another. Pain flared white-hot, flooding every nerve.
Joker crouched in front of you, tilting his head like a curious child.
“Hmm. Strong one, aren’t you? I see what he likes. Oh, Jason always did have a thing for the stubborn ones. But stubborn breaks. Everything breaks.”
He pulled the gag loose just long enough to force words into your ears.
“Tell me, do you think he’ll come for you? Or do you think he’ll hesitate? Mmmm, I bet he’s terrified, isn’t he? You remind him of everything he couldn’t save. His mommy, his daddy, his little self. And when he sees you broken—oh, he’ll hate himself more than he hates me. And that is the joke.”
Then he went to work again, slashes of a knife across your arms, shallow enough to sting, to bleed, to paint. He laughed with each line, each drop. He wanted you alive. He wanted Jason to see.
Jason knew the second something was wrong. You hadn’t answered your phone. Not once, not twice, not after three calls. He told himself you were asleep, that you’d forgotten to text. But the itch at the back of his skull wouldn’t let him rest.
By the time he checked the alley near your route home and found your dropped keys, his heart was already in his throat.
“Bruce—he’s got her. It’s him.” His voice was gravel over the comm.
“Jason—”
“Don’t say it. I know it’s Joker. I’m not waiting.”
And he didn’t. Not for orders, not for backup.
Back in the funhouse, Joker leaned against the wall, crowbar still dripping faintly.
“You know what I love about Jason?” he purred. “He’s predictable. Punch first, brood later. Oh, he’ll storm in here, guns blazing, eyes blazing. But when he sees this—” he gestured to your bloodied body, “—ohhh, it’ll be just like old times. I’ll watch his face crack. That’s the real masterpiece. Death is boring. Suffering? That’s art.”
He crouched, forcing your chin up with the crowbar’s tip. His green eyes glittered, mad and bright.
“Don’t worry, darling. You’re not going to die. Not yet. You’re just the punchline.”
Joker was a conductor, and you were his broken instrument. He paced around you, humming a carnival tune off-key, twirling a crowbar sticky with dried blood and your fresh one.
The torture didn't stop.
Joker cackled, planting the crowbar against your shoulder with mock tenderness before yanking it away and cracking it against your shin. Pain ricocheted through your body; your scream ripped raw from your throat. Joker laughed, doubling over like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.
“He cares. Isn’t that hilarious? A Bat who actually lets people in. The others brood and sulk, but Jason? Oh, he opens his door, he lets someone close, he loves. That’s his big mistake! See, love makes you weak. And weakness—” he dragged the crowbar slowly up your arm, leaving a smear of red, “—is my favorite color.”
He shoved a camera in your face, a cheap handheld camcorder duct-taped together, blinking red. He crouched, grinning too wide, and spoke directly to the lens.
“Smile, sweetheart Say cheese! This is going straight to your boyfriend. Let’s see if he laughs as hard as I do.”
Jason hadn’t slept. His helmet sat discarded on the Batcomputer console, his hair sticking damp to his forehead as he leaned over the screen. His fists were bloody from punching walls, his throat raw from shouting at empty air.
“Where the hell is he?!” Jason’s voice cracked, fury and panic blurring.
“We’re tracking what we can" Oracle’s calm voice filtered through the comm, her fingers racing across keys. “He wiped out half the traffic cams in Old Gotham—”
“Because he’s there! He’s in the goddamn amusement district, I know it!” Jason slammed a hand on the desk. His whole body trembled.
Bruce stood behind him, silent, grim.
“Jason,” he said at last, low and heavy. “We will find her. But if you go in blind—”
“I don’t care! She’s out there with him!” Jason whirled, his eyes bloodshot, his chest heaving. “Do you get it, Bruce? It’s happening again! He’s doing it again—and it’s my fault. If I’d been there—” His voice broke. He gritted his teeth hard enough to taste copper.
Before Bruce could answer, a sharp buzz hit the comm line.
Every monitor in the cave flickered.
Static bloomed, then resolved into a grainy video feed: you, bound to the chair in the funhouse, blood soaking your shirt, your face scraped.
Jason froze. His lungs stopped working.
Joker’s painted face leaned into frame, far too close, his grin splitting wide.
“Helloooo, Bats and birdies! Guess who I found wandering all alone? Oh, don’t look so cross, she’s been excellent company! Well—screaming company, but I like variety.”
He yanked your head up by the hair, forcing your face toward the camera.
“Say hi to Jaybird, sugarplum. He’s watching. Ohhh, look at those eyes. He looks like he might cry.”
Jason staggered back a step, his chest caving in. His hands curled into claws.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Jason-” Bruce’s voice cut sharp.
“Don’t you—don’t you dare tell me not to! Look at her!” Jason jabbed at the screen, his voice shattering into a raw scream. “LOOK WHAT HE’S DOING!”
On screen, Joker tapped your face with the crowbar, leaving a streak of blood.
“You know what’s great about déjà vu? It never gets old! Last time, it was poor little Robin, and Batsy never made it in time. Ohhh, but this time—it’s even juicier. Because now Jason gets to watch! Isn’t that poetic?”
He raised the crowbar high. The camera caught the brutal swing as it smashed into your side. Your scream echoed through the cave speakers. Jason flinched like he’d been shot, a strangled noise tearing from his throat.
Joker bent down, breathing heavy with excitement.
“Oopsie! Did that hurt, darling? Don’t worry. I’m saving the grand finale for when your lover boy arrives. I want him to see your last smile.”
The feed cut to static.
Jason stood rooted, his whole body shaking, every vein alive with rage and guilt. His vision blurred red.
“I swear to God—” His voice was a rasp, broken glass and smoke. He grabbed his helmet, slamming it down over his head. “If he kills her, it’s on me. I’m not letting it happen again. I’ll put a bullet in his brain, I don’t care what you say.”
Bruce moved into his path, stern, immovable.
“Killing him won’t save her.”
“It’ll be justice!” Jason roared, shoving Bruce back, chest heaving. “You didn’t stop him then, and you’re not stopping me now! She’s all I’ve got, Bruce! She’s all I’ve fucking got!”
For a second, the cave was silent but for Jason’s ragged breathing.
Then Alfred’s voice, soft, steady, but cutting deep:
“And what will she wake to, Master Jason, if she survives, and the man she loves has become what that monster always wanted him to be?”
Jason froze, helmet tilted down, his shoulders trembling. His voice came out small, broken.
“I can’t lose her. Not like that. Not like me.”
Back in the funhouse, Joker set the camera down, angling it perfectly to catch every angle of your pain. He paced in front of you, manic energy vibrating through every twitch of his body.
“You know, sweetheart, I almost feel bad for you. Almost! Because deep down, you know it, don’t you? He’s broken. He’s not like the others. He’ll never forgive himself for this. And that guilt, mmm, that’s better than blood.”
He slammed the crowbar across your back. You cried out, the sound tearing from you before you could stop it. Joker clapped like a delighted child.
“Ahhh, music to my ears! Don’t worry, lovebird. Jason’s on his way. He always is. And when he comes, I’ll give him the same choice I gave Batsy once upon a time. Save the girl—or catch the clown. Either way…” He leaned in, whispering against your ear, his breath rancid. “You die laughing.”
Jason’s helmet fed him the faint buzz of Oracle’s voice through the comm, tinny, urgent, cutting through the static of his panic. “Jason—I found it. He’s in the old Monarch Theater. Heat signatures confirm—at least two. One’s moving, the other’s… barely.”
Barely.
The word shredded him. Jason didn’t even respond; he was already vaulting across the Gotham rooftops, heart hammering in his throat. The Monarch.
Of course it was the Monarch. Joker loved irony, loved stages, loved memories soaked in blood. Jason hit the pavement hard, boots skidding against wet asphalt as he tore down the block, every muscle wired, every breath jagged and sharp.
He pushed through the shattered double doors and the theater swallowed him whole—dark, hollow, dust clinging to the air. Somewhere in the back, a faint metallic clink echoed. The smell hit him before the sight did—iron, copper, blood. Too much blood.
“Please be alive” his voice cracked inside the helmet, though he wasn’t speaking to anyone.
He followed the sound down into the funhouse maze Joker had built in the theater’s bowels. Mirrors warped his reflection into grotesque shapes, laughter tracks from a busted speaker looped and warped into static. Jason ripped his helmet off, couldn’t stand the distortion. He needed to see with his own eyes.
And then he did.
You were slumped in the chair, arms bound to rusted metal, face a mess of bruises and blood, your lips cracked and trembling with shallow breath. Your chest rose—barely—but it rose. Jason’s knees buckled so hard he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the frame. His chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a crowbar.
“Fuck—fuck” his voice came out strangled as he sprinted forward, dropping to his knees in front of you. His gloves shook so bad he could barely untie the ropes cutting into your wrists.
“Baby, hey, hey—it’s me, it’s me, you’re okay, I got you, I got you…” He pressed his forehead against your shoulder for half a second, just long enough to ground himself before he forced his shaking hands to keep working.
You made a sound then—soft, broken, a whimper of his name that hit him harder than any bullet ever could.
Jason’s throat closed, eyes burning, tears stinging hot behind his lashes. He cupped your face gently, terrified of hurting you, but needing you to know. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here, I swear to god, I’m not leaving you with that fucking clown. I should’ve been here sooner—I should’ve—fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
He got the last rope free and you collapsed forward into his chest. He caught you instantly, holding you so tight his arms ached, but still terrified you’d slip away if he let go even for a second. Your blood soaked through his suit, warm and wet against his skin. His breath hitched, ragged, desperate, pressing shaky kisses against your hair, your temple, whispering like a prayer: “Stay with me, please stay. Don’t do this, don’t leave me, I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
From the shadows, a faint echo of laughter drifted, bouncing through the funhouse walls. Joker was gone. Of course he was. The bastard had staged it perfectly—left just enough life in you for Jason to find, just enough pain to make the memory sear. Jason’s head snapped toward the sound, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every cell in his body screamed at him to hunt Joker down, to put a bullet in his skull and watch the blood spill.
But then your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, clutching his suit with what little strength you had. Jason froze, then grabbed your hand, pressing it to his lips.
The rage burned, white-hot, begging to be unleashed, but he forced it down, swallowed it whole.
You came first. Only you.
“Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.” His voice cracked again, rough and broken but steady enough to hold onto. He slid one arm beneath your knees, the other bracing your back, lifting you gently but quickly into his arms. You were so light it terrified him. Too light. His vision blurred as he looked down at you, your head lolling weakly against his chest. “Fuck, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Don’t you fucking quit on me.”
He bolted out of the funhouse, through the ruined theater, his boots pounding the cracked floor. He didn’t care about stealth, didn’t care about backup, didn’t care about Joker’s games. All that mattered was getting you out.
The night air hit his face as he crashed through the doors, sprinting across the empty street. He fumbled with the comm in his ear, his voice breaking. “Oracle—I’ve got her—I’ve got her but she’s bad, she’s real bad, call in a fucking ambulance right now, do you hear me? Now!”
“Jason—” Oracle’s voice cut in, controlled but urgent.
“Don’t fucking argue, Babs, I need a med team here and now!” His voice cracked into a sob on the last word, his throat raw. He ducked into the alley, your body trembling faintly in his arms.
He lowered his head, whispering against your ear, every word ragged, desperate: “Just hang on, baby, please, don’t you dare leave me. You’re stronger than this, you’ve always been stronger. Just a little longer, okay? Stay with me. For me.”
Your lips moved weakly, whispering his name again, almost inaudible. Jason’s whole body shook, and he pressed his face against your hair, choking out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s it. That’s it, I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
The faint wail of sirens grew in the distance. Jason held you tighter, rocking you slightly, his whole body a shield. He could still hear Joker’s laughter in the back of his skull, still feel the phantom weight of the crowbar, but it didn’t matter. Not now. Joker could live another night. Because right now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you breathing.
Jason burst through the ER doors like a storm, boots squealing on the tiles, your limp form cradled tight against him. Nurses and orderlies gasped, rushing forward, their hands reaching, their voices sharp and professional. Oracle had called a trusted medical team, people Bruce had learnt to trust.
“We need to take her—”
“No! No, don’t touch her!” Jason barked, clutching you tighter, panic flashing behind his eyes. His voice cracked, wild. “She needs me—she needs—”
A doctor met his eyes squarely, firm but not unkind. “If you want her to live, you have to let go. Right now.”
Jason froze. Every muscle in his body locked, screaming against the order, but the sight of your blood dripping onto the sterile floor broke him. His breath hitched, his arms trembling violently as he slowly, so slowly, eased you into the stretcher. His hands lingered, desperate, fingers tracing your cheek one last time before the nurses whisked you away. He staggered forward a step, but they blocked him, pulling him back. The doors slammed shut with a brutal finality, leaving him staring at the small window, your form already swallowed by white coats and machines.
And then the silence.
Jason’s chest heaved, his bloodied hands hovering uselessly in the air. Without you in them, he felt like he was collapsing inward. He dropped to his knees on the polished tile, his helmet clattering to the ground beside him. His hands shook uncontrollably, smearing red across his face as he dragged them through his hair.
“Fuck—fuck, this is my fault—” his voice cracked, raw and jagged, bouncing off the sterile walls. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve known—he took her because of me, because of me!”
“Jason.”
The voice was steady, familiar. Jason looked up through blurred vision to see Dick standing there, already crouching beside him. Behind him, Tim, Barbara, Damian, and Bruce hovered like shadows, their faces drawn tight with worry.
Jason’s whole body shook with anger and grief. He shoved Dick’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t—don’t fucking comfort me. You saw her—did you see what he did to her? That’s on me! I let her walk home alone, I let her—” His voice broke again, ragged. “I swore I’d never let that bastard take someone from me again. And now—”
Bruce stepped forward, his voice low, even, but heavier than steel. “Jason. This is not your fault.”
Jason’s laugh was sharp, ugly, broken.
“Not my fault? He only went after her because of me! Because she matters to me! Don’t you get it? Joker doesn’t give a shit about her—she’s just another way to get at me. And I handed him the knife.” He slammed his fist into the wall beside him, the sound echoing. Blood smeared across the tile. His forehead pressed against the wall, shoulders trembling. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”
“Then she’d be here alone” Dick’s voice was soft but firm, cutting through Jason’s spiral. He crouched closer, his hand hovering just above Jason’s back like he wanted to ground him but wasn’t sure he’d be allowed. “You got her out. She’s alive because of you. That’s the only reason she’s still breathing in there.”
Jason’s breath caught, a sob tearing through his chest before he could choke it down. He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled, broken.
“She was so fucking cold, Dick. She could barely say my name. I thought—” His throat closed, his body curling forward, folding in on itself. “I thought I was gonna lose her right there in my arms”
Tim, hovering just behind, shifted uncomfortably, his voice quieter than usual but clear. “She’s in surgery. She’s in the best hands in the city. They’ll do everything they can.”
Jason snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot, wild. “That’s not good enough! You didn’t see her—you didn’t hear her! She was begging—” His voice broke off, collapsing into another sob. He dragged both hands down his face, streaking blood and tears across his skin. “I can’t do this again. I can’t bury another person I love because of him.”
Barbara’s voice cut in from behind, calm but steady like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not alone, Jason. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”
Jason shook his head violently, his hands tugging at his hair. “Yes I do! Because it’s always me, Babs! It’s always my fuck-ups that get people hurt. She’s lying on that table right now because I wasn’t there, because I let my guard down. What if she doesn’t—” His voice cracked again, breaking into silence. He pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled tight to his chest.
For once, Damian broke the silence, his tone sharp but not cruel. “She is strong. Stronger than most. If she chooses to fight, she will win.” His eyes narrowed at Jason. “But she will not forgive you if you give up on her now.”
Jason blinked at him, startled. The words dug under his skin, raw and sharp, because he knew Damian was right. He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob, burying his face in his arms.
Bruce moved closer, crouching so he was eye-level with Jason. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “You can’t carry this blame, Jason. Joker chose this. Not you.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. “Then why does it feel exactly like it did when you left me there?!” The words exploded out of him, venom and grief intertwined. The room went still. Jason’s chest heaved, his eyes wide, like he hadn’t meant to say it but couldn’t stop it. His voice cracked, smaller now, breaking apart. “It feels the same. Cold. Helpless. Like I was too late.”
The silence stretched heavy.
Then Dick finally sat down beside him, shoulder pressing firmly against Jason’s, grounding him without asking permission. “But this time’s different,” Dick said quietly. “This time, you got there in time”
Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just let the tears spill, silent and raw, his body shaking as he pressed his bloodied hands to his face. And for once, he didn’t fight them when Dick stayed by his side, when Tim lingered close, when Barbara’s presence steadied the air, when Damian’s quiet stare held no judgment, only truth, and when Bruce remained crouched, silent, unmovable, like the anchor Jason had spent his whole life both needing and resenting.
The waiting room was too bright, too clean. Every second the fluorescent lights hummed above him felt like another nail driving into his skull. Jason paced like a caged animal, his boots pounding a restless rhythm against the tile. Every so often, his bloodstained hands curled into fists until his knuckles whitened. The others sat scattered across the room — Dick with his elbows on his knees, Tim cross-legged in a chair with his phone forgotten in his hands, Barbara leaning against the wall, Damian stiff and silent in the corner. Bruce hadn’t moved from where he stood, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the swinging double doors that led deeper into the ER.
Hours. Hours since they’d taken you from him. Hours since the last time he saw you, broken and bleeding, whispering his name like it was your last breath.
Every time he blinked, he saw it again.
The bruises. The blood. The way your body had felt so light in his arms, terrifyingly light.
Jason slammed his hand against the vending machine, the crash echoing through the sterile space. “What the fuck is taking so long?!” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “They’ve had her in there for hours — what if she doesn’t—”
“Jason.” Dick’s voice was steady, but Jason caught the tightness behind it. “They’re doing everything they can.”
Jason spun on him, eyes wild. “Yeah? And what if it’s not enough, huh? What if I walked in there too late? What if all I did was give her a couple more hours of pain before she dies in a fucking hospital bed?!” His voice shattered at the end, a raw sound caught between a sob and a scream.
The room went still. Even Damian’s sharp tongue stayed quiet.
Jason dragged both hands down his face, streaking dried blood across his skin. His chest heaved like he couldn’t catch air. “God, I can’t—” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose her. Not again. Not like this. Not because of him.”
Barbara’s voice was calm, firm, cutting through the storm. “Jason, listen to me. She’s strong. She made it this far. That’s because of you.”
Jason laughed bitterly, shaking his head.
“Because of me? No, Babs, she’s in there because of me. She’s bleeding out on some fucking table right now because I was stupid enough to think I could have something normal. Something good.” He dropped into the chair beside him, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. His voice cracked again, small, broken. “She’s paying the price for loving me.”
Bruce finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and heavy with something Jason didn’t want to name. “That’s not true.”
Jason snapped his head up, his eyes burning. “Yes it is! Don’t you get it, Bruce? Everyone close to me gets hurt. Everyone. And now she’s—” His voice strangled off. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders trembling. “I swore I’d protect her. That’s all I had to do. And I fucking failed.”
For once, Tim’s voice broke the silence, quieter than usual but clear. “You didn’t fail. You got her out. She’s alive because of you.”
Jason looked up at him, eyes wet, voice hoarse. “For how long, Tim? How long before she realizes being with me is just a fucking death sentence?”
The words hung heavy in the air. Nobody answered.
Hours dragged on. Jason refused to sit still, pacing until Dick finally grabbed his arm. Jason yanked away, but Dick held firm. “She’s fighting in there. Don’t you dare give up on her out here.”
Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat tight. He pressed his palm to his face, swiping away tears angrily. “I’m not giving up on her. I’m giving up on me. Don’t you get it? I can’t be near her anymore. I can’t—if she wakes up and I’m still there, what’s stopping him from trying again? He knows. He knows she’s my weak spot now. He’ll never stop.” His voice cracked. “And she’ll never be safe.”
Dick shook his head, his voice sharp but full of something almost pleading. “Don’t do that. Don’t you put this on yourself and walk away. She loves you, Jason. That’s not weakness. That’s the only thing keeping you human.”
Jason’s laugh was hollow, painful. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like he was begging it for answers. His voice was raw, a rasp. “Love is what Joker feeds on. It’s what he rips apart. And I gave him the perfect fucking target.” His breath hitched. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. I should’ve—” His voice broke, tears slipping silently down his face. “But I didn’t. And she’s paying for it.”
The double doors finally swung open. A doctor stepped out, pulling down his mask. Every head in the room snapped toward him.
Jason was on his feet instantly, stumbling forward like his legs barely worked. “Is she—?” His voice cracked hard. “Is she alive?”
The doctor’s gaze softened. “She’s alive. She lost a lot of blood. Multiple fractures, significant internal injuries. But she made it through the surgery. She’s stable for now.”
Jason’s chest collapsed, the air rushing out of him in a broken sob. He grabbed the edge of the nurse’s desk to stay upright, his head bowed, shoulders shaking with relief and grief all tangled together. His voice came out small, wrecked. “Thank God… thank God…”
But then the doctor continued, gentle but firm. “She’s in a medically induced coma. We need to give her body time to heal. It could be hours, or days. There are no guarantees.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his face streaked with tears.
“A coma?” His voice rose, cracking. “You mean she’s—she’s not—” He couldn’t finish. His body folded in on itself again, both hands gripping the back of his neck as he staggered away from the group, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I almost lost her. I almost fucking lost her.”
Bruce reached for him, but Jason shoved past, pacing hard, his boots squealing against the floor. “Don’t you see? This is exactly what I’m talking about! She’s in a coma because of me! Because she let me love her!” He pressed both hands against the wall, head bowed, tears dripping onto the tile. “I can’t—I can’t stay near her. If she wakes up and sees me, all she’s gonna see is pain. All she’s gonna see is what Joker did to her because of me.”
Dick stepped closer, his voice low, tight. “And what do you think she’ll see if she wakes up and you’re not there? You think she won’t notice? She fought to stay alive because of you, Jason. Because she wanted to see you again. Don’t you dare take that away from her.”
Jason froze, his back to the group, every muscle strung tight. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.
Finally, his voice cracked out, soft, desperate. “What if she doesn’t wake up at all?”
The silence was deafening. Nobody had an answer.
Jason’s hands pressed harder into the wall, his forehead against the cold surface. His voice was barely audible, but the words cut deep. “I can’t lose her. I’ll break if I do. I don’t come back from that.”
And in that sterile hospital hallway, with his family behind him and you fighting for your life behind closed doors, Jason Todd: bloody, guilty, terrified, felt the walls closing in. He loved you so much it was killing him, and all he could see was the cruel possibility that Joker had already won.
The room was sterile white, filled with the low hum of machines and the quiet beeps that measured life in tiny intervals. You had been under for hours, you had no idea how many, fighting a battle no one could help you with but yourself. The surgeries had been long and brutal; Joker hadn’t left much of you untouched.
Jason had spent that entire time pacing hallways like a caged animal, fists raw from punching concrete walls, refusing food, refusing rest. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse from yelling at doctors every time they told him to “be patient.”
But when you finally stirred, eyelids fluttering open with painful effort, you weren't met with Jason.
Barbara sat by your side, Oracle having stationed herself in the chair since the first surgery ended, her hand wrapped gently around your bruised one. Even if Jason was scared about you seeing him, he had to know you were okay, he thought it was better like that but no one believed it.
Her voice was soft, almost motherly, when she leaned forward.
“Hey… hey, easy. You’re safe. You’re in Gotham General.”
Your throat was too dry to speak much. Every movement was agony, your ribs protesting, the bandages tight, IV lines tugging at your arms. But you managed a breath, a whisper that was barely audible.
“…Jason?”
Barbara’s heart clenched. She had expected it, she knew Jason’s name would be the first word, maybe the only one, on her lips. Babs stroked your hand carefully, keeping her voice calm even though she was already turning toward the door in her mind.
“He’s here. He’s been here the whole time. I’ll get him.”
Out in the hallway, Jason was sitting on the floor against the wall, head buried in his hands, staring blankly at his boots like they held the answers to every mistake he’d ever made. Bruce stood nearby, stoic but tense, while Dick leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching Jason carefully. Tim sat beside him with a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. Damian was perched further down, silent as ever, though his sharp eyes never left Jason’s broken posture.
When Barbara stepped into the hall, Jason’s head snapped up instantly.
“She’s awake” Barbara said, voice firm but warm. “And she asked for you.”
Jason froze. For a split second, he looked like someone had just gutted him again: disbelief and fear flooding his features all at once.
“She… what?” His voice cracked, rough from hours of silence.
“She wants to see you, Jason”
He was on his feet before the sentence ended, his heart hammering like it was trying to break his ribs apart. But something stopped him in his tracks, his own damn guilt. He hovered, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight.
“She shouldn’t” he muttered, shaking his head, voice harsh to cover the break in it. “She shouldn’t want me. Look what happened because of me. Joker knew. He knew I’d lose it if he touched her. He went after her because of me.”
“Jason,” Barbara cut in, firm now. “She asked for you. That’s all that matters right now.”
Bruce’s deep voice followed, calm but weighted. “Go”
Jason looked up at him, almost as if searching for an excuse to be told no. But Bruce just held his gaze, silent, steady, like he always did when the lesson was obvious.
Jason swallowed hard, turned, and shoved through the door.
The moment he stepped into the room, the machines seemed too loud, the air too heavy. He hadn’t seen you conscious since Joker had taken you. Seeing you like this, pale, battered, but alive, nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.
You turned your head weakly, eyes struggling to focus, but when they landed on him, your lips curled just slightly.
“…hey” you rasped.
Jason froze halfway between the door and her bed, his throat burning, his chest tight. He looked like he might fall apart just standing there.
“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, and he moved forward, slow like you might vanish if he rushed. He took the chair Barbara had left and dropped into it, his big frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands shaking when he finally reached out and brushed your fingers carefully.
“You shouldn’t…” His jaw clenched, eyes wet. “You shouldn’t be asking for me. You should be telling me to get the fuck out. That I ruined your life. That I dragged you into my shit and nearly got you killed.”
Your weak fingers squeezed his, barely there, but enough to shut him up. Your voice was quiet, raw.
“...you’re the only one I want here”
Jason sucked in a shaky breath, eyes squeezing shut as he ducked his head to hide it. A tear slipped down anyway, dripping onto the sheets. His other hand came up to cover yours, holding you so gently it looked like he was afraid you might break apart under his touch.
“God, sweetheart…” His voice cracked again, lower now, full of the weight he couldn’t hide anymore. “I thought I lost you. You don’t know—fuck—you don’t know what that did to me.”
You tried to smile again, weak and pained, but soft. “..guess I’m too stubborn to let him win”
Jason let out a wet laugh that was half a sob, bowing his head until his forehead rested lightly against the back of your bandaged hand.
“I’m so sorry” he whispered, voice breaking open now, raw and desperate. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve known. I swore I’d never let him touch anyone I—” He cut himself off, chest shaking, before forcing it out. “Anyone I love. And he still got to you.”
Your eyes, heavy but clear, stayed on him. Your whisper was almost nothing, but it carried enough to stop him in his spiral.
“…i love you too.”
Jason’s breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something other than guilt cracked through his chest. His shoulders shook as silent tears ran down his face, his hand trembling as he brushed his thumb across yours.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice trembling hard. “You’re it for me. You’re all I’ve got. If I lost you, there’s nothing left. Nothing. And I can’t—” His voice broke into silence, the words strangled in his throat.
You gave the faintest smile, eyes barely able to stay open. “..but you didn’t lose me.”
Jason leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your bandaged hand, clinging to you like a lifeline. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Not for a second. He’ll never—never—touch you again. I swear it.”
The fluorescent lights in the hospital wing hummed faintly, the only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
Jason hadn’t moved from your bedside since the moment the doctors had allowed him to see you.
He was still in his gear, helmet discarded on the floor, chest armor peeled off with shaking hands hours ago, but the rest of him was a mess: blood on his gloves that wasn’t his, bruises spreading purple along his knuckles from punching every damin wall in the hospital.
But he wouldn’t leave. Not even for a second.
You had fallen asleep again, weak and still fragile after the surgeries that had stretched through the night. Jason sat slouched in the chair beside your bed, his head leaning close to your arm, one of his large hands wrapped around your smaller one like if he loosened his grip you might slip away again. Every time the heart monitor beeped too slow, his whole body tensed.
Every time you stirred, he was instantly awake, whispering to you in that low, rough voice that cracked with things he’d never admit aloud.
Sometime near dawn, your fingers shifted in his palm, brushing weakly against his skin. Jason’s bloodshot eyes flicked open. You whispered his name, and he bent closer, forehead pressed briefly against your knuckles.
“I’m right here, sweetheart” he rasped, voice hoarse from hours of silence and swallowed sobs. “Not going anywhere. You scared the shit outta me, y’know that?” His thumb brushed over your bandaged knuckles gently, careful not to hurt you. “But you’re tough. Always were.”
Your lips curved faintly, too weak to laugh, but the intention was there. And Jason, who’d been a storm of violence and fury for days, melted instantly, his whole body curving in to shield her from everything—even the memory of Joker.
It was well past sunrise when exhaustion finally overtook him. Still holding your hand, Jason’s head dropped onto the thin mattress at your side, eyes sliding shut. The chair creaked under his weight, but he didn’t move, and soon he was asleep, his cheek resting against the blanket where your arm lay.
You woke first the next morning. The sun filtered pale through the blinds, spilling across Jason’s broad shoulders where he was hunched uncomfortably in the chair, his hand still clasped around yours even in sleep.
You turned your head slowly, every muscle aching, and just looked at him for a long moment. His dark hair was mussed, face slack in sleep but still tense around the edges, like even unconscious he was bracing himself for another fight.
The sound of the door opening drew your attention. Bruce stepped inside, his presence filling the room instantly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable as he took in the scene: Jason slumped in the chair, you awake and watching silently.
Finally, Bruce’s gaze shifted to you. His deep voice was quiet but firm, carrying weight that made her throat tighten.
“I’m glad you’re still with us” he said simply. It wasn’t flowery, not warm in the way someone else might have phrased it—but it was Bruce. Which meant it was heavy with meaning. Relief. Gratitude. Even guilt.
You nodded faintly, too weak to respond, but your eyes softened. Bruce’s jaw tightened, and after a pause he stepped closer, resting one gloved hand carefully on the railing of the bed. “You’ve been through enough. Focus on healing. We’ll handle the rest.”
It was his way of promising you that you didn’t need to carry the weight alone, that he wouldn’t let Jason shoulder it alone, either.
Your eyes flicked down to Jason, still asleep and refusing to let go of your hand. Bruce followed your gaze, and something softened in his expression. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.
“He hasn’t left your side.”
Your lips curved faintly, your heart monitor beeping a little faster. You knew. You had felt it in every brush of his thumb against your skin, in every whispered word through the haze of pain.
Bruce lingered a moment longer, silent in the way only he could be, communicating volumes without saying anything at all, before stepping back.
“Rest,” he said finally, and turned toward the door. But before leaving, he paused, his eyes on Jason again. “He needs this as much as you do.”
And then Bruce was gone, the door hissing shut softly behind him, leaving you in the quiet once more. You turned your head back toward Jason, watching him sleep, and though your body hurt, there was a deep calm in her chest now.
Because he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
｡𖦹°‧Content/summary — What starts as you taking up baking as a hobby quickly turns into a full-blown crisis. Jason goes from dutifully eating your rock-hard practice brownies to becoming addicted to your homemade pastries. He gains a little comfortable soft layer over his abs, smells like vanilla and cinnamon 24/7, and couldn't care less what his brothers have to say about it.
At this point, it was getting ridiculous.
When you first started baking, Jason was basically a hero just for swallowing the messes you made. Chocolate chip cookies that tasted like straight salt, loaves of sourdough dense enough to dent the wall, and strawberry cupcakes that tasted like garlic…!
He ate all of it anyway. Sitting on the counter in his sweatpants, jaw working overtime through a brick-hard brownie, crumbs flying everywhere. "Baby, it’s not bad…. you’re getting better. You should keep going.”
So you did. You learned how to brown butter, and mastered high-fat pastries.
And that's when Jason officially lost his mind.
Now, the apartment constantly smelled so sweet it was almost criminal. Warm yeast, caramelized sugar, browning butter, and that heavy, rich scent of real vanilla bean that hung in the air.
It got to the point where Jason smelled like it 24/7. It didn't matter if he'd just spent six hours fighting guys in a damp sewer—the second he pulled off the red helmet, he didn't smell like Gotham air or cordite anymore. He smelled ridiculously like warm vanilla bean and spicy cinnamon. It clung to his skin, his hair, his jacket, even his sweat. It was his natural scent at this point.
And he was completely, hopelessly feral for it.
The man was eating continuously. You’d wake up at three in the morning to the sound of plastic wrap rustling in the dark, finding him leaning against the fridge in his boxers, shoving a cold, glaze-covered cinnamon roll into his mouth before he’d even turned the light on. He’d come home from patrol covered in rain and soot, kick his boots off, and walk straight past you to grab a warm vanilla cupcake off the cooling rack.
Not one. Three. In about thirty seconds flat.
You’d sit on the counter and watch him eat like he’d been starving uin the desert, his eyes half-shut, frosting smeared across his thumb. He didn't even use plates anymore. Just stood there in his gear, breathing in the sweet bakery air of the kitchen, completely hooked.
Naturally, eating his weight in heavy cream, butter, and sugar every single day caught up with him.
He was still huge—the man was broad as a barn and could still throw a guy through a windshield—but the tight, shrink-wrapped abs were completely gone. In their place was a noticeably soft, solid layer. A cozy kind of soft. The kind where resting your head on his chest while watching TV felt ten times better because he actually had some padding over his ribs—and he smelled like a fresh tray of cinnamon buns while you cuddled him.
He didn't care. He was living in a sugar-induced bliss.
The rest of the family, unfortunately, had eyes (and noses).
It came to a head on a Tuesday in the Batcave. Jason was leaning back against the console, jacket half-unzipped, lazily listening to Bruce rant about precinct logs.
Dick walked past, stopped dead in his tracks, and sniffed the air like a hound dog before looking right at Jason’s middle. Before Jason could react, Dick darted a hand out and jabbed a finger right into his side.
"Dude," Dick said, his mouth twitching into a wide grin. "Are you getting... doughy? And why do you smell like a bakery?"
Tim didn't look up from his screen, but he snorted into his mug. "It's all he eats. Every time I radio him, I can hear him chewing a muffin. He literally smells like sweet vanilla from ten feet away. He's an addict."
"It's embarrassing," Damian muttered from across the room, scowling over a batarang. "You look like you're preparing to hibernate, Todd. And you smell like a confectioner's shop. Your conditioning is shot."
Jason didn't even blink. He reached out, slapped Dick’s hand away hard enough to leave a red mark, and reached straight into his inner jacket pocket.
He pulled out a soft, foil-wrapped vanilla bun you’d snuck into his gear before he left, peeled the foil back with his teeth, and shoved half of it into his mouth right in front of them.
"Cry about it," Jason mumbled around a mouthful of soft dough, icing sticking to the corner of his lip. "You guys are up here eating cardboard protein bars and drinking grass water. My girl makes these from scratch. Every day. I'm taking this to my grave."
Dick stared at the bun, the smug look instantly evaporating as the rich smell of cinnamon drifted across the cave. "...Is that cream cheese frosting?"
Jason zipped his jacket up over his soft stomach with zero shame, smelling like pure vanilla sugar, and took another huge bite.
"Don't even breathe near it, Dick. Get your own girl."
They should have left it at that. But Dick and Tim thought it would be funny to test the theory.
The next afternoon, while Jason was out doing a routine sweep of Crime Alley, Dick swiped the tin of fresh cinnamon rolls and the box of vanilla-bean cupcakes you’d sent Jason off with for the shift.
They realized their mistake within two hours.
Without his daily influx of sugar and butter, Jason didn't just get annoyed—he turned downright vicious.
By hour three of patrol, his radio comms were just a series of low, terrifying snarls. When Tim tried to check in on a lead, Jason cut him off by telling him to "shut your mouth before I cave your visor in." When a mugger in an alley hesitated to put his weapons down, Jason didn't negotiate; he threw the guy through a brick wall, kicked his gun across the street, and slammed the alley door so hard the hinges bent.
By the time everyone regrouped in the Batcave, the tension was suffocating.
Jason practically stomped down the glass stairs, helmet yanked off, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles were twitching. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked ready to murder a man with his bare hands.
"Where is it," Jason snapped, his voice dangerously quiet, stepping right into Dick's personal space.
Dick swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that a withdrawal-addicted Red Hood was not a joke. "Jay, calm down, we just—"
"I asked you a question, Dickhead," Jason barked, slamming a heavy tactical gauntlet onto the main console hard enough to rattle the monitors. "Where are the fucking cinnamon rolls."
You would’ve thought Dick killed someone by the way Jason was staring at him,
"We took them!" Tim blurted out, holding up hands in surrender from behind his chair. "We wanted to see if you were actually addicted! You've been a nightmare on comms all night, man, you're literally going through sugar withdrawal!"
"Give. Them. Back." Jason’s eyes narrowed into slit-like glares. "I have had a twelve-hour day, my head hurts, I smell like cheap exhaust, and I am five seconds away from beating both of you into the concrete if my girl's baking isn't back in my hands."
Dick frantically reached under the desk, pulling out the sealed tin and handing it over like a bomb squad tech disarming an explosive.
Jason snatched the tin, popped the lid off immediately, and took a massive, angry bite out of a roll. He stood there in the middle of the cave, breathing heavily, chewing aggressively while staring daggers at both of them.
Within thirty seconds, as the soft dough and heavy glaze hit his system, his shoulders slowly dropped. The vein pulsing in his temple calmed down. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the scary edge melting away as that familiar, warm vanilla aroma washed over him again.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gave Dick one last, lethal glare, and hugged the tin tightly against his chest, his softer stomach pressing into the metal lid.
"Don't ever," Jason grunted, walking back toward the Batmobile, "touch my food again."
Requested by @nightwingsbabydoll tysm! This was so fun to write.
summary: jason comes home to the worst situation imaginable… you hearing another vigilante’s hoodie
word count: 1.3k
warnings: none
“Hey, sweetheart. How was your-” Jason cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath.
Your eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concern, eyes flickering up towards your boyfriend as he rounded the corner into your shared bedroom. You were propped up against the headboard of your bed, the book he had recommended just yesterday open in your lap.
“Jay?” You called out, eyebrows furrowing as you quickly set a bookmark in the pages and carefully placed the novel on the bedside table, “What’s wrong?”
The man was still frozen in the doorway, having barely taken a full step into your mutual space. His chest was rising up and down in frantic heaps, though he looked as though not nearly enough oxygen was getting to his lungs.
Those beautiful green eyes that you fawned over every single day were blown wide and were stuck on your form and all the color had drained from his face.
Genuine fear began gripping your heart as you hurriedly flew to your feet, crossing the distance until you stood right in front of your boyfriend, hands reaching up to gently cup his face, “Baby? What is it? You’re scaring me.”
That admission seemed to be enough to finally snap Jason out of whatever trance he had been sent into the second he breached the entrance of your bedroom. The horror that had been written all over his features seeped into his tone when he sputtered out the question, “What is that?”
You paused, tearing your eyes away from his just to quickly glance around the room to see if anything was askew. It wasn’t. In fact, you had barely moved from the bed since Jason left you with a lingering kiss and the promise to return soon a few hours prior. You had been too wrapped up in your reading to do much else.
“What’s… what, Jay?” You hadn’t a single clue as to what he was referring to, but you knew that you wanted to soothe whatever it was that was bothering him. You wanted to fix it even though you didn’t know what it was.
“That!” He spit out the word with such disgust that you would have recoiled had you not known that the exclamation wasn’t directed towards you- not really. His outbursts never were.
He reached out and gently, but firmly, tugged at the sweatshirt that practically drowned your form.
You glanced down, and understanding finally overtook your expression, and you had to swiftly press your lips into a thin line to keep yourself from smiling- or worse, laughing.
In this specific situation, you highly doubted that your boyfriend would appreciate the gesture.
A Nightwing hoodie about two sizes too big clad your form alongside old sweatpants that belonged to Jason once upon a time, but you had long since claimed as your own. And because you doubted he was acting personally offended by the pants he had accepted months ago he was never getting back, you had to desperately fight off the laughter that threatened to bubble up to the surface.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” That much was clear, “Dick dropped it off for me yesterday.”
Jason physically stiffened at the mention of his older brother, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion as to what the man was playing at. If there was one thing Grayson was known for, it was for finding any way possible to mess with his Little Wing.
“And, what? He paid you to wear it and record my reaction?” He immediately began whipping his head from side to side, practically seething by this point, “Where are the camera’s, sweetheart?”
The tone in which he asked informed you that he was already plotting to break any recording device he found, smash it up into little pieces, and deliver them to Dick in a box with a bow and deliver a fist to the face for the man.
This time, you couldn’t stop the laughter from slipping out, shaking your body slightly. Jason’s eyes snapped to you at the sound, forever a moth to the flame when it came to your joy.
It was only then that his eyes softened around the edges, your giggles had that effect on him.
“Baby,” He whined, stretching out the pet name as he did so, “Why are you wearing a stupid Nightwing hoodie?”
Another round of soft laughter escaped from your lips as you raised your hands to his face once more, thumb brushing gently against his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes involuntarily fluttering as they always did.
“Dick felt bad about missing my birthday last week because he was away on a mission, so I think he picked this up off a street vendor and it was the only size they had left and he dropped it off at the apartment yesterday while you were gone. It completely slipped my mind, which is why I didn’t mention it. I washed it last night and it was so warm after I threw it into the dryer this morning that I put it on without thinking about it, so I could be comfy while I read.” You explained calmly, heart rate returned to its normal pace now that you discovered that nothing was truly the matter.
Jason’s tense muscles finally loosened- though only slightly- and he now took to glaring at the fabric again like it was a threat to him and his standing as your sweet, lovable boyfriend.
Before you could open your mouth to say anything more, the man began grumbling incoherently under his breath, though you swore you could catch words such as ‘kick his ass’ and ‘Dickhead is in for a surprise’. You really did pity whoever was in the same vicinity as the vigilante brothers on patrol tonight.
Without warning, the hoodie was tugged over your head, and you let out a gasp when you were left standing in nothing but a sports bra and Jason’s sweats, “Hey-” You exclaimed, only for every other word to escape your vocabulary as your boyfriend tossed the clothing into the nearest trash bin you had.
A soft frown overtook your features, “That was a gift-” You tried to protest, but once more cut yourself off when you watched with wide eyes as your boyfriend tugged his own hoodie over his head without any thought.
It wasn’t anything special, just an old, plain black one that he wore around every once and a while, and he quickly slipped it over your head before you could blink.
“There,” He took a small step backwards and planted his hands on his hips, eyes sweeping up and down your body appreciatively, “Much better.”
Your lips parted as you looked down at yourself, now dressed head to toe in your boyfriend's clothing. After a moment you closed your eyes and shook your head, chuckling softly to yourself before pointing to your boyfriend teasingly, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” He spoke with the cheesiest smile on his face, stepping forwards and dropping his hands to your hips and a kiss to your forehead, eyes alight, “You look so hot like this, sweetheart.”
That prompted yet another laugh and grin from you, reaching up to wrap your arms loosely around his neck, “I’m in oversized clothes.” You deadpanned, “And my hair is a complete mess.”
“Sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.” Jason confirmed with complete seriousness, capturing your lips softly against his own and smiling against them.
After a moment, you pulled away and smiled adoringly up at him, “I’m not going to let you throw that away, you know.”
He nodded, “That’s why I’m planning on burning it.”
You threw your head back with a laugh, gently hitting your boyfriend's chest, “Jason!”
The man was not kidding, though, "Tonight. In front of Dick on a rooftop somewhere.”
꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ you sneak into the library for a quickie but get distracted by the books . . . jason todd x fem!reader, they makeout, suggestive, slice of life, reader’s wearing a sundress
inspired by this
Jason follows you around the library, his callused hand in yours. Amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes when he sees you scanning the shelves, looking for the perfect place for a quick fuck—your words, not his.
Jason had just given you a "you serious right now?" look and let you tug him around like a dog on a leash.
But even before that, he knew. His eyes had trailed over your form, over your short sundress, the one that had his head spinning since the moment he saw you in it. Convenient. It was a frilly thing that kept blowing up in the wind. You'd laughed. He cursed your carefree nature and kept the bottom of your skirt down.
He'd fight the wind and anyone who dared to look. And the sly look you gave him told him you damn well knew that too.
"Hurry." You tug him into a slightly secluded area between bookshelves. He inhales the scent of books, instantly feeling his muscles relax.
"Jason, focus," you complain, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and tugging him down until his breath hovers over your lips.
His eyes find yours.
You smile. "It'll be quick."
He scoffs, but his lips curl up too. "Nothing's ever quick with you," he says, and he means it. Jason likes to savor you, worship you like no man ever has because you're his. It pains him to have to rush.
But well... how can he ever deny those pretty eyes you always weaponize?
"Fine, you win."
"I barely even tried."
"It's your eyes," he admits.
He starts gently, pushing you against the shelf—the classics section, his mind briefly notices before you crash your lips against his.
This kiss is messy and fast, your hands wandering down to palm him through his pants. He hisses, his hand sliding beneath your dress and up your ass.
He pauses, pulling back, his pupils blown. "Princess, you're not wearing anything—"
"Obviously." You roll your eyes and pull him back by his belt. "Now come on," you say impatiently.
"Fucking menace," he mutters, then presses hot kisses to the curve of your neck. For a moment, his eyes open, and they land on a book next to your head.
His body stills.
"Jason?"
He hums, his hands moving back to your waist.
"Jayyyyy." You drag his name out in hopes he'll pay attention to you.
"Gimme a sec, baby." He presses a kiss to your forehead before pulling the book from the shelf.
Pouting, you bury your face in his chest. His free hand tangles in your hair, keeping you close.
His other hand turns the book over as he reads the back.
"What book?" you ask, mumbling, accepting that you're not getting anything until you're both home.
"East of Eden."
"Sounds boring," you reply, but you perk up to look it over with him.
"'S’not. We can read it together."
You grimace. The two of you have the complete opposite taste in books.
"Sure, babe. Whatever you want…"
"That's what I thought," he says, already walking toward the desk with the book tucked under his arm. This time he’s dragging you away.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave.
pls read a/n at the end before replying !!
aka ›››› “Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.” “Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
Jason has started growing facial hair again.
It’s such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.
Not him.
His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.
The Joker had called it “light acid.”
As if acid could ever be light.
As if anything about it had been.
After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.
Jason never got that stage.
He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.
Until now.
At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.
There is hair there.
Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.
It doesn’t.
The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.
It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.
Not that time.
“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.
He looks dreadful.
That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.
He leans closer.
At least his skin looks better.
That part softens something in him.
You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.
He grumbled the whole time.
You ignored him the whole time.
In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.
Jason had fallen asleep like that.
Just like that.
He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.
“I knew it was hair!”
Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.
He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.
Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.
Like you belong here.
You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.
“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.
He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.
“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.
You hum, pretending to consider it.
One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.
“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”
Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.
Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.
“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”
The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest.
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.
“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”
He stills.
It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.
“I…” he starts, and the word drags.
Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.
“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t have to.
The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.
“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.
Jason watches you through the mirror.
Why now?
It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.
He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.
Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.
Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.
He doesn’t say that.
“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.
Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.
The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.
But you didn’t run.
The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.
If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.
You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.
“C’mere,” you murmur.
You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.
“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.
You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.
“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.
He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.
You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.
Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”
“You’re flexing.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.
He forces his shoulders to drop.
Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.
But this?
This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him.
You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.
Your touch changes when you reach the scars.
Not hesitant. Not afraid.
Just attentive.
You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.
“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.
You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”
He snorts quietly despite himself.
The razor touches his skin for the first time.
It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Jason feels it more than he expected to.
Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time.
That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.
The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.
He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.
“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Yeah.”
The answer is simple. Immediate.
Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek.
His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.
You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.
“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.
“Sometimes,” he admits.
You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.
Jason’s eyes close for a second.
He lets them.
There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.
When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.
“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”
“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
You grin. “Sure, baby.”
You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.
He watches you again.
The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.
When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.
“There,” you whisper.
You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.
“Much better.”
Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.
The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.
He looks at himself in the mirror again.
The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.
But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.
He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.
“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.
Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Thats the goal,” you say.
And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.
Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too
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