Summary: After the racy encounter with your knight, you seem to lose all progress made in your relationship. You hardly talk, and you're lonelier than ever. But after a house break-in has you running to Jason for help, you're forced to face each other, blood and all.
Pairing: knight!Jason Todd x gn!reader
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings/tags: violence! Jason kills a man. reader and jason's house is broken into and the thief attacks the reader (but they're okay.) mentions of self-flagellation, religious guilt. reader feels very lonely without their big strong knight :( the eroticism of killing for another person. codependence. partial nudity. probably not the healthiest relationship but whatevs. Jason would do anything for them what more could you want?
the divider
Everything's changed since the morning that you found Jason with the whip.
He won't even eat with you anymore.
He accepts whatever you make and thanks you quietly, then eats his supper in the shed. He didn’t say much before—now you're lucky if you get more than a word from him.
He's also taken to punishing himself regularly. Jason does it far away, so he won't wake you. But you've seen his back and the welts peeking beneath his tunic and the spots of blood. You also see fresh injuries from his training, injuries that could be avoided if he was more careful. You've tried to offer him a salve to heal his back. He always refuses, flinching like a kicked dog if you get too close.
You fear that you'd pushed Jason too far that morning. You replay it in your mind, wondering what exactly had possessed you to act in such a vulgar manner. Exposing yourself to him like that after spying on him earlier—what were you thinking?
You weren't, is the truth. It seems all rational thought leaves your brain when you're around him.
It's truly like living with a ghost. Your feelings are jumbled, caught in a maelstrom of guilt and fear and desire. More than anything, you're unbearably lonely. You'd feared a harsh hand when you first were deposited into Jason's bed. You never imagined that there could be a worse fate than being wanted: being ignored.
So, it's been three weeks of this new routine. Jason has been disappearing at night to the pub. Not that he told you that—you know this because of the incessant gossip that flies around the market. It's not hard to decipher who the 'hulking knight' is when people stare at you.
You try not to think about what Jason gets up to. You really have no right to be angry if he finds someone to warm his bed. You're lucky he hasn't thrown you into the sea after your insolence.
Routine is all that keeps you sane. You do the washing and cooking without complaint. Jason still leaves you money to go to the market, and sometimes you save a couple of coins to buy books. You keep the books under a floorboard in your room. He never asks you for change.
You don't know if this routine will be enough, though. You wish Jason would just throw you out and be done with it. You're certainly not performing the duties that the king expected of you when he brought you here. Jason can hardly look at you, much less touch you.
You eat alone tonight. By the time you wash up and are ready for bed, it's late. Jason still isn't home.
Not unusual these days. You get into bed and blow out the candle. Maybe you won't wake in the morning. Then you'll both be free.
A crash jerks you out of slumber.
You're awake immediately, fumbling under your bed for the small dagger you'd secretly purchased when you first came.
Your first thought is that Jason came home drunk. But if he’s come home drunk in the past, you've never heard him, and it's always as quiet in the morning as it was the night before.
A chilling second thought hits you as the floor creaks outside your door.
Someone's broken in.
You quietly get to your feet, dagger in hand. If Jason were home, he would be here already, dealing with the problem. As it is, you're alone and completely vulnerable without your knight.
Your door splinters open. You stumble backwards.
"Wha' have we here?" A lantern shines in your face. "Look a' this. Pretty thing like you shouldn't be left alone."
You bolt for the front door.
“Oh, no no, you don’t.”
The intruder darts after you and stops you before you can open the door. He hauls you backwards and throws you against the dying fireplace. You land on your ribs and the wind is knocked out of you.
"Too big of a house for a little mouse like you,” the man says with a greasy sneer.
You turn and lunge at him. You catch him off guard enough to stab his shoulder with the dagger. He howls in pain and shoves you off. Your head hits the wall, and for a moment, you fear you’ll vomit. But you don’t, so you stand.
"You bitch!" he shouts. "I'll fuckin' kill ya for that!"
That's all the motivation you need to run.
You’re aching all over, head pounding. Your legs are cold, being that you're only in a nightgown. You might be bleeding. But you keep running.
You run all the way into town, which feels like miles at this time of night, bruised as you are. It’s easy to find the pub, and it doesn’t even occur to you that you’re not allowed inside. All that’s on your mind is Jason. Find Jason.
You pound your fists on the door of the pub, crying.
"Jason, Jason!" you shout. “Help me, please! Please!”
The door opens. You stumble in, almost tripping on the uneven wood. Men stare at you as you enter.
"Jason!" you yell.
A knight you don't recognize stares down at you, blocking your path. You stumble back, grabbing the wall for support.
"Out," he snarls.
"Please," you beg. "Please, I need my husb—"
He's shoved aside suddenly, ale sloshing over his mug. He growls in protest, but someone drags him away by the back of his tunic.
Relief floods you at the familiar face who takes his place. Jason.
He's obviously shocked to see you here, eyes roving over you. His shirt is unbuttoned, a thin fresh cut on his cheek. He says your name. Every inhibition you’ve felt over the last month disappears.
"What—"
You throw yourself into his arms, weeping. Jason catches you, cradling the back of your head. You're surrounded by him, the rest of the world blocked out. He smells like the strong yellow soap you make in large chunks because it’s cheaper than purchasing it at the market. He smells like the home you share.
"What is it? Where do you hurt?" he asks quietly, shielding you from all the pairs of eyes. He rubs your back, bent over you. You cling to his neck, shaking with the memory of tonight.
"A man b-broke in," you say, and Jason's grip tightens. "He said–he said he w-would...k-kill…"
You trail off. Jason pets you, breathing even on your neck.
You know that you hardly have any rights, that the men here would sooner see you die than step into danger for you. Perhaps that includes Jason too. Perhaps it's too late.
"I understand," Jason says into your ear. He doesn’t waver despite how you tremble. "It's alright. I won't let him hurt you again. I'm... I'm so sorry for leaving you alone."
He exhales, long and slow. You feel him begin to pull away. You panic, digging your nails into his arms. Jason quickly soothes you. He doesn’t chastise you for clawing him.
"It’s alright. I'm going to handle this, and then we'll go home," he says. "Roy."
A redheaded knight approaches. You slowly turn your head. He smiles gently at you.
"Your Highness," he says, bowing deeply, and you feel a little lighter.
"Roy's going to take you home while I handle the thief," Jason says. "I promise that I'll be fast, alright?"
"You promise you won't leave?" you ask. “You’ll come home right away?”
Jason takes your hand, stroking your knuckles. "I swear. May God strike me down if I don't return."
“Oi, man, get your little harlot out of—”
Jason stands, rising and towering over the angry drunk. He’s immediately cowed under Jason’s gaze.
“Watch your mouth,” Jason says, even and deadly. The man leaves in a huff.
"I'm sorry for causing trouble," you whisper, cheeks still wet.
"You haven't," is all he says, before leading you outside.
You have an audience, which is absolutely humiliating, but neither Jason nor Roy pays them any mind, so you don’t either.
Roy helps you onto his horse, and in the time that that takes, Jason is already headed back to the house by the time you and Roy start off. You realize then that you trust Jason. You've never met this Sir Roy in your life—Jason's never even mentioned having friends. But you trust that you will get home safely.
“Jason won’t let him get away,” Roy says. You believe him.
The ride is short. You don’t know if you’ll manage to go back to sleep without Jason there, but the least you can do is host Roy, perhaps. You’re bone-tired, but you ought to be hospitable, shouldn’t you?
But as you get closer to the cottage, you hear voices in the woods. Jason’s horse is out front. You dismount without Roy's help and take off running. He calls after you. You ignore him.
You don't go through the house, not ready to face the destruction your intruder left in his wake. Instead, you go around and follow the stream into the woods. The voices get louder. When you get to the clearing by the shed, you stop.
The lantern has been knocked onto its side, flames flickering. But you can very clearly make out Jason in the dark. His shadow cuts a frightening figure that dances across the trees. Moonlight flickers through the canopy, illuminating him and the other figure. Your attacker.
Your attacker, who’s discovering that he picked the wrong house to rob.
Jason's got him pressed against a tree. Blood drips from the man's head and face. You stay a few yards away, behind a tree. The bark dully bites into your hand. You’re torn on whether you should make yourself known or not. Stop this or not.
"You touched them," Jason says, and does something with his sword that draws out a strangled groan from the attacker. The metal shines with fresh blood.
"I am worse than you," he continues. "I lost sight of my duty. My reason for living. Everything I do is for the star-crossed beauty my king captured for me. It's all I can do to pay penance for my sins. And you come into my house and dare to lay a hand on what is mine?"
The breath leaves you in a punch. You're cold with sweat, but something tugs at your gut. Something frightening. Something that tells you to stay hidden.
"I am worse," Jason says. "Because a good man would show you mercy and let you be hanged for your crimes."
"That fuckin' bitch deserved it," the intruder spits.
Here, Jason loses his composure. Here, he twists his sword.
"I will tear you apart," he says, voice a snarl.
And Jason does exactly that. It's bloody and gory. You feel sick a few times. You can't see everything in the fractured light, but you can hear it all. Bones crack, the man screams, but Jason doesn't relent. He drives his sword deeper and deeper. Blood gurgles from the attacker's mouth.
You watch on, feeling quite like you had the day you saw Jason fucking his fist.
The body drops with a thud as Jason lets him go. You imagine a sword slick with blood. You imagine Jason covered in it.
The realization is dizzying. You are an executioner, and Jason is your axe.
You don't know what you're more horrified by: the fact that it took you this long to look away or that you don't mind the stench of fresh blood.
Jason takes two steps and picks up the lantern. He sees you. He stops.
"He's dead," you say dumbly.
Jason swallows, face otherwise blank. "You... you were not meant to see that."
"I didn't." But you did.
He knows you did.
"Roy should've taken you inside," Jason says.
You can't understand why shame draws the lines of his shoulders.
"I didn't want to go inside," you say. "Not without you."
Jason inhales sharply. Then he looks away. "I shouldn't have... I pray that you'll forgive me, but I understand if you don't."
Jason is covered in more than a little blood. Red spatters his cheek, though it looks black in the shadows.
He's slick with blood. You wonder if he'll bathe in the river. If you might help him.
You step forward. Jason is still. He watches you steadily as you approach.
You pull down the sleeve of your nightgown and reach for Jason's face. He flinches. You hush him.
"It's alright," you whisper.
He lets you touch his cheek. His eyelids flutter as you wipe the blood from his face. Then you hold his cheeks with both hands. Jason shudders.
"You can touch me," you say.
Immediately, Jason shakes his head, hands curling into fists at his side.
"No. I'm unclean. You shouldn’t touch me either, you’ll—you’re—”
"I don't mind." Your thumbs trace the contours of his face for a moment, feeling the hard line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his full bottom lip. He lets you, eyes locked on yours.
Then, you pull up your nightgown, revealing your bare thighs, your underwear, your belly. Jason’s chest heaves. He immediately looks away. But you’re quick. You guide Jason's hand with your other hand. He stains your flesh with blood. You picture the sticky, bloody handprint he'll leave on your waist. That frightening feeling returns.
Jason's hand is hot on your skin. He exhales shakily.
"I'm sorry," he says again, cupping your waist. His fingers gently knead your skin as if he's testing if you're real. It tickles, but you don't move, fearing Jason will pull away at the slightest jerk.
"Don't sleep in the shed anymore," you say.
"Alright."
"Eat supper with me."
"Okay."
You draw Jason closer. Blood smears your clothed chest. His thighs warm your exposed legs. You will not let him punish himself in the morning. You will sleep on his chest if that’s what it takes. Only you are allowed to draw blood from him.
CW: Stalking, people breaking into your apartment (Arkham Knight and others), people brushing off an obvious issue, and violence. Be warned, there are no angels in Gotham. ~2.2k words
You have a stalker. Probably. Maybe. If you do, they're so good at covering their tracks that you're starting to believe you're just paranoid.
But it's the odd events, the trinkets moved slightly out of place, that have you checking over your shoulder.
There wasn't even any evidence at first. Your day had been completely normal. All you were doing was cooking dinner, when your nerves went on end, and goosebumps rose on your skin. The feeling of being watched, of being prey set in.
It didn't make sense, didn't have a reason, but you closed your curtains and triple checked your locks nonetheless. (The bat you keep by your bed slept next to you that night)
You would have forgotten about the incident entirely if, a week later, the same feeling crept up your spine while you walked home. You'd never walked faster to get to your building. You'd practically sprinted up the stairs to your apartment, and slammed to the door behind you.
Even within your home, it took almost the whole night for the feeling to fade.
Two times could be a coincidence, but then things started getting stranger.
You could have sworn you left your keys on the counter the night before, so why, why did you find them on the coffee table?
It makes you uneasy, almost sick, but you're already late to work. So you do the only thing you can, you brush it off.
Until it happens. A thing you can't brush off.
You knew you had used the last of the sugar yesterday. Knew it because you had made a mental note to pick some up the next time you went to the store.
But there's sugar. It's not a lot. Just enough to get you through a few days. Enough to make you think you might have just missed the last of it.
You know you're right. You know you were out of sugar and even if your coworkers laugh and tell you to get more sleep, that having an angel that refills your sugar can't be that bad, you know someone's been in your apartment.
You set traps, set cameras, get your locks changed, take note of everything. You don't get any evidence.
But you notice that your window doesn't squeak anymore when you open it. Your shower doesn't rattle when you go to start it. Your oven actually heats up to the temperature you set it to.
It's been like this for months now. And you're starting to believe that Gotham does have its own set of angels that go around trying to make your life a little easier.
That is until, you meet him.
You'd been unlucky. Gotten grabbed and dragged into the alley by your apartment by some haggard looking man waving a gun. It wasn't the first time you'd been mugged in Gotham, and you doubted it would be the last.
You had reluctantly pulled your wallet and phone out of your pockets and handed them off when an armored-clad person dropped between the gun and you.
At first, it was a relief. Being saved by Batman or Nightwing is practically a rite of passage in Gotham.
But then you watched the would-be mugger hit the ground with a sickening crunch of his arm. Then you watched your savior turn to face you, and you knew it was him.
You didn't have an explanation, you didn't have proof. You'd never even seen a glimpse of the helmet that hid his face before. But you knew. He's the one that's been following you. He's the one that's been in your home.
No amount of good deeds can overshadow how violating it feels, to know he's been watching you, observing you, doing things for you. You instinctively step back.
He only matches the distance you tried to create with a step of his own.
"Who are you? What do you want," You snap, sounding braver than you feel.
He doesn't answer at first, just tilts his head like he's studying you. You think it might be because he's never seen you think close before.
"I saved you," he says instead, completely avoiding your question. You wonder if he's expecting to be treated like a hero, if he's looking for your praise. It makes your stomach churn.
"You've been following you. You're the one who's been in my apartment," You protest, eyes darting.
You half expect someone to come help you. With the way he's dressed, with how he's carrying himself, he has to be some kind of new villian you missed on the news.
He straightens out at your accusation, "Have I?"
You almost falter, almost do chalk it up to paranoia, but you just knew. Every fiber of your being knows, "Yes," You breathe out instead, "You have."
He nods slowly, then turns his back to you. A part of you wants to run, to try and escape and scream and get as far away from the man who feels like he could make you disappear without a trace.
He bends down and scoops up your phone and wallet before turning back to you. You freeze when he walks closer, each step steady and measured, then extends your belongings to you. Your hand shakes when you snatch at them.
You half expect him to yank them away, to make you beg, but he doesn't. He only keeps his grip tight on them, forcing you to be connected while you tug helpless at your things.
He watches you with his head slightly cocked before speaking again, "And if I have?"
He's easy, robotic cadence makes your blood grow cold, "Then you should stop," You retort, voice as cold as your veins.
"And if I won't," he prompts, finally releasing his hold on your things.
"I'll go to the police," You threaten, stuffing your wallet and phone back into your pockets.
"They can't help you," he warns. It makes you uneasy, that he makes no attempt to keep space between you. Even if his body language doesn't seem dangerous, everything else about him does.
"They can contact Batman," You try instead.
He laughs. It sounds humorless, empty, "He can't help you either."
You lose your nerve then, when he pats your cheek, and the guns holstered to his side seem to glint at you. "Get home," he tells you, and it makes you feel like you're some kind of pet.
And then he's gone, leaving you to an alley empty of anything, save for you and the mugger crumpled to the ground. All you can do is go home. Sleep doesn't come for you that night.
He's sloppy, now that he knows you know. You can tell it's on purpose.
Flashes of glowing blue outside your window, your things carelessly shifted about your apartment, the broken fan that hasn't worked since you moved in left on and spinning when you come home from work.
The only place he hasn't seemed to touch is your bedroom. You're not sure if it's because he's showing some slightest form of respect or if he's simply too good at hiding his tracks for you to notice.
Both options make you feel anxious, and you constantly comb over your things for proof of his presence.
You rack your brain over it, lose sleep over it, but you can't come up with one idea of who he is and why he's doing this.
There's nothing on him in the news, nothing on the internet, not even a whisper on the streets.
It feels like it's all one big, sick game to him when your favorite flowers start showing up at your door, when your gas tank fills itself.
When you tell your coworkers, in a near panic, about your rent being mysteriously paid, they tell you it's harmless, it's kind of sweet, really.
Shouldn't you just be grateful that someone's doing all that for you? Shouldn't you be thankful to have an angel looking out for you in this city?
But you know it's not harmless. You know he's capable of so much more. You know he's no angel.
The sound of the mugger's arm snapping still haunts you.
But you don't know what to do. You're stuck, on edge, and slowly coming to terms with having to live like this forever.
That is, until your bad luck seems to get even worse. You were in your pajamas, already half asleep as you're lounging on your couch, when your world gets thrown into chaos.
There's a click in your apartment door's lock, and you have the terrifying realization that tonight's the one night you'd forgotten to throw the deadbolt.
"I told ya I could get the keys to this floor. And barely anybody lives in this building afta what happen ta Murphy," the heavy Gotham accent fills your apartment and three men file into your living room like they own it.
They freeze when they see you, and you don't hesitate to sprint for your fire escape.
You've just managed to throw your window open when one of them grabs you around the middle and hauls you back, throwing you to the floor. Your head knocks against the ground, and everything spins.
You think you whimper as they start bickering. "You said no one would be here!"
"They weren't supposed ta be! It's all supposed ta be empty," one of them snaps back. It only makes your head pound and your vision swim.
You try to push yourself off the floor, but a boot lands at the center of your back and forces you back to the ground, "We have to kill them."
Murmurs of reluctance fill the room, and for a second, you think you'll get to live.
"They saw our faces," You hear the telltale sound of a gun clicking off its safety, "I'll do it."
You flinch with the shot sounds, but no more pain comes. The weight comes off your back, and a body collapses to the floor next to you.
You lift your head just enough to see a familiar blur of blue charge at the remaining two men.
It's not so much of a fight as it is an execution. It's a struggle to keep your eyes open, but anything you can't see you can hear.
There's no mercy in his actions, all wrath and fury, and you want to laugh because, in a way, he is your guardian angel. An avenging angel, pummeling the people who threatened you into something unrecognizable.
You're sure how long it lasts, how long you hear his fists connect to their flesh. But eventually, your apartment goes quiet. The sound of fabric shuffling reaches your ears, and calloused hands carefully help you move until you're sitting up.
Warm palms press to your face you realize he's taken his gloves off. You force your eyes to open, morbidly curious if he's removed his helmet, too. You're not sure why you're disappointed he hasn't.
"Saved me again," You mumble, words almost slurring.
"You're not safe here," he says softly, and his thumb runs over your cheek like he's trying to comfort you.
"They didn't think anyone lived here," You supply, but he apparently doesn't find that very reassuring.
"Let's get you out here," he says instead, and you blame it on your head injury for being impressed at how he doesn't show any signs of struggling when he picks you up and cradles you to his chest.
"Don't have anywhere to go," you say weakly, mentally trying to do the math on how much a safe hotel would cost at this time of night.
The moonlight seems to give his helmet an odd shine as you stare hazily at him. It almost looks like a halo.
"I have a place," he tells you, already carrying you out of your apartment window.
That snaps you out of your thoughts. It makes you frown, even in your dazed state, you know you don't want to go with him. That even with the trick of the light, he's no angel.
You start to squirm, "No– no, wait–"
"You need somewhere safe to recover," he says, and he doesn't seem to notice your fidgeting. Your heart leaps to your throat, at how securely he's holding you. With anyone else, it would have felt like a promise of protection.
"I don't trust you, you're not safe," You stumble out, head growing heavy with each step he takes from your apartment.
"No one's safe. But I don't have any plans on hurting you," he murmurs, seemingly more occupied with getting you to wherever he's planning to take you.
"But you could," You exhale out, and your voice sounds weak even to yourself.
That makes him pause, and his helmet tips as if he's focusing on you, "Maybe, but I wouldn't like it."
You want to argue more, demand he set you down. But your brain feels so foggy, and you're so tired and drained that your head just kind of finds itself on his shoulder.
"You can sleep," he says, and your eyes fall shut at how soft he sounds, "I'll keep watch."
You really do want to protest, but his shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. You can't help but think, as you drift off, that your angel might have fallen far lower than you can handle.
I LITERALLY THOUGHT OF YOUR JASON WHEN I SAW THIS TIK TOK: it was someone getting emotional because of their s/o reconnect with hobbies they did during their childhood.
and i just thought of jason presenting reader with baked treats, unknowingly rambling about the treats him and alfred made to give to bruce and kids of crime alley.
and reader just tearing up or (if like me) full on crying and jason holds your hands with his mitten hands, wondering if you burnt yourself from eating them too quick. only for reader to be emotional over his hobbies before he died :(
Cookie Sheets
Ah!! Wait, I LOVE this. Here's a little (mostly) fluffy ramble that spiraled because self-control and Jason Todd do not go together for me. ~500 words
You didn't think anything of it, when Jason picked up baking ingredients during your weekly grocery shopping trip.
You were mildly curious, when he pulled out a worn, handwritten page from his pocket and started to move around the kitchen, pulling bowls and pans out of the cupboards.
You were engaged, watching silently from where you're sat, when the smell of baked goods started to fill your apartment.
He was obviously focused, eyebrows knitted together, and lower lip pulled between his teeth. You really, really wanna listen to the cliché 'kiss the cook' apron he's wearing, but something about the intent look in his eyes tells you this is important.
So you wait, content to study him as he moves fluidly around the kitchen. Your bright grin matches the giddy expression on his face when the oven timer goes off.
It's when he's finally, carefully moving each cookie off the tray to cool when he starts to talk, "Alfred and I used to bake together all the time."
You straighten out immediately, "Yeah?"
He hums in acknowledgment, "Yeah. For everyone, really. Brownies that B took into the office for his meetings. Cakes for Dick to take back to the Titans. Bags of cookies for the kids on the streets. Pies for the shelters in Park Row."
"Oh," You say softly, and the weight of what he's doing settles on your shoulders. It makes your throat tighten, in grief of what was taken from him and in pride that he's rekindling that part of his life.
You almost want to cry over the fact that he's really always been so good. You practically jump out of your seat, moving to pluck a cookie off the counter.
"Doll," Jason practically cries out, voice pitching. He goes to snatch the treat from your hand, "It's still hot!"
You bite into the cookie instead, "It's delicious."
His eyes soften a little, but he still fixes you with a disbelieving gaze, lifting your hand to inspect it for burns, "They weren't going anywhere, you know."
"We can make more, if you want. Take them down to the soup kitchen," You suggest, a little sheepish as he presses a kiss to your fingertips.
Jason smiles at you, and you know you've said the right thing, "I'd like that." His eyes dart back to the cookies for a moment, "Were they really good? It's been a while since I, uh, made them."
You grab another cookie and grin, biting into it even under his disapproving glare. This time, you listen to the apron and plant a kiss on his cheek, "They're good. Really good."
He kisses your forehead in return and tentatively picks up a cookie, turning it over and inspecting his work. He takes a bite, like he's braced for it to be nothing like he remembers. But his body relaxes instead, "Yeah, doll, they are."
You spoil yourself and chase his lips, curious to see if his baking tastes just as good on his tongue. (It does)
You're the exception to everything Jason Todd knows about himself. He'll deal with that later. ~1.2k words
Jason Todd doesn't smile a lot. But with you it comes easy. It wasn't anything big that drew his awareness to the fact. You were just folding laundry with him while your favorite show played in the background.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't life changing. But he's grinning with all of his teeth, and he can't seem to wipe the expression off his face.
It's stupid, really, because all you did was offer to fold the sheets so he didn't have to. And now he's giddy. He'd be embarrassed, but he's too distracted by the melody you're humming softly.
He decides to be embarrassed about it later.
Jason doesn't talk a lot about himself. He talks to people, sure, talks a lot about cases and crime, and Gotham and the mission. But the deep and dirty personal stuff? He shies away from it.
Well, that's not completely true. Not with you.
He's talking about himself now, your head on his shoulder as you stare out at the city from the rooftop. He's not patrolling tonight, and you insisted on a picnic dinner to enjoy what's left of summer.
It's peaceful, and he hooks an arm around your back when you tug his hoodie tighter around yourself, staving off the slight chill in the air. He rambles a little more, he can't help it, he always wants to talk with you, listen to you.
He'd be insecure if you weren't so obviously engaged, prompting him to keep talking and sharing your own thoughts.
He decides to second guess himself later, and enjoy the shining lights of Gotham for now.
Jason doesn't hug a lot, but you're his exception. A hug hello, a hug goodbye, a thank you hug, a 'I'm glad you're okay' hug.
He cherishes them, wraps you up against him, and doesn't let go until he starts to worry he's making you uncomfortable. He'd probably never let go if he wasn't so scared of seeming desperate to hold you.
It's not– he doesn't mean anything by it, really. There's not anything more to it.
You're just warm, soft, and you smell like you. And Jason doesn't know anything more calming and soothing than you. So, if he craves the hugs you so freely give, isn't that okay? Wouldn't anyone feel the same?
He decides to wallow in his worries later, and focuses on the way you let him bury his face against your shoulder.
Jason knows a lot of things. Things about the world, life, people, space. Things anyone else would never even be the slightest bit curious about. But, sometimes, he just doesn't know what to do with you.
It's infuriating, the way you seem to care more about others' safety than your own.
There was no reason for you to go back into fire to try and help people out. There was no reason to put yourself in danger when he was right there to take care of it.
He has no idea what was going through your head when he hauled you out of the burning building. He would have dragged you by the back of your neck if it meant you just listened to him. If, for just a second, you considered that you could have died.
The thought makes him sick. The churning of his stomach isn't enough to distract from the angry look on your face. He wonders if he was too rough with you. He can't bring himself to regret it if he was when you start coughing from the smoke.
He knows he's too rough, this time, when he pushes you towards the paramedics and heads back to the fire.
He can break down later, throw his lunch up into the toilet later, because he's always too rough. But right now? He has a job to do.
Jason fights a lot. Breaks the bones of criminals, beats bruises onto thugs, shoots bullet holes into goons. But, he doesn't really fight with you. Tonight's different.
He doesn't think you should be so angry at him. He pulled you out of a raging inferno, after all. If anything, you should be giving him one of your hugs.
You're not doing that, though. Your face is scrunched up, and you're livid, and he can practically feel the tension between you two like a physical wall. He wishes he knew the right words to say that will make you see his side.
You accuse him of thinking you can't take care of yourself. (He's fully aware you can) You tell him he was reckless to go back into the fire. (You did it first!)
You snap that he was more preoccupied with pulling you out when there were other people in danger. (Duh. You're his priority. You could have had both feet out the door, and he still would have carried you out before anyone else)
You look completely fed up by the time you're done with your rant, and he's pretty sure he's only making the situation worse because he hasn't given you an answer.
It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just he doesn't have anything to say.
He wouldn't change what he did. He's sorry he upset you. But he's never been good with words or apologies, not even with you.
So he doesn't say a thing, just stares at you with clenched fists while he waits for the inevitable order for him to leave.
And he really is prepared to leave. He's surprised it hasn't happened sooner. He'll hate it. He'll probably even do something stupid over it. But he wouldn't force the weight that is his company on you.
He'll accept that this is what changes what he is to you. At least, he'll try. Later. Right now, he's focused on not crying as the silence drones on.
Your voice calling his name cuts through his thoughts, and his gaze snaps back up to yours. He hadn't even realized he'd dropped it. You step forward, and he braces himself for what's to come. The end of this. You and him.
But the end doesn't come. You cup his face– cradle his face and ask him why he looks so miserable.
Jason's good at running. Good at burying his emotions. He has to be. But you don't look angry anymore. You look concerned. You looked more worried than you did when he was last bleeding out onto your couch. So he spills his guts.
He stumbles out how he's too rough and too wrong and he knew you'd want him gone eventually but he's not ready to go and could you please just forgive him this once for not being what you needed him to be?
He waits for you to push him away. You don't. His shoulder slump when you wrap your arms around his waist and hug him so tightly that he has no choice but to believe that you want him to stay.
He doesn't hesitate to latch onto you and mumble nonsense into your hair. Promises that he'll be better. Different. Whatever you need.
You tuck yourself closer to his chest and tell him you don't need him to be anyone else but him. The rest of your reassurances are muffled into the fabric of his clothes when he clutches you tighter.
Jason isn't very good at admitting his feelings. But he wants to. With you.
He'll figure it out later. But for right now, he lets himself sink deeper into your hug, and all the serenity you bring.
Summary: The one where you learn firsthand that Jason Todd sleeps in the nude.
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader
Word count: 2.7k
Warnings/tags: best friend jason, awkwardness, nudity, reader hardcore thirsting over jaytodd, love confessions, humor (attempts at it, anyway), silliness. inspired by this post!
the divider
There's been a huge (blessed) development in the drug ring case that you and Jason are working on. You can hardly sleep now.
Normally, you'd call or text Jason, even though he's usually already in the know. It's possible that you just like having an excuse to call him, but who can confirm such a thing?
But it's late, probably too late to call, considering Jason doesn't answer his phone unless it's pinged directly to his helmet after a certain time, courtesy of his family being "a buncha jackasses" (his words, obviously).
But maybe it's not too late for a visit. After all, Jason patrols late, and has insane insomnia. He very well could be awake at this late hour. And he's never minded you dropping by before.
In truth, you haven't seen Jason in a few days and you feel restless now when you go longer than a day without seeing each other. You're not quite sure why that is.
So here you are, disabling the window alarm on Jason's apartment. Partly for a case, partly for your own benefit.
It takes a few minutes but you manage to open the window without anyone calling the police or whacking you with a broom. You slide open the window mostly soundlessly. Then you wait. The room remains dark and quiet.
You're pretty proud of yourself actually. It's not that you're green when it comes to spycraft, but you're certainly no Batman.
Still, you've managed to sneak into Jason's apartment without waking him. The Red Hood. You peek in to check if he's really asleep.
And he is, dark hair stark against the white pillow. It sticks out in messy tufts. You can't see past Jason's neck and his freckled arms, illuminated by the orange streetlight outside. You put your laptop bag on the floor.
He's sleeping on his stomach, facing away from you, but you're very endeared by how he's curled up under his sheet, hands tucked under his pillow. If you went really close to his face, you could count his eyelashes. Jason has such pretty eyelashes.
That's a perfectly normal thought to have about your best friend, right? Boys have pretty eyelashes. You're just making an observation.
You're bewildered by how cold the room is, surprised that Jason can withstand such a temperature. Maybe it's a Pit thing.
You watch him for a moment longer. Guilt pools in your gut. Are you really going to wake him when he's probably just gone to bed in the last hour? It takes Jason so long to fall asleep, you know that.
...
No, you should let him sleep. You can work on the case in the morning.
You bend down to get your laptop bag. In that time, the light flicks on.
You flinch, turn around, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.
Said gun is held by an extremely naked Jason Todd.
"Oh my God!" you say at the same time Jason realizes his mistake.
"What the fuck!" he shouts, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.
But not before you get an eyeful of your best friend's, er, weaponry.
"Why are you naked?" you shout, gaze darting everywhere. Good Lord, it's seared into your retinas. You're never getting the image of Jason's dick out of your brain.
"Why are you in my apartment?" Jason snaps back.
"No, my question is way more urgent," you say.
"No the hell it's not! You broke in! I'm allowed to be naked in my apartment!"
"Okay. Alright. I came because there's been a development in our case. I thought we could work on it together but when I realized you were asleep for real, I decided to leave."
Jason rolls his eyes. "You know I'm a light sleeper. I just went to bed. I was up late.”
Realization strikes you. Could it be...?
"Oh my God. Do you have someone here?" you ask, voice sinking to a whisper.
"I have you here," Jason says irritably.
"No, like—" You make a hole with one hand and stick a finger into it. "Y'know..."
"Jesus, no!" Jason's face twists in disgust. "C'mon!"
"Okay, chill out, Jay-Jay. It'd be fine if you did. I can keep a secret," you say, shrugging. People have sex. You know that. You've never thought about Jason having sex, but you suppose it's possible. Why not? Just because you've never had sex and you always hoped that Jason would be your first doesn't mean that he would. If he's moved on in his life, then you should too.
Jason scoffs. "Yeah, okay. You think anybody would get into bed with a headcase like me?"
Hope rekindles. You're not behind. Jason's right there with you, virginity firmly intact.
He puts the safety back on the gun, squishing the pillow against himself with his elbow. You watch in fascination at his multitasking. Jason starts to turn around to put the gun behind the headboard before clearly thinking twice about mooning you.
"So... why are you naked?" you ask, respectfully keeping your eyes north of the equator.
"If you must know, I sleep in the nude. Now turn around."
You don't turn around. "In the nude?"
Jason's eye twitches. "Yes, nude. It's better for your body and it's more comfortable and I don't—"
You pull a face. "Who says in the nude? How old are you, a hundred?"
"That's what you're harping on?" Jason asks. "You broke into my apartment!"
You hold up a finger. "I didn't break in, I disarmed the alarm like you taught me."
"Yeah, which was only for emergencies. This isn't an emergency. Now turn around!"
So you turn around. You hear the pillow fall and the image returns. You recite the alphabet backwards. When that doesn't work, you think about the time you helped Jason on a mission in the sewers and couldn't get the smell out of your suit for a week.
Yeah, that'll do it. You shudder.
"Can't believe you just broke in," he mumbles. "Raised in a fuckin' barn, swear to God."
"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm truly, honestly sorry, Jaybee. From the bottom of my heart. Can I look now?"
"If you dare."
"Are you decent?" you ask.
"Too easy of a joke," he says. "Yeah, the jewels are covered."
You turn slowly. Jason's got red (ha) boxers on, so you turn all the way.
Huh. Well.
You've never really thought much about what Jason's got going on underneath his armor. Certainly, you've assumed that he's got a good physique and a lot of stamina, considering what he does. You've always assumed that. But Jason's Jason. Your best friend, Jason. Your best friend, Jason, who came back really tall, yeah, and with a deep voice and a super pretty face...
Well, anyway. He's Jason. That's all.
But now? Now you get to look in depth, and... whoa.
Jason's broad, stocky, heavily muscled with a soft layer of fat on top. His arms are huge, hands proportionally big. His pecs are full with pink nipples the same shade as his lips. That's a fact you're never forgetting. Your belly flutters.
Okay, what the fuck! No. This is peak creepy behavior, leering at your best friend like this, even if he does have shoulders you could sink your teeth into and thighs you'd happily get crushed between. No! Bad.
...You look some more. He's covered in scars. This is the first time you've seen his autopsy scar in person. It's white, noticeable but healed, like most of his scars. There's a dusting of dark hair from his chest to his belly button. It thickens as it dips beneath his—
Mm, nope. Not thinking about that again.
"Hello-o."
Your eyes dart back to his face.
"Are you listening to me?" he asks, forehead crinkled.
"What? Yes. Sorry. Yes." Your cheeks burn.
Something crosses Jason's face, too quick for you to read. But then his expression stones over. He glances at the dresser across from the bed.
"If you gimme a sec, I'll put a shirt on so y'won't have to look at all this," he says, gesturing roughly to his body.
You blink, lost in Jasonland. "Huh?"
"I know the scars are pretty gnarly. Lemme find a shirt."
Jason goes to the dresser and digs through the top drawer. His wide back is strung tight with tension, you can tell. You hurry to him, blocking the drawer with your arm. Jason looks at you, brows rising.
"Can I help you?" he asks.
"Um."
Words. You remember words, don't you?
"You..."
You haven't been physically close to Jason in a long time. He smells like soap and detergent and is all-encompassing. Your brain feels like slush. Don't stare at his pecs.
"I didn't—I'm not grossed out by your scars, Jason," you finally manage to say.
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Sure. You're just grossed out by everything else about me." He sighs wearily, like he's practiced this speech every night in the mirror. "Look, it's fine. I know I'm really—"
"No, it's not fine! I can't bear having you think I'm repulsed by your body, Jason. That's just not true," you say.
"Well, you were starin' pretty hard, so—"
"But it wasn't—I wasn't staring in disgust, I was—I..."
Jason crosses his arms. His pecs are pushed up as he does so. His stomach looks so soft. But you know he's strong. Way stronger than you. Strong enough to wield his strength against you, if you wanted him to. Strong enough to be gentle with you, too.
You wonder if he's still ticklish.
"You're doin' it again!" Jason says, and this time he really does look hurt. Fuck. Fuck! You're a shitty best friend.
"No!" You lock eyes with him. "No, no! I mean, yes, I was looking at you. But I wasn't looking in a bad, judgy way. I was, uh, taking in your physique. Because you have a... a very nice body. I've never seen you without clothes so I was looking at you. Sorry."
Yeah, you'll just go die in a hole after this.
Jason squints at you for a long moment. You start to shift in place. Sweat beads on your forehead. You lick your lips, hoping Jason can hear your honesty.
"Are you messin' with me?"
"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, why would I—"
"You're really telling me that you find this," Jason gestures to his body, "Good looking?"
This is worse than any physical torture. You'd prefer Batman beating you up on a roof to being here.
You rub your temple, cheeks aflame. "Oh my God. Yes, Jason, you're a good looking guy. Can we move on?"
"No, 'cause I think you're lyin', and I don't like it. You're always honest with me."
"I am being honest," you say, suddenly more annoyed than anything. Because what the fuck? "Are you kidding me? There's a whole forum dedicated to the Red Hood and how much people want you to step on them. And that's without seeing your face! I have eyes, Jason, of course I find you attractive."
And that should be the end of it. Jason's already slack-jawed like a dead fish. But no, you keep going.
"You make me nervous and I thought I had a lid on it because we knew each other as kids but it's becoming clear that I very much don't, and that probably has to do with the fact that you're the only guy I've been close to, and I never got over you. And now I'm gonna go drown myself in the Hudson. Good night."
You go to slip out the window. Maybe it'll shut on your head and knock you out. That would be a divine gift.
It doesn't, though. The universe isn't so kind. Instead, Jason catches your arm and keeps you rooted to your spot. His hand is cold. You wonder if the rest of him is warm.
"Wait, wait. Just hang on."
You groan. "Dude, I'm fucking mortified over the last five minutes. Please let me keep some of my dignity," you say without looking at him.
"Now when have I ever done that?" You can hear the smile in his voice.
And suddenly, the miserable reality of never being more than friends with Jason Todd comes crashing down. It's too late. You've always been too late.
You sag in his grip.
"We can just forget this ever happened," you say quietly. "Chalk it up to idiocy."
"Mm, yeah, we could. 'Cept I don't think you're an idiot. And I want you to hear what I have t'say first. Will ya look at me?"
Mopily, you look at him. His hand drops.
"I—"
"You've never slept naked," you say before he can get a word out. "That's new. Otherwise, I would've known, and then I would've used the door."
Jason rolls his eyes. "Can I speak?"
You cross your arms. "Yeah, okay."
"First of all, I don't think it's necessary for me to disclose that I sleep in the nude." You open your mouth to argue. "But I know it was a mistake. I'm not mad about that. Okay?"
You nod. "Okay."
"I won't lie and say I'm not surprised at your... reaction. I don't really... I've never... I'm not Dick or Bruce, y'know? I wasn't told my whole life what a handsome boy I am. And dying and returning didn't really help with that stuff either."
"I think you're handsome, Jason," you say quietly. "Honest."
He coughs and looks away, a tiny blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, uh, think you've made that pretty clear. For the record, I think you're really beautiful. Always thought so."
Your eyes widen. "Really?"
"Well, yeah. I mean... yeah."
"You're just saying that 'cause I saw your vein cane," you say, grinning.
"Don't call it that."
"How about—"
"No."
You're both quiet.
"How 'bout pork swor—"
"No!"
You smile, eyes squinty. Jason glares.
"Don't nickname my thing," he says.
You nod solemnly. "You're right. It's your thing. You should choose its name."
He shakes his head. "Sucha weirdo."
"Hey, I've never been with a guy. I don't know the rules of thing-naming."
Jason tilts his head. "Never?"
"Never."
"Why?"
You shrug. "Never found anyone I liked enough, I guess. I've pretty much had my heart set on you, Jason."
His face softens. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Well, uh, me too," he says. "You're it for me, honey. I just never... I mean, really, I never thought it would actually happen with you. Not then, not now."
"Huh. You really should've flashed me earlier. We could've sped things up exponentially."
"Yeah, why didn't I think of that," Jason says dryly.
"Dunno! We all know you're more than a pretty face."
His face reddens. You grin.
"Are you shy?" you ask, dancing on your toes.
"No. Shut up."
"You're shy! I make Jason Todd shy! Oh, this is wonderful. I should break into your apartment regularly."
"It's just new for me!" he says. "Lea' me alone."
You cozy up to him, confidence renewed by the mutual confession. You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason looks at you, hands slowly coming to rest on your waist. The rest of him is warm.
"Just teasing you, Jaybee," you say.
"Hmm." He slowly nudges your cheek with his nose. "Like y'always do?"
"Like I always do," you say sweetly. "But for the record, if we ever share a bed in the future, you're gonna have to keep the soldier in his tent."
Jason lets go of you, exasperated. "Oh, for—y'know what? Your visitation privileges are revoked. Get outta my apartment."
You put on the saddest face you can muster. "You're kicking me out? Into the cold?"
"It's eighty degrees."
You sigh loudly. "Okay, fine. Date tomorrow?"
"Seriously?" Jason asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Seriously! Why wouldn't I be serious?"
"You really wanna date me?"
"Never been more sure of anything in my life."
Jason's relief is palpable and bittersweet. You'll spend the rest of your days letting him know just how spectacular he and his pectorals are.
"Okay," he says, shy again. You don't tease him this time.
"Great!" You close the distance between you and peck him on the cheek. His blinks in surprise.
"I'll give you a proper kiss on our date," you say, winking. "Bye, Jasey-Daisy."
"Bye, honey. Don't break into anyone else's apartment on your way home."
"Never," you say, climbing out the window. "You're the only one for me, Toddy!"
To Zayne, his birthday was the absolute perfect day. From the birthday voucher next to his pillow, the little seal shaped cookies, the double kiss, to viewing the flowers together.
What more could he ask for? He doesn't even realize that he's smiling like an idiot side by side with you. His fingers tangled with yours firmly, a crisp leaf crunching on the way.
On the other hand, you were still thinking of what more you could do to spoil him more for his special day.
You can't help but let out a soft chuckle, squeezing his hand back as you both watch the sun set in the distance. The air is cool, the leaves are changing, and the sky is lit with beautiful and warm hues of blue and red and orange. The world is quiet and peaceful now, and you can smell the sweet scent of some baked apples, cinnamon, and woodsmoke in the air.
Zayne turns to you, a genuine soft smile on his face, “let's head back, it's getting cold.”
Autumn is lovely, isn't it?
Right, you both were talking about the osmanthus flowers on the way back, but how did it end up from him taking his coat off, to his hand gripping the back of your head? him being breathless and barely keeping up with your hungry, greedy kisses.
You've been wanting him ever since you saw that gentle smile playing on his lips.
God how pretty he looked.
Your tongue dances with his, a sensual play of give and take. You could taste the sweet frosting from the deserts you both shared earlier, and he forgets himself for a moment as his other hand clenches so tightly on his side around the bed sheet.
His hand that was gripping the back of your head left it's place to pull you by your waist, urging you closer as he rocks against you. The heat between them grows, the need for friction driving them both mad. He can't bear to be this close and not have you.
His hips began to rock in slow circles on instinct, pressing his hardening length against your heat, and ou let out a soft, quiet breathy laugh to tease the man when you felt his cock was already straining against his boxers, the outline evident through the thin fabric.
He gives you a look, one that silently says “don't tease me.”
His eyes never leave yours, watching like a man deeply in love when your thumb traced over his moist lips before your soft lips brushed against his, taking him in a slow, sweet kiss this time.
He’s at your mercy, now, and he wants to be. He wants to bask in the sweetness of your touch. Your hands roam over his clothed chest, trailing further down to fumble with the belt of his pants. He’s barely able to help, Zayne leaves your lips to bury his face into your chest.
He’ll be a good boy this time, he’ll do everything you ask. And in the end, he’ll be the one begging for more, for you.
You push yourself back to pull your sweater over your head first before you began sliding his boxers off to slowly release his throbbing cock.
Zayne groaned softly, his hips bucking slightly when you took his length into your hand, his tip already glistening with pre-cum. And you smirk when you see his flushed face, his head leaning to the side with his eyes almost closed.
You lean down to lick the beads of his pre-cum off, his eyes shot wide the minute he felt the wet muscle slide over the darkish red head, his hand immediately grabs onto your hair.
“You don't have to—” he couldn't even finish his words before you took him in your mouth, and he grits his teeth together so harshly.
Zayne's eyes fluttered shut as you begin to suck, your skilled mouth enveloping his cock, your tongue swirling around the head. Zayne is afraid to part his lips because he might moan too loud, and he's also afraid to keep them shut because he might start whimpering.
But he loses so fast, a whimper escapes from him when you start moving your head up and down his shaft, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue teasing the vein running along his pretty cock. Zayne's hips began to move in time with your mouth, his thrusts slow but insistent, his body trying to rock on the bed, careful not to hurt you.
You pull away with a pop, eyes taking a glance up at his expression and you can tell—he’s quite disappointed you stopped. But it doesn't matter to him anyway, turning you on makes him turned on.
His hand moves to caresse your cheek, his thumb wiping the corner of your lips before you straddle back on his lap.
Zayne watches as you lazily take your pants off next, his arm reaching to the bedside drawer to take out the condom he kept. You knew what he was doing, so you stopped him by taking his wrist back and pressing a kiss to his palm.
“you don't have to,” you whisper against his skin, “i want to feel all of you.”
Zayne swears he could just cum from your words. You're going to let him feel your wet heat without any rubber in between? Oh he would beg if you asked right now. Only if you asked.
His fingers worked quick to unclasp your bra before you teased the head of his cock with your slick entrance, one of his hands squeezing your soft breast while the other gripped your hips, guiding you down onto his shaft.
The heat of your body enveloped him as you sank down, inch by inch, until you were fully impaled. You felt full and stretched, your inner muscles gripping his length.
You moaned while Zayne's hands roamed, cupping your breasts, squeezing them gently, and pinching your nipples as you began to move, slowly at first, you rocked your hips back and forth, rolling your pelvis and making your clit rub against his pubic bone. You could feel the head of his cock hitting your sensitive G-spot with each stroke, eliciting an almost choked sound from you.
Zayne's rock-hard dick filled you up, and you felt the most full of him in this position, his thrusts becoming more forceful to chase his release, and so he reached between your legs, finding your clit. The combination of his penetration and his skilful fingers rubbing circles on your clit made your head go almost blank.
Heavy breaths. His cheek rubbing along your soft mounds. He was obsessed.
You felt the familiar build-up, the pressure coiling inside you. And he felt it too.
You leaned back, arching your spine, bucking your hips when his hands took control to slam your hips up and down with such a hurry which you found to be unexpected, the sounds of skin slapping against skin made your ears ring.
“Zayne—hah—c-cumming—” your body convulsed, your pussy contracting around Zayne's cock, milking him as your orgasm washed over you. Zayne, unable to hold back any longer, parted his lips to let out a moan, his own release following yours. Wave after wave of hot cum filled you up, his hips bucking to meet your movements.
He made no move to pull out, staying inside your warmth as he took both of your wrists to push you down on the mattress, lips latching to yours—roughly this time, all tongue and teeth, which made you pull away gor a brief second, your eyes blink slowly to meet his.
At first you were giggling, it was his birthday after all, if he wanted to be on top this time and go again, you were more than willing to do so.
“Happy birthday, Zay—” you stop when you blink again, smile disappearing when your eyebrows furrowed, taking a closer look at his face. His eyes.
“Zayne?”
Zayne's eyes snapped open as the dream faded from his consciousness. The brief taste of intimacy and affection felt like a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of his own world.
He sat up slowly on the bed, his cold palm clutching his head. He let out a shaky sigh, his body stiff and tense, the memory of you still lingering in his mind.
"Just... just a dream," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.
The realization that he was back in his own world, without you, again.
The dream had felt so real, so intimate, yet he noticed how you felt something was off in the end. How were you able to see him?
He felt.. seen. Even for just a second.
Dawnbreaker’s best birthday moment shattered right before his eyes.
Your writing is so damn good, you execute every request perfectly 😭
Could you maybe write something where Dick's insecure partner wants to break up with him because their self-image is getting worse cause they feel they can't catch up to the Golden Boy reputation, superheroes, billionaires and so on?
hi, thanks for the request! I hope I did it justice :) a brief interlude from jaytodd before we return to our regularly scheduled program lol
dick grayson x gn!reader. low self esteem, an almost breakup, reader feeling insecure, threatened, sad. happy ending! 2.1k words
****
You've been tugging at your outfit for ten minutes. At this rate, you'll have to concede that this is as good as it's going to get.
"My love, you almost ready?"
You sigh and watch your reflection fold its arms.
"Yeah," you say softly. "'M ready."
The door opens. Your heart swoops.
Dick is beautiful, as usual. Your boyfriend can do a lot, including fill a suit. Both your and his outfits were tailor-made because that's one of the perks of being the son of a billionaire.
Over and over, you'd insisted you could wear off-the-rack, and over and over, Dick had said that was silly, that Bruce wouldn't mind.
And it's true that what you're wearing flatters you better than anything from Macy's or Marshall's would've. But you know it won't help tonight. Not in a room full of Gotham's elite.
"Just as I suspected," Dick says, immediately draping his arms over your hips. "You're gonna steal the show tonight."
He's lying.
That voice in your head has gotten louder recently, and you don't know how to turn it off.
You kiss him instead of responding. Dick enthusiastically reciprocates, always delighted when you touch him. You used to think it would be enough.
But ever since you found out that not only are you dating a billionaire philanthropist with a face that makes angels weep, but that said guy is also arguably the most beloved hero in Gotham, maybe second only to the Batman (who's his freaking dad?!), you've begun to have doubts.
You pull back. Dick's tie perfectly sets off his eyes. They're bright as they look at you.
"Everything okay?" he asks, brushing your cheek with his thumb.
"Uh-huh," you say, trying to smile. "Just nervous."
“Hey, it's alright. I'll be by your side all night. I'll save you from any and all small talk, promise." He winks. "And we can duck out early, get hot chocolate from that place you like. They won't care."
Dick's always doing that. Always catering to you. You're just some nobody who happened to stumble into the best relationship you’ve ever had with a golden god.
Dick never reminds you of that. That he could do better. He doesn't have to—you know it all on your own.
You swallow. “Okay. If you're sure. I... I would like to leave early, Gray."
“‘Course, baby,” Dick says, attaching his cuff links. "Anything you want."
You turn back to the mirror, wondering if you can reinvent your personality before you go and remind everyone what a mistake Dick Grayson has made in choosing you.
****
The party is tasteful, though a little stuffy. You're only here because Dick is going to give a speech, and he asked you to come support him. And while you know it's better for him to go without you so you won't dull his shine, it seems Dick hasn't quite figured that out.
You hold onto Dick’s arm as he makes his usual rounds. Dick doesn't enjoy these events, you know that, but he's fluid in his interactions. There is no doubt he’s Bruce Wayne’s prodigy. With his suit, his hair, his easy posture, Dick is almost unrecognizable from when you woke up with him this morning.
He's in his element. All you can do is peer in and watch.
Dick leans in and slips a hand around your waist after the fourth interaction with a donor. A donor who, again, acted like Dick may as well have been dragging around a coat rack with how intently they ignored you. Not that you give a shit about what the one percent have to say about you, except sometimes they say a lot of mean things, things you're pretty sure they don't let Dick overhear, and sometimes you start wondering if Dick is the only person who can't see truth in what they say, and sometimes—
“Hey.” Dick leans in to talk in your ear. He's warm and solid. You wish that was a comfort. “You okay?”
You're exhausted.
“Uh-hmm.”
He is going to wake up one of these days and realize he can have it so much better.
Dick moves like he's about to say more, pull you closer and permeate your senses with his gold.
“Dickie!”
Sweet, tinkling laughter echoes across the room. The crowd parts for this new woman, an obvious socialite, dressed to the nines and gorgeous.
Her dress matches Dick's tie. You feel sick.
When she reaches you two, she wastes no time grabbing Dick and kissing his cheek. He extricates himself from her, like he's done a million times before with everyone else who thinks they're entitled to a piece of Dick Grayson. He shoots you an apologetic look. You look away.
“My God, it’s been what, ten years?” she says. Then she sees you. “Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Caroline Banesbury, Duchess of Middlesworth. I heard the Dickie Grayson was going to be here, and I had to come.”
“Been a while,” Dick says, smiling blandly. “How are you, Caroline?”
“Spectacular! Father just bought another castle. You should come and see it sometime.” She plucks a flute of champagne off of a passing tray and smiles behind the rim of the glass.
“Dick and I go way back,” she says, gaze roving over him. “I hear you're transforming Blüdhaven. Taking a page out of Bruce's book, hm? You always had a big heart, Dickie.”
She grabs his arm and links it with hers. You sigh and take a sip of your own drink. You half-wish Poison Ivy would come in and gas the room or something.
Dick clears his throat and maneuvers out of her grip once more, letting go of her with a light pat. He returns to you, snugly holding your shoulders.
"This is my partner," he says about you.
Caroline hums, looking over you. "I see. Pleasure."
You nod. She turns back to Dick.
“If I can be of any help to your project, you let me know,” she adds, glancing down at where her empty arm now hangs at her side. “Anything.”
“That's generous of you, Carrie.”
Dick and I go way back.
Oh. Right. You're stupid. They've dated.
“We should have dinner,” she continues. “Catch up. I'm dying to know what Gotham's darling has been up to.”
“I feel sick,” you announce.
Dick and Caroline turn to you. Caroline looks perplexed, like you've just said you like to chew concrete.
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she says, hardly sparing you a glance. "Perhaps you ought to lie down."
You feel Dick's eyes on you. If you don't leave soon, he'll know you're lying. Possibly the worst part about dating Batman's protégé.
Suddenly, leaving this hall is the most important thing you've ever had to do. You feel like you'll die if you don't.
Your feet start moving.
"Baby—"
Anyway, this is Caroline's chance. She can swoop in with her trust fund and while you think Dick can do way better than her—he can always do better—anyone is better than you. For Dick Grayson, who has been a master acrobat since he was a child, son of Batman, leader of the Titans, indubitably intelligent, capable, beautiful, the best goddamn guy you'll ever know—
You've lost your way. You're out of the gala, away from duchesses and doom. And you meant to get your coat but this hall that Bruce rented is enormous. You've no idea where you are. But you're alone.
Bruce must've known too, how unfit you are for his son. And why wouldn't he tell Dick? Unless Dick ignored him, because Dick, for all his smarts, is stupidly in love with you, thinks you're where he should put his heart, is certain you won't fumble and drop it.
Warm, callused fingers catch your wrist and you remember, suddenly, Dick telling you once, after you'd nearly stumbled into the street, that he'd never let you fall.
You meet his eyes. Why does he look at you like that? Who gave him the right to look at you like-like you—as if you could ever deserve—
"Hey," he says, squeezes your hand. "Hey, hey. What's going on?"
Dick Grayson is not a trusting man but he trusts you and good God, you're about to break him.
"I need to break up with you," you blurt.
"What?" he breathes. "What—why would you say that?"
You wish he'd give you the slip he gave everyone in that room, gently separate your arm from his hand. You never learned how to evade Dick's touch.
"Because it's true. Dick, please understand—"
"No, I'm trying to understand. Because yesterday—no, tonight, you were fine—"
"No, Dick, I wasn't fine! I haven't been fine in months!"
You wrench your arm away. He looks like you slapped him.
"You know anybody I talk to in there means nothing, right? You know that, honey." He's pleading.
You curl your fist into your eye. "It's more than that, Gray."
"Then tell me what the problem is," he says desperately. "Tell me and we'll fix it. I promise we can fix it."
"You can't!" you say, voice cracking. "You can't fix me."
Dick shakes his head. "I don't—"
"Why can't you let me break up with you with a little bit of dignity?" you ask. "Do you have to be better at this too?"
"I don't want to break up," he says, tugging at a handful of his hair. "This doesn't make sense. We're happy. You're happy, aren't you? Don't I make you happy?"
"Of course," you choke out. "Of course you make me happy. But you don't see I'm bad for you. You're wonderful and perfect and golden, Dick. And I'm a stain. I need to be scrubbed away."
"Wh—that's not true!"
"Everywhere we go, people see me with you and are immediately confused. I'm not a superhero, I'm not royalty, I'm not a socialite, and yet somehow I've managed to snag Gotham's darling. This is a mistake. I'm trying to do you a favor and wake you up!"
Dick's face is hard with anger. How could you have thought this would be easy?
"I don't need to be woken up! What is it that makes you think I have no agency over the people I choose to spend time with? Everyone I meet thinks they're entitled to touch me, demand me. Everyone but you. You, the person I chose to love, who I love everyday. Do you think you pulled the wool over my eyes and you're snapping me out of it? Is that what you really think?"
And isn't this the most puzzling thing? That he's not sad or gently accepting; Dick is mad.
"I just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't mean to yell, but really, I can't bear it if you see me as some god on a pedestal, unattainable and inhuman, like everyone else sees me. I love you on purpose."
"You're so accomplished, though," you say weakly. "You're..." You wave your hand over him. "You're fucking Nightwing, D. You were Robin, you have superheroes for friends, Batman for a parent, you're beloved by, like, all of Jersey—"
"My love, you know those are just parts of me. You see all of me. You know me. And that's not a one-way privilege, okay? I'm so damn lucky to know you, to love you, to be with you, to fight with you. To fight for you. Knowing you isn't something I take for granted."
"But I'm boring," you say, tears spilling over. "Jesus Christ, Dick, I'm plain and untalented, barely a dime to my name, so painfully ordinary that—"
"Listen to me," he says, taking your face in his hands. "Flying around or shooting lasers out of your eyes, sure, it's cool, and it's helpful for taking down an alien dictator. But I don't need you to do any of that, honey. I don't need nor want you to be anyone but you. I wasn't tricked or swindled into loving you. We caught each other halfway, just like we were meant to."
You let him pull you into his arms, let him press your tear stains to his silk pocket square, let his hair fall around you.
His embrace is solid, firm, but when he inhales, his shoulders shake.
"Do you—" He swallows, throat against yours. "Do you still want to break up?"
His heart beats against your cheek.
"I'm just afraid you'll get tired of me," you whisper. "Bored. Annoyed."
"I won't," he whispers. "You're the least boring person ever. It's never boring to be loved."
You squeeze your eyes shut. Dick's warmth encloses you.
"No, I don't want to break up. I'm sorry."
He holds you tighter, and you realize you never had to match Dick's tie. Not when you've got his heart.
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