Ironsight

Hello! Name's Amber. 32 . Multiple-fandom. Possible NSFW!

[yourfavoritehorseman]

Is this a space place to say that I think Jason Todd would be one to make a joke about "must have been my other partner" but pouts when you make the same joke? 😂

[yourfavoritehorseman]

Bad Week: A Jason Todd Oneshot

A/n: Hey. It's been a rough week, folks. Well, it's been longer than a week, but I wrote this because I needed Jason Todd comfort. Maybe it will help someone else, too. Eventually I may try to write more characters, but I just enjoy writing about my pookie so much! <3

Warnings: A brief mention of blood. Knife slicing into a hand. That's really all. Possible OOC. Jason being comforting. Self-edited, so please have mercy lol.

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The last week had been testing your patience in new and exciting ways. Aside from the usual bombardment of bills and responsibilities, work had hired a new lady who you felt certain was pretending to not know how the job works to get out of their duties. Adding insult to injury, you'd had almost no time with your lovely boyfriend, Jason Todd.

When the weekend finally rolled around, you decided to cook a special homemade dinner for him. Once you'd completed another stressful day at work, you stopped at the nearest grocery store and bought all the ingredients for a restaurant quality meal. It'd been a week since either of you had something other than takeout and it would be a nice change for you both.

Immediately after getting home, you unpacked the ingredients before prepping the vegetables. Not five minutes had passed before the knife slipped and you sliced your hand considerably. With a hiss, you ran the wound under the water and medicated it before wrapping it with gauze. Your hand throbbed, which slowed down the process, but you eventually managed to finish dicing the onions.

Thankfully, the rest of the prep didn't involve nearly as much bloodshed. After what felt like forever, you finally had everything cooking and you could take a moment to breathe. Naturally, that meant your phone chose that moment to ring. You look at your phone and see the name of your boss come across the screen. Sighing, you answer and await whatever fresh hell she had waiting for you tonight.

By the time you had finished helping her resolve the issue created by your dunce of a coworker, everything in the kitchen had basically decided to explode. The meat was already somewhat overcooked, and the gravy had burnt badly enough that the smell permeated the entire apartment. Quickly, you turned the heat down on the burners and prayed at least some of the food would be salvageable.

The vegetables are still edible, but the meat would be drier than the Sahara and the gravy was scorched to hell and back. Frustration from the week finally culminated in that moment and you felt the tears begin to fall.

You practically began to weep when you heard the front door open and a familiar voice called out. "Hey babe, I'm home."

"Kitchen," you called out weakly.

"Everything okay? It smells like the kitchen is on f-," Jason started, but stopped short when came into the room and saw you crying.

"Whoa, baby, what's going on?" he asks, taking your head into his hands.

"I fucked up dinner," you managed to say between sobs.

"This isn't a "fucked up dinner" cry. What's really going on?"

He stayed quiet while you ranted and bitched about everything from your terrible boss to an overdue doctor bill that they hadn't ceased writing you about all week. It was the kind of boring and mundane thing you felt silly talking to Jason about. Granted he had dealt with burnt dinners and ungrateful supervisors before, but it paled in contrast to the majority of his life.

Once you were done, Jason tenderly wiped the tears from your cheek. "It sounds like your boss needs a life and your coworker needs to handle their own shit."

The conviction in his voice makes you laugh. He doesn't actually know these people, but you've ranted enough for him to give a proper diagnosis. "You're right on both counts."

Your laughed caused his shoulders to noticeably relax. "Baby, don't answer the phone if your boss calls you at home anymore. If she calls about your coworker, tell her to refer it to them. This shit is causing you stress and I'm about to make that their problem."

Another laugh. "I'd be tempted to let Red Hood handle it, I can't lie."

"Red Hood wouldn't need to. Jason isn't pleased they have you this upset."

"That's oddly attractive."

"Yeah, yeah," he retorts, kissing the side of your head.

"I'm so sorry about dinner," you say, a fresh batch of tears began to fall.

"No need for that, baby," he said in a deep tone, taking you into his arms.

For a while, he holds you and lets you cry. He rubs his large hands between your shoulders and planted kisses on your forehead. Suddenly, you hear him chuckling softly.

"What's so funny?" you ask.

"It's probably a miracle I don't have to eat your cooking anyway," Jason taunts.

Pulling away, you lightly punched his arm. "Jason Peter Todd!"

"Alright, you can kick my ass later. For now, I need to check your hand and then we'll see what can be salvaged from what you've made. Then, we'll turn off the phones and watch whatever movie you want."

"Okay," you agreed, unable to hide the tiredness in your voice.

"After you've rested, we'll work on getting everything else figured out. You'll tell me what you need from me and we'll make sure it gets done."

You smiled, "thank you, Jay."

"Anytime, babe."

[sapph1re]

thinking of jason todds biceps right now

[yourfavoritehorseman]

I wish I enjoyed ships and shipping, but I never have. Fans get too aggressive about it for my taste. Even with canon couples I sort of enjoy, it's more "that's cute" and I immediately go back to my characterXreader fics.

[twentytomidnight]

it's rotten work (but never for me)

Roy Harper/Reader, 1.9K

a/n: a request for @filmcamerasanddice, hope you enjoy :)

cw: hurt/comfort/angst, practice fighting, reader feels inadequate, Roy is surprisingly good at advice, kissing, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

When you're at your lowest, Roy is there to pick you up. Roy Harper/Reader

It’s a delicate task to walk from the distance of the hangar bay to the gym while you feel as though every internal barometer of your body is firing off klaxon bells. As everything roils within in utmost turmoil, a chaotic din of thoughts and emotions, yet you must maintain brave face to your teammates as they all head their different ways to retire for the night.

There’s something that twists in sharp, jagged nature within the real estate of your ribs—as you watch the way that Dick and Kori meander off hand-in-hand, lost in a world of their own making. As Donna and Vic stroll in wayward departure with Wally tagging gamely along for whatever they have planned.

All of them smile and wave goodbye, making sure that you are included in the number. It feels as though you’ve drawn agonizing rictus on the musculature of your face to force the smile that makes way. To force yourself to draw through the motions that you wish you could easily cast aside. And it disappears as soon as there’s no one necessary to see it.

With no audience to take heed, you allow the facade to drop. The gloom that hangs about you in diseased malaise before you retreat to the one place that you feel you can achieve any form of catharsis. All the while, you remain unaware of the final occupant of the jet that watches your stilted, as if on tenterhooks departure as you stalk away.

But it turns out that the gym offers no solace either. Each time that you sink a swaggering blow into the give of the punching bag that flails on teetering pendulum, it offers no balm.

The pain that shocks through the ridge of your knuckles, the flat of your fist only festers and rots, rather than summon that dissociative haze that you wish you could retreat into. And still your thoughts continue to cloud, continue to cast intrepid doubt to worsen your mood.

You hook a jab into the bag with your left, the jangle of the chain the bag hangs from dissonant and discordant as the thoughts that plague you. It seems that it’ll do no good: your hands seize out on instinct to still the bag, to allow you to catch the chuffed breath that you’ve denied yourself in the meantime.

And you finally acknowledge the elephant in the room that’s watched you from the doorway.

“You want the punching bag, Harper,” You say more to the leather than the figure you can see in the reflection of the wall-length mirror, “It’s all yours.”

Roy’s voice is a mellow note that hums out into the tepid air of the gym; you watch as he lopes a casual, languid step into the room. The arc that he curves into the perimeter of the shared space is less linear to you, but more of meandering means. Almost as if he is seeking your permission to remain in the room.

“Don’t want the punching bag,” Roy responds in that markedly calm manner, “Just want to see you.”

“What? Why?” You ask, and it’s the exhaustion that makes your voice more terse than it needs to be. You turn and see that Roy seems overall unaffected by your rather dour mood.

“Looks like you got a lot on your mind,” He asserts into the space between you. It’s not an inquiry, it’s a dedicated observation he makes on your behalf. All you return back to him is a hissing note of amusement that almost qualifies as a chuckle.

“Thought you might want to talk to someone about it.” Roy concludes as he completes his journey before you, taking decent berth in distance from you. Still ever-seeking the privilege of your company that you have yet to verbally offer.

“If I wanted to talk about it, I would have asked,” You say—there’s not any real bite to it, but there’s not exactly any pleasant temperament that you try to shore up for him.

You’re not even certain how you look, the weariness that you made no effort to disguise for him plainly expressed on the terrain of your face. All he does is watch you with that evergreen expression that demonstrates an ennui that almost maddens you the longer you watch him.

“Yeah, well, you could ask for some tips on punching the bag too,” Roy returns, crossing his arms over the plateau of that firm chest, “But I don’t see you lookin’ around for that, either.”

A shock of anger, a split-second of fury that you’re certain registers on his face: and all that he returns to you is a smile that you don’t qualify as smug. It’s benevolent.

And that makes you more angry as you approach, taking the initiative to step into his space.

“Well, if you ask me,” You articulate in low, pitched means to him, “It sounds like you’re asking for a fight.”

“Maybe I am.” Roy says. “So are you gonna hit me, or what?”

You don’t look a gift invitation in the mouth. The first swing that you make out is something that goes wide, unfortunately—too clouded by the haze of anger, Roy’s easily able to dodge the trajectory of your fist. This only prompts a snarl of rage, a vicious scowl that heralds the beginning of the fight.

You proceed further into his space, sending out a kick that takes purchase on his shin—he makes a grunt that acknowledges the pain you’ve caused him, before retreating further across the mats.

When he sends his own punch in return that connects with the full of your shoulder, there’s a spasm of pain, a gasp of protracted agony you expel like expletive.

“Lucky shot,” You pant, fixing your stance. Maintaining ground that you refuse to surrender to him.

“Luckier if you hit me,” He offers—and the grin that he gives you is clear that he knows the game he’s playing. But you take the bait anyways, a grunt of irritation making headway through your lips. And your haymaker takes aim—

“Ouch,” Roy praises in monotone as you drive the arc of your fist into the sink of his ribs, “That’ll hurt tomorrow.”

“Want it to hurt—”—You say like a curse—“—Now.”

When you take aim with your kick, it whiffs through the air towards the after-image of him. But he’s long gone, already advancing to regain conceded territory.

“Cause it didn’t hurt enough during the mission?” Roy’s in your face quicker than you realize, exercising alacrity that has you off-guard; the flat of his palm smacks into the hand you put up as guard.

His other fist curls and delivers a bolt of pain that blooms out from where it makes landing in your stomach—you gasp with punched-out air that’s no longer yours to command.

“Fuck—”—You dart back across the negotiated area, and he follows. “Should’ve hurt—more—”

He ducks the quick jab but accepts the brunt of your uppercut as it connects with his pec; the expulsion of oath that he makes indicates to you that it’ll sting when he breathes.

“You think that’ll make you earn your place on this team?” Roy grits through his teeth, his jaw working as he tries to keep the words of perfect clarity. As the two of you regard each other, waiting for the other to make a move.

“You think it’ll make us respect you more?” Roy asks—it’s clear from the way that he watches you, appraises the way you make facial reaction that he wants to ask more.

But you’re too busy diving for the full of his waist; the two of you collide with cacophonous impact and Roy is too distracted by his imperative to keep balance.

When you tumble, it’s he who accepts the impact, his arms wrapping around you to take care in preventing you from suffering the same. For a brief second, there is a sanctuary, a warmth, a comfort that he communicates in the way his arms tick around you, settle in soothing manner around the small of your back—

But you’re up on your feet, inching away from him.

“No,” You spit out to him, taking trembling footing as he works to seat himself up. “But it’ll make me feel like I did something worthwhile.”

And this makes him draw silent, the truth of the matter achieved. The gravity of your statement settles between both of you, drawn open like exposed nerve, pained wound; something gleams in his eyes that you don’t want to acknowledge.

“What if people don’t want you to get hurt?” He asks, and there’s something so tender in the ken of his voice that you have to swallow thickly, lest you choke on your emotions.

“Who?” You ask, but the venom is fading. The fight is leaching from you like a sieve with the way that those blue eyes continue to watch you. “Dick? Wally? Donna?”

“‘Course they do,” He says. “But I was thinking of someone a lot closer to you.”

“Figuratively or literally?” You ask—he chuckles as he finally makes lanky stance before you, a crooked smile making foundation on his face.

“Both, I think,” He comments dryly, “Unless you didn’t mean that kiss during monitor duty last week.”

The noise you make is both disapproving and embarrassed, stunted through the gap of your teeth. But the pleasure of the warmth that spreads through your ribs is undeniable—you won’t lie to him.

“It meant something.” You confess in quiet manner.

“Something enough for me to tell you the truth?” He asks—he’s testing the waters again. Checking for your permission granted for him to speak to you, one-on-one. To let him let himself in.

“What?” You ask, looking up to him. Hoping that the answers are in the slant of those blue eyes that seem to only have you to admire.

“That your self-doubt’s a bunch of bullshit.” Roy explains in rather self-explanatory manner—straight-to-the-point, direct, in very Roy manner. “And the pain’s better when it’s shared.”

“You hear that from your therapist?” You ask dryly. But you don’t deny the way that his hands ghost up your arms—tending rather than tearing. Healing rather than hurting.

“My AA sponsor, actually,” He tells you, that moseying smile making foundation again. “But it’s still the truth. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved, somethin’ like that.”

“And you want to share it with me?” You ask, hoping he’ll say the right thing. “Why?”

You dart your eyes back to the scars, the tattoos that litter the columns of his arm, that decorate the marked years before the two of you crossed paths. A lifetime of pain—and lessons learned.

“It’s awful work.” You mumble, letting your voice drop, much as your eyes do to the unerring floor. “And I’m not worth the trouble.”

“You know,” Roy says, his thumb gentle press under the curve of your jaw, “You should let me decide that, honey.”

When your eyes drag up to the landscape of that handsome face, you only have one question.

“And what do you think?” You whisper.

“I think if it’s you—it’ll always be worth it to me.” He confesses—and there’s no ounce of doubt, no modicum of sincerity that you could question in it.

You think the poets knew something of true love. But you don’t know if they ever knew a true peace as it was in the press of Roy Harper’s lips as they find yours. As they offer oasis in the storm, safe harbor in the turmoil—and for a brief second, all is well once more.

divider and banner made by me :)

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[yourfavoritehorseman]

Currently thinking about an AU with Jason Todd as the knight assigned to protect a princess who is betrothed to an old king. The princess decides she'd rather her first time be with her faithful knight instead of a decrepit man she hardly knows.

[ciricearts]

rendering practiceee :Þ

[k1tk4ttt]

How it feel to finally accept and embrace the cringe of reading x reader fics

[yourfavoritehorseman]

I went through a stage a few years ago where I decided I longer wanted to read x reader because I thought I should be reading more serious material. Guess who comes crawling right back every time I find a new character or an old fave gets done dirty?

[yourfavoritehorseman]

Imagine: Red Hood leaving stuffed animals with red domino masks on the stairs for children who he's helped, especially in impoverished areas. It's something he learned to do to let them know someone was looking out for them without terrifying them.

[jellyfishsthings]

hear me out a jason todd x reader fic where they’re both always awake at the most unruly times of the night and keep running into each other and the manor (maybe reader is a family friend) and slowly building a connection

3 AM Conversations

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Night One: 2:47 AM

The manor was different at night.

During the day, it was all formality and grandeur—a museum of wealth and legacy. But at night, when most of the household was either asleep or out on patrol, it became something else. Quieter. More honest. Like the building itself could finally exhale.

You'd been staying at Wayne Manor for two weeks now—a "family friend" in the loosest sense of the term. Your parents and Bruce had been colleagues once, before your father passed and your mother took a position overseas. When you'd needed a place to stay during your gap year, Bruce had offered without hesitation.

"The manor has plenty of room," he'd said. "And Alfred would appreciate having someone around who actually keeps normal hours."

Except you didn't keep normal hours.

You kept terrible, chaotic, 3 AM hours that even you couldn't explain.

Which is how you found yourself in the manor's library at 2:47 in the morning, curled up in an armchair that probably cost more than a car, reading by lamplight because sleep was a distant concept.

"You're in my spot."

You jumped, book tumbling from your hands.

A figure stood in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with a white streak in his dark hair that was visible even in the dim light. Jason Todd. The second son. The one everyone talked about in quiet voices, with careful words.

The one you'd been actively avoiding for two weeks.

"Sorry, I didn't—I can move—" You started to get up.

"I'm joking. Kind of." He moved into the room, and you noticed he was wearing sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, feet bare on the expensive carpet. He looked tired. "Didn't think anyone else would be up."

"I could say the same thing."

"Yeah, well. Sleep's overrated." He collapsed into the chair across from you with the heavy grace of someone exhausted. "What are you reading?"

You held up the book—some philosophy text you'd grabbed at random. "Honestly? I stopped paying attention about twenty pages ago. I'm just... awake."

"I feel that." He leaned back, eyes closed. "You're Bruce's friend's kid, right? The one staying in the east wing?"

"That's me. Professional house guest." You paused. "You're Jason."

"Unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?"

He opened one eye. "You haven't heard the stories?"

"I've heard lots of stories. About all of you. Figured most of them were either exaggerated or none of my business."

Something like approval flickered across his face. "Smart. Most people can't resist asking invasive questions."

"I'm not most people. I'm just someone who also can't sleep at normal hours."

"What's your excuse?"

"Circadian rhythm disorder. Or anxiety. Or just a refusal to conform to socially acceptable sleep schedules. Pick your favorite." You set the book aside. "What's yours?"

"Nightmares. Trauma. The usual." He said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather.

You appreciated the honesty. "The usual. Right."

A silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You both just sat there, two people awake when the rest of the world slept.

"You can stay," Jason said finally. "In the chair, I mean. I'm just going to read. Or pretend to read. Whatever helps pass the time until dawn."

"Sounds like a plan."

He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf—poetry, you noticed—and settled in. You picked your philosophy text back up.

And for the next hour, you both just existed in the same space, not talking, not performing, just... being.

When you finally got tired enough to attempt sleep, you stood carefully.

"Night," you said quietly.

"It's almost 4 AM."

"Morning, then."

"Still night for people like us." But he was almost smiling. "See you around. Or not. Manor's big enough to avoid people if you want."

"I'll keep that in mind."

You left, but you found yourself hoping you'd run into him again.

Night Two: 1:33 AM

The kitchen was your second favorite place in the manor at night.

Mostly because Alfred kept it stocked with the kind of food that made insomnia almost worth it. Also because the kettle was easy to find, and tea felt like the responsible choice at 1:30 in the morning.

You were waiting for the water to boil when Jason appeared in the doorway.

"Oh good," he said. "I'm not hallucinating the smell of tea."

"Want some?"

"Please."

He slumped into a chair at the kitchen island, and you noticed he was in different clothes—jeans, boots, a leather jacket slung over the chair. He smelled like Gotham at night: rain and exhaust and something sharper.

"Patrol?" You asked, pulling down a second mug.

"Something like that."

"I won't ask for details."

"Appreciated." He watched you prepare the tea with the focus of someone grateful for normal, mundane tasks. "Can't sleep again?"

"Never really tried. Figured I'd skip the tossing and turning and go straight to tea and reading."

"Efficient."

You slid a mug across to him. "How do you take it?"

"However it comes. I'm not picky."

You'd made it the way you liked it—a little honey, no milk—and watched as he took a sip and didn't complain.

"So," you said, settling onto a stool across from him. "Scale of one to ten, how was patrol?"

"You said you wouldn't ask."

"I'm not asking for details. Just a general vibe check."

He considered this. "Seven. Could've been worse. Could've been better. No one died, which is always a win."

"Bar's pretty low there."

"Welcome to Gotham."

You smiled despite yourself. "Fair point."

He drank his tea in silence for a moment, then: "You're not freaked out by it? The whole vigilante thing?"

"Should I be?"

"Most people are either too into it or really uncomfortable. There's not a lot of middle ground."

"I think..." You thought about how to phrase it. "I think people do what they need to do to make things better. And if that means putting on a costume and fighting crime, then... okay. Who am I to judge?"

"That's a remarkably chill take."

"I contain multitudes."

Jason actually smiled at that—a real smile, not the sardonic half-smirk he'd been giving you. "Yeah, okay. I can respect that."

The kettle had long since cooled, but neither of you moved to leave. You ended up talking about nothing important—books, the manor's weirdest rooms, Alfred's uncanny ability to appear whenever someone was about to do something stupid.

"I once tried to eat cereal at 3 AM," you told him, "and he materialized out of nowhere to inform me that there were 'proper breakfast items' if I was hungry."

"He did the same thing to me when I tried to make a sandwich at 2. Apparently, there's a protocol for nocturnal snacking."

"Is there a protocol for everything in this house?"

"Yes. And Alfred knows all of them."

You laughed, and Jason's expression softened.

"It's nice," he said quietly. "Having someone else up at these hours. Usually it's just me and whatever ghost Dick swears haunts the east wing."

"There's a ghost?"

"According to Dick, yes. According to reality, no. But he's convinced."

"I'll keep an eye out."

"You do that."

You both sat there until the sky started to lighten, talking about everything and nothing, and when you finally went to bed, you fell asleep easier than you had in weeks.

Night Three: 3:15 AM

You didn't see Jason for three nights after that.

Which was fine. The manor was huge. You were both busy. It didn't mean anything.

Except you found yourself wandering to the library at odd hours, just in case.

On the third night, you gave up and went to the gym instead—another place that was blessedly empty at 3 AM. You weren't much of an athlete, but the treadmill was good for clearing your head.

You'd been walking for maybe twenty minutes when Jason appeared, looking slightly surprised to see you.

"Didn't know you used the gym."

"I don't. Usually. But I was going stir-crazy."

He was in workout gear, and you tried not to notice the way his shirt clung to his shoulders. Tried and failed.

"Fair," he said, moving to the weights. "Mind if I...?"

"It's your house. Or, well, your family's house. You don't need my permission."

"Feels polite to ask."

You continued walking, and he started his workout—some complex routine that involved a lot of weights you couldn't name. You tried to focus on your podcast, but you kept getting distracted.

After about fifteen minutes, Jason paused. "You're staring."

"Sorry. It's just—how much can you lift?"

"Enough."

"That's not an answer."

"How much do you weigh?"

You told him, confused.

"Probably three of you, then. Give or take."

"That's—that's insane."

He shrugged. "Training. Lots and lots of training." He set down the weights. "Want to learn some self-defense? Since you're here anyway?"

"At 3 AM?"

"Best time. No one around to judge if you mess up."

You considered. "Okay. But if I accidentally punch you, that's on you for offering."

"I can handle it."

The next hour was spent with Jason patiently teaching you basic self-defense moves—how to break a grip, where to strike, how to use your weight to your advantage.

"You're stronger than you think," he said at one point, adjusting your stance. "Most people are. They just don't know how to use it."

"Is this going to turn into a motivational speech?"

"No. I'm just saying you'd probably be fine in a fight. With training."

"Good to know. I'll add 'probably won't die immediately in combat' to my resume."

He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound did something strange to your chest.

By the time you were both exhausted, sweaty, and significantly more awake than when you'd started, the sun was threatening to rise.

"Same time tomorrow?" Jason asked as you both headed toward the showers.

"You mean tonight?"

"Semantics."

"Yeah, okay. Same time tonight."

Night Four: 2:22 AM

The library became your unofficial meeting spot.

Sometimes you'd both read. Sometimes you'd talk. Sometimes Jason would disappear for hours, then return and collapse into his chair like gravity had increased tenfold.

Tonight was a talking night.

"Can I ask you something?" You said, setting your book aside.

"That depends on what it is."

"Why are you always up? I mean, I know you said nightmares, but..."

Jason was quiet for a long moment. You thought he might tell you to mind your business.

Instead, he said: "I died once."

You processed that. "Okay."

"That's it? Just 'okay'?"

"I mean, I heard rumors. And you live in a family of vigilantes where apparently death is more of a suggestion than a rule. So... yeah. Okay." You paused. "Does it hurt? Remembering?"

"Sometimes. Mostly it just means sleep is..." He gestured vaguely. "Complicated. Dreams and memories get mixed up. So I stay awake instead."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is. But it's better than the alternative."

You wanted to say something comforting, something meaningful. Instead, you said: "Want to watch a terrible movie? I think Alfred has every film ever made somewhere in this house."

Jason looked surprised. "What?"

"A bad movie. The kind where you can make fun of it and not feel guilty. I find it helps when my brain won't shut up."

"You're weird."

"Says the guy who died and came back."

He actually smiled. "Fair point. Okay. Let's watch a terrible movie."

You ended up in one of the manor's several living rooms, finding the most absurd action film in the collection. It was gloriously awful—physics-defying stunts, dialogue that sounded like it was written by someone who'd never had a human conversation, explosions for no reason.

You both tore it apart with the kind of joy that only comes from shared mockery.

"Why does he need to jump off the building?" You asked during one particularly ridiculous scene.

"Because it looks cool. That's it. That's the only reason."

"But there are stairs!"

"Stairs don't explode."

By the end of the movie, you were both half-asleep on opposite ends of the couch, commentary getting gradually less coherent.

"Thanks," Jason said quietly as the credits rolled.

"For what?"

"For not making it weird. The death thing. Most people either treat me like I'm broken or like I'm some kind of miracle. You just... didn't care."

"I care. I just figured it wasn't my business to pry." You pulled a blanket over yourself. "Plus, everyone's got something. Your something is just more dramatic than most."

"That's one word for it."

You both fell asleep there, on opposite ends of the couch, as dawn broke over Gotham.

Night Five: 1:45 AM

Alfred found you both asleep in the library and said nothing, just left a tray with coffee and breakfast pastries.

This became a pattern. You and Jason, finding each other in the small hours, existing in the same space. Sometimes talking, sometimes not. Building something neither of you had a name for.

One night, you found him reading poetry again.

"What is it about poetry?" You asked.

He showed you the book—Pablo Neruda. "It's honest. No bullshit. Just feelings distilled down to their essence."

"Read me something."

"What?"

"Read me something. Please. I want to hear what you like."

Jason looked uncomfortable but flipped through the pages. When he started reading, his voice was quiet but steady:

"'I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride...'"

He continued through the poem, and you watched him instead of the book. Watched the way his expression softened. The way he held the book carefully, like it was precious.

When he finished, the silence felt heavy.

"That was beautiful," you said.

"Yeah." He closed the book. "It is."

"Do you think love can be that simple? Without problems or pride?"

"I don't know. Seems like everything I care about comes with complications." He looked at you. "What about you?"

"I think..." You considered carefully. "I think maybe the best things are the ones we don't overthink. The ones that just happen naturally. Like this."

"Like what?"

"This. Us. Meeting in the middle of the night. Talking. Existing together. We didn't plan it. It just happened."

Jason was very still. "Yeah. It did."

The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken.

Then Alfred's voice came from the doorway: "Master Jason, you have a phone call. Master Bruce requires your assistance."

The spell broke. Jason stood quickly. "I should—I'll see you later."

"Yeah. Later."

He left, and you sat in the library alone, heart racing for reasons you didn't want to examine.

Night Six: 3:33 AM

Jason avoided you for two days after that.

When you finally found him again—in the gym at 3:33 AM, predictably—he was beating the absolute hell out of a punching bag.

"Want to talk about it?" You asked.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Jason—"

"I'm fine."

You waited, because pushing never worked with him.

After a few more minutes of violence against the innocent punching bag, he stopped.

"I'm not good at this," he said, not looking at you.

"At what?"

"This. People. Caring about—" He stopped. "I'm better at keeping distance."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

You moved closer. "Jason, you don't owe me anything. If you need distance, take it. But don't push me away because you're scared."

"I'm not scared—"

"Yes, you are. And that's fine. But don't insult my intelligence by pretending."

He finally looked at you. "What if I screw this up?"

"Then you screw it up. And we figure it out. Or we don't. But at least we tried."

"You make it sound simple."

"Maybe it is. Maybe we're the ones making it complicated."

Jason laughed, rough and tired. "When did you get so wise?"

"I contain multitudes, remember?"

"Yeah. You do."

He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you felt charged.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said quietly. "Whatever this is."

"Then don't overthink it."

"I overthink everything."

"Then let me think for both of us." You reached out, slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he didn't, you took his hand. "Hi. I'm someone who also can't sleep at night. Who likes your company. Who wants to keep meeting you in libraries and kitchens and wherever else we end up. Can we do that? Without making it complicated?"

Jason looked at your joined hands. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."

"Good."

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding hands in a gym at 3:30 in the morning. It wasn't dramatic or earth-shattering.

It was just right.

Night Seven: 2:50 AM

A week later, you had a routine.

2 AM: Meet in the kitchen for tea.

2:30 AM: Library or living room, depending on mood.

3:00-whenever: Talk, read, watch bad movies, just exist together.

Tonight, you were on the couch again, some nature documentary playing quietly in the background. You were half-asleep on one end, Jason reading on the other.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Mm?"

"Come here."

You opened your eyes. "What?"

He set his book down and patted the space beside him. "You're going to get a neck cramp sitting like that."

You moved, settling next to him. Jason shifted so you could lean against his shoulder, and it felt natural. Easy.

"This okay?" He asked.

"Yeah. This is okay."

His arm came around you, and you felt him relax.

"Thanks," he said after a while.

"For what?"

"For being weird too. For being awake when everyone else is sleeping. For not making this harder than it needs to be."

"Thanks for the same."

You fell asleep there, tucked against Jason's side, and for once, neither of you had nightmares.

Three months later, you were still there.

The "temporary" stay had become indefinite. Your gap year was being spent in Gotham, in the manor, in the company of people who'd become something like family.

And Jason... Jason had become something else entirely.

You were in the library—always the library—when he found you.

"There you are."

"Here I am. Where else would I be at 2 AM?"

He settled into his chair—not opposite you anymore, but next to you. Close enough to touch.

"I was thinking," he said.

"Dangerous."

"Shut up." But he was smiling. "I was thinking about that thing you said. About not overthinking."

"What about it?"

"I've been overthinking this for months. Us. What we are. What we're doing."

Your heart started racing. "And?"

"And I think..." He took your hand. "I think maybe we should stop pretending this is just two insomniacs who happen to like each other's company."

"What should we pretend it is instead?"

"I'm not good with words—"

"Jason, you read poetry. You're great with words."

He laughed, nervous. "Okay, fine. I think we're dating. Or we should be dating. Or—I want us to be dating. Officially. If you want."

"Took you long enough to figure that out."

"Wait, you knew?"

"Jason, we've been having what are essentially dates every night for three months. We cuddle. We hold hands. We fall asleep together. I was waiting for you to catch up."

"You could have said something!"

"Where's the fun in that?"

He stared at you. Then he was kissing you—soft and careful and perfect.

When you broke apart, you were both smiling.

"So," he said. "Same time tomorrow?"

"You mean tonight."

"Semantics."

"Yeah. Same time tonight."

And for once, being awake at 2 AM felt like exactly where you were supposed to be.

[bat1nsignia]

drabble #2! 18+ mdni, roy harper

—————————————————————————

roy harper wanted a baby— another one

honestly? he should be the last person having these thoughts, especially the hardships he struggled with when raising lian as a single, struggling father while getting rid of crime at night. not an easy feat by the way.

but the way you always played with lian, kept her company when he was gone, always making each other giggle and snort till your stomachs hurt. the quality time you shared with her always made roy’s eyes soften with a fond look and a smile from the sight— his two girls, together and having fun 

but it was also the way roy kept imagining your belly round and breasts full with milk, how your face would bright up with that pregnancy glow, how there would be a mini you running around with lian, how it wouldn’t just be his child— but yours too

that explains the mean mating press he’s folded your body into, back permanent with that divine arch of yours and legs pushed all the way back as he slammed his cock deep into your cervix with one thing on his mind— to get you pregnant 

“god, baby can you imagine?” roy panted in between thrusts, his hands on your waist pressing two thumbs on top of the faint yet noticeable bulge in your stomach “your belly, round with my cum” 

his hands both moved up to your boobs, the snaps of his hips more than enough to keep your thighs still spread. “these pretty girls, filled and leaking with milk”

you let out a choked moan when he squeezed and fondled your boobs, clamping his cock as a response for only a second. but it was enough for roy to let out a small hiss. “fuck— and those nipples, so sensitive and hard” just the talk of you being pregnant made his cock harden again in your warm pussy 

he brushed his thumb on your nipples, making a soft moan leave your lips and arching your back to press your boobs more into his large palms. and the newfound angle made you feel the tip of his cock hit all the right places, only adding more to the buzz and sensation 

it wasn’t until roy took one hand to cup your face and lock your lips with his in a desperate, messy kiss, saliva seeping from both of your mouths 

“let me cum in you, babe. please—oh god, please”

“wanna make you a mommy so bad and wanna give lian a sibli— fuuuuck, that’s it beautiful. squeeze me out just like that”

“can’t wait. fuckfuckfuck, i can’t wait”

poor man was already looking forward to see two lines form on a pregnancy test 

—————————————————————————

masterlist!

(a/n: TYYY NEIL FOR PROOFREADING!!! <33 also help i wrote this in like 20 minutes in the middle of the night so i can get more confident writing roy)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae @darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou (tags are open)

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[llovelygood]

I headcanon Jason as someone who doesn't have tattoos but the week after your daughter is born he gets her name tattooed on his chest, where his heart is...

[yourfavoritehorseman]

A/n: Hey! I hope someone enjoys this. Writing smut can be such a bitch for me tbh!

Warnings: Non-penatrating sex, no real plot, unprotected sex, brief description of genitalia, reader is described as having a vagina, however no pronouns are used, proofread but please forgive any grammatical errors!

Minors DNI

----------

"Stop fucking wiggling like that," Jason hissed, trying to create a barrier between them both with the thin blanket.

"I can't get comfortable," they whine, "this stupid bed is thinner than your patience.

"We're not the Wayne Tower penthouse. We're at a safehouse. You should be happy we even have a damn bed."

They huff at that. "I think the floor would be more comfortable."

"Then get on the floor," he suggested sarcastically.

"I give it exactly five minutes before you miss me. Six if I'm feeling charitable, which I'm absolutely not."

He snorted, which from him counted as a laugh. "What I miss is not feeling seasick from you wiggling your ass."

That brought a mischievous grin to their face. "The bulge in your pants would suggest otherwise, but I'll try to take your word for it!"

"You little shit. You're doing that on purpose."

"Me? I would never do such a thing," they insist with a faux outrage.

"Yeah, yeah. Quit while you're still ahead, sweetheart."

He fell silent again and tried once more to fall asleep, but the bulge in his pants was still noticeable. They noticed because of course they did. Grinning mischievously, they wiggled against it again and blamed it the horrible conditions.

Jason groaned in a mix of lust and frustrating. "You've got to fucking stop, y/n."

"Fine," they say in a fake surrender.

They tried for sleep once more, but Jason's frustration was evident in his huffs and groans. They were simply too uncomfortable and trying not to move too much, or think about the feeling of Jason's impressive manhood against their ass.

"This isn't going away," Jason said, his voice low against the sound of the fan.

"Think about something else," they suggested sleepily, "like the mattress frame currently trying to fuse into your spine."

"Can't think about much else with you laid beside me in my shirt and that bullshit you call underwear."

"Aww, is the big bad Red Hood defeated by black lace and ass wiggling?"

He huffed a laugh. "Shut up."

"Come here," they cooed, "I can help."

Jason moved closer, not that there was far to go. "You sure?"

"Yeah Jay."

With nervous hands, they unbuttoned the front of his sleep pants and pulled his cock free of the fabric. A small moan escaped his throat when they grabbed it and began to rhythmically stroke the tip. His hips thrust, chasing more of the sensation.

"Greedy boy," they mumbled, pulling away their own underwear now.

"You started this," he argued with shaky breath.

"And I intend to finish it." With that, they backed up enough that their clit glided wetly over his length.

"Fuck, baby."

Giggling, they quickened the pace. Jason's dick slid through their folds and over their clit in a pleasurable way, but he had not yet entered. Regardless of that, his breath had quickened In a way that told them he wouldn't last much longer.

"Feels so good, baby. May cum from this," he panted, his strokes becoming more chaotic as he works for his orgasm.

"Is that all it takes to bring down the big and Red Hood? A few strokes and you're ready to burst. You haven't even been inside my pussy yet!"

"Shut the fuck up and keep moving," he ordered through gritted teeth.

"Yes sir," they say, using Jason's dick to fuck their clit.

A few strokes later and his pace quickens. They can hear his breath grow more ragged with each agonizing stroke over their center. When he cums, he revenantly hisses their name. Seconds later and they can feel his warm seed pooling on their ass and legs.

"Well, you certainly enjoyed yourself," they tease, admiring the sheer volume of lust he'd expelled simply from rubbing their clit.

"I did, and you shouldn't even bother cleaning up. That was only the beginning."

That brought a huge smile to their face. For the first time since they started hiding out in this safe house, they prayed for a long night.

[yourfavoritehorseman]

My phone somehow managed to autocorrect the word Robin into the word living. Oh, the irony!

[thirstkanaphan]

[aria-lacrimosa]

Neighbor!Roy who spots you moving in one lazy afternoon, struggling to carry in all your boxes with a determined sort of focus that makes him smile a bit without realizing. Who offers to help you bring everything up to your apartment so you don’t wear yourself out even if you seem to sort of have it handled. Hell, he can’t just watch a lady struggle even if she seems determined to see her task through. He makes idle chit chat with you the whole time, cracking lame jokes that makes you snort softly and yeah, sure, maybe he flexes a bit more than he needs to when he helps you carry in something particularly heavy. Not his fault he wants to look a little good in front of a new pretty face.

Neighbor!Roy who always waves good morning to you when you’re rushing out your front door for work and he’s rushing out with Lian to get her to school. Who can’t help but be endeared by the way Lian always falls into conversation with you so easily while the three of you stand cramped in the elevator together. Who lets his gaze roam over your pretty, spotless professional clothing while you’re busy chatting up Lian. Who can’t help but like it more when he catches you in your sweatpants and tank tops when you’re not working, when you’re running errands or heading down to check your mail. That’s probably his favorite look on you. Messy hair and comfy clothes that make you look all soft.

Neighbor!Roy who invites you over for dinner once or twice a week because Lian loves you and he knows it’s just you in that apartment across the hall. Who has to chase you out of the kitchen when you try to help cook because he’s not about to invite you over and put you to work. Absolutely not. He busies himself with making dinner while he listens to the sounds of you helping Lian with her homework or humoring her playful hyperactivity with delighted laughter of your own. And if it makes something warm and sappy feeling well up inside of him, that’s his business. He lets you help clean after dinner but only because he learned very quickly that you’ll do it anyway, even if he chases you out of the kitchen a dozen different times. He allows you to wash the dishes while he puts leftovers away and yeah, sure, he always pushes a container of leftovers into your hands when you leave so that way, he’s sure you have something filling to eat. (He made extra on purpose for this exact reason, though he’s sure you figured that out after the fourth time). And hey, it just means you have to come back to give him his Tupperware back afterwards.

Neighbor!Roy who can't keep his eyes to himself whenever he catches you coming home from the gym. Those tight work out leggings and tank tops make him feel hot all over and make his fingers twitch with the need to touch feel touch feel. He likes to linger in the hall with you if he catches you on your way in, chatting you up for a bit and fighting the urge to just let his eyes roam over you. Fighting the urge to reach out and get his hands on your ass or those delicious thighs.

Neighbor!Roy who feels like such a perv when he ends up jerking himself off in the shower later, mind filled with images of your tight leggings and charming smile and gorgeous eyes. Who can barely look at you the next day because he feels so dirty, but it doesn't stop him from thinking about you the next time he fucks into his own hand. Or the time after that. Or the time after that.

Neighbor!Roy always fixes things in your apartment. A busted kitchen cabinet door? Handled. A new dresser you need help putting together? Absolutely. Any excuse to see that soft little smile of gratitude on your lips. And yeah, maybe he brings Lian sometimes, so he has an excuse to not make you lift a finger while he works, content to listen to you and Lian laughing and playing in the other room. But maybe he likes it best when it ends up being just you and him in your apartment, talking and laughing while he fixes whatever needs fixing as he tries to convince himself there's no way you're looking at him the same way he looks at you.

Neighbor!Roy who's fixing that one shaky leg on your kitchen table when you emerge from your shower, having left Roy to work so you could shower off the gym sweat. Who can't tear his eyes away from you when you look like that, hair still damp while you wear nothing but an old t-shirt that barely hides the panties beneath. No pants. No shorts. Jesus Christ. He tells himself to get a grip, that you're probably just really comfortable around him and he doesn't want to ruin that. But then your hand trails over his shoulder while he tries to focus on what he's doing and all restraint goes out the fucking window at your soft, tempting words:

“Wanna take a break, Roy?”

Neighbor!Roy who eats you out right there on your couch until you're squirming and crying, his lips and chin soaked with your slick as your hands tug at his hair, your back arched so prettily off the couch. Who drags his tongue over your soaked cunt and flicks it over your clit just to feel the way your hips jolt in his hold and your thighs shake around his head. Who doesn't hold back his own groans as he tastes you, as he licks you through your first orgasm only to press two fingers inside your needy pussy.

Neighbor!Roy who can't look away as he fingers fucks you. Who kisses at your neck and your chest and any part of you he can reach as his fingers curl against that spot inside of you that makes you gasp and whimper, his own cock so fucking hard in his jeans. He can't get enough of the slick, lewd sounds of his fingers fucking into you, can't get enough of your already sensitive clit beneath his thumb as he works you through a second orgasm.

Neighbor!Roy who fucks you like it's all he knows how to do. Hands tight on your hips as his hips roll, cock slamming into you again and again. His own breaths coming in soft, ragged gasps as your lips press against his neck, as your nails drag down his back and your thighs lock around his hips. He's almost drunk off the feeling of your cunt around his cock, off the sight of your tits bouncing with every sharp thrust of his hips. Soft praise leaving his lips, breathless and needy and hot.

“So fuckin’ good, baby.”

“Takin’ me so deep. Can't get enough of you.”

“Pussy feels so good, fuck. Never gonna get tired of this.”

Neighbor!Roy who's absolutely obsessed with you. Every fucking inch of you, every part of you. Who fucks you like you're his filthiest fantasy. Who kisses you so sweetly any other time. Who looks at you like you're everything he's been needing in his life as you slot so easily into it.

dividers by: @/cursed-carmine and @/anitalenia

Please do not repost or copy my content onto other sites 

[simple-dorito]

Can I request "Thanking them out loud for everyday things" for Jason Todd with gn reader please?

‘Thank you for making breakfast sweetheart.’ You said to Jason, kissing his cheek as you grabbed both of your empty plates to wash them, unknowing of the way his eyes would trail after you.

‘Thank you for tying my shoes.’ You’d say as Jason got up from his knees upon seeing the anklets of your shoes as a potential tripping hazard. You grabbed his hands and kissed them with reverence and smiled at him warmly as he replied by kissing your forehead.

‘Thank you for making the bed, lovely.’ You spoke softly into his shoulder as you held him from behind, kissing along the expanse of his back, tightening your hold on him to keep him there for as long as you so selfishly wanted. Jason only held onto your arms, running his fingers across the backs of your hands and tracing the shape of a heart into your skin until you could feel it long after he stopped.

‘Thank you for giving me your hoodie Jay-jay.’ You say as you snuggled yourself further into the clothing, smelling his scent and feeling his warmth lingering within the material of the hoodie, smiling stupidly to yourself as all Jason did was watch you with a look in his eye as he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘What?’ You asked as you saw his face and saw the twinkle in his eye underneath the light.

‘You always thank me for everything,’ Jason began as he moved to sit down next to you on the couch, reaching out to hold your hand within his warmer calloused one, squeezing. ‘Why?’ He asked and suddenly you left wondering that yourself for a brief couple of minutes that felt like an eternity, until you finally figured out the answer as you snuggled yourself into his side, looking at him with a soft smile as you pressed a kiss to his arm. ‘I just felt as though you should be thanked for things, whether that would be something as simple as waking me up or making sure I’m eating or dragging me to bed at reasonable times.’ You kiss his arm again, ‘I just think that we don’t thank others enough for doing things that they could easily choose to not do, yet do anyways.’ You finished.

Jason smiled as he brought up your hand and planted a kiss on it before settling it down on his lap, thumb already caressing the back of it gingerly. ‘Then I should thank you for a lot of things too.’

‘You don’t have to.’ You’d tell him but Jason only sat up straighter and was looking at you with a look of determination and want.

‘But I do and I should.’ He tells you. ‘I should thank you for choosing me, I should thank you for putting up with me in my crappy moments, I should thank you for having such unwavering patience with me and teaching me healthier ways of handling my anger and my negative thoughts.’ Jason stopped to catch his breath and his shoulder sagged. ‘I should thank you for so much more but I feel that even if i did it wouldn’t be enough to show you my gratitude for you walking into my life.’ He finishes and your the one bringing his hand to your lips and kissing it, holding it close to your chest as you moved to look him in the eyes.

‘You don’t have to say anything because your actions do that anyways. You wouldn’t do anything to me if you didn’t love me or are thankful of me,’ you nudge his arm playfully, ‘I know you are thankful for me and love me by doing these things, making my -our- life easier little by little, making your feelings known to me by simply getting my favourite shampoo and conditioner or adding to my ever growing pile of throw blankets that we both joked that I could never have enough of.’ You kiss his cheek and felt its warmth beneath your lips.

‘I thank you for doing things because I know you do them for me out of love, so don think you need to do anything for me to see that because I always and already do.’ You told him with a smile and Jason leaned into you, resting his head on your shoulder and he eased his hand from yours in order to hook onto your waist and pull you onto his lap and blanketing you in his warmth.

‘Then I’ll keep doing things for you out of love because the day I stop is the day I’m not myself or I’m not here anymore.’ Jason whispered into you head, kissing it, before closing his eyes and a smile graced his lips upon feeling you tuck yourself closer into his chest, planting a kiss of your own over his heart.