You don't like the way Hal stays silent after sex.

If he was playing some kind of puzzle game or doomscrolling on his phone, sure. You'd brush it off as his way of not growing attached to you – perfectly fine to you, considering your 'casual' arrangement. But this wasn't the case

He sits on the edge and just ... stares off into the distance, not saying a single word.

At some point, you couldn't take it anymore. You had to do something about it.

"Hal," you whine, calling for his attention. His body stayed facing front, but he angled his head sideways to look at you. Your legs went weak at the eye contact – despite his age, he still looked good enough to eat. "Come back to bed, honey."

"Soon, baby..." he answered, combing his fingers through his grey hairs while letting out a long sigh, "Gimme a sec."

You ignored his request and crawled towards him, creaking the shitty motel bed and ruffling the sheets.

Hal gasps slightly as you wrap your arms around him from the back, resting your chin on his shoulder before taking a whiff of that woody cologne you loved. "Be honest with me, please?"

Hal chuckles humourlessly, adoring the way you cared so much about him. "I'm just... thinking about how old I'm becoming, baby." he places a hand on yours, squeezing softly, "I'm too old for this – I can't always make you feel good..."

You scrunched your eyebrows, pouting softly. "Did anything I do make you think that?" your heart broke a little – how could he have thought that? he had the two of you getting noise complaints from neighbouring rooms earlier.

"No, no sweetheart." he continued speaking in that soft whisper. "It's just me. Old man thoughts."

"Don't listen to them, then." you grumbled, "You take such good care of me, baby... I thought you'd be able to tell from how loud I was being earlier."

He shook his head, still not convinced by your words. With a frustrated sigh, you pull him back onto bed, laying him down before straddling his torso. "Lemme make you feel better." You whispered – not a question, a statement.

Hal wanted to say no and wallow in his self pity, he really did. But with the way you're looking at him ... It'd be a sin to say no.

"Fine." he huffs out a smile, putting his hands behind his head. "Take care of this old man, yeah?"

Or: You ask a sleepy Bruce the age old question "would you rather be a cowboy or a pirate?"

Warnings: none, complete and absolute teeth rotting fluff // longer than usual so the rest of it is under the cut! <3

Morph's thoughts: this idea came up in a conversation with @batwngs and i haven't been able to stop thinking about it :p

"Bruce…?" It's barely loud enough to be considered a whisper, a quiet mutter of your husband's name that somehow manages to fill the silence in the quiet Manor.

You stay completely still for a moment, trying to gauge if he might be awake. You wouldn't want to ruin it if it were the case, not the one time in weeks —perhaps even months, but you'd rather not think about that too hard— that he finally decides to hang the cowl and cape for the night and properly rest.

There's no real answer for a moment, not when he just shifts a little closer, the arm around your waist tightening the tiniest bit around you. A few more seconds go by and then, a quiet hum of acknowledgement, something that you feel against your back more than you hear. His face nuzzling against the back of your neck a reassurance that he is listening.

"You awake?" Maybe not your brightest moment, but in your defence, it’s late and quiet enough to double and triple check.

summary: Turns out you had met the Waynes well before meeting your husband. pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader tags and warning(s): Nothing as far as I'm aware, wrote this in an hour and I'm way too sleepy to proofread this. some info might not be accurate, Maybe OOC word count:1.1k dc mlist bruce wayne mlist

Bruce Wayne had a hollow pit in his heart that ached for the simple things in life, such as Jason picking up his call, dick staying the night at the manor, among others. But like everyone else, he wished for things that could never happen, like his parents alive and well beyond their early thirties, and meeting you, his wife.

But what if fate had other plans?

Summary & CW:  fluff, suggestive content, on a mission, established relationship, batfam dynamic, crack fic, pride & prejudice mention, catwoman protégé!reader, second person, no use of y/n

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to @inesvisible for requesting, I had sm fun with this one! Inspired by that one youtube video (it’ll make sense at the end). I hope you enjoy my lovelies

“How much you wanna bet that Bruce and Selina are making out on some rooftop right now?”

“You know, I’d really rather not.” Jason’s face contorts in disgust. Anything that involved thinking of Bruce and his dating life always made him squirm, it was hysterical.

They were all like that. All the Robins viewed Bruce as this ancient fatherly figure. To you, he’s just Bruce. Maybe it was because of all the times you caught him doing the walk of shame from Selina’s room, but it never bothered you to talk about it.

Selina was more… open when it came to her romantic life. A lot more open than Bruce you were willing to bet.  

It was so different than to how they were raised. Bruce was a father to them, he was this brooding figure who relished in seriousness. While Selina was like an older sister to you, she taught you how to take a shot without reacting.

“I didn’t have you pegged for such a virgin Jason.”

He freezes, burger halfway in his mouth and turns to you. A deadpan plain on his face.

“You know I’m not a virgin.”

“Oh? Do I?” He was so fun to tease, especially when that one eyebrow on his face rose. Danger dancing across the arch.

“Oh I would hope so.” He decides to start playing back. “Otherwise I’m going to have to have a long conversation with who left that hickey on your thig-”

“Aaaaaaand that’s enough you two.” Dick’s voice rings through the comms. “We have minors on this line.”

You snort and Jason rolls his eyes from where he’s sitting next to you.

“While I find there topic of discission crude,” Damian starts to pitch in. Obviously offended that his age is a discriminating factor for the conversation. “Todd and his special friend need not to shy away the topics of sexual intercourse for my sake, Grayson. They ought to do it to retain some level of decency.”

Damian starts squabbling with Dick on their own end your gaze shifts sideways to Jason, his eyebrows are twisted together in amusement. He meets your eyes and you mouth “special friend” to him. And that devastating Jason Todd grin breaks out on his face, the one that had angels singing and clouds parting. It’s toothy and too big for his face, too innocent for the scars.

He shrugs and mouths back, “improvement.”

It’s your turn to bite back a laugh and your neck strains from the grin.

Muting yourself from the comms this time, you scrunch your nose to get his attention. “Circling back to my initial question,” he groans. “How much would you be willing to bet I’m right.”

“I don’t want to play this game.” He grumbles into his burger after muting himself.

“Too bad.”

Huffing out a breath as if this question has personally wronged him, he ponders for a moment . “If they aren’t,” he pauses. “I’ll do dishes for next two weeks.”

Jason Todd rarely complained about household chores with you. He loved the domestic side of life you gave him in breaths stolen from Gotham. A secret part of his heart warmed when he caught himself wondering if he took the trash out on Tuesday mornings, or if he picked up the almond milk for you coffee at the corner store, or if he remembered to move the clothes from the washer to the dryer. It was the simple little things that were now intertwined in his life that reassured the quiet peace fate finally granted him.

However, washing dishes was the exception.

He’d dry them, put them away, reorganize them anyway you wanted. But he hated washing them.

So you met him halfway. After all, he did essentially everything else.

“That’s big from you.” It comes out like a tease and he sticks his tongue out at you.

“I don’t see him doing that stuff on patrol.” That’s when you knew you won. It’s unfair, but you’d heard stories form Selina. Stories that assured you, you were right. “He’s too anal about this stuff- patrol is life or death for him.”

When you hum noncommittedly, he scoffs. “You start patrolling with us one year ago and you think you have us all figured out.”

“Maybe I do.” You answer, your voice light and fun in the way that draws him in. “If I win, you have to do anything I want tonight.”

“How is that different from any other night?”

Those words land somewhere you don’t want to name. It’s true. He never told you no. Jason had spent his whole life pushing back against people, challenging them, yet he never did that with you. In small everyday moments maybe, it was to be expected; to grow together, it was necessary. Yet when push came to shove, Jason Todd was at your beck and call and always said yes.

“You’ll see.” Is all you offer him when you unmute the call.

“Oracle,” your voice cuts through Dick, Damian, Tim, and now Steph’s bickering.

“I don’t like the tone of your voice.” Barbara’s voice sing songs through the earpiece.

Jason’s eyes stay locked on yours with a squint. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“What’re Bruce and Selina doing right now?”

A smirk pulls at your lips and Jason starts shaking his head when the click-clacking of Barbara’s computer sounds through the speakers. A deep sigh from her is the sound of victory for you.

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“Oh I think I do.” The remaining gang of bats that was on the line start yelling protests when they hear the grin in your voice.

“BABS NO-”

“PLEASE DON’T-”

“I’m going to be disappointed aren’t I?”

“FREAKS! ALL OF YOU-”

Jason’s snickering while accepting defeat. Then, Barabara’s voice rings like a melody in your ears.

“They’re… otherwise engaged on a rooftop off eleventh and Washington.” Her words are chosen carefully and muffled groans echo after her.

“Thank you lovely.” Your voice is sweet as honey and Jason’s still shaking his head next to you.

“Do I even want to know why you asked?”

“Probably not.” And with that, you mute your mic again.

Looking over at him, even with defeat lingering in the wrinkles of his smile, he’s gorgeous. It was gut-wrenching that he didn’t see how beautiful he was. He put everyone else to shame. No one should look as heavenly as Jason Todd did with grease coating his lips and neon lighting his eyes.

Yet here he was, an angel plucked from the sky.

“Okay doll,” resignation dripping from his teeth. “What do you want me to do?”

“Oh you’re cute,” you purr. Your thumb wipes the ketchup on the corner of his mouth, his face brightening to the color of the condiment as you lick it off your finger. “You think I’m going to tell you now? Where’s the fun in that pretty boy.”

He scoffs with no heat behind it. Even as disbelief bleeds from his forehead, you can tell he’s exactly where he wants to be. “You’re a dangerous thing aren’t ya? We gotta put a warning label on you or something.”

“As if you’d shy away from a warning label.”

He snorts because he can’t say that you’re wrong. Nothing could ever keep Jason Todd from running back to you.

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•

“-but said not a word.”-pant- “After a silence of several minutes.” -another pause- “he came towards her in an agitated manner, -gasp-  and thus began- Baby please.”

He sounds cute like this, and you’re almost tempted to grant him the reprieve he wants.

But he looked too good.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, you merely watched him. You watched as Jason Todd remained in a plank after being stripped down to his underwear. Sweat was beginning to coat his back and you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a more divine sight.

The small black boxers were leaving little for the imagination as the book laid under his head.

“Not yet honey,” you remind him, enjoying this a little too much. “You have to finish the chapter or go until failure. And you wouldn’t fail me now, would you?”

In light of winning your bet, you decided to make your lovely boyfriend get undressed to almost nothing and read Pride and Prejudice. This was your favorite chapter, and he loved to tell you how he loved you “most ardently” all the time.

Might as well make him prove it.

Maybe it was a little cruel to make him do this after patrol. But he agreed.

“I won’t.” He’s panting like a dog starved of water.

“Then get back to reading.” You hum.

His head hangs low for a second, curls bouncing in his face. His back muscles are so defined in this position, your tempted to lick the sweat straight off him.

“In vain have I struggled. -deep breath- It will not do. My feelings will -another pant- be repressed. You must allow me -another deep breath- to tell you – a wrecked groan- how ardently I admire and love you.”

And just like that, you realize you were going to have to start betting on Selina and Bruce more often.

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•

A/N: inspired by this lovely post (asia I love you)

YOUR ORACLE . ⋮ being apart from barbara for a mission leaves you desperate for her voice. based on this request ⋮ pairing ! barbara gordon x fem!reader cw ! phone sex, switch!babs and switch + subtop! reader, slight dumbification, guided masturbation, mentions of girlcock. ⌗ nicknames used : baby, sweetheart, slut, puppy. ⌗ so self indulgent good lord please bear with me 😭 also dialogue heavy....

The safehouse in Blüdhaven was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window. It had been one long week and nine days of chasing leads across state lines only to end up here, stealthing again for more information.

Dinah and Helena had caught a wrench in their latest lead on the outskirts of the city — swearing they didn’t need backup — while you were left behind, racking your brain on what you all already had to work with. You were exhausted.

The comms link was supposed to be for mission updates only, you remembered that.

But it was late. The safehouse was quiet. And you’d been apart from her for a week and nine days, enough to be translated to a lifetime of missing your girlfriend.

“Oracle,” you murmured, keeping your voice low even though you were alone, as you slipped the tiny earpiece into your ear.

The line clicked open instantly.

“Status?” Barbara’s voice was calm, professional. It made your heart lurch against your ribcage. Oracle. Barbara. Yours.

The woman who coordinated every move from her clock tower, voice calm and commanding in your ear all night. Whatever she said, you followed and wherever she led, you went in blind and trusting.

Your lips parted with no words as the ache settled in. Sure, you’ve heard her voice over the past few days, always watching and guiding you and the girls through the mission — your eyes and ears on the outside.

But you missed her voice in your ear for reasons that had nothing to do with tactical support.

“Talk to me, baby.” Her voice softened into a coaxing whisper. You realized a little too late that your breathing had changed and given your thoughts away. Of course she caught it, when did she not?

“I’m secure. Mission’s on track. Waiting for word from the others.” You paused, rolling onto your back on the narrow safehouse bed. “I just… I really fucking missed hearing you.”

A soft laugh crackled through the comm. It was like honey on a cold night, your skin prickling with warmth. “You’re hearing me right now.”

You sighed. “You know what I mean, Barbie.”

She nearly melted. “I know... I miss having you here too,” she confessed. “The tower’s too quiet without you trying to distract me from my monitors.”

“Is that all I am now?” You teased. “A distraction?”

On the other end of the line you heard a few clicks, her keyboard. “Oh, so you’re needy,” she whispered. You could hear the smile in her voice — that shit eating grin when she had you right where she wanted you. “You should’ve led with that.”

pairings | guy gardner, roy harper/wally west, johnny storm/peter parker x fem! reader

a/n | i can't really think of a summary for this one, so, happy pride month i guess guys <3

ROY HARPER & WALLY WEST

You’ve no idea what they’re arguing about, having drowned the two redheads out for the better part of half an hour now, it’s only the elevated tones that let you know they’re even still going at it. Hell, you doubt even they know what they’re arguing about anymore either.

All you know is that you’ve been nursing a pounding headache for a while now and even your beloved boyfriend’s voice, which normally has you melting into a puddle, is starting to grate harshly on your senses.

“Oh my god, will you two just kiss already!” You groan, throwing your hands in the air as you swivel in your chair to glare at them.

Pairing: Outlaw!Roy Harper x fem!reader Summary: In sickness and health. That is what he'd promised, and he'd make good on it. Though, he'd need to add stealth to that list, since the both of you are on the run yet again. CW: talk of sickness, fever, unconsciousness, death, maybe OOC WC: 1.67K

Leche's Note: Hi all, so sorry for the long break from this event!! I've been struggling a lot recently with personal issues + mental health, but I've missed interacting with everyone!!! Hope you all like this, bc there's more outlaw to loverboy roy to come!! Also, thank you @that-dumb-bunny for the request!! I loved it :3

In sickness and health. That is what he'd promised, and he'd make good on it. Though, he'd need to add stealth to that list, since the both of you are on the run yet again.

The Sickness had taken too many from town already. Roy knew, inevitably, it would finally strike you both too, in that little safehouse of his by the countryside. But when disaster hasn’t yet hit you, you believe you have all the time in the world. And now, he knew disaster had finally hit his own home, too.

It started with chills. You’d brushed it off, laughing softly about how he was taking this too seriously, that this would end soon. But soon never came, for you slowly slipped deeper and deeper into the clutches of the sickness, and farther and farther away from his hope.

So, he gathered you up, and ran. It was the only thing he knew how to do, really—run from all his problems, the law. Everything but you. So, he’d do what he does best, and hope that whatever gods existed would keep luck on your side.

Bundled up against the cold, he holds your cheek to his shoulder, shuddering softly while making sure you were as warm as he could physically keep you. His arm’s wrapped around your middle, the other tugging at Gingersnap’s reins, steering you both towards whatever nearby clinic he could find. 

He should’ve suspected his efforts would be futile, for nothing ever does work out in his favor. Not until he’d met you, at least. Was that why he’d been so trusting you’d be okay? Or was that his sheer desperation speaking? He wouldn’t know. 

Stopping by the small shack farthest from town, he drops to the ground, carefully bringing your bundled, sleeping body close to his, holding you up bridal-style while he trudges through the thick snow.

“Hey, doll. Ya gotta wake up, ‘kay? C’mon darlin’, stay awake for me.” He rasps, voice hoarse from disuse, and pats your cheek with his free hand, trying to force you awake again. You stir slightly, but it’s not enough. Your eyes won’t open, and you shudder, face buried in his neck to seep whatever warmth he had left in him.

“Please, doll, please. I’m beggin’ you.” He whispers, walking over to the nearest physician he can find, begging them to take you in. The first few refuse, but one agrees, and the sliver of hope is enough he needs to not collapse on the spot. Watching as you’re set down, cooled with a damp cloth, and made comfortable, some relief fills him.

Sitting down beside you, he holds your hand tightly, whispering prayers under his breath to gods he barely believed in. While he wouldn’t consider himself a religious man by any means, it was the only thing he could do apart from pulling his hair out that could ease the anxiety threatening to spill out of his being.

His hands squeeze yours, growing tighter when you show no signs of responding, even as hours pass by and the physician has already given you medicine thrice. What would he do if you didn’t wake up? He couldn’t bring himself to consider it as a possibility, even as the physician tries reasoning with him, seeing how cold it is outside, and how feeble you’d become in the span of mere hours.

But everything comes to a head an hour later, when some of the sheriff’s men come sniffing around the shack, holding up wanted signs of his face, asking around the sickly patients and staff if they’d seen him.

His heart drops. He could leave, and stay safe, but it would risk your life. He could stay, and he’d lose you anyways. This had to be a cruel game fate was playing with him this time, or better yet, a nightmare he could wake up from. But no matter how many times he pinched himself, he couldn’t feel himself awakening.

To make it worse, you groan softly, sweat beading your brow, making his hand instinctively wipe it away with his thumb. He washes your lashes flutter, your mouth opens briefly before swallowing thickly as though your throat were coated with honey, and for a moment, he feels time still.

It all comes back when he hears voices asking if they’d seen him, though. And in the heat of the moment, he makes a decision, one he’s sure will cost him. But he’s willing to do anything, if only to keep you safe. 

He had a vow to make good on, after all—in sickness and health, right? Well, he’d be adding stealth to the mix, but it only makes the game of life more fun, doesn’t it? That’s how he wants to look at it.

Picking you up, he tosses your limp body carefully over his shoulder, using his cloak to hide you both from view before bolting out the back door, the wood creaking against its hinges, making him cringe and hope that he wasn’t heard. 

Running out, he grabs Gingersnap’s reins, mounting the horse at once and steering himself towards the opposite direction, your head against his chest, blankets wrapped so tightly you could be called a mummy any moment now.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…” He hisses under his breath, snapping the reins and holding you tighter, hearing the sounds of men scrambling onto their horses and hearing their screams for him to stop echoing in his ears.

But he couldn’t focus on them now. His sole duty was getting you out of here, and finding another physician to help with whatever this sickness was.

The hours blur together, inevitably. He’s been on the road with Gingersnap for god knows how long, his hand pressed against the side of your head, keeping you close. Murmuring soft nothings, he repeatedly kisses the top of your hair, mumbling about how you should get up now, to stop giving him a fright.

“Honey…please. Please, I’m beggin’ you, and you know I don’t do that. If you don’t get up, I’ll go mad. I know you’d call me that anyways, but I’ll take that if it’s from you. C’mon, doll, don’t leave me stranded here. I can’t do this without you…you know that. Please.” He rasps, holding onto your still frame, desperation clawing at his chest.

When he doesn’t even get a slight response, he panics, looking around for any sort of help. But there’s none. Every doctor around here had turned him down, refusing all his money from the risk they’d be taking with the law to help him. To help you.

But when Gingersnap suddenly whinnies, he’s quick to look up, realizing the men who’d been following him were finally catching up. He sighs, and curses under his breath, muttering about bad timing as he grabs the reins with one hand, clicking his tongue for his steed to pick up the pace again. 

Heading towards a dense forest, he pauses, glancing up at the damp, dark scenery around him. This place would give him enough cover from those lawmen, and he’d be able to focus on what really mattered—you. 

So, in the quiet of the trees surrounding you both, he stops, and dismounts from Gingersnap, patting the horse’s flank and tying her to a tree branch, before trudging off with you in his arms to go start a fire.

Sitting down alone with you against a tree, a small fire started, he’s finally able to breathe again. You’re so close to him, yet so far away. Far enough to make him feel like he was truly alone in the world, save for your quiet, shallow breaths.

It’s at that moment that the dread finally hits, wondering if you’d ever recover. What if you never woke up? Never smiled, or laughed, or mocked him? How could he live without you? He’d repeated his vows to you countless times already, joking about how he needed to practice them for the big day. But now? He may never get the chance to make it come true, to say it to you when it matters.

He doesn't know if he could live with that idea. If such a reality came true, would he be able to handle it? To live without you? He doubts it.

Glancing down at your face, he cups your cheeks, his breath fanning your face as he whispers one more time, hoping that, if he were close enough, you would be able to hear him, despite your raging fever. “Please. Please, you know I need you. Without you…I can’t see a future for myself. So wake up. We still need to get married, don’t we?” He says finally, eyes brimming with tears, his red hair drooping over his forehead, looking crestfallen.

To his shock, you stir. Barely, but it’s there. Choking on a breath, he pulls you impossibly closer, hands on your face as he taps you awake, soaking in the way your face scrunches up before relaxing in recognition, eyes glazed over with fever as you wake up.

You’d woken up. Seven hells, you’d woken up. Gasping, he buries your face in his chest, immediately bringing you into him, barely able to hold back sobs of relief at the sight of you waking up.

At the feeling of your hands clutching his shirt, confused, he struggles not to cry, looking back at you, with the most grateful expression you’ve seen from him. He looks relieved, no, more than that—like he’d been blessed by the heavens, just because you’d come out of your unconscious state.

“Roy? You…okay?” You ask hesitantly, hand coming up to cup his cheek, a weak smile forming on your lips as he immediately leans into your touch, before bringing you into a sharp kiss, sickness be damned.

When you pull back, his eyes shine with unshed tears, and he barks out a laugh, which comes out more as a wet sob. “I am, now that you’re here.” He says, sniffling and wiping your tears away with his thumbs, pulling you back into a tight hug, as if to confirm you’re really here.

Everything else could be a problem for later, because right now? With you? Nothing else mattered. Not when he’d finally gotten back his lucky charm.

⤷ POOR DECISIONS , JASON TODD .

summary 𓂃 the one where Jason Todd’s forced to confront his feelings for the thief he’s been sleeping with for six months. It started out as a “friends-with-benefits” arrangement after you’d saved his ass on a mission gone wrong, but everyone knows how those usually go. Someone catches feelings, someone wants commitment. In Jason’s case—he faced both, but he didn’t know how to ask for them.

tags 𓂃 fwb!jason todd x criminal/anti-hero fem!reader , slightly mature content but nothing explicit , friends with benefits to lovers , casual to serious , denial of feelings , mutual pining (they’re both in denial) , emotional slow burn , banter as foreplay , sarcastic!jason Todd, deflection , no labels , insults as affection , post-sex convo , dialogue heavy.

wc 𓂃 5.2k words

sequel 𓂃 morning after , jason todd. (MDNI 18+)

✦ masterlist　╱　dc masterlist　𓏼 ͜͜

THE FIRST TIME you met Jason Todd, he was bleeding out in a warehouse and still had the audacity to flirt with you.

Not flirt, exactly. More like threaten you with a good time while actively dying. You respected the commitment.

It was a simple job. Infiltrate Black Mask's weapons shipment, grab the manifest, get out. You worked alone back then. Cleaner that way. No partners meant no splits, no arguments, no bodies to bury that you didn't put there yourself.

Then someone else showed up.

You heard the gunfire first. The wet, percussive rhythm of a firefight spilling out of the main storeroom. You should have left. Professional courtesy said you let whoever was already there finish their mess and you came back another night.

But you were curious. And curiousity has always been your particular brand of fatal flaw.

You found him behind a stack of crates, slumped against the concrete wall with a hand pressed to his ribs and blood seeping through his fingers. He wore a leather jacket, a red helmet that covered his whole face, and the kind of posture that said he was too stubborn to die but too injured to argue about it.

"Nice night for it," you said.

He tilted his helmet toward you. Even through the voice modulator, you could hear the dry amusement when he spoke. "For what? Getting shot or getting caught?"

"Either. Both. I'm not picky."

There were footsteps coming. Heavy boots, at least three sets. You could hear the shouting too, someone yelling about finding the intruder.

The man in the helmet groaned, tried to push himself up, and immediately thought better of it. "Look, sweetheart, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got a thing."

"A thing?"

"A bleeding out thing. Very time sensitive."

You should have walked away. You had no stake in this. You didn't know him, didn't owe him, didn't even know what he looked like under that ridiculous helmet.

But there was something in the way he said it. Not desperate and definitely not pleading. Just matter of fact, like he'd already accepted that he might not make it and was more annoyed than afraid at the prospect.

You were still new to this city then. Still figuring out who was worth knowing and who was worth avoiding. Looking back, you'd made worse calls.

"You're going to owe me," you said, and you grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Big time.”

The safehouse was yours. Small, far from clean, tucked above an abandoned laundromat in the Bowery. You dumped him on a mattress that smelled like cigarette smoke and old sweat and went to work on his ribs.

The helmet came off somewhere between the third and fourth stitch. You didn't ask. He didn't offer an explanation. He just lay there on his back, watching you work, and said, "You're pretty good at that."

"I've had practice."

"Should I be worried?"

"Eh,” you shrugged. “Probably.”

He laughed. It sounded like a real laugh, and it changed his whole face. Made him look younger. Made him look like someone who knew how to have fun before the world got its filthy hands on him.

Jason Todd, he told you later. After the bleeding stopped and the whiskey came out. After you'd established that neither of you was going to kill the other tonight, mostly because you were both too tired and too drunk to bother.

"Red Hood," you said, testing the name. "That's what they call you?"

"That's what I call me. What they call me is usually worse… and pretty vulgar.”

You stayed up until dawn—bantering, trading stories. He tells you that the man who raised him was Batman, you tell him your parents were dickheads. He left when the sun came up, took your last granola bar on his way out, and said, "Same time next week?"

"You know where to find me."

He did. And he kept coming back.

Six months later, you stopped pretending you were just ‘business’ partners.

It was late. Later than late. The kind of hour where the city goes quiet and everyone with common sense is asleep. You and Jason weren't asleep. You were sprawled across your worn-out couch, passing a bottle back and forth, arguing about something stupid that won’t matter in a few minutes.

"That's not how it happened," he said.

"I was there."

"So was I."

"Then you weren't paying attention."

"I was paying plenty of attention. You're just wrong."

You shoved his shoulder. He grabbed your wrist. And then neither of you was talking anymore.

It wasn't romantic and it wasn't soft. It was the kind of inevitable mishap that happens when two people spend too much time in each other's space and run out of excuses to keep their hands to themselves. He tasted like whiskey and something distinct underneath. You bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and he groaned like you'd done him a favor.

Afterward, you lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, staring at the water stain on your ceiling.

"Well," he said.

"Well," you said back.

"That happened."

"It did."

A long pause. Then with the kind of careful casualness that meant he'd been thinking about it for a while, "Could happen again."

"Yeah," you said. "It could."

That was the beginning. Or not the beginning, exactly. More like the moment you stopped lying to yourselves about what this was.

The thing about Jason Todd, you learned, was that he was never boring.

He showed up at your door at all sorts of hours with stolen takeout and fresh bruises. He left his jacket on your chair and his guns on your counter and never once apologized for either of those things. He called you nicknames that ranged from affectionate to insulting depending on his mood, and he said them all with the same crooked grin.

"Morning, sunshine."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay, sweetheart.”

"Also no."

"Princess?"

"I will shoot you."

"Kinky."

He was good at this. The dance. The deflection. The way he could make you laugh and want to strangle him in the same breath. He was good at keeping things light, keeping things easy, keeping things exactly where he wanted them.

You knew his history. Bits of it, anyway. The parts he let slip when the whiskey ran low and the night ran long. The boy who died. The man who came back wrong. He told it like a joke sometimes.

"Came back meaner," he'd said once. "Or maybe I was always mean. Hard to tell."

You didn't push. You weren't his therapist or his mother or his keeper. You were the person who patched him up and slept with him and never asked for more than he was willing to give—which was usually sex and food.

Which was fine. More than fine, actually. It’s not like you were the relationship type yourself.

So you kept doing what you were doing. Meeting up between jobs. Falling into bed when the mood struck. Trading insults and pretending there wasn't anything else underneath.

You were both very good at pretending.

The problem, Jason realized approximately four months into this arrangement, was that you were funny.

Not just clever. Not just quick. Actually, genuinely funny. The kind of funny that caught him off guard and made him laugh before he could stop himself. The kind of funny that meant he started staying longer because he enjoyed your company way more than he should have.

He noticed it first on a Tuesday. You were cleaning a gun at your kitchen table, wearing one of his shirts because yours was in the wash, and you looked up at him with that particular expression you got right before you said something mean.

"You know what your problem is?" you asked.

"I have many. You'll have to be specific."

"You think you're mysterious. But you're actually just annoying."

He blinked. "That's... not what people usually say."

"People are polite to you because you're scary. I'm not people."

"You're not scared of me?"

"Should I be?"

He thought about it. Really thought about it. And the answer, which should have been yes, came out wrong.

"No," he said. "Probably not."

You smiled. A real smile, not the sharp one you used on marks or the flat one you used on cops. A smile that was just for him.

And Jason felt something in his chest go hot and tight and very, very inconvenient.

He ignored it. Obviously. He’s nothing if not pretty good at being ignorant when it serves him.

The jobs got easier with two people.

Not because you needed each other. Because you were both competent on your own, and together you were just faster, cleaner, and smarter.

You fell into a rhythm without meaning to. He'd call with a location. You'd show up with a plan. He'd argue with your plan because he had his own, and then you'd fight about it for ten minutes before settling on a third plan that was better than both.

"This is stupid," he said one night, hanging from a fire escape while you picked a lock three stories up.

"You're stupid."

"Elementary school comeback. I'm hurt."

"Cry about it later when we’re not in such a compromising position, kay?”

He rolled his eyes but it didn’t pair well with the chuckle that escaped him.

The lock clicked open. You slipped inside and he followed, quiet as smoke. The job was quick. In and out, data stolen, guards never even knew you were there.

On the rooftop afterward, counting the take, he looked at you with something unreadable in his expression.

"We're good at this," he said.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just..."

He trailed off. Rubbed the back of his neck. Looked away.

"You're just what?"

"Nothing." He stood up, stretched, and the moment was gone. "Same time tomorrow?"

"You know where to find me."

And he always did.

Pretending was useful, most of the time. And it worked… most of the time. Until it didn't.

For Jason, the crack in his shield appeared on a night when nothing special happened. No big job. No close call. No near death experience to blame it on.

He'd shown up at your place around midnight with Chinese food and a bottle of something cheap. You'd eaten on the floor because your table was covered in schematics, and you'd argued about whether Bruce Wayne was secretly funding half the villains in Gotham or just too stupid to notice.

"You're wrong," he said.

"I'm literally never wrong."

"That's statistically impossible."

"I'm a statistical anomaly."

He laughed. You laughed. And then you were kissing, which wasn't new, except this time when he pulled back, you were still smiling.

Not the sharp smile. Not the teasing one. Just soft. Warm. Like you were happy to see him. Like you were happy he was there.

And Jason realized, with the kind of clarity that felt a lot like panic, that he wanted to see that smile every day.

He wanted to wake up next to you. He wanted to steal your coffee and listen to you complain about it. He wanted to argue about stupid things and make up in stupid ways and keep doing this, whatever it was, for a lot longer than he'd initially planned.

He wanted you. Not just your body, though don’t get him wrong, it’s great. Not just your skills, even though those were pretty useful. He wanted your voice in the morning and your attitude in the afternoon and your laugh at night.

He wanted you in a way that scared the living fuck out of him.

"Jason?"

You were looking at him funny. He just realized now he'd been quiet for too long.

"Yeah," he said. "Fine. Just tired."

He wasn't tired. He was the opposite of tired. He was too awake, too aware, too close to saying something he couldn't take back.

So he kissed you again instead. Harder than before. Like he could fuck the feelings out of himself if he tried hard enough.

Sadly, he couldn’t. Could only do you hard enough to make you forget about the look he had.

The changes were pretty subtle at first.

He started showing up more often. Not just for jobs or sex, but for nothing. Just to hang out. Just to sit on your couch and complain about his day and steal your food.

You noticed. It’s not like you were stupid or blind.

"You're here a lot," you said one evening, not looking up from your book.

"Observant, aren’t you? I'm always here."

"You're here more than usual."

"Maybe you're just counting."

"Maybe you're just avoiding something."

He went very still. Then he laughed, too loud, too fast. "Avoiding what? I don't avoid things. I'm famously confrontational."

"Famously dead, too. That didn't stop you."

The words hung in the air. You'd never said it so directly before. The D word. The one he danced around with jokes and deflections and carefully placed changes of subject.

He didn't laugh this time.

"Low blow," he said quietly.

"You started it."

A long pause. The radiator hissed. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off and then stopped.

"I'm not avoiding anything," he said finally. "I just like your couch. It's comfortable."

"You've never sat on it for more than ten minutes without complaining about the springs."

"The springs are terrible… but that’s not the point."

"Then what's the point?"

He looked at you. Really looked. And for a second, just a second, you saw something underneath the jokes and the bravado and the carefully constructed walls.

Then he stood up, stretched, and said, "The point is you ask too many questions. I'm getting food. You want anything?"

The moment was gone. You let it go.

"Spring rolls," you said. "And don't steal from that place on fifth. The last time you did, they put your picture on the wall."

"I'm honored."

"Yeah, you’re also banned."

"Same thing."

He grabbed his jacket and left. You listened to his footsteps fade down the stairs and wondered when exactly this had stopped being casual.

Anyone who knew Jason, knew that he deflected as easily as he breathed.

You could ask him a direct question and he'd give you three jokes, a threat, and a change of subject before you could blink. And you wouldn’t even notice. He was good at it. Too good. He'd had years of practice, could thank Bruce for that.

But you had patience. And you had time. And you had the advantage of knowing him in a way most people didn't.

You saw the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. The way his hand lingered on your lower back. The way he said your name when his lips were on yours.

You saw all of it. You just didn't know what to do with it.

Because the truth was, you weren't much better than him. You'd built your own walls, your own reasons for keeping people at arm's length. You'd told yourself this was fine. That it was casual. That it was easy.

But it wasn't easy anymore. It hadn't been easy for a while. Nor was it casual—at least, didn’t seem like it.

——

IT HAPPENED ON A THURSDAY with no real catalyst to speak of. No big dramatic moment or close call or near death experience to blame it on. Just the two of you sprawled across your bed after heated sex, tangled in sheets that were already ruined, staring at the water stain on your ceiling like it held the answers to questions neither of you had asked yet.

The sex had been good. It was always good, which was part of the problem. The other part was that he was still here.

Jason had one arm tucked behind his head and the other resting on his stomach, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his lower ribs. His breathing had evened out a while ago, but he wasn't asleep. You could tell by the way his jaw kept tensing and releasing, the way his eyes moved like he was reading something written on the plaster above him. He was thinking about something he didn’t want to say. You’d learned to recognize the signs over the past few months.

The room smelled like sweat and the cheap vanilla candle you’d lit earlier in a halfhearted attempt to make the place feel less like a hideout and more like somewhere a person actually lived. Your neighbor was playing something with a heavy bass line that vibrated through the shared wall, and somewhere down the street, a car alarm had been wailing on and off for the past twenty minutes. Normal Thursday night in Gotham. Nothing special. Nothing worth remembering.

Except it was different, and you both knew it.

"This is different," you blurted out, not looking away from the water stain.

"It's not different," he replied, and his voice had that particular flat quality that meant he was lying and knew that you knew he was lying.

"It's different."

A long pause followed, broken only by the ceiling fan clicking on its rotation and the distant thump of the neighbor's music. Jason sighed through his nose, not quite annoyed but close to it, like he’d been waiting for this conversation to show up and knock on his door and now it was here and he couldn’t talk his way out of it.

"Maybe," he said finally, and that single word was as close to an admission as you were going to get without pushing harder.

So you pushed.

"Jay."

There it was. The nickname you only used when you wanted something from him, and he knew it as well as you did. His jaw tensed visibly, the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled skin.

"What?”

"You know what."

He sighed again, deeper this time, and shifted his weight against the mattress. The springs creaked beneath him. He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, and his eyes were that impossible shade of green-blue that seemed to change depending on the light, though right now, in the dim glow of your bedside lamp, they just looked tired. Not physically exhausted, though he probably was that too. The other kind of tired. The kind that settled into bones and stayed there.

"We're friends," he said, and his voice was careful, measured, like he was reciting lines from a script he’d memorized a long time ago. "With benefits. Same as last week. Same as next week."

"That was the arrangement six months ago," you pointed out, keeping your voice even.

"So?"

"So six months ago you didn’t stay after. Six months ago you didn’t know that I hated cilantro and you didnt steal my coffee and you didn’t show up at two in the morning just to sit on my couch and complain about your day. Six months ago you left before I woke up, and I didn’t expect to find your jacket on my chair or your gun on my counter or your stupid face in my kitchen making breakfast like you belonged there."

He was quiet for a long moment. The bass from next door thumped through the wall, a steady heartbeat that didn’t belong to either of you. His fingers had stopped tapping against his ribs.

"Maybe you're just memorable," he said, but there was no weight behind it.

"Jason."

He turned his head to look at you fully then, and his expression was guarded in the way it always got right before he said something he didn’t want to say. His eyebrows pulled together slightly, and his mouth pressed into a thin line, and his eyes moved across your face like he was searching for something specific.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now, rougher around the edges.

"The truth would be a nice change of pace."

"You can handle that?"

"Try me."

He held your gaze for a beat longer, then looked back up at the ceiling. His throat worked as he swallowed.

"This wasn’t supposed to be a thing," he said, and his voice had gone quiet, almost flat. "You were supposed to be easy. Convenient. Someone who got it and didn’t make it complicated. Someone who understood that sometimes a thing is just a thing and it doesn’t have to mean anything."

You waited. He wasn’t done.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment, then dropped his hands back to the mattress. "I don’t do this," he continued, gesturing vaguely at the space between you with one hand. "The staying. The caring about your coffee order or the way you take your eggs or the name of your dead cat from a story you told me once when you were drunk. Any of it. That is not what this was for me when it started."

"And now?" you asked, because he hadn’t answered the question yet and you were tired of waiting for him to circle back to it on his own.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you again. The dim light caught the white streak in his hair, the one that stood out against the black like a scar he couldn’t hide. He remembers telling you it was just hair dye before telling you the truth. His eyes were very blue in this light, or maybe very green. It was hard to tell.

"Now I’m still here," he said, and the simplicity of it landed harder than any speech would’ve

You propped yourself up on your elbow so you could see his face more clearly. The movement pulled the sheet down around your waist, but neither of you seemed to notice or care. The air was warm and still, thick with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid for months.

You looked at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The small scar above his eyebrow that he said came from a fight with a crowbar and then refused to elaborate on. The way his hair curled against his forehead, still damp at the edges from sweat. He looked like someone who’d just had some mind blowing sex and then been hit by a truck of feelings.

"What is it now?" you asked. "If it is not casual anymore, what is it?"

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that the neighbor's music changed to something slower, some old song you couldn’t really quite recognize through the wall. Long enough that the car alarm down the street finally gave up and went silent. Long enough that you started to think he wasn’t going to answer at all.

Then he did.

"I don’t have a word for it," he admitted, and his voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the fact that he was saying something he hadn’t exactly planned to say. "I don’t have a label. I don’t have some speech prepared where I tell you how I feel and we hug it out and everything’s fine. That isn’t how I work."

"I’m not asking for a speech," you said.

"Then what’re you asking for?"

You thought about it. Really thought about it, because he deserved an answer that wasn’t another deflection, not another joke to make things easier. The ceiling fan clicked on its rotation. The room smelled like vanilla and sweat and … him.

"I’m asking if I’m the only one who noticed that this stopped being casual about a month ago," you said slowly, watching his face for a reaction. "I’m asking if you’re going to pretend you didn’t notice too. And I’m asking what happens next if we stop pretending."

He blinked at you once, twice, like he was recalibrating. His fingers started tapping against his ribs again, that restless rhythm he couldn’t seem to control when he was thinking too hard.

"You’re very direct," he said.

"You’re very avoidant. We balance each other out."

A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it, surprised out of his chest like you’d caught him off guard. His teeth flashed white in the dim light, and the laugh softened the hard lines of his face in a way that made him look younger. Made him look like someone who hadn’t been through everything he’d been through.

"Balance," he repeated, rolling the word around like he was testing its weight. "Sure. We can call it that."

He reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, and the gesture was so casual and so intimate and so unlike the Jason who kept everyone at an arm's length that you held very still. His fingers lingered for a moment against the shell of your ear, calloused and warm, before he dropped his hand back to the mattress.

"You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?" he said, and there was no heat in it. Just resignation, softened by something that might have been affection if you were feeling generous.

"Say what," you said, even though you knew exactly what he meant.

"Don’t play dumb. You’re not good at it."

"Then stop stalling."

He dropped his hand from your ear and pushed himself up against the headboard, the wooden frame creaking beneath his weight. The sheets fell to his waist, and the lamplight caught the scars on his chest, the ones that mapped out a history he never talked about in any real detail. He needed the vertical advantage, or maybe he just needed to move, to put some distance between himself and the weight of the conversation.

"Fine," he said, and his voice was lower now, rougher. "You want to know what changed? You happened. You and your mouth and the way you never let me get away with anything. You look at me like I’m just… just some guy. Not a project. Not a warning. Not a cautionary tale about what happens when Robin grows up wrong. Just some asshole who sleeps in your bed, fucks you occasionally—maybe more—and argues with you about things that don’t matter because arguing with you is fun."

"That’s a lot of words to say you like me,"

"It’s not that many words," he shot back, but he was almost smiling too, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite his best efforts. “And I don’t like you. I tolerate you. There’s a very big difference.”

"It’s more words than you’ve said all week—and you do like me."

He shook his head and looked down at his hands for a moment, then back at you. The light caught his eyes again, and they were softer than you’d ever seen them.

"And yet," he said quietly.

"And yet," you agreed.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people had said something true and were waiting to see what would grow in the space after. Your neighbor had turned off the music at some point, and the building felt almost quiet for once, just the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of old pipes.

You reached over and took his hand. He let you. His fingers were warm and rough and familiar in a way that made your chest ache, and he didn’t pull away. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice, like he was testing the feel of it.

"So what now?" you asked.

"Now nothing," he sighed, but his thumb kept moving.

"That is not an answer."

"Nothing changes. Unless you want something to change."

"Jason."

He sighed, but it wasn’t an annoyed sound. It was something softer, something closer to tired. "I’m not doing the thing where I give you a speech about being scared. You already know I’m freaked out. It’s not interesting.”

"Then what exactly are you doing?"

He looked down at your joined hands. His thumb had stopped moving. He was holding your hand like it was something he was trying to memorize, like he was cataloguing the weight, the warmth, and the way your fingers fit between his.

"I’m still here," he said. "I keep showing up. I keep staying after. That’s what I’m doing. That’s all I have."

You watched his face as he spoke, watched the way his jaw tightened and relaxed, the way his eyes stayed fixed on your hands as if looking at you directly would be too much right now.

"That isn’t nothing," you said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "It’s not."

He shifted closer to you on the mattress, moving slowly like he was giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath was warm on your lips. Your eyes were closed. His hand was still wrapped around yours, and you could feel his pulse in his fingertips, steady and quick.

"This is going to get messy," he murmured, and his voice was so low you almost missed it.

"Probably," you said, just as quietly.

"We are going to fight about everything."

"Yeah."

"You’re going to annoy me constantly."

"Yeah, that too."

He opened his eyes. They were very close, very blue-green. His forehead pressed against yours. His nose brushed against your nose. His thumb started moving again against your knuckles.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice was soft in a way you’d never heard before. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, this isn’t casual anymore. Okay, I’m not going anywhere. Okay, you win. Are you happy?"

"Thrilled.”

"You are insufferable."

"You like it."

He kissed you then. It was quick and soft and almost shy, which was ridiculous coming from someone who had his tongue down your throat about twenty minutes ago. His lips lingered for a moment against yours before he pulled back.

"You better not tell anyone I said any of that," he said against your mouth.

"Who would I tell?" you chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at him. "All my friends are criminals, and most of them want you dead."

"Jealous," he said flatly.

"Curious," you corrected. "There’s… there’s a difference."

He snorted and dropped back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You landed half on his chest with your leg hooked over his thighs and your face pressed into the warm skin of his shoulder. He didn’t complain. His arm came around your back, heavy and solid, and his hand settled on your hip like it belonged there.

"You owe me breakfast," he said, his voice rumbled through his chest against your cheek.

"I owe you nothing," you mumbled into his shoulder.

"You asked me to stay."

"I did not ask. I made a statement. It’s different.”

"Same difference. Pancakes."

"You are impossible."

"And yet."

You laughed into his chest. His hand tightened on your hip for just a moment, and you felt his lips press against the top of your head. It was quick, almost like he didn’t mean to do it, but did it anyway.

The neighbor stayed quiet. The fan clicked on its rotation. The city hummed its endless hum outside your window, and Jason Todd didn’t leave. He stayed in your bed with his arm around your back and his hand on your hip and his chin resting on top of your head, and for once, that was enough.

So excited to announce that the lovely @starr-jazz and I will be co-writing a five part Jason series together :)

There is a twist though! Neither of us know what the other is writing about until it is posted. For example, Starr will post chapter 1 and not tell me anything about it. I will read it with the rest of you when it is posted. Then I will write chapter 2 and same thing for Starr. It could literally be about anything and we get to decide the twists as we write. Then lastly, we will write the last chapter together!

I hope you guys are as excited about this as we are and that you enjoy the journey muahaha

CHAPTER 1. - @starr-jazz

CHAPTER 2. - @vianawaits

CHAPTER 3. - @starr-jazz

CHAPTER 4. - @vianawaits

CHAPTER 5. - @starr-jazz & @vianawaits

no special taglists will be done for this event, regular tags on my page will be used.

bsf!stephanie brown who is always calling you different pet names. you’re her baby, her sweetheart, her angel, her pretty girl. she never does it with any of her other friends, affectionate nicknames are reserved for you only.

bsf!stephanie brown who is overly affectionate and extremely touchy with you. grabbing your hand when you walk together, keeping an arm around your shoulder or her hands on your waist, hugging you all the time, constantly leaving kisses on your face or your neck. you’ve been confused for a couple before, she just insisted she’s always like that with people she’s close with.

bsf!stephanie brown who is constantly telling how pretty you are or how lucky she’d be to be your girlfriend, joking about how badly she wants to scissor with you or how she’ll eat you out whenever you say something nice to her.

bsf!stephanie brown who gets upset whenever she sees you making out with someone at the club and then insists that you need to take her back home.

bsf!stephanie brown who will then end up getting drunk and making out with you for the rest of the night.

bsf!stephanie brown who always sends you pics trying on new lingerie that she bought or sends boob pics to ask you which one turned out better. she never has an answer for you when you ask her who she’s going to send those to.

bsf!stephanie brown who hates it when you talk about your dates but tells you about every one of her hookups in great detail.

bsf!stephanie brown who once got too descriptive and ended up eating you out on her couch because she insisted that you wouldn’t understand what she was talking about.

bsf!stephanie brown who always jokes about how you should repeat that some day.

Jason Todd x Female Reader

cw: jealous reader, no implied romance, just friendship, mentions of abuse/neglect in foster homes, mentions of suicide

a/n: woah lots of content warnings. I decided last night that my writing is trash and writing angst always makes me feel better so here we are

“I’ll be right back,” Jason said. “I saw a really fancy car and I bet the tires would sell for really good money.”

you hadn’t thought much about it, just told him to be safe.

you and Jason were a team, you always had been and always would be. But he didn’t return that night, or the next day, or the day after that.

you immediately thought the worst. You assumed he was dead.

Gotham was not a safe place for kids like you. You were always in constant danger. If the police saw you, they’d put you in the system, and there was a good chance the home you’d be put in would be abusive. And if the cops didn’t catch you, a trafficker would. you shuddered at the thought.

You tried to survive by yourself for as long as you could, but without your best friend you eventually got caught. A bakery owner called the police when he caught you stealing bread from him, and the police put you in the system.

you were stuck in a foster home.

at first it wasn’t that bad, but once cps stopped checking on you, things changed. Your foster parents were horrible. They’d yell, throw things at you, and call you names.

you had a younger foster sister though, and she was the sunshine in your darkness. But even her light was dimming. She had dealt with the abuse for months and didn’t know how much she could take.

“I’m sorry,” she told you one night with tears in her eyes. “I just don’t think I can take any more of this.”

your foster parents were gone that night so she locked herself in the bathroom. You cried, screamed, banged on the door, and begged her to not do this.

there were no phones in the house so you couldn’t call anyone.

“Please don’t do this,” you begged through sobs. “You can’t leave me here!”

there was no answer.

you fell asleep crying next to the bathroom door that night.

you woke up to the feeling of the collar of your shirt being pulled and you were immediately slapped across the face. Your “parents” made you watch as she got wheeled away on a gurney.

cps moved you to a different foster home after they had ruled your fosters sisters death as a suicide.

this one wasn’t as bad but it wasn’t much better. Your new foster parents neglected you, but at least it was better than the physical abuse you had experienced.

They didn’t care about you at all. They never made you meals, never took you to school, and never bothered to even talk to you. So you learned how to do things by yourself.

you and free reign of the whole house. They didn’t really care what you did as long as you were out of the way. So you learned how to cook and you started cleaning a lot. You didn’t even know if they enrolled you in school so you didn’t bother going.

one day, you decided to watch tv as you cleaned. And as you turned it onto the Gotham news channel, you say a boy who looked very familiar standing next to the one and only Bruce Wayne.

The news reporter said his name and you swore your heart stopped. Jason Todd. Your Jason.

The broom fell from your hands and clattered on the floor. Your Jason got adopted by Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t dead, he was thriving.

he looked different, polished. His teeth were bleached white and his hair was cut and combed. Bruce Wayne judged him as the cameras started flashing. Jason smiled. A fake smile, but still. You missed that smile.

you couldn’t help being jealous. You had experienced abuse and neglect after Jason disappeared, and he was living the privileged life. He didn’t have to witness a young girl throw her life away, he didn’t get burned by cigarettes every night, he didn’t have to cook every meal for himself.

You turned the tv off immediately. You couldn’t watch him smile at cameras. You assumed he must’ve forgotten about you, there was no other logical explanation to why he hadn’t come back for you.

he used to be like you, a street kid, but now he was doing interviews with Bruce Wayne.

what you didn’t know is that Jason didn’t forget. He tried to go back to you to tell you but he couldn’t find you. And after weeks of not being able to find you, he stopped trying.

but he didn’t stop thinking of you. To jason todd, you were still his best friend. And you always would be.

a/n: if u liked this, please like, comment, reblog, and check out my other works!!

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴! mechanic!jason todd x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! jason finally fixes your car, but he has to make sure it still runs properly as well. for your safety, right?

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, inaccurate car information, time skips

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4871

𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! find it here <3

the familiar musk of jason's shop filled your nostrils once again.

your thighs were frozen to the thin metal chair that remained beside jason's work station. the rusted legs creaked under your weight, threatening to break with each movement.

you tried not to let your mind wander this time.

GENIE IN A BOTTLE

spin the bottle with ROY HARPER & WALLY WEST

BLURB ꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ MDNI

contains: poly titans, spin the bottle, f/m/m, f! oral, batsis! reader, ends kinda abruptly because i'm a little burnt out, also — froggi shoutout!!!!!!

"YOU GOTTA RUB ME THE RIGHT WAY."

You watched as the empty Heineken bottle spun round and around hoping it wouldn't land on you. Gazing as it slowed down and eventually it stilled pointing right at you. Immediately sighing and looking up at the man, seeing the wide toothy grin on his face. “Must be my lucky day…” Roy commented playfully, and crawled out towards you, his hands reaching your cheeks and holding you still as he planted a kiss on your lips. His plump lips were like cotton pillows, slightly dry but plush — his tongue snaked its way in and massaged yours, the faint taste of Heineken overloaded your senses.