⋆˚࿔ iliana 𝜗𝜚˚⋆🧸ྀི

⤷ 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.

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dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd had survived a lot of things.

Death. Resurrection. The Lazarus Pit. His complicated relationship with Bruce. Even his brothers' constant teasing.

But he was not prepared for his girlfriend's obsession with unmasking the Bat-family. But thankfully, he was Jason Haywood to you ... at least for the time being. He had taken his mother's last name because Jason Todd was supposed to be dead. Maybe he was, and Jason Haywood was going to be his new self.

"Jason! JASON!" You burst into his apartment, laptop precariously balanced on a stack of papers, eyes wild with excitement.

He looked up from cleaning his guns—civilian guns, he'd learned to hide the Red Hood arsenal very carefully. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm better than okay. I'm enlightened." You dropped everything on his coffee table. "I found it. The forum. The holy grail of Bat-family theories."

Oh no.

"Babe, aren't you supposed to be working on that project you were telling me about?"

"This is more important than work!" You were already pulling up browser tabs. "Look at this analysis of Red Hood's fighting style. Someone broke down footage from twenty-three different encounters and identified at least four different martial arts disciplines."

Jason leaned over, his stomach sinking as he recognized his own moves being analyzed frame by frame.

"That's... detailed."

"It's BRILLIANT. Look—they've identified League of Assassins techniques mixed with street fighting and military combat training." You scrolled enthusiastically. "Whoever Red Hood is, he's had seriously diverse training. This isn't just some guy who took a few self-defense classes."

"Maybe he's just naturally talented."

"Nobody's that naturally talented. This is years of training. Probably decades." Your eyes were shining with that particular intensity that Jason both loved and was now deeply concerned about. "And look at this thread about his weapons. Custom-made, military-grade, but with modifications that suggest personal fabrication. Someone with serious resources and technical knowledge."

"Lots of criminals have resources."

"But Red Hood isn't just a criminal. He has a code. He protects Crime Alley. He kills traffickers and abusers but leaves street-level dealers alone." You looked at him seriously. "He's not a villain, Jason. He's something else."

Jason's chest did something complicated. You got it. You understood what he was trying to do, even if you didn't know you were talking about him.

"What do you think he is?" he asked carefully.

"I think he's someone who fell through the cracks. Someone the system failed. Someone who decided that if Batman won't do what needs to be done, he will." You pulled up more notes. "There's a whole theory that he used to be a Robin."

Jason choked on his coffee. "What?"

"I know, it sounds wild, but look at this evidence—Red Hood knows Batman's tactics intimately. He fights like someone trained by Batman. And there's this gap in Robin appearances, right after the second Robin disappeared." You were pulling up timelines now. "What if the second Robin died, and Red Hood is someone connected to that? Someone who blames Batman for the death?"

You'd just described his entire origin story.

"That's a pretty dark theory," Jason managed.

"This is Gotham. Everything's dark." You zoomed in on a photo. "Plus, look at this. Red Hood is tall, broad-shouldered, probably mid-twenties. The second Robin would be that age now if he'd survived."

"The second Robin is dead."

"Is he though? In Gotham, death is more of a suggestion than a permanent state." You were completely serious. "We have a guy who came back from the dead running around in a bat costume. Why couldn't Robin?"

Because Robin did come back. He was sitting right next to you. Trying not to have a panic attack.

"You've really thought about this," Jason said.

"I've made spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets." You smiled sheepishly. "I know it's a lot, but Jason, this is fascinating. These are real people with real stories, and nobody knows who they are."

"Maybe they want it that way."

"Maybe. But don't you want to know?" You grabbed his arm excitedly. "Actually, that gives me an idea."

"What idea?"

"We should do a stakeout!"

"A what?"

"A stakeout! A Bat-watch!" You were already pulling up maps of Crime Alley. "Red Hood patrols this area almost every night. If we stake out the right location, we might see him. Maybe even talk to him!"

"Talk to him? Babe, he's armed and dangerous—"

"He doesn't hurt innocent people. The statistics back that up." You pulled up a spreadsheet—of course you had a spreadsheet. "Zero civilian casualties in two years of operation. He's careful. Controlled."

"He's still a crime lord."

"A crime lord who's cleaned up Crime Alley more than Batman ever did." You looked at him with those puppy-dog eyes that Jason could never resist. "Please? Just one stakeout. I promise we'll be safe."

Jason should say no. Should absolutely not take his girlfriend on a stakeout to find himself.

"One stakeout," he heard himself say. "But if it's dangerous, we leave immediately. And you stay behind me at all times."

"Yes! Oh my god, this is going to be amazing!" You kissed him quickly. "I need to prepare. Make a list of high-probability locations, times when Red Hood is most active, questions to ask if we see him—"

"Questions?"

"Well, yeah! If we're going to see him, I want to understand his motivation. His perspective." You were already typing. "Like, does he see himself as a hero or a villain? Does he regret killing people? What happened to make him this way?"

Jason's throat felt tight. "Those are pretty personal questions."

"I know. But someone has to ask them. Everyone just assumes he's a monster, but what if he's not? What if he's just trying to protect people the only way he knows how?"

Jason looked at you—at your earnest expression, your genuine curiosity, your complete lack of judgment—and felt something crack in his chest.

You understood. Without knowing him, without knowing his story, you understood what he was trying to do.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "What if."

Two days later, Jason showed up at your apartment to find your wall covered in cork board, photos, string, and sticky notes.

"Who is that?" He pointed at a photo from his pre-death days. Young Jason, Robin Jason, grinning at a charity event with Bruce.

"That's Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne's adopted son. The second Robin—" You stopped, looking at the photo more carefully. "Wait. You know who Jason Todd is?"

"I mean, I know of him. Everyone in Gotham knows the story." Jason kept his voice carefully neutral. "Kid from Crime Alley, got adopted by Bruce Wayne, died in some kind of accident."

"Except it wasn't an accident. It was the Joker." Your voice was soft. "He was murdered. Beaten to death. He was only fifteen."

Jason's hands clenched involuntarily.

"And Bruce Wayne never talked about him again. Just... probably moved on to the next Robin like Jason never existed." You sounded angry now. "What kind of person does that?"

"Maybe he was grieving. Everyone grieves differently."

"Maybe. Or maybe Bruce Wayne is exactly the kind of person who'd train child soldiers and then discard them when they become inconvenient." You turned back to the board. "Which brings me to my main theory."

"Which is?"

"Red Hood is Jason Todd."

Jason's heart stopped.

"That's impossible. Jason Todd is dead."

"Is he? Look at the timeline." You pointed to your carefully constructed chart. "Jason Todd dies. Six months later, bodies start appearing in Crime Alley—all criminals, all killed with precision. A year after that, Red Hood appears. Fully formed. Professional. Like someone who's been training."

"That's circumstantial—"

"Red Hood knows Batman's tactics intimately. He fights like someone Batman trained. He knows the Bat-family's patterns, their methods, their weaknesses." You pulled up combat footage. "And look at this. Red Hood favors his left side slightly—like someone compensating for old injuries. Jason Todd's autopsy photos—leaked, unfortunately—show massive trauma to his right side."

"You looked at autopsy photos?" Jason felt sick.

"I had to verify the theory." You looked at him seriously. "Jason, Red Hood moves like someone who died and came back angry. Someone who was betrayed by the person who was supposed to protect him. Someone who decided that if Batman won't do what's necessary, he will."

"You can't prove any of that."

"No. But I can prove that Red Hood knows things only Jason Todd would know. He protects the same streets Jason grew up on. He targets the same types of criminals that hurt people in Jason's neighborhood. He even—" You pulled up another note. "He leaves books at Crime Alley libraries. Classics. The same books Jason Todd was photographed reading at Wayne Manor."

Jason was going to be sick.

"That's a hell of a theory," he managed.

"It's more than a theory. It's the truth. I know it." You looked at him. "Don't you think Jason Todd deserves to be remembered? Deserves to have his story told correctly?"

"Maybe Jason Todd deserves privacy. Maybe he doesn't want his story told."

"How would you know what Jason Todd wants?"

"Because—" Jason stopped himself. "Because anyone who's been through that kind of trauma deserves to decide for themselves how their story is shared."

You studied him carefully. "You're really defensive about this."

"I just think digging into a dead kid's life is kind of ghoulish."

"I'm not digging into a dead kid's life. I'm trying to understand a living vigilante." You softened. "But you're right. If Jason Todd is alive—if he is Red Hood—then he's made it clear he doesn't want to be Jason Todd anymore. And maybe I should respect that."

"Really?"

"Really." You started taking down some of the Jason Todd photos. "I can theorize without plastering a trauma victim's childhood photos all over my wall."

Jason felt his throat get tight. "Thanks."

"But I'm still keeping the Red Hood analysis. And we're still doing the stakeout." You grinned. "I want to meet him. Ask him questions. Understand his perspective."

"You want to interview a crime lord."

"I want to interview someone everyone calls a monster to see if he actually is one." You took his hand. "Come on. Help me pick a location."

The Stakeout: Night One

Jason had chosen the location carefully—one of his regular patrol routes, but not one where he'd scheduled anything dangerous tonight.

He'd also texted Roy: Need you to cover Crime Alley tonight. Personal emergency.

Personal emergency = girlfriend stakeout? Roy had replied. Shut up. This is the funniest thing that's ever happened. I'm telling everyone. I will shoot you. Worth it.

Now Jason sat on a rooftop with you, watching you set up an impressive array of surveillance equipment.

"Did you rent this stuff?" he asked.

"Borrowed it from work. Technically for a photography project, which this kind of is." You adjusted the telephoto lens. "Okay, based on my research, Red Hood usually passes through this area between 11 PM and 1 AM."

"Very specific."

"I'm thorough." You settled in next to him. "Thanks for doing this with me. I know you think it's weird."

"It's definitely weird. But you're excited, so..." He shrugged. "I want you to be happy."

"You're sweet." You kissed his cheek. "Even if you are weirdly protective of Red Hood."

"I'm not protective—"

"You absolutely are. Every time I mention him, you get all defensive." You studied him. "Why?"

"I just... I don't think he's the monster everyone says he is."

"Have you met him?"

Jason hesitated. "Once. A while back. He helped me out of a bad situation."

This was technically true. Red Hood had helped Jason Todd out of the bad situation of being dead.

"What was he like?" You were leaning forward eagerly.

"Intense. Angry. But not at me. At the people who'd hurt me." Jason kept his voice steady. "He made sure I got home safe. Told me to stay out of trouble."

"He protected you."

"Yeah."

"See! He's not a monster!" You grabbed your camera as movement caught your eye. "Wait, is that him?"

Jason looked. Someone in dark clothes was moving across a nearby rooftop.

But it wasn't him. It was Tim.

"Wrong costume," Jason said. "That's Red Robin. Different vigilante."

"How can you tell from this distance?"

"The cape's different. And the build is smaller." Jason had spent years learning to identify his brothers from a distance. "Red Hood is bigger. Broader shoulders."

"You know a lot about Red Hood's measurements," you teased.

"I pay attention."

"Clearly." You zoomed in on Red Robin. "Think they know each other? The different Bats?"

"Probably. Gotham's vigilante community is pretty tight-knit." Jason pulled out his phone, texting Tim: Get out of sector 7. I'm busy.

Busy with what? Tim replied. Personal stuff. Just go. Wait are you on a DATE in your territory? Jason, that's adorable. I will end you. Can't wait to tell Dick about this.

Jason put his phone away with more force than necessary.

"Everything okay?" you asked.

"Fine. Just... work stuff."

You didn't look convinced but didn't push. "So if Red Hood doesn't show up tonight, what's the plan?"

"We try again another night?"

"Or—" You pulled out a notebook. "I've been working on a profile. Trying to figure out where he might be based on crime patterns."

You opened the notebook, and Jason saw pages of analysis. Maps marked with locations, timelines, behavioral patterns.

You'd basically created a guide to finding him.

"This is..." Jason didn't know what to say.

"Obsessive? I know. But look—" You pointed to a cluster of marks on the map. "These are all locations where Red Hood intervened in domestic violence situations. They're all within six blocks of Crime Alley's old community center."

"The one that burned down?"

"Yeah. And guess who used to volunteer there as a kid?" You pulled out another photo—young Jason, maybe twelve, at a community center event.

"Jason Todd," Jason said quietly.

"Jason Todd." You looked at the map. "I think Red Hood—if he is Jason—still thinks of this as his neighborhood. The place he needs to protect."

"That's a nice thought."

"It's more than that. It's a pattern. Red Hood doesn't just fight crime randomly. He protects specific people in specific places. Like someone who knows this neighborhood intimately. Who grew up here."

Jason looked at your analysis—at the care you'd taken to understand not just what he did, but why he did it.

"Why does this matter so much to you?" he asked.

"Because everyone deserves to have their story understood. Not judged, not condemned—understood." You looked at him. "Red Hood kills people. That's a fact. But he only kills people who hurt the vulnerable. Who traffic kids, who run protection rackets, who make neighborhoods unsafe. He's not crazy. He's not a monster. He's someone who decided that some people don't deserve mercy."

"And you agree with that?"

"I don't know," you admitted. "I think justice is complicated. I think Batman's no-killing rule sounds nice in theory but fails people in practice. I think—" You stopped. "I think someone like Red Hood exists because the system failed him first."

Jason felt his eyes burning. "Yeah. Maybe."

"So yeah. I want to understand him. I want to hear his side." You smiled. "Even if everyone thinks I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Jason said. "You're the first person who's tried to actually understand instead of just judge."

"You say that like you know him well."

"Maybe I understand him better than most."

You studied his face. "Jason... is there something you want to tell me?"

This was it. The moment. He could tell you everything.

But then his phone buzzed.

Trafficking situation on 4th Street. Need backup. Roy.

"Shit," Jason muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"I—I have to go. Work emergency." He was already standing.

"At midnight?"

"It's... complicated. I'm sorry. Can we do this another time?"

"Jason, what's going on?"

"I can't explain right now. I just—I have to go." He kissed her quickly. "I'm sorry. I'll text you later."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone on the rooftop with your camera and your theories.

Twenty minutes later, you were packing up your equipment when you heard the thud of boots on the rooftop behind you.

You spun around to find Red Hood standing there, tall and intimidating in his helmet and armor.

"You shouldn't be up here alone," he said. His voice was modulated, deeper than normal.

"I—I was just leaving." Your heart was hammering. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be in your territory—"

"You're the one who's been investigating me."

It wasn't a question.

"How did you know?"

"I pay attention. Someone's been asking questions about me. Tracking patterns. Setting up surveillance." He took a step closer. "That's dangerous. People who look too close tend to get hurt."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm warning you." He stopped a few feet away. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want to understand you. Everyone calls you a monster, but I don't think you are."

"You don't know me."

"I know you protect people. I know you only kill criminals who prey on the vulnerable. I know you care about Crime Alley more than Batman ever did." You were finding your courage now. "I know everyone's given up on you, decided you're just a villain, but I think you're someone who got dealt a shit hand and did the best you could with it."

Red Hood was very still.

"And I think—" You took a breath. "I think you used to be Jason Todd. And I think you deserve to have your story told right."

"Jason Todd is dead."

"Is he?"

"He died. Brutally. The kid he was died with him."

"But you lived. Red Hood lived. And you're doing what Jason Todd would have wanted—protecting the people who can't protect themselves."

"You don't know what Jason Todd would have wanted."

"Maybe not. But I know what you do every night. And I think it's worth something."

Red Hood pulled off his helmet.

Jason stood there, looking at you with red-rimmed eyes.

"Hi," he said roughly.

You stared at him. "Jason?"

"Surprise?"

"You—you're—" You couldn't form words.

"I'm Red Hood. I'm also Jason Todd, back from the dead. I'm also your boyfriend who just left you on a rooftop alone because I had to stop a trafficking ring." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. For lying. For leaving. For all of it."

You were still processing. "You died."

"Yeah. The Joker killed me. Beat me to death with a crowbar. Left me in a building to explode." His voice was flat, reciting facts. "Bruce was too late. I died. Then the universe decided that wasn't enough and brought me back."

"How—"

"Lazarus Pit. Magic. Trauma. Take your pick." He looked at you. "I came back wrong. Angry. I wanted revenge. I wanted Bruce to understand what it felt like to be abandoned."

"Bruce didn't abandon you—"

"He didn't kill the Joker." Jason's voice broke. "The Joker murdered his son and Bruce just... put him back in Arkham. Again. Like my life didn't matter. Like I didn't matter."

"Jason—"

"So I became Red Hood. Became the thing Bruce wouldn't. I kill the people who deserve killing. I protect Crime Alley because no one else will. I do what needs to be done."

You were quiet for a long moment.

"So all those theories I had—"

"Were right. Disturbingly right. You profiled me perfectly." He smiled bitterly. "You were tracking yourself dating."

"I made you go on a stakeout to find yourself."

"Yeah."

"I have photos of you on my evidence board."

"I know."

"Jason, this is—" You started laughing. Slightly hysterically. "This is insane."

"I know."

"I've been investigating my own boyfriend for months!"

"I'm aware."

"And you just... let me?"

"I panicked! You were so excited about your theories, and you understood what I was trying to do, and I didn't want to ruin it!" Jason was pacing now. "And then you started getting close to the truth and I knew I had to tell you but I didn't know how without—" He stopped. "Without you leaving."

"Why would I leave?"

"Because I'm a killer. Because I'm broken. Because I'm not the person you thought you were dating."

You crossed to him, taking his face in your hands. "Jason. I've been spending months researching Red Hood. Reading about every person you've killed, every line you've crossed, every rule you've broken."

"Exactly—"

"And I fell in love with you anyway. Not despite who you are—because of who you are." You stroked his cheek. "You think I didn't know my boyfriend was hiding something? You think I didn't notice the scars, the nightmares, the way you flinch when people move too fast?"

"I—"

"I knew you had trauma. I knew you had secrets. I chose to be with you anyway." You smiled. "Finding out you're Red Hood? That just explains the rest of it."

"You're not scared?"

"Of you? Never." You kissed him softly. "I'm scared for you. I'm scared about what you do every night. But scared of you? Jason, you're the safest person I know."

"I kill people."

"You kill people who hurt kids. Who traffic women. Who prey on the vulnerable." You held his gaze. "I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying it's good. But I understand why you do it."

"The world's not black and white."

"No. It's not." You pulled him closer. "It's red and black. Like you."

Jason laughed, the sound wet and broken. "That was terrible."

"I'm a lover on a rooftop, not a poet." You kissed him again. "But I mean it. I love you. All of you. Jason Todd and Red Hood and whoever else you are in between."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Especially because you're a disaster." You wiped the tears from his face. "Though we do need to talk about you ditching me on a rooftop. That's not cool."

"In my defense, there was a trafficking situation—"

"I know. You save people. It's what you do." You smiled. "Just maybe text me next time so I don't think you're running away from our relationship?"

"Deal." Jason pulled you into a hug, holding you tight. "I love you. I'm sorry I lied."

"I love you too. Even though you let me make an entire evidence board about you."

"In my defense, your evidence board was very thorough. I was impressed."

"I'm a good detective."

"You really are." He pulled back to look at you. "So what now?"

"Now you take me back to your place—your actual place, not the apartment you pretend to live in—and show me your Red Hood setup." You grinned. "And then you're going to help me update my evidence board with correct information."

"You're keeping the evidence board?"

"Are you kidding? I successfully identified Red Hood's secret identity! That's going on my resume!"

"Please don't put that on your resume."

"Fine. But I'm keeping the board."

Later, at Jason's Real Safehouse

"This is way cooler than your fake apartment," you said, examining Jason's weapon collection.

"The fake apartment is for dates and pretending to be normal."

"You have a motorcycle. Multiple motorcycles."

"That one's for Red Hood work. That one's for regular work. That one's just because it's pretty."

"You're such a boy." But you were smiling. "Can I see the helmet?"

Jason handed it over, watching as you examined it carefully.

"It's heavier than I thought."

"Reinforced. Bulletproof. Has a communication system built in."

"And it makes your voice all deep and scary."

"That's the voice modulator."

"Do the voice."

"What?"

"Do the Red Hood voice!"

Jason sighed but activated the modulator. "This is ridiculous."

You shivered. "Okay, that's unfairly hot."

"Really?"

"Really." You set down the helmet. "Though I prefer regular Jason voice. It's less scary."

"I can do scary without the modulator."

"I know. I've seen you argue with customer service." You looked around the safehouse. "This is really your life. The weapons, the armor, the danger."

"Yeah." Jason waited for you to realize what that meant. To realize how dangerous it was to be with him.

"Cool." You took his hand. "Now show me your evidence board."

"I don't have an evidence board—"

"You have target lists, don't you? Same thing."

"That's not—" Jason stopped. "Actually, yeah, that's pretty much the same thing."

You grinned. "We're perfect for each other. Both obsessive, both make boards to track people."

"The difference is yours is theoretical and mine is for actual crime-fighting."

"Details." You pulled up your phone. "Okay, so I need to update my files. What's Bruce really like? Is Dick really the first Robin? How many Robins have there been?"

"Are you interviewing me?"

"I've been investigating the Bat-family for months. Now I have an actual source. Yes, I'm interviewing you." You pulled out a notebook. "Start from the beginning. How did you become Robin?"

Jason looked at you—excited, curious, completely unafraid—and felt something warm in his chest.

"I tried to steal the Batmobile's tires."

"You what?"

"I was homeless, twelve years old, and I saw this fancy car parked in Crime Alley. Figured I could sell the tires." He smiled at the memory. "Got two off before Batman caught me."

"And he made you Robin?"

"Eventually. First he tried to put me in the system. Then he realized I'd just run away again. Then he brought me home." Jason's voice softened. "Gave me a room, food, stability. Trained me. Made me Robin."

"And you loved it."

"I loved it. I loved helping people. I loved having a purpose." His voice hardened. "Until the Joker."

"You don't have to talk about that if you don't want to."

"No, I—I want you to know. All of it." Jason took a breath. "I went looking for my birth mother. Found her in Ethiopia. She was being blackmailed by the Joker. I tried to save her, and he... he beat me with a crowbar. Tied me up. Left me in a warehouse with a bomb."

You squeezed his hand.

"Bruce tried to save me. He was just too late. I died. My mom died. The Joker got away." Jason's laugh was bitter. "Again."

"I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault. It's just... that's who I am now. The Robin who died. The kid Bruce couldn't save. The one mistake in Batman's perfect record."

"You're not a mistake."

"Tell Bruce that."

"I will if I meet him." You were fierce now. "Jason, what happened to you was awful. Traumatic. World-ending. But you survived. You came back. And you're using that second chance to help people."

"By killing."

"By doing what you think is necessary. I'm not going to judge that." You looked at him. "But I am going to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Are you seeing a therapist?"

"A what?"

"Therapist. Someone to talk to about the trauma and the Lazarus Pit and the complicated feelings about Bruce."

"I'm fine—"

"Jason, you died violently, came back from the dead, have complicated PTSD, and spend your nights fighting crime while dressed like a vigilante. You're not fine."

"Okay, when you put it that way—"

"You need therapy. We're finding you a therapist."

"You can't just—"

"Watch me." You were already typing. "There are therapists in Gotham who work with superheroes. We're making you an appointment."

Jason stared at you. "You're bossy."

"Someone has to take care of you. Might as well be me." You kissed him. "Now keep telling me about the Bat-family. I have so many questions."

Two hours later, you'd filled an entire new notebook with information about the Bat-family.

"So Dick was the first Robin, you were second, Tim was third, Stephanie was fourth, and Damian is current?"

"Yep. Though Steph was only Robin briefly."

"And Damian is Bruce's biological son?"

"With an assassin. It's complicated."

"Everything about this family is complicated." You were organizing your notes. "Okay, I need to update my evidence board with actual facts instead of theories."

"You're really keeping that thing?"

"Jason, I spent months on it. It's staying." You looked at him. "Plus, it's kind of our origin story. I was trying to figure out Red Hood's identity, and it turned out I was dating him the whole time."

"Most couples meet at coffee shops."

"We met when you helped me carry groceries and then asked for my number while looking like you might throw up from nervousness."

"I was very smooth."

"You dropped the bag with the eggs."

"I was distracted by your smile."

You kissed him. "That's better. Keep working on the lines."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why are you okay with this? Really?" Jason gestured around the safehouse. "I'm a crime lord. I kill people. I have enemies who would hurt you to get to me. This is dangerous."

"I know."

"And you're still here?"

"Jason." You took both his hands. "I spent months researching Red Hood. I know exactly what you do. I know the risks. And I'm choosing to stay anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I love you. Because you protect people who can't protect themselves. Because you're trying to make Crime Alley better even though it's messy and complicated and not heroic." You smiled. "And because someone needs to make sure you're eating properly and sleeping occasionally and not just existing on rage and energy drinks."

"I eat properly."

"You had three granola bars for dinner last night."

"That's dinner."

"That's snack food, Jason."

"This is why I didn't tell you. You're going to be all responsible and make me eat vegetables."

"Someone has to." You pulled him toward the kitchen area. "Come on. I'm making you real food, and then you're going to sleep for eight hours like a normal person."

"I have patrol—"

"Roy can cover for you. You said he owes you a favor."

"How do you know about Roy?"

"I've been investigating you for months. I know about all your allies." You started pulling out ingredients. "Now sit down and let me take care of you."

Jason sat, watching you move around his kitchen like you belonged there.

Like this was normal.

Like dating Red Hood was just another Tuesday.

"You're incredible," he said.

—————————————————————————

im craving fluff, especially for jason todd

just think about it—  it was morning and you’re on the bed, sheets pulled to your chest as a way to cover your naked body after a night with him. and even though you didn’t wake up to his warmth and touch, the sight of it all made up for it

there he was, standing in the middle of your shared bedroom and pulling his sweatpants back on. you shifted your body to get a good angle at the view, tracing his scarred back with your gaze. faint, red claw marks were visible all thanks to you

and when he turned around, the hickeys and bites were now in view— some on his collarbone, others on his abs, any piece of skin your lips could get

maybe it was the afterglow or the sleep, but jason looked so… soft. he always was whenever he was with you. the fact that he loved and trusted you so much to let his guard down around you and just be himself made you feel cherished

it made a small smile form on your lips absentmindedly, your gaze softening as you just stared at him. but your eyes must have lingered too long because he glanced over and caught you staring. a faint smirk tugging on his lips

your smile softened when you saw him silently walk toward your side of the bed, noticing how his lips curved into a smile of his own before leaning down to cup your jaw and give you a soft, slow kiss— a kiss that made your smile widen on his lips, a kiss that felt less like desire and more like devotion, a kiss that made your chest ache in the best way

a kiss that made you fall in love with him all over again

—————————————————————————

masterlist!

(a/n: smth about morning intimacy just scratches my brain perfectly)

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 @st4rl1ghtgrays0n @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae @darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore (tags are open)

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. Selina was like an older sister to you, she taught you how to take a shot without reacting.

“I didn’t have pegged you 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 looks 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)

In which Dick needs a hug.

cw: dick grayson x gn!reader, dick grayson is in dire need of therapy and a hug, hurt and comfort

a/n: my last post was about Dick comforting reader, so obviously i have to balance things out.

—

There is nothing Dick hates more than making you worry about him. He loves you endlessly, and of course he trusts you with his secret identity, he just… he hates worrying you.

Even when his body feels broken, even when he feels like he’s on the verge of falling apart. He’s good at hiding it, at shoving the pain down deep inside himself where it festers.

.ᐟ After a devastating breakup, you let your friends drag you out to a party, meant to distract you momentarily. There you meet BRUCE WAYNE, and what started off as another innocent candlelit dinner—became much more. But Bruce’s entire existence is the textbook definition of complicated. And when the arguments start becoming constant and distance becomes a necessity, you couldn't help but ask yourself: Was loving him always going to end up the same way?

.ᐟ CONTENT: angst, miscommunication, relationship issues, emotional unavailability, some fluff and crack, bruce kept a secret from u, i gor lazy at the end so the writing might be sloppy, not proofread as always wc: 6.6k

.ᐟ a/n: i love this album ehehe wow this my 1st time writing 4 bruce ALSO u guys have to deal with the corny dialogue mwah plus me making bruce unable to cook is just self projection

𝓗𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓦𝑒 𝓖𝑜 𝓐𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛...!

Love 💗

Hey, I hope you're feeling great. This might be sudden but I think it's time we took a break, so I can grow emotionally.

wc : 2.2k || ac : Stefphe || like & follow 4 more :3

summary : Jason is trying (and fumbling) to be normal. He’s not performing the gruff Red Hood persona here. instead, he’s quietly learning how to exist in a soft, everyday space without the constant edge of violence. He is trying to be gentle, which comes through in small, tender moments — the way he holds a knife like it might explode, how he softens his voice, how he second-guesses every touch until you reassure him it’s safe to just be. CW: mentions of redhood business, gun and knife mentions, fluff as frick.

a/n : I’m about to explode Word. my word count has been so wrong recently I’m SO sorry. Also can you tell I like writing cooking fics…

The kitchen smelled like slightly burnt garlic and nervous energy.

Jason stood at the counter in a plain black t shirt and grey sweatpants, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking at the cutting board like it had personally offended him. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he’d taken after patrol - the white streak at the front flopping messily over his forehead. No leather jacket, no guns, no mask. Just Jason Todd, attempting to make dinner like a normal person.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with open affection. He’d shown up at your apartment twenty minutes ago with a paper grocery bag and a quietly determined look that said he’d been thinking about this all day.

“I said I’d cook,” he muttered without turning around. His voice was low, almost hesitant. “You’re supposed to sit and… I don’t know. Look pretty or something.”

You laughed softly. “I can do both. But I’d rather help. Or at least watch you not murder that onion.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softening the second they landed on you. The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, more like a shy half-smile he only let out when no one else was around. “Fair. Just… don’t expect gourmet. I mostly know how to heat up MREs and order Thai.”

You crossed the small kitchen and hopped up onto the counter beside the cutting board, swinging your legs. The apartment was warm, lights dimmed to a golden glow. Outside, Gotham’s usual chaos felt far away for once.

Jason picked up the chef’s knife you’d left out for him. He held it carefully - fingers positioned exactly as you’d shown him last week, but his grip was still a little too tight, shoulders tense like he was handling a live grenade instead of stainless steel.

You noticed. Of course you did.

“Jay,” you said gently. “It’s an onion. Not a suspect.”

He exhaled through his nose, a short, self-deprecating sound. “Old habits. Feels weird holding something sharp without… you know. Intent.”

You reached over and lightly touched his wrist. His skin was warm, scarred knuckles brushing yours. “No intent needed tonight. Just dinner. With me.”

He looked at your hand on his wrist for a long second, then nodded once. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He started chopping - slow, deliberate slices. Each cut was precise, but there was a carefulness to it that went beyond technique. Like he was reminding himself with every motion that this knife didn’t have to draw blood. That the world didn’t have to end in violence tonight.

The onion surrendered without a fight. Jason’s eyes watered anyway. He blinked hard, muttering, “This is bullshit. I’ve taken beatings from Killer Croc and I’m crying over vegetables.”

You grinned, hopping down to grab a tissue. “Here, tough guy.” You dabbed gently at the corners of his eyes, then kissed the tip of his nose. “Better?”

He blinked again, this time not from the onion. His expression went soft - the guarded edges melting away until he was just Jason, standing in your kitchen, looking at you like you’d hung the moon and stars. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Better.”

You moved on to the garlic. Jason watched you demonstrate crushing the cloves with the flat of the knife, then tried it himself. His first attempt was too hesitant; the clove skidded. The second was perfect - clean, controlled. He let out a small, surprised huff of satisfaction.

“See?” you said. “You’re getting it.”

He set the knife down and wiped his hands on a dish towel, then surprised you by stepping behind you and wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. No pressure, no weight - just presence. Like he was still learning how much of himself was allowed to touch you without overwhelming.

“Feels… normal,” he murmured. “Weirdly normal.”

You leaned back into him, covering his hands with yours where they rested on your stomach. “That’s the point. Normal can be good.”

He was quiet for a moment, just breathing with you. Then, softer: “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like someone’s gonna kick the door in and remind me I don’t get to have this.”

Your heart twisted. You turned in his arms, facing him. He didn’t step back; he just let you settle against his chest, your hands coming up to rest over his heart.

“You do get this,” you said firmly. “We both do. One dinner at a time.”

Jason searched your face, eyes uncertain but hopeful. He lifted one hand - slowly, telegraphing every movement - and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheekbone with the lightest touch, like he was afraid even that might be too much.

“You’re really patient with me,” he whispered.

“You’re worth it.”

He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you - gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like second chances. No rush, no hunger born from adrenaline. Just Jason learning how to be soft with someone he loved.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Okay. Back to dinner before I burn the place down.”

You smiled and let him go, though he kept one hand on your hip for a few extra seconds, as if reluctant to lose the contact.

The sauce came next. Jason stood at the stove, stirring the simmering tomatoes with a wooden spoon like it was a delicate operation. You handed him spices one by one - basil, oregano, a pinch of red pepper flakes. Each time he added something, he looked to you for approval, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“More garlic?” he asked after tasting.

“Always.”

He added another clove, then offered you the spoon. You blew on it gently and took a sip. The flavour bloomed - rich, a little sweet, with just enough heat.

“Perfect,” you declared.

Jason’s shoulders relaxed another notch. A real smile broke through this time — small, crooked, the one that made the scar on his lip crinkle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. See? You’re a natural when you stop overthinking it.”

He set the spoon down and turned the heat to low. Then he surprised you again by pulling you in for another hug - this one a little firmer, but still careful. His arms circled your waist completely, but he kept his hands open, palms flat against your back instead of gripping.

“I like this,” he said against your hair. “Coming home to you. Not having to suit up again right away. Just… chopping onions and not thinking about patrol.”

You hugged him back, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear - a little faster than average, but calm. “You’re doing great at the normal thing.”

“Still feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life sometimes.” His voice dropped, vulnerable in the quiet kitchen. “Like any second I’ll wake up back in the dirt or in the Pit and this - you, the apartment, the stupid sauce - will disappear.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “It won’t. Because I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once - a tiny, decisive movement. “Okay.” He kissed your forehead, lingering there. “Okay.”

Dinner came together slowly after that. Pasta boiled on the back burner while Jason carefully plated everything - twirling the spaghetti with a fork the way you’d shown him, spooning sauce over the top, even grating fresh parmesan with a focus that made you bite back a grin. He set the small table with mismatched plates and lit a candle you didn’t even know you owned.

When you both sat down, he waited until you took the first bite before trying his own. His eyes lit up at the taste.

“Holy shit,” he said, genuinely surprised. “This is… actually good.”

You laughed. “Told you.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, thumb stroking gently over your knuckles. No roughness, no calloused grip that could bruise. Just warmth and quiet wonder.

The conversation flowed easily after that - not about cases or villains or the Batfamily drama, but small things. Your favorite book you’d been reading. The stray cat he’d started feeding near one of the safehouses. How he was thinking about getting a houseplant because “even I can’t kill something that just needs water, right?”

You teased him gently about the plant. He teased you back about your terrible knife skills. Laughter came easy in the warm light.

Halfway through the meal, Jason went quiet again, staring at your joined hands.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly.

He hesitated, then spoke in that low, careful voice. “I keep thinking about how I used to hold guns. Knives. How everything I touched ended up broken or bloody.” He swallowed. “And now I’m holding your hand. Making dinner. And it doesn’t feel… wrong. It feels like maybe I can learn how to do this without fucking it up.”

Your chest ached with how much you loved him in that moment.

“You’re not fucking it up,” you said. “You’re learning. And I love watching you do it.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you. For letting me try.”

After dinner, you did the dishes together. Jason washed while you dried - a simple rhythm that felt achingly domestic. He was careful with the plates, setting them down like they were made of glass. When soap suds got on his nose, you wiped it away with the dish towel and he let you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Once everything was clean, he pulled you into the living room. No TV. No patrol reports. Just the two of you on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you. One of his hands rested on your stomach, fingers tracing idle, gentle patterns through your shirt.

You talked for hours - about nothing and everything. He told you about the first time Alfred tried to teach him to cook as a kid (it ended with smoke alarms and Bruce looking vaguely disappointed). You told him about your worst cooking disaster. He laughed - a real, warm sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.

At some point you turned in his arms so you could face him. Jason’s expression was open, unguarded. No front. No sarcasm shield. Just soft green eyes and a slight flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the apartment and the wine you’d split.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the faint scars on his cheekbones. “You’re really good at this domestic thing, you know.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Only because it’s with you.”

You kissed him then - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that had no urgency, no adrenaline behind it. Just two people learning how to be gentle with each other in a world that had never been kind.

Jason kissed you back with the same careful reverence. His hands stayed on your waist, never wandering lower, never gripping too tight. When you deepened the kiss, he made a soft sound in the back of his throat but still held back, letting you lead.

You pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips, “You can touch me, Jay. I’m not going to break.”

He exhaled shakily. “I know. I just… I like making sure.”

You smiled and kissed him again. “I know you do. And I love that about you.”

The night wound down naturally. Jason carried you to bed when you started yawning — not sweeping you up dramatically, but lifting you with easy care, like you were something precious. He set you down on the mattress gently, then climbed in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you.

You curled into his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you — loose, warm, protective without caging.

“Stay the night?” you murmured, already half-asleep.

“Wouldn’t leave even if you kicked me out,” he whispered back. His fingers stroked slowly through your hair. “This… this is the best part of my day. Coming here. Being normal with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “Then keep coming back. Every night if you want.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“I think I’m starting to believe I can.”

You fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest — no nightmares tonight, no Red Hood lurking at the edges. Just Jason learning how to be home.

In the morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jason humming off-key in the kitchen as he attempted pancakes. He was still in last night’s sweatpants, hair sleep-mussed, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

When he noticed you watching from the doorway, he gave you that shy half-smile again and held up the spatula like a peace offering.

“Round two?” he asked. “I promise not to burn them this time.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his back.

“Round two sounds perfect.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd believed it might actually be.

a/n : can you tell im part Italian

@fancy-possum © 2026. All work belongs to me and I have not used ANY ai platform to ‘enhance’ my writing. I do not consent to my writing being tweaked, reposted on other platforms, translated or fed into ai. FUCK AI.

( PART ONE & PART TWO / comic masterlist / main masterlist / taglist )

⋆ starring: ONLY JASON MF TODD! ⋆ cw: NSFW 18+ mdni, f!reader, TOXIC behaviors, slight angst, explicit texts, swearing ⋆ a/n: unfortunately i could only write a continuation for jason. the rest of them gave me the ick BAD so they'll stay blocked!!

2026 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

‣ jason is the type to act annoyed when you steal his hoodies, but secretly loves seeing you wear them. every single time he catches you walking around in one of his oversized sweatshirts, he'll roll his eyes and tell you that you have your own clothes. the thing is, he never actually asks for them back. in fact, he'll intentionally leave his favorite hoodies draped over chairs or hanging by the door because he knows you'll take them. if you ever return one, he'll probably stare at it for a second and ask why you aren't wearing it anymore. ‣ he leaves his books everywhere. you swear he owns multiple bookshelves, but somehow every surface in the apartment ends up covered in novels. there'll be one on the kitchen counter, three on the coffee table, and another balanced on the arm of the couch. sometimes you'll pick one up to move it and find little sticky notes that have scribbled writing fall out of them. jason claims he's organized because he "knows where everything is," but you'll never understand how he manages to locate a specific book among the chaos. ‣ grocery shopping with him is dangerous. you'll enter the store with a perfectly reasonable shopping list and leave wondering how the bill doubled. jason somehow sneaks random snacks into the cart whenever you're distracted. you'll be comparing pasta brands, then look down and discover three different types of cookies and enough cereal to survive an apocalypse. the worst part is that he always acts innocent when you call him out, even though he's absolutely guilty.