𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬
Jason Todd was not a soft man.
To the world, he was the Red Hood - brutal, sarcastic, carrying the weight of death and resurrection like armor. He snapped at his brothers, glared at criminals, and kept everyone at arm’s length with sharp words and sharper knives.
He was the biggest lover boy in Gotham.
You mentioned once, months ago, that you loved the way the first spring flowers smelled after rain. Now, every time it rained in early spring, Jason would disappear for an hour and come back with a small bouquet of fresh flowers - never store-bought, always ones he’d picked himself from quiet corners of the city where no one would see the big, scary Red Hood playing gardener.
Tonight was no different. He walked through the door of your shared apartment, rain still clinging to his leather jacket, and handed you a small bunch of pale purple flowers wrapped in brown paper.
“They smelled like you,” he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you’d like them.”
You took them, heart swelling, and kissed his cheek. “You’re such a sap.”
He huffed, but his ears went pink. “Only for you. Don’t tell anyone.”
He takes care of you without being asked.
You came home from a long day at work exhausted, shoulders aching, feet sore. Jason was already there - apron on, sleeves rolled up, cooking your favourite meal. The apartment smelled like garlic and herbs and home.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the couch. “Dinner’s almost done.”
You tried to protest. “I can help—”
“No.” He crossed the room in two strides, gently pushing you down onto the cushions. Then he knelt, unlaced your shoes, and massaged your feet with careful, strong hands. “You worked hard today. Let me take care of you.”
His touch was firm but gentle, thumbs pressing into the arches of your feet until the tension melted away. You sighed, leaning back, watching him with soft eyes.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you murmured.
“I want to.” He looked up at you, green eyes warm. “You take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you.”
Later, after dinner, he pulled you into his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. His hands stroked slow circles on your stomach under your shirt - warm, comforting, with just a hint of heat in the way his fingers occasionally dipped lower.
“You’re too good to me,” you whispered.
He kissed the side of your neck. “You deserve it. All of it.”
He’s protective in the quiet ways.
You were walking home from the library late one night when a group of guys started catcalling. Before you could even react, Jason was there - stepping out of the shadows like he’d been waiting, tall and broad and radiating danger.
He walked you the rest of the way home, hand on your lower back, silent but steady. When you got inside, he pulled you into a hug, arms wrapping around you like a shield.
“I hate when they look at you like that,” he muttered into your hair. “Like you’re not mine.”
You hugged him back, smiling against his chest. “I am yours.”
He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips - slow and deep, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss grew warmer, his fingers pressing into your sides, but he never pushed. He just held you, grounding himself in the feel of you safe in his arms.
You found them everywhere.
A sticky note on the coffee maker: “Made this for you. Don’t work too hard today. Love you.”
A scribbled message in your favourite book: “This part reminded me of you. You’re stronger than any character in here.”
A note taped to the bathroom mirror after a rough night: “You looked beautiful even when you cried. I’ve got you. Always.”
Each one was written in his messy, hurried handwriting, like he was embarrassed to be caught being romantic. You kept every single one in a small box under your bed.
One morning you woke up to find a note on his pillow next to yours:
“Gone to handle some shit. Be back before you miss me too much.
P.S. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.
You smiled, pressing the note to your chest, heart full.
He’s soft when the world isn’t watching.
Late at night, after patrols, Jason would crawl into bed behind you, still smelling like leather and gun oil. He’d wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back against his chest, legs tangling with yours.
“Missed you,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice rough from the night’s work. His hand would slide under your shirt, resting warm and possessive on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles.
You’d turn in his arms, kissing him softly. He’d kiss you back - slow and deep, hands roaming your body with gentle reverence. He’d pull you closer, hips pressing against yours, the heat between you building but never rushing.
“I love you,” he’d whisper between kisses. “More than anything.”
You’d fall asleep like that - wrapped up in each other, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his arms a shield against the world.
One quiet evening, you were reading on the couch when Jason came home early. He didn’t say anything. Just kicked off his boots, crossed the room, and pulled you into his lap.
You laughed softly, setting your book aside. “Rough day?”
He buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you tightly. “Better now.”
His hands slid under your shirt again, stroking your skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. The touch was comforting, but there was heat in it too - a quiet promise of more when you were ready.
“You’re my favourite person,” he murmured. “My safe place. My home.”
You cupped his face, kissing him softly. “You’re mine too.”
He held you like that for hours - kissing you slow and deep, hands exploring with gentle affection, whispering how much he loved you between every touch.
Jason Todd was not a soft man.
He was the biggest lover boy in the world.
And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
a/n : for the lovely @blueberrycandymuffin !! reqs open, and pls follow <3 || ac as usual : @/ciricearts
