Alli

the ones who never got a gift “just because”, never went to parties, never got promposed to, never even skipped class because you were always the good kid.

because he didn’t get that either.

he never got football games, riding his motorcyle to school, or that messy teenage rebellion that you look back on and cringe.

none of that sweet, stupid, carefree stuff that everyone takes for granted

so you figure it out together.

he shows up to your first date nervous, trying not to act like he's not blushing so hard he's combusting, and you take his hand anyway, both of you pretending not to notice how sweaty your palms are as you try to subtly wipe them on your pants when you think he's not looking

you both get to experience it all, just…later.

grunge!jason who discovered Nirvana during his angry Robin years and never looked back. Bruce got used to finding him in his room after missions with bleeding knuckles and 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' on repeat.

grunge!jason who owns five leather jackets that he takes care of religiously. The one with sewn-on patches (Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and some local Gotham punk band that broke up years ago) is his favorite. The stitching is aggressive and uneven because he did it during a particularly bad week.

grunge!jason who wears the same pair of Doc Martens he's had forever. They're held together by spite, shoe goo, and three resolings. He refuses to break in new ones.

grunge!jason who has a matching stick-and-poke tattoo with Roy from a drunk night. They're objectively terrible with wobbly lines and uneven ink. Neither of them regret it, but neither of them will admit how much it means to them, either.

grunge!jason who sleeps in band tees so worn they're practically transparent. The worse the condition, the more he loves it. There's a Pearl Jam shirt that's more holes than fabric at this point. Barbara offered to buy him new ones and he looked personally offended.

grunge!jason who writes poetry in cheap spiral notebooks he'd rather die (again) than show anyone. It's raw and visceral in a confessional poet meets gritty realism way. Think Eileen Myles meets Charles Bukowski. The notebooks are shoved under his mattress like he's hiding porn.

grunge!jason who reads a chaotic mix of Dostoevsky, Hubert Selby Jr., and beat-up Chuck Palahniuk paperbacks he finds at used bookstores. His copies are dog-eared and marked up, margins dense with his messy scrawl.

grunge!jason who has a voice like cigarettes and whiskey, rough especially in the morning. It sounds like he's been screaming at concerts for twenty years. He smokes regularly, bumming them at shows, chain-smoking after bad patrol nights, but stays away from anything harder. That's a line he won't cross because he grew up seeing what drugs did to Crime Alley.

grunge!jason who thrifts absolutely everything. He takes you thrifting every other weekend and gets genuinely excited when you find a good band tee or the perfect worn-in flannel. Definitely has strong opinions about authentic thrift stores vs. gentrified vintage shops and negotiates prices in cash. Nothing over $10.

grunge!jason who burns cds with handwritten tracklists. He made one for Roy (who cried) and one for Dick (who pretends he doesn’t listen to it on loop). Yours get progressively more vulnerable. The first one is all brooding alt rock, but by tape three he's including The Cure and you realize he's confessing his feelings for you in the only way he knows how.

grunge!jason who collects vinyl records. His apartment has milk crates full of them, organized by a system only he understands. He refuses to use streaming services. "It doesn't sound the same, Dick, I'm not explaining this again." Lets you flip through the collection, and if you pull out one of his favorites? He's gone. Heart eyes. Sits you down, tells you everything about the album, and then listens to it with you start to finish with his hand in yours. This is intimacy for him.

grunge!jason who has a garage band with Roy on drums, Cass on bass, Steph on occasional keyboard and backup vocals, and himself on guitar and vocals. They practice twice a month, have three complete songs, and refuse to play for anyone. Except you're allowed to sit in during practice. Jason will never admit he performs better when you're watching.

grunge!jason who lets you, Cass, and Steph paint his nails. He insists on black polish, though he'll tolerate white, and they always end up chipped 0.2 seconds later. Cass does neat, careful coats. Steph does designs. You're messier. He likes all of it.

grunge!jason who lets you wear his leather jackets and beat-up hoodies and tries to play it cool every time he sees you in them, but fails miserably. You might as well have hung the moon. He absolutely pick fights with anyone who looks at you wrong while you're wearing his clothes.

grunge!jason who used to cut his own hair with kitchen scissors when it got too long. Now he lets you do it, sitting still for you in a way he doesn't for anyone else. It always ends up slightly uneven, but he loves it regardless.

grunge!jason who takes you to shitty dive bars to support local bands. He refuses to buy tickets through Ticketmaster on principle as he would rather the money go to actual artists than resellers. Stands behind you with his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, and fingers drumming to the beat against your skin while you both get lost in the music.

grunge!jason who writes song lyrics on your skin with sharpie when he's bored. Your arm becomes his notebook. Half the time they're lyrics that mean something about how he feels about you.

grunge!jason who lets you read those poetry-filled notebooks he's so embarrassed of. Only you. It takes him forever to work up to it and his hands shake when he hands them over. He watches your face the entire time you read, especially once you reach the ones about you.

one night, he wakes up to the door creaking open, and finds himself staring at you while you're staring down the barrel of his gun.

youre shocked, a bit hurt. you'd come home late, thats all!

and Jason begins to feel terrible when he sees how terrified you are. he'd never shoot you. he promises you he just gets scared sometimes.

so you spend the next few months trying to convince him he's always safe with you. you stroke his hair until he falls asleep, and EVENTUALLY, he stops sleeping with the weapon under his pillow.

dick grayson and figure skater!reader who get each other because, apparently, fighting crime and being an athlete are more similar than you'd expected, and he doesn't save lives only, he also happens to know what it's like to be a performer.

you both know what it’s like to push yourself well past your limits, to always give all you’ve got, even if it’s at the expense of your own health. and you’ve both seen the consequences of it on multiple occasions and are constantly scolding the other for it, no matter how hypocritical it is.

you’re always there to tend each other’s injuries. you’re the one who’ll clean up and heal his wounds after a particularly rough patrol, and lately you’re the only one he trusts with it, he’s learned that no one will treat him as gentle and caring as you do. he’s the same with you, the one to apply ice to your wrist and your knees that you somehow always manage to get hit during practice, or to bandage your ankle whenever you got it twisted.

you both hate seeing each other like that.

the two of you are constantly covered in bruises, it's mostly your legs for you and the ribs for him. you're always sensitive, there's always something that hurts, you can't remember the last time it wasn't like that. if it's not some injure you got it's the sore muscles form the intensive training. and you're no strangers to chronic pain either, already used to the groans and complaints whenever you got up from the couch and were suddenly aware of that particular sting in your back.

that's why you had to learn to be gentle with each other. dick knows exaclty where to touch you and how to do it right, too scared of accidentally hurting you. you love how caring he is with you, his touch is always soothing to you. that's what you need after your exhausting training session, after his long patrol night, to get home to the comfort of your lover. you know that he gets it better than anyone and you're so grateful for his love.

dick usually takes you to the skating rink and sometimes stays to watch your practice, if you ask him to. he loves watching how gracefully you move and thinks you look beautiful on the ice, but he'd rather watch you on tournaments and exhibitons, with your cutesy hairdos and fancy suits, where every move is practiced and you already know exactly what you're doing. it's a lot tougher when you're training. he hates seeing you while you're trying out a new combo, watching you fall on your side over and over, and he'll never understand how you can jump so high up in the air and hit the ground as hard as you do whenever you fail once again and barely bat an eye. there's an annoyed look in your eyes, but one second you'll be falling flat on your ass and the next you're already trying to pick up the speed again and give it another try, you don't even seem to notive how swollen your knee is from the impact already, they're probably numb anyway so you can't even feel the pain anymore.

he's obviously storming at you the second you two get home, dreading having to watch you wincing as he very carefully removes the tights you wore to practice, revealing the colorful stains that he hated so much already planted on your knees, he hates knowing that you won't take rest and that you'll attend practice the next day too even in this state. of course his scolding doesn't last too long before you're turning his words on him, because how could he say those things to you when you're not putting your life in danger whenever you go out like he does and unlike him you actually can stop if it's under doctor's order (and only if it's doctor's order). dick'll start talking about duty and god knows what, because apparently he has a reason to be getting hurt and you didn't. that only works to spark up and entirely knew argument.

even if he uses it against you during fights, that's one of the things he always admired about you. he loves how determined you are. it's hard for him to believe that you're doing all of this only out of passion, not out of need, not out of duty, you just love what you do so much that you' we're willing to sacrifice everything for it.

at the end of the day, you're always supporting each other despite everything, because, even if you have different motives and different outcomes, both of you understand what it's like.

fix it up! - j. todd

dcu masterlist | main masterlist | song-based fics

gn!reader x mechanic!jason todd

summary: your car keeps breaking down, and the mechanic that keeps fixing it is slowly falling in love with you.

warnings: none! but lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: ANON you're soooo right hehe...i'm sorry this one took a while to get out!!!! enjoy my love!

UNEDITED!!!

mechanic!jason todd needs you to convince him that you actually want to go out with him. he's fixed your ratty old car more times than he can count. he honestly thinks you should just buy a new one, but you're supposedly sentimental about this one.

mechanic!jason todd who rolled out from underneath a car the first time you saw him, covered from grease. stains along his shirt, smears in the creases of his hands. as soon as he laid eyes on you, he desperately wished he'd been wearing something else.

mechanic!jason todd who's a reformed criminal. he served a couple years in prison for beating a guy who got too handsy with a woman jason saw at the bar. the only person willing to employ him was his old high school friend. so now he works full-time at roy's autobody shop & repairs.

mechanic!jason todd starts giving you discounts, because you just come in so damn often. he's sweaty, he's always covered in grease, but for some reason, you're always able to look him in the eye. whenever you walk through that door, his heart pounds and he starts breaking out in an even bigger sweat than before.

mechanic!jason todd struggles to focus when you decide to hang around one day. you're there all the time, after all. so you decide to watch him fix your car. all of a sudden, he's tripping over everything, and his thick, calloused fingers turn clumsy and fumble everything he touches. he blushes furiously when you giggle and say, "is this why it takes so long to get my car fixed?" that's not true! if only you knew how fast jason worked when he wasn't flustered!.

mechanic!jason todd who is just so big. he's such a gentle giant, however, but speaks harshly in that brooklyn-esque accent of his. all the parts of your car look so tiny in his hands. one day, you jokingly ask to help out. with his own hands trembling, he guides yours steadling, hovering behind you. you giggle and laugh as he moves you around, and jason finds himself smiling too.

mechanic!jason todd who gets humiliated by roy. "hey, are you two gonna go out or...what?" jason turns beet-red. almost as red as the worn down paint of your car. jason tries to deny it, says that would be so unprofessional, but you scribble your number on a scrap piece of paper and he finds it a day later.

mechanic!jason todd who's parking his motorcycle as he sees you walking down the street. he tries to ignore his butterflies. you'd never want to go out with a guy like him...right? ah, he thinks. better to find out. nervously works up the courage to run to you. he's panting, not because he's out of breath, but because he's so damn nervous. you're just so pretty.

"hey," he says. "remember me?" smiling with recognition, you say, "of course i do!" "your uh, your car is almost fixed up." you scoff playfully, and the sound sends chills rolling up his spine. "thank you! i know it's probably a pain in the ass for you to keep—" "no. it's...nothing." he stands there awkwardly. "um, i actually...i just wanted to ask for your...number." you blink. "you want my number?" "it's fine if not. i just thought i'd try and ask. i just thought you were...i dunno, cute and all? not like, average-cute. i think you're...nicer than that." you give him a cheeky grin. "you think i'm beautiful?" his cheeks go beet-red. "i—" "here. gimme your phone." and jason's heart soars to the moon, like he's a little boy all over again.

mechanic!jason todd who finally works up the courage to text you. you changed your contact name to a single red heart. he doesn't know what it means, but it probably insinuates that you like him back, right?

so he finally works up the courage to shoot you a text. hey, it reads.

hii!!, you reply. oh, gosh. what should he say next? ask you on a date? does it happen so...quickly? would you want to take it slow?

how'd you feel knowing he was in prison? and why would you want to hang out with a guy like him? there are many other men out there with much more...noble professions. at least, that's what he thinks. he doesn't know you admire how hard he works. how good he is at his job. he's already got your number. might as well shoot straight. let's go on a date? please?

mechanic!jason todd who keeps talking to you. nonstop. you begin calling each other on your lunch breaks, and soon he's yapping with you on the phone as he's fixing up someone else's car. soon, the two of you have planned out a first date and his calloused hands are picking out roses and chocolates before he drives to pick you up (because obviously, your car is at the shop).

You’re curled up against Dick’s chest on the couch, the two of you still warm and a little sweaty from the evening run he’d dragged you on. His black tank top clings to him, the fabric stretched tight over the broad, sculpted curve of his shoulders and the thick swell of his biceps. You trace one finger along the vein that runs down the peak of his left arm, and he chuckles softly.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna think you have a new favorite part of me,” he teases.

You lift your head, resting your chin on his sternum so you can look him in the eye. “I do. These arms are ridiculous, Dick. You know that, right?”

He flushes, just the tips of his ears going pink. Even after all this time, compliments still make Nightwing blush. “They’re just arms, babe.”

“They’re not just arms.” You sit up, straddling his waist, and plant both palms on his biceps, squeezing. The muscle is dense, hot, unyielding. “They’re… stupidly big. I’ve been thinking about something for a while.”

His blue eyes narrow. “Should I be worried?”

You lean down, brushing your lips against his. “I want to ride your arm.”

“You… what?”