tära

— tara, pronounced like zara, 18, korean, b jun.30

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may contain 18+ content

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been working on a few drafts but I don't see an end in sight or any of them so I need to get a oneshot out for my sanity

You get to decide what it'll be on title alone!

honestly I don't have anything in mind for any of these, just pick one based on the vibe... not saying who the characters will be for these bc the Jason lovers always win. Like I love him too guys but gd

cat?

Damian barely looked up from his desk. “…thank you.”

You’re sprawled across the tops of two desks pushed together, Damian’s uniform blazer draped over your legs. You’re stuck in that sweet spot between sleep and consciousness, feeling as though you’re floating, watching everything happen through a lens. “No, really. They’re beautiful, Damian.”

He tilts his head at that, studying you from the corner of his eye for a moment before his pen starts scratching on paper again.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. The press usually fixates on these sorts of things — Dick’s perfect smile, Jason’s sculpted body, Tim’s glassy skin. Just about every feature of his has been picked apart for the world to see by middle-aged men and women who have nothing else to do with their lives except talk about how attractive famous kids are, or how gorgeous they have or will grow up to be.

It’s nothing you haven’t told him before, either. Not at all like the media, but in earnest. Things only you could see, like the crooked slope of his nose or the two moles dotted along his left shoulder — “like a vampire bite.”

But right now, in the empty classroom you’ve taken for yourselves because it’s a free period and all the designated areas are loud and too bright, it feels different. The school day’s almost over and it casts a cool glow into the room, the light left off intentionally because you like the natural kind better. Everything is softer. Muted. All except for you.

He doesn’t even know what to call this. What to call you. You’re his friend, but not in the way Jon is. He doesn’t want to look his best for Jon. He doesn’t carry his books either, or offer his coat when the breeze starts to chill.

“…I’d rather they be blue.” He says offhandedly, turning the page. Your lips pull into a frown.

“Why? I think green suits you.”

“Perhaps, but the rest of my family’s are blue,” he takes a moment to consider his next words, choosing carefully just how vulnerable he’s willing to be. “..I admit, I feel rather.. out of place, in photos.”

Because while yes, he is undoubtably his father’s son, he still looks a great deal like his mother. His complexion, his nose, his eyes, all reminiscent of the woman he’s so conflicted on even now. The press is quick to point that out, some titles labelling him as the ‘black sheep’ on looks alone when he belongs there just as the rest of them do. They comment of Bruce Wayne’s apparent ‘affinity’ for adopting kids with dark hair and blue eyes, that he must have been disappointed when his own flesh and blood didn’t inherit those features of his.

Bruce is quick to shut those rumors down before they can get any wind under their wings, but Damian still sees them.

You shift to lie on your side, one arm under your head, your free hand playing with the material of his blazer on top of you. The light from the windows shade his face in a way that makes it feel like he’s in a coming of age movie that’s mostly style over substance.

“..y’know what the color reminds me of?”

His eyes flicker to meet yours, a slight quirk of his brow following. “Enlighten me.”

“Duckweed,” your words are slightly muffled by the way your cheek is smushed against your arm. His eyebrows rise further. “In a pond. In a forest. Not, like, a weird, creepy forest, either. The kind that little calico cats live in because the trees have enough shade to hide, but let enough sun through so it’s nice and cozy.”

“…you’re comparing my eyes to flora named after waterfowl?”

You respond with a tired hum, eyelids drooping considerably more than before. “It’s fitting. Besides, ducks are cute.” You squint at him before closing your eyes. “You’re cute too, but more cat-cute. I don’t think I could imagine you as a duck. You can be the calico, I’ll be the duck.”

“There were no ducks in this scenario.”

“The plant is called duckweed, Dami, the existence of duck is implied.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips despite him. Then again, he hasn’t really been trying too hard to prevent them lately. “Just the one?”

Your eyes crack open again to glare at him with mock suspicion. “You got other ducks to worry about?”

That earns you a real laugh. Something softer than in has any right to be, like cat fur in a bird’s nest or light summer rain pattering onto soil and growth. You’ve yet to earn a belly laugh from him, but that’s fine. It’ll come in due time, you’re persistent.

“No, I can’t say that I do,” there’s an amused lilt to his voice now. “But I seem to recall you saying calico cats. As in plural.”

There’s a little smirk curving your lips as you reply. “I like cats.”

“So you would keep more than one as company?”

“More the merrier.”

“Unbelievable. I am taking the blazer back.”

Tightening your grip on the fabric, you roll onto your back, the other arm now draped across your eyes dramatically as if you’re in a terrible stage play of some Shakespearean sonnet. You add a sigh for good measure. “Betrayal. Treason. Might as well get the guillotine out, why don’t you.”

He puts down his pen, leaning his head on his hand with a smirk. “I should. You’d deserve it, with all your crimes.”

“What have I ever done to you?” Many, many things. Still, you huff indignantly.

He stands from his chair, walking towards you with deliberate slowness. “For one, you steal my desserts.”

“You offer me those!” The protest falls on deaf ears.

“You insist on joining me at the library, which results in much less actual work being done.” He’s within arms’ length now.

“Well..”

“And most importantly, you hog Alfred the cat’s attention when you come over. It’s infuriating.” The soft look in his eyes says otherwise.

“I can’t help it if cats love me,” your voice gets quieter as he stands over you, leaned over with his hands on the desk. He shifts his weight onto one arm, freeing a hand to reach down and brush your hair out of your face.

Any words die on your tongue as he just stays there, observing.

Is his face getting closer?

Your eyes are about to flutter closed when the bell rings, cutting off any moment the two of you were about to have. He pulls away and you sit up hastily, taking his hand that’s been extended almost automatically to help you hop off of the desks you were lying on, even if it’s not necessary in the slightest.

In an AU story, do you prefer the side characters being from other parts of the lore or just OC’s?

ex) mer! Dick Grayson x human!reader, with characters from the original Teen Titans as human side characters

He’s drunk. Almost unreasonably so, because somehow he thought it was a good idea to compete against a speedster in drinking. He’s been leaning half his weight on you while you walk him back to your shared apartment, nearly tripping over his own feet three times in the past five minutes.

He’s quiet tonight, which is unusual for him. Normally when he’s drunk, Dick can’t stop talking, babbling on about anything and anything that catches his attention — which is usually you. He’s rambled about how many shades your eyes actually hold, or confessed he uses your shampoo when you’re away because he misses your scent. He’s even tried to serenade you on the fire escape with a blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape and a ridiculously expensive guitar he picked up on the way home without even haggling.

Which is why the question that slips from his mouth feels like getting caught in an avalanche.

You’ve never been one for words of affirmation. You need them to function, of course, but giving them out makes your tongue feel like it’s made of lead, phrases just on the verge of slipping out but never making it all the way.

You don’t know why it’s so difficult. It just doesn’t come naturally; which is unfair, you realize, to your boyfriend, who smothers you in praises and terms of affection daily.

But you’d tried to show your love in other ways. He had to know you love him, right?

And really, he did. It was in the way his sleep clothes were freshly washed and dried after texting you about a grueling day at work, even if it was nowhere near laundry day. How his favorite cereal never ran out in the pantry, or how you’d shy away from everyone else’s touch but seek his out, making him feel fuzzy with pride and something warm, like earning the trust of a stray cat he’d spent weeks looking after.

But contrary to that one famous saying, sometimes actions didn’t speak louder than words. Sometimes, he just needed to hear it straight. Not deciphered from between the lines of body language. He longed for the quiet ‘I love you’s whispered at night, when you thought he was asleep, or when you got caught up in the moment and those three little words slipped out without your realization. He wanted to drown himself in your voice, let it fill his ears and lungs when his own thoughts got too loud. However many times you said it would simply never be enough, because he yearned to hear your voice assuring him of his worth in the background of his mind every second of the day, nestled in between the low buzz of the city. Like slivers of sunlight that kept him going whenever the rest of the world felt too dark.

Yes, he knew you loved him. In hindsight, what he’d said was only prompted by a sudden sense of longing he’d felt when he’d tried texting you something or another, which led to him to scrolling through your history and realizing just how many times he had been the one to initiate verbal affection. (He’d denied any trace of a pout to Wally, though he didn’t bother hiding the way his bottom lip stuck out.)

In the morning, when Dick woke up to a killer headache and a dry mouth, a water and a bottle of pills sat already waiting for him on his bedside table. He’d been changed into his favorite sweater and a pair of worn plaid pants, and vaguely, he remembered your hands on his skin, nails scratching slightly against his scalp as you’d run a bath and washed his hair. The warmth of your touch was still settled on his waist, your arm draped across him as he sat up to fix his headache.

His hand finds yours instinctively as he lies back down, squinting at what little sunlight filters through the blinds as they illuminate your face and waiting for the medication to kick in. The pounding in his head is easily forgotten as he gets distracted at just how soft you look in the morning, chest rising and falling rhythmically as you sleep, more exhausted than usual after taking care of him in the crack of dawn much earlier — or later, depending on perspective — than the time he returns from patrol.

Fingers intertwined, lies flat on his back and pulls you on top of him by your arm, smiling softly when you stir from the movement. Your eyes crack open for a moment, dazed, squinted from the light and from your cheek squished against his chest. The weight of you is comforting in a way that screams home as you sigh sleepily and settle even closer against him.

He lets you be for a few minutes before you start to squirm.

“Morning,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Mhmm..” he bites back a laugh when your voice cracks.

Slowly, agonizingly, you adjust your position, pulling yourself up and staring down at him with eyes that won’t open all the way. An adorable sight, he thinks, even if you’ll deny it til the end of time.

Your hands find his face, cupping and squishing his cheeks as your mouth opens slightly and closes again two or three times. He’s just about to make a comment, something about how you’d make a perfect goldfish, when your voice finally does its job.

“I love you.”

His breath hitches. A whispered confession, but nowhere near unsure. Just a little shy, because it’s only meant for him to hear. The rest of the world can suck it.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, a dumb smile spreading on his lips.

His arm tightens around your waist when you lean down to kiss him, as if there’s any way to physically pull you any closer than you are. You move from his lips to his cheeks to his nose and forehead with tiny little butterfly kisses that make him laugh in that way that makes your heart flutter.

“I love you,” you say again, near his ear as you rub your face against his cheeks when kisses don’t feel like enough. “I love you so much.”

Dick grabs you by the chin to look at you properly, and for a moment you swear his pupils are dilated in a way that looks like mini hearts. “I love you too, more than you could imagine.”

“I’m sorry I don’t say it much.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll try harder.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” you insist, leaning into his hand that’s cupping your jaw now. “For you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye. “Okay.”

A beat passes. The scent of your shampoo lingers on both of you.

“..you know I love you, even if I don’t say it, right?”

Dark curls, watercolor eyes

tags; mer!au, slow burn, angst and fluff, mutual pining, purely self indulgent, i have cryptid batfam brainrot how can i not, was supposed to be one big long thing but got way longer than i originally thought so cut it into peices

When you were eight years old, you snuck out onto the docks. Young, curious and emboldened by warnings that felt more like fairy tales in your head full of flowers, the dark, murky waters of the harbor were not something to be feared.

You hid behind huge buckets full of water or fish to stay out of the adults’ sight. There were more people today than you’d ever seen come and go around here from the window of your apartment at the very edge of the city. They wore thick rubber overalls and connected boots that were smeared with a dark substance you assumed to be oil or the usual muck that clouded the water here.

A haggard-looking man shouted something from the oncoming boat, prompting most of the people here to rush towards him and providing a distraction for you to make it the rest of the way to the dock furthest from the city, right next to the giant pile of dirt and boulders dumped from ongoing construction around the area. Some of the planks were rotting and a bit unsteady, but all worries about safety were abandoned the moment you saw something move from the corner of your eye.

You kneel at the edge of the dock, peering down into the water below. It’s so black you can almost use it as a mirror, your own reflection peering back at you with the same curious expression. As you stare, your reflection slowly fades and morphs, turning into someone you don’t recognize. By the time you realize this isn’t your reflection at all, you’re flinching back from the water, a hand clutched to your cheek where tiny, sharp claws have caught you.

unfortunately, you’d gotten used to it ever since meeting your fiancé.

it’s his night off though, he’d promised you that much, and damian wayne is rarely a man that gies against his promises with you.

the cold bites at your skin as you pull yourself from silk sheets, leaving goosebumps in its wake. you grab a throw blanket from the lounge chair, draping it over yourself as you pad out into the hallway.

it’s easy to predict where he would be if he had stayed home like he’d said. you’re in front of his home office a moment later, the light seeping out from under the door clear indication that damian is inside.

he looks up from his desk when the door is pushed open, tired eyes softening upon landing on your blanket clad form. he’d already heard your footstep coming.

“beloved,” he says, the deep, silken timbre of his voice drawing you closer. “you should be in bed.”

you’re too tired to really say anything. you mumble something incoherent, just enough to express your displeasure at him not being in bed with you while not breaking your half-asleep state. you slip onto his lap like you belong there, his hand not gripping his pen automatically coming up to splay across your lower back.

he doesn’t try to send you back, all too content to have you with him. the scratching of his pen on paper and his hand moving soothingly along your skin lulling you to sleep soon enough. Your head rests on his shoulder, face hidden in the crook of his neck as your body slumps against him.

he listens as your breathing evens out, matching his own to the rhythm subconsciously. his thumb rubs circles on your back, vaguely wishing the blanket wrapped around you were gone so that he could slip his hand under your shirt, skin on skin.

he puts his pen down mid-sentence in favor of wrapping both arms around you, tilting his head to press his cheek against your hair. The scent of your shampoo fills his lungs as he’s stricken with the realization that you’re here and so painfully real.

he holds you tighter than he normally would, feeling your pulse beating beneath your skin. pulling away slightly, he leans you backward just enough for him to push your hair out of the way and press his mouth against the column of your throat, pressing kisses firmly where he can reach.

“younī, albī, ḥayātī…” he whispers each word against your skin like a promise or a vow, sacred text dedicated only to his own little deity.

abandoning his paperwork, he bundles you up in his arms, carrying you down the hall you came and back into the comfort of your shared room. you stir slightly as he lays you back down on the bed, carefully ridding you of your throw blanket, eyes cracking open to meet his. he lets you pull him down with you, settling next to you on the mattress and pulling the sheets up to cover you both.

he curls around you like a large cat, letting you bury your face in his chest as he tangles his legs with yours. he kisses the top of your head, letting himself linger there as he holds you against him.

“you have no idea what i’d do for you,” he’d said to you once, when he was younger, when things with you were still unfamiliar.

now, though, now he knows better.

you know exactly how far he’d go for you. the people he’d hurt, the cities he’d burn, all if you only asked.

yet you don’t ask. you don’t want the dark knight to wrought justice in your name, you don’t wish the demon’s head to make the world kneel at your feet, you don’t even ask him to cover you in jewels and luxuries only a wayne could afford. you only want him, for him to stay beside you, to love you, as if it’s a gift he’s given you and not a privilege you’ve granted him, one he holds more dearly than his own heart.

masterlist

Dick Grayson

but i love you so..ㅣhe left without saying goodbye. you think he’s done with you. he comes home two months later.

dark curls, watercolor eyesㅣmer! dick grayson

drabbles

love fool

vampire!auㅣcoming soon..

heteroerotic friendsㅣcoming soon…

talon!auㅣcoming soon..

Jason Todd

new best friend (met him at the bar)ㅣyou meet a stranger at the bar.

drabbles

loving him

flowers

werewolf! jason

Tim Drake

drabbles

comforting him (batsib!r)

Damian Wayne

drabbles

he loves his fiancée

duckweed

Bruce Wayne

Wally West

New best friend (met him at the bar)

tags; probably inaccurate depictions of drinking and drunkness, written while sleep deprived, no beta

It's 2 a.m. and you're sitting in some dingy bar in the bad side of town, hand covering your fifth? drink of the night.

It's a little hole in the wall no one really knows but always stumbles into whenever they need it. You’ve only been in here twice before. The bartender is an older woman with not much makeup save for a dark brownish rouge on her lips. She’s nice enough, though. She gave you a bowl of cheap candy after your third drink.

Your eyes fall on the man on the far side of the counter. He's almost impossible to miss, what with being one of the three other people there, but he's also massive, which doesn't really help him blend into the shadows of the corner he's sitting in. His hair's in need of a trim, a little shaggy in some parts and almost covering his eyes, but it's clean and fluffy in a way that makes you want to run your hand through it. He's in a hoodie that's a little oversized even for him. Prime estate for any partner.

You've been staring a little too long, though. Seemingly feeling your gaze, his eyes flick up, meeting yours through the white strands in the way. He looks tired. Not too tired to send a glare your way, though.

But he’s pretty, so you decide he’s interesting.

he looks like something straight out of greek mythology, something pygmalion would have crafted with rough hands and bright eyes for nights on end. scars from battle like ares, or maybe he's closer to hephaestus considering his past.

but time hasn't treated him well, he's been broken and put back together more times than he can count. there are bad days where he can barely feel the parts of him that had once been taken away only to be stitched back on, where he feels like he's missing arms or ribs or even his head, and he feels as if he'd be right at home between nike of samothrace and venus of milo.

those days, he forces himself through the dark, grimy streets, body on autopilot as he watches limbs that aren't his own fight and bruise and bleed.

but then he comes home to you and slowly, slowly he feels whole again.

your fingers gently tap his before tugging at them, digits intertwined as you raise his hand up to your lips. you're just so warm and suddenly he feels his hand again, that fuzzy feeling gently running up his arm like spring water. he's thinking that the way your fingers are laced together reminds him of the crochet pattern he'd been trying to learn last night when before he realizes it, his other hand is moving on its own, finding purchase on your cheek.

it can't be a pleasant feeling, he thinks. he knows for a fact his hands are rough and calloused, years of abuse caked onto them in the form of scratchy white spots and ugly scars. but before he can take it away, you lean into it, nuzzling his palm as if it brings you comfort.

he brings you comfort, he realizes.

he stands there for a while, both hands now cupping your face, careful not to hold on too tight. his thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, feather light on each eyelid, one even traces the slope of your nose. you're so soft, flesh easily giving way under his touch and he can't help but feel like an elephant who's been given a kitten to hold.

then finally, he arrives at your lips.

he traces your bottom lip first, one slow, gentle swipe, before giving some love to the top. without much thought, he places both his thumbs over your lips like he's seen people do for stage directions, feeling the little squish when he puts just the slightest bit of pressure. your eyes open narrowly and he finally cracks a smile at the sight of you all smushed.

you open your eyes wider and his smile softens, his gaze locking onto yours. he feels like he could drown in them, drown in you, and he'd die happy this time.

he doesn't realize either of you are moving until his eyes physically can't look at yours anymore due to the sheer distance and the angle, instead slipping closed as his lips meld onto yours. he can feel the warmth in his cheeks and each kiss feels like pure bliss, the contact grounds him so that he feels like his head's on straight again. he's sure you can hear his heartbeat - after all, it's practically thundering against his eardrums - and the rhythm it knocks into his ribcage feels so real that the bones there can't possibly be missing.

it wa curiosity at first. after he'd spent a while at the league and mellowed out, formed a proper plan besides simply burning wayne manor to the ground, he wondered what his grave would say. they'd told him there had been a funeral, after all. probably closed casket, with an altered death certificate saying he'd died in a car crash or something. not like bruce could face the truth if it beat him with a crowbar.

beloved son? a generic lie.

loving brother? much the same.

something bitter rises in his throat as his feet hit worn, damp stone. the streets aren't familiar anymore.. even crime alley has changed - there must've been a turf war or something, because those goons following him most definitely aren't black mask's usual pick. then again, maybe old roman's changed, too.

he sighs in frustration when he meets a dead end. gone for just how many years and they brick up an entire street? ridiculous. he hears the telltale sign of weapons being drawn behind him before he turns around with his own.

gone but not forgotten? they'd moved on fine without him. everyone had.

he stashes their bodies behind some dumpsters and moves quick. he's not in much of a mood for a fight right now. he isn't in a mood to do much of anything; there's a strange sense of melancholy in his chest.

he makes it the rest of the way to gotham's main cemetery without another incident. it's relatively easy to find his place there. thomas and martha wayne have a large tree next to their joint grave, and he just assumed he'd be somewhere near them. he's a little surprised to see his headstone right on their left. that spot used to be saved for bruce.

tentatively, he reads the inscription.

jason todd.

...

he shouldn't be surprised, really, what else did he expect? he wasn't in any of their lives for long, they barely knew him. he thought he knew them, he was wrong. they didn't care. the only thing they wanted to remember about him was his name, birth and death date, he doesn't doubt they would've had a blank headstone if they could, hell, maybe there wouldn't even have been a funeral if he hadn't existed in the public eye, he might as well have been buried in an unmarked, shallow grave next to that goddamn warehouse-

a drop of rain tears him out of his spiral.

...inhale...

...exhale.

maybe he'd hoped they cared.

that little boy who died that night deserved to have someone that cared.

...because that boy had cared so, so much.

come next morning, he's gotten himself a shitty apartment in crime alley and there's a small bouquet of flowers in his hand as he visits his grave for the second time. there's none already there, not even wilted ones. but as he crouches down to give himself what he believes to be the first flowers that boy has ever gotten, something in the grass glitters, catching his eye.

his first thought is a used needle, but as he looks a little closer, he realizes it's a little bracelet.

it's a little rusty and definitely made for a kid. the chain is cheap and a bit chunky. but the charm, a tiny, half heart meant to be a matching set to another bff bracelet, brings back a flood of memories.

he knew he'd forgotten a couple things when he'd come back. most of it was unimportant stuff. there's a jane austen book he doesn't recall reading? great, he gets to experience it for the first time again. his favorite color? well, he knows it's not green for sure, and that's really the only thing he needs to know. which floor his room was in the manor? he was never going to go back, anyway.

but how could he ever have forgotten you?

that tiny bracelet, tucked away from prying eyes and grubby hands in the taller grass near his headstone and meant for a boy he no longer was, said that someone had cared. enough to visit him. enough to leave something he would have wanted to take with him.

and maybe, just maybe, if he keeps coming back... he'll see you again one day.

so jason todd puts flowers on his own grave. every week, every day. same time, same place.

for that boy who had cared, and his friend who missed him.

and one day, a little while after his grand plan had gone to shit, there are flowers in his hand again. he doesn't get to place them on his grave, though. when he spots someone standing there - different clothes, different hair, but the same eyes that had been his first love all those years ago… it’s like seeing you for the first time all over again.

something shifts in his mind, clicks into place a way it hadn’t ever since his death. and it feels warm, it feels like coming home, if feels like your arms around him - mostly because they are. when he pulls away after a few minutes, trembling hands press cheap gas station flowers into your own.

Hasn’t been for a while.

It’s obvious to anyone, really. Anyone who knew him at all. His sleeping’s getting worse, avoiding it for a week straight then crashing for two days and starting the cycle all over again. He spends most of his waking hours down in the cave, having built a new lab on a level even more underground than Bruce's usual center of operations. It's hidden just around the corner, where no one can find him if they don't know where to look.

He's so confused, all the time. He's not eating, not sleeping, he'll look at the sandwich Bruce has put in front of him or whatever Alfred cooked up like he genuinely doesn't know what to do with it. He'll stop in the middle of whatever he's doing and stare at the wall or a screen for over an hour, this blank look on his face that's honestly a little terrifying for you because you always knew what he was thinking. Always. And now you just... can't, anymore.

The others don't know what he's trying to do. Not yet. You only found out because you'd heard a loud crash from the deepest part of the cave, going down to see what's going on only to find Tim haunched over broken glass and smashed machinery.

You’d thought he needed this back then. Tim solves problems, it’s what he does. He fixes things. He solves problems. He solves problems. He does. He swears he can solve this one. He has to. You’d thought he just needed to see this through. He would take the first couple fails and put things down, finally allow himself to mourn.

But then the first dozen attempts came and went.

Twenty.

Thirty, fifty, eighty-

What is it, something just shy of a hundred, now?

He's dead on his feet as he shuffles around, going over the same equation he's already tried to and thought he did solve tens upon dozens of times over, muttering to himself as he circles the 7-foot tall chamber full of murky green liquid from the only Lazarus pit in Gotham.

Another failed attempt might actually kill him.

“Tim.” A part of you blames yourself for letting things get this far. “You need to sleep.”

It takes a minute for your voice to register. “I can sleep when I'm dead.”

“Which is going to be very soon if you don't go to bed.”

“Great, so you'll get what you want either way.”

The things you're saying might as well be gibberish.

You bite the inside of your cheek. He's going to kill you for this. You know he will. But he's been slowly killing himself over the past few months, and you can't just sit around and watch him anymore. You never should have in the first place.

You walk over to the wall and unplug the computer.

A second ticks by.

He tackles you.

He might as well be feral with how he lunged at you. You narrowly avoid hitting your head on one of his machines on the way down, air ripped from your lungs as nothing breaks the fall. Your head hits the stone floor and there's a weird squelching sound from where your teeth had been gnawing on the inside of your cheek. You taste copper before the sting registers.

You don't stop him, though. He needs to get everything out of his system.

But then he's confused again. He sits there, one hand bunched up the front of your top and the other raised in a loose fist, ans he just.. stops. As if he's not even the same person who'd tackled you down here just a second ago. Your hands are on either side of you, not bothering to block any hit that might come your way.

He thinks. Or doesn't think. Everything feels wrong. His clothes are too clean. His hair is too greasy. The computer is shut off and that constant hum that has been poking and prodding at him brain for the last few months is suddenly quiet. He's on top of you. He shouldn't be on top of you. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Except maybe himself.

There's broken glass on the floor again, remnants of the world's best mom mug Dick had gotten for Bruce scattered all over the floor, pearly white amongst weirdly thick black liquid that can hardly be called coffee anymore. It reminds him of stars.

Stars.

Like the studs on Conner's leather jacket.

Like the one diamond earring he always wears.

Wore. Past tense.

The hand he has in the air trembles. There's water in his eyes and he can't breathe - he thinks he is drowning. It's cold. Too cold. His clothes are too clean. Why are they clean?

He flinches when you grab his wrist, slowly lowering his hand. The other is still tightly clutching the front of your shirt, fist sitting on the uppermost part of your sternum. His knuckles press down, hard, hard enough to bruise. He doesn't want to hurt you. He doesn't. He doesn't know why he's hurting you.

Make him stop.

Make it stop.

Make it stop—

He sobs when you finally manage to pull him down close enough to wrap your arms around him.

You haven't seen him actually cry since the day Conner died. He's lived on a self-sustained numbness until now. Maybe it was his mind protecting him. Because it knew he couldn't handle feeling all the things he secretly is.

“It was my fault,” he chokes out, struggling to breathe. He's drowning again. Don't let him drown. “I- I told him to keep fighting. I should have told him to go home.”

You don't say anything. He's not going to hear you like this. Instead you rub his back, taking deep breathes so that he can feel the slow rise and fall of your chest. His breathing slowly, very slowly, evens out, now matching yours with the occasional hiccup.

“It's not your fault,” you finally tell him. He probably doesn't want to hear it. It's all people have said to him regarding the incident since it happened. “You helped him save the world, that’s all. It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t say anything against it, but you know he doesn’t believe it. His heart doesn’t. His brain.. probably doesn’t, either. But he lets you hold him, and you try your best to let him process, hopefully start to realize that he wasn’t responsible for anything that happened.

Your arms are tight around him and your legs are falling asleep from the way he’s sitting on them, but that doesn’t matter.

“You saved everyone. Every person who wakes up and has someone to care about? They have you and Conner to thank.” A pause. “…you’re not helping Conner by trying to bring him back, Tim. Not like this. You’re killing what he gave his life to protect. It’s important you live. If only to make sure he didn’t die for nothing.”

thinking about the huge, fluffy, puppy of a werewolf that is jason todd.

now, to be clear; fully turned werewolves - not the half-and-half amalgamation they turn into during the full moon, but just fully wolf - are usually smaller as a canine than their human selves. most clock out at around the size of an eastern timber wolf, with the tallest ones reaching up to 6 feet in length.

but werewolf!jason was brought back from the brink of death using a supernatural puddle of water.

the same puddle that made him come back just a little bit.. unconventional.

werewolf!jason todd who, fully turned, measures in at a full 7 feet in length and then some.

werewolf!jason todd who is about the size of a huge timber wolf, somehow bigger than his human self.

his paws are big with almost owl-like sharp claws you sometimes trim when he just wants to cuddle and they get in the way. your hand doesn’t even cover half of the space between his ears when you pet him (something he not so begrudgingly enjoys after the first couple times). his fangs are almost as long as your fingers, and he has to be careful his tail doesn’t accidentally bludgeon you or any unsuspecting furniture when it inevitably starts to wag at the sight of you.

werewolf!jason todd who always stays inside during the full moon, because as much as gotham has an unusually high percentage of creatures living among the human population, the criminals don’t need to know that red hood is a werewolf. there are only so many in the city; it’s a potential clue about his identity that might lead to you being in danger.

werewolf!jason todd who initially absolutely refused to spend the full moon at home the first few months of you dating, not wanting to hurt you. yeah, he was sort of in control when he’s full dog. key words: sort of. he can’t take that risk.

werewolf!jason todd who, when you finally convince him he won’t hurt you and you trust him and you just wish he would stay home, caves. as he always does for you. after he gets a taste of what being around you fully turned is like, he never wants to miss the opportunity again.

werewolf!jason todd who goes crazy at your scent. especially when he’s turned. yeah, he loves your scent as a human, but the full moon maxes out his senses and suddenly he’s just so overwhelmed by the scent of you. not the perfume you wear or the shampoo in the bathroom of your shared apartment, just.. you. your natural scent. he nearly salivates as he insistently nudges at your throat with his nose, letting out a little whine when you laugh, complaining it tickles, and settles for resting his head on your chest instead.

(he hides your perfume for a while after turning back, wanting to catch your natural scent easier now that his senses are a little more dull.)

werewolf!jason todd who bites down very, very gently on your whole thigh when he gets a little too excited or overwhelmed. it does not matter how thick your thigh is, he is massive and his jaws will fit around your leg.

the first time it happened, it was an accident. he was growing restless, pacing a small parameter around you, body feeling like his skin was buzzing at every new sound and smell that he unfortunately picked up. and you were just sitting there. in shorts. thighs squished against the couch cushions.

slowly, he stalked over and sat on the ground in front of you. he rested his head on your lap like he often does and you thought that was the end of it. your hand was going to run through his fur when his head tilted, jaws slowly opening.

it was a small bite at first; his fangs scraped your skin so lightly it only tickled. then his mouth opened wider and before either of you knew it, your whole thigh had fit in his mouth.

jason, just as surprised as you, didn’t pull away. he can be soft mouthed, he always is when it comes to you. your flesh gives way just a slightest bit under his teeth and suddenly the sounds and colors and smells aren’t as bothersome anymore.

plus, he just really, really likes the feeling.

werewolf!jason todd who, after he gets comfortable around you when he’s fully turned, will act like a literal lap dog. is he not, in fact, tiny enough that putting his full weight on you won’t have actual consequences for your circulation? no, no he is not. does he care? absolutely the fuck no. he will crush you with all 260 pounds of fluff. resting his head on your lap when you’re on the couch? he never misses the chance. literally lying on top of you when you both turn in for the night? the moment he settles down you will have the air squeezed from your lungs, good luck. he’s not totally unreasonable though, he wants you to be comfortable, too. he will shift and turn until he finds an angle that’s just right for the both of you.

werewolf!jason todd who holds you so close after every full moon because turning hurts. it’s hard for you both because you’re in pain watching him in pain, unable to do anything about it.

werewolf!jason todd who will build you a whole nest when you’e feeling sick, letting you hoard all the soft blankets and pillows and hoodies while he makes soup by the pot full.

werewolf!jason todd who’s still bitey even when he’s human. he will still bite your thighs, even if he can’t fit them all anymore, your fingers, shoulders, collarbones… he allows himself just a little more force when he doesn’t have a whole mouth full of pointy fangs, loving the slight indent he leaves behind.

werewolf!jason todd who loves loves loves it when you mark him back in any way possible. and it’s really any way possible. bite marks, lipstick stains, scratches, everything, because as long as it comes from you, he knows it’s because you love him.