𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ between his heartbeats
˗ˏˋ Content ˎˊ˗ softness, domestic intimacy, Jason being gentle, back scratches
| navi. | dc mlist. |
The apartment is quiet in that late-night way—no traffic, no sirens, just the low hum of the city trying to sleep.
You’re curled up on the couch with one of Jason’s books resting open in your lap. It’s something thick and a little beat-up, the spine cracked like it’s been loved too hard. You’re not even sure you’re fully processing the words anymore. Mostly, you’re waiting.
The sound of the window sliding open makes you glance up.
Jason steps inside like he always does—careful, controlled, already scanning the room even though he knows you’re safe. The Red Hood comes off first, set gently on the counter like it’s fragile. Then the jacket, the gloves, the boots. Each piece of armor shed like he’s slowly remembering how to be human again.
“Hey,” he murmurs when he finally looks at you.
“Hey,” you smile back, softer.
His shoulders drop at the sight of you curled up on the couch. Like something in his chest finally unclenches.
He crosses the room, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head that smells faintly like rain and gun oil and him. You hum quietly, leaning into it, and that’s all it takes.
Jason sinks down beside you, tugging you gently into his chest. One arm wraps around you instinctively, pulling you closer until your side fits perfectly against his. Like you were made to go there.
“You steal my book again?” he asks, amused.
“You never finish them anyway.”
“Rude,” he scoffs—but he reaches for it anyway, carefully sliding it out of your hands. He adjusts until your head rests against his shoulder, your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his shirt.
He starts reading out loud, voice low and steady, the kind that settles deep in your bones. You barely register the words. Mostly, you focus on the way his chest rises beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing grounding you.
His other hand starts moving without him even thinking about it.
Slow. Gentle.
Fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your back. Up and down. Circles. The faint scratch of his nails just enough to make your skin buzz.
You melt.
Your grip on his shirt loosens. Your breaths get heavier. Slower.
Jason notices immediately.
He glances down, lowering his voice, adjusting the book so it doesn’t dig into you. His hand keeps moving, more deliberate now, like he’s guiding you into sleep.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
Your eyes flutter shut.
Jason stops reading altogether once he realizes you’re gone. He sets the book aside carefully, like it might wake you if it makes too much noise.
He doesn’t move after that.
Just stays there with you tucked into his arms, scratching your back in slow, steady motions—protective, patient. Like he’s guarding something precious.
Because he is.
He presses a soft kiss to your temple, resting his cheek against your hair.
Safe. Warm. Home.
And for once, Jason Todd lets himself stay still.
