Jason had spent the morning in the water, showing off with lazy laps and dramatic dives, then stretched out on a lounge chair like he owned the beach. You’d been reading under an umbrella, occasionally glancing over to admire the way the sun glinted off his wet skin and the white streak in his hair. He looked good — too good. Broad shoulders, toned arms, that dangerous edge even in swim trunks.

But by the time you suggested lunch, his shoulders were already turning pink. By mid-afternoon, they were bright red. By the time the sun started to dip, he looked like a boiled lobster.

“Jason,” you said, trying not to laugh as you poked his shoulder gently. He hissed, jerking away. “You’re burned. Badly.”

He grunted, sitting up with a wince. “It’s fine. Just a little sun. I’ve had worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your back looks like a stop sign. Come on. Let’s get you inside before you peel like a snake.”

He grumbled the whole way back to the villa, but he let you steer him. Inside, the air conditioning was a blessing. You guided him to the bedroom, making him lie face-down on the bed while you rummaged through the bathroom for aloe vera.

When you came back, he was already complaining. “This is stupid. I don’t need babying. I’ve survived worse than a sunburn.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing a generous amount of aloe onto your hands. “You’re right. You’re a big, tough Red Hood. But right now, you’re my big, tough, very red boyfriend, and I’m going to take care of you. So shut up and let me.”

He huffed but didn’t argue when your cool hands touched his back. The second the aloe hit his burned skin, he hissed, muscles tensing.

“Cold,” he muttered.

“Necessary,” you replied, spreading it gently across his shoulders. “You’re going to peel so bad tomorrow. I’m going to have to wrap you in gauze like a mummy.”

He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “This is humiliating. The Red Hood, taken down by sunscreen.”

You laughed softly, working the gel down his back in slow, careful strokes. “It’s kind of cute, actually. Big bad Jason Todd, forgetting the basics. Makes me feel useful.”

He peeked at you over his shoulder, one green eye narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” You leaned down, kissing the unburned part of his neck. “But I also hate seeing you in pain. So let me fix it.”

He sighed, relaxing under your hands. “Fine. But only because it’s you.”

You spent the next twenty minutes massaging the aloe into every burned inch — his back, shoulders, the back of his neck, even the tops of his ears. He made the most pathetic little sounds when you hit a particularly sensitive spot, half-grumble, half-whimper, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

When you finally finished, you wiped your hands and crawled onto the bed beside him, pulling him carefully into your arms. He curled against you immediately, head on your chest, one arm slung over your waist like he needed the contact.

“You’re going to be miserable tomorrow,” you said, stroking his hair.

“Worth it,” he muttered. “Got to see you in that bikini all day.”

You laughed, kissing the top of his head. “Flatterer. Even burned to a crisp, you’re still thinking about my bikini.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice already sleepy. “You look good in everything. Even when you’re laughing at my pain.”

You stayed like that for a while, holding him gently, listening to his breathing even out. The sunburn was going to be hell tomorrow — peeling, itching, the works — but right now, he was soft and warm and yours.

The next morning was exactly as predicted.

Jason woke up groaning, rolling over with a wince as the sheets brushed his burned skin. “Fuck. This is worse than getting shot.”

You were already up, mixing a concoction of aloe, cooling lotion, and a little bit of your fancy face cream. “Come here, drama king. Let me fix you.”

He grumbled but let you help him sit up, shirtless and flushed. The burn was angry red across his shoulders, back, and the bridge of his nose. You worked the lotion in carefully, smiling when he made those little hissing sounds.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.

“I’m enjoying taking care of you,” you corrected, kissing his shoulder. “Even when you’re a big baby about it.”

He huffed but leaned into your touch. “I’m not a baby. I’m a grown man who forgot sunscreen. There’s a difference.”

You laughed, moving to his chest. “Sure. A grown man who whimpers when I touch his sunburn.”

He glared, but there was no heat in it. “Keep that up and I’ll show you how grown I can be.”

You raised an eyebrow, fingers trailing lower. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He caught your hand, pulling you into his lap despite the wince. “Both. But not until I’m not on fire.”

You kissed him softly, careful of his burned nose. “Deal. But I’m still babying you today. No arguments.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours. “Fine. But only because it’s you.”

The rest of the day was spent in full caretaker mode.

You made him stay in bed with the AC blasting, brought him cold water with lemon, and slathered him in more aloe every few hours. He complained the whole time — “This is ridiculous,” “I’m not completely useless,” “Stop laughing at me” — but he let you do it. Every time you kissed his forehead or stroked his hair, he’d soften, pulling you closer despite the burn.

By evening, he was a little less grumpy. You’d gone into the town and bought his favourite food, set up a movie on the laptop, and were carefully applying lotion to his back again when he caught your hand.

“You don’t have to do all this,” he said quietly. “I’m a big boy. I can handle a sunburn.”

You smiled, kissing his shoulder. “I know. But I want to. You take care of me all the time. Let me take care of you for once.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled you into his lap, careful of his back, and buried his face in your neck.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you’re babying me like I’m five.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you too. My big, strong, sunburned boyfriend.”

He held you tighter, the TV flickering in the background. The vacation wasn’t perfect — he was going to peel for days — but it was theirs. And in the quiet moments, with Jason’s arms around you and his grumpy complaints turning into soft sighs, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Jason Todd might be the Red Hood.

But on this beach vacation, he was just your boyfriend — sunburned, stubborn, and completely loved.

And you? You were happy to be taking care of him, the way he takes care of you.

a/n: this was so freaking cute to write I’m so freaking AAAA. I can’t find AC, sorry ☹️

You laugh. "Oh?" You lift your goblet to your lips. "I thought the southern kingdom had finally learned not to send their troublesome sons my way."

Some of the ladies laugh behind their hands. And you can feel Bruce's unease in every shift of his feet. 

"Troublesome?" another lady chimes in as she leans closer. "That is not what I've heard…they say he's charming, handsome too."

You roll your eyes. "They are entitled men," you say. "Besides, a prince arriving unannounced means one of two things," you add, taking another sip of wine. 

Your eyes flicker to Bruce. His cold eyes say he's entirely uninterested in your words, but the way his shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, makes you think this is affecting him more than he's letting on.

You smother your giddy smile. 

"Well?" a lady asks. "What does it mean?"

Your eyes leave Bruce and settle on her instead. "Oh." You pause for a second, letting silence build. "It means war… or marriage," you finish dramatically. 

Bruce clears his throat. "It is the princesses…strolling time, is it not?" His voice is deep with an edge to it that no prince can ever steal your heart with. 

You raise a brow at him. "Strolling time?" you mouth to him.

He nods. "The gardens await," he says simply, less a reminder and more a demand. If it were anyone else, you'd have ignored them.

"Do they?" you draw out. "How fortunate that you remembered."

"It is my duty to remember such things, your highness."

Liar. His only duty is to serve you. 

The ladies exchange knowing looks. You bid them goodbye and stand, dusting off your dress. As you walk, your knight's heavy footsteps follow close behind. 

Instead of the gardens, you lead him into your chambers. Once you close the door, you lean against it with a teasing smile on your lips. 

Bruce stiffens like he's preparing for battle. 

"What will you do once I am wedded?" you ask. "Hmm?" 

"I will serve you, your highness," he mutters.

"There are many ways to serve a lady—

"Princess," he grits out. His composure is failing. Every word of yours is tearing it down and leaving him looking at you so desperately—you almost don't recognize him. 

"What?" you pout. "You were jealous at the thought of another man serving me—

You falter when you see him move. He crowds you until your back hits the wall. His hands go down to your hips, large and warm. You cursed the fabric of your clothes, keeping you from feeling his hands on your bare skin. 

You look up at him with wide eyes. You're the one who always makes the first move, not him. 

He leans down till his breath fans your neck. Your heart's racing and you feel as if your knees will give out at any moment.

"Your word is absolute," he mumbles. "If you want me. You have me," he says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. 

You swallow. "I care little for spoiled princes."

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. 

"I find I have a fondness for knights," you add, your arms sliding around his neck. The cold press of his armour bites into your skin but you don't pull back. 

Instead, you let him lean down and press his lips to yours, sealing a much more important vow. 

if u see grammar mistakes in this. no you don’t 😋

Two and a half years ago, your very first novel was written. It was a romance, but it was the swirling, gentle kind that didn’t involve an abusive biker mafia boss. You pulled the good parts of yourself out and put them in the main character. You made something that was beautiful. You didn’t mind that it wasn’t exactly a smash hit. You weren’t getting billions of sales, but the people who did read it loved it. And your publishers wanted more from you. You wanted more from you. Your days had hit a lull, though. Your keyboard seemed to twist into something untouchable. Like it grew ten feet tall and glared down at you. You couldn’t even start to climb it and reach the first letter. Much less write something enjoyable. 

 You tried to find inspiration out of your house. You’d sit in the park and watch all the couples and eavesdrop on conversations. You’d take walks down the street, looking at advertisements and regular day-to-day people. You searched for inspiration in your own reading. You looked for it in museums and art. Nothing came to you. It was all boring. 

 You hoped maybe you needed a scenery change. So you packed up your laptop and headed down to a cafe. You settled into the corner, peeling open your laptop. You stared at the blinking cursor as the barista prepared your drink. You hovered your hands over the keys, focusing on the feeling of the cafe. 

 The warmth of the coffee shop prickled at his skin. 

Prickled? Cold prickles. Not warmth. That makes no sense. Is this your first day writing holy-You eyes shot up at the sound of your name being called. You stood from your table, leaving your laptop behind. You pulled your coffee from the counter, turning back around to head towards your seat. Only your eyes caught on the cover of your book. You paused. 

A big, hulking man was hunched over a small table. His back was to the window, the sun framing his large shoulders. At the part of his hair was a small patch of white. His face was scarred, but the pale lines didn’t cut through his beauty. It seemed almost like his face was carved with the scars in mind. They fit his face and made him look…

What’s that word? Reminds you of aubergine. Almost stunning. Not amazing, that’s too childish. Oh, what is that word? 

He lifted his eyes, meeting yours. He curved an eyebrow. You felt doom crawling up your back and digging into your shoulders. You were being a creep and staring. Either you silently move away, pack yourself up and leave, or you start a conversation. You took a step closer. 

“Enjoying the book?” You asked, glancing down at the page he was on. He looked about halfway through it. Your lips quirked at the sight of pen and highlighter covering the page. He was annotating your writing. The man glanced down at his book. He let out an awkward laugh, the points of his canines flashing. Hot. 

“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Have you read it?” He asked, pulling his eyes back to you. You stared at the cover. What have you gotten yourself into? You technically have. 

“Oh yes, a year or two ago.” You stated, feeling your face start to burn. His brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side. 

“I thought it came out this year.” He questioned. His hands started flipping through the pages to find the publication date. You jumped. 

“Oh! Um- I got it early from one of those Goodreads giveaways. They give a couple people the books before the publication.” You covered. You were digging a hole and digging it fast. The opportunity to hear someone’s real thoughts was pushing you ahead. Especially because he was hot. His hands stopped flipping through the pages, returning to his last page. He nodded. 

“That’s pretty cool.” He stated. He sounded genuinely impressed. 

“It was signed too.” You added. Which was true. You had fucked your signature up so bad you couldn’t imagine anyone but you having it. The man looked up, his face twisting into a cringe. 

“Doesn’t mean as much when it’s an unknown, does it? That would be cool if it was like-” He paused, tilting his head up to think. “Jane Austen or something.” He finished. You tried to ignore the twinge of pain that hit your stomach with the word ‘Unknown’. 

“Well, that would be very impressive; they’d have to bring her back from the dead.” You chuckled. He grinned at you, letting out a small laugh. 

“That’s a bad example.” He mumbled, pulling his bookmark from the table. He pressed it between the pages, closing his book. He turned all his attention to you. You felt your chest warm; this stranger was giving such a sign of devotion. To put your book away for a stranger? Obscene. He might as well have stripped down in front of you. 

“What’s your favorite part?” You asked, drawing his attention back to your book. He thought quietly, wringing his hands on top of the table. He hummed. He turned his head from you, staring out the window in thought. You bounced on the balls of your feet. Jeez, your writing was so awful he couldn’t think of a single good part. His eyes snapped back to you. 

“The letters. They’re incredibly moving and very clearly show their devotion,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear over the chatter of the cafe. You nodded. That was your favorite part too. 

“People don’t write love letters anymore.” You wistfully said. You truly missed love letters. You hadn’t gotten one, but you wished they were a part of society again. The man nodded. 

“They really don’t.” He mumbled. You pointed to the book again. 

“What’s your least favorite part?” You asked. You really wanted to know. You could use his input on your second novel. 

“The main character.” He didn’t have to think for a second this time. You were starting to regret this conversation. He had to think so hard to find his favorite, but he didn’t have to consider anything to find his least favorite. 

“Too annoying?” You asked. Yes, well, you were considered annoying sometimes, so clearly the character based on you must be too.  He furrowed his brows, glaring at you. 

“Not in the slightest. The issue I have is that they’re too perfect. There are no flaws. Real people aren’t like that. I understand it’s fiction, but it’s disappointing. It’s such a beautiful book that kind of falls flat because the main character is kind of two-dimensional. The book has this stunning message of unconditional love. It falls apart because it’s easy to love someone perfect. Real people aren’t like that. They’re horrifically flawed. They’re assholes sometimes; they blow up; they have things wrong with them. This character is like if the author made someone fall in love with a robot.'

'I can tell they’re capable of writing people with flaws because the love interest does. They just didn’t use that skill on the main character. But I guess I’m thinking about it too hard.” He rambled, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. Your eyes dipped to his arms, following over the dipping and rising ocean waves of muscle. You sucked in a breath, looking back to his eyes. He’s right, of course he is. You didn’t give them any flaws. You worried that if you added the shitty parts of yourself, every reader would hate them. Your character was perfect, and that’s how you wanted to publish them. A simple character had to be better than an unintentionally hated one. 

“You’re right. The main character is a little two-dimensional. You’d be great in a book club.” You said, pulling your coffee to your mouth. You stared at him over the rim of your drink. He watched you from the corner of his eyes. 

“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled. He dropped his eyes to his lap, almost like he was flustered. You stared at his hair, zeroing in on the white streaks. At first, you thought it was bleached, a very good bleach job. But he didn’t have any black roots. So, unless he bleached it last night, it was natural. 

“Do you have vitiligo?” You asked, your eyes still examining his scalp. He lifted his head, making you meet his eyes. 

“What?” You lifted your hand, gesturing toward your head. 

“Your hair. Vitiligo sometimes causes white streaks in hair. It looks natural; you don’t have any roots.” You furthered, dropping your hand from your head. He scoffed at his lap. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He grumbled. You hummed. Weirdo. A hot weirdo. You gasped as the word came back to you. You snapped your fingers. 

“Alluring. That’s the word I was looking for.” You muttered. The man stared at you as you started to mutter about amazing aubergines. You slipped away from his table, dropping back into your seat across the shop. You set your coffee down. 

An alluring man with hunched shoulders sat in a coffee shop with a well-loved paperback book twisted in his hands. 

That’s almost something. It's a good opener, maybe. He’s hot; that's made clear. The book has been read before, and he twists his books around. He’s hunched; he’s a little shy. You have something. You glanced over the edge of your laptop to find the man staring at you. His mouth was parted like you just called him a bitch. You tilted your head to the side, asking him a silent question. He pressed his mouth together, patting his hands against the table. 

He’s been playing eye tag with the only other person in the shop engrossed in a novel for the past thirty minutes. 

The man stands from his seat, taking his book with him. He advances on your table, sitting across from you. 

“You left.” 

“You’d make a great detective.” You mumbled, dropping your eyes back to the screen. 

He liked to bend books to his whim. He got to lay claim to an entire universe and twist and pull it however he liked. Which was how his universe had treated him. Its twists and yanks left trailing scars across his skin. 

“My name is Jason,” Jason mumbled. You lifted your eyes, tracing over his face again. 

His cutting green eyes trailed across the pages. 

You hummed in response. He frowned at you, pinching his lips together. 

“What’s yours?” Jason pressed. You pressed your laptop screen down, breaking down the wall between the two of you. You leaned forward. You pointed your finger at your name sprawled across the cover of his book. Jason looked down at your hand, his eyes widening. He looked back up at you. 

“You’re joking,” Jason stated. All the humor in his voice was gone; he was begging you to say yes- you were joking. You pulled the book from his hands, flipping to the back cover. You held the small black and white picture of you next to your face. Jason groaned, dropping his face into his hands. 

“This is embarrassing.” He mumbled to himself. You hummed, closing your book again. You slid it across the table. 

“It’s okay.” You tried. Jason shook his head in his hands. 

“No. I totally insulted your writing to your face.” Jason grumbled. He pressed his hands into his face, completely mortified. You sighed. 

“You were right. I didn’t give the main character flaws. You gave me good analysis. I appreciate it, seriously, Jason.” You reached out, gently pulling on his wrist to reveal his face again. He gave you an embarrassed look, hiding his lips inside of his mouth.  

“I can’t believe I did that.” He whispered, staring at the cover of his book again. You smiled at him, watching him carefully. You were incredibly grateful he was reading his book in this coffee shop. 

“I’m glad. I think I beat my writer’s block.” You almost giggled. Jason huffed. 

“I’m mortified. I don’t think I’m living this down.” Jason muttered. You rolled your eyes. 

“Let me make it up to you. We could maybe get dinner.” You ventured. Please say yes. Say yes. You could spend only one evening with him and still write a whole book. Clearly something about him was pushing all the buttons you needed to be inspired. He was hot and smart. That’s not a frequent combo. Jason lifted his eyes, his eyebrows shooting up. He nodded quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason stumbled out. You hummed. You moved to pull your phone out. The bell above the cafe door rang; another incredibly muscular man stepped through the door. His face was solid as his eyes swept over the people. His eyes landed on Jason, his face lighting up. He lifted his hand, waving back and forth. 

“Jay!” He shouted, making the quiet cafe-goers grumble. Jason clammed up, his shoulders tightening. 

“Oh, my god.” He mumbled. Jason pressed one of his pens into the cover of his book, sliding it towards you. 

“I have to go.” He said. You hummed, peeling open the front cover of his book. You scribbled your signature on the cover and left him your number. You slid it back to him. Jason snatched it up, making quick work of the cafe. He herded the loud man out of the cafe. You could see them arguing through the window. You grinned at the sight of Jason pressing the book to his chest.