#jasontodd

Jason: What like making him retire? Hang up the cowl? I don't know about you Baby Bird but I don't think any of us have the ability to take Batman from Bruce.

Tim: Please, I'm not an idiot. I just meant more of a...peaceful...mostly permanent letting go...

Jason: ...

Jason: EUTHANASIA????

Tim: Well-

Jason: YOU WANT TO OLD YELLER BRUCE??? HE'S ONLY IN HIS 40/50s!!

Dick: Who wants to do WHAT to Bruce???

Tim: Just listen-

Jason: I knew you were cynical, but that's just down right murder Timothy. And trust me, I know murder.

Tim: Well would you rather have him go suffering? At the rate he's going he'll be in chronic pain the older he gets! I'm just saying maybe we should let him go now before that happens!

Damian: Let him go on a good day rather than a bad day. I have seen many a equine owners say this. I agree with Drake, we should not let Father suffer, he deserves to go peacefully.

Jason: Damian wha-

Dick: What the hell Tim. I mean you have a point, but still isn't it a little early to think about this? He's still got a few years left in him.

Jason: WHY ARE YOU AGREEING???

Tim: It's never too early to look at our options. I'd rather be prepped and ready than do it all last minute and risk messing up the timing.

Jason: WE ARE TALKING ABOUT BRUCE! BRUCE WAYNE! BATMAN! OUR FATHER?!?!

Dick: Expenses shouldn't be an issue, but we should also decide if we should do it ourselves or have a professional. We can make a fund for it just in case.

Jason: I'm dead. I died again and this is hell. Why am I the only one on Bruce's side here.

Tim: I'll get it set up. I'll make sure he doesn't know about it, I don't want him dreading about it.

Damian: Yes, we should try and enjoy this fickle time we have left with him.

Jason: That's it, I've finally gone insane.

Jason Todd x Reader | Soulmate AU

The tattoo on your arm read:

"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"

Fourteen words.

You'd had them your whole life — neat dark letters wrapping the inside of your forearm, permanent and unhelpful, offering absolutely zero identifying information about the person who would one day say them to you. No name. No context. Just fourteen words that managed to be simultaneously a little rude and a little flirtatious and completely unreadable as to whether the person saying them would mean it as one or the other or somehow both.

Your mother had called it characterful.

Your best friend had called it concerning.

You'd made your peace with it. Whoever they were, they were apparently someone who said exactly what they thought, moved fast, and had a specific kind of humor that operated in the space between blunt and charming. You'd built a rough sketch of a person from fourteen words over twenty-something years and tried not to get too attached to the sketch.

You were a little attached to the sketch.

Gotham was not a city you'd chosen so much as landed in — job opportunity, affordable rent by the standards of someone who'd never been to Gotham and didn't yet understand what affordable rent in Gotham meant about a neighborhood — and you'd been here long enough now to have developed the particular Gotham-specific survival skill of simply continuing to walk when things happened around you.

Things happened a lot in Gotham.

Tonight's thing was a fight in the alley beside your building, which you heard before you saw — the specific sounds of impact, something hitting brick, a grunt — and you made the Gotham calculus instantly: not a mugging, wrong sounds for that, too much back-and-forth, and there were two distinct voices which meant—

You turned the corner anyway because you were, as your best friend had noted on multiple occasions, genuinely terrible at self-preservation.

The alley was a disaster. Three men were down in various configurations of unconscious, and a fourth was currently being held against the wall by a figure in a red helmet and a leather jacket, which — Red Hood, you'd seen enough Gotham news to recognize Red Hood — who was saying something in a low voice that had the quality of a thing you didn't want to hear the specifics of.

The fourth man made a decision. Bad one.

He had something in his hand — small, dark — and you did not think, you just reacted, the way you did when something bad was about to happen and your body moved before your brain caught up.

"Hey!" Loud, sharp, aimed at the man with the weapon.

It worked, which was a miracle. He startled. The Red Hood moved — fast, faster than anyone had a right to move — and the thing was handled in about two seconds, the man joining his colleagues on the alley floor.

Silence.

You became aware that you were standing at the entrance to an alley in Gotham at eleven at night having just yelled at a man with a gun. Your brain, now catching up, had several notes about this.

The Red Hood turned around.

The helmet was expressionless by design, which made it somehow more unnerving — no face to read, just the red visor, the broad shoulders, the leather jacket, the general impression of someone who was very large and very capable and currently looking directly at you.

"You gonna move," he asked sarcastically, and his voice was low and a little rough and had an edge of incredulous to it, "or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"

The alley went very quiet.

Your arm was burning.

Not painfully — not quite. More like warmth, sudden and specific, the feeling people described and that you'd read about and filed under things that won't happen to me because you were practical about these things, you'd gotten practical, and yet here it was, the warmth spreading up your forearm exactly where fourteen words had lived your whole life.

You looked down.

The letters were glowing. Faintly, gold-warm, the way they did when — when—

You looked up.

The helmet looked back at you.

"What," he said. Flat. But something had changed in his voice, the edge of incredulous gone, replaced by something more careful.

"Your — say that again." Your voice came out strange. "What you just said."

A long pause.

"Which part." Not quite a question.

"All of it."

He was very still. The kind of still that felt like a held breath, like something balanced on a very narrow edge. He looked at your arm — at the glow of it, faint and warm in the dim alley light — and then back at your face, and you couldn't see his expression, you couldn't see anything behind the helmet, but the stillness of him was communicating something anyway.

"Huh," he said finally. Very quiet. Almost to himself.

"Yeah."

Another pause. Longer.

"You just yelled at a guy with a gun," he stated with a breathy laugh.

"I noticed that, yes."

"In a Gotham alley. At eleven at night."

"Also yes."

"That's—" He stopped. You got the impression he was doing something with his face behind the helmet that he was grateful you couldn't see. "That's insane. That's genuinely insane."

"I have been told," you said, "that I'm bad at self-preservation."

"Clearly." But the rough edge of his voice had shifted into something that wasn't quite dry and wasn't quite warm and was somehow both. "You live around here?"

"That building." You pointed. "Third floor."

He looked at the building. Then back at you. "Of course you do," he said, mostly to himself.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've been running this block for eight months and my soulmate lives on the third floor and apparently nearly got shot tonight because she—" He stopped. Seemed to realize how much he was saying. "Nothing. Forget it."

Your heart was doing something unreasonable.

"You've been running this block for eight months," you said carefully.

"I patrol. It's a thing I do. It's not—" He made a gesture. "It's work."

"And you never—"

"I never stopped anyone on the street and asked them to look at my arm, no." Flat. "I'm not — I don't do that. I didn't think—" Another stop. The careful stillness again. "I have fourteen words on my arm that are very loud and extremely unhelpful and I wasn't exactly optimistic about the context they implied."

Fourteen words.

You looked at him. At the helmet, the jacket, the alley around you with its unconscious occupants, the Gotham night in all its grim and complicated glory.

"Can I see?" you asked.

A long moment.

He pushed the jacket sleeve up slowly, the leather sliding back to reveal the inside of a forearm — and the tattoo there, dark letters, words you knew because you'd said them, or would say them, or had just said them approximately forty seconds ago in a Gotham alley at eleven at night.

Your words. On his arm. His whole life.

The matching warmth was there too, faint gold, the same glow as yours.

You pulled your own sleeve up without being asked.

He looked at your arm for a long time.

"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty," he read aloud. Quiet. Like he was checking the weight of each word. "That's what I said."

"That's what you said."

"I almost said something else." He sounded slightly stunned. "I almost said — something about moving, but different, and I changed it last second."

"What would have happened if you hadn't?"

"I don't know." He looked up from your arm to your face. "I don't want to know."

You thought about eight months. Him running your block for eight months, and you in your third floor apartment, and the specific arithmetic of almost — how close and how long and how many times you might have walked past each other in the ordinary way of a city that never made anything easy.

"I'm—" You started. "My name is—"

"I know," he interrupted, Then, registering your expression: "I told you. I run this block. I know the neighborhood. I don't — it's not weird, it's just—"

"It's a little weird."

"It's a little weird," he admitted shyly.

A pause. Below you one of the unconscious men made a noise and did not wake up.

"You could tell me yours," you asked, "Since we're doing this."

The stillness again. Long enough that you t1hought he might not — that this was the wall, the place where it stopped, where the helmet stayed on and the name stayed private and you went upstairs to your third floor apartment with a glowing arm and a story you wouldn't know how to tell.

"Jason," he offered slowly.

Just that. Careful and quiet, like something he didn't take out often.

"Jason," you echoed back. Checking the weight of it. It was a good weight.

He was looking at your face again with that quality of attention that felt like inventory, like accounting. Like someone who'd stopped letting himself expect something finding it anyway and not quite knowing what to do with his hands about it.

"You should go inside," he stated seriously, "It's late and this block is — just go inside."

"Are you going to keep running the block?"

"That's generally how it works, yeah."

"Okay." You pulled your sleeve back down. The warmth was fading to something quieter, settled, permanent in a new way. "I make coffee in the morning. Third floor, the window with the bad curtains. If you're ever — if you wanted to—"

"Bad curtains."

"Genuinely terrible. I've been meaning to replace them."

"I'll find it," Jason assured you with a laugh. And the rough voice had gone fully warm now, all the edge of it soft, the way something sounds when a person has given up managing it. "Go to sleep."

You went inside.

You stood in your kitchen for a while, jacket still on, looking at your forearm where fourteen words had lived your whole life and were now quiet, settled, finally exactly what they'd always been waiting to be.

In the morning you made coffee and opened the window with the bad curtains.

notes: they just miss you, okay? give ‘em a break!!! i also wanted to write Tim but I’m on my periods and got so lazy sorry guys^^

Bruce Wayne

Bruce is sitting in another Wayne Enterprises meeting, half listening to whatever the clients are saying, half repeating your words in his head.

you have refused to contact him after the last fight you two had. it has been five days—and yes, he’s been counting. every day, every minute, every second he has to face this torturous no contact phase. why won’t you just yell at him instead?

Bruce has tried distracting himself with bat business and new cases. he even tried meeting up with clients and attended three stupid meetings exactly like this one. yet, you’re always in the back of his mind.

you said he wasn’t allowed to call you unless you called first. that you needed space. that he never admitted his faults and you were getting tired.

that threw him off a lot more than he cared to admit. and although he respects your privacy, space and rules, his patience is running thin.

Bruce half-heartedly nods at whatever the man is saying when his phone vibrates. it’s embarrassing how fast he picks it up and what’s even more embarrassing is the way his chest tightens when he spots your name on the screen, a photo of you hugging a golden retriever and practically beaming stares back at him.

he’s getting up before he even realises it, leaving the meeting and ignoring every protest.

“hello? baby?” Bruce speaks as soon as he’s halfway to the door.

“hi,” your voice is small and tired, like you missed him as much as he missed you. “hope you aren’t busy—“

“not at all, angel,” Bruce cuts you off, shaking his head at no one. “can we talk? please?”

there’s a moment of silence from your side, making him swallow uneasily, “yeah. i’d like that.”

and just like that, Bruce feels better than he’s felt in the last five days. he smiles, already walking out of the building. “good. pick you up in ten.”

Dick Grayson

Dick is out with Wally at some shitty diner in Bludhaven, trying not to sulk as he dips his fries in ketchup and takes a bite. it was Wally’s idea. he thought it would be good for Dick to get out after he’d been holed up in your shared apartment ever since you two had a fight and you left. Wally had also been tired of listening to Dick rant about the same thing over and over but he doesn’t need to say that. he can just be a good, supportive friend right now. besides the food seems to shut up his best friend for at least ten minutes.

“i just don’t get it!” or so he thought.

Wally sighs, “i dunno man. she’ll call you back. you—“

“yeah. she always does.” Dick cuts him off, taking a sip of his drink, shrugging like he’s unbothered by the whole situation and hasn’t been checking his phone every five seconds.

“and when she does. don’t just pick up at once,” Wally suggests, leaning in, face serious. “let it marinate, y’know? let her see she can’t just get away with it.”

Dick nods, “oh yeah. no way. i am not picking it up, man.”

a minute later, Dick’s phone rings and it’s next to his ear before Wally can even blink. and he’s one of the fastest men alive.

“hello? babe?”

“damn.” Wally can’t help but shake his head, taking a huge bite of his burger.

Dick doesn’t seem to care, ignoring him as he shifts slightly so he doesn’t have to deal with the disappointed look on his best friend’s face. “yeah? yes! baby, I’m sorry. it was all my fault— wait—you’re coming back?! you are!?”

Wally just blinks and Dick smiles like a man who just won the lottery. “no, no, no. i’ll pick you up. i’ll be there. don’t you worry, sweet cheeks.”

Dick puts the phone down, getting up already. “We’ll have to cut this short—“

Wally scoffs, waving his hands dramatically, “dude!? seriously?”

Dick flashes him a grin, “you’ll understand when you’re in love too, my man.”

and with that, he’s sprinting down the road like everything is right in the world because you’re talking to him again. and yeah, that’s exactly how he it is for him.

Jason Todd

the apartment is empty. you left after yet another fight. it was jason’s fault, it always is. and even if it wasn’t—he should’ve stopped you. but no—his stupid pride got in the way.

you told him there would be no contact. he thought you were just angry. but now that it’s been a week of radio silence from you, he’s beginning to realise you meant that.

you told him you were getting tired of his antics and excuses. you asked him to spend more time around. to be there. to make you feel like you were more than just a place holder. and he’d snapped like you asked the world of him.

he couldn’t even blame you for leaving and asking for space. he deserved it. but that didn’t stop him from missing you. and that definitely didn’t stop him from calling your phone fifteen times before he realised you actually are ignoring him.

and yeah, he kinda deserves that too.

but why do you need space? why not fight it out instead??why leave him all alone and miserable???

Jason had rather have you angry and mean than not have you at all.

he’s laying on the couch now, phone face up on the coffee table in a quiet hope that you’d call him up. there’s something sad playing from the tiny bluetooth device you got him.

Jason might act all tough and strong but at the end of the day, he‘s just lying in his living room, listening to sad breakup music like some angsty teenager because his girlfriend established no contact.

he’s just about to pick up the phone and start looking through your pictures to hone the ache in his chest when it rings.

and he jumps. practically jumps into a sitting position and picks it up, palm going to his chest because of how loud his heart is beating.

god, he really, really hopes you aren’t going to break up with him.

“Jason?” your voice is like honey and velvet to his ears, going straight to his heart.

“hello? yeah?” Jason would like to cry and beg for you to come back and let him make it up to you but he holds back. for now.

there’s some shuffling at your end before you sigh. “i miss you.”

Jason breathes like the air didn’t quite make it to his lungs until now. “yeah? god, babe, i miss you too. so much. please come back. we can talk it out. i’ll fix it.”

“yeah, I’m coming back.” you admit, and Jason smiles, relief flooding him.

“yes. yes, please—no, wait, I’m picking you up. I’ll be there. okay? don’t—don’t worry. I’ll be there in five.”

he’s already putting on shoes by the time you hang up. and quietly promising himself to never let you leave ever again. he probably won’t survive losing you.

Batfam! P Links

This is my first time doing something like this, so feedback is super appreciated. Also!! Gotta be logged into twitter (X) for these to work.

Bruce Wayne

- He just can't resist you when you come to visit the office<3

- The bathroom of a charity gala that neither of you were particularly interested in

- What you send him after he paid to get your nails done while he was away on a business trip

-A private beach that he bought out when he finally retired

- You're still getting used to how big he is

- He tries to be gentle, but his cock is just so huge that it's a pleasant, painful every time regardless of how much he preps you

- How's he supposed to focus at work when you send him those slutty little pictures in your new lingerie?

Jason Todd

- Something about this just screams Jason vibes to me. Maybe softdom? Maybe showing off his strength/muscles?

- LOVES when you guys get noise complaints just from the actions alone, nevermind the moans

- He sent this just to mess around with you while he was in the gym changing rooms

- Yes, you two have tried this. Yes, the gun was unloaded. Yes, he still made sure it has safety on. Yes, you clogged up his favorite pistol with your cum.

- This is kinda how I thought of Virgin! Jason Todd eating you out

- More gun play with Jason but in his only nice car

Richard Grayson

- Helping him clean off in the shower after a particularly long patrol

- A little tease while he's in a motel on a mission

- He absolutely worships you like the goddess you are

- Your poor baby makes a mess of himself after not being able to cum for a few weeks while on a mission

- Making you do everything yourself because you got bratty with him about having to cockwarm

- Trying his best to take it slow once he finally gets his hands on you coming home from that stupid mission

february 13th. the day before valentines, yet jason had still not asked you to be his valentine. it seemed like he had forgot.

the same man who opens every door for you and carries you when your feet hurt.

when he would ask what was wrong, you’d just say nothing. how could you say “im sad that you haven’t asked to be my valentine,” when he’s literally your boyfriend.

the dreaded day finally rolls around. february 14th.

you sit on the couch in your apartment, staring at the wall, thinking. you hear a single chime from your doorbell. a person at your door when you’re sulking. perfect.

you’re about to tell the person to go away, but when you fully open the door, your expression immediately changes.

jason is standing there, a nervous smile painted on his face and blush down his neck.

he’s holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers with baby’s breath scattered throughout. it’s wrapped with a neat pink bow. in his other hand, he’s holding your favorite candy and a letter.

“happy valentine’s day, sweetheart.” he says almost shyly, holding out the bouquet to you.

“i thought you forgot!” you hug him tightly. he mostly hugs you back, thought it’s a bit difficult with everything in his hands.

“you’re gonna crush your flowers,” he chuckles and looks down at your smiling face.

“i thought you forgot.” you repeat, only this time your face is smushed into his chest.

“of course not, i just wanted to surprise you.”

you back away from the hug, just enough to take the bouquet and other items.

Robins