fawnindawn

[fawnindawn]

gasped and gasped. so so good

Just Like Him

Summary: When you argue with Jason, you slowly start seeing less of Jason Todd and more of Bruce Wayne. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: I legit came back home from a night out and sat here editing this till 3am cause I refused to miss a post haha. A little bit shorter due to that and I'll do a second look over it later. Only warning for this is mentions of violence as usual for most of these, and that it hasn't been as edited cleanly as usual. Tomorrow's post might be really delayed too since I've got events tomorrow too. Anyways, enjoy my Lovelies~! xx

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You had loved Jason. You did love Jason.

You loved the boy who was too awkward to hold your hand when you went out in public, who left you notes at your door when he was too frustrated and too pent up to explain himself properly. You loved his habits, his quirks, the way that he cooked you food if he knew he was going to be out for a few days, silently leaving it in the fridge in the hopes you’d keep yourself healthy.

You also loved the dark sides of him, the nightmares he woke up to, skin sticky with sweat. You loved him even when his eyes were lost in the darkness, unable to tell who you were exactly but still seeking the comfort of your arms to shield him. You loved him even when he tensed outside in public, a sound, a smell, setting him off and making him clench onto your hand. His eyes were scared, but you didn’t mind bringing him back into reality, letting him know that you were here for him. 

Yet on nights like these, you love for him faltered slightly. These were the nights that you couldn’t temper, the ones here he burned angrily and bit hard. He was currently pacing the kitchen, hands in his hair after a rough patrol. 

“You just don’t understand.” He murmured over and over. “Maybe you just don’t get it. Maybe you just never will. How could you even try to?” 

That hurt you, the way he talked like you weren’t even there. Like you weren’t in tears on the other side of the kitchen island. Like you hadn’t been having this argument for an hour how, sunset drinking its way into the dusk. 

This was the part of Jason that hurt you, the coarse side that snarled and growled at you like he was an injured dog. The side that looked at you with those striking green eyes narrowed into slits, who spat words like he’d never seen you before.

“I do understand Jason.” I you sigh. “You want to protect this city, you want to change Gotham, but don’t you dare tell me what I know or don’t, when I’m asking you to just be home more. Is it really that hard to protect the city and go out for a date?” You sigh, heart beginning to falter under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I know you can’t always be there. Neither can I, but please,” you say, folding your arms across your chest. “Please be there for me.”

“I am.” He groans back out, making a flicker of irritation spark in you. 

“Not you’re not.” You counter. “You leave dates, you leave dinners, you don’t come home some nights. No warning, no text, no notice.” You snap back.  “Being there for me is being at those dinners, going on those dates, coming home, spending time in bed with me.” You snap. "it's not cold sheets, cold food, cold feet on date nights. Step up."

He throws his hands up in the air, teeth clenched. "Can't you see I'm trying to save the city? trying to stop it from eating itself from the inside? You know its corrupted, you know about the violence. Hell, you got shot." he snaps back. His fists are tightly clenched by his side, eyes burning into yours. You stare back at him defiantly, and it makes the frustration in him rise.

He knows he's not good at words, knows that he's rough around the edges. The voice in his head tells him that when he sits up at night, when he finally comes home. His head leans back against the headboard whole you sleep peacefully beside him, rolled completely onto your side. His fingers twist in the sheets, as it speaks at him, tells him that he's not good enough to be with you. That the city isn't safe enough, that he needs to make it safer. He wasn’t the safest out of Batman's gang of protegees. He had a hit list that had started while he was just a young teenager and continued to have names added every other week. He'd been shot at, stabbed, thrown into and off of buildings, and that was something he was fine with. that was his job, his burden.

But when you got shot, that's when life really had caught up with him. It was like he had been living his life in slow motion up until that point, until it all rushed forward like a wave on double speed. He hadn't erven been there, halfway across town with Nightwing on some stakeout when he got the call. Dick had let him go without a word, merely watching him speed away on his bike before calling in backup from the cave to replace him. He didn't care that Bruce would get mad at him for abandoning his post, he could go to hell. What he cared about was you, and the fact that he hadn't been able to protect you, been able to stop it from happening. He heard about it only when the hospital called him, informing him that you were being prepped for surgery immediately.

How bad was it? Was it just one shot? Did it go cleanly through? Where were you hit? What calibre? What make? What model? Where did it take place?

Those were all questions that Red Hood might have been allowed to ask if he had worn the mask and marched through the emergency department, but he couldn’t do that. If he did it would be a giant target on your back, associating you with his vigilante life in the most obvious way possible. Instead, he had to race through the doors breathless as Jason Todd, the worried boyfriend who had to be held back by security trying to get to your ward.

 You had of course recovered, learnt to walk again on the leg that caught a stray bullet from a gang shoot out in Lower Gotham. It had been worryingly close to your artery, but you had pulled through. Jason couldn’t deny the fact that his status as a Wayne kid helped your care and the way the hospital aided your recovery. With a harsh word, Jason could have any of their licenses revoked.

That's why Jason did it. To make sure that the fear that gripped his heart that night never had the chance to wrangle him like that again. He'd fight night after night and come home with a string of broken and bloodied knuckles if it meant that you would be okay. It's all he can think about as he stares you down in the kitchen, watching your jaw twitch.

"Don't you dare use the fact that I got shot, against me." you seethe, hand coming up to point at him. "That wasn’t my fault, and it could have happened to anyone in the town, it's Gotham, Jason." you bite back, and he throws his hands up.

"That's exactly the problem! It's Gotham." he shouts. "You can get shot, or stabbed, or killed. Anyone can. one day you're here, the next you ain't. You really want to go out there, sweetheart? You got shot and you want to tell me not to clean the streets up? The sheets are cold? Well, they'd be a lot colder if you were dead." he spits back, and you are too stunned to say anything. You shake your head, a look of realisation coming over you.

"Oh my god," you breathe out. "you're just like Bruce. You’re no better."

That makes something in his freeze, halting all of his movements and shutting down his train of thought. You see it, see the way his bright green eyes widen and his head tilts slightly, making the white tuft in his hair flop over his eyes as you continue. "You're so obsessed with cleaning up the city. So obsessed with fighting out there that you can't give it up even for a second. You both can't. You criticize the man, tore him apart for his neglect just to do the exact same god damn thing.” Tears begin to prick your eyes in helplessness, lump building in your throat.

"You can’t see yourself out of that stupid helmet." you say, choking up as the tears clog your vision. "When was the last time that you read?" you ask, sniffling. "When was the last time you did a hobby, or rode your bike as a civilian? When's the last time we went on a date or held hands, or went to the park, or the library or anywhere?" you yell at him, hand coming to claw at your heart.

"When was the last time you were Jason?" you whisper softly. "Because right now, I feel like Jason Todd has died for a second time." you choke out. "Except this time, it wasn’t Joker who killed him."

You wipe your eyes with your sleeve while you leave him stunned, pushing past him to go into your bedroom. When the door slams harshly it snaps him out of the stupor he had found himself in, body swivelling on his heel immediately to follow you.

 You didn't respond to his soft knocking at the door, or his calls. You didn’t accept the apologies he murmured into the wood, didn't bother to listen to his promises or ways that he swore he could make it better. It was only when he began knocking desperately, worrying building, that you swung it open violently.

Your face is a mess, sticky with tears and chin wet. Your breath comes out in small hiccups as you try to collect yourself, still mid sob as you shout at him. "Couch." you seethe, your puffy eyes glaring at him with a hurt filled dagger before the door slammed in his face. He sighed, forehead against the wood before pushing off the door frame with a click of his tongue. He plops down onto the living room couch with a groan, legs thrown over the side to try and accommodate for his size. He raises an arm to cover his eyes, other arm grabbing a couch cushion and bringing it to his chest.

"You're just like Bruce, no better." rattled around in his skull, making him chew at his lip. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being compared to Bruce, even if he respected the man at times. He had come back, intending to be everything for others that Bruce had failed to be for him. Yet according to you, he was walking the same steps the man before him had traced.

Was he really no better than Bruce?

He groans and removes his arm from his eyes. He casts them over to the turned off TV, catching the sight of a much younger Robin peering back at him. With a smile the boy took off the domino mask and revealed the childish figure that was young Jason Todd. He raises a hand to his face as well, mirroring what he had just seen the reflection do. Except when he pulled his hand away, studying the digits instead of the TV screen, he could still see the remnants of the Hood he failed to leave at the door.

[fawnindawn]

title: the violence of tender things

relationship : ( gender neutral reader, romantic ) reader / jason todd synopsis : in the blood-soaked streets of gotham, you find yourself wrapped in the violent red of his affection, a love that burns and breaks but never lets go. word count : around 600 a / n : a short prose piece inspired by the color red and jason todd. more introspection than plot. more personal than not. everything bleeding into everything else. not beta - read. i am literally rushing this before i go work out.

red.

it wasn’t a color you ever wore willingly. too loud, too raw, too much like the aftermath of war, smeared on brick walls and leaking into the gutters of this forsaken city. red was what you washed off your hands, what you wiped from the corner of your mouth after you survived another night. it was a color you associated with demise, not with living, and certainly not with love.

but then there was him.

jason todd. a boy carved from brick and gloom, raised in alleys and remade by death’s cold fingers. you can feel the weight of it in him, the way it leaks into his voice, into the way he moves—too swift, too challenging, like he’s chasing the wind but never quite catching it. and red—his red—was always there, bleeding into everything he touched. the red of his helmet, of the blood under his knuckles after a fight. the red of turmoil, burning and untamed, threatening to consume anything in its path. 

you never liked it before. it burned too bright, stung too sharp. but now, you find it creeping in, staining the edges of your vision, curling around your bones. 

you remember the first time you really noticed it—not the red of violence, of blood smeared on pavement, but the way it clung to him, soft as silk. it was sunset in gotham, a sky bleeding out over the horizon, and he was there, helmet under one arm, face bare to the world as he looked out over the city like he could swallow it. like if he could just open his mouth wide enough, he’d take all of gotham into him, all its filth and fury, and let it rot in his chest.

that was when you understood it—how he carried all that rage, all that love, bound together in a color too bold for anyone else. and when he turned to you, shadows flickering across his jaw, the faintest smear of red on his lip where it split from a fight, you didn’t flinch. you wanted it. you wanted him, like you wanted the breath in your lungs.

red wasn’t a warning anymore.

it was a promise.

jason doesn’t love like other people. it’s not the soft, gentle kind you read about, not the tender touch in the dark. it’s fierce, bruising. his love is the kind that breaks you apart, rips you from the inside out, leaves you gasping in the wake of it. when he loves, he loves like warfare, like his heart is a battleground and you’re the last thing standing between him and the devastation of the world. 

and maybe you are.

you feel it in every brush of his hand against yours, every glance that lingers a little too long. it’s in the way his mouth moves over you, consuming and desperate, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, as if he’s still that broken boy they left to deteriorate. you can taste the red in him—metallic, ablaze, bittersweet.

the city stretches out before you, pulsating with red lights, the drone of peril around every corner, but all you can think about is the way his heartbeat echoes in the spaces between breaths, how it thuds so violently that you wonder if it will tear his chest open one day, split him apart like the city has split him, left him shattered and bruised but still standing, somehow.

red is his armor, his rage, but it’s also the thread that binds him to you. and now, you can’t imagine anything else. the world is painted in it, the streets bleeding into each other, the sky too heavy with the weight of it all. you no longer withdraw when the red drips from his hands, when it smears across your own skin like an unholy benediction. you’ve learned to carry it with you, this shade that once terrified you, this color that now feels like home.

you’ve fallen in love with red, with the way it burns, the way it consumes. 

you’ve fallen in love with him.

[fawnindawn]

Whispers of Him

Or the shadows of Jason Todd always seem to linger. Hurt/Comfort ~2.8k words

Jason Todd's death changed you irrevocably. It was the ache in your bones, the pounding of your veins, the dull throb in your heart that never seemed to leave.

It was a weight on your mind, and it wore away at everything you were, until you weren't sure what was grief and what was you.

The doctors tried to help, the therapists and all their medications that made your head foggy and your body sluggish.

It's not like you didn't want to get better, you did, but the agonizing guilt and despair always seemed to rise in your throat.

They told you it wasn't healthy to constantly mourn, and maybe they were right. Well, they were right, but even knowing that little fact couldn't seem to help you find your way out of the sorrow in your soul.

They said that's why you started to see him. Not just in dreams or visions, but really see him. Hallucinations, they diagnosed you with, your mind and heart desperately trying to cope with a loss you shouldn't have experienced so young.

It scared you at first, seeing him around and in your space like he belonged there. Then you were excited, hopeful, that somehow they were wrong and he was alive. But then you blinked. And he was gone.

It shattered you all over again.

The second time, you were more prepared, and just as hopeful. It was delusional, you knew, to believe he was some kind of ghost, some figment of magic you don't understand. At least, then, he would be real.

(It was Bruce, stony faced and cold, who told you it wasn't possible. That Jason was really, truly gone.)

You learned to take it as it was. A comfort. A solace when you had no other.

The Jason your head conjured never spoke, but he always listened. He never got close, but he always hovered. It became reassuring, to see him in the corner of your vision while you went about your day.

Sometimes, he wore a hoodie, an ever-present sly smile painted on his face and pointed at you.

Sometimes, he wore his Robin suit, practically glowing as you rambled idly to something that wasn't really there.

Not all of the hallucinations were a relief to see, though.

Sometimes your mind would conjure him at his worst. Bloody hair. Bruised face. Torn costume. Twisted limbs.

No matter how hard you squeezed your eyes shut and willed your mind to fix it, the truth of what happened didn't change. You knew he was there. Waiting for you to open your eyes.

You always did.

Even after all the years after his death, years of illusions of him, you still haven't managed to let go.

The delusions change, as you grow older. Sometimes, your head creates visions of what he would have looked like, what he could have been if he had gotten to grow at your side.

It wasn't common, though. At least, it wasn't until last week.

The same hallucination had been visiting you on your fire escape nearly every night.

At first, you weren't even convinced he was an illusion. But he just stared at you, and when you stared back, you began to recognize him.

The same eyes that haunt your every day, the familiar, and unfamiliar, scars that cover his skin, the steadiness in his gaze, all things your brain had created for you to see before.

So you treated him like all the other visions, only noting half-heartedly that he's not completely like the other Jason's.

He's always silent, always watchful, just like others, but his appearance never changes. He doesn't exactly move like all the rest either.

He stays still, tense, careful, while the others always seem to be swaying or rocking. But he tilts his head towards you when you talk the same as they do, picks at the ends of his clothes the same way the real Jason did when he was alive.

His constant presence, always after the sun goes down, is honestly the most routine you've had in years.

You told him that, a day or two ago, and he seemed to stiffen. None of your hallucinations had ever done that before, and you told him that, too.

It's just– you really can't get over how alive he seems. You think it's somewhat cruel of your brain to have created such a perfect image of him, but you can't help but relish in it, spilling your secrets and feelings to your quiet companion.

"I think I was in love with you," You say into the cold, Gotham air. The illusion flinches at the edge of your vision, but you don't turn to look, half afraid he'll fade into nothingness in front of you.

"Maybe that's why I never really moved on," You ramble, words you've never admitted before spilling off your tongue, "We were just kids, ya know? But, you were special. Always were. Guess that's why my brain keeps doing this."

You shift your weight, almost embarrassed to be confessing to no one but yourself, "Isn't that sad? That I can't move on? People die all the time," Your voice breaks a little at your own words, misery making its way onto your face, "Especially in Gotham."

"There's no timeline on grief."

Your head snaps towards him. That– that's never happened before. They've never spoken to you, not once, not ever. He's not supposed to talk.

Your chest tightens, and you jump through scenarios, that you've been talking to some random stranger on your fire escape for a week, that you're going crazy (crazier at least) and need to be put into arkham, or that he's really Jason.

"What," You stutter out, eyes wide and locked on him.

He leans back against the wall, eyes focused somewhere in the distance, "Everyone grieves differently. What you feel isn't any less just because other people cope faster."

You blink, half expecting him to disappear, "What are you saying?"

"You're too hard on yourself," he mutters, lacing his fingers behind your head, "that's all I'm saying."

You blink again, hard, willing him to disappear this time, to show that this is all in your head. But he's still there when you open your eyes, "Okay."

You both fall silent. You want to talk, to hear his voice, to pretend he got to grow up. Maybe the two of you would sit out here like this, find safety in the mundane of just being together.

But a part of you knows it would only hurt more to pretend. So you stay quiet.

You're not sure how long you sit there, but it's long enough you start to yawn.

"Go on inside," he suggests, voice even and soft.

You nod, as much as you don't want to break the moment, to stay with the Jason that actually talks to you, to hear more of his steady, gravelly tone, you know falling asleep out here would be dangerous, "Can you come back?"

You know it's a farfetched request, to ask your own hallucination to return, but the tension leaves your body when he nods.

You tug your window open, shooting him one last glance before he calls your name.

"Yeah," You breathe out, halfway inside your apartment.

"Were– are you sure? You loved..." his voice trails off, and you think it's a bit strange of him to ask.

"I'm sure," You tell him, firm and without a hint of doubt.

He doesn't respond, but something in your chest seems to fix itself.

You thought maybe that it was some kind of breakthrough, opening up to yourself, hearing him speak. Maybe you would get better, maybe you wouldn't see him again.

But as you're getting ready to sit on the fire escape the next night, Jason, dressed in the bright colors of Robin, appears at your side.

You're strangely disappointed, as he waves at you. A part of you hoped the illusion that talked to you would come back. You slip outside anyway, Robin practically on your heels as he settles on the railing, kicking his legs and showing off his handstands.

You don't bother hiding a giggle, even if you were well practiced in not reacting to the illusions in public.

"What's so funny," a voice asks lazily.

Jason's there. The older one. But that can't be right. You've never seen two of them at once.

Your gaze flicks between Robin balancing on the railing and the man pulling himself up on the edge of the fire escape, "I– um, you can't see him," You ask dumbly, half considering making an emergency call to your therapist.

He quirks an eyebrow at you before his face grows more serious, "It's just us here. Promise."

You take in a slow breath. Us. Us implies more than you're ready to deal with. Us implies that he's real.

You're not thinking when you reach out to grab the sleeve of his jacket. He doesn't pull away, doesn't even flinch, only cocks his head at you in a way that's so Jason it nearly makes you sick.

You rub the rough leather between your fingers for a moment, grappling with the stark realization that you've been trauma dumping on this stranger, on the person who reminds you so much of the boy you lost, for the past week.

You tug a little at his sleeve, weighing the facts. Jason is dead. The man in front of you acts like him, looks like him. You've been taking your medication. Nothing worse has happened this week to have set off your brain to create something like this.

So that leaves three options. There's a random stranger letting you touch him outside your apartment window. You're actually doing so poorly that you can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Or Jason is alive, and he hasn't felt the need to explain that to you for the past week.

You drop his sleeve. A part of you doesn't want to know. It would be easier to stay in the limbo you've created, to settle against the cold grating of the fire escape and pretend nothing has changed while you talk about your day.

The Robin your brain created waves at you again, catching your eye. He twists in the air, shooting a line that attaches to nothing before disappearing into thin air.

The man calls your name, soft and careful, as you draw your attention back to him, "You still with me?"

"I– feel kinda lightheaded," You admit, and you do. Your heart feels like it's in your throat and in your stomach at the same time. Because this can't be real, can't be right.

Jason is dead. It's been drilled into your head at every therapy session, by everyone you've ever known. Jason is dead, and you've been making him up.

So why is this Jason hooking his arm around your waist? Why is he helping you into your apartment? Squeezing you to his side when you stumble? Helping you sit on the couch as your vision gets darker and your head spins faster?

You want to cry when he brushes his fingers over your jaw, "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I don't know how to do this. I thought this would be easier."

His eyebrows knit together when you shudder, and he drops his hand, "I shouldn't have– this was selfish of me."

"Don't," You plead, panic lacing your features as you reach for him, "Don't go. Don't leave me alone."

He looks conflicted, but grabs your hand, threading his fingers with yours. They're rough, calloused. And they're warm.

It makes you hold him all the more tighter.

"I'll only make things worse," he warns you, but there's no malice in his tone, only an emotion you can't quite pick up on.

You shake your head, trying to steady yourself, "You won't. You help. You always help."

He frowns, eyes dropping to your linked hands, "I did this to you."

"No," You breathe out, squeezing his fingers.

He doesn't respond, just stares at your hands like he's scared that they'll break, like he's waiting for you to come to your senses and rip yourself away from him.

He eventually nods a little, and settles himself against the edge of the couch, "Just get some rest," he sighs out, idly tracing your knuckles with his thumb.

"I don't want to," You protest, not wanting him to disappear once you've fallen asleep, "I want– I want–" You stutter over your words.

You don't know what you want. Answers? Maybe, but it's clearly something he's not willing to give. To talk to him? Sure, but you don't even know where to begin.

"We can figure it out later," he says, trying to soothe you into sleeping.

It frustrates you, and you confront him through the heaviness threatening to close your eyes for you, "You'll leave."

He presses his mouth into a tight line, unable to deny your accusation, his thumb stilling its motions over your knuckles, "I would come back."

"And if you don't," You choke out, tense and almost afraid to ask.

"I came back today, didn't I," he murmurs, seemingly unbothered by your anxious state.

"Jason," You plead, almost begging, but you're not even sure what you're asking for anymore. You think you want proof. To know that this isn't something you're making up. To know that he's real.

He freezes at his name on your tongue, the air leaving his lungs. You have the distinct feeling that he would run if your fingers weren't curled around his.

"I would come back," he says, voice growing stronger, and he finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, "Okay?"

"Okay," You echo. For some reason, you believe him, and that belief lets you succumb to the exhaustion that's settled over your body. You close your eyes, pushing back the gnawing feeling that falling asleep would be a mistake.

Dreams win you over fast enough. The drowsiness so heavy, you miss it when he starts to trace his thumb over the back of your hand again.

He's gone when you wake up.

You wake up dazed, the events feeling like a dream, and you inspect your apartment in a near frenzy, looking for any signs that he was actually there.

You find none.

No visions of Jason visit you that day, and neither does he. You wait on the fire escape as the sun sets.

He doesn't show.

Even as the hours grow late and the air chills, he still doesn't show.

But when you fall asleep on the cold metal, you find yourself curled in your bed in the morning. It almost makes you angry. No, it does make you angry, that he didn't wake you up.

Another part of you thinks that you messed up. Asked for too much. Told him too many things. The thought hangs heavy as you make your way to the kitchen.

You guess your brain tries to make up for it, because there's a Jason sitting at the counter and a paper bag resting in front of him.

You can tell he's not real by the way he fidgets when you walk in. So, you ignore him, more focused on figuring out breakfast.

"I got you food," he says, hesitant.

You nearly trip over yourself as you twist to face him.

"From that spot we liked when we were kids," he continues, clearly unsure of himself as he pushes the bag towards you, "I just– I don't know if you still like it, but I ordered your favorite."

"It's still my favorite," You tell him softly. The fact that he remembered, the fact that he's here and equally as unconfident as you are, it strokes at your heart, makes your anger and hurt evaporate into nothing.

He almost smiles, relaxing under your awestruck gaze.

You pick up the bag, feeling its weight in your hands grounds you as your gaze darts over him, "Are you going to stay?"

"If you'll let me," he says, voice pitching to a question.

"I– yeah. I want you to," you affirm, moving to sit next to him.

He knocks his knee against yours when you do, something so familiar it nauseates you and soothes you all at once, "We're gonna be okay. You know that, right? We'll figure it out."

He sounds confident, so self-assured that you immediately believe him. You fumble with the paper bag, pulling out your breakfast, "I know," you relent.

You eat your breakfast in between quiet, easy conversation, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.

Only one Jason stays by your side that day. His presence steady and warm and real. And for the first time in a long time, the claws of grief seemed to ease their hold on your heart.

[fawnindawn]

nightwing by dan mora & alejandro sanchez

[fawnindawn]

No but you know how Dick still randomly does handstands as an adult? I feel like that's something Bruce must be incredibly fond of. Dick is grown up in most ways, but in that way, he's still the kid Bruce remembers.

Detective Comics 2021 Annual

[fawnindawn]

thank you so much for including me <33333

Luke Castellan Fic Recs

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luke castellan fic recs (pt.2)

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jackie and wilson by @too-deviant

lovelorn by @lixzey

luke castellan x nemesis!reader by @kamaluhkhan

mind over matter by @woodlandwrites

one year with luke castellan by @tangledinlove

partners in crime by @ma1dita

poisoned mercury by @wlntrsldler

ready to love by @svnny-days

The Jubilee Recollection by @klineinie

the prophecy by @wlntrsldler

three weeks by @too-deviant

the incessant ringing of loneliness

social media AUs

i’ve loved you in secret by @lizlovestofangirl

must be love! by @livlaughloveluke

my good looking boy by @lizlovestofangirl

Pictures for my Crush by @maraudersmyloves

so if you need a hero, just look in the mirror! by @moneyndior

sunburn by @voguesriot

take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die by @lizlovestofangirl

[fawnindawn]

it’s like Dan Mora can read our minds and he keeps giving us stuff like this. SIR.

[fawnindawn]

[fawnindawn]

source: her_edits8 on tiktok

The things I’d do to steal his jacket.

[fawnindawn]

i can bite him he can bite me

[fawnindawn]

Fic where Bruce and Jason are separately thrown 10 years into the past and wake up in their younger bodies.

9 year old Jason is perfectly fine living on the streets, thank you very much. And is trying very hard to avoid Bruce like the plague so he doesn’t end up as another “good soldier” in this life. Not like Bruce even knows he exists, so it should be easy.

30 year old Bruce, on the other hand, is hunting Jason through Gotham. Because his baby could be SICK or INJURED or COLD and he’ll be damned if Jason doesn’t have everything he could possibly need in this life. It’s a fresh slate and he’s going to do it right this time.

Unfortunately, it ends like this

[fawnindawn]

Night & Day

Summary: Jason's night doesn't go as planned. As a result, neither does yours.

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 4,365

Content/warnings: profanity, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood

PREV

Jason wakes in a sweat.

He’s had this dream before; his body throbs, slick and sticky with blood. Each hit of the crowbar jerks his body.

He pushes himself up from the bed, his feet meeting the cold wood floors beneath him. He huffs, his head falling in his hands as he slumps towards his knees.

There’s no blood. Hell, there aren’t even the scars to prove what he went through anymore. It’s just Jason trapped in his own mind. The laughter echoes in his ears long after he wakes up, but the pain eventually fades into the back of his mind, a lingering nagging as he tries to grip onto reality and find something to distract himself.

Lines of light fall across the floor from the streetlamps pouring in through the venetian blinds. He’s been meaning to get curtains. He feels too exposed, even if the blinds are always shut.

When he was first resurrected, there were only so many memories he had to comfort himself with. Anything from his life with Bruce was immediately off limits, so he usually sought out Talia. The comfort she’d managed to offer him after all of that just by showing a little kindness.

A few days ago, he met you. You’d been kind to him too.

He told you to just call a ride instead of taking the train. He knew what happened in this neighborhood at that time of night. But you didn’t listen.

Jason knew you weren’t going to get onto that train without a hitch. He chose following you over the stupid drug bust. He figured there’d be time to take care of them later. He’d been right, of course, but after that, he froze.

You hadn’t been intimidated by him at the shop. But you’d seen him—the real him—and flinched. Not that he can blame you. It was a hell of an introduction on his part, barrel of his gun up against some guy’s head. In a city like Gotham? God, he could have been any creep.

But he’s him. He’s the same he’d been at the shop, but you don’t know that. And you can’t.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking of you. As he wakes from his nightmare, you’re there, and he’s not entirely sure why. Maybe because your kindness is so straightforward. It’s not shrouded by trauma and odd gestures meant to translate to kindness. You talked with him, laughed with him. You got him food that you insisted he eat.

You’re better off without him. There’s a natural path for the two of you to never see each other again. It’s more work to not lose contact with you. Even with every part of him saying no, Jason makes the effort.

How’s your tattoo healing?

It’s still dark out, but it’s nearing 6 am now. As he sends the email, he hopes you get the idea he’s some sort of early riser. Maybe you think he’s less of a mess than he is. He’d let you think that, if you wanted to.

Part of him also worries about you. Not in some wild way, but after your close call with the guys at the train station, he doesn’t want you to be scarred for life. That may be overdramatic, but the point remains. That’s normal shit for him, but that’s not something you signed up for. That’s just the bi-product of living in Gotham.

His body collapses back into bed in a heap, his breath finally evening out. He’ll try to fall back asleep for at least an hour before he realizes it’s probably hopeless and gets up.

Mornings like this, he cooks. It passes the time. Dealers aren’t making deals this early. The shop doesn’t open until ten, but he sure as shit doesn’t want to be sitting around dwelling in his thoughts for longer than necessary.

So when Jason finally rises out of bed, he goes to the kitchen. He pulls out eggs and bread. Bacon, tomatoes, and cheese. Good salt, the salt that costs extra. He doesn’t have a lot of good these days, so he takes it where he can.

The Gotham underworld is lucrative, no surprise there. Jason has access to things he never would have as a kid. The sort of stuff he was introduced to at Wayne Manor. Except now Jason has them on his own terms. He didn’t need Bruce for it.

Bacon is on the stove sizzling as Jason’s old coffee machine gurgles. He’ll drink most of the pot by the time the sun rises. By now, there’s enough for him to focus on that he can push the dream to the back of his mind. He doesn’t need to think about the past. That’s why he has his plans. He has a future to look forward to. And if he has to be alive again, he’s going to make something of it.

Just the light above the stove is on. Jason likes the dark. Old habits and all that.

He fries up an egg until the ends get crispy. Toast, egg, sharp cheddar, bacon, and hot sauce. He takes a mug of coffee and his sandwich over to the small table up against the window and watches as the city wakes up.

It’s the most normal his day is going to look. These moments where his brain isn’t completely fixed on the job. He’s not trying to parse through whatever lying scumbag is coming into the shop. There’s no blood. It’s quiet.

The quiet is nice until it isn’t. Until it’s too quiet, and there’s nothing besides the quiet.

When he woke up, buried six feet under, it had been quiet. Except for his breathing. The claustrophobic weight. The crushing weight of the dirt as it pressed against him, as he fought to the surface.

You reply while he’s out taking his smoke break.

The tattoo itches, but it looks good, you say. I’ll send a picture once it’s healed.

His second appointment of the day, the one he goes to after he sees your email, is the type he usually sees. Some asshole that wants a skull on his arm to prove he’s tough. Someone who definitely isn’t you. But it’s not his place to wish it was. He feels ridiculous being so attached to you like a lost little puppy.

He wants to think of an excuse to see you again, but his mind is blank. Can’t just lure you to a dark alley for a chat like the people he’s normally trying to get in touch with. Yet again, just trying to be a regular person, he falls short. He doesn’t know how to navigate this. He spent the years he was supposed to figure this shit out in a box beneath the earth. As much as Talia taught him when he came back, he didn’t get flirting lessons.

There’s so much he doesn’t know about you. Sure, he could dig around and fight out a thing or two. That’s what Bruce would do, but he’s not Bruce. He doesn’t want to do that with you. He wants to just be Jason in your eyes, so that means keeping Red Hood as far away from you as possible.

Are you taking care of it?

It’s not flirting. It’s not smooth, either, but it does keep the conversation going.

During his next appointment, he has to push you to the back of his mind. The guy ends up being a small-time dealer. A guy who works for a guy who works for a guy sort of dealer. His license was scanned when he came in for the tattoo, and that means Jason has his address. There’s a lot he can learn from a license, assuming it’s real. Lucky for Jason, the dealer wasn’t smart enough to use a fake. Now he’s got a new lead, more heads to bust.

After the shop closes, he goes home. As he’s researching, he gets another response.

Yeah, I’ve been going swimming every day and using dish soap to keep it clean just like you said.

He smirks. You’re a smart-ass. That’s part of what he likes about you.

As he eats the leftover fried rice he heated up to the light of his laptop, he thinks about your appointment. The way you’d laughed over your dinner. The mischievous look in your eye as you teased him. He wished he had paid closer attention to that look because when he thought of you now, he saw that look of fear. That look directed at him. Guilt sat heavy in his chest because of it. You couldn’t trust him when he said he wasn’t going to hurt you. It was a good instinct. As much as it hurt, he wasn’t going to blame you for it.

Tonight, he’s going to kill. Becoming a crime lord isn’t pretty work, but he’s not about to shy away from it. If he has to spill blood, that’s what he’ll do. But he isn’t willing to risk that colliding into his memories of you either.

You’re separate from all of this.

Jason doesn’t regret being there for you at the train station. How could he? But at the same time, now you know, and that’s a liability. He doesn’t think you’d go around asking everyone, but he also doesn’t know you, and that fact remains even when his mind runs away from him to focus on your skin. Sure, Jason’s got the training to be able to read someone, but he’s not one to get too comfortable about such things.

This whole thing is still new. It’s precarious. Jason’s been back in Gotham weeks. There’s still plenty to be done, and he doesn’t need to be distracted.

Jason’s night doesn’t go as planned.

The dealers he’d been meeting with had gotten sloppy. A crew that got way too comfortable talking about sales in public. Batman got wind of it, but Jason was one step ahead. He got out minutes before Bruce arrived, and he didn’t leave anyone left alive to talk to. It’s messier than he’d like, but he doesn’t leave evidence. Whatever trail Bruce has picked up through them will run cold.

Just when he thinks he gets away without a hitch, he runs into the boss of the men unlucky enough to cross his path. He gets a shot in, but not before the boss grazed his thigh with a bullet. It bleeds, but it doesn’t go deep. Still, he can’t ignore it. He takes shelter in a residential area. He can keep a lower profile here if Batman is in the neighborhood, so he finds a dark alley to lick his wounds. He steams over how much carelessness has set him back, when a door slamming breaks his concentration.

And there you are.

You don’t see him in the darkness. You’ve got a bag of garbage in your hand heading towards the dumpster just a few feet away from where his back is pressed against the wall. It’s only a matter of time you see the faint glow from his mask, and he’ll see that same startled look on your face. He doesn’t want you to look at him in fear again.

The bag of trash clamors into the dumpster as you toss it in. You turn over your shoulder and freeze at the sight of someone standing just out of sight. And there’s that look. That same startled, caught in headlights look that’s been haunting him since he left you at the train station. He can’t stand it. So he raises his free hand and gives a small wave.

“Just me,” he says.

Recognition crosses your eyes as you fully find him in the shadows. “Oh,” you say, the sound getting drowned out by the light rain falling. Unconsciously—at least, he hopes—you take a half step away from him.

Yeah, maybe Jason should have thought this through a little more. So careful when he’s making his big plans, but all of the sudden, with you, he’s got his foot in his mouth and his brain where it shouldn’t be. Last you ran into him, he had been hidden out of sight, appearing suddenly to come to your rescue. And maybe doing the same thing outside where you presumably live isn’t a good look.

He should have gone on a rooftop somewhere.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not like the full version of the truth would offer you any comfort. I don’t think you’d like to hear that he’s on the run from Batman for killing a few guys. But is you potentially thinking he’s stalking you any better?

Your body is still rigid, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of your coat. “What are you doing down there?”

He wonders if you’ve got your pepper spray on him. You’d know better than to use it against him from your first run-in, but maybe you’re holding it now as a comfort. He’s not going to humor himself by believing you trust him. Even if he knows you’re safe with him, you don’t.

“Seemed like a good spot for a rest,” he replies.

The shadows across your face make it hard for him to really see where you’re looking, but he sees your back stiffen.

“Is that blood?” you ask, and now he’s sure your eyes are on his leg, fixed to the spot he was grazed. The concern is evident in your voice. Your eyes grow wide, and Jason all but sees the internal spiral happening on your face.

“Don’t worry, it’s mine,” he replies.

You stand, open-mouthed for a moment, the features of your face twisting further into confusion and worry. “Don’t worry?” you ask in disbelief. Your voice pitches slightly.

“Relax, it’s just a bullet graze. I’m fine.”

A moment of silence passes. Jason waits for the bleeding to slow a little. But once time passes without any sort of response from you, he looks up to catch your eyes wide in disbelief. Which is probably fair. At best, he sounds like an asshole being so casual about something like that. Sure, it’s Gotham, but even that’s a little much. Your obviously freaked out, and here he is acting cavalier.

Jason nods once. “Sorry. The people I’m usually around don’t get bothered about that sort of thing.”

You nod once, your arms crossing over your chest. “I bet.”

God, this is such a mess.

Your eyes flicker up from his wounded leg to the glowing white space where his eyes are beneath his helmet. Jason wishes so desperately to know what’s going on in your head. Do you see him as some sort of monster? Is there any bit of Jason you see beneath the helmet, even if you can’t actually know it’s him? Or has he blown all of this?

“Are you...okay?” you ask.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me.” He thinks it’s silly you would in the first place. People have never worried about Jason; he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. You shouldn’t be the first one to take on the hopeless task of worrying for him, especially not over some graze. Especially not some graze relative to all of the other things that’s happened to him.

If this is what happens when he a bullet grazes his leg, he can’t imagine what you’d think of everything else.

“So...what’s your deal?” you ask cautiously.

“My deal?” Jason replies, even though he knows exactly what you’re asking.

“Yeah. I mean...what kind of guy in a mask are you?”

There’s a rough, modulated laugh from behind the helmet. “Well, I scared off those guys the other night, didn’t I? What kind of guy does that make me?”

“You scared them off with a gun.”

“And? They didn’t hurt you either way, right?” Maybe there was no room for you to see anything in Red Hood, and maybe he was foolish to think otherwise. He wonders if that still leaves any hope for you and Jason.

“And you conveniently are in the same place as me at the same time. I’m not sure what to make of that.”

“So you think I’m stalking you, huh?” he asks with a light laugh.

“I don’t see how that’s funny,” you reply.

You don’t trust him. There’s no hesitancy to voice your skepticism. He has to admire you just a little bit, even if it is a stupid idea to be arguing with the guy you know is carrying a gun. Now he’s the one who’s going to start worrying about you, as if that wasn’t already the case.

“You live in a shitty neighborhood. You’re gonna see guys in masks around here.”

“It’s Gotham. Most of the neighborhoods are shitty. Are you always this evasive?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

There’s a pause as you look him over carefully. Even if you don’t trust him, Jason doesn’t want that to be the case. He wants you to believe that he’s not a threat to you. Not on purpose, at least. He showed up at the train station because the thought of those guys laying a single hand on you made his stomach roll.

He wants you to trust him now like you had trusted him with your skin.

“Listen, I was working in the area. Swear to god, it was a coincidence. I needed someplace quiet to patch up. I didn’t know you were here.”

You don’t seem totally pleased with the answer, but he can tell you could maybe eventually buy it. Again, you watch him carefully for a minute. Gotham is singing her usual song around you, sirens and rain hitting the rooftops. Somewhere a few blocks away, Jason swears he can make out a fight.

“Are you blinking under there?” you ask, sounding a little unnerved by the constant glowing where he can see what’s going on.

He laughs lightly. “Yeah, I’m blinking under here.”

“I tried to thank you the other day, but you were gone already,” you finally say. “So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jason replies, even though he had heard it. When you were focused on the train rolling in, he’d slipped back into the shadows, waiting until the sounds of the train had long died down just to be sure there wasn’t anything else that was going to interrupt your trip home.

There’s another beat before he speaks again. “So are you okay?”

You look at him, slightly surprised. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say. “Just glad you were there when you were.”

Jason nods. “Yeah, me too.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, your eye darting nervously back to his leg.

“I already told you, I’m fine.”

Your weight shifts. You’re hesitating, still not ready to accept his answer. “Do you...need anything?”

He wants to tell you not to offer help to guys like him. You’re being too nice, and not every guy is going to be like him. Maybe he’s just flattering himself, but he gets the idea this isn’t a universal openness. You’re testing the waters, weighing everything he says and does. He thinks about how you must be putting together one hell of a pros and cons list in your head right now.

Jason imagines what would happen if he said yes; maybe you would scurry up to your apartment. You would come back with three towels even if you thought he only needed one. You’d get him water or some food to keep his energy up. What would you bring out to share with the stranger who has a gun?

But Jason shakes his head. “I’m all set,” he replies. “Jacket’s got a lot of pockets.”

Thunder cracks overhead. You startle from the sound, gaze turning towards the sky as rain starts falling down harder around you both. With Jason’s helmet on, he’s not much bothered beyond the drops blurring his vision slightly, but you’re exposed.

“You should get inside,” Jason says, nudging his head back towards the door you came out of.

And, of course, you pause. He sees the way your eyes flicker nervously to his wound.

Jason shakes his head. “Don’t do it,” he says.

“Don’t do what?” you ask indigently.

“Invite me in to be polite and all that.”

You scoff. “Invite you in? Are you kidding me? You’ve given me next to no information about yourself. You’ve openly admitted you hang out with people who aren’t phased by getting shot--”

“’Hang out’ is an overstatement--”

“I am not inviting you up to my apartment. I’m sure you have dangerous friends you can stay with.”

With the helmet, you can’t see, but Jason smirks. You are warming up to him. The you from the shop is getting pulled out little by little. He’s glad to see you again.

When he doesn’t respond, you turn towards the door a little. “Well...good luck with your leg,” you say, fishing through your coat pockets. The movement picks up a little more, followed by a soft curse under your breath.

“Locked out?” Jason asks. He doesn’t bother to hide the pleased tone in his voice.

“I left my keys inside,” you grumble.

Jason rises to his feet, careful to stay off his wounded leg as much as possible. “Bummer,” he says. “Want me to pick the lock?”

You turn back over your shoulder, looking like you’re trying to suss out whether he’s joking or not. With the helmet on, he’s sure it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he reminds you. “Just gonna get the door open for you, and then I’m out of here. Promise.”

A bright flash of lightning illuminates your face, and you nod. “Okay.”

You take a step back from the door, letting him at the lock, gnawing on your lips nervously. “What if someone catches you?”

“I’m not worried about it,” he replies.

“And if someone catches me with you and I get evicted? I’m a little worried about that.”

“I get I’m not exactly at the top of the list of trustworthy individuals, but I’m going to need a little more confidence from you.”

There’s a crash of thunder. The rain gets even just a little bit heavier as Jason fiddles with the lock until it opens. It only takes him a few seconds, but you don’t comment on it. He’s not sure if it’s because you’re not surprised he can do it that quickly or because you’re exhausted with everything you’ve learned about him in the past few minutes.

You look at the open door, then back at him. “Thank you,” you say. It’s a little reserved, but he sees the echoes of you sitting in his station at the shop. A hint that maybe his chances aren’t so doomed as he worried.

“You’re welcome. Stay out of trouble.”

One last time, your gaze drops down to his thigh before looking back up. “You too,” you reply, letting the door slam shut behind you.

He should take this as his sign to leave, but he lingers a minute. It’s long enough for him to just barely hear a window slide open overhead.

Above him, he sees your head peek out over the ledge of your fire escape. Your building has the old kind, the wooden ones that are without a doubt a safety hazard. When you see him looking up at you, you quickly disappear out of sight again. The shyness is a little endearing, he has to admit. Not that he’s been doing a great job fighting it to begin with.

He can’t tell what you’re doing, but he knows you’re still out there. The top level is about as tall as the tracks above him. You live close to the station. That makes him feel a little bit better about your trip home after your tattoo. At least the time you were exposed to more trouble was cut down because of that.

There’s a little movement up on the fire escape. You hang something off the edge, but he can’t quite make out what. He sees the top of your head as you climb back through your window, and then the faint glow coming from your window goes dark.

Jason waits one second longer, trying to decide whether he’s meant to see what you’ve left him or not. He decides he is, and makes the trek up the rickety ladder. Some steps give a little from rot. Even if his leg isn’t wounded too badly, he does feel it each of the steps up. He wonders if you left everything up on the fourth floor where you live to spite him for being so nonchalant about getting hit.

When he finally makes it up to where you’ve left him a surprise, he sees your curtains are drawn shut. There’s no sliver of light peeking through. He wonders if you turned the lights off so he couldn’t see you trying to stay hidden while getting a look at him.

Hung over the railing is an umbrella. One he knows you didn’t have with you when you were out with him. You put it out here for him, even with his helmet on. Maybe as a thank you for helping you inside. Maybe as a way of toeing the line of you saying you won’t invite him in.

He could be anyone, but you gave away where you lived. He’d done enough for you to trust he wasn’t going to take advantage of this knowledge. But as the rain starts to get a little harder, he leans up against the brick of your building and opens up the umbrella. He can keep his leg dry until the rain lets up, at least.

Sitting out of the rain in the safety of your rickety fire escape, Jason makes the decision he’s going to ask you out for a drink tomorrow morning. Not him, Red Hood, but the tattoo artist. He knows for certain he’s not going to be able to keep you off his mind now.

He hopes tonight, he dreams of you.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider giving this a reblog 💛

[fawnindawn]

i will die without routine. also this routine is killing me

[fawnindawn]

The real reason Jason Todd hasn’t legally come back to life is cuz he’d be expected to do Wayne Family shit in public, and honestly he’d rather not

[fawnindawn]

Al Ghul genes right

[fawnindawn]

BATMAN: ARKHAM KNIGHT | 2/? ↳ "You're good, Dark Knight. Even better than I remember. It's going to make it even more satisfying when I kill you."

[fawnindawn]

Words from “Starlings in Winter” by Mary Oliver