fawnindawn

[fawnindawn]

[fawnindawn]

attractive things they do while you're dating

pairing: batboys (plus clark lol) & reader ❀ׄ ꥈ

𓍢ִ໋☕ cassidy's note: for funsies. not edited. i love reading variations of these. i haven't written since 2020. if you can like this, reblog too.

bruce 🦇ᡣ𐭩˚.

navigating paparazzi: the careful way he guides you to block the flaring flashes from cameras with his broad shoulders.

bruce wraps his fingers to pull on your waist, tugging you further behind him, ensuring no shots of you are taken on what was meant to be a private night out.

despite the urgency of the situation--his face still stays controlled and imperturbable, but his grip is firm to reassure you, as he leans down and mumbles in your ear, "just a bit farther, the car's close," before his voice cuts through the cries and shutters lowly: "we're done here."

listens intently, and remembers every single detail about you, despite whether you think it's significant or not for him to know.

bruce stores your favorite shampoo and conditioner in his bathroom when you stay the night over.

and when you're sitting on the edge of his sink, removing his makeup from under his eyes, you notice it sitting amongst his own body-wash and pine scented soap.

but when you ask him about it, he simply shrugs and waves it off.

dick 🏙ɞ♥️*

teaches you self defense: his hands gently curl over yours to demonstrate how they should look before you throw a punch.

his touch is light, "keep your thumb on the outside", dick's finger taps the inside of your palm, "if you keep it inside, you'll break it--not fun."

he whistles when you hit him solidly in the side with a wide grin, despite the force of your blow, "better."

insists on helping you put on all your jewellery and shoes.

he turns you around, and pulls your hair to one side of your neck, before fiddling with the clasp. he's clumsy at first, but eventually gets the hang of it the more he does it. his hands linger on the slope of your neck for a moment longer than necessary.

later, as you reach for your shoes, he beats you to it, kneeling in front of you. dick's motions are all exaggerated as he does it.

your hand cards through his hair when he's looking up through his lashes after he's fastened the straps, and kissing the inside of your calf slowly.

jason ❤️‍🩹⋆｡

reads on public transportation: jason pulls out a beat up paperback he picked up from a secondhand bookstore from his back pocket. it has dog eared pages and a weathered spine.

there's a baby crying on the train, but he doesn't seem to notice as he flicks a ringed finger to the page he last read.

he pulls a pencil from his jacket pocket, and traces a line in a passage--a part he thinks you'd like. when he leans forward, his shirt rides up a bit so a strip of his skin is visible to you.

doesn't wipe your lipgloss from his cheek.

the shimmer from it stains his cheek after you pressed a kiss to it. you go to wipe it with a laugh, reaching with your thumb, and jason catches it mid-air. "you've got glitter on your face jay, people are gonna-"

"next time, wear red."

tim 🪽❥˚

gnaws at his lip as he concentrates.

the hum of the keys click in the batcave and papers rustle. tim's focus is sharp as he attempts piecing together his newest case, and his teeth catch in his bottom lip. an unconscious habit.

you can't help but tease him about it, "that's a terrible habit to have, you know that?" you lean against his desk."it helps me think."

sure enough, he does it again. "you're gonna chew your lip off your face one day." his lips curve upwards at your observation, but your gaze was now intense as you observed his lip in his teeth, and before you can state another snarky remark, he shoots you a knowing look before pulling your belt loops, and kissing you.

wears your hair tie on his wrist. it was never really ever a big deal. one day you handed it to him while getting ready for bed one night as you pulled out your ponytail and he snapped it onto his wrist without much thought. now, it's routine. it doesn't matter where he is exactly, if tim's at a gala or in a meeting or out in gotham on patrol, the hair tie is around his wrist.

you heard him cursing from the other room when he misplaced it once.

clark 🌟.*☆

saves you a seat, always: whether it's evenings in or out, clark always makes you feel like you're the most important person there.

it's not something that's said but understood, as he pulls the chair next to him, letting it be out long enough for you to get comfortable, before gently scooting it inwards.

when you eat, and when he thinks you're not looking--clark will adjust your plate, and glace over at your water glass to make sure it is filled. and if you want extra bread, don't even worry because he kept an extra piece on his plate for you.

pushing his glasses up. there's something kinda charming about the way he does it that you wish you could explain it better. it's absentminded, he does it a lot!

when he's looking over articles or reading or just talking to you. in the elevator, he'll lean forward to look over the numbered floors, and they won't stay in place, sliding down the bridge of his nose. you don't say anything, but smile slightly, and he'll return it goofily and with more teeth, before he asks, "what?"

tags: @retvenkos

[fawnindawn]

Jason Todd is sure he's never met someone as good as you.

In a city as vile as the one he crawled out of, he's gotten near bullseye on the portfolios he makes for every single bastard that breaths and sins in this city. He thinks he's got it narrowed down, and he's all but decided that there isn't a single living person he will ever let his guard down for again- till he meets you.

Technically, you've all but forced yourself into his world. He thinks it's a cruel joke sometimes, how the world forced everything he had out of him, forcing him to forget how to love, how to treat every word as just that and not an underlying threat, how to have a proper relationship with anyone- before they tossed you into his path. Like a whirlwind, it was impossible not to grasp onto you when you were so good, so unlike anything in him.

"I want to be so good for you, baby." He breathes into your skin, wrapping you into his arms and holding onto you, hoping that if he somehow engraves his promise into this moment, he'll hold it forever.

"But you already are." Then, you look at him with that look of yours that reminds him that he's still alive, because his heart near leaps out of his body to land right into your palm. You treat him with such tenderness he couldn't have even envisioned in his dreams. You're nothing he could've come up with. When he looks into his own reflection, he thinks he sees what everyone sees. A failure of a project trying to make some good in this world even when he has nothing good in him. A madman trying to fix what can't be fixed, whether that be the city or himself. Then he looks into your eyes, and he can't see all that through the adoration so evident in your gaze.

Sometimes, you look at him and he thinks that if anything he knows about love, it's all just you. What is love, if not the utter devotion that runs through his blood, night after night where he cleanses the city, knowing that the very next night, some other thug or crook will replace the one he's gotten rid of. It's a never ending process that seems to see no end, but when he comes home to you, and oh god, does the idea of going to a home with you in it push him through everything.

He still struggles to word it, how your existence seems to shatter every concept he's had of the world, how he's never felt hope the way he's had since he started daydreaming about a future with you. He doesn't think the simple word, love, can capture what he sees, thinks, and feels about you. You're everywhere in his fractured mind.

The long-minute hugs standing in the kitchen, the way he goes silent when you rant about your latest discovery on the internet because he's hit with the sudden thought that he's here with you and you exist, the kisses he presses on the indent near your shoulder as he presses himself into that very spot, the way he always finds his way back home to you no matter what because he refuses to leave you afraid and waiting for him to come home. He'll always come home to you, because you are his home.

[fawnindawn]

Jason Todd is sure he's never met someone as good as you.

In a city as vile as the one he crawled out of, he's gotten near bullseye on the portfolios he makes for every single bastard that breaths and sins in this city. He thinks he's got it narrowed down, and he's all but decided that there isn't a single living person he will ever let his guard down for again- till he meets you.

Technically, you've all but forced yourself into his world. He thinks it's a cruel joke sometimes, how the world forced everything he had out of him, forcing him to forget how to love, how to treat every word as just that and not an underlying threat, how to have a proper relationship with anyone- before they tossed you into his path. Like a whirlwind, it was impossible not to grasp onto you when you were so good, so unlike anything in him.

"I want to be so good for you, baby." He breathes into your skin, wrapping you into his arms and holding onto you, hoping that if he somehow engraves his promise into this moment, he'll hold it forever.

"But you already are." Then, you look at him with that look of yours that reminds him that he's still alive, because his heart near leaps out of his body to land right into your palm. You treat him with such tenderness he couldn't have even envisioned in his dreams. You're nothing he could've come up with. When he looks into his own reflection, he thinks he sees what everyone sees. A failure of a project trying to make some good in this world even when he has nothing good in him. A madman trying to fix what can't be fixed, whether that be the city or himself. Then he looks into your eyes, and he can't see all that through the adoration so evident in your gaze.

Sometimes, you look at him and he thinks that if anything he knows about love, it's all just you. What is love, if not the utter devotion that runs through his blood, night after night where he cleanses the city, knowing that the very next night, some other thug or crook will replace the one he's gotten rid of. It's a never ending process that seems to see no end, but when he comes home to you, and oh god, does the idea of going to a home with you in it push him through everything.

He still struggles to word it, how your existence seems to shatter every concept he's had of the world, how he's never felt hope the way he's had since he started daydreaming about a future with you. He doesn't think the simple word, love, can capture what he sees, thinks, and feels about you. You're everywhere in his fractured mind.

The long-minute hugs standing in the kitchen, the way he goes silent when you rant about your latest discovery on the internet because he's hit with the sudden thought that he's here with you and you exist, the kisses he presses on the indent near your shoulder as he presses himself into that very spot, the way he always finds his way back home to you no matter what because he refuses to leave you afraid and waiting for him to come home. He'll always come home to you, because you are his home.

[fawnindawn]

sometimes i'm like fuuuck bruce needs to get a hobby. but he does have a hobby. by god he does have a hobby

[fawnindawn]

these are my mutuals. they know who they are

[fawnindawn]

I Know How to Fall (So Teach Me to Fly Again)

My first Dick Grayson fic! (Hurt/Comfort calls to me) ~600 words

Dick Grayson has been falling since the night his parents died. A constant, spiraling free fall. There are moments he seems to float, lifted to a stagnant hover by his friends and family. But at the end of the night, when he's alone in the shadows and the sun doesn't quite reach him as it crests the buildings, he starts to fall all over again.

It's ironic, that a Flying Grayson can reach the apex of an arc and just wonder, what if he doesn't shoot his line? What if he didn't land? What if he just kept falling? What if he latched onto the growing void in his chest that never seemed to fill and embraced everything it brings?

It's not that he wants to find out what happens when he runs out of air, it's just that there's a rush in the fall. There's a thrill, in dancing on ledges and tossing his grapple at the last possible moment.

Dick loves what he does, really. He loves The Titans. Loves his family. Loves that he can do good in a world that so desperately needs good. But, it's hard, sometimes, being the 'good' one, the leader, the light. It's hard to not cross that line, to make sure beyond a doubt that the people he cares about won't get hurt.

He thinks he hides it well. And he does. From everyone but you. You notice the edge to his smile. The tightness in his shoulders. You're there when he feels like he's going to tip off that tightrope, lose his grip on the bars that seem to swing miles and miles above the rest of the world.

He's never had someone he's so implicitly trusted to catch him no matter what, when he lets go of the wire. Every other relationship he has, there's a price, a trade, a reason or a pedestal he has to balance on in order to be kept around.

But not with you. It's easy to find shelter in your presence. There's no expectations. No need to be the steady, sturdy beacon of what a hero should be.

When it's just you, falling doesn't feel so much like careening into an abyss. No, it feels like the first leap from a precariously high and wobbly platform filled with the trust that, if he misses his mark, the safety net of your arms will catch his fall.

Sometimes he wonders if this is what his parents felt, every time he reaches for your outstretched hand. There's a security, a knowledge, that you will not let him go, no matter how heavy he–or his burdens–are.

There is solace when he lies on the plush rug of your bedroom, picking at the fabric as you talk about your day. The smiles and jokes come easy to his lips when your giggles fill the air. Nothing feels forced or calculated at your side, it just feels right.

It gives him butterflies sometimes, the kind that used to gather in his stomach before the bright lights of the big top illuminated the ropes and wires of the trapeze. He can't help but chase the feeling when it leads straight to you– to home.

When he's exhausted and drained and patrol has worn him down to his bones, it's you who always soothes the warriness he feels. It's you, curled in his bed with Haley sleeping at your hip, where he buries his face to your chest. He easily lets you hold him close, keep him together.

He thinks this is where he's meant to be, because it's those moments, when you smile into his hair and kiss the crown of his head to welcome him home, where he truly feels like he's flying.

[fawnindawn]

this is so cute im frothing at the mouth ahhhhhh

Hello! ^^

First, just wanna say your blog is amazing. Second, what kind of shenanigans do you think would ensue with the batboys having a hyper physically clingy S/O? Like their S/O would get so excited they're home and just tackle hug them before they make it past the door kind of clingy.

♯ FRIDAY I’M IN LOVE . . . ( the batboys ! )

— gn!reader, fluff

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE

bruce wayne, the ever-composed patriarch of the family, would at first have no idea how to handle such enthusiasm. his s/o being hyper-physically affectionate would probably throw him completely off-balance at first—not because he doesn’t enjoy the affection but because he’s not used to being greeted like that.

( the door creaks open as bruce steps inside the manor, still half-lost in the grim report alfred had handed him earlier. before he even sets his briefcase down, a blur barrels toward him, arms wide, a gleeful shout of his name ringing through the grand hall.

he braces himself instinctively like he’s about to be tackled by a rogue metahuman. “wait—” is all he manages before you collide with him, wrapping him in a bear hug strong enough to make his muscles tense. for a second, bruce freezes like a deer in headlights.

“miss me?” you grin, cheek pressed to his chest as you sway him back and forth like a tree in a storm.

bruce glances down, trying to maintain the stoic facade, but his lips twitch, betraying the barest hint of amusement. “you know, most people say hello first.”

alfred passes by with an arched brow and a muttered, “at least you don’t end up unconscious, master wayne.”

he sighs, exasperated but secretly endeared. he knows by now resistance is futile. one hand rests awkwardly on your back, the other fumbling to steady the files tucked under his arm. “you’re going to sprain something one day,” he murmurs, though there’s a faint warmth in his tone. )

the first time you tackle-hugged him after patrol, bruises and all, bruce immediately went into “are you hurt?” mode despite being the one who should be resting. “you can’t just launch yourself at me like that—you could get hurt,” he’d chide, even as he gently pulls you closer to make sure you’re okay.

alfred would quietly revel in the sheer domestication of bruce’s typically aloof charge. “ah, nothing like unrestrained enthusiasm to balance out your brooding, sir.”

DICK GRAYSON

dick grayson would be all in for having a hyper-physically affectionate s/o. the guy thrives on connection, and someone who matches his energy—or even outpaces it—would not only make him laugh but also make him feel completely loved. if anything, your clingy antics would ignite a bit of playful competition as dick tries to out-affection you, though he’d absolutely let you win most of the time.

( the moment he unlocks the door after a patrol, the creak of the hinges is your signal to strike. without hesitation, you launch yourself at him like a projectile, arms wide and grinning ear to ear.

“dick!”

“whoa—!” he yelps, barely managing to catch you before you tackle him into the doorframe. one arm wraps around your waist while the other steadies both of you. “are you trying to kill me, or…?” he teases, his voice light with laughter.

“i’m just so happy you’re home!” you say, nuzzling into his neck.

“yeah? well, i love being tackled the moment i step inside,” he says sarcastically, but the grin splitting his face is entirely genuine. “i mean, forget taking off my boots or hanging up my jacket—this is exactly what i needed.” he spins you around for good measure, making you laugh as he carries you further inside. )

dick would absolutely take your clinginess as a challenge to see who could be more over-the-top. you tackle-hug him at the door? he’ll scoop you up and spin you. you randomly leap on his back during a walk? he’ll carry you piggyback all the way home. it’s basically a constant competition to outdo each other.

one time, you caught him mid-workout and tried to climb on his back during push-ups. he pretended to be annoyed but ended up laughing so hard he couldn’t finish his reps. “you’re impossible,” he’d say between laughs, letting you sit on his back as he fake-struggled to keep going.

JASON TODD

jason todd would act like he didn’t know how to handle having such a clingy and affectionate s/o, but deep down, he’d secretly live for it. the guy has been through hell and back, so having someone who’s so unapologetically excited to see him would catch him off-guard at first—but it would also heal a part of him he didn’t know was still raw. he might grumble, roll his eyes, and mutter sarcastic quips, but the way he’d instinctively hold onto you would give away just how much he craves your affection.

( jason walks through the apartment door, shoulders tense from a long night of patrol, his helmet tucked under one arm. he barely gets two steps inside before the sound of your excited yell fills the air.

“jay!”

before he can react, you’re barreling toward him, all wild energy and open arms. “oh, shi—” the rest of his curse is cut off as you launch yourself at him, practically climbing him like a tree. he stumbles back a step, caught off-guard but reflexively wrapping his arms around you to keep you both steady.

“missed me?” you ask with a grin, nuzzling into his neck as your legs wrap around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

jason sighs, trying to sound exasperated but failing miserably. “miss you? you act like i’ve been gone for months. i was literally out for, what, five hours?”

“too long,” you mumble into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter.

despite his words, you feel his shoulders relax as he hugs you back. “you’re ridiculous, you know that?” he says softly, his voice a little rough around the edges but warm. )

jason would never stop pretending to grumble about your antics. “do you have to tackle me every time i walk through the door? my ribs aren’t exactly indestructible.” but if you ever didn’t tackle him, he’d immediately notice. “what, no welcome-home ambush? you mad at me or something?”

he would absolutely start using your clinginess against you. if he wanted your attention, he’d dramatically throw himself onto the couch and groan, “i can’t go on. i need one of your hugs to survive.”

TIM DRAKE

tim drake would initially be overwhelmed by having such a physically clingy s/o, mostly because he’s used to people respecting his personal bubble—or just not being that excited to see him. but once he got past the initial shock, he’d secretly love it, even if he was absolutely terrible at expressing that in words. your affectionate antics would constantly fluster him, but he’d quickly become addicted to the way you made him feel wanted and cared for.

( if you interrupted tim in the middle of one of his all-nighters, the results would be like this: imagine him sitting at his desk, surrounded by coffee cups and glowing monitors, so hyper-focused that he doesn’t even hear you sneaking up behind him.

suddenly, your arms wrap around his shoulders, and you rest your chin on top of his head. “hi,” you whisper, making him jump so hard he almost knocks over his coffee.

“[name]!” he hisses, spinning around to glare at you, his heart racing.

“sorry, couldn’t resist,” you say with a cheeky grin, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

tim sighs, trying to look annoyed, but the light blush creeping up his neck gives him away. “you’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but instead of pushing you away, he pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping securely around your waist. “if i let you stay, will you let me finish his report?”

“no promises.” )

your ambushes would frequently catch tim off-guard, leading to spilled coffee, toppled stacks of paperwork, and at least one destroyed keyboard. “[name], i love you, but you’re going to bankrupt me in tech replacements,” he’d grumble while cleaning up the latest mess.

he would eventually start using your affection as an excuse to take breaks. if you tackled him while he was working, he’d let out a long-suffering sigh and say, “fine. five minutes. but only because you’re so insistent.” cue you dragging him to the couch for cuddles while he pretends to be annoyed.

ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting ! thank you if you do 🤍

[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)

one - shots

Fate by @gh0stsp1d3r

firegirl by @calliopeslyrics

freaky friday by @too-deviant

Girls Castellan might like by @wenigstenshabeichesversucht

how to get a girl’s attention by @scwheeler

I Can See You by @sycamoregirlsworld

i like me better when i’m with you by @queer-little-demigod

I’m an Idiot by @alipal97

late night cravings by @lixzey

lighting the fuse might result in a bang by @love-that-we-were-in

LOML by @xspeter

Lovers Lake by @balletfilmss

luke castellan x poseidon!reader by @apollos-calliope

oh he looks so cute, wrapped around my finger! by @moneyndior

perk by @veryberryjelly

romeo meets juliet by @kafkasmuses

silver springs by @girlkisser13

something out of my dreams by @celesterayel

Sweetheart by @leafleaf

take a chance with me by @krkiiz

the clearing by @angelicdanvers

The Dare by @strawberries-and-summer-days

The Olive Theory by @neo-nomatrix

treat me like a fool by @moneyndior

true luck’s kiss by @atlabeth

what’s a girl gonna do when she’s in love with you? by @emiliehornby

when you get me alone, it’s so simple by @emiliehornby

series & multi-parts

all-american bitch by @cobrakaisb

dancing with our hands tied by @xspeter

everything in between by @fawnindawn

feigning for ya’ by @amoreva

he’s not just a man, mom by @brodieland

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.