rosaeh

[rosaeh]

girl dad jason how i love you and you wrote it so perfectly once again🙇‍♀️

JASON TODD as a father—to a girl. 

he’s not the kind to be a performative girl dad. he’s not the dad who coddles her purely based on gender, hell no. he respects her, because she’s a person. one he helped make. one he’d level the earth for. jason is not the dad who does it for show. what he does do it for—her, and her mom. the people he loves. the girls who matter.

he’s the kind of dad that learns, actually and practically. he does her hair with the practiced precision of a man who uses a gun more than hair ties, but it always comes out perfect. jason todd is not the kind of man that would half-ass his own kids’ hair. he learns how to speak softer, even when he’s mad. even when she ruins his last good pair of gloves with glue and stickers. when she draws on his case files. sticks smiley face stickers on his helmet. uses his body like a jungle gym when he’s sore from patrol. he never stops her. not once.

she makes him softer, but never weak. just…clearer. sharper in the ways that matter. more deliberate with his time. with his words. with his hands.

he doesn’t shout unless something’s on fire. he doesn’t punish emotion, hers or his. when she loses it in the cereal aisle, he doesn’t walk away. he kneels. breathes with her. says, “hey, we’ll figure it out.” until they do. 

he knows how to sit on the floor with her, knees cracking and all, and listen to her talk about things he doesn’t fully understand—schoolyard drama, cartoons about friendship, the difference between mermaids, naiads, and sirens. 

he listens like it’s gospel, because it’s her voice saying it, so it is. because she’s excited to tell him. because he never wants to be the reason she stops sharing.

jason learns how to handle being scared again. not the kind of fear he knows—bullets or shadows or defeat—but the kind that creeps in quietly when she coughs too hard, or when she doesn’t answer right away, or when she starts growing up and away from him.

he learns that fatherhood isn’t about protecting her from everything, it’s just about showing up, over and over, even when he’s tired or guilty or convinced he’ll fail.

he’s not overly sentimental, but he keeps every note she leaves in his nightstand drawer. he lets her doodle in the margins of his favorite books, right beside her mother’s inscriptions and notes. he’s not sappy, but he is loving. always.

jason doesn’t do bedtime stories in the traditional sense. he tells her toned-down versions of fairy tales with his own twists, where the princess saves herself and her best friend is a motorcycle, and there are no love interests aside from a man and woman eerily similar to him and her mother.

he learns how to apologize, too—when he’s too short with her, when his temper flares and her’s does too, when he sees a flash of the old him in her stubborn little frown. he says sorry and he means it, because he never wants her to grow up thinking love comes with sharp edges.

he’s not soft. but for her, he is safe. secure.

and that’s better.

˖ ࣪ ⊹ writer's note | this was a request and i just had to. so here, my thoughts on girl dad!jason. i love him. most of this is based off of how he was as robin (staunch based feminist jaybin save us) !!

if you liked this lmk with a reblog and/or comment <3

[rosaeh]

im in love💋

smoke break

[rosaeh]

how i love domestic jason ☹️ my heart is melting 🫶

not because he didn't care, but because to him anything with you was special.

nothing ft. jason todd

“𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐈 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐈’𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄?”

two pairs of shoes sat slumped against the walls of your new apartment - black worn out leather boots dwarfed your own shoes, which sat quaint next to his. if jason bought anything, it'd always be for two - like now, how he came bearing snacks and mugs; well the matching mugs were really dick's idea. the scent of home wafted around your living room, making itself familiar with every unfamiliar crevice to kiss them with dust.

the tv illuminated the near-empty room, save for your figure laying sloth across the sofa trying to figure out what movie to watch. he shuffled towards the kitchen quietly, before coming around to collapse beside you. your home was painted in different shades of you and jason, from the sofa you had picked out to the kitchenware he had chosen, and it was all so painstakingly you.

“hey.” he murmured soft, shifting closer to you, hand gently nudging your head down to rest on his shoulder. “what're we watching?” eyes flitting towards the bright screen.

“trying to figure that out myself, actually,” your lips pursing as you compared the movies available to you. maybe you could watch the notebook again, last time the two of you watched it you caught a single tear falling from jason's eyes.

“why don't you just pick that one?” he asked, nodding his head towards some random hallmark movie.

“because this our first movie in our new place - it should be special.” you contended, a slight pout of frustration making its way onto your face.

“mhm.” he agreed absentmindedly, going along with whatever you were saying. jason wasn't too concerned about the movie you'd end up watching tonight, not because he didn't care but because to him anything with you was special.

“you're not worried about this at all?” you questioned, you didn't expect him to be as concerned as you were, to be honest, jason was the more level-headed out of the two of you anyways.

“i dunno, i just think this is pretty special.” domestic was more the word for it - there was something special to him about doing menial acts of labour at home with you, whether it was carrying moving boxes, doing dishes or just sitting around like you were right now - to him, there was nothing like doing nothing with you.

“you're so sappy, jay.” you teased, raising a fingertip to probe at his cheek which he retaliated by tugging your hand to kiss the palm of your hand.

“right, i'm the sappy one. weren't you just picking out a 'special' movie?” he derided, causing you to huff in amusement.

“i'm sentimental - there's a difference; and don't think i didn't see those matching mugs.” you retorted, bringing his arm back to wrap around you.

“yeah, yeah, whatever - they were dick's idea.” he attempted to justify - he couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face, like this was everything he'd ever needed.

“what?” you quizzed, spying the look of content on his face.

“nothing.” he murmured, tugging you closer.

“𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔.”

sorry for no fic yesterday i had to go to war ( a dinner) but i hope u like this YAYYAA i love domesticity so much yayyayaay this is really short though </3 also the tim fic i started is literally rotting in my drafts send help

totally unrelated but i love mugs so much i think theyre so fun

THATS ALL BYE HOPE U ENJOYED IT 😛😛🩷

[rosaeh]

OH MY GOD, i loved this😫😫

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS ~ JASON TODD

Jason Todd is the unnaturally attractive TA in your college class. Your really hot TA that just found out you’ve been selling essays to your classmates

Contrary to what the majority of your English module thinks, writing an essay is really not that hard.

It just isn’t. You’ve written them at three in the morning with zero hours of sleep, in libraries, in bed. Even on the toilet on a particularly gruelling deadline. Everyone has those things they’re just good at, and yours has always been anything English related. Novels, poetry, sonnets. It’s partly why you’d even chosen this extra module for the year. You had an extra space to fill and you knew it wouldn’t impede on any work for your degree. It's an added plus that you enjoy it as much as you do, and an extra added plus that you’re earning money for it.

Maybe it's unethical to prey on the lesser-minded people in your class. It’s definitely an interesting discussion on the laziness that plagues Gotham College, but you’re not one to complain about it. At least it's you writing it, a human, and not some AI website that will single-handedly destroy the environment. You’re doing the world a service, if anything. And you only charge fifteen dollars per essay, which isn't bad. You do have some rules when it comes to writing. For example, you only will write four essays per coursework submission, mainly because there's only so many points you can make without just repeating yourself. So if the students decide they want to bid against who those five essays will go to, that’s not exactly your fault. Some of the more difficult assignments really gets the ball rolling. You guess an empty bank account is better than failing.

It’s all good fun until you get caught.

It’s not the professor that catches you. Mr Owen is a sweet man, and you think that even if he did realise what you were doing, he wouldn't have the heart to tell you off for it. He’d probably just be happy one of his students was having so much fun in class that she was doing other people's work. No, instead, it’s his highest graded ex-student, now TA, Jason Todd.

Jason is only three years older than you, having graduated last year, and was now helping out Mr Owen. You’re sure it’s for experience, or to fill up his CV for some work experience, but you don’t complain. The few classes he teaches every few weeks have been great. He’s  good. Really good, actually, which he’s surprising because the first time you saw him you’d thought he might’ve mistaken the lecture hall for the bodybuilding classes on the third floor.

Jason is entirely too attractive to just be a TA. You’ve, embarrassingly, scoured every modelling agency in Gotham you could find, because there is no way somebody who looks like that would just slum it in an Intro to English class. The defined lines of his chest and arms you can see over the button-ups he wears to class, the perfect poster-boy hair that always falls just right over his face. And you’ve heard the rumours about his motorcycle, which adds about ten points to his overall attractiveness. You’ve never seen Jason smile once, always looking over the class with that bored expression over his pretty face. He’s situated right next to Mr Owen at the front, his own desk that’s always cluttered with papers and pens.

You have no idea how he caught you. There are only about forty students in the module but still. You’re careful with what you write, making all your work different enough from the exemplary essays you hand in under your name that you were sure nobody would ever find out. Until, of course, Mr Owen is handing back your most recent submissions, and you find a sticky note tapped to the back of yours. Your brows furrow, confused, and you peel it off carefully to read it.

“You made the same point about Angelou’s simplicity in three different essays. If you’re going to keep writing them for half the class, don’t get sloppy.”

Your face heats almost immediately, your stomach sinking with a horrible feeling. You stuff the note under your paper, eyes immediately darting to where Mr Owen is still handing out the papers. But he’s not looking at you like he’s about to report you to the student board. He’s just rambling on about the new poet you’d all be looking at. He doesn't even look in your direction once he’s walked off. And when you consult the note again, you find that the handwriting looks nothing like his almost illegible scrawl. This is blocky and neat, and you feel that same swooping feeling in your gut when you realise who’s handwriting it is. 

And sure enough, when you do look up, Jason Todd is looking back at you with the smallest (and first) smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

You start praying that some impromptu tsunami will burst through the windows of the hall and whisk you away. It’s just your luck that the one time you want Gotham to deliver one of its life threatening incidents, the world outside is calm, the sun bright with mid-day light and the campus buzzing with students. You are decidedly not looking in Jason’s direction. You can live the rest of your life without seeing that smug look on his face again. 

You sort of feel like you’re about to throw up from nerves, but there’s something worse than the threat of expulsion bothering you; his stupid little comment. You’re not sloppy. He’s got some nerve calling you that. You’d love to see him come up with five different essays on the same fifteen line poem. Hell, you’d settle for three. 

You fidget uncomfortably for the next ten minutes. The room feels hotter all of a sudden, and you tug at the collar of your sweater. You don’t even know what to do. Will Jason report you? Or just keep leaving passive aggressive notes all over your essays? Your sloppy essays. Surely Owen will catch on, and then god knows what will happen.

Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall and you see that you only have twenty minutes left. You can definitely make it through without any incidents. And then you can run out of the classroom before Jason Todd can even look your way. It’s fine. Fine. 

Your thoughts are interrupted as Jason suddenly stands. He’s tall too, and when he takes the two boxes from Mr Owen’s frail hands your eyes don’t miss the way his arm flexes beneath today's light blue button up. 

“Thank you, Jason. Just to my office, please.” He nods, pointing to the other two boxes on the floor. “Feel free to take someone with you.” Mr Owen gestures vaguely towards you and the others sitting in the room.

You hear movement behind you and you can only imagine everyone sitting eagerly in their chairs to be picked by the hot TA. You, on the other hand, are very content in staring really hard at the table in front of you and avoiding all forms of eye contact, which is harder since you’re sitting in the front row. It works, for about ten seconds, before a loud thud jolts you, an embarrassing noise escapes your throat. 

“Do you mind?” Jason’s voice is deep and low, a lilt of Jersey accent curling around the syllables.

You could say no. But he knows what you’re doing and the way he’s looking at you with his hands braced on the desk is kind of intimidating.

You nod, getting up with little grace. You nearly trip as you round the desk, and quickly grab the two boxes. Jason holds the door open for you with one hand and carries the last two boxes with the other. He’s definitely showing off. But whatever. The walk to Mr Owen’s office takes about seven minutes. So fourteen there and back and then however long it takes to dump the boxes in his room and leave. You can do that. 

You’re not even sure why he asked you to do this. There were about fifteen willing people almost falling out of their seats to help him. And you were definitely not one of them.

Your trainers squeak against the tiled floor, and your hands are starting to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The boxes are heavy, and you try and readjust them to ease the pain a little.

“You alright there?” Jason speaks up besides you.

You glance at him from and find that he’s looking back with an amused expression on his face. Of course he’s not struggling. You’re sure those biceps could carry about six boxes all on their own.

“Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is clipped and sharp, and he bites back a smirk.

The two of you fall back into silence. Not for long though, because that smooth voice carries out across the empty corridor again.

“Your essay was good.” 

Your face feels hot again. This time when you reply, you keep your gaze firmly away from him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s very refreshing to see such original work.”

Oh, what a prick. 

“I mean, most of your class, it’s the same regurgitated ideas.” You only hum in response, and it doesn’t deter him.

“Honestly, it’s just sloppy. But I-“

“My work is not sloppy!” You nearly yell, turning to him quickly.

Jason’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly schools his expression to something a little satisfied, that makes your irritation spike more. It’s maybe what he wants, and it’s definitely inappropriate, but you’ve never been very good at concealing your emotions.

“I’d like to see you write five different essays on the same topic for only fifteen bucks a paper. And on Mary Angelou no less! That poem was fifteen lines long!” You scowl, shuffling the boxes in your arms again. “There is only so much that I can say. And I don’t think my points were very sloppy.”

You two have stopped in the corridor now, and Jason looks completely unbothered by the boxes you two are lugging about, while you are ignoring the burn in your biceps.

“Fifteen bucks a paper?” 

You pause a little. You’re surprised that’s all he had to take from your outburst. You feel a little silly for yelling, and your voice comes out quiet when you speak again.

“Sometimes more. There’s a bit of a betting pool going around.”

He snorts, and it’s strange seeing it on his usually stoic face. “What’s the highest you’ve charged?”

“Thirty five. It was for the one on Finnegans wake.”

Jason laughs properly at that, and you can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips. He continues walking and you follow after him. But only after hesitating for a little.

“That’s not half bad. Good money for a college student.”

You scoff. “It’s great money. Takes me a few hours to cough out the essays and I get a minimum of sixty every time.”

Jason only nods in a way you think might be impressed. Luckily, you finally reach the office, and he holds the door open for the two of you. You quickly walk in, the boxes landing on Owen’s desk with a heavy thud. You huff, rubbing your hands on the rough material of your jeans and squeezing them to get your blood flowing. You lean against the wall as you watch Jason flit about the room, shoving the boxes in the far corner and grabbing some papers from his desk. He doesn’t say anything while he does it, and it causes the nerves stuttering in your chest to increase. 

You bite at your lip. “You- You’re not going to tell Owen, right?” 

Jason looks up from where he’s rifling through one of the desk drawers. He fixes you with a steady gaze, tilting his head just slightly.

“I probably should. But I won't.”

You visibly relax, exhaling heavily. “Really? Why not?”

“Half the people in your class are just here to fill an empty class. People like you are actually good at what they do.”

Jason seems to find what he’s looking for, sliding the papers under his arm as he shuts the drawer with a click. “Letting you carry on this little side hustle means I get to read actually interesting work. Even if they are getting sloppier.”

You glare at him and he smirks, walking over to open the door once more. You don’t leave just yet. 

“You can’t call me good and sloppy in the same breath.”

“I think I just did.” 

You huff. “Fine. You’ll see. The next four essays won’t be sloppy.” 

God. You could live the rest of your life without ever hearing that word again.

———

You and Jason develop a little system.

You find out, after meticulous analysis over some of your friends papers, that all the essays are graded by Jason. It’s all in that same familiar scrawl, and after some not so subtle staring after a submission day, you see Mr Owen dumping all of the classes’ work on Jason’s desk. So you feel a bit of relief at not being caught and expelled.

It’s after your little interaction in the office that you start to find even more post-it-notes taped to the back of your paper. And it’s names. Names of all the papers you’ve written, which Jason seems to always find with alarming accuracy. The notes he leaves in the margins of your own works start to feel less like the professional scrawl you're used to, but a little more teasing.

“Excellent point. Johnson’s essay had one alarmingly similar.”

“You use ‘ergo’ a lot.”

“I agree. Patterson is overrated.”

You act like you hate it. Sigh and roll your eyes when you feel his heavy gaze from the front of the room when you’re being given feedback. Your seat is almost perfectly aligned with his desk so it’s hard to miss. When you’re daydreaming during the especially long lectures, and your eyes trail over to him, and sometimes you catch him looking back. 

Some days, while you’re leaving class, you linger by his desk, and the two of you talk. At first, you were just insulting the copy of War and Peace on his desk. You’d called him performative and he called you annoying. But you two talk more as the days go by, sometimes not about English, but about each other.

It’s fine. This is just- Actually, you don’t really know what this is. You don’t think it’s not allowed, college wise. He’s only three years older than you, and he’s technically not actually your teacher, so it’s not completely weird if you’re developing a little crush on him. 

But you don’t act on it. You never do, because there’s a distance between the two of you you’re both too nervous to cross. You don’t know how much of this is just for fun, and you’re not about to embarrass yourself by assuming anything further.

But things change one day.

Mr Owen is out sick, and so Jason is in charge of the lecture. The room is immediately more awake, everyone sitting on the edge of their seat to witness Jason in action. He usually sits back for Owen’s lectures, more focused on observing the class or typing whatever he does on his laptop. The lessons he runs are far and few between, so everyone is excited to see his teaching methods in action again. 

Or just to see him. There’s a lot of girls you don’t normally see so close to the front sitting in the same row as you. You’re sure it has something to do with the email Owen had sent last night warning about his absence.

“So. Who actually read The Wasp Factory?” He asks, hands holding him up on Owen’s desk. He’s wearing a white shirt, and the material stretches over the hard lines of his arms. 

There’s a bout of movement across the room, and you watch the girl sitting two seats next to you almost shoot out of her chair with how fast she sticks her hand up. Her lips are glossy and sticky, her shirt unbuttoned a little too low. Personally, you think it’s a little overkill, but Jason eyes land on her out of all the other eager-to-please students, so maybe she’s doing something right. 

“You’ve read the first five chapters, right?” He asks, and she smiles brightly.

“Yes, sir.” 

Jason nods. “Would you consider Frank a reliable narrator?”

It’s an easy question. Even your best customers can answer that. The girl seems to think the same, but just as her mouth opens to respond, Jason keeps talking.

“Frank demonstrates a vivid and unusual imagination from the beginning, and we know that his father is part of the reason. Frank even believes his own father, the source of all his education, to be unreliable with the information he provides him. Do you think both of them could be considered as unreliable narrators, or does the blame fall on the narrator we see, Frank?”

He doesn’t stop for breath once, words coming out untainted and smooth. The girl stammers a little, mouth opening. Jason’s face is expressionless. The room is quiet for a beat too long, and your face creases, cringing a little.

“Today would be nice.” You mumble under your breath.

Well. At least you thought it was under your breath. But it actually was loud enough that both the girl and Jason heard you. You watch his lips twitch with a barely concealed smile, and the girl turns to glare at you. Your face heats, guilt seeping into your skin. You really hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, and she doesn’t take the apologetic look you give her very seriously.

“Bitch.” She says, and Jason holds up his hand.

“No, since she’s so eager to talk, maybe she can try to answer my question.”

It’s a challenge. Careful brown eyes study you and you straighten slightly under his attention, aware of the rest of your class also looking your way.

“Well. I think that both Frank and his father are unreliable narrators, but in a different sense. I think as a reader, it’s obvious that Frank is going through a personal crisis because of Eric’s arrival, and his invasion of this world Franks created for himself leads to a personal crisis, which lets us finally see the truth he hides from us. His father, while not actively lying to the reader, spends Frank’s entire life lying to him, and so inadvertently lying to us. So I think that they’re both to blame. Sir.”

You tack on the honorific at the end for fun, and maybe to poke fun at the girl next to you. Maybe you really were a bitch, but there's a weird curl of jealousy settling in your chest that you can’t really explain, and it’s making you act like an idiot. Jason raises one eyebrow, just for a second, before he nods.

“Good work.” He lingers for just a second too long, staring right at you, before he turns to the rest of the room. “Now, what do we think the wasp factory actually symbolised?”

The rest of the lecture goes by uneventfully. You keep to yourself, doodling on the corner of your notebook, staring at Jason when he’s not looking your way. Teaching is a good look for him, you think. He’s good at holding the class's attention, and the matter-of-fact way he talks to you makes it feel more like a conversation than a lecture. When it comes time to pack up, you linger a little, avoiding the gaze of your new friend as she practically storms out the hall. The room is nearly empty when you make your way around the table, but before you can walk out, your name is called. By Jason, no less. 

You head darts towards where he's seated at his desk. “Yes?” 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” He fiddles with a pen in one hand, twirling it between his fingers.

You nod, hand tightening over your backpack strap. “Yeah, sure.”

When you make your way to the front of his desk, he slides over a leaflet to you. You begin reading it, but he explains what it is anyway. 

“I’ve got this conference tomorrow. Well, it’s more like a community thing. Free classes for upcoming students to see what the course and university is like so that they’ll sign up for it next year.” 

You glance up at him. “I’m already a student, if you couldn’t tell.”

He hums. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

You think it’s best for you not to dwell too much on that statement, and the teasing lilt of his voice. “I mean, would you be interested in coming down and helping out?”

Your finger pauses where it's hovering over the corner of the leaflet. “Me?”

Jason leans back in his desk chair. At some point in the lecture he’d unbuttoned his sleeves, and the fabric was folded up messily up by his elbows. His arms lean on the armrest and you will yourself to look up at his face. His hair is curlier than when he’d come in, the humidity frizzing it up and making it look ruffled, but you think it’s cute.

“You’re intelligent. Very intelligent, and one of the best students in this class.” He speaks with such conviction, and your face heats at the compliments.

“Owen can’t make it and I’d like to have a student there for the people coming to talk to. Might be easier to talk to a pretty face like yours instead of mine.”

Jason thinks you’re pretty. What a great day today has been.

You slip the leaflet back on his desk. “I’d love to. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. Maybe just a book if you want to seem smart.”

It’s not a date. It’s really not. So there is no reason for you to be as happy as you are, or for you to be smiling as much as you are. You adjust your backpack once more. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Todd.”

He winces at the name, waving you off. “Please. Just call me Jason. We’re practically the same age.”

“Really?” You muse. “It feels a little unprofessional to just call you Jason.”

Jason’s tongue poke the side of his cheek, a smile curling against his lips. “You know, you might be right. You wanna call me sir again?”

Your face burns and you laugh a little nervously. “No, no, Jason is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You quickly walk out, desperate to get away from that teasing face.

—

It feels weird coming into college on a Saturday. The halls are crowded with fresh faces, all beaming with excitement and hands full of the college freebies. There's stalls set up outside the classroom doors, with what you assume is other student volunteers smiling behind them. That’s probably what Jason wants you to do today. He hadn’t given you much information, but you’ve come in eager all the same. You weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as you make your way to Owen’s room. It’s empty, apart from a few of the students who have showed up early, and you immediately spot Jason at the front of the room.

He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his chest, and a sleek pair of trousers held up with a fancy sort of belt. Jason looks good. You think he’s dressed up a little more than usual, but you can’t judge him too much because you are too. It’s nothing too special, just a nice button up and jeans. It’s a big step up from the usual lumpy sweaters you come in with. It makes sense, though. This isn’t the same class of students he sees three times a week, but instead people he actually has to make a good impression for.

You just stare at him for a few seconds, still standing by the front door and clutching the strap of your bag. He looks up suddenly, and a small smile graces his lips at the sight of you.

“You came.” He makes his way around the desk and stops in front of you. 

Jason’s taller up close. And he smells good. Something spicy and crisp.

“Of course.” You gesture behind you. “Do you want me to set up one of those stalls outside?”

He makes a face. “Oh, no. You’ll be in here with me.”

His hand meets the small of your back as he leads you to his desk. You ignore the warmth that spreads over your skin at the contact, and dump your back beneath it. You sit down on his chair and spin yourself around.

“So this is what you see during all the lectures.” You ponder, fiddling with his penholder. 

Jason huffs a laugh. He leans against Owen’s desk, and he studies you. “You look nice.”

Your eyes dart up to his, red dusting your cheeks. The compliment is barely a thing, but you feel flustered none the less. “Oh. Thank you.”

Jason moves on quickly. “So. The whole point of today is to give these guys a taster of what these classes are like if they were to sign up when they’re enrolled. I won’t need your help with the lessons per say, but since you’re a second year and you’ve been an eager student all year, you’re here if they need to ask anything.”

You nod. “Am I supposed to chat you and Owen up to them?”

He laughs. “Well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t need to. You like the class enough that you write five essays at once for it.”

You glare at him as he smiles cheekily. When you turn to the room, you find it’s been slowly filling up while you’ve been talking, people quickly taking up the seats. It feels different from up here, all their faces trained on the two of you, and Jason watches you carefully.

“Nervous?” He asks.

“No. If you can do it then this will be a breeze.”

It sort of is a breeze. The first half is just like your lessons, and he’s found a short poem to go through with the class. It’s the same type of engaging content he keeps you all hooked with, and you watch the students eat it all up. Sometimes, when there’s a particularly stupid comment made, he glances at you slightly, like it's a private joke between you two. 

The second half is more for questions, and you’re surprised how many people want to talk to you. It’s a mix of high-school students and people starting next year, all queued up in front of the desk. They ask you about campus, the student accommodations. Some of them ask about your major and your studies, and some about Owen and Jason.

You’re well aware that he’s sitting quite close to you, but even if he wasn’t, your response would be the same. You sing his praises, complimenting his teaching methods and feedback. You tell them he’s a great TA and you’re sure that when he commandeers his own classes you’ll be in the front seat. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze from where he’s sat beside you.

The class was coming to a close, and most people had left. The majority of the students had prepared their questions, so you get through them quickly. This guy, however, seemed intent on wasting your time. He was one of the upcoming first years, and he was leaning incredibly close to talk to you. You’re not stupid enough to not realise when someone’s flirting with you, and you smile weakly, a little nervous to tell him you aren’t interested. 

“You know, maybe if I get your number I could text you any other questions I have.” He grins and you laugh weakly.

“Look, I-“

“You can direct them to me.” 

You didn’t even realise Jason coming up behind you, and his presence is sudden, hands resting on the back of your chair.

“My name should be in the college directory, which is available online.” 

His tone is clipped, and the boy in front of you doesn’t look too happy at his words. You don’t really care though, because Jason’s fingers brush against your shoulders and the contact keeps you distracted.

Jason and this guy are doing some weird alpha male thing in front of you, and you let it play out. The boy loses, and walks out, despite still looking a little agitated at the rejection. The rest of the room quickly clears up after, and then it’s just you and Jason. 

You sigh, stretching a little. “Well. I think that went well. Do you-“

Your words trail off, because the second the last person is out, Jason strides towards the door and locks it. Your mouth snaps shut as he does so, a flutter of something curling in your chest. He walks back over, this time stopping in front of you. You’re separated by the desk, and you wish he would’ve just come stand with you. The chair is soft beneath you, and your hand grips the soft fabric. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. Just when you go to ask him if he’s okay, he begins speaking.

“Why do you think student-teacher relationships are such a popular trope in romantic literature?”

Oh. So maybe you aren’t the only one who’s been feeling the tension between the two of you. He asks the questions with the same air he asks questions in class, so you don’t hesitate to reply.

“I think it’s the power dynamics, and also the forbiddeness of it all. The taboo. It’s interesting to see people make the risky decision of being together knowing the consequences if they’re caught.”

He nods. He walks around slowly, and you turn in your chair so you’re facing one another. You have to look up to see him clearly, and you wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart is beating.

“I think people also like the desperation. The student has some sort of emotional relationship with the mentor, so.” Jason steps closer and you're surprised you’re even able to speak with this proximity. 

“They’re just eager to please in any way they can.” You finish, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

Jason hums. His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. When you don’t push him off, it trails up, ghosting over your neck to settle on your chin, fingers gentle as they raise your eyes to look up at him properly.

“Is that you?” He murmurs. “Are you eager to please me?”

It feels like more than just a question. It feels like he’s asking for permission. 

The more logical part of your brain tells you that this is probably stupid. He’s not your teacher, technically, but there’s probably some regulations about a TA and a student going any further than just that. 

But unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the less reasonable part of your brain seems to be louder. At some point during the lesson, he’d undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and his hand is curving against your jaw, and you wonder what it would feel like for them to touch other parts of your body. Jason always looks good, but right now he’s looking at you like it’s taking every fiber of his being not to do something reckless.  And honestly, you feel like you’ve done enough eye-fucking during class. You deserve this, really.

Your answer slips from your lips before you can really stop it. “Yes.”

He drags you to your feet, pressing you against the wall behind you two, the chair rolling and crashing into something you can't see. His eyes bore into yours, bright and a mosaic of blues you never really noticed. But you’ve never been this close to him before, one breath away from kissing.

Jason swallows roughly and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob. “We shouldn’t be doing this, you know.” 

His hand is warm where it grips your jaw. “The taboo, remember? That’s what makes this so hot.” You try to sound teasing but you just sound breathless. Desperate.

His lips twitch into a smile, and he hums. “Do you wanna be good for me?” 

You nod quickly, and in one swift motion he’s capturing your lips on his own. They move against yours steadily, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and push you against him harder. He tastes like the mints he leaves on his desk, and you sigh, heat coiling in your gut. Your arms trail up to drape around his shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You whimper in the back of your throat as his teeth graze your bottom lip, his tongue deepening the kiss. Jason presses a knee between your legs, and your hand in his hair tightens. He groans, breaking the kiss, his breath as heavy as yours. His nose bumps the side of your face, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How did you know I liked you?” You ask, hands sliding down the smooth material of his shirt.

“It’s hard to miss you ogling me every lesson. Your seat is practically right in front of my desk.” He mumbles against your skin, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses down your jaw. 

You frown. “You ogle too. Don’t think I missed that.” You quip and he huffs a laugh. 

“So bratty.” He sighs. Jason looks down at you, eyes shining, and brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

“Let me take you out.” He suddenly says.

His lips are glossy from kissing you, and there’s a dusting of red over his cheeks and the tips of his ears. This close you can see a scar that runs down his sharp jaw, and smattering of freckles on his forehead. You’re not sure how you and your grandpa sweaters have landed a man like this.

“Really?” You sound a little in awe and he laughs.

“Yes, really. As much as I’d like to bend you over my desk, I think you deserve much better than that.”

“You- Well, yeah.” You nod, not trusting what else might come out of your mouth.

Jason presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “There’s always next time, though.”

guys i have a Jason Todd itch.. watching the superman movie has put me in a dc mood!! And also someone requested college Jason and idk if this counts but.. lowkey teacher x student is kinda lengers to me

ANYWYA Hope u all enjoyed!

[rosaeh]

but God forbid jason hears about this. because as much as he loves the idea of you trusting him so much, he doesn't think you should. not that he'll ever even think of hurting you. he'd shot himself before that'd happen. but it scares him. the knowledge that youre willing to put your life in his hands.

it's even worse if you don't know he is red hood yet. would you still think he has a good soul if youd know? would the unwashable blood on his hands taint your vision of him? would you still trust him if you knew he had killed many ? — yes you would.

a good soul. he died. does he even have a soul anymore? how can you think of him as trustworthy already? you trust him so much, and he's not even telling you all the truth yet. he feels like he is abusing your trust. jason feels like you shouldn't. really. he'll only brought you pain, no matter how much he cares about you.

but he'll do his best. his best to be worthy of your trust. because in the end, his care and love for you overshadow his constant fear of not being good enough for you.

your friends don't understand how you can trust this guy so much already. it's been like two weeks of you knowing each others, and you constantly yapping about him. "he has a good soul" you say when they ask you about it.

"he seems intimidating the way you described him." you ponder this sentence, take your time to think about it. is jason intimidating? "i guess he could be. but i saw mean men, tall and tough. they were intimidating. they scared me." you pause, "jason's taller, he's tougher, he could be meaner. but he is not. he has a good soul...i can't explain it, but he really does. there's a really reassuring side to him, that make me feel safe."

"so you trust him?"

you smile at the question, "as weird as it may sound, i think i really does. with my life. i'd leave him alone with my drink, i'd let him wrap his hand around my neck. i know he wouldn't do anything to hurt me."

your friends can't understand. really they can't. they even start thinking you're under some sort of charm. but you just smile. because you know him already. and you can't wait for them to meet him, and see what you see in him. you hope they'll see it too. but even if they don't, that's fine.

because you see it.

[rosaeh]

your friends don't understand how you can trust this guy so much already. it's been like two weeks of you knowing each others, and you constantly yapping about him. "he has a good soul" you say when they ask you about it.

"he seems intimidating the way you described him." you ponder this sentence, take your time to think about it. is jason intimidating? "i guess he could be. but i saw mean men, tall and tough. they were intimidating. they scared me." you pause, "jason's taller, he's tougher, he could be meaner. but he is not. he has a good soul...i can't explain it, but he really does. there's a really reassuring side to him, that make me feel safe."

"so you trust him?"

you smile at the question, "as weird as it may sound, i think i really does. with my life. i'd leave him alone with my drink, i'd let him wrap his hand around my neck. i know he wouldn't do anything to hurt me."

your friends can't understand. really they can't. they even start thinking you're under some sort of charm. but you just smile. because you know him already. and you can't wait for them to meet him, and see what you see in him. you hope they'll see it too. but even if they don't, that's fine.

because you see it.

[rosaeh]

😋😋😋

keep seeing barrage from cod edits on tiktok (i dont know anything about him) and this is exactly how i envision jason's body type

i see him everywhere i fear😞

upon doing my research...well YESSSSSSSSSSS good LAWD

[rosaeh]

something about girl dad jason makes me melt each times😫

“Ultimate Husband. Ultimate Girl Dad.” || Jason Todd ||

A/n: i love Jason

The world knew Jason Todd as the brooding, gun-wielding vigilante who didn’t play by the rules. Gotham’s Red Hood. Ruthless, relentless. The guy who once came back from the dead and made Hell look like it owed him rent.

But at home?

At home, he was someone else entirely.

He was barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless with a pair of low-slung sweats, a sleepy smile on his face as he danced your baby girl around the stove while cooking pancakes.

“Is she helping?” you teased from the doorway, rubbing your swollen belly—another little girl on the way.

Jason turned, his hair tousled and eyes crinkled from a rare night of sleep. “Of course,” he said with mock seriousness. “She’s my sous chef. Aren’t you, peanut?”

Your toddler, with her jet-black curls and Jason’s piercing blue eyes, nodded solemnly from her perch on his hip. “I mix,” she announced proudly, holding up a dripping whisk.

“Mix?” you echoed, eyebrows raised. “Or taste-test?”

Jason smirked, leaning in to kiss your temple. “We’re multitasking.”

Jason Todd: Girl Dad Moments™

• He lets your daughter paint his nails pink while pretending to hate it, but will glare at anyone who so much as snickers when he forgets to take it off before a mission. (“You got a problem with ballet slipper pink, Nightwing?”)

• Tea parties? Every damn day. He fits his massive frame into tiny plastic chairs, wears glittery tiaras, and sips invisible tea like it’s whiskey. You once caught him deep in a philosophical conversation with a stuffed unicorn named Sparklebutt.

• He’s the one who cries during princess movies. Blames allergies. You let it slide.

• He teaches her to throw punches and protect her heart. “Anyone makes you cry? Daddy will ruin their credit score and make it look like an accident.”

As a Husband?

Jason is fiercely devoted. Protective in that quiet, simmering way that doesn’t always need words. He folds your laundry, rubs your back when the baby kicks too much at night, and memorized all your cravings before you did.

One night, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, he took her out on the balcony and sang old Bruce Springsteen songs under the stars, rocking her until she calmed, unaware that you were standing in the doorway—watching, aching, loving him more than you thought possible.

When you curled up beside him later, he whispered, “I don’t care if they inherit my temper or your sweet tooth. As long as they know they’re loved.”

You smiled against his chest. “They will. Because they’ve got you.”

Bonus:

• He keeps a picture of you and the girls tucked into the lining of his Red Hood helmet. Says it reminds him what he’s fighting for.

• He cries at every birthday. Every one. (“She was just born like five seconds ago, babe.”)

• He still calls you “sweetheart” in that gruff, gravelly voice like you’re the only thing grounding him to this world.

Jason Todd may have been born in Gotham’s gutter and risen through fire and fury.

But with you?

With your girls?

He was home.

And that—that was his greatest victory.

[rosaeh]

mutual pining simply never misses. the yearning. the stupidity. the desperation while also thinking themselves alone with it. the rattling relief at the revelation. the way it works in so many scenarios— friends to lovers? a banger every time. casual hook-ups/friends with benefits while they both want more? show-stopping, spectacular, incredible. enemies who are so deep in denial it just makes them madder at each other? utterly unmatched every single time. slow burn, fast burn, burning while already fucking. mutual pining really just is that girl like truly who does it like her

[rosaeh]

[rosaeh]

"youre the reason i bother staying alive most days" 😫😫

olivia !!!! you really did not disappoint, this was everything 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

ALL THIS TIME I'M THINKING—WE COULD NEVER BE A PAIR

₊ ⊹ JASON TODD

wc 1.1k | based on this thought i had, situationship!jason...kinda, lowercase intended, female coded!reader, cursing, miscommunication trope (shock and horror), and reader being in her head abt her love life 🎧ྀི

you don’t know how long it’s been going on—this thing with JASON TODD.

you could count it beginning from the first time he kissed you, sure. could say it started the second he got you into his bed and fucked you like you were the only real truth in the world. or maybe the night he showed up with a busted elbow and collapsed into your bed without a word. you could make a moment out of how he left his toothbrush at your apartment—right beside your own. you could let yourself care about the top drawer he quietly claimed within your dresser.

you could trick yourself into platitude by the fact that you’ve memorized his gait, his moods, the way his voice drops when he’s tired or trying to say something he can’t quite let out.

but you still don’t know when this started. or what it is.

and the worst part? you’re not even sure if he’d care if it stopped.

that’s what eats at you—what gnaws at your mental stability.

because he doesn’t say things. not out loud. not the important things.

he touches you like you’re his, but he doesn't call you that. not really.

you’ve had your hands rubbing circles in his back while he shook in his sleep. you’ve sat in the bathroom at four in the morning while he bled into a towel, refusing to go to the hospital. you’ve kissed him slow, and hard, and desperate. he’s kissed you back like he meant it, like he needed it every time.

but none of it means anything without words—and he doesn’t give you those.

so you spiral. quietly.

the doubt and miscommunication builds in the spaces between things. the things left unsaid and unnamed.

like when he leaves without saying when he’ll be back. when he texts you something funny (sardonic, always) but doesn’t respond for hours after. when he’s quiet in the way only he can be—shut down, unreadable, impossible to reach unless you don’t make it a big deal, even when it is.

you try not to take it personally. you remind yourself of the things he does do.

he fixes shit around your apartment. never asks—just notices and handles it.

he shows up with food when your texts are dry and clipped. helps clean and reset your space when your eyes are a little too tired and heavy.

he sleeps next to you every night he can.

but—when your friends ask what you are to each other, you have nothing to give them.

you shrug. say, “it’s complicated.” change the subject. and every time you say it out loud, it carves a deeper hollow inside you.

because it shouldn’t be. there shouldn’t be complication.

not when you feel it this deep. this often. not after truly getting to see him.

the final crack comes quietly.

you’re at his place. half-asleep. a shitty jason pick of a movie droning in the background. you’re tucked under his arm, cheek pressed to his chest, the steady thump of his heart loud in your ear.

you feel warm. safe even.

he smells like gunpowder and sandalwood soap. there’s motor oil crammed deep into his nail beds. a new cut along his forearm. he’s just back from patrol—shoulders tense, a few fresh bruises—but calmer now. loosened by your weight, your voice, your presence. that’s how it always is with you. he softens without realizing.

your eyes are heavy. you’re fading fast, you always do with him.

and then, out of nowhere, jason speaks, “you should leave a few more things here.”

you blink, “huh?”

he shrugs, huffs a bit, “drawer’s already yours. just makes sense. clothes, hair shit. whatever. i’ve made room.”

you lift your head. search his face.

he’s not looking at you, his eyes are still on the tv. he’s saying it like it’s nothing.

like it doesn’t mean everything.

you nod slowly, “...okay.”

and then, because you can’t help it, you push—just this one time.

“so, what is this to you?” and god help you, your voice sounds too faint. too unsure.

jason finally looks down at you.

his thick brows furrow, expression muddled, “what do you mean?”

“this.” you gesture between you. your body in his arms. his apartment, “us.”

jason doesn’t answer immediately. his jaw flexes. he sits up slightly, the arm around you sliding off, like he needs immediate space to think.

and right there—you feel your stomach sink.

you think, he’s gonna dodge it.

of course he is. this was a mistake. you shouldn’t have asked.

but then he exhales. long. slow.

“you’re mine.” he says simply.

like he’s telling you the weather.

you blink again, “excuse me?”

“you’re my girl,” he repeats, murky cerulean eyes on you now. firm. clear. “that’s what this is.”

you stare at him, “you’ve never said that.”

“i didn’t think i had to.” he gestures, a bit boyish.

his tone isn’t defensive. just…confused. frank.

“you never called me your girlfriend. never said—”

“you didn’t know?” he asks, voice low. “after all this time? after the way i treat you? what the fuck did you think this was?”

you open your mouth. “i didn’t know. you never—jay, you never say anything.”

“i put batteries in your goddamn smoke detector when i know you’ll forget. i check your tire pressure. i keep a med kit under your sink. i carry a picture of you in my helmet. you think i do that for just anyone?”

the silence that falls between you is almost pungent. still and heavy.

“every time i’ve said something like that—something too real…i’ve lost the person right after,” he says, not looking at you. “so no—i didn’t want to say it. i was just sure of it, and i thought you were too.”

“i was—wait, you’re sure?” you whisper.

jason nods,  “i’ve been sure.”

you let out a shaky breath. your throat is tight, “i thought i was in some weird fling. like you didn’t want to say it, so i couldn’t say it either. i thought maybe…maybe i was just you biding time.”

jason’s expression breaks—just barely.

“you’re not a some placeholder,” he says. “you’re the reason i bother staying alive most days.”

and that’s it. that’s all you need to hear.

not because it’s romantic.

because it’s him.

because jason todd doesn’t hand out words like that. doesn’t even think to say them unless they’re real. unless they’re serious. 

unless he’s already built a life around you in his head and just forgot to mention it.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

“okay?”

you slide into his arms again. this time, you hold him like he’s the one about to disappear.

“okay, jason,” you murmur. “but next time, maybe use your words.”

jason huffs a breath that’s barely a laugh, “yeah. workin’ on that.”

he kisses your temple, fingers tightening on your hip.

and for the first time in a long time, you let your mind stop spinning.

a/n: finally posting this and idk it was too good of a trope to waste on a drabble/thought so here—full (tiny) fic !! lmk your thoughts and if you liked it, as always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and encouraged !!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[rosaeh]

nooo not the boyfriend😞😞 the rose thing was so cute☹️ my baby

modern mythology pt. 1

hephaestus! jason todd x aphrodite! reader

hephaestus! jason who is a mechanic and metal worker in gotham. he’s an all around tinkerer, if you have something that’s broken he can fix it.

hephaestus! jason who calls you miss and ma'am with a shy smile when he pulls up to help you on the side of the road because your transmission blew.

hephaestus! jason who offers to tow you back into the city without a second thought even when you insist that the tow truck will only take an hour and you'll be fine.

hephaestus! jason who is more than willing to fix your car for free because "it's just a transmission... and, uh, maybe an oil change too? do you remember the last time you had one?". you do not, in fact, remember the last time you had one.

hephaestus! jason who drops you off at your place and stumbles his way through asking for your number. "uh, hey—so, um, just so i can, y’know… let you know when your car’s ready and everything… i should probably… probably get your number? if that’s okay?"

hephaestus! jason whose ears turn bright red when you hand back his phone with your number in it.

hephaestus! jason who makes sure you get inside your building before driving off.

hephaestus! jason who stares at his phone for a good hour before deciding to text you only to type something and immediately erase it over and over again.

hephaestus! jason who thinks about texting you a thousand times throughout his days and finally settles on sending you a picture of your car, transmission removed, followed by it's jason btw :)

hephaestus! jason who welds you a rose out of scraps of metal around his shop only to realize how forward that might be and immediately chucking it.

hephaestus! jason who, for all his years of working with cars and doing metal work, nearly concusses himself while under your car when he hears your voice over the music in the shop.

hephaestus! jason who becomes so painfully aware of how much of a mess he must look—grease staining his hands, smudged across his worn coveralls, sweat curling his hair and sticking it to his forehead.

hephaestus! jason who was not expecting you at all but is still really happy you decided to stop by. even if he has your car in pieces in front of you.

hephaestus! jason who notices the bakery box in your hand and jokingly asks if those are for him.

hephaestus! jason who feels the way heat creeps up his neck when you say they are, a small thanks from you and your boyfriend for how helpful he's been.

hephaestus! jason whose smile falters at the mention of your boyfriend.

hephaestus! jason who hadn't even thought that maybe you could have a boyfriend.

hephaestus! jason who was sure as shit not expecting said boyfriend to walk into his shop looking like a low budget superman because of course he does.

hephaestus! jason who was raised right so he shakes your boyfriend's hand and exchanges pleasantries, letting your boyfriend know he didn't mind helping you out because it was the right thing to do.

hephaestus! jason who is now very happy he scrapped the rose.

hephaestus! jason who clears his throat, wiping his hands on a rag out of nervous habit and gives you a small polite smile before: “anyway… i should probably, uh, get back to it. lotta work left on your car. i’ll... i’ll shoot you a message when it’s all done. shouldn’t be too long.”

breezy's notes: mentioned this earlier and it has been eating away at my brain for awhile now, so here we are. love hephaestus! jason so bad!

[rosaeh]

jason todd w/ tattoos anybody? full sleeves on his arms that peek out from beneath his sleeves when he takes his jacket off? a full piece on his back and maybe his chest to conceal his scars? anyone? no?

[rosaeh]

girl dad jason for the win ‼️

I just submitted a request for another fix like “I have a grandchild” but what if you did one where Rory(I think that’s the daughters name) did something for Jason for Father’s Day?

Sorry, it took some time, but I hope you like it...

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune 

Jason felt a familiar mattress beneath him. The one that had the faulty bed springs and always groaned when we changed sides, he had to get you a new mattress. It was Sunday, and he had hoped for a lazy morning in bed with you, maybe some cuddles, although he wouldn't dare to tell you that. He took a deep breath while he pulled closer to his body as he usually did, and felt his muscles relax. 

The familiar pitter-patter of tiny feet echoed in the hallway, followed by tiny giggles, and Jason silently prepared himself for the trouble that was your daughter. Maybe he should stop her now, avoid waking you up so early, since you seemed to be getting more tired by the day, and he had to help. Yet, on the other side, Rory was your daughter, not his unfortunately. He shouldn’t interfere in your relationship, he knew better than that. What if your relationship didn’t last the way he wanted it to? Then both he and Rory would be in ruins, you would hide it better than the small currently loving unicorn typhon for her sake. He wanted to be part of her life forever, if possible, he wanted that baby to be his.

Suddenly, a weight landed on him, winding the breath out of him and leaving him dazzled. Had he been so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the creaking door opening? A nice vigilante he was. He looked at the tiny trouble that landed on him and silently hugged his chest. With both of his hands, he practically covered her back. She had crazy bed hair, and a bit of drool had left its mark on her cheek. Like mother, like daughter, he thought fondly. He gave her a few minutes of this, since she was up, the day had to start. He got her to the bathroom, ignoring the tiny whines that sounded from his chest and brushed her teeth, tried to tame her hair (which he failed spectacularly), and cleaned her face before walking calmly to the kitchen. He should start on breakfast, his little baby needed to be fed properly to be big and strong. He decided on eggs and bacon along with her favorite juice, which she sipped happily as she sat next to him on the counter, “helping” him cook and talking his ear off, being extra clingy this morning.  He brushed it off, she was in a mood and probably didn’t want to upset you. For such a tiny thing, Rory was exceptionally smart.

Once he was finished cooking, he scooped her up in his arms, which she happily complied with, put their breakfast on a plastic princess plate with two forks, and promptly sat on the beat-up couch. Opening the TV, finding a kids' show to play in the background, you probably wouldn’t approve of that, but he needed a few minutes to wake up and regain his energy. He fed them both and then landed on her like a dead weight to make her laugh. His face was on her legs, and he felt small fingers running through his hair, trying to make braids unsuccessfully. 

“I love you, Dad.” Her small voice sounded in the empty space, and his heart probably skipped a beat as it always did when she called him that, “Dad” he didn’t deserve that title. Did Bruce feel the same way when one of them slipped up? 

“I love you, too peanut.” His voice was rough and sleepy because he hadn’t used it yet. “But baby, you have to know by now, I am not your Dad, we don’t share the same blood, honey.”

“I don’t understand.” Her voice slightly quivered, and his heart broke a little. “Ms. Bright said that ‘a dad is a protector, teacher, and encourager; a person who picks you up when you fall, brushes you off, and lets you try again; admired and much loved.’ That is what she said. And Ms. Bright is always right.” By now, he was certain that tears ran down her delicate face, and he wanted to do nothing more than to stop them. “You do that, you taught me how to ride a bike, you always check under the bed for monsters, you always teach me new things.”

“Honey,” He said as he sat up and drew her in his arms, “of course I do those things for you. I love you more than the moon has loved the sun.”

“Then you are my Dad. I made you a card, so you are my dad.”

“You made a card?” 

“It’s Father's Day.” She said as she finally came out of her hiding spot, which was the crook of his neck. “And I wanted to spend it with my dad, I wanted to spend it with you.”

“Really?” She nodded and signalled to be put down before she bolted to her room and came back just as fast, clutching something colorful in her arms. She struggled to get on the couch again, he had to admit it was a bit too tall, and she sat back on his lap facing forward this time. She opened the card, and his eyes stung a little. He noticed a big figure with green eyes and a bit of white in his hair, which was obviously him, and the figure was holding hands with a girl who had some crazy pigtails. The card was covered in glitter obviously and it was slowly falling to his clothes which he choose to ignore since he didnt give a damn. “It’s beautiful, thank you, peanut.”

“One of the girls at school made fun of it,” she mumbled as her cheeks slightly warmed .“She said that you aren’t my true dad, but the dictionary says she is wrong.” She looked up at him timidly, the way she did when she wanted something. He wasn’t a bad guy, he repeated to himself, he was trying to save them from heartbreak.  But who was he kidding? That tiny thing in his arms and the woman that was snoring on their bed held his heart in an iron grip, seemingly never letting go. “Can we go to the park? Maybe watch a movie? Have a daddy-daughter date? Amelia says they are fun…” 

“Whatever you want, baby. How about we go for some ice cream as well, it will be our secret because mom would kill us”.

“Daddy-daughter secret?” She asked hopefully, and who was he to deny her?

“Obviously”

[rosaeh]

"im yours, right? and youre mine"

😫😫😫

· ➳ [𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐏: 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄]

jason is…particular about his kitchen.

he treats it with great care, always making sure that everything is clean, impeccably ordered, and in fine working order.

in fact, he even has very specific lists of who can and can’t enter his kitchen.

his brother, dick, is vehemently on the ‘no entry’ side, along with a steph. there are tentatives—a damian, a cass, a duke—and then there is the ‘if you find them in here, fucking run away’ with a tim scratched firmly in the column. you find it hilariously endearing, because there are scribbles of complaints next to the names in various different coloured pens, but jason is adamant.

his kitchen is his kitchen. there needs to be order in there. you’ve even seen him commit to armed assault when he found one of his brothers—you can’t tell them from each other yet, as embarrassing as that is—in there, and you swear that the kid shrieked when he got tossed out the window.

“don’t let him back in,” jason had ordered to you, and you had nodded, holding back a massive smile. the kid had crawled up the side of the wall as if his fingertips were adhesive, and pouted on your couch for the rest of his visit.

you, though, is hard to tell. your name is not in any of the columns, and that puts you in an awkward spot.

do you go in? are you allowed to make your waffles for breakfast? will jason also throw you out the window?

jason would never put his hands on you like that, you know. but it’s his kitchen. he’s literally threatened to stab his youngest who threatened back the same thing in there. it’s precious to him. you don’t want to do anything that might make him upset.

the two of you are still early in your relationship, testing the waters, shyly asking to come over just in case the other is busy. you won’t ever admit it aloud, but it makes you so fucking giddy every time you open your door to see jason rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly with a well-loved book in his hands, asking, “date night?”

so yeah. you don’t want to fuck this up. he’s the best guy you’ve ever met, so you can’t fuck this up.

this is why you’re standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen of jason’s apartment, staring into the empty kitchen like sort of ghost haunting the room. jason’s t-shirt reaches down to your thighs, and you tug at it self-consciously as you ponder the pros and cons of entering.

on one hand, you’re super hungry. and jason enjoys your cooking; he always flusters you with compliments when you’re at your apartment and you make him breakfast. 

on the other hand, this is jason’s kitchen. the small list of authorised personnel, stuck to the fridge on a magnet, very distinctly does not have your name on there.

okay. maybe you just go in, try and look for some snacks? that way, you haven’t actually cooked anything. surely jason’ll find that okay. 

“what’re you doing, lurking around like some thief?” 

you screech, jumping in your own skin, hand seizing at your thumping chest. “jason!” you hiss, turning around to see him right there behind you, amused beyond all limits. “what did we say about creeping up on me?”

“not to,” he agrees, and reaches out so he can pull you in by the waist. “but you were just being so cute, babe—creeping around like this isn’t half your home anyways.”

“jason, it’s your kitchen,” you reply, punching at his unfairly sturdy chest, “i’m not just gonna walk in like i own the place.”

he raises an eyebrow. “what were you doing in here anyways?”

“i’m hungry,” you admit, sighing as he tucks you underneath his chin. he knows that this kind of hug always makes you melt, that bastard.

“then make something,” he says, gesturing to the stove. “you make a killer cheese toastie, don’t you? i even bought you three different fucking types of cheese so you’d be able to make it at my place.”

you perk up. “cheddar, swiss, and gouda?”

he presses his lips to your temple as he hums in affirmation. the vibrations make you giggle. “can’t believe you woke me up because you were scared to use my kitchen,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

“hey,” you smack his even more unfairly bulky bicep, “how is a girl supposed to know if she can use her boyfriend’s kitchen if her name’s not on the list?”

jason trails after you as you pull out of his embrace, reaching out to open the fridge for you. your eyes instantly go to the three stacks of cheese, and your mouth starts watering already.

“what list?” jason asks, genuinely confused, closing the fridge gently once you’ve gotten everything you needed.

you jab a finger at the piece of paper right in front of the two of you. “this one,” you deadpan, before moving to the stove.

jason doesn’t follow after you this time, squinting at the scrap paper in the dark. “what list?” he repeats to himself, bewildered, “what does it have to do with you?”

you reach over to flick on the light, both of you groaning as the bright white lights beam on. “gotta change that to a yellow bulb, babe,” you say, shielding your eyes.

“yeah, yeah,” jason grumbles, “i know. oh shit—you mean the kitchen shaming list? why’d you be on the that list?”

“the what list?” it had a name the whole time?

jason laughs, gliding over with far too much grace for someone of his stature, and he slots himself home with an arm around your waist and your back pressed against his chest. he leans his chin on top of your head as you start the stove, waiting patiently until you’ve got the pan safety on top of the flame before speaking.

“that’s just to shame tim,” jason explains, grinning into the crown of you head, “and everyone gives him shit for it. i just find it funny that he has to keep his toes behind the line whenever he’s over.”

“i’m not on it, though,” you point out, cutting a piece of salted butter and placing it on the pan. it hisses deliciously, and you can’t help but relish in the scent. “how was i supposed to know that i could use the kitchen?”

jason hums, grip tightening around your waist. “what d’ya mean? of course you can use it. it’s my kitchen.”

your brows furrow as you place your pieces of bread on the pan. “yes, i know it’s your kitchen, that’s the whole point?”

“no, no,” jason says, suddenly spinning you around so your back rests against the kitchen counter behind the stove, and he’s caging you in, arms pressing on the counter top. he’s also frowning. “that’s the point, though. it’s my kitchen, so it’s your kitchen. isn’t this how it works?”

“huh?” 

he points at you, and then points to himself. “what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. i thought we made that clear just the other day?”

you stare. “jay, i thought you just wanted a bite of my donut!”

“and i did,” he says, equally serious, “but it’s more about the principle than anything. you know that anything i know you have a claim to, right? even the whole—” he waves abstractly, and it’s unexpectedly cute on him. “—night life thing, y’know. not that i’d really advertise for you to step into my suit, but hey, i think a female red hood is kind of hot. whatever you want.”

you blink up at him, a smile tugging against your lips. “whatever i want? what if i want to be a female nightwing?”

“okay,” jason scowls, “maybe not everything. but you get me, yeah? i wouldn’t keep you around if i wasn’t gonna share all my shit with you.”

“even your kitchen?”

jason smiles, and he leans down to press a soft kiss against your nose. “’specially my kitchen.”

god, you love him. it’s been not even a year but you love this man to the ends of the earth.

“offer still stands for the red hood thing,” he says, grinning cheekily.

“i wouldn’t fit,” you say with a laugh, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“b could make you your own suit,” jason says dismissively, hands sliding from the bench to hold you tightly by the waist, “as long as you wanted it. hell, i’d make it for you if you wanted me to.”

you laugh, and you reach up to lace your fingers behind his neck. “i think i’ll leave the vigilanting to you,” you muse, massaging the muscles, making his relax underneath your fingertips. “but you should probably leave the cheese toasties to me—i think the butter’s burning.”

“fuck,” he blinks, and immediately, you’re swung back into your position by the stove, jason covering your back with a gentle comfort, “sorry, babe, totally forgot.”

you simple smile, shaking your head, and quickly move to flip your now quite-toasted bread, trying to soak up as much butter as you can with the softer side. “all good,” you murmurs, a hand reaching to cover his massive one around your waist. “hey, it’s not too bad.”

“i’ll eat anything you make,” jason says quietly into your hair. “even if it’s burnt and probably rife with carcinogens.”

“i’d never feed you anything with carcinogens in it,” you reply, offended, reaching for your cheese. jason’s arm is longer, and so he reaches it first, fingers brushing against yours as he hands it over to you.

“thanks,” you say gently, giving him another pat. 

he nods, nestling his nose into your neck. “you know that i love you, right?”

the giddy feeling is back. you squeeze at his knuckles, and he tightens around your waist in response. “i know,” you reply. “i love you too.”

“good.”

then, after you’ve layered all the cheese with the right amount each, he watches as you close the cover to the pan and turn the heat down. he presses in even deeper into your neck, making you squirm as his stubble tickles at your skin.

“i’m yours, right? and you’re mine?” he whispers.

“yeah,” you turn, and hook your arms around him. you look up, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “i’m yours, and you’re mine.”

jason todd taglist tagging: @profoundgreenturtle

general taglist tagging: @c4xcocoa @megumisluciouslashes @bbsaeko

[rosaeh]

just went to a festival and thought of jason CONSTANTLY having a hand on you there. this man is NOT losing sight of you. a hand in your back pocket or the loop of your jean.

and when people start jumping around, he makes sure youre not moving a inch. he is built like a wall, he is not bulging and neither are you. he literally shield you from anyone else.

[rosaeh]

LOVE THIS, you know whats up olivia ‼️

also ik everyone hates miscommunication trope but ykw has been calling to me? miscommunication trope w jason. only the miscommunication is that he definitely thinks you two are together, but you think you guys are stuck in some weird fwb/no label liminal space—purely because jason is jason and never says the quiet part out loud.

he’s just thinking, “yeah, that’s my girl. future wife. gotta stay alive for lil’ sweetheart.” meanwhile, you, “fuck this man, i love him so much. why am i cursed into this situationship???”

very much so never been a situationship in jason’s mind but MISCOMMUNICATION