#Jason todd x gn reader

[charliedakotariley]

A hilarious moment from a fic by @sanguineterrain / @sanguinelibrary that I requested.

Even after days I can't stop thinking about his reaction without laughing. Author, you're my hero. ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥

People, pls read this piece (and others, which are just as beautiful as this one), the most human feeling Jason I encountered in fics in a hot minute and I absolutely love it.

❤️❤️❤️

The author put the link into the comments.

[sanguineterrain]

Hi Sanne! I'm not sure if requests are open, but if you're up to it I'd like to request red hood x reporter! Maybe reporter reader is getting too close to a case and is starting to become a target and hood takes her protection into his own hands? ((Including lots of midnight rendezvous and rooftop bump ins))

i love this prompt sm! i've been thinking about a reporter reader ever since i read task force z :) thanks for requesting!

jason todd x gn!reporter!reader. tw: reader is attacked (but they're okay), guns, violence, fighting, jason being both a force to be reckoned with and a big softie. 2.5k words

****

"I don't need protection."

The Red Hood crosses his arms. You cross yours right back.

"Yes, you do," he says.

"No, I don't. I've lived in Gotham my whole life. I can take care of myself."

"Living around and being in the thick of violence are very different. You're already chasing this story; they will come after you."

And what a story it is. The story of the decade, at the very least. A task force of formerly-dead Arkham patients wielded against Gotham by a mysterious benefactor.

It's terrifying. It's dangerous. It's sure to win you your first Pulitzer.

And it all means absolutely nothing if the Red Hood keeps wrapping you in red tape.

Your jaw ticks. "This is my story, Hood. You can't turn it in, so I will. And I won't be scared off by some slimeball."

"Oh, please. You wouldn't even have known about this story if it wasn't for me, smarty."

Smarty. His favorite moniker for you because, according to him, you think you know everything.

Working with the Red Hood has been an unfortunate side effect of chasing your prize-winning story. Not only is he wanted in twenty-six countries (you Googled it) and is a ruthless crime lord (supposedly formerly, but you're doubtful), but worst of all, he's got an attitude to match yours.

He's also built like a tank, which is why you can't just. Outrun him.

"I can't just not publish the story," you say.

"I don't want to stop you from publishing the story. Hence the protection."

"I can't afford a bodyguard."

"Well, it's a good thing I already paid my rent this month."

You scoff. "The Gotham Gazette has a strict 'no armed and dangerous' policy. I'm afraid we all have to leave our gun-toting vigilantes at home."

You open the driver's door of your car, ready to end the conversation here and now. Hood calmly closes the door with his hip and leans.

You glare. "Get off of my car."

"Fact." He holds up a finger. "These kinds of people always strike before the story comes out. They know you're scared and stressed, and they wanna do it before the story gets out. Otherwise, it's obvious who killed who."

"And where did you read this fact? Crime Lord's Digest? We don't even know if they know I'm the reporter who broke into the lab."

"Listen, smarty, I've been in this game a lot longer than you. I know how they operate," he says, finally getting off of your car, only to lean on the hood. Jerk. "It's only a matter of time before whoever's behind this snuffs you out."

"I am not letting a wanted criminal nest in my apartment!"

"That's why I'd be there."

"I was talking about you, Hood."

"Funny."

"I'm not joking. Look, I appreciate your... help." You try not to show your exasperation. "But there's no way I'm inviting you over to my apartment. That'll set off more alarms. If anything happens, I'll call you. Until then, stay away. Deal?"

Hood looks you over.

"Hm. You're awfully comfortable with giving me orders, smarty."

Your adrenaline spikes for a second. But it quickly calms. You've worked with Hood for a month now. Sure, you were petrified the first week, but it quickly dissipated. You've fallen into an odd camaraderie with him.

It's actually kind of nice, having him on your side. No one at the Gazette gives you the time of day. You've become used to having a partner. Not that you'd ever tell him that.

"You take orders so well, I can't help but dole them out," you say, only a little smirky.

"Watch it," Hood rumbles, only half-serious. Probably.

You beam and wrench open your car door, sliding into the seat.

"See?" you say, turning the ignition. "No snipers waiting to take me out. I'll be fine."

He shakes his head and slides off the hood. "Ten bucks says they'll try by the end of the week."

You close your door. "You're on."

****

As it turns out, Hood doesn't need the end of the week to earn his tenner. Trouble breaks down your door the very same night.

You're on your couch with some well-earned Lebanese takeout when your door is ripped off of your hinges. You shoot up from the couch, chest immediately tight.

Your assailant is masked and isn't that typical, giving masked men everywhere a bad name.

You run to the kitchen, hoping you can grab a knife. But you're grabbed before you can get there. You slip on the carpet and trip further into your assailant's arms.

"Keep still so I won't make a mess," is all he says.

You start screaming. He covers your mouth and you bite his hand. That earns you a thump on your cheek, so hard your vision blurs.

Bang!

You freeze, expecting the warm drip of blood and the excruciating pain to accompany it. Instead, your assailant falls to the floor, clutching his ribs. You stumble backwards and see Hood at your door, gun still aimed. He stalks over and kicks the assailant in the chest as he does. The assailant groans.

"You okay?"

You're still staring at the man who very nearly killed you a minute ago. Blood roars in your ears. You think you might be close to fainting.

"Hey." Big, gloved hands hold your face. You flinch and hold the owner's wrists. Hood comes into view once more.

"Are you okay?" he asks firmly. "Look at me, look at me, sweet. Breathe. 'S okay. Does anything hurt? Did he—"

Hood cuts himself off as he touches your cheek, where you were hit. He lightly runs a thumb over what is probably a budding bruise.

Hood lets you go and whirls onto your attacker. He hauls him up and presses a gun to his stomach.

"Go ahead, shoot me!" the attacker shouts.

"If I shoot you, it won't be out of mercy. You won't get a quick death. You don't deserve it," Hood snarls, and you suddenly remember all of your good reasons for fearing the Red Hood.

"I ain't telling ya shit!"

"I don't expect you to," Hood says, and fires again.

The man crumples to the ground, but he's clearly still breathing. Still alive. Hood drags him to the door by his collar.

"You go back to your boss. And you tell 'em that they're fucking with the Red Hood now. And, in case I'm not being perfectly fucking clear through all that blood loss—" Hood grabs the man by his hair and wrenches his head back. "If you come for my reporter again, you'll wish I was kind enough to put a bullet in your head."

Hood hauls your attacker outside. You hear a car start a minute later, and it tears down the street.

You look at your guardian angel, spattered in blood.

Not nearly as much blood as I expected, you think manically.

Your body aches and shakes with adrenaline. You can't even get enough control to move to the couch.

"How–how did you get here so fast?" you ask, staring at your now cracked coffee table.

"I've been monitoring your apartment since you got home. One of the traffic cameras picked up a stolen vehicle turning onto your block, so I came here."

You look at Hood. He seems very collected, all things considered.

"You—how did you find my apartment? Have you been stalking me?"

"Please. Lend me a little credit, smarty. I don't need to stalk you to find where you live," he says, holstering his gun.

"Are you insane?!" you burst. "That is such a gross invasion of privacy! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Hood looks at you.

"What's wrong with me is I just saved your life," he says evenly. "And on that note, you owe me ten bucks. Maybe even fifteen, considering it took less than a day for them to do exactly what I said they would."

Your lip wobbles. You don't know what triggers it; maybe it's your scratched up door or torn sofa or the fact that the Red Hood is in your living room right now with blood on his suit.

The tears form quickly. You can't stop them.

You cover your face but a sob claws out of your throat. Soon, you fall into big, heaving cries.

"Whoa, hey." The floorboards creak under Hood's unsure footsteps. "Hey, I didn't mean that. Shit. I was just kidding about the bet part. Aw, don't cry, smarty."

A hand lightly touches your shoulder. You lean in, but don't dare to initiate more contact. So Hood eases you into a side hug, awkwardly patting your other arm. He's extremely warm and solid with muscle, but his chest is soft enough to rest your head on. He unclips his holster so it doesn't dig into your body.

"I was just kidding," Hood says quietly in your ear. He rubs your arm. "'M sorry. Didn't mean to make y'cry."

You sniff and shake your head. "No, it–it's not that, I'm just—God, I'm t-terrified, Hood. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? They're gonna kill me! I'm gonna die before I win my first Pulitzer!"

You try to suck in deep breath but it's not working. Hood leads your unsteady feet to the couch. You sit, fingers gripping his jacket. Hood carefully loosens your grip.

"They're not gonna kill ya, smarty. I won't let 'em. C'mon, let's have a seat. Where's your kitchen?"

You point, lashes still thick with tears. Hood leaves and returns shortly. A glass of water is held to your lips. You drink it, breathing stilted.

"'S okay. Take it easy. Breathe. That's right."

You swallow half of the water, and he sets the glass down on the coffee table. Hood hands you a wad of tissues.

"This is pathetic," you say, wiping your tears. "Can't believe I'm being nursed by the Red Hood."

"I think nursed is a strong word. But it's more than I usually do for my informants. Then again, they don't usually burst into tears."

"Don't make fun of me. I'm fragile."

"I wasn't making fun of you," Hood says, gentler than you've ever heard him. He puts the tissues aside and rests a hand on your shoulder. You turn into it, appreciative of the weight. "You handled this better than most people would. You didn't even pass out. Hell, I've passed out."

You're sure that Hood is leaving out important details behind that anecdote, like fighting off a hundred men or being swallowed by a whale beforehand. You're grateful nonetheless.

You turn to him, fresh tears in your eyes. "They're gonna kill me, Red."

He shakes his head. "No. Listen to me. Nobody is gonna do anything to you, okay? I'm not gonna let 'em hurt you, smarty pie."

"That's an impossible promise," you say. "One of these days, something will happen. You can't be everywhere at once. Especially not while I'm at home."

Hood tilts his head. "Well..."

"Well, what?"

He rubs his throat. An old injury, he'd once told you. The pain flares up sometimes.

"I could call in a favor. Get you into a safehouse."

"You would do that for me?" you ask. You probably shouldn't ask. Shouldn't look a generous vigilante in the mouth. But you can't help it.

"I can't very well publish the story myself, can I?"

You shrug. "I doubt that. You have your ways. Once you have the evidence, you don't need me."

"That's not true," Hood says fiercely. "I do need you."

Your eyes widen. Hood fumbles for a moment.

"That—I mean for the case. Obviously. I don't have any journalistic links besides you. And I wouldn't want the story to fall into the wrong hands."

"Oh." You have a strong urge to wrap your arms around him. Weird. "Well, um, thank you. I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet. It'll take me a few days to get the safehouse," he says.

You deflate. "Oh. So I have to stay here until then?"

Hood is quiet for a long time. So long, you briefly revisit your original theory that the Red Hood is actually an AI remotely controlled by a billionaire.

"Hood?"

You reach to touch him. He flinches, a tiny movement. You immediately draw back.

Nope. Still a man.

"Sorry," he says, hand slipping from your shoulder. "I was, uh, going over options. No, your place is toast until we find whoever's behind this. But, um, it would be possible for you to—if you want to, 'cause if you don't, y'know, I understand, but I—it would be doable for you to, uh, stay with me. Until I get the safehouse."

"Stay... in your apartment?"

"'S not far from here. And it's a hell of a lot better protected than your place. And, y'know, I'd be there most of the time, so like..." Hood clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. It'd be safe. I promise."

"I wouldn't want to impose," you say, nervously scratching your arm.

"Mm. If you're scared of staying with me, y'can just say so. I won't take it personal."

He does kind of sound like he's taking it personally.

"No, Hood, it's not that. I don't... I'm not afraid of you. That, uh, went away a while back," you say. "I just... I don't want to burden you. After all, it's your space."

He makes a sound that tells you he's rolling his eyes behind his helmet.

"Saving your life is important, smarty. Why you don't think so, I'll never know."

You make a soft, pleased sound. "Got a real bleeding heart there, Red."

He sighs. "Yeah. I'm working on it."

You grin. "Thank you for rescuing me."

"Part of the job. If you don't wanna stay with me, I could..." Hood hesitates. "With your permission... I could get the Bats involved. Ask one of them to house you."

"You mean Batman?"

Hood grunts. "Preferably anyone but him, but yeah, if it comes to that. He'll probably get involved anyway. Fuckin' busybody."

"The Bats would protect me? But they don't know me."

"Don't matter. If I asked them to, they would. If that's something you want."

You think. Is it something you want?

Sure, any reasonable person would prefer Nightwing or Batman to protect them.

"I don't want to stay with them," you say. "I'd rather stay with you."

He jerks like you've told him the sky is falling.

"You do?" he asks.

"Well, yeah. I know you, Red. And I know you'll keep me safe."

"At any cost," he says.

That simultaneously frightens and thrills you.

"Then I'd like to go home with you," you say. "If you'll have me."

"'Course, smarty. Anything to keep you safe. Go pack some stuff. I'll be out here. You're okay?"

"I'm okay." You stand and turn before he can see what he does to you.

Yes, it's an odd thing, being partners with the Red Hood.

You're starting to fear that you can't have it any other way.

(pt 2)

[timwhore]

Event ; Kinktober - Day 1, Wax play

Pairing : Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Content / Warning : Big chunk of the fic is pre-activity talk (reader introduce the kink and talks / sets boundaries with Jason around it, because that is a huge part of kinks / BDSM that i wanted to put in at least one of my piece for kinktober) and there is aftercare, no penetrative sex ( wax play + hndjob ), reader is the one leading and Jason is the one on the receiving end, Jason call reader 'sweetie', its said that Jason is usually the one giving / you are usually on the receiving end, a bit of nipples teasing toward the end. (this is 1.5K words, wrote in around 3hours, on the 30sept, its 10am please be indulgent lol)

Jason was a bit taken off guard when you asked him if he had any 'kinks' he wished to engage in, sexuality was not a taboo for him, and it's not like you both never did anything sexual or engaged in not vanilla activity in the bedroom. He just didn't expect to get asked this question, at 8am while he was drinking a very bitter - and honestly disgusting - cup of coffee after sleeping for a grand total of 5 hours, courtesy of a certain group of thugs deciding to cause problem in the dead of the nigh - and courtesy of being the vigilante that had to deal with them.

He took a second before answering a simple 'uh maybe ?', before returning to his cup of liquid dirt not expecting you to continue this conversation that you seemingly started out of nowhere. But much to his dismay you continued, 'because, I've been wanting to ... uhm, to try something out ...!' with a sly smile on your face.

Jason decide to entertain you, why not after all ? It's just 8am on a weekend, what the worst that could happen ?

He nodded, encouraging you to continue, but instead of continuing speaking you pulled a candle from g-d knows where, and set it in front of Jason. He looked at it with a questioning look, he grabbed the candle, 'So, you mind expanding or ?' he asked.

'Well ... I'd like to try wax play ! And you kinda need a candle for that ...' You answered, before waiting a second you continued, 'This one is like, ... skin safe ? Not harmful, so safe for ... that kind of stuff ! I think its made out of beewax ? Or soy, either one of the two', he nodded once again, signalling that he understood. He took a long sip of coffee, finishing his cup, 'Okay, so basically I pour, uh, wax on you and that's the kink ?', before adding with a sly grin 'You did your researcher uh ?'.

'I was actually thinking about you, being on the, uh receiving end ? If you are okay with that ! Couldn't want to force you into anything, and that's why I asked if you had anything you wanted to do in the bedroom.' You stopped for a second before continuing 'It's like a two way street that way!'.

Jason stared at you deadpan for a moment, he did not expect that, usually you were the one that 'received' and he was the one that 'gave'. He gave it a thought and just said a simple 'Huh, if that's what you want sweetie, I'm open to it.'

Truly, he was open to it, what you proposed still seemed relatively tame and he could be lying if he said it didn't sound appealing.

(still havent found a way to just do a timeskip, sorry for the immersion breaking parentheses but this is better than just starting the next scene directly in the bedroom, later in the day)

Jason was seated on the edge of the bed, looking the set up you carefully put together, on the bed you laid a towel, because obviously neither of you two wanted to get wax onto your bed, but the towel wasn't one of those rough one, you had carefully chosen one that was soft but couldn't be missed if ruined. On your bedside table was placed the candle you showed him earlier, and on his, there was an somewhat damp rag and a small glass of water and a small tube of burn cream - which you simply took out of your first aid kit as well as a box of tissues, on the floor there was a larger bucket of water, off to the side, as you said it was 'Just in case something happen, you cannot be too sure!'.

As he heard your footsteps coming closer toward the door he decided to already strip himself of his shirt, you opened the door, entering the door with in hands a packet of matches, 'Found them ! They were actually still in the kitchen drawer', you said while making your way over to the bed.

You sat next to him and reached over to grab the candle, you looked up and smiled at Jason, 'You're sure you still want that ? Of course we can still stop in the middle of it but, are you sure right now ?', Jason grinned and answered, 'I am a 100 percents sure sweetie, don't worry, I trust you'.

You took a match out of the book and lighted it up, you brought the burning match over to the wix of the candle, as the wix took the flame, you brought the match over you and softly blow on it, blowing out the fire. You decided to let the candle burn a bit before using it, to make sure there was nothing wrong it, in the meanwhile, you signalled to Jason to lie down with his head on your tights, you brushed your fingers through his hair lovingly.

You took the candle in one of your hand and dropped a bit of wax on your other hand to check if it was good to go, you hummed and then looked at Jason, 'Okay where I go', you leaned the candle over Jason chest, the candle wax slowly dropped, drop by drop of red coloured wax fell on Jason chest.

You tilted the candle back up, Jason did let out a small hiss when the first drop reached him but he seemed fine, his face was a bit flushed and when his eyes meet yours, he gave you a small smirk. You took it as a sign to continue, tilting once again the candles over his chest, this time lower down it, and for a bit longer this time, 'Are you enjoying that baby ?', you asked, more so to tease him more than anything. Jason had been very aloof, and made it seem like he was going along it for you - that it didn't brother him to try but it was not something that he was very into, but he was betrayed by the tent that had formed in his pant.

You put down the candle on the bedside table for a bit, which earned you a small whine from Jason, but ignoring it, you reached over to unbutton his pant, and pull his penis out of his boxer. You gently gave it a few strokes, making beads of pre-cum get on your hand, before grabbing the candles once again, Jason face's was now flushed, he was groaning at the loss of your cold-ish hand on his dick which made him feel a weird, pleasurable contrast between the feverish sensation on his chest and the feeling of your hand on his lower-half.

While stroking him, you let a few drops of candles wax hit his body again, this time going higher, toward his nipples, a more sensible part of Jason's body.

Jason moaned softly as he felt the heat propage to his nipples, he rutted his dick against your hand, and started to lowly beg you to 'go faster' 'harder' 'more please'.

You decided to oblige him, you didn't want to drag this session on too much, after all this was your first one, and Jason was starting to look clearly overstimulated.

You continued to let the candles wax drip onto Jason, and started rubbing him faster, you softly blew on the candle wix and set it down on the bedside table. You continued to stroke him and used the hand that used to hold the candle to tease Jason's nipples, this tipped him over the edge, making Jason blow his load all over your hand and his chest.

You went to grab a tissue to clean your hand and ran your hand through his hair once again, 'Baby, are you okay ? Do you want me to clean you up ?', Jason was clearly spent, and he just nodded while closing his eyes.

You took another tissue to clean his cum off him first, then you strategically decided to first scratch, gently, the wax off his chest, once that was done you took the damp rag, and run it on his chest, Jason shrugged from the feeling.

'Baby, sit up' you told him, he groaned softly but did as you told, you handed him the glass of water that was sitting on his bedside table. 'Drink up, you need to hydrate your inside ~', you said teasingly. Jason did not brother to answer and simply took the glass and took a long sip of water before giving it back to you.

You grabbed the burn cream, 'I'm gonna put some cream on you 'kay ? Couldn't want your chest to be all burned, could we ?', you ruffled his hair once again, enjoying how calm and just submissive he was. You opened the cream and took a small dab of cream and spread it on his chest, first near his nipples, causing Jason to shivers, then spread the rest of his chest, where the rest of the wax was.

'It's done, you should let the cream sit and absorb, so why not take a nap, while I clean up ?' You asked him, giving him a small kiss on his check. Jason once again simply nodded and just let his body fell on the bed, where the towel still was, 'Well, won't get that back for now I guess' you thought. Before getting up from the bed and going to clean and put everything where it belongs.

[prismuffin]

Hey, I saw that your asks are open.

What if Jason Todd got really hurt doing a mission, and had to get a bunch of stitches and surgery.

How do you think he would react waking up, seeing Reader cuddled up to him in his medical bed?

Like Reader was very worried about him, so would sleep cuddling Jason, just incase something wrong happens. In his past, he died and he when he came back alive no one was there to help him out of his grave. So Reader never felt his side, so Jason could wake up knowing he wasn't left behide again.

This is so depressing ��� but I think that-

Jason wouldn’t notice you at first. As soon as he awoke he’d just stare at the ceiling, coming to terms with everything that just happened to him. It’s only after you twitch that his eyes shoot down to see you hunched over in a chair that could not be comfortable, your arms resting on the side of his bed, weakly holding his thigh.

He’d watch you for a while, being both stunned and confused before nudging you awake as best he could in his condition. Seeing you slowly open your eyes and recognize his, now awake, self was gratifying. He felt a sense of warmth after seeing how happy you were to see him awake.

He most likely would ask why you were there which prompted you to embarrassingly tell him that you didn’t want him to wake up alone. He’d be shocked but grateful that you didn’t leave him. Let’s you hug him if it doesn’t hurt much and as you leave to get the doctor his eyes are definitely watering. He doesn’t cry, especially not in front of you, but he gets very close.

( all my power was out this morning so I'm not exactly sure when this came in but sorry if it took a minute? )

———

Directory

[l0verb0t]

jason todd × reader. | home sweet home.

SUMMARY: A familiar figure stared at you from the other side of a window, helmet covered in ash. He waved back at you. WARNINGs: implications of near panic attacks & descriptions of blood. WORD COUNT: 2000+ NOTEs: second person. this has some minor plot mentions, but this is mostly just a hurt/comfort oneshot. [no pronouns, and "babe" is used to refer to the insert/reader.]

It was a busy summer night. Off your own sweat, you lifted your head from a pillow. A ringing woke you up, irritating the headache that was swirling around in your mind and thudding against it like a hammer.

Your hand fell to your phone, grabbing it from a nightstand just for you to flash your own eyes with its bright light. With a swipe to answer its call, a certain voice spoke out from the other end. A welcomed change from the bellowing sirens outside your cracked walls.

It hadn't been too long since you last saw each other, but that didn't make it any better. Time seemed to come at a snail's pace when he was gone.

The worry never seemed to settle. You're well aware Jason is good at his job, taking pride in ridding Gotham of parasites, in his own words. You trusted him enough to get back on his own, yet it never helped.

He was late by a few more hours than he said he was going to be back, but you still had to reassure yourself that it was probably fine. Your hope was the only thing calming the scattered thoughts.

Don't worry about it. Just rest your pretty head.

For weeks at a time, he would be gone. Every now and then it happened, and sometimes he'd be late. Just to make sure whatever was on his to-do list was dealt with or, alternatively, to make sure no one followed him back. He couldn't risk it.

Yeah, I missed you too, baby.

A small apartment sitting on the edge of his home city. One of the places he never spoke a word about. One of the few places he still felt safe, even if it was only temporary.

You flicked through the channels that flashed across your television's cracked screen, careful not to trigger anything with the bright colors. Nothing caught your attention.

Listen, I can't talk for long. I don't think I brought enough quarters.

You missed his laughter.

Nausea was building up deep inside. Your head swayed from it, keeping you grounded against the couch. With your free hand resting atop your chest, the beats underneath kept an unsteady pace as your head lied against stiff cushions.

You would've slept to bide the time, calm the soreness in your eyes, and try to get a good night's rest for once, but it didn't work no matter how hard you tried. At the very least, you were able to welcome him back rather than have him shake you awake again.

A horror movie came onto the screen.

In the darkness, a masked man stood on the other side of a glass door, staring down a girl who seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack herself. Slowly, he took one of his gloved hands and knocked, leaving behind more blood with each knock.

I just need to do one last thing.

You switched the channel just as someone started laughing.

The light from the television only further irritated your eyes, yet without it, it was too quiet to be comfortable. You simply turned away.

The knocking returned. No matter how low you turned the volume, it kept its loud echo. It became clear that it just wasn't coming from it at all.

You sat up to turn your attention to the apartment's front door. When you arrived at its step and looked through the peep hole, you saw no one there.

The knocking continued, though, further away the second time.

Following the sound, you came to the windows in the living room. Apart from the blaring, bright billboards outside, only the TV gave light to who was there. Maybe you forgot to shut the curtains as you stared back at a familiar red helmet.

There, crouched down by the window, Jason gave you a quick wave before pointing down at the window's lock.

Why he insisted on only using the windows despite barely fitting through them was beyond you sometimes. They just counted as the back door to him at a certain point.

You were forced to notice it first, the smell of smoke and oil overwhelming you as soon as he stepped in.

The shine of his helmet was covered by ash. His gloves were as red as it usually was. Freshly sticking behind everything he touched, blood stuck to the wall inside.

Without a word, he raised his arms. Instead of going in for a hug, he stuck to where he was standing, looking over himself with a shake of the head.

"Sorry, honey. For the… mess." A scrambled gag rumbled through the space.

Jason's head rolled to the side, and he placed a hand on his neck as he stretched it back, groaning as his bones cracked.

"I feel like ass."

With a hum, you responded, "You smell like ass."

"You're so mean sometimes." He cooed, looking down at you as his hands wildly gestured around. "I'll remember to come back smelling like flowers next time."

Without another word, he pulled his helmet off, his hair sticking out from the sweat. His brows were stuck in a frown.

"At least you're back in one piece."

You ran your fingers down the side of his face, twirling the ends of his hair before sliding it back out of it. A quick kiss was placed on one of his scars. The expression from before continued to tug at his face, but he finally let out a breath you didn't know he was holding in.

He threw his helmet back at the couch.

Hands reached up to yours, maybe to push you away, but they stopped before then. The blood was still there, mixed with oil, on top of the leather gloves.

"Can't say the same about the other guys."

The words came out as low and raspy as they would with his modulator.

He hopped in place while tugging incessantly at one of his boots. After both were pulled off, the jacket was the next thing to go, nearly ripping the fabric before he threw it over into a hamper. The boots left prints where he stood.

"No offense, but you're making a mess."

The boots were thrown on top of the clothes without a care.

"I'll clean it tomorrow."

With the jacket gone, you finally got to see what he was wearing under it. It was a plain t-shirt, apart from Hello Kitty standing on the front of it. Why he was wearing the joke gift you gave him ages ago was something you saved to tease him with later.

He just didn't seem too in the mood for jokes.

As he looked down at you, you saw that his eyes carried bags similar to yours.

"What are you doing awake?"

Since the gunk-covered layers had been thrown aside, you placed a hand on his arm. Where he would usually stay for a moment or two to savor the touch, he immediately pulled away.

"I wanted to see you again."

"You didn't have to stay awake for me." Muffled chuckling came as he pulled off his shirt. "You should head back to bed; I'll be in when I'm finished."

"Nah."

"You're going to be tired by tomorrow."

"And you aren't?"

"I've been trained to go days without sleep," After he threw his shirt over with the rest of his clothes, he pointed at you and said, "You just have insomnia."

It came back at him in a copied, mock voice: "Well, it's worth it to see your pretty face."

A smile bloomed across his face, and a snort followed before he pushed away your face.

"Yeah, okay."

You took it as a chance to stand away from him, the odor still overwhelming.

"Mind telling me what happened?"

"With the mess I made, we'll probably be hearing about it in the news later." He gestured to himself, smiling at you. "Are you proud of me, babe? I'm gonna be on TV."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"That's funny. Again, what happened?"

Hand in his hair, he began to tug at it, looking away from you. "It's fine. The lead led me to a warehouse around the Gotham River. It was just another rundown drug lab."

There wasn't a response for a bit after that, letting the room be filled with nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing and whoever was on the television's rambling. He crashed back into a chair to steady himself.

"Someone just pissed me off. I went a little overboard."

You gave him a chance to explain further, speaking softly.

"Is that it?"

"Yeah. That's it."

So he couldn't sulk in silence, you walked up behind him to pat him on the back. Standing there, he didn't bat an eye at you as you kept the quiet tone, saying, "You should go get cleaned. I'll be here when you get back."

The chair bent back with a creak as he leaned over to look up at you. It pressed against your front, almost on you, for support. His hand grabbed the back of your head, pressing you into a short kiss before he hopped off the chair with a groan.

"Alright."

You tried to help him into the bathroom. In typical Jason fashion, though, he made that harder, leaning his weight against your hands as you pushed him in.

He continued to mess with you, making loud kissing sounds as he tried to reach behind him. The door was shut in front of his face, and there was a groan from the other side as it did. The sound of running water followed soon after.

It didn't last long, but he didn't leave the bathroom. You sat outside the door with the assumption he actually took your advice for once, still washing up despite the silence.

To settle the nerves, you took a deep breath and got to work on taking care of everything else. Everything in the hamper was thrown into a washer. Numerous holes and rips ran across the clothing, the ends of his collar covered in so many that it could hardly count as one anymore.

You nearly threw the boots in as well. The only way they were going to get cleaned was if they were put under a hose.

You had to get off from your knees before you fell asleep.

Later into the night, you kicked at the door, your hands occupied by a pile of picked-out, clean clothes.

It took awhile before any reply came. He called out to you through the sound of splashing water.

His voice came through strained: "Yeah?"

"I got you some clothes."

"Alright. Get in here."

You opened the door to find him sitting in the bath. His arms were laid across the rims, tattoos covered in bubbles. The tub was still too small for him, and so his knees were folded inside, sticking out of the water.

Resting back against the wall, he turned his head back towards you. It was a little silly to see a guy who prided himself on looking scary looking up at you from a bubble bath.

The clothes were placed on the sink's counter.

"Are you having fun in there?"

"You know me," He hummed before splashing water in your direction. "It distracts from the pain, at least."

You crouched down beside him to lean against the tub. His hand ran over your arm, trailing soap up your skin.

"You're supposed to be getting clean, not getting me dirty."

Through a coughing fit, he laughed. His mouth opened for a second before he shut it just as quickly. Pushing deeper into the water, he crossed one leg over the other as he spoke, "I can multitask."

You matched his position, resting your own head against the wall as you looked back into his tired eyes.

"Can you tell me what happened tomorrow?"

A heavy sigh left him: "Yeah, sure. I just don't like bringing work back home."

"I know, but I still want you to talk about this stuff with me."

Jason sat up, pressing against the tub to rest his head against yours.

"I'll try to remember that."

The two of you were in there for awhile. It was the most you had talked to each other in weeks, making up for the quick calls that otherwise filled the radio silence. You tried not to fall asleep to his voice and were lucky enough not to. The floor was filthy.

[ivysangel]

Jason Todd has a raging size kink. He tries not to make it too obvious in public, tries to pretend that he doesn't notice how standing next to you really highlights just how large he really is. But it's always on his mind, always front and center, even when he doesn't want it to be.

He'll have a hand on your back as he ushers you through crowded parts of Gotham, trying not to think about how large his hands are and how one of them can cup an entire asscheek when he's fucking you.

He grabs things off of tall shelves at grocery stores when you can't reach them. Comes up behind you and picks them up with ease while he's pressed into you from behind. He's peering down at you, a soft grin on his face as he thinks about you on your knees, struggling to take him in your mouth.

When you're playing twister at a Wayne family function, and you end up falling on each other during a wrong move, he watches you break out into a fit of laughs while he turns red in the face. Not from embarrassment, he couldn't care less about that, but because the first thought that popped into his head as you were pinned under him was how much he wished you could stay there.

For a split second, an image is projected into his mind of you squirming beneath him as he puts all of his weight on you. All 200+ pounds keeping you firmly in place as he fucks you good and deep just how you like.

He's scrambling to get off of you now; a shade of crimson akin to the one he dons at night colors the visible parts of his body, and he clears his throat awkwardly as he helps you to your feet.

"In hindsight, he should've played with one of us," Dick says from the couch. He's gesturing toward you when he continues, "he's just too big in comparison. Throw's everything off."

Jason doesn't hear the second part. His ears start ringing the moment he's reminded that everyone else is aware of how big he is next to you, and he's very quickly calculating how many more rounds of twister he has to go before the two of you can politely duck out and head home for a more...intimate version of the game.

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

otherwise, i can't add anymore to my taglist so taglist requests are closed!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[allllium]

Jason's love language is 100% touch

I don't care what anyone says I know this man has been craving a nice cuddle under a warm blanket for so long

At first he'll put firm boundaries in place, asking you not to touch him in any intimate way, not unless he initiates it

Which makes total sense considering everything he's been through, all the scars on his body that makes him sick to touch

But over time, surprisingly not a long time, he warms up to your touch and even finds himself craving it

It starts small with an arm around your waist and a warm hand placed in yours, but it quickly turns more intimate

Something he never thought he'd have is suddenly there whenever he wants and he doesn't know how to feel about it

He gets more comfortable with things he never thought would be so nice

He lays his head in your lap as you lay on the couch watching TV, showing a kind of vulnerability neither of you ever expected

He starts sleeping without his shirt on and continuously pulls you closer to him

He almost always has a hand on you now

Now that he's comfortable he's not even gonna think twice before keeping his arm around you or laying his hand comfortably on your thigh

He can't even begin to understand why he feels the happiest he's ever been when you do something as simple as playing with his hair or placing your lips to one of his many scars

Safe to say once he gets to this stage, there's no way to go back

p.s he will totally pout the entire day if you lean away from his touch

[charliedakotariley]

Self insert here but imagine....

Jason having an artist partner, or a partner that LOVES to hord tiny decorations in their apartment/house.

They go out, sees a tiny mini figure of a bumble bee, buys it, takes it home and dedicates a whole ass shelf to it. Makes it a tiny house, a tiny garden and a general beautiful scenery.

Now imagine Jason, the buffed and huge mountain of a man, scary and violent, known to shaken everybody who meets him, ripped muscles and rough hands- and he's croutching to the level of the shelf, seeing the tiny Bumblebee with wonder and adoration in his eyes like a small kid in a Disneyland and softly asks "Does this cutie have a name?" and "If he could take it into his hands?"

The figure is as big as his pinky nail and he's holding it like it's alive, fragile and soft. He cooes at it, asking it how it's doing and what is it growing in its tiny garden.

After a while when he's putting it back he asks "Do you have more?" and his partner says "They're all over the place, you can try and find them all."

And DUDE- the way his eyes sparkles, a huge smile forming on his face, clapping his hands and doing this skippy jump while he runs around searching for those tiny creatures and their homes.

He finds a snail reading a book inside its shell above the fridge, a moth holding a caterpillar baby in a rocking chair in one of the cabinets, tiny kittens cuddling in a cozy bed behind a curtain, and a family of bats hanging from the ceiling holding wings in a book nook.

And he's tearing up. A tiny creatures having a praceful cozy lives without any trouble, nobody's hurting them, they need no savior, no one who would come late to their rescue, no shed tears and blood-

He gently puts the lastest figure back with a teary eyes, petting its head while turning and going back to your shared bedroom, stopping in a doorframe and looking at his partner who looks up and says something that has him bawling his eyes out...

"And you found the last one, Jaybird. Come here, to me, to our tiny peaceful home."

Thoughts?

I apologize for any mistakes, Grammarly isn't working-

[sanguineterrain]

Could we please get a drabble in which Jason and his partner have a fight and the partner walks out of the apartment to cool off and doesn't think the fight was something detrimental but Jason is actually terrified his relationship just ended?

anon?? are we sharing a mental connection?? i literally had this thought a month ago 😳 it fits him so well too :(

jason todd x gn!reader. tw fighting, jason thinks you broke up with him, misunderstandings, happy ending.

****

"You're not being fair."

You scoff, and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Fair? This is what couples do, Jason! God, I'm not saying we have to go out with other couples every week, but can't we do it at least once in a while? What's wrong with going to one wedding?"

Jason scowls from the kitchen. His arms are crossed, jaw tensed. "Why aren't you happy with just going out together? You're not in a relationship with your friends."

"Because it's good to do new things, and you're someone I want my friends to meet. And I want to meet your friends too!"

"My friends are aliens and Roy. You don't wanna meet them, trust me."

"Yes, I do, Jason. Don't tell me I don't. And I know this relationship is new for both of us, but I don't want it to be that we never go out with people, never meet each others' friends. You don't even have a good reason not to go!" you say.

"I do have a good reason," Jason says. "We don't know them."

"I work with the bride! She's not a criminal—"

"We don't need to go to someone's wedding we don't know," he continues. "Too many variables. Too many things could go wrong."

You shake your head. "That is so ridiculous, Jason. It's not spycraft, it's a wedding!"

"I said no," Jason says sharply, like he's handling a Crime Alley thug.

You take a deep breath.

"Okay." You close your eyes. "This isn't going to work. I need some air."

You grab your wallet and keys and walk out of his apartment. The train station is only a block from where you are; you'll go to the city square, have some lunch, and go back after a few hours. Jason doesn't respond well when he's pushed.

****

It's close to 5pm when you get back to Jason's apartment. He hasn't texted you, but you didn't expect him to; no contact is best for a few hours anyway.

You unlock the door. The apartment is dark.

"Jay?" You put your things down on the side table. "Jason? You here?"

Had he gone on patrol already?

There's a bump in the bedroom, then the door creaks open.

Jason stands in the doorway, clothes rumpled. You turn on a lamp, and he squints. His eyes are red; the skin of his lips are chewed up. He blinks at you, shoulders going to his ears.

"Are you here for your stuff?" he asks quietly.

You frown. "What?"

Jason points tightly to his room. "Your clothes and stuff."

"Why would I get my clothes?"

He takes a deep, shuddery breath, then swallows.

"'Cause we-we broke up," he says, and his eyes become glassy again.

Oh.

"Oh. Oh no, Jay. Jay, baby. No, no."

You walk to him and wrap your arms around his neck. He plants his face in your shoulder, hands going from your hips to your back and down again. He sniffles.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. We can go to the wedding."

"Wait, hang on. Jason. Baby, look at me."

Jason picks up his head. His eyes are wide, his breathing is fast.

"Why do you think we broke up, Jay?"

He rubs his eye, pulling the skin so hard it turns red.

"'Cause we fought and... and when I fight with people, that means things are over."

"Things aren't over," you say gently. "We move on. We talk. We forgive."

"Don't deserve it."

"Oh, Jay." You pull him back into your arms. He bends so he can rest his head on your chest. "Sweetie, we're not going to break up over one fight. Certainly not over something like this. We can always talk things out."

He sighs. "I was stupid anyway. We should do normal couple things. You don't deserve my bullshit."

You stroke his hair. He hugs you tighter.

"Jay, being anxious about going someplace new isn't bullshit. And I don't want you to go to the wedding just because you're afraid we'll break up if we don't."

He pulls back to look at you. You're no more than a couple inches from each other.

"I don't want to go to the wedding," he says. "But... maybe we can start with something smaller? Less people? Dinner with another couple?"

"Are you sure?"

He nods. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm sure. I wanna do that stuff, I just—one day at a time?"

"Yeah, Jay, of course." You kiss him. "Always."

[orchidsarchives]

Jason is a chronic biter. Whether it’s his lips, the insides of cheeks, or the strings of his hoodie, he is constantly gnawing on something.

This habit was usually not a problem. In fact, it was almost endearing, it was a cute and boyish quirk. However, this was until he decided that his body and his things didn’t suffice anymore. Suddenly, he found himself itching to get his teeth on you.

It had started off very slow, almost as if he was testing the waters. The two of you were sitting on the old couch together, watching the latest episode of one of your shows. Jason was mindlessly playing with your fingers, as he usually did, but this time, there was a mischievous look in his eyes. He kissed your knuckle and you smiled, without giving it too much thought—accidentally giving him the confirmation to keep going. The next thing you felt were his teeth clamping down on your finger, hard. You jolted and looked up at him confused. Jason grinned, almost confidently and you laughed at his childish antics.

Then, there was an another time where he felt a little bolder. You had been in the kitchen washing the dishes after Jason had made dinner. You were in your own world, cleaning, when he came up behind you. Jason pulled you into a warm embrace and you found yourself melting into his touch. You stayed there for a few seconds, just gently swaying and enjoying his company. What you thought was Jason bending down to kiss your exposed shoulder, turned out to be a firm chomp on your skin. You whined, annoyed, but let him do this thing.

This habit wasn’t all that irritating though. There were often times when the two of you were preoccupied with each other. There were many, late nights where his lips would not leave your skin. During those times, the gentle grazes of his teeth set fire to your skin, it felt pleasant in an odd sort of way. The feeling would have you sighing blissfully. The tenderness caused your body to burn with excitement. His bites were almost always followed up with a kiss to soothe the deliciously painful sensation. Those moments had you grateful for his ridiculous way of showing affection.

Jason had a weird biting habit and you weren’t sure if you found it completely insufferable or just purely indulgent….

[chosokamosbf]

(N)SFW JASON TODD / RED HOOD HCs.

☆ 18+ only/no minors.

WARNINGs: 18+, gn (gender non-implied)! reader, daddy/mommy kink, mentions of abuse (jason nor reader are doing it), minor mention of blood, sub/dom, pain play, fear play, "prey/predator," brat taming, reader is referred to as "prince(ss)" and "sweetheart" once.

WORD COUNT: 900-ish+

Based on canon, I firmly believe he's on the ace spectrum, specifically demisexual. And even then, he rarely experiences sexual attraction at all for his partners. This isn't because he doesn't love them (enough) or any other assumptions similar to that; it just doesn't happen much.

Furthermore, as much as he'll indulge you here and there if you do, (sexual) intimate moments with Jason would be far and few between, making them all the more important to him.

He's a switch, leaning on dom and top. Mostly because he likes the control and is more comfortable that way. Getting him to be submissive instead is a gradual endeavor. He doesn't hate it; it just takes a lot of patience and trust.

First and foremost on actual kinks, I think Jason has a thing for "daddy," both on the receiving and giving ends. He likes the title, and he's definitely the type to whisper something like, "C'mere, sweetheart. Give daddy a kiss." in even private, innocuous moments just to mess with you.

(Note: I don't think he'd have as much of a mommy kink because—y'know.)

Rough sex is a top favorite of his. This goes hand in hand with play wrestling as a form of foreplay, breathing heavily down on his partner just to continue that energy into bed with sweat-slick bodies. It's less about "winning," and more about being allowed to confide in someone in a way and the fun that can come with it. He wouldn't be against being the sub in this situation either, even if his partner is weaker than him, because he knows how important control can be in bed, so he'll let them win. Sometimes. He trusts you, and he wants you both to feel good.

Degradation/praise wise, he'll give either out depending on the moment. He's going to tease and utter dirty shit like, "C'mooon, prince(ss). You're sounding like a real whore for someone who didn't want it a couple minutes ago—" if you tried to struggle against. It depends more on the moment than position because he could be pounding into you and huffing out praise right next to your ear with what little air he's catching, to riding you, telling you to keep up while his head is already thrown back.

He enjoys pegging a lot, but as always, it's going to take some convincing to get him to comply.

Brat taming is another go-to of his, along with sub/dom. On the other end, it seems to be a near equal opposite—he's not into it, and it can get uncomfortable real fast. There's a few times he'll indulge himself, and they're all after more intense days to sort of solidify the trust he has in you. You're not going to hurt him; he's still in control in a way.

He doesn't seem like he'd like being on the receiving end of any sort of pain play. He already deals with chronic pain on a day-to-day basis. To have it overwhelm one of the few aspects of intimacy that he loves and simultaneously take his head off things for once just doesn't seem like it'd be enjoyable for him. No, on the giving end—

(Note: I'm not into pain play myself, nor do I even know what even makes it enjoyable for people, so I'll be segmenting this with fear play and "prey/predator.")

It wouldn't be something he'd ever bring up, far from it, but if it's what you like, he'll gladly take a knife in a steady hand to softly trace it down from your stomach to your underwear. In a smile almost cruel, he'd drag it across just enough so a few drops could be licked back up if you asked nicely enough again.

Jason knows you're just asking for it if you're weaker than him and bring up the idea of a different kind of foreplay. He'd pick a place, somewhere with a lot of spots you could try to hide away and run to (an abandoned office of sorts is the best go; he's not going to risk infections).  Just for him to stalk, pin you down with ease. If the spot he found his little prey in isn't satisfactory (or clean) enough, he'd have no qualms settling you over his shoulder like a sack and manhandling you where he wants it.

He definitely isn't going to go too far, though. As well-trained as he is, he's going to be especially attentive after any scenes involving that. Sadism isn't a big one for him. He'll enjoy it in the moment but then feel real guilty afterwards, so, just as a reminder, aftercare goes both ways.

I don't know why some people think he's into "dark" (ex. pedo stuff such as ageplay and actual rape.) kinks when he's canonically and literally has hunted down murdered several (sexual) abusers before. If you try to break boundaries, he's going to be reconsidering the relationship, and quite possibly if he even knew you as a person.

On a lighter note, consent is a big thing for him, and he's also big on aftercare. A go-to would be a bath for the both of you (stuffing the sheets in the washer right before and bandaging any "scratches" if need be.), then cuddling. Depending on whether he has the energy, he'll pop something in the microwave real quick. (Takeout is usually a last resort because the last thing he wants while enjoying the afterglow with a partner is social interaction with a stranger.)

If you wear make-up and it gets ruined by the end, like in the latter part of the previous section, if he can, he's going to help you wipe off the mess and maybe help you reapply it as a form of care.

[indulgentdaydream]

headcanons with attractive things jason does 😭🫶

anon i have GOT YOU

When he sits on a couch, no matter if you’re on too or not, that man is SPREAD

Arms wide and resting on the back of the couch. Manspreading his thighs wide open. A relaxed expression on his face. Maybe a book in hand.

When moving in for a kiss, he cups your face with his left hand first. Then strokes his thumb on your cheek twice while actually kissing you.

Every. Single. Time. Doesn’t matter where or when. If it’s just a peck or y’all are making out, that’s what he starts it with.

Kisses on the back of your neck if he’s walking past you and you’re looking down.

Also will keep his hands resting on your hips if standing behind you.

He’ll swear UP AND DOWN that he means nothing by it. That it’s just a habit. But will keep a hand on your thigh while driving a car. Not even sexual. Just comforting.

Opening doors for you and guiding you through with a hand on the small of your back

You’re both sleeping in the same bed? He’s dead asleep. Usually isn’t. But with you, for sure he is.

And if you slip out of his reach while he is dead asleep, he’s reaching out and dragging you back like a lost teddy bear. And he’s asleep the whole time

When you’re out eating or at a bar and he’s getting a bit anxious with all the people around, he’ll play footsies with you under the table

Got so intense once he accidentally knocked the table over and you two got kicked out

This man LAUGHS

No one talks about how Jason’s laugh (may have a fic in the works about it. I’ll finish it if y’all ask)

I’m not talking “he chuckled” or “he grinned” or “his shoulders shook with silent laughter”

I’m talking about how this man tosses his head back before leaning forward, clutching his stomach with one hand, the other reaching for some part of you to grasp as you laugh along with him. How his laughter is deep and BOOMING. It takes up a whole room. Echoes across the street. Enters your ears and melts into your blood stream and goes immediately to your heart which picks up its beating to make sure to get it to the rest of your body. How he straightens up again, his face split in a grin, eyes opening again while he has to wipe away tears of laughter, his body still shaking with it.

I want to make jason todd genuinely laugh and if the sound makes me go deaf then so be it because at least i was able to hear the most beautiful sound in the universe

I’m sorry this got off topic but

He wears glasses when he reads and that’s hot too i guess

[prismuffin]

I'm very sorry Crow Anon. I did steal our brain cell, I couldn't remember how to clean my clothes and needed big brain power. ÒWÓ

👉👈 I give it back, I promise.

But, Pris I have an ask for you, that may cheer you up!!

How do you think taking care of the batboys (separately) after they got their wisdom tooth taken out, would go??!

I think it would be funny, snice they're chaotic on their own. Without any drugs in their system.

(Alfred definitely banned Dick "Its faster if I jump out the window to the floor balcony under me" Grayson from drinking caffeine until he was an adult).

- OwO

As someone who’s gotten their wisdom teeth removed quite recently I’d say I’m capable of answering this ask. Each of these scenarios has a bit from my experience ok? so—

Jason would be the type to just want to nap. Even when you successfully got him in the car to take him home all he was doing was saying how he wanted to nap but ong he never even tries to close his eyes to sleep once. After you both get home and you help him into bed the first thing he does after you change his gauze is crash. Which makes things difficult for you because now you have to undress his limp body and move it so that he's not laying down completely so that he doesn't accidentally choke since he's still rather numb. When he wakes up he's sad about the food he can't eat so he tries not to for as long as he can. Overall a very sleepy guy after getting his wisdom teeth removed.

Dick is so chaotic off the bat. Even when they were wheeling him out to the car you could tell that he was gonna be a handful. Tried to call everyone on his phone and when that failed he resorted to carpool karaoke. You tried to get him to stop since he shouldn't try talking but he just wouldn't shut up. Once you got home and tried to get him into bed he'd just be laughing at your struggle which would just make you struggle more since he'd be even harder to move while laughing. Because of the laughter he bleeds all over the floors and his shirt which he only laughs harder at. Similar to Jason kinda because once you replace his gauze he's out like a light, and finally you have a moment of silence for the time being. (this entire paragraph was just my experience and I'm not even joking LMFAO)

Tim would probably be almost the most tame, he'd be very sleepy and would start to mumble about tech he's working on. He'd ask you questions about designs and such and you'd just have to remind him to sit still and try not to talk much. Overall a sweetheart, he listens to you and doesn't try and talk while you're switching out his gauze. He sleeps, wakes up, and eats jello all day. The least of your problems honestly.

Damian would be quiet at first...too quiet, then comes the complaining. He'd be annoyed that he was in pain and numb at the same time??? Makes a song about the pain. You have to stop him from biting his lips because he's numb and is probably biting way harder than he realizes. After getting him home and changing his gauze he's very vocal about his hunger and is sad that he can't have normal food, but he likes the chocolate pudding so it's bittersweet for him. After his numbing wares off some and the pain starts hitting he's even more complainy- especially since he did bite his lip too hard and now it's bleeding which neither of you noticed until then. He's fine if you can get him to stop complaining though.

( I’m so so sorry this took me a minute to answer yesterday I woke up and my day went to shit and stuff happened and I had a mental breakdown and forgot all about this message! )

———

Directory

[l0verb0t]

jason todd × reader. | ticklish.

SUMMARY: a drabble about stitching Jason up and what not. WARNINGs: physical contact & slight mentions of gore. WORD COUNT: 280+ NOTEs: second person. saying it now for any of them that will respect my wishes, fetish blogs dni. [no pronouns and terms used to refer to the insert/reader.]

The evening was quiet, apart from his heavy breathing. With his arm resting on his thigh, hunched forward, his head was lying on his hand.

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by medical supplies, blood-stained towels rested on the edge of a nearby table.

"Hold still." With a hand placed on his shoulder, you tried to ignore the texture of the blood dripping down his back.

You pushed your thumb into the muscles of his back to help settle his focus on something other than the pain searing in his shoulder. Through his teeth, he hissed soon after you pulled together the stitch around his wound.

"Sorry." The apology is whispered against his head as you place a kiss on it.

He rolled his shoulders back into your hands.

"It's fine. I've been through worse."

Your other hand trailed up his back, sliding up to the side of his neck with a light touch. Jason snorted and immediately pushed himself back up. It was the first time he flinched away from you that night.

When you looked over to see his face, you found his hand covering his mouth. He pushed you away. Despite the sudden distancing, through the space between his fingers, you saw a smile forming on his face.

"Don't do that."

"Why? The Red Hood doesn't like being tickled?" You wiggled your fingers at him as a tease, but he just pushed your hands aside.

"Oh, har har." Smiling as he pointed at you, he continued, "Keep that to yourself."

You waited for him to sit back down before pulling him back in place. In your head, you noted what happened for another time, maybe when he wasn't busy being stitched together.

[shortnsweetsposts]

Jason: Cooking together is NOT romantic, MOVE the fuck out of my way.

Reader: I'm tempted to stand in your way while you cook now.

Jason: I'll boil you next.

Reader: When he's a cannibal 😍🥰💖