#red hood dcu

[miwsolovely]

—THE SMELL OF BOOKS

𝜗𝜚 — in which, two book nerds start to fall for each other; you both meet your other half through wuthering heights

PROF!JASON TODD x PROF!READER no angst, fluff all around, university professor inconsistencies ( ? ), university au

— so sweet made my own teeth rot, love this sm, not requested —

JASON TODD, the enigmatic literature professor you’ve heard whispers about from students and staff alike, is known for two things: his sharp intellect and his tendency to disappear into the university library for hours on end. He’s a mystery to most, but you’ve caught glimpses of him during faculty meetings—usually seated at the back of the room, arms crossed, half-listening while his mind seems to wander elsewhere. There’s something about the way he carries himself; a quiet confidence, a brooding edge that sets him apart from the other staff.

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that you finally had your first real interaction with him.

You’d been in the library, hunting for a specific book you needed for your class, when you spotted him at one of the tables near the back, surrounded by an intimidating tower of books. He was scribbling notes into a leather-bound notebook, a pen held loosely between his fingers. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he didn’t seem to notice when you hesitated at the edge of his table.

“Do you mind if I—” you’d started to ask, gesturing toward the book you needed, which was stacked precariously near his elbow. But he’d looked up at you then, his eyes catching yours, and the rest of your sentence had faltered.

“Go ahead,” he’d said simply, leaning back in his chair and giving you enough space to reach for the book. His voice had been low, smooth, with just the faintest hint of amusement, like he could tell you were caught off guard.

From that moment on, you seemed to keep running into him. Sometimes in the library, where he’d nod at you in acknowledgment before diving back into his work. Sometimes in the hallways between classes, where he’d offer a quick, dry remark that left you wondering if he was teasing you. And, most recently, in the faculty lounge, where he’d sat across from you with an extra cup of coffee waiting for you while casually commenting on the book you were reading.

“Pride and Prejudice?” he’d said, raising an eyebrow. “A classic, sure, but let me guess—you’re teaching it as part of a ‘romance through the ages’ module?”

You’d blinked at him, startled, before recovering. “It’s for my Romantic Literature course, actually,” you’d replied, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips, trying to hide a smile. “What, are you going to tell me it’s overrated?”

He had smirked at that, his eyes glinting with something playful. “Not at all. Austen’s wit is sharper than most people give her credit for. I just didn’t peg you as the type to lean on the obvious choices.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but the conversation had spiraled from there, stretching far longer than you’d anticipated. Before you knew it, the coffee in your cup had gone cold, and you were debating the merits of Byronic heroes with someone who could match your passion word for word.

Now, you find yourself looking forward to the moments when your paths cross. There’s an energy about him that’s magnetic, a sense that he’s holding back just enough to keep you intrigued. And though he might spend most of his time holed up in the library or tucked away in his office, you’ve started to notice the way his eyes linger on you when you pass each other in the halls, the way his lips twitch into the faintest of smiles when he catches you mid-rant about a frustrating student or an impossible superiors deadline.

It’s on one of those late evenings in the library that everything shifts.

You’re grading papers at a table in the corner, the quiet hum of the library settling over you like a blanket, when you hear the scrape of a chair being pulled out. You glance up to find Jason lowering himself into the seat across from you, his ever-present notebook tucked under one arm.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” he says, setting the notebook on the table and leaning back in his chair. His gaze flickers to the stack of papers in front of you. “Let me guess—midterms?”

“Something like that,” you reply, surprised but not unhappy to see him. “What about you? Aren’t you usually buried in the philosophy section by now?”

He smirks, folding his arms. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite person in this dump. Make sure you’re not losing your mind over comma splices.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head. “Tempting fate, aren’t you? What if I say I already have?”

“Then I’ll sit here and keep you company until you’re sane again,” he says lightly, but there’s a warmth in his tone that catches you off guard. It’s the first time he’s made it clear—he notices you too, maybe more than you’d realized.

And as the evening stretches on, the papers forgotten between quiet conversation and shared silences, you think that maybe, just maybe, this strange, brilliant man is about to become more than just a passing presence in your life.

He’s nicer now.

You don’t know where it came from but maybe it's because he's been nice enough to lend you his jacket when you forget yours, the scent clinging to it wrapping around you so snugly you wish it’d stay there forever — or more likely the way he looks down at you with his molten hazel eyes; but you don't put up much of a fight.

Not when he brings you your coffee every morning with sweet words hanging from his lips and a firm hand on your lower back, guiding you to your seat. Your skin feeling warm after every touch.

In your respective classrooms, teaching separate things, your mind always drifts to the way he’d say specific things in his specific way.

How you’d love to watch him talk about how an author wrote something and why, the spark that you noticed never died from the comforts of his chest that you’d love to lay your hand on, feel the beating of his heart and sync yours with it.

Now as you sit at your desk, trying, to come up with what tomorrow’s lecture will be about and having your students projects graded by the weekend, your mind drifts.

The smell of his cologne that clings to him the way you dream you would, the sharp edges of his face you wish to trace gently, his smile that you want to gaze at day in and day out.

You groan and rub your face with your hands, exasperated. At yourself for thinking of him, or at him for plaguing your mind like this.

“Don’t tell me you’re stressed about me, doll?”

You blink up at him, your hand still half-covering your face. His figure leans casually against the doorframe, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other holding a worn book. That familiar grin is plastered across his face—mischievous and warm, the one that’s always been your undoing, the one that revealed itself after he became comfortable with you.

“Mr. Todd,” You manage, your voice coming out more startled than you’d like. “What are you doing here?”

He steps into the room, his steps unhurried, confident, as if he belongs here. And, in a way, he does. He sets the book down on your desk—a leather-bound copy of Wuthering Heights, of course—before leaning against the edge, his hip brushing the stack of ungraded papers.

“I was walking past and heard you groaning,” he teases, folding his arms over his chest. “Figured you needed a rescue.”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrays you by twitching upward. “I wasn’t groaning, just . . . thinking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I did feel my ears burning?”

Warmth rises to your cheeks, and you quickly duck your head, busying yourself with the papers on your desk. “You wish.”

He laughs, low and rich, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his cologne—the smell you were just thinking about. “Don’t I?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, teasing but laced with something more sincere.

You pause, your hand freezing mid-motion. When you glance up, his eyes are fixed on you, studying your face as if it’s a puzzle he’s determined to solve. It’s disarming, how easily he can shift from playful to serious, from cocky to earnest.

“You’re impossible, Jason,” You mutter, though there’s no real bite in your tone. Not when his name slips off your tongue like molasses, slow and warm.

“And yet, here I am,” he counters smoothly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He lets out a breath. “So, what’s got you all worked up? Can’t be the papers.” He gestures to the stack dismissively. “You’ve handled worse.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s nothing. Just . . . a long day.”

Jason tilts his head, unconvinced. But instead of pushing, he reaches for the book he’d brought in, gazing at the cover with a look you can’t identify.“You know,” he starts, his tone casual, “I’ve got this theory about Catherine and Heathcliff.”

You frown, caught off guard. “A theory?”

He nods, settling into the chair across from your desk as if he has all the time in the world. “Yeah. But I’ll only share it if you promise to stop stressing and listen.”

Despite yourself, You smile, leaning forward. “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

Jason reaches over and flips to the page he marked, his fingers brushing over the worn edges of the paper like it’s something sacred. You wonder if he marked the page thinking of you.

“See, people think Catherine and Heathcliff are this tragic love story,” He begins, his voice steady and confident. “But I think they’re more like two halves of the same storm—always colliding, always tearing things apart, but never quite able to exist without the other.”

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s not exactly revolutionary,” you tease, your lips twitching into a smile. “Most people agree their relationship was toxic.”

Jason smirks, leaning back in his chair, watching his hair framing his face in a way that makes you want to take a picture and treasure it forever. “Toxic, sure. But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s not about their relationship—it’s about their identities. They’re not just in love with each other. They’re in love with the parts of themselves they see in each other. That’s why they can’t let go.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by his insight. It’s not just what he says—it’s the way he says it, with that spark in his eyes, that fire that reminds you why you fell for him in the first place. “That’s. . . actually a good point,” you admit, crossing your arms. “But what about Cathy marrying Edgar? Doesn’t that contradict your whole theory?”

Jason chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Not at all. Cathy’s not choosing Edgar over Heathcliff—she’s choosing safety. Stability. But deep down, she knows she’s lying to herself. She says it outright: ‘I am Heathcliff.’ She can’t separate herself from him, no matter how hard she tries.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand as you watch him. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he talks—so passionate, so sure of himself. It’s like the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you and the story he’s spinning.

“And what about Heathcliff?” you ask softly. “What’s he in love with?”

Jason’s expression softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “He’s in love with the idea of her. The version of her he thinks he knows. But it’s not real. She’s as much a ghost to him as she is to anyone else by the end.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, his words hanging in the air between you. You study his face, the way his brow furrows just slightly, the way his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back. It hits you then how much of himself he sees in the story, how much of his own life he’s probably pouring into his interpretation.

“Jason,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. He glances up at you, and for a moment, the walls he’s built around himself seem to crack, letting you see the man beneath the bravado.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

“Thank you.” The words are simple, but you mean them. For showing up, for distracting you, for reminding you why you fell in love with stories—and with him—in the first place.

His lips curve into a small, genuine smile, and he closes the book, setting it aside. “Anytime, doll,” he murmurs, his voice as soft as yours.

And as the two of you sit there, the papers and the worries forgotten, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is your own version of a love story—messy, complicated, and beautifully imperfect.

It’s in every look, every moment, and every damn smile.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[lyvoltage-art]

[thecrowthatyellsow]

Skibidi die.

[se-qo]

alfred gave them the sheets

[medicsbountifulbreasts]

The batkids but they take advantage of the fact that they all look pretty similar and fuck with people at parties and galas.

Some snobby rich person: So Tim, I hear that you've taken over a large portion of WE

Tim, grinning internally: Im not Tim, I'm Damian. Tim is the tall one over there *points at dick*

Rich snob: o-oh.. my mistake

Gossiping older woman: Dick, I heard that you're working in Bludhaven now. Do you have a special someone over there?

Dick: I'm not Dick I'm Tim. I'm working on overseeing WE at the moment.

Older woman: *squints suspiciously*

Some trophy wife: Aww, little Damian, how's your schooling going? Are you keeping your grades up?

Damian, with a shit eating grin: I'm not Damian. I'm the ghost of Jason todd.

Trophy wife: *looks somewhere between horrified and disbelieving*

Jason, who's been listening to this over comms that he'd hacked: lmao now tell her that she needs to wake up

[boombaux]

[everwalldigan]

Bruce: who are you? A new crime lord?

Jason: *takes off his helmet*

Bruce: *squints suspiciously* a new crime lord who looks like a grown up version of my dead son?

Jason: *sighs in annoyance and forces a bright smile*

Bruce: JASON THE NEW CRIME LORD???

[ideas-ideasideasideas]

Batman gives each of his Robins a different code to use when they’re in trouble and need immediate extraction. He promises that when they call, he’ll drop everything just to get to them, come hell or high water.

Jason, during his time with the League, shares his code with Damian, to be used “only in the direst of circumstances, when you have exhausted all other options.” He doesn’t know if Bruce will answer, given how fractured their relationship was before he died, but it is better than nothing. Every tool counts when they live such dangerous lives.

Damian uses it exactly once, and Bruce, who still feels the loss of his son like a yawning chasm in his chest, responds to it even though he knows it can’t be Jason because Jason’s dead. What he finds, instead of Jason, is a boy in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-small feet, with a face that Bruce sees himself and Talia in, requesting asylum from a grandfather who wishes to possess his body. Bruce doesn’t question how this boy who is so clearly his son knew the code. Talia al Ghul is resourceful and places family above all; the code is not beyond her abilities to discover, and she is not above using Bruce’s desperate love for his dead son to ensure that hers does not meet the same fate.

Bruce takes Damian in, because of course he does, and since Jason is dead he allows Damian to keep using the code. After all, it’s not like Jason is alive to use it, right? If someone uses the code, there’s no one it could be but Damian, right?

The next time the code is used, Bruce traces the location to Gotham even though Damian was supposed to be in Bludhaven visiting Dick. But whatever happened that resulted in Damian being in Gotham can wait, because he has already failed one son and he will not fail another, his son is in trouble and he needs to get to him, he needs to—

What he finds, instead of Damian, is a boy (just eighteen, too young, but also too old, but also he will always be a boy to him) in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-large feet (when had he gotten so big), wearing the face of his dead son.

(Who, maybe, just maybe, may no longer be so dead.)

[cowboysorceror]

an important distinction 🐦 more chapter art for door, opening.

[prlssprfctn]

Batsiblings convince Jason to get himself a cooking Tiktok account, and he gives in. To his surprise, he quickly gains millions of followers and a loyal auditory. The only problem? Jason has no idea that these people came here not necessary for recipes.

Jason: Geez, my followers had been pissing me off lately.

Dick, confused: Huh? Why?

Jason: They keep commenting ATE. Like, dude? Fucking where? I am not eating in my cooking videos. What is the fucking point?

Tim, choking: Oh my fucking God-

Jason, making an angry text post for his followers: YOU ALL. STOP COMMENTING "RAW". MY MEAT IS NOT RAW. I AM A PROPER COOK. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???

Cassandra: Maybe it is time to tell him...

Tim, Steph, Duke, in unison: NO

Bruce, awkwardly trying to have a conversation with Jason: Hey, lad, how is your cooking blog is going?

Jason: Uh, people keep commenting cryptid messages. Like, the last time I was showing the right way to tenderise meat for chops because apparently it wasn't clear and someone requested the whole video? Anyway, I did it, and the whole comment section was writing me "in bed, on the floor, on the couch, on a chair, against the wall, against the window, against the door"... Like, why would I do that, not in the kitchen?

Bruce, no less clueless: Maybe it some kind of challenge. Kids love trying new stuff in extreme places nowadays.

Jason: Huh. Maybe. Thanks.

Bruce, just proud to have a proper conversation and somehow a help: Anytime, Jaylad!

Damian, who was unblissfully educated on the slang matter by Tim (because it was his responsibility as a big brother to traumatise him), with his eye twitching: ...None of these words were in Quran

[ccccchepushilo]

I imagine alfred combed all the robins' hair in the middle section since they were kids (and they're still doing it) only damian's the only one who's been able to escape this fate

[thecrowthatyellsow]

They heard someone talking shit about Bruce

[cateyam]

Imagine Dick actually adopted Jason. Like that's so chaotic— especially when Jason comes back from the dead.

12 year old Jason: Hey, Dick? Since I'm adopted by you, does that mean you're my father?

18 year old Dick: ...I'm still too young to called dad so no, I'm just your legal guardian.

Jason: Okay, dad.

Dick, tearing up: Please no.

——————

Jason after resurrection as Red Hood: I am your son.

Dick dating Wally: Tf?????? How would I— JASON?

——————

Bruce: All of you are my sons.

Jason: Technically, I'm your grandson.

Damian and Tim: ?????? What.

Dick: Technically he's right. You've been a grandpa since I was 18.

Bruce: ...Fuck, I forgot about that.

Damian and Tim: WHAT THE FUCK?????

——————

Bruce and Jason arguing:

Bruce: You're grounded!

Jason: TF? You're not my dad, Dick is!

Dick: Please, for the last time, I'm not really your dad.

Jason's dramatic ass: GASPS?! I'M ADOPTED?!

[disastertwins9000]

nightwing snap stories be like:

back to my roots fr

thanks @foerchen for helping me caption them<3

[kiwibirbkat]

Jason: Y'know, I was actually a ghost for a while before I was revived

Dick: *eye twitching* Is that so?

Jason: *smirking* Yeah.

Dick: That's so- interesting! I'll be right back! *slams the bathroom door in his face*

Dick, whisper screaming into his phone: LESLIE, I DON'T NEED THE ANTIPSYCHOTICS, I WASN'T HALLUCINATING JASON THAT WAS GENUINELY JUST HIS GHOST-

Jason, who only ever haunted Dick a couple days because he realized that Dick didn't seem to care about his death and thought Dick was only upset because Jason might've seen something embarrassing about him as a ghost: ?!?!?

[everwalldigan]

To anyone who thinks Bruce has a clear and consistent favourite child I raise you this: it is infinitely funnier for Bruce to have a complicated and elaborate “ranking” system of his kids that only he’s privy to.

Picture this: Batman, dosed with truth serum, gets asked as a gag from one of the goons holding him captive who his favourite bat-vigilante is and instead of giving a straight answer, he launches into this whole explanation about the ranking system and who’s in the current lead, who’s hanging behind, etc. At some point (this is a mystery to everyone involved) a whiteboard appears and he starts explaining his system like he’s a football coach before an important match. Out of nowhere he starts pulling out little cardboard cutouts of his kids and pins them to the board. At some point the red string comes out.

Jason hasn’t killed someone in a week? Automatically promoted to favourite. Tim hasn’t caused an international incident in the past month? Puts him a few points ahead that keep decreasing the longer he refuses real sleep (20 minute power naps don’t count Tim! Says powernap inventor Bruce Wayne). Cass gave him a hug this morning and wished him a good day? Favourite until he gets a call from dick telling him (without shouting!!!!) that he’ll be there for this week’s Sunday dinner. Duke accidentally scratches the Batmobile? Demoted to the “in trouble” zone (which, honestly, that’s where his kids spend most of the time in😭). Damian did not attempt to free all the animals in the zoo they visited? Favourite. Until Bruce found out he was just trying to conceal the cat hidden in his room that Bruce explicitly forbade him from keeping.

Dick arrives at the family dinner with a busted shoulder and a bruise the size of Texas on his face? Gets demoted so far down that even azraeil scores higher than him. He’s in the “in trouble” zone for a constant month after that. Oh one of them survived an almost death? Favourite for at least the next week. At least. Multiple people survive an almost death? EVERYONES the favourite. The least favourite is the growing grey hairs on his head.

The end of day results are decided by who bothers to wish him goodnight and if all of them have fucked up in some way the past week then Jon (Kent) becomes the automatic favourite until someone cracks a joke that Bruce actually finds funny.

The favourite child changes daily, hourly even, and his kids are aware this system exists and keep trying to crack the code but he always Knows and just smirks smugly.