How About Jason With The Prompt "text Me When You Get Home"? The One Time They Forget/fall Asleep Before

he deserves way better fr

meow meow meow

Mini Comic-cover snippet for @prlssprfctn story

♯ JASON TODD masterlist !

❛ ♱ ━ personal favorite

❛ ʚɞ ━ fluff

❛ ^ྀི ━ angst

❛ ❆ ━ suggestive

! SERIES

i. white mustang — outlaw!jason todd x fem!reader ( ♱ ʚɞ ^ྀི )

! ONESHOTS

i. heavenly — every moment with your boyfriend felt heavenly — even when he forgot to close the window ( ʚɞ )

ii. you hold me without hurting me — you show jason it’s okay to bleed sometimes ( ʚɞ )

iii. cry baby — your boyfriend’s here, doesn’t matter if you need him during an important task. you need him now so that’s what he does; he shows up ( ♱ ʚɞ )

iv. nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — your roommate is the menacing red hood — who just happens to have a soft spot for you ( ♱ ʚɞ )

! MISC.

attractive things he does . . . without noticing ( ʚɞ ) attractive things you do that drive him crazy ( ʚɞ ❆ ) he’s jealous over your attention ( ʚɞ ྀི ) sugar daddy ! jason ( ʚɞ ) things he does while having a crush ( ʚɞ ) taking your makeup off after a night out ( ʚɞ ♱ ) making out with jason ( ❆ ♱ ) jason’s lovie gets lost easily ( ʚɞ ) a merch collection ( ʚɞ ) part 2 ( ʚɞ ) he accidentally hurts your feelings ( ʚɞ ) he finds a stashed weapon under your pillow ( ʚɞ ) you misunderstand his intentions about you ( ʚɞ ྀི ) you find fanfics written about his alter ego ( ʚɞ )

making gingerbread houses & men with him ( ʚɞ ♱ )

jason as a dad ( ʚɞ )

jason doing the ‘jacked and kind’ tiktok trend with you ( ʚɞ )

Chapter Four: Darker Than Death

Summary: Jason chases the past and sets fire to the future

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 6,274

Content/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, Jason's self-destructive tendencies

SERIES MASTERPOST | PREV

Four months pass like lightning streaking the sky. Suddenly, you’re a staple in Jason’s life.

Soft kisses on biceps in the middle of the night. Mornings spent eating breakfast over your small kitchen table. Lunches in his station at the shop. The scowl on your face when Jason pulls out a dictionary to prove the word he played in Scrabble is real.

He didn’t think he could be happy again. After everything—the things he’d seen; the things he’d felt—it didn’t seem possible.

You gave him back something he thought he’d lost forever. You’re hope and future. Something to fuck up. Something to lose.

Jason knows what he looks like to the people on the street. It’s hard not to when he’s jarred by himself in the mirror sometimes. A big, brooding mass of man when once he was just a boy. He didn’t get a say in his dip in the Lazarus Pit, but the skin is still his own, adorned with in he chose and scars that he earned.

But no amount of ink nor callous nor scowling can actually protect him from the wounds that still have never healed. His never ending anger got the better of him today. A close call with Batman and Nightwing left him feeling bolder than ever. He went to visit the Joker.

Beating the Joker bloody with a crowbar didn’t have the cathartic impact he’d been hoping it would. The sight just made his stomach churn. He buried the flurry inside of him as he tied the Joker up, leaving him to sit in a closet for a few days. Until it’s time to bring him into play.

The rising sickness, cold and burning all at once, doesn’t go away. Distance doesn’t help. He still feels trapped there even when he’d been the one in control.

He doesn’t remember going to his apartment and changing. When he comes back to himself at your doorstep, he isn’t Red Hood. Just a boy in a soaked t-shirt shivering in the rain.

The door to your apartment building is inches away from his face. His hand is on the doorknob. It’s locked; he realizes now that’s what pulled him out of his head.

Rain falls down around him. It lands heavily on the shoulders of his jacket. The sound hammers on rooftops, onto the rusted cars parked out in front of your building. It splashes on the already soaked sidewalk, rushing into the sewers Jason knew so well. It’s always fucking raining. He would hate this city if he didn’t love it so much. If this city wasn’t in his blood just as much as Sheila’s.

Tears slick his face. That feeling in his stomach is still there, and he feels like he’s buried beneath earth all over again. The world is pressing down against him. He can hardly breathe.

His feet carry him to the back door of the building. The memory of picking the lock open is shoved into a corner at the very back of his mind. Safe memories fail to see the light of day now, yet he seeks safety just by being here. He needs you, though he hasn’t yet fully put it together yet.

Jason fiddles with the lock with less grace than usual. His hands tremble as he works, but even filled with tears, he’s focused. Maybe a little more so than necessary. He’s overly aware of the weight of his gun. Just as aware as he is he shouldn’t have brought it here. His mind is such a mess. What if he hurt you?

Part of him itches to turn back. The laughter echoing in his ears pushes him forward.

The wood floors creak beneath his feet as he moves through the otherwise silent halls. He pauses in front of your door. His nails bite into the palm of his fisted hands, trying to find the bravery to knock.

Bravery.

Once upon a time ago, he ran across the rooftops of this city fighting goons twice his size, reassured by his mentor, a less than perfect man who demanded perfection. He thought his bravery made him untouchable.

So much for that.

He knocks. You don’t answer.

It’s 3 AM; of course you’re going to be asleep.

He should have never come here. He hasn’t even thought about what he would say when you ask why he’s such a wreck. Just like anything real in his life, it’s not like he can tell you the truth. You wouldn’t know what to do with the truth; he kidnapped the guy who killed him back when he was just a little robin. His mind feels too syrupy to come up with a good lie.

He realizes with sudden clarity he never should have gotten this close to you. Sure, he’s been planning his takeover of Gotham’s underground for years, but plans go sideways. What if the Joker gets out and finds out a connection between Red Hood and you? He can’t even stomach the thought of you with a single scratch on you, let alone in the sort of condition Joker would leave you in.

The lock clicks on your door.

Undoubtedly, you’d spotted him through your peephole standing there. When the door opens, your tired eyes are swimming with concern.

“Jason? Is everything okay?” Your voice is thick with sleep as you blink him into focus.

He feels terrible. He wants to say he’s drunk. Tell you he wasn’t thinking. Free you of his bullshit. Instead, he sniffles pathetically.

The door creaks softly as you hold it open more. You’re a lifeline for him now, the one thing that’s keeping him from sinking back into that bottomless grave, and he pulls you against him. His grip is tighter than it probably should be, but if you have a problem with it, you don’t say.

You hold him like something precious.

He hates himself.

“Come on. Come inside.” Your voice is soft as you gently usher him in. “You’re soaked.”

Streetlight from outside diffuses through the raindrops on your window. It’s the only light offered in your darkened apartment.

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you rummage around the clothes piled on top of the old floral wingback chair in the corner. You pull out one of Jason’s t-shirts, the material washed and worn until the fabric was soft.

Cotton clings to his skin as he peels his shirt off.

He hears a soft gasp as his vision is obscured.

“What happened to you?” you ask, horror cutting through your exhaustion like a knife.

Bruises—fresh ones—scatter across his skin. He hasn’t seen them yet, but he feels them there. Normally, he’s pretty good. Keeping his clothes on when he knows there’s damning evidence. The less he has to explain, the fewer lies he has to keep track of. Tonight isn’t a normal night. His head is barely on straight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He tugs the shirt down, obscuring whatever injuries you see.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Did someone hurt you?”

God, you’re so sweet. You care about him, and you really shouldn’t. Right now, there’s a fire in your voice; you’d go up to bat for him against anyone. All the more reason to keep you out of the line of fire.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps.

“The hell it is. Jason, what is going on?” Your voice is demanding as you take another step closer. Your reach out to touch him, but you stop as if you would hurt him. You are afraid to hurt him.

He huffs and goes out to your living room, his large frame hunching in on itself as he falls into your couch. His head hangs for a minute before he looks around. He’s always found your apartment peaceful. Blankets tossed over the arm of your threadbare secondhand couch. Bookshelves stuffed with crumbling paperbacks. Feels more like a home than his place ever has, but it’s still no home of his.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” he sniffles.

You follow him out, pausing a few feet away from him. “We don’t have to cover everything tonight.”

The certainty in your voice is too brilliant, too forgiving; some things feel like they can never be spoken about. Should never be allowed to see the light of day.

“I dug up a lot of past today.”

He hopes you never understand him because that means you understand how it feels to die. What it means to come back from that. And what worse fate could he curse someone to? He never wants that cold to find you in the middle of the night and shock you awake just to confirm your heart is still beating.

“What do you need?”

The couch dips as you sit beside him. His arm winds over your shoulders, pulling you to his chest so he can feel the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. “Just this,” he says.

So you stay that way. He cries, and he thinks about how he shouldn’t be doing this to you. He feels better because you’re here. No matter how hard he tries not to, he can’t stop thinking about how fucked up it is that he gets to feel better while making everything worse for you. He’s going to ruin your life, and he hasn’t even given you the opportunity to know that.

A few more minutes pass. Your apartment is silent apart from his sniffles, but those, too, die down eventually. Just the rain remains, pattering against the glass.

“Shouldn’t have woken you up,” he says when he’s finally composed himself. There’s a resolution in his voice that had been lacking before. He hopes you don’t ask how he managed to make it to your door.

You shake of your head pull away from him to look into his eyes. “Don’t say that. You didn’t want to be alone. That’s a good enough reason to wake me up.” Your voice is just as firm.

Doubt crosses Jason’s face. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if he wasn’t selfishly withholding the truth from you. You’d already met Red Hood, and you didn’t want him inside of your apartment. He shouldn’t be here, and he knows it. He has no right to wake you up when you’re safe and asleep in your bed. He doesn’t deserve to seek your comfort just because he can’t face his ghosts.

Your palms are warm as you gently hold his face. The pad of your thumb wipes off his tears. “I care about you,” you say. “You aren’t burdening me by letting me help you.”

For one single second, it crosses his mind to open up. You’d think he would have totally lost it, but he could open up. At this point, it almost feels as if it doesn’t matter; he’s decided this won’t be able to last.

Even now, you know very little about him. Neither of you have put a label on what you have, but there’s a bind between of you. You’ve become a feature in his life, as often as he can allow such a thing. He’s gotten comfortable with your presence, and comfort can always be taken away from him. There’s benefit in staying unattached.

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t wanting you biting off more than you can chew, sweetheart,” he says. His thick fingers wrap around your wrist, keeping your hand against his cheek.

Your lips quirk up into a weak smile, but your visible concern doesn’t wane. “I’m pretty tough,” you reply.

Jason turns his head and presses his lips into the palm of your hand. “I know you are.”

But tough isn’t always enough against the people who come after him. Not even when you sign up for it. And you sure as shit didn’t sign up for this.

Most days, you make him feel like he’s soaring. When he takes you out on the bike—Gotham blurring around both of you as your chest presses into his back—he sometimes feels like he’s too giddy to drive.

That feeling, he thinks it’s love, but he can’t accept that. He’s been telling himself he doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need family. But he can’t convince himself he doesn’t need you right now.

One day, Batman is going to catch up to Red Hood. Jason is planning on as much. But if that plan somehow backfires, he could lead Batman right to you. He can’t curse you to a fate where your path intersects with Bruce Wayne. Jason doesn’t want your life any more tainted than he’s already made it.

He can handle losing you if he’s the one that calls it quits. He can handle losing you if you hate him over whatever lies he has to tell to make you slam the door in his face. But he can’t handle losing you over the truth, especially if it’s Bruce’s version of the truth. The very idea of you siding with Bruce in all of this makes his skin crawl.

“I care about you, too, you know,” he finally says. He looks at you in your pajamas, the softness of sleep still etched onto your features. His voice feels to gruff to be speaking to you. He takes your hand between both of his, lowering it down into his lap. He doesn’t want you to hear the finality in his voice.

You smile, though your face is sad. “I know.”

“Why’re you so nice to me?” he asks. You were supposed to just be some client. He was supposed to tattoo a dead bird onto your arm and say goodbye. He did everything right; he was a detached asshole. And yet, something about you broke him open, like playing the right notes on the piano to get into the Batcave.

Like a soft breeze, your laugh brushes across his lips. You’re close to him now.

“Didn’t we just establish that?” you ask, looking up at him with an even softer expression than before.

“I’m serious,” Jason says. “Why did you even bother giving me a chance?”

What makes me worth saving?

There’s a beat of silence. Your eyes study his. He doesn’t doubt you can see the tears still lingering, threatening to spill at the first kind thing you have to say to him.

“I mean, you were a dick for a little bit, but I could tell you felt bad about it.” You look him over carefully, your lips still tugged into that meager smile. “I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.”

He sighs and hangs his head. His grip on your hands loosens, like he’s offering you freedom. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he says. His voice rumbles up from his chest. He has to speak quietly or else he’d be yelling. All he can imagine is the Joker getting his hands on you. The thought alone makes him feel so sick he can’t stand to look at you.

As hard as he tries to stay with the kindness in your eyes, his mind starts to wander.

The floor had been so cold; he remembers it now. He acts like he’s not afraid of dying—maybe he isn’t—but he remembers how it feels to die. He remembers how dark it is. How bitter. Laughter rings in his ears. Blood in his mouth, bile stinging at his throat. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing peaceful about choking on his own blood. There was no ‘slipping off’; there was only a flash, the rush of heat, a deafening blast, and the screams of the mother who had sold him out.

“Why would I stick around this long if you weren’t worth it?” you ask.

“It doesn’t count when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” He breathes a bitter laugh like it doesn’t feel like acid. Like it’s effortless to put you down. If you believe it is, maybe you’ll ask him to leave.

He’s good at this, sabotaging relationships. Even though he thinks the world of you, he can summon up the words to make you question everything about the last four months. Doesn’t matter if Jason admires how much cruelty you’ve faced. Doesn’t matter if he finds wonder by the fact you still somehow stayed kind after that. He knows just what to say to plant a seed of doubt that will only continue to fester from here.

There’s a long silence. You’re not looking at him anymore. He wants to take it back, but he knows he can’t. That’s why he said it.

“Why are you trying to push me away right now?” Your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the rain beating on the pane of glass behind you.

“I’m not pushing you away. That’s just the truth.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say. Your voice is low, but volume does nothing to lessen the severity of the chill. He’s used to your warmth. “You’re not that much of an asshole.”

The deeper he sinks into this character, the more he wants to to run out of the room. He’s ruining the one good thing he’s had since he came back to Gotham. He’s throwing away his one actual shot at happiness.

When he looks at you, he’s looking at a future he’ll never know. Baking cookies just because you mentioned in passing you wanted some. Slipping apology notes underneath your door when he pisses you off so much you won’t respond to his texts. Telling you he loves you; whispering it in your ear when he holds you on bad days. Telling the truth because he could finally fully surrender himself to you.

The truth, Jason likes to imagine, feels like the gentle release everyone likes to describe death as. Peace. A boy blown up isn’t at peace; he’s a poltergeist. But a man who can surrender and accept the death of a life he’d taken up, like a crab molting its shell to find something more comfortable, can rest. If he was brave enough, he could adapt again. Maybe make a life that offered a truce between him and this world.

“Ever consider maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do?” he asks. He buries the thoughts of your warm embrace. So many graves in his mind, all smelling of petrichor and freshly turned earth.

It rained the night he clawed up to the surface of Gotham. He doesn’t remember much about that night—doesn’t remember much before Talia got to him—but he remembers the smell. Dirt was everywhere, until suddenly, he smelled the rain. Drops fell into his parched mouth as he gasped for air.

His eyes squeeze shut, overly aware of the sheets hitting your window. Your silence doesn’t help.

“Please,” you scoff. “Do you think I just conveniently haven’t noticed you dodging topics the past four months? Just because I’m the only one who’s been open about my fucked up past doesn’t mean I’m the only one with it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’ve got more going on then you’re telling me. The fact that you have secrets isn’t a secret to me. You can have things you don’t want to talk about, but don’t show up at my doorstep looking for help and snap at me when I give it to you.”

Jason doesn’t want it to end. He wishes he was just a little bit more selfish so he could will himself to hold onto you. He wishes his path wasn’t paved with blood so he could guarantee your safety.

But he can hold onto you for one more night.

He lays his head down in his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not a lie, but tomorrow he’ll tell you it was. His fingers tangle in his hair, and he finally looks up at you. You don’t look happy, that’s for sure, but you don’t hate him.

Tomorrow, he’s going to have to do this for real. Tonight, he just wants you.

Your eyes are fixed on him for a while before you respond. “Thank you for the apology,” you say. “You’re right. You can be a dick sometimes. But I think that shows you how intentionally I choose to be around you,” you say.

If you knew the truth, he imagines you poking fun at him for saying you were the one with fucked up relationships. You’d call him a hypocrite if he ever gave you the chance to.

“Let’s go to bed.” The words are clipped. You don’t look at him. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You’re gonna let me stay?” There’s hope in his voice when there shouldn’t be. You should turn him out, send him back into the rain; he deserves it more than the comfort of your bed.

You give him a look. “People usually say the worst stuff when they need someone the most,” you say. “Something you learn when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” You stand up and offer out your hand for him.

He follows as you lead him into your darkened bedroom. Sheets are rustled and tossed back. His stomach twists at the display of your rush to his aid. There’s so much more out in the world for you, even if he wants to sink into you until there’s no more him left.

Before you, he’d grown comfortable in harshness. The darkness didn’t feel unique because it was everything he had for years. And then there was you.

He’s going to know what life without you is like. But not getting to see you sat at your kitchen table, grinning at him sleepily over a cup of coffee in the morning is better than never seeing you again because someone got their filthy hands on you.

You guide him towards your bed. One last night to lie next to you and share your body heat.

Jason shrugs off his leather jacket. He misses the soft rustling of it hitting the floor; his eyes are fixed to the sight of your skin as you get into bed. The yellowish glow of city light slips in through a crack in your curtains.

The sheets rustle as you climb in. Jason still stands at the bedside for a minute more. You won’t look at him, and he’s glad. Goodbyes he’s not yet ready to say are written all over his face.

After a beat, your eyes do seek him out in the darkness. The sheets are pulled up to your chin, and Jason is trying to remember it all, even if he can tell you’re still upset.

The bed shifts with his weight as he lays down beside you. You face him. He doesn’t look away. He shifts a little closer, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulls you to his chest. If he were a better man, he would apologize right now. A real one. But if he means it too much, you’ll never believe him in the morning. He can’t afford to not be convincing.

Jason holds you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and shuts his eyes. More than anything, he wishes he could enjoy this moment.

In another life, he wonders if maybe this is how things are all the time with you. He can hold you without worrying about what dangers he’s putting you in. Guilt might not gnaw at him. Jason curses him even if he doesn’t even exist because who else can he blame? Fuck that guy. Fuck his happiness.

You fall asleep in his arms. He feels like he’s taking advantage of your trust by even holding you right now, but he can’t will himself to let you go. He has hours left of this, and he can’t imagine wasting those moments by sleeping on the far side of the bed.

You have a strange dream, the kind that fades from memory the more you try to chase them.

In the shadows of what you remember, you see a red helmet, one like your dangerous friend wears. You found it laying on the ground in an alley. You searched out in the darkness for a face—his face—only to realize you were all alone, standing in a green mist.

Weeks had passed since your masked friend picked the lock to your apartment so you could get inside. Weeks since he’d sat on your fire escape only to never be seen again, but for some reason, he’s visited you in your dreams.

Your dream dissolves, but fresh worry blooms in your chest as you look at the empty spot on the other side of the bed where Jason had been only hours earlier. His words come back to you.

He was grieving something last night. Thinking of the loss in his voice leaves a chalky, bitter taste in your mouth. Instinctively, your hand smooths over the rumpled sheets where he’d been when you fell asleep. They’re cold.

Sunlight spills through the crack in your curtains. A rarity for Gotham. Last night’s downpour has been reduced to puddles in the dips of the sidewalk. You naively choose to believe that maybe this brand new morning has changed things. The finality in the air last night has been swept away like a shadow by the brightness of the day.

Even if it ends up hurting your feelings, you hold onto this hope like a wilting flower. It gets you out of bed.

The smell of something sweet fills the air as you poke your head out of your bedroom. Jason stands at your stove. His broad shoulders curl over a skillet, spatula in hand. Dark curls stick up in every direction. His t-shirt from last night is rumpled with fitful sleep. He looks up from the pan, his eyes straying on you as you approach.

“Smells good,” you say, stepping out.

“I made coffee,” he says, nudging his chin to the percolator on your counter top.

He carries his sleep deprivation well; you’ve heard about the sleepless nights he spent in Europe while he was traveling. You know some nights he stays up late with his friends you’ve never met. They’re a bad influence, he told you once. You asked him if he thought he was a good influence.

You kiss his shoulder as you walk by, your hand ghosting over his tattooed bicep. “Thank you, honey,” you say, still trying to get a handle on the situation. Still clinging to hope that this is a new day.

Except you see Jason tense out of the corner of your eye.

Instantaneously, your mouth goes dry. Today might be a new day, but nothing has changed. There’s still tension in the air. Jason’s mind is elsewhere, and wherever that is, you don’t seem entirely welcome.

Your body feels rigid as you try to pour your coffee, playing pretend like nothing’s wrong.

You like Jason; woozy, youthful joy swells in your chest when he holds you. He keeps you warm from all manner of coldness Gotham offers. Being around him is secure, safe in a way that goes just beyond the fact no one even gives you a second look when you’re next to him.

It feels like the day you met, but far worse. Because being pushed away some tattoo artist is one thing, but that’s not Jason anymore. He’s not just some guy who gave you a tattoo. You’ve spent more nights with him the past month than without him. He came to you sobbing last night because he needed someone, and you answered the call. So what changed?

Cup of coffee in hand, you sit at the small kitchen table pushed up against your wall. You watch him as he cooks; his mossy eyes are always decidedly fixed down.

Your finger traces along the deep divot in the table. Sunlight spills across the scarred wood; you can’t help but feel like you’re being mocked. Miraculous sunlight in Gotham at the moment where the light feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

A few minutes later, Jason brings a plate of pancakes, a bowl of diced strawberries, and syrup to the table, setting them down in front of you. You’ve always believed Jason makes food in place of the things he’s never told you. You wonder what unspoken words your breakfast is supposed to represent.

“Looks great,” you say. Your forced cheerfulness sounds like exactly that, but Jason doesn’t make any indication that he noticed. He acknowledges you as he takes the seat on the opposite side of your table.

You stare at the plate in front of you, forcing yourself to eat even though your appetite has dissipated. It gives you something to do. Without a task, you’d just sit there, trying to figure out what went wrong.

There’s silence. Sunshine doesn’t fill the void the way Gotham’s rain does. The tension makes the pancakes less sweet. Or at least you imagine it would, but you haven’t actually tasted a single bite.

More than anything, you want to ask about last night.

Jason’s bloodshot eyes, the desperation with which he held you, is stuck to you in a way you don’t know you can brush away. Jason, who keeps himself so well guarded behind the walls he built up, was exposed last night. You saw something in him, something you’d never seen before, and wanted so badly to understand it.

You want to say something, but you don’t know how without maybe making things worse. Don’t want to dig up skeletons any more than he’s admitted he already has.

The truth is you do know so little about Jason’s past. Any number of things could have sent him to your door last night. You’d been so exhausted, you hadn’t even thought to question how he’d gotten inside. You content yourself to thinking he’d followed in after someone.

“I think we should call it,” Jason says. He doesn’t even look up from his untouched food.

You look up from your pancakes, red strawberry juice smeared all along your plate. “Call what?” you ask. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you’re hoping your willful ignorance will maybe somehow change his mind.

“This.”

This. The undefined thing going on between the two of you for the past four months. The thing that has made home feel like home again. Someone who gave a little more sense to the Gotham you’d once known so well that had been destroyed, uprooted, just when your life was.

You feel your jaw muscles tense, your teeth clenching together to try to lessen the emotional blow. It doesn’t work—you knew it wouldn’t—but you figured you would try. “Is this about last night?” you ask.

“No.” His response is quick. If your head wasn’t reeling, you would maybe pick up on how rushed it really was, but you don’t.

You’re silent, waiting for an explanation you know isn’t coming. So you do what you know to do; you grasp at straws, hoping maybe you can fix this. Hoping maybe there’s a problem you can solved that will keep Jason here.

“Okay, then what’s it about?” you ask.

The kitchen chair creaks as Jason leans back. His skin is golden with the light crossing over your table. You see the rosemary and lilies on his arm and think of his work permanently etched into your body.

You will carry a piece of him with you forever, no matter where either of you goes.

“It’s not about anything. This wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“I deserve more than that.” The words are clipped and harsh. More than you really mean them to be, but you’re still trying to make sense of all of this.

Things had been good. Really good. You laughed with him and relished every time you heard his clandestine laughter in return. He comes over when you’ve had a rough day and are fed up from work. You’ve cried in front of him, and while you’re sure saying he was happy to do it is a stretch, he did it without complaint. There may not have been a label on what you have together, but Jason is right; you don’t feel casual.

You love him.

The realization crawls up your throat like bile, like you might say the words at the absolute wrong time and make everything worse.

“Fine.” He looks up at you, his face hardened in a way you don’t recognize. His eyes are hardened. Not guarded like when he wouldn’t talk to you during your first appointment; they’re cold. He’s never looked at you like that before. “I’m sick of this shit. The monotony. You don’t want to live the same goddamn day over and over again.”

You stiffen. Somewhere a few blocks away, a siren wails. His gaze doesn’t waver. You’ve never wished for him to look away so badly. Under his gaze, you feel trapped. Uneasiness creeps up your spine.

For some reason, your first date comes to mind. You think of Jason at the arcade machine, the way he’d held the plastic gun so steadily.

“So why’d you come here last night then?” You struggle to keep your voice steady, but now feels like the wrong time to show any weakness.

Once, you thought Jason looked at you like a prey animal. In the tattoo shop, when he first came out thirty-five minutes late,he stared you down like he was trying to making sure you weren’t going to run in the direction. But even then, he was studying you more than anything, a habit of his you’d grown to recognize.

This is something else entirely.

“Because I’m a lonely, fucked up guy. Is that what you want to here? The warmth of your bed was better than none at all.”

Anger and agony stir in your chest. Muscles taught, jaw hardened. You can’t even stand to look at him for a minute. “So, what? We’re just done? We’re broken up?”

“We’re not broken up because we were never together,” Jason snaps.

Another silence settles between the two of you, this one charged.

“I guess that makes things more simple,” you reply, your voice low. You feel your face burning. What had you been thinking? You knew from the start he was bad news. You’d known it, and you ignored every sign anyway.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Jason doesn’t look up at you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

God, you should have seen this coming, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. Things were good. Things were working. Until they weren’t. Until you ended up here. Now you’re at a total loss for words.

“Alright,” you say when he doesn’t speak. “Well, thanks for breakfast.” There’s no point in hiding the bitterness in your voice. What do you have to lose, right? He wants nothing to do with you, and you’ve just wasted months of your life stupidly, childishly believing that this was something that could actually work.

Jason doesn’t move right away. His dark brows are knitted close, but it doesn’t quite look like anger. The scar running through the brow makes him look more severe. You can’t imagine what kind of harsh truths he’s withholding. But you can’t look away. You think about running your fingers through his hair. You think about tracing the ink on his skin. You think about how empty your lunchtime will feel now because you’re not going to be swinging by the shop, a bag of takeout in hand.

This whole time, you’d just been a phase to him. Just another passing name he would forget in a month when he meets someone new. Someone better. Someone less acquainted with fucked up relationships, maybe. The point being, they aren’t going to be you.

And why should it matter so much? What’s four months? You barely know each other, right? Besides all of the times he listened to you spill your guts and probably kept waiting anxiously for you to shut up. All the while, you had managed to convince yourself this was actually going to be anything. You were mortified.

“I think your jacket is still in the bedroom,” you add pointedly as he keeps staring at you. Hopefully he’ll get the hint because you don’t think you have it in you to actually tell him to leave.

He stands, the chair sliding against the wooden floors of your apartment. Silently, he walks to the other room. It takes a few minutes for him to come back out. You’re so busy trying to make sense of all of this, you don’t notice.

When he reemerges, jacket in hand, Jason lingers by the front door. His eyes are fixed to the floor before he finally looks up at you.

“Bye,” he says.

Not see you later because he won’t. He doesn’t plan to. He’s done with you.

His eyes linger on you. He looks sad; you’ve gone and made him feel guilty because you thought you had more of a place in your life than you really did.

“Bye,” you say back, your voice rough.

Not it’s been nice knowing you because you can’t bring yourself to say the words. Not I think meeting you changed my life because you don’t have the right to that claim.

Jason doesn’t look back as he closes the door behind him.

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

Hi again 😊 You suggested i could send another prompt, sooo… maybe you & Jason have been together awhile, and you’re kidnapped by (choose your villain) and Jason is worried and frantic but trying to not show it of course, and negotiating for your safety? Ends up rescuing you of course, in whichever way you prefer, and then they find comfort in each-other 💗

I haven’t had time or energy to work on my WIP lately so this is very lovely and gratifying 😂👌🏻💗

aghh that's the worst! wishing you luck on your wip!! i'm glad you like these <3 requests are open for jason, dick, and MAWS!clark kent btw!

this one is very batfam focused hehehe. ft dramatic ass jason and his surprise kidnapped fiancé lol.

jason todd x gn!reader. tw: violence, kidnapped reader, reader is pushed off a building for a moment but they're okay dw <3, batfam feels, jason being a protective bf, bruce being a GOOD DAD! c:

****

"Actually, if we're being honest, if anyone has the most trauma in this family, it's—"

Batman grunts. "Really, Spoiler, not now."

The comm line crackles as Stephanie sniffs. "Fine. Stay in denial."

"Bats."

Every bat and bird in Gotham goes still.

"Hood?" Barbara asks carefully, already tracking his comm link.

"Oracle," he says, clipped. "I'm gonna get right to it: I need a favor. Can you help? Yes or no."

"Little Wing, where have you been?" Dick asks. "We've all—"

"Shut up, Nightwing," Jason growls. "Either you help me or not. Which is it?"

"We'll help you, Hood," Bruce says, voice washing over Jason like a balm.

Jason takes a deep breath. It's okay. He'll find you. Batman always beats the bad guys.

He fiddles with his jacket zipper. Moments tick by. Dick remains crouched on a rooftop. Damian is similarly poised.

"My..." Jason swallows. "My... fiancé's been taken."

The comm explodes with noise. Jason winces and digs the bud out of his ear for several seconds.

"Fiancé?!"

"You're getting married—"

"When was this—"

"Who are—"

"Enough," Jason growls, finally shoving the bud back into his ear. "I don't have fucking time for this. Yes, I am engaged, and they've been taken. No more questions."

"Tt. You are engaged? Impossible. Batman, clearly someone has hacked the line pretending to be Hood," Damian says, folding his arms.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not, demon bird, I found someone crazy enough to marry me."

"Little Wing, I—I'm really proud of—"

"Shut up!" Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. This was a bad idea. You're in trouble, and Jason intends to tear Gotham apart to find you, but involving his family? Has he really stooped so low...

Deep breath. His focus is you. You're the only person that matters.

"Look, I'm telling you because Oracle's tracking me anyway, and B would snoop until he figured out who I'm really looking for, so it's easier to just tell you. But make no mistake: you aren't my family, and you won't see us again after tonight."

Bruce's throat tightens. His cape flutters in the wind.

"Very well," he says after a couple beats. "Last known location?"

"I'm sending you the address now. I've retraced my steps a hundred times though, and I can't—" Jason grits his teeth. He can't tear up or break things, not again. "Fuck. I can't fucking find them, B. I... I don't know if-if maybe I'm too late—"

"You're not," Dick says automatically. "We'll find them, Little Wing. We'll bring them home."

****

Your head is on fire.

It feels like there's a thousand needles pelting your skull. Whatever you were drugged with, it's hard stuff, and it hasn't worn away yet.

You look up; you're gagged and tied to some kind of support beam. As your vision clears, you see that you're in one of the new high rise-in-progress. Only the skeleton of the building has been completed because if Bruce Wayne isn't involved, construction takes forever to complete.

Faintly, you recall Jason mentioning something about a construction company leaving half finished projects across the country and using them as havens for criminal activities.

Yeah. This is not good.

"Where the fuck is he?" The voice echoes across the concrete floor foundation.

"Mike, we sent—"

"I don't give a fuck what you did; obviously, you screwed up! He's not coming!"

You close your eyes, trying not to throw up on your gag. Your head spins when you open your eyes again.

Who's not coming? Your rescuer? Or somebody worse than your kidnappers?

You try to take a deep breath, but your chest tightens instead.

"Fine," Mike barks in the adjacent room. "If that hooded psychopath doesn't show up, we'll just dump this one. That'll send a message. Prepare the explosives."

A door swings open, and you flinch. You cower, shrinking from the figure.

"You better hope he shows," the guy growls, and cocks his gun. "Your boyfriend is the only reason you're still alive. It'll be such fun to watch him fall to his death, don't you think?"

You try not to show your swelling panic. How does he know about you and Jason? And you have to warn him. Explosives. Jason's walking straight into a trap, without backup, because you know he'll be alone. He always works alone.

Mike sneers and waves the gun around.

"Oh, yeah. I know your secrets. In bed with Gotham's biggest crime lord. You must be his favorite. I can see why."

"Mike!" someone shouts. "We got company!"

Mike's eyes blaze cruelly. "Showtime. You're coming with me."

You thrash as hard as you can because if there's one thing Jason taught you, it's to always fight back.

Mike backhands you hard enough to send you sprawling. Your hands are bound, so you can't catch yourself, and you hit your head on the concrete. Blood pools in your gums.

"Try that shit again, bitch," he snarls, and hefts you up.

He drags you up a flight of stairs. Your head throbs, and now your jaw aches. You're too dizzy to try to fight back again.

You end up on the roof, which is a miasma of beams and wooden lattices. Wind cuts through your face, and you close your eyes so they don't water.

"Hood!" Mike crows. "Wonderful of you to join us!"

"Wish I could say the same," Jason says, and your heart leaps at the sound of his voice.

You start to shout through your gag because you have to warn him. It's a trap, he'll kill you both—

Mike wraps his arm around your throat and squeezes. Air stops, and you choke on your cries.

"I'll kill you," Jason snarls, and you know he wants to say more, but he's trying to protect you. "Let them go and maybe I won't break every bone in your body."

"Oh, don't worry. You two will be reunited soon. What is it they say? Love blinds you?"

"Michael Cassidy," a new voice says, deep and deadly. "Let go of the hostage. We can talk this out."

You crack open your eyes. Is that... Batman? And Robin? And... Nightwing? What—

The arm around your throat tightens and you gasp for air as you start to choke for real. Oh God. Batman's going to die because of you.

"You involved Batman?" Mike snarls, now truly irate. You feel yourself being dragged backward, toward the edge. Your stomach rolls in warning.

"Take it easy," Batman says, palms up. "We can work this out."

"You can't play fair?" Mike shouts. "Then neither will I!"

The wood beneath your feet is gone. You're falling.

"No!"

But no sooner than you fall are you caught. Warm arms encircle your waist, and you're jerked to a stop before you can fall more than a few feet.

"I got you, baby, I got you."

Jason is connected to a grapple. At the roof edge is Batman, Nightwing, and Spoiler, all holding the grapple.

You shake your head, screaming against your gag. Bomb. Bomb!

"'S alright, 's alright, sweetheart, I won't drop you."

You scream urgently through your gag, butting your head against his helmet. Jason pulls your gag half free and you choke out the warning.

"B-bomb!"

His grip tightens. "Shit. B, get out of here! Place is rigged to blow!"

The first explosion goes off. Jason meets your gaze. He's terrified, you can tell, but he tries to mask it.

"Let go," he says.

"Wh—"

"He'll catch you," Jason promises. "I trust him."

And then he lets go.

Several more explosions go off. The building begins to crumble. Dust and heat sweep across your face and lodge in your already sore throat. You scream, in the air for a few more seconds.

Then you crash into gray body armor. A cowl, a cape.

"It's alright," Batman gruffly says. "Hold on tight."

Batman swings you both to safety on an adjacent rooftop. You watch him dive back into the flames. It isn't long before Jason swings out of the smoke, then the others. He pulls off his helmet and tosses it to the side, arms open.

You run and bury your face in Jason's neck, clinging to him. He hugs your tightly and rubs your back, saying over and over, I got you.

You sigh and slacken out of exhaustion.

"I've got you, baby," he says, though his voice is wet this time. "You're safe."

Jason checks over your wounds. You see the rage cross his face several times at every bruise and cut on you. He doesn't let go of you even after he's done. He's shaking too, perhaps more than you, as he cuts your binds and completely removes your gag.

The Bats land gracefully behind you. Jason stiffens as they do.

You kiss his jaw. His gaze returns to you.

"You saved me," you say.

"I always will," he says. "Always."

"Are either of you injured?"

Batman suddenly swishes to your side. You blink, startled.

"Nothing serious," you say. Jason grunts unhappily at that. You manage a smile. "Thank you. All of you. Thank you so much."

Jason nods stiffly. "Thanks, Bats."

Nightwing smiles, face soft with affection. "'Course, Hood. And, uh, Hood's fiancé. We're there any time you need us."

"That's right, chum," Batman says. The obvious care in his voice makes you ache.

Jason had called his family. His family with whom he has a plethora of problems. He'd called them for you.

"Jay," you say, voice thick with emotion. He seems to understand instantly.

"I'll always bring you home," he vows, cupping your face. "Whatever it takes."

He pulls you to him like he can't bear to be away from you any longer.

You squeeze his wrists. "I know. It's okay, Jay. I'm okay."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see that the Bats still have not dispersed. Spoiler looks like she's about to melt into a puddle. Nightwing is the same. Even Batman looks a little sentimental.

Robin is the only one scowling, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Hood, are you not going to introduce your fiance-we-just-learned-existed-tonight?" Robin asks, arms folded.

Jason huffs. "Not with those manners, demon brat."

You roll your eyes and extend your hand to Batman. You say your name, smiling.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," you say.

Batman laughs, and it sounds a little fond. It's also kind of weird to hear Batman laugh. "No sir necessary. It's equally an honor to meet the person my son is marrying."

Jason makes a choked little noise. You beam.

"Well," Batman murmurs. "We'll let you two get home. We'll track down the rest of Michael's thugs—"

"Come to the wedding," Jason blurts.

Batman stills. "Me?" he asks carefully.

"Everybody," Jason says, tugging you into his side. "Uncle Clark, Aunt Diana, Selina, your ten thousand kids, everyone."

He turns to you. "I-I mean, as long as that's okay with you, baby."

"Oh, Jay. It's your family. Of course I want them to come." You lean in to whisper in his ear. "I'm proud of you."

"Little Wing, c'mere!"

Nightwing tackles Jason in a hug, then drags Robin, who protests loudly, in by his cape. Spoiler snaps a picture from the sideline.

"Now that's adorable," she says.

Batman looks at you. He removes his cowl, and you gasp quietly. He smiles, and it makes him look decades younger. You guess he hasn't smiled much since he lost Jason.

"Thank you," he says.

You tilt your head. "For what?"

"For bringing him back to us."

You duck your head. "Oh, Mr. Wayne, that wasn't me—"

"Bruce," he corrects gently. "And it was. You played a bigger part than you know. You saved him. Thank you."

he just like me fr

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing, 

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague

「scowls to smiles」 : ̗̀➛ you drive them crazier in love...

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sfw, gn reader (mentions of makeup [kyle]), unedited, mdni !!

john price

"you're definitely the only person i would do this for..."

john grumbles, his arms crossed and his body slumped in the seat. you roll your eyes at him, snatching the remote next to him from behind the couch to change the television channel. the boisterous cheers get cut off, switching from your boyfriend's weekly football channel to the horror documentaries you oh-so love. you walk around to slide next to john, leaning into the arm he reaches out to you. it wraps around you out of instinct, pulling you in closer.

"you promised me we could watch tonight's episode," you remind him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "besides, you know kyle's recording it for you tomorrow.."

a deep sigh (closer to a groan, really) escapes his lips, knowing garrick and the other two are out together watching the game at their local pub. still, he settles in, pressing a kiss to your temple, trying to ignore the spam of texts he's getting from the others about who scored what.

simon riley

the bedframe creaks aggressively at the way you're shaking simon's burly body, echoing throughout your shared loft. he's usually so good at waking up without a second thought back at base -- his body sensing the slightest movement meters away. but now? now his body's facing away from you, snoring loudly, almost as if he's mocking you.

oh, bring it on.

you are so going to get noise complaints for the wrong ideas, but you don't care at the moment. you're wide awake, and he's not.

it's so pretty outside, you nearly fell out of bed once you saw the slightest bit of golden light peeking into the room, glowing on the walls. looking past the curtains, the sky is painted in soft lavenders and ceruleans -- the sun just barely peeping out from behind the layers of old buildings.

"simon- wake up!! the sunrise is so pretty today, and the whole city's all pretty and there's no people out and its nice 'n cool so we can go out and get coffee and tea and breakfast-!!"

you yelp as he rolls over, nearly knocking you back. he's now laying on his back, eyes still shut, hair poking out and around in tufts, one big hand lazily grasping onto yours.

"y'know what else is pretty, love? sleep."

he tugs you slightly towards him, you legs knocking into the mattress. you let out a loud huff.

"no way, si'. i want a cute morning date with you, and if you're not up in the next 5 seconds i'm so going by mysel-"

a loud groan interrupts you, the bear of a man beneath you slowly rising to sit, rubbing at his eyes before sending a teasing glare your way.

"go grab my hoodie."

kyle garrick

kyle wakes up with a groan, stretching his stiff limbs out from the couch. the sun was still beaming through the cracks of the shades, illuminating the living room. he remembers falling asleep while waiting for you to finish your digital meeting in the other room, your muffled voice luring him into sleep. swinging his legs over the cushion to stand, he lets out a satisfied hum as his knees pop, before heading to the bathroom.

just before he could make it to the toilet, his head snaps back to the mirror. your giggles echo from behind kyle, as he tiredly rubs a hand down his face.

his perfectly contoured, flushed, powder-set face.

"really, love?"

"i dunno, kyle, this is a reallllly good look on you..."

you peek over his shoulder, a wide grin stretching your face. his eyes (outlined and enamored in glittery eyeshadow, keep in mind) glared at you through the mirror, letting out a deep sigh as you walk past him to take out the hidden cosmetics from the cabinet, showing them off to him. you rambled about how hard to was to find his exact shade so you bought 5 different foundations just in case (with his money...), that he kept twitching his eyes and messing up the eyeliner, how he almost woke up because the tutorial video blasted an ad midway through-

"you're so annoying, good god... i love you so much, c'mere-"

he was quick to turn around and cup your face with both hands, cutting off your squeals with a sticky kiss. one on the mouth, then the apples of your cheeks, then your chin, until your entire face was covered in cherry red silhouettes of his lips.

you wore his marks with beaming pride for the rest of the day.

john mactavish

johnny comes out of the kitchen with his eyebrows knit together and a frown creasing his lips. he swore up and down he saw it in the cabinets last, maybe it was in his bag? the bedroom? hell, he even checked the pockets of his jeans sitting in the laundry.

he rounds the corner of the hallway to where you were. you probably knew best, always the one to reorganize the shelves and put away the groceries. he grins as he sees you, lazing on the couch, watching the television,

"birdie, where's mah-"

and apparently snacking on the chocolate bar he's been searching for.

"...chocolate."

you two stare at each other, the voiceover from the luminous screen taking up the silence. johnny watches you chew very slowly, as if he wouldn't notice so long as you did it carefully enough. you look so cute like this, he thinks, looking up at him so innocently, seeming so happy with your treat. a perfectly disguised criminal he would've dismissed without a second thought. with an agonizingly slow swallow, you cleared your throat before speaking up,

"sorry, babe.."

oh, how could he ever be mad at you?

he lets out an amused huff, pushing himself off the wall to walk over to you. expecting some sort of punishment, you squeeze your eyes shut.

instead, you feel a firm kiss press on your chocolate-stained lips. with a surprised gasp, you invite him in to prod his tongue past your teeth. and after an awfully messy few seconds, he peels back, a satisfied smirk on his lips. another peck is delivered to your lips, before he settles into the couch beside you.

you may be a wanted criminal, but he's already had his heart stolen by you. and he's too damn smitten to turn you in.

@ tacticoal do not repost !!

Call Of Duty Masterlist

Last Updated: 10/12/2023

Requests: OPEN

Current Works: 29

This is the masterlist for all my Call Of Duty work! Make sure to check back frequently for updates and feel free to send in your requests!

⭐ - Fan Favourite!

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Jealousy, Jealousy

Anyone But Her ⭐

It Was Never Meant To Hurt

Painless Bruises ⭐

Captured In Tandem , Recovery In Tandem⭐

Forget Me Not

Bone Tired

Night Terrors

A Cracked And Fissured Door ⭐

To Hate A Heart That Beats For You

Where One Goes, The Other Follows

It All Comes Crashing Down ⭐

Solace For The Rough Nights

To Coax The Love From A Ghost

Meant To Be a Ghost, Not a Shadow

Superficial Wounds, Deep Devotion

I Swear I Asked For Two

The Price Of A Secret , 

A Fighting Chance,  Frayed Stitches Don’t Hold (Pt 2)  ⭐

Till Death Do Us Apart

Frightened Of The Fall

Cut From The Same Cloth

John Price

Sacrifices

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish

Taken

Gentle Hands

A Still Beating Heart

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Welcome Home, Love