Follow Your Passion: A Seamless Tumblr Journey
Detective Comics - Blog Posts
where's the image that says "people who celebrate fictional characters' birthdays are annoying" and then someone replied "fuck you happy birthday" (scribble scribble write character here). anyways happy birthday dick grayson
As it says, this was a request...but I definitely should have checked the account first so.. I might just not tag them... Maybe it's because I'm aroace and I avoid alot of shit, but idk lol
But I really like the art so here you guys go
I have these insanely vivid dreams and I like to write them down so I don't forget them. I'm specifically drawn to this dream I had not too long ago. I think I'll call him Ivan
I'm a bit of a DC nerd so I'm not surprised that I had a dream I was in the DC universe. If you couldn't tell by my shitty background, I'm controlling vines, becoming poison ivys protégé after I died in my dream. Boy lemme tell you, dying in a dream was not fun
Maybe I'll delve into detail about the dream in a later post or smth
Without backgrounds next time
Jason Todd has always had an overly obsessed fan club that I always felt over sold the character, but his newer designs in the comics is selling me on the character.
He’s no longer some edge-lord wearing a buck, He Actually Has A Hood Now!
And something about the white tuft of hair makes him really cute. I never cared one way or the other ‘bout the guy, but now I’m falling for him.
(Not sure what to say. Seems self explanatory)
THIS!! This theme persists throughout Tim's story. Where Bruce is unable to step away because of his trauma, guilt and lack of life outside Batman, Tim is unable to leave due to a sense of selflessness. In almost every step of the way he has a truly full civilian life waiting for him but he cannot leave Bruce and his family to drown in their grief alone. Because of what that means for them but also what it means for the city. He knows his role and has resigned to the fact that it is necessary regardless of his own needs and wants.
This is also what irks me about the "Rim is destined/likely to be a killer" characterization. While it is a really interesting concept, ignoring this incredibly selfless aspect of his motivation and replacing it with Batman's motivation is frankly wasted potential
the misinterpretation of a lonely place of dying by later retellings drives me nuts because ‘tim finds out who batman is’ is nearly not as much of a big deal as ‘tim doesnt want to be robin’ in the actual origin and it pretty much sums up whats wrong with modern tim drake. ALPOD is a tragic story of a twelve year old boy who had everything and willingly gave it up for a greater good. he is not like dick and jason who became robin to escape tragedy nor bruce who had everything and then lost it. robin was nothing but a curse he accepted to bear and he did so because of his selflessness. that selflessness is his driving rod, his smarts and physical talent are only the tools he uses to achieve his goals. he is not ‘the smart one’, he is a sacrificial lamb for a cause he became an unwilling spectator of. a twelve year old boy thought ‘people need saving, its that simple’ and put on the clothes a dying kid not much older than him wore because of nothing more than his selflessness and everyone he loved paid the price for it. he paid an even greater price for it.
Sometime in Gotham:
Jason Todd [on the phone]: How did the Joker die?
Damian Wayne [on the phone]: Cats ate his face.
Jason Todd: Damian, I think you’re confused. I’m asking about the Joker.
Damian Wayne: Cats ate his face.
Jason Todd: Look, would you just put Dick or Tim on the phone?
Dick Grayson: Hello?
Jason Todd: Dick, what happened to the Joker?
Dick Grayson: Cats ate his face. Here, Damian knows more about it than I do.
(Source: Malcolm in the Middle)
Reasons to watch Justice League Action
Joker, voiced by Mark Hamill, and Trickster, also voiced by Mark Hamill, kidnap Mark Hamill (also voiced by Mark Hamill).
A giant cat attacks (long story). Everyone is struggling with it, and Batman just casually uses a laser pointer to distract it. Did I mention the laser pointer beam was bat-shaped?
Batman attempts to be the “good cop” and Superman attempts to be the “bad cop” when they interrogate Deadshot. As you can imagine, Batman offering coffee and a chocolate doughnut is absolutely terrifying.
Villains fear Batman and heroes are afraid to mess up in front of him, but he still has some really sweet moments.
Batman knows what a videogame called “Boulevard Brawler 2” is because “Robin plays it all the time on the batcomputer.”
Same episode, Batman’s trapped in the game and Toyman uses Wonder Woman to beat the hell out of him. Batman is lying on the ground, likely in pain, and he just glares at Toyman and says “Robin’s better [at playing the game].” This man is so proud of everything his children do.
Same episode, we get a peek into the Batcave. Along with some other costumes there is a Robin one, likely Jason’s (*cri*), which means the aforementioned Robin is Tim.
We get to see Batman on his first case (wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey), in which he watches his past self try and fail to use a grappling hook.
The Joker is such an icon in this. In most media I despise him (mostly the character, not the characterization) (except for in Suicide Squad, no more of that characterization please), but in JLA he’s hysterical. Goes to the watchtower to genuinely appreciate a tour.
Martian Man Hunter, turning to Batman after making a pun: [It was] my attempt at humor. How did I do?
Batman, deadpan: I’m the wrong one to ask.
Djinn, with a creepy and triumphant grin: I am Uthool!
Batman, ready to fight: I don’t care.
Zatanna, to Batman: Don’t underestimate yourself. Little secret: when goblins want to scare themselves, they tell Batman stories.
Green Arrow, to Batman: *sigh* I know it’s generous, but we’re both in the billionaire masked vigilante “making the world a better place game,” so I figure—
Batman: *ejects him from the batmobile*
Solomon Grundy: That’s how servants treat their king!
Batman, with narrowed eyes: You’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy.
Superman: *briefly loses his powers, breaks his leg*
Batman, with absolutely no sympathy: Hurts, doesn’t it?
“I…. AM…. BATMAN!”
Wonder Woman. Just Wonder Woman being an absolute icon.
Booster gold wearing this:
And there are so many more hilarious interactions like this. If I had a week this post would be longer than the “color of the sky” post.
A new reason for why Young Justice is all 17 and not aging. They started a Dionysus-style cult centered around Cassie to see if they could make her into a Goddess, and it worked. In return, she made them all her immortal companions'.
See here’s the thing, I personally dislike Damian’s design in Batman and Robin (2023) cause it looks too much like Tim, however I would like to propose an adorable headcanon that keeps me from hating it: He thought Tim’s hair was cool so he got the same hairstyle, but will never tell Tim.
If none of you understood what I meant by my last post, here’s the introductions in the umbrella academy. There’s no video of the first introduction scene on youtube so I had to put the sparrow academy, and a comparison video instead. Sorry
Reality can be so tragic 😔
Pinup Mera
God,i just love her and I would definitely die for this woman
Studying (reading) my tomes (comic books) to expand my esoteric knowledge of the universe (Batman lore) so that I can form my own ideology (put my blorbos in situations)
I think even if had context to this. I think this would be weird
Hi 👋, My name is Mohammad, and I’m reaching out in a moment of desperate need. I’m a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. 💔
I’ve launched a fundraising campaign with the goal of raising $40,000 to relocate my family to a safer place where my children can grow up in peace and have a chance at a brighter future. 🕊️🇵🇸
Unfortunately, my previous fundraising efforts were abruptly halted when my account was terminated without explanation. However, I remain determined to keep fighting for my family’s safety and well-being. 🫶
If you could take a moment to read our story, consider donating, or simply share our campaign with others, it would make an incredible difference. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to safety and a new beginning. 🙏
Thank you for your time, compassion, and support. ❤
https://gofund.me/fd1faea2 🔗
Please spread this! Donate if you can!
my dc blog isnt working so here
matching icons for u and ur gay homie <3
Watch the crime, the drama, and the action on Showfer.com!
Click HERE: https://goo.gl/fvJ5oN
“Flipped on the “good” side of my coin so…I’ll warn you…you do NOT want to go into that bathroom after me…”
I normally post my writing here, though I thought some of you guys might (hopefully) like to see my artwork too. Anywho, here is a portrait of my beloved, Jason Todd <3 Let me know if you guys would be interested in seeing more.
Tether ✢ Jason Todd
Synopsis: When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.
Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and scars. Hurt with comfort.
Masterlist
Notes: A couple of weeks ago, I posted a pair of headcanons, 'when he realised he loved you' and 'when he admitted he loved you'. A few people were interested in an extension of Jason's parts, and this is the result. So, if some moments sound familiar, that is why. It follows Jason as he meets, gets to know, and, eventually, falls in love with the reader.
Words: 5,992k
The air was thick with the acrid scent of oil and looming rain. The Gotham sky threatened a storm, as it always did, the kind that lurked but never quite arrived, it pressed down upon her shoulders; she huddled against it. Y/N did not intend to be outside long. It was just the rubbish, nothing more than a trip down two flights of stairs to the alley behind her apartment, a chore too mundane to warrant much forethought. But that is when she saw him.
At first, Y/N was not sure what she was looking at. Just a shadow, too still, too broken at the base of the brick wall. Then it moved, a sharp, pained shift, and the outline resolved itself into something unmistakably human.
He was bleeding. Not in the way of scrapes and gashes; this was deeper, darker. New wounds layered atop old scars. She froze, bin bag clutched within her grasp, knuckles white. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He did not look at her. He was watching the mouth of the alley, just past the corner, breath coming fast and shallow. Voices echoed from somewhere beyond. Sharp. Searching.
‘Where the fuck did he go?’
‘Check the rooftops. Check the damn dumpsters. He couldn’t have gone far.’
His eyes flicked up, just barely, only enough to register her. His shoulders fell slack, ever so slightly. She was not a threat. Just a girl.
Jason Todd had been in more confrontations than anyone should survive. He had bled in them, broken in them, died in one. There was a pattern to this kind of moment, the hush before pain returned, the liminal space where adrenaline gave way to his collapse. He had learned to expect nothing from strangers. No mercy. No help. Just the turning away of eyes and the closure of doors. So when she stepped forward instead of flinching, when her voice did not falter or fill with fear, something within him stalled.
‘My place is just there,’ she said, nodding toward the fire escape tucked beside the alley’s edge.
‘You can’t stay here. They’ll find you.’
He did not react, nor move; he simply watched her.
‘You need to get off the street,’ she added, lower now. ‘You won’t make it five minutes if they come back this way.’
Still, he hesitated. His whole body was coiled with his refusal. She could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers hovered near his belt, ready to draw, to run, to die fighting. She dropped her gaze, it fell to rest on his boots.
‘I’m not trying to trap you,’ she said, voice quieter now, nothing more than a whisper. ‘I’m trying to help.’
That was the part he could not understand, would not let himself believe. Why would anyone help him? Especially like this, so suddenly, without demand, without recognition. She did not know who he was, not really. If she did, would she have still reached for him?
Another voice rang out nearby. Closer this time.
She stepped forward and reached for his arm without thinking. He flinched, not from pain, but reflex. The kind born of being mishandled too many times. But he did not pull away. She guided him to his feet, shocked by how heavily he leaned once upright, how much weight he was carrying in silence.
And he followed.
All the while, Jason could not make sense of it. A thousand voices in his head, Bruce’s warnings, Alfred’s caution, his own brutal sense of realism, all shouted at him to resist, to stay low, to get out. But this woman, this stranger, offered him nothing but quiet resolve. And something in him, something tired and long frayed, gave in.
Her apartment was small, neat, yet well-lived-in. Warm lights, blankets strewn unceremoniously over the couch, a kettle still warm upon the stove. He stood in the centre of her living room, stiff and vigilant, akin to a stray dog unsure if the hand reaching for it would offer food or a harsh blow.
He should not have come. He knew this was a mistake. He did not belong in spaces like this. Every breath of its domestic warmth grated against the sharp edges of his being, reminded him of everything he had lost and all he had ruined. And yet he stayed, frozen beneath the soft lighting, the aromatic scent of bergamot and quiet calm surrounding him like a haze.
‘You need a hospital,’ she muttered, though her tone already bore traces of defeat; she knew this sentiment would be futile.
He turned immediately, preparing to leave.
‘Or not,’ she amended quickly, voice grim, and stepped into his path. ‘You’re not going back out there like this. At least sit down.’
He halted. Only because the pain had lanced through his ribs like a warning. He hated this, the helplessness, the imbalance. But she did not look upon him as a burden, but simply as someone who needed help.
Reluctantly, he eased himself onto the edge of her worn armchair, its leather creaking beneath him. His mask remained on, armour still clinging to him; blood was now beginning to seep through the layers. He shifted his weight, conscious of ruining her chair.
She returned with a first aid kit, unassuming, but well-stocked. He did not stop her when she knelt beside him, did not flinch when she pulled back the material of his jacket and placed it aside, though his hands twitched at every passing sound beyond the apartment. When she reached for his armour, the woman hesitated, not wanting to overstep, though Jason understood and quickly pulled it back in parts, revealing only what was necessary.
She did not ask questions. Not the ones he had expected when he followed her here. She was not probing for his name or what he had done to deserve this, what had happened for him to pursue it. She just worked, focused and calm. Her touch was gentle, but not tentative. She bore a steadiness he had not expected, not from someone who should have recoiled, who should have been scared.
Jason found himself watching her, not with suspicion, but with something near disbelief. Why? Why was she doing this? Did she think she was helping some misguided hero? Did she see something redeemable within the blood and ruin of him?
Did she not care who he was? Did she not care about what he does?
These thoughts gnawed at him more than anything else. It bothered him that this kindness may not be the fallacy of a skewed perception, but rather a simple resolve to help, despite everything he was.
When she finished, she offered him water. He took it, fingers brushing hers. It grounded him more than he cared to admit.
‘There’s a spare bed in the study,’ she said. ‘You can rest there tonight.’
He did not answer. But he followed again as she walked away, grabbing his clothes that lay discarded on her floor. Something about her voice, soft, steady and undemanding, made resistance feel pointless.
Then she opened a door. It was a small room, books lined the shelves, and a narrow bed was tucked into the corner, with clean sheets and a folded quilt.
‘There’s a lock,’ she said, gesturing to the inside of the door. ‘If you need it. You can take your mask off. I won't be able to open it from the outside.’
He looked at her then. Truly looked. Not for weakness. Not for a motive. But for the truth. And what he saw left him stunned, not simply because it was unfamiliar, but because it was real. There was no pity within her unrelenting gaze. No awe. Just, quiet offering.
He did not say thank you. He could not. Jason could feel the words billow on the edge of his tongue; he yearned for her to understand his gratitude, and though he could not utter them, she nodded as though she had heard them anyway. His relief was palpable.
Then he stepped inside as she hovered in the doorway. For the first time, he spoke up,
‘What’s your name?’ He wanted his voice to come across as gentle, but there was a gruffness he could not quite quell. She did not seem fazed by it.
‘Y/N.’ She murmured, and when it became clear to her that this conversation would not expand beyond this simple query, she closed the door.
He remained there for a moment longer, staring where she had just been, before shifting the latch of the lock. Jason peeled back the remaining layers of his ensemble until he was left in nothing but his boxers. It was not ideal, but he could not bear the notion of crawling beneath her covers in his grimy, blood-uncrusted getup. The bed was small yet inviting, his frame hardly fit, though he could not recall the last time he had been this comfortable. He was not sure if it was the sleeping arrangement or the soft snores of the girl across the hall that acted as a reminder of someone who had been so unusually kind. Regardless of the catalyst, he fell into a quick slumber as a foreign warmth bloomed within his chest.
By morning, the door was open.
Not just unlocked, but wide and unoccupied. The bed was made, the quilt folded precisely. The only trace of him was a faint indentation left upon the pillow; if she had not known better, if she had not just thrown away his bloodied gauze, she could easily believe he was never there.
She stood in the doorway for a prolonged moment, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. The quiet lingered around her, louder now, and she caught herself wondering if he would ever come to fill it once more.
Jason should have known better.
The notion built upon him slowly, like bruises forming beneath his skin, invisible at first, until the ache settled and colour bloomed. The morning he slipped from her apartment, he had told himself it was nothing more than a fleeting refuge. He left nothing behind. He would not burden her with the aftermath of last night’s choices. But it was not until he had cleared the block, boots light, breath even, body stitched back into shape, that the thought hit him like a bat to the ribs.
He led them to her.
Not intentionally. Never that. But reckless all the same. The alley had been a haven born of desperation, not strategy. He had not known where he was going, he only knew that he had needed to get away. And when she opened that door to him, he walked through it without so much as a second thought. Without calculating the risks.
And now the calculation was catching up with him. This kind samaritan was in danger because of him.
He returned that night. However, Jason did not allow himself to venture too close. He perched three rooftops down, crouched low in the shadows, eyes locked on the slow hum of the street outside her building. The fire escape remained still. Lights flickered softly inside.
She was fine.
But that did not soothe him.
He stayed longer than he meant to. Hours passed. Long enough that the shadows stretched and yawned, long enough that his body reminded him it had not properly healed. Still, he waited. Not for her. Not really. That is what he told himself, at the very least. He was not watching her. He would never do that. He never allowed his gaze to touch her window. He was not here for her.
He was here for them.
The ones who had chased him. The ones still searching. If they had half the sense he wielded, they would retrace his escape route. They would check for kindness. They would look for open doors and cracked windows and people foolish enough to help. He hated how plausible it was.
And so he came back again the next night.
And the one after.
It became routine, though he refused to admit that to himself. This was a stakeout. A surveillance effort. He was not lingering. He was not tethered. He certainly was not attached.
But even in the silence, even with his gaze anchored on the street, he could sense her behind that wall; he pictured her reading in that chair, sipping from the chipped mug he could envision near the sink. She did not know he was out here. She could not. He would never be that careless.
Yet, somehow, it still felt like he was trespassing, even though he had not so much as looked at her in all this time. That strange warmth she had offered him, freely, like it had cost her nothing, haunted him more than pain ever had.
He told himself he would stop. Every night, he told himself it would be the last.
He was so very close to relenting when he laid eyes on her for the first time since that night, she was not in the hazy warmth of the apartment, but under the jarring clarity of daylight. Mid-morning. A street corner in Park Row. She had a velvet bag slung over her shoulder, a paperback in one hand and half a pastry in the other. Casual and effortless.
He nearly walked past her.
Jason knew he should have.
But the moment he registered her, truly saw her, without the fog of blood loss and alleyway silence, something happened. Something ridiculous. His stomach flipped. Not in fear, but... something worse. Something more dangerous. Something soft. A breathless kind of jolt that made his chest feel too tight.
Butterflies.
He scoffed aloud at the word.
Ridiculous. Juvenile. Weak.
But they were there, fluttering behind his bruises, beating against ribs that had withstood so much worse. And the worst part? He did not hate the sensation.
Though he certainly did not trust it.
She did not recognise him. How could she? They were meeting in a new context. She stood before a different version of him. No mask, no blood, no warning in his eyes. Just a hoodie, dark jeans, hair still mussed from too little sleep. He looked... normal. That was the trick of it. That was the danger.
He could speak to her now, and it would not be an invasion. This was not some rooftop vigil. It was not surveillance steeped in adrenaline and exhaustion. This was his chance.
A chance he should not take. Though Jason felt the butterflies once more and spoke anyway.
‘Hey,’ he uttered, too rough, the word catching against a throat unused to casual conversation.
She turned. Eyed him.
No recognition.
‘Sorry, this is probably strange,’ he added quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as though that could hide the nervous itch crawling under his skin. ‘You just looked like you could use a second cup of coffee. Or company. Or both.’
She blinked. Then, a slow, small smile.
‘Is that your way of asking me out?’
He froze. Not because she was wrong. But because she was direct. Unflinching. Just as she had been before. Could it really be that easy?
He laughed. A low, surprised sound that felt foreign against his tongue.
‘Yeah. I guess it is.’
She studied him for a breath longer, then nodded, easy as anything.
‘Alright. But I’ll take a tea.’
He wanted to ask her name again. Wanted to tell her his.
But instead, he fell into step beside her, quiet, casual. Just another face on the street, a casual trip to a café. He felt a blush creep onto his skin, and he turned away from her, fidgeting hands buried deep in his pockets.
It was not love at first sight. Jason did not believe in things like that, not anymore.
If anything, it was suspicion at the first conversation. Interest at second. Uncertainty for the next dozen or so. She had no idea who he was, and he preferred it that way. There was a freedom in this anonymity, in being seen without history clawing at his heels. She did not look at him like she was waiting for something to fall apart. She did not glance at his hands like she expected them to be bloodied. She saw him for who he truly was, it felt like the rarest thing of all.
And so he kept showing up.
Cafés became a habit. A tether. Once a week, then twice. Never planned, always on a whim, or so they liked to pretend. They visited bookstores and late-night markets. Together, they would walk past the same food trucks where Y/N would consistently order the wrong thing as though it were a rule, never complaining. Though she would smile sheepishly when Jason offered his much more appetising selection.
Y/N would ask him about books. Music. The kinds of questions he had not been asked in years. He did not always answer. Sometimes he just watched her talk, let the cadence of her voice steady the parts of him that threatened to fray.
She had looked different in the daylight.
Less shadowed. Still sharp, still grounded, but without the weight of the tension that had hung between them that night. She had laughed once, and the sound had startled him. It was unguarded. Open. He had not heard anything that unafraid directed at him for a long time.
He had to stop himself from reaching for it.
Jason tried to keep it casual, whatever this was. Whatever they were circling. He made sure never to cross certain lines. He would not stay too long. He would not text first. He would not touch her unless she touched him. There was an instance where she had brushed her fingers over his knuckles on the edge of a café table, he had stared down at the spot as though it had caught fire.
She did not comment. Just went back to sipping her tea, Earl Grey. He could smell the bergamot wafting from it, as he had in her apartment that first night.
He could not define when it changed. When the space between them stopped feeling like distance and started feeling like an invitation. Maybe it was the first time she made him laugh, not a small chuckle, not one of those scoffs of disbelief, but a genuine, gut-twisting kind of laugh that left him breathless. She had just looked at him with raised brows, like she was not sure whether to be proud or concerned.
Maybe it was the night she found him again, bleeding, no more than that first time. A busted lip, bruised jaw; he had already changed into his regular clothes and considered turning around. He should not allow her to see him like this. But before he could bring himself to move, she opened the door and ushered him inside without question.
Did not so much as blink. Just helped him again, only her touch was familiar and welcome now. Still careful, still steady.
And when she looked at him, saw past the blood and the scowl and the silence, she reached up and brushed his hair back from his face, her thumb resting at the corner of his temple. Nothing more. How could she accept him so willingly, without question? How could she not demand the catalyst of his newly mangled face and bloodied knuckles?
Jason had kissed her then. He had not planned it. It was simple instinct, or rather an impulse, or some failing of his exhausted restraint. But she did not flinch. Did not push away. She just leaned in, met him halfway, soft and certain.
After that, there was no use pretending.
It was not some grand explosion, not as books had made him believe. There were no bold declarations, no breathless confessions. Jason did not see romance the way others did. He did not show up with flowers. He did not call just to say he missed her. He barely knew how to say what he felt, let alone trust that it would not crumble in his grasp.
But she understood him in a language he had not known he was speaking. When he disappeared for three days and came back with split knuckles and a haunted look, she did not demand an explanation. Just held his gaze for a moment too long and set a cup of tea on the table beside him.
He would never deserve her. He knew that. This concept was stitched into every part of his being, the sense of ruin, of fracture, of being too far gone to love or be loved back. But she never asked him to deserve her. She just asked him to show up. And over time, he did. More than he thought he could.
Eventually, she saw through him.
Not all at once. But in pieces. The subtle way he scanned every room before they entered it. The half-second delay before he ever turned his back. The scars he never explained, the exhaustion he carried within his shoulders.
He realised he could not lose her, the very thought of it left him asphyxiated, left him gasping and sputtering for air. It terrified him more than anything ever had. It was worse than the crowbar, worse than the vestige of the green glow left shimmering behind closed eyelids. He remembers how he had met her, how she had helped him so unflinchingly, how he had been bewildered by her lack of fear. And he realised this actuality left him horror-struck. What if she helped someone in this manner once more? What if they were not so kind?
This is how he justified his need to remain in her orbit: that his vigilance was the only way to keep her safe from all lingering dangers, but even as the words circled his mind, a deep, gnawing doubt took root. Was he truly only here to protect her? Jason knew better, a heinous selfishness had been sown, and he stayed because he could not bear the notion of parting with her. Could he ever atone for how these mistakes had already placed her in harm’s way? The weight of that guilt threatened to crush him, but he could not walk away now; he was in too deep.
It happened with a shift of fabric. A flash of his skin. A scar.
They were in her kitchen. She had been making him breakfast. Jason, barefoot and groggy, was pretending not to enjoy the way she fussed over the frying pans. He had reached for something on the top shelf, muttering under his breath about her terrible organisational choices. Y/N had laughed and leant against the counter, trying not to watch the way the muscles in his back shifted beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.
Then the hem lifted.
Just a little. A second, maybe less. But time had a strange way of stretching in moments like this, in moments that mattered.
The scar was thin and brutal, a memory carved into his flesh. Indented above the waistband of his jeans, angled on his side. She remembered it too well. The jagged line. The way this shiny white mark had gleamed underneath blood-soaked skin, beneath dour body armour…
Her breath caught.
She did not mean to gasp. It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough.
Jason froze.
Then, akin to a fiend caught suspended within a spotlight, his hand dropped from the shelf and yanked the shirt down with quiet, desperate precision. He met her gaze.
But it was too late.
She had seen it. And more than that, she recognised it; he could discern familiarity as it flooded her perception.
He moved toward her, slow and measured, but stopped over a metre short. He already knew what was written across her face, he had no choice but to meet it head-on.
Their eyes locked, though neither of them shifted.
Silence bloomed between them, vast, tense and electric. Though not empty. It was full of all the acts and secrets he had not disclosed to her. Visions of the alleyway, of blood and heavy breaths, the weight of him leaning against her to stay upright, and her hands pressing gauze against the cuts that circled that familiar scar.
‘You remember.’ He spoke quietly.
It was not framed as a question, it was a statement, an observation.
She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. ‘That night,’ she whispered. ‘The one in the alley.’
He nodded once. Just once. Nothing theatrical. Nothing dramatic. But it felt like the earth beneath them had shifted.
Red Hood.
It all slotted into place, the bruises, the silence, the way he would flinch ever so slightly when she would reach for a part of him he did not want seen. She had known he carried secrets. Had made peace with the fact that some parts of him were locked behind years of pain and choices she might never fully comprehend.
But this… this was different.
‘You should’ve told me,’ she murmured, not out of anger, but the truth felt heavy against her tongue. Like it had waited too long to be spoken aloud.
Jason’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. ‘I didn’t want to lose this.’ He motioned around them, motioned towards her.
‘This?’ she echoed, almost hollow.
He looked upon her as though she were deserving of reverence, as though he could scarcely believe she was his to hold, yet, even now, his manner was crumpled with wretched trepidation. Jason awaited her outburst, anticipating the command to leave; he could not bear the weight of her silence.
‘You. This place. The quiet. The version of me that you know.’ He added.
She stared at him, truly stared, and realised something terrifying: she had known. Maybe not consciously, not in the way of facts, names and alter-egos, but within her bones. In the way he moved. The way he disappeared. In the weight he bore like a shroud, constricting him with every breath.
And she had loved him anyway.
The hood, the violence, the vigilante beneath her kitchen light, none of it overwrote the man who made her tea when she could not sleep. The man who listened to her gush about books and could recall her favourite lines. Who kissed her like she was something he did not think he deserved, and treated her like she was the only real thing in a world full of spectres; Y/N was sure this was what he told himself.
Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again.
‘You didn’t have to be someone else to be wanted, I hope you know that.’
He closed his eyes, and she watched as something in him fractured, not like breaking glass, but like old tension unravelling; she could see his apprehension flow out from beneath his skin.
‘I know,’ he said, barely above a whisper. ‘But I didn’t know how to be him… and still be this.’
She stepped forward. One pace. Two. Slow. Careful. As if approaching something transient.
Jason flinched, not quite pulling away, not quite reaching out. A lifetime of rejection was hardwired into his muscle memory. Though he caught himself before he could move away, standing rigid as she closed the space between them.
Her hand found his, warm and steady. He looked down at their entwined fingers. Jason could not believe that something so simple could feel so profound.
‘You’re simply you, boyfriend by day and regrettably, vigilante by night. Knowing this won’t change how I think of you,’ she affirmed. Then she tilted her head, thoughtful, and spoke once more.
‘Though… it may just heighten my anxiety levels. Knowing you’re out there.’
And for the first time since that fateful night in the alley, Jason let himself believe that maybe this could work.
Jason felt it before he understood it, like the first rays of sun on his back after a winter that had lasted far too long. A warmth he had not asked for. Had not expected. It crept into his system uninvited, compelling and unfamiliar, thawing places he had long since numbed for survival.
It struck him suddenly, not like a realisation, but like a tempest. He thought he had not wanted it. He did not trust it. But it was there all the same, pressing against his ribs, blooming beneath his skin.
Love.
It was not loud. It was not cinematic. It was not even convenient. It arrived in the middle of a quiet evening, while she was brushing her teeth, half-asleep, one of his old shirts covering her frame, bare legs beneath the hem, humming something tuneless under her breath. A song he did not recognise.
The bathroom door was ajar. Lamp light filtered in behind her, soft and pale, painting the air gold. She was swaying gently where she stood, oblivious to the weight of his stare. And Jason, standing there in the threshold, rooted to the spot, watched her like she was something too precious for this world. As though she might flicker and vanish if he exhaled too harshly.
And in that moment, watching her in that domestic stillness, he could believe, even just for a breath, that the world was not a place of carnage. That outside the window, it was not broken. That pain was not inevitable. That this could last.
But the thought brought with it a sharp, biting panic.
It was in this moment that he knew he loved her.
His body tensed, his mind retreating into old reflexes. Not to run, not literally. He could never leave her. But something within him tried to pull away, to armour up, to prepare for the moment when this would inevitably be ripped from him.
Because that is what always happened. Moments like this, soft, perfect, undeserved, were fleeting in his world. They were the eye of the storm, not the end of it.
He did not deserve this. And even if he did, the world had a cruel way of taking beautiful things and turning them to ash.
She caught his reflection in the mirror, stilled, and turned toward him. Her eyes met his. Sleepy, soft, utterly unguarded. A small smear of toothpaste clung to the corner of her lip, and yet she looked at him like she could see through him. Not with fear or judgment, just mild concern and a gentle curiosity.
‘You okay?’ she asked, voice thick with sleep, amused by the way he loomed in the doorway like he had stumbled into a scene too fragile to touch.
It disarmed him. Utterly.
Jason swallowed hard. After everything he had seen, everything he had survived, the Lazarus Pit, the alleys, the gunfire and betrayal, he was not sure he had ever been less okay. And yet, standing there in her bathroom doorway, heart thundering like he had just survived a firefight, all he could do was step forward.
He did not speak, not at first. He just reached for her and kissed her temple, soft and fleeting, like the moment itself. It was not meant to answer her question. It was not meant to fix the chaos unravelling inside his chest. It was just the only thing he could offer that was not ruin.
‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Just tired.’
But it was a lie.
He was not tired, he was reeling.
That night, he did not sleep. Not because he was unable, but because he would not. He lay in her bed, curled beside her, her breath slow and even against his collarbone. One of her arms was draped across his ribs, anchoring him with a kind of warmth he did not dare disturb.
He memorised it. Every part of her.
The cadence of her breath. The shape that her hand made against his chest. The way she murmured in her sleep. He memorised her like a man convinced the morning would seize her from his grasp. Like this was all a dream and he would wake back in Gotham’s dirt-streaked alleys, alone, masked, and untouched by her grace.
But she was real.
And for now, it was enough.
Y/N was stitching him up again, hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, his skin cold under her touch. She sat cross-legged before him, knees meeting his.
‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ Y/N murmured. It was not the first time she had said this, and it would certainly not be the last. Her sorrow clung to her like a second skin; he would never stop hurting himself and, by extension, hurting her. Her fingers twitched, and she forced them steady.
Jason did not answer her. What would he tell her? Definitely, not the truth; she would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that she cared; he could not resist the temptation. It was how they had met, it was why he had allowed himself to grow close to her. Jason did not believe she could love a man like him, but when he felt her gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn.
‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.
A frown turned her face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’
And then, something unspooled. It was akin to a thread that had been pulled taut for too long, it snapped under the tension. Jason sighed.
‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you…’ He looked into her eyes, gaze piercing, willing her to see the truth of it.
The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open.
‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere she did not grace; the very notion made him ill.
She stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work. He was not looking for a response, only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But she gave him one anyway.
‘I love you, too.’ She had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching her lips, he might have missed it. His breath caught, not in fear, but in awe, as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.
Her words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin, like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.
He spoke up again, softer this time, ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave her one of his rare smiles, and her heart jolted.
She silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing her head against his shoulder. After a short while, she shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment. He felt that same electricity once more, humming under her touch.
Her hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message she was trying to convey, what she was trying to have him understand.
Once again, Jason did not sleep at night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.
We saw small glimpses of domestic Jason here. Why is it everything I want in life? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
TAGLIST: @aidansloth
Disarray ✢ Jason Todd
Synopsis: She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.
Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst (with comfort).
Masterlist
Notes: I set out to write a short piece, nothing over a thousand words, I was successful! Normally I write way too much.
Words: 923
Jason never knocked, never felt the need to announce his arrival; he did not possess the disposition for this courtesy, and he already knew she would be anticipating him, with an easy smile, as though she relished his company. Jason could not compel himself to understand, to comprehend why a person so pure, so gentle, would allow themselves to be tainted by someone so burdened, someone like him.
He reached out, the old window yielding with a decrepit creak as he moved it upward, and climbed through the aperture without grace.
The room was fractured. His hands began to tremble.
This space, so wonderfully hers, had rapidly become his sanctuary; the one place on this sphere where he felt truly at peace, where he felt he could be himself. Now, it lay in ruins before him, a body of motion and disorder. Cushions were sprawled across the expanse of the room, drawers were cracked wide open, and papers lay scattered across all surfaces.
The breath he had been holding sputtered out; he was gasping, fighting for air. Jason’s eyes swept through it all, not taking it in, not registering; he needed to snap out of it, to make sense of it. He unwillingly looked up, stomach crumpled with the realisation that the clasp of the front door had been left unlocked. Her name claws at the back of his throat, but he does not call it. He cannot get himself to name her absence, to solidify it in his reality.
The place was not big, and yet it felt like lifetimes had passed as he scoped through it, shattering with every room that failed to offer her silhouette. His dread grows not in a line, but in every conceivable direction, fractal and fast; erratic. The fragment of him that still knows reason suggests she went out. The rest of him, the person carved hollow by Lazarus and consequence, had already begun to grieve.
The unlocked door is a wound. A violation.
Someone knows. Someone traced the pattern, mapped their connection, and found the one seam he should have reinforced. He pictures her hands, how unarmed they are, how gentle, how tender, and it is unthinkable to entertain that they are subject to a stranger’s mercy.
His mind does not race; it plummets. The catastrophe is palpable; he can almost taste it. It cuts sharp against his tongue and sears like acid. She is gone. Y/N is gone. The word nests in his chest like a cancer, malignant and burgeoning, defiling everything in its wake. He dropped to his knees. He had always been so sure of himself, so confident in his resolve, but he knew he could not overcome this; his dread left him immobilised, obsolete.
And then —
The door opened.
Y/N stands calm in the frame, flushed from exertion, keys in hand, with a ghost of a smile on her lips, until she sees him. Or rather, perceives what was left of him; feeble upon the floor.
‘Jason...?’
Her voice is quiet at first, tentative. The light that had been in her eyes began to dissipate, concern filling the place it left vacant in its departure. She moved to him, quickly, dropping the keys somewhere behind her.
‘Are you... Are you hurt? What’s wrong? What happened?’
But he only shakes his head, eyes wide, breath shuddering, he felt it quake in his chest. Then he pulled her down to him, taking her in his embrace. His arms tightened with something akin to desperation, like a man who had already begun to bury his world. She feels it in the tremor of his breath. In the way his jaw locks against her shoulder.
‘I thought... ’
He does not finish, he cannot. The words collapse on the edge of his tongue.
Y/N pulled him in tighter, beginning to trace his scars where she knew they lay underneath his shirt, a ritual that brought him great ease.
‘I thought someone took you,’ he whispered against her shoulder, again and again, as if the repetition might bleed the terror out, extricate it from where it festered beneath his skin. ‘I thought they knew. That they connected you to me. I thought I’d gotten you hurt.’
Or worse, he wanted to utter, but the notion was too revolting, too vile.
‘No,’ she murmured, hands on his face now, grounding him. ‘Jason, no. I’m fine. I just... I couldn’t find my keys. I tore the place apart looking for them.’ She motioned around her, to the disarray encircling them, the catalyst of his anguish. He looked into her eyes, savouring the sensation of it, of having her in his arms.
‘I left to check my car, I didn’t think... I’m so sorry... ’
Jason did not respond, for he no longer possessed the capacity to commit thought to speech. He simply pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck like a man anchoring himself to the last artifact capable of keeping him afloat. His breath was still uneven, ragged with the aftershocks of a panic that refused to fade. She was here; warm, real and speaking, but his body had not yet caught up with the truth of it. All he could do was hold her, tighter than he ever had before, as if that force alone might keep his world from collapsing. Because some part of him, raw and relentless, still feared that if he let go, she would vanish, not in a torrent, but quietly, like sand through his fingers.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
Detective Comics ✢ Masterlist ✢ The Halloween Jack
All my DC pieces are written with different iterations in mind, but they are not plot-specific, so you can picture your favourite <3 All my works, minus headcanons, use female pronouns for the reader. Besides this, I keep the reader undescribed, the only filler I use being 'Y/N'.
B R U C E W A Y N E
One-Shots:
Asphyxiated ✢ Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane.
Fleeting Moments ✢ Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. (Prequel to Asphyxiated)
Hostage ✢ When Bruce Wayne hears of an active hostage situation the reader, his long-term partner, is involved in; he has no option but to take action as the Batman. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Enigma ✢ Bruce Wayne has a secret that he has been keeping from the reader for over two years, fearing his vigilante escapades will only draw her away, completely unaware the reader holds a secret of her own. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
J A S O N T O D D
One-Shots:
Déjà Vu ✢ When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface.
Disarray ✢ She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.
Tether ✢ When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D I C K G R A Y S O N
One-Shots:
Late-Night Escapades ✢ Blüdhaven, well past dusk, is irrefutably no place to wander. Though, Y/N ventures out regardless, in need of a few essentials. She knows it is irresponsible, she knows what Dick would say, but the store is just a few blocks away...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
T I M D R A K E
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D A M I A N W A Y N E
(Damian Wayne will be aged up in all my work. Though, upon request, I would be happy to write something platonic for a young Damian.)
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
C L A R K K E N T
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
H E A D C A N O N S
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.
What scares them and how you help them cope.
When he realised he loved you.
When he admitted he loved you.
There is just something about DC men...
Late-Night Escapades ✢ Dick Grayson
Synopsis: Blüdhaven, well past dusk, is irrefutably no place to wander. Though, Y/N ventures out regardless, in need of a few essentials. She knows it is irresponsible, she knows what Dick would say, but the store is just a few blocks away...
Dick Grayson x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Angst (if you squint). Protective Grayson (I'm swooning).
Masterlist
Notes: This is my first piece for him, it was only supposed to be a drabble, but I'm incapable of reining myself in. So now it's a short one-shot.Words: 1,306k
Blüdhaven was a city steeped with shadow, each alleyway shrouded by the kind of darkness that seemed to linger with the ascent of dawn, draped in a silence thick enough to feel unnatural. The streetlights flickered intermittently, casting fractured beams across the pavement that glistened with rain newly passed by. The lanes stood like deep chasms, swallowing anything that dared venture too close. The city cast a gloom that made shadows feel like sentient beings, as though it were watching, waiting.
Y/N had no business being out here. She was well aware. Dick had made it inimitably clear on more than one occasion how much he hated her wandering the streets alone, he had just about forbidden it. She could hear his voice in her head, edged with frustration, laced with a quiet fear he never dared voice aloud. He viewed the notion of her travelling alone with abhorrence, never to mention her travelling alone past dusk. The city was his hunting ground, his burden to bear, and she was meant to be kept safely beyond its reach.
But it was just a quick stop at the corner store. A few things she needed for work the next day. Three blocks, in and out. Nothing more. Nothing dangerous.
And yet.
A stir sat leaden in her chest, coiling there like an instinctual warning. It arose as a quiet unease, an itch beneath her skin; it deepened with every step. The air shifted behind her, subtle, nearly imperceptible. A presence. A weight.
Footsteps. Measured. Too measured.
She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her stride steady, but her heartbeat betrayed her. It was faster now. Louder.
The steps behind her matched her own.
She turned sharply, body instinctively dropping into a defensive stance, fists raised, ready. Her pulse roared in her ears, adrenaline surging.
And then... A laugh. Low, familiar. Yet tense, and bitter.
'Relax. It’s me.'
Her breath left her in a sharp exhale, the tension in her limbs unravelling all at once.
'Dick,' she muttered, willing her hands to lower.
'Oh, good, it’s just you,' he drawled, tone edged with something unreadable. ‘That’s what you were thinking just then, wasn’t it?’ He stepped closer, the neon glow of a distant sign catching on the sharp angles of his face, the tension in his jaw.
She tilted her head, eager to brush off the mistake, to drown the moment in indifference, she opened her mouth to speak but his voice halted her. He held his finger up,
‘I’m not done. Let’s visit the fact that instead of running, you were about to fight me.'
She stilled.
Her stomach dipped, shame threading its way through the dying remnants of fear still left clinging to her ribs. He was not wrong. She should have run. But instinct had ruled, and her instinct told her to stand her ground.
'I was not... ' The words felt hollow, and he did not wait for her to find something better.
'Do you not get it?' His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. ‘It's reckless, Y/N. Choosing defence over evasion? What the hell were you thinking? And I’m not even touching on the fact that you were out here in the first place. Alone.’
He did not speak with anger. Not really. It was something deeper, something more ingrained. The undercurrent of frustration was just a thin veil over what he really felt. Fear. The kind of dread that could only be harboured from past trauma, from ceaseless, restless nights.
'I can take care of myself,' she said, but the words felt weak as she conveyed them. She knew she was in the wrong.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. ‘That's not the point. Not alone. Not without me.’ His voice turned gentle, pleading.
The finality of his tone settled heavily between them.
Guilt gnawed at her chest, its grasp unrelenting. Y/N had not meant to make him worry, had not intended to be yet another weight on his already overburdened shoulders.
'I didn’t mean to scare you,' she murmured.
His jaw clenched, his hands finding his hips in a familiar stance, a telltale sign of his fraying patience.
'You didn’t mean to scare me,' he repeated, voice quieter now, but not diminishing in intensity. His eyes locked onto hers, searching, holding.
'You think it’s nothing, but it’s not. It’s everything.' He let out a breath, something breaking in his tone.
'I can’t... ' The words faltered before they could fully form. He inhaled sharply, grounding himself, pulling himself back from something he would rather keep unspoken.
He straightened. ‘I'm taking you home.'
She wanted to protest. She wanted to tell him she did not need to be coddled. But she saw it in his eyes, this was not control. This was not about power. It was about his fear. About the onus he already sustained, the burdens he was far from willing to add to.
So she walked. And he silently moved beside her.
The city pressed in just as it had before, dark and perpetual, but with him by her side, the weight of it felt different. Lighter, somehow. He was right, of course he was; she should not have been out here.
They reached her doorstep too soon, the moment suspending between them, heavy with everything they had left unspoken. He lingered, his presence filling the space, his gaze softer now, something unguarded settling in the depths of his eyes.
‘You're safe now,' Dick said, his voice a hushed murmur, full of something she could not quite name. For the first time that night, his mouth turned up into a half smile.
And then, before she could think, before she could breathe, his lips were upon hers. Brief. Certain. A silent gesture, conveying everything he had left unsaid.
She melted into it for just a second, just long enough for her heart to falter, for the world to still.
He pulled away slightly, forehead lingering against her own, as his fingers circled her cheek. And then he stepped back, taking his warmth with him. She mourned its loss, his touch too fleeting.
‘I'll be back soon,' he murmured, voice rough, but brighter now. Then, he pointed an accusatory finger toward her, a brief flash of his hallmark charisma surfacing.
‘No more late-night escapades, alright?’
And then he was gone; as if he had never stood before her, suddenly taken by the murk of the city.
Y/N stood there, for a brief moment, the vestige of his presence lingering within the ether as she peered out into the vacant night.
The following morning, sunlight crept in through the sheer curtains, golden and soft. She blinked against it, stretching. Y/N became aware that her desk beside the window, now bore an unfamiliar shape, a paper bag. She was certain it was filled with everything she had set out for the night prior, the logo it exhibited being that of their corner store. It sat neatly at the edge and beside it, she discerned her shopping list, the creases in the paper smoothed as though someone had taken the liberty to flatten them.
She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Y/N wondered dubiously how he had managed to sneak it from her bag the previous night. She rolled over, gaze coming to rest on the man beside her, she had not heard him come home. Dick slept soundly, the usual, lingering tension in his face now softened, his breath steady, unhurried. Without thinking, she curled into him, laying content within the warmth of his body. He stirred only marginally before instinct prevailed, in his slumber, his arms wreathed around her frame. He pulled her flush against him, lips finding their place against her temple, his breath dispersing warm against the skin of her cheek.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
Déjà Vu ✢ Jason Todd
Synopsis: When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface. Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Angst, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of death, mentions of past domestic violence. Masterlist
Notes: This is my first Jason Todd piece after many years of reading them. Hopefully, it is the first of many <3
Words: 3,181k
The first hit split her lip.
The second sent her to her knees.
The third stole her breath, left her gasping, hands splayed in the warmth of her own blood beneath her.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He drawled, ‘I have to say, I love the symmetry of this.’
The Joker laughed, one hand gesturing to her, the other twirling the gruesome crowbar between his gloved fingers like a baton. Y/N spat red onto the warehouse floor, teeth bared with something akin to a smile, though it was distorted with her wrath. ‘Go to hell.’
He tutted, shaking his head as though he were a disappointed teacher. ‘Now, now, don’t be like that, darling. You should be honoured! Not just anybody gets a starring role in one of my reruns.’
Her knees remained on the glistening crimson concrete as she forced herself upright, muscles shrieking with the exertion. Y/N could feel the blood seeping into the fibres of her clothes; it was quickly turning cold. She was trembling. Weak. But she refused to stay down, to yield. She knew what this very situation had done to Jason, witnessed the wreckage it left in its wake. The man it had turned him into.
She would not grant Joker the satisfaction of her fear.
He sighed dramatically. ‘Honestly… I was hoping for a bit more fight from you; after all, I did a number on you.’ He waved the crowbar, a looming threat. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep the rest quick. After all, we wouldn’t want lover boy to catch the show.’
Jason.
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. She could not comprehend how he knew what Jason was to her. They had always been so careful.
He was coming. Y/N knew it; she could feel his pending presence like a tempest looming in the ether. But he would not make it here in time. That was the whole objective. The Joker had planned this, crafted it. It had all but nothing to do with her, he stitched it together like a grotesque puppet show designed solely to torment him.
Just as he had before.
Her whole form rattled with each sputtered breath; she swore she could feel her fragmented bones shift within her, but she forced herself to move, to push forward. There was something she yearned to tell him, something he needed to know; it was long overdue. If she could only stall, draw out this awful night, but she could only stretch so far before it would splinter. She could feel it; her life was drawn like a string, taut and thrumming. She feared with one more blow, it would snap under the strain.
Y/N could not bear the thought of him finding her like this, discovering her body; it left a bad taste in her mouth, it burned bitter; she choked on it.
The Joker noticed this. His wicked grin stretched wider, more daunting, eyes alight with sick amusement. ‘So you do have some fight left in you. That’s adorable.’
Then, he swung and her vision erupted with stars, they burned with a white-hot agony.
She barely felt herself hit the ground, as though her body was not hers anymore, it was something distant, something leaden, she could already feel reality receding. A small, bitter part of her recognised the poetry of it. Saw what the Joker was trying to achieve, the symmetry, as he had called it.
Y/N had spent so long learning how to crawl her way back from death. This could not be the exception.
The Joker crouched beside her, his shoes shifting against the concrete, she watched them from her new place on the floor and stared as the newly shed blood glistened from his soles.
‘Aw, don’t check out on me just yet, peaches. The real fun hasn’t even started.’
He reached out for her face as if in a caress, his gloved fingers grazing ever so gently down her cheek as though he had not just beaten her within an inch of her life. Bile rose in her throat at his touch; it burned like acid.
She could barely see him now. Her vision was oscillating, black setting in at the edges. But she could hear him. She could feel the suffocating weight of inevitability settle over her like a burial shroud.
Jason was not going to make it; this realisation settled like a cold, unforgiving weight in her chest, smothering each breath she took. The fragile threads of hope she had held onto retreated into the abyss. Her heart ached as the cruel truth settled over her; Jason would arrive too late. He would never hear the words she so desperately longed to convey; the unspoken confession burned in her chest, restricted by time.
She was not going to survive this, the Joker would never allow it. Jason would find her like this, broken, derelict. She would not get the chance to explain.
He leaned in close now, breath hot against her ear; it sent a shudder down her form. ‘I adore the symmetry I’ve created thus far, there’s only one thing left to do; I want him to see the damage I’ve done.’
‘Y’know,’ he murmured, still close to her face, voice low and sweet like the whisper of a lover, ‘he’s never gonna forgive himself for this.’
She ached to tell him he was wrong, that Jason would endure. That she would be okay. That he would not be unmade by this. But the words curdled in the warmth of her throat, thick with blood, the murk coiled around her like a patient tide; she was already ebbing from the world, conceding to its darkness.
Joker pulled away, sighing. ‘Ah well. C’est la vie.’
He stepped aside, allowing a red glow to seep into her stunted view, steady, unrelenting, and ominous. Her wavering vision had the numbers mangle into indistinct shapes, but she required no clarity. Y/N already knew what they meant. She braced herself, eyes fluttering shut.
Jason could feel it like a thrum, like static in the air, like pressure boring into his skull. He grew tense, as though a spectre gripped the back of his neck in an unrelenting grasp. The comms had gone silent. Her comms. She never went silent.
His fingers wreathed tighter around the throttles of his bike as Gotham blurred past him, neon lights receding into its gloom as he tore through the streets. The city was too loud, too alive, too unaware of what was festering beneath its surface.
His mind clawed at the last words she had said before the line cut out, ‘I’ve got it, Jay. Don’t worry.’
But he did worry. He always worried. And now that worry had shifted into something sharp and breathless, twisting deep in his chest; he fought for air.
A crackle in his ear. Tim. ‘Jason…’
‘Where is she?’ He did not like the desperation in his voice, but he could not quell it.
A pause. Too long. Too weighted.
Then, a sigh. ‘An abandoned warehouse off of Dock 52.’
He was already turning the bike. Already forcing the engine to its limit. He ran red lights and tore through intersections, deaf to the horns, blind to the people, heedless to everything but the address burning itself into his mind, searing to his vision.
A warehouse.
His stomach plummeted. He knew what that meant.
He knew what would happen there.
He knew what Joker planned to do.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His breath turned shallow, quick and useless. His grip on the handlebars was white-knuckled, and his mind — his mind was a reel of tainted memories, a horror film of times gone past. This was not happening. This was not happening. This was not...
‘Jason.’ Dick’s voice this time. Steady. Trying to ground him. It only made it worse.
‘We’ll get her.’
But Jason already knew he was too late. It could never be that easy.
The flames licked and devoured the crumbling ruins around him, their heat pressed against his skin, yet somehow, he had never felt colder. It was the awful crimson that had first caught his eye; her body, once so strong and sure, now lay in a heap, decrepit and ghastly in a pool of her own blood. He did not recall making his way to her beaten frame, but abruptly, his knees had hit the concrete, a hollow, sickening sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the desolate space. With trembling fingers, he reached for her and pulled her into his embrace.
Blood crept up his knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.
It crept beneath his fingernails.
Her blood.
His hands shook violently with this foul revelation. The warehouse smelled of rust and rot, of soot and smoke, of something macabre. Shadows stretched against the walls, twisted structures caught in the flickering light of bare bulbs, but Jason could not see them. He could not perceive anything beyond her.
His breath was trapped somewhere in his ribs, clawing at his throat, fighting its way out as a broken, trembling sob.
No. No, no, no, no...
She was still warm.
That was the worst part.
Her body had not yet caught up with the brutal finality of her death. He had been close, so close. The blood that seeped from her skull was fresh, staining the floor, staining him, sinking into the creases of his clothes, into the cracks of his skin, imbibing itself into his very bones.
He glanced unwillingly to his side and saw a joker card weighed down by a battered crowbar. It was left there to taunt him; he felt a stinging pain rise in his throat.
He already knew this story.
He had lived this story.
Jason pressed a shaking hand to her cheek, fingers skimming over the torn skin of her temple. Her head lolled, lifeless, into his palm. His vision blurred. The world was shattering around him, the air closing in too fast, too tight.
This was not supposed to happen. Not again. Not to her. Not her.
A choked sound wrenched itself from his throat, raw and brutal. He wanted to tear the world apart, wanted it to burn, wanted to take everything Joker had ever touched and reduce it to ashes, bone and dust.
But there was no world left to destroy. His world lay broken in his arms.
‘Jason...’ a voice called from somewhere behind him. Distant. Muffled beneath the rush of blood pounding in his ears. ‘Jason, we need to... ’
‘No.’
It came out hoarse, a ragged snarl carved from the wreckage of his throat. Hands were on him now, Dick’s, maybe Tim’s, he did not care, they tried to pry him away, tried to separate him from the only thing that mattered. He wrenched free, curling over her like a shield, as though if he were to hold her tightly enough, he could put her back together, force her into place, will her soul back beneath her skin.
He loved her.
And he had failed her.
Jason felt something unravel within him, something fragile and irreparable. The grief inside him was not humane. It was raw, feral, a grief that gnawed at the edges of reason, hollowing him out until only the cavern of what he had been remained.
‘Jason,’ Bruce said, he did not remember him arriving. Bruce was quieter than the others, as if his words would be enough to stop the sky from collapsing, as though it would be enough to salvage what had already been destroyed. ‘We need to bring her home.’
Home.
The word felt like a mockery.
He swallowed back the scream rising in his chest. She was his home. His arms curled tighter around her, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath shuddering as it ghosted over her cooling lips. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to rewind time. This could not be real.
But there was no waking up from this.
Joker forced her from him in the same manner he had taken him from Bruce. And this time, Jason had been the one who arrived too late.
History had repeated itself.
And she had fallen victim to it.
He was still holding her hand.
It was cold now, sickly. She looked like stone under the low light of the cave, sculpted into something reverent, something holy. If he were any weaker, he might have prayed. But there was never a god in Gotham, only ghosts, only graves.
His grip tightened.
‘Jason,’ Dick had murmured from over the threshold. He had the tone of someone who knew he had already lost his battle but was too stubborn to walk away. ‘You need to rest.’
Jason did not answer. What was the point? None of them understood. Not Bruce, who had watched him succumb to the same fate, but had seemingly not suffered the same. Not Dick, who had watched on. Not Tim, not Damian. They had not been shattered and put back together wrong. They had all known loss, but none of them, none of them, had lost her.
They tried again, in softer voices. Even Alfred, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder, spoke to him like a wounded animal. Jason did not move. He did not blink. He barely breathed.
They would not take her from him.
Eventually, they left him with her. Hours passed, or maybe minutes, or maybe lifetimes. He did not know. He just stayed, his thumb running absently over her knuckles, tracing circles into the skin. He should have been there sooner. He should have known. He should have...
Her fingers twitched.
Jason flinched, tearing his gaze from the blank, hollow of her face and down to their hands laying connected, both now dried crimson with her blood. The movement had been so slight he almost thought he had imagined it. His chest was hollowed out, a cavern scraped raw, and his mind was cracked wide with grief. He must have been seeing things.
Then it happened again.
Her breath hitched. Her shoulders jerked. A sharp inhale wrenched her back into her body, into the cage of her skin, into the cold and then to him.
Jason scrambled to his feet, the gurney rattling with the force of his pushing away. The world tilted, his stomach plummeting because this was not... this was not possible. His hands shook as he pulled away, as he stared down at her, heart hammering like a war drum in his ribs.
‘What... ’
‘Jason,’ she whispered, barely audible, as though she was speaking through water, through a fog, through the thousand miles that should exist between her and life.
He stumbled back. No, no, this was not... it could not...
She pushed herself up on her elbows, slow, deliberate, blinking the haze from her eyes. Her gaze swept the room before settling on him. He looked wrecked, as though he were unravelling at the seams.
‘I… I don’t... ’ he choked out, but his voice barely worked. ‘I held you. You weren’t breathing. You were dead.’
‘I was.’ Her voice was solemn, yielding.
He took another step back, shaking his head, trying to force this into something he could make sense of. But there was no logic here, no reason. Only his own past being referenced before him.
She watched him for a moment. Then, gently, she reached for his hand.
‘Let me explain.’ Her voice was soft, pleading.
Jason moved, did not resist, just let himself be drawn back in. The contact burned through his clothes, through his skin, down to the bones that had once shattered against the Joker’s crowbar, just as hers had.
She exhaled, steadying herself, and then began.
‘I was seven the first time I died.’
Jason felt something splinter in him, he drew in a quick breath.
‘My father…’ she trailed off, lips pressing into a thin line. A flicker of something old and ruined crossed her face before she buried it again. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. He was by no means… kind. And he…’
She halted her words a muscle in her jaw twitching.
Jason’s fingers tightened in hers. His heart was still hammering, still trying to keep up with a reality that had seemingly stumbled sideways.
‘My… return shocked him.’ Jason did not like the implications behind her words, they made him sick, but he let her continue.
‘He needed to know how I survived it; he hated the uncertainty. So he…’ She paused again, eerily composed. ‘...experimented. I always woke up. I always came back.’
Jason’s stomach twisted, nausea creeping up his throat like acid. This was too vile. Too raw. The thought of her helplessness, her fear, and the cycle of pain she had been subjected to was enough to debilitate him. The air suddenly tasted like metal, sharp and bitter, but it was nothing compared to the taste of rage searing through his veins.
He stepped back and stood still, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, but still, his breath remained steady, almost serene. The world around him felt muted, like a muffled beat, the edges of his vision fading to red with the sudden weight of this truth. He could not believe that someone meant to nurture and cherish her could cause her such anguish. Anger, raw and relentless, rose, it begged for vengeance. Wherever this foul man resides, he must pay; but not yet.
He watched as she sat pouting, she was not happy that he had drawn himself away from her, so he stood forward once more and grabbed her still outstretched palms.
She quickly enveloped his hands, grounding him. ‘I was afraid to tell you,’ she admitted, sheepish. ‘I thought you might look at me differently.’
Jason let out a hollow, humourless laugh. ‘Differently?’
Her lips twitched, almost amused, almost sad. ‘I know it’s ironic, if anyone would understand, it was you. I know, it’s a lot.’
A lot. Right. That was one way to describe the phenomenon. All Jason knew was that his world had imploded, that the grief that had so recently shifted him into something unrecognisable, was chased away with relief coiled so tightly in his gut he thought he might shatter beneath it.
But all he did was drag her forward, arms closing around her so tightly he could not be sure where he ended and she began.
‘I was going to bury you,’ he rasped against her shoulder, shaking. ‘Bury you.’
‘I know,’ she whispered, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.’
He exhaled shakily, pressing his face into her hair, trying to anchor himself to the warmth of her; the solid weight of her in his arms. Alive. But the moment ended too soon as light flooded suddenly into the room. Jason and Y/N turned, eyes narrowing begrudgingly toward the interruption, only to be met with a group of gaping faces that stood shocked beyond the threshold.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3 On a side note, the reader's ability to come back from the dead and the father's experimentation that then follows was inspired by a character from a different source material. I'm not going to say who because it is a spoiler for anyone who may end up watching the show, but I wonder if any of you picked up on the allusion.