☆⋅⋆──────⋆ALLOW YOURSELF TO SHINE WITHOUT THE DESIRE TO BE SEEN⋆──────⋆⋅☆

Hello loves I finally made a masterlist for my writing blog and a main post {:<

What I will write for:

What I will not write in general:

MASTERLISTS:

MORE INFO:

I mainly only write gn!readers and implied male/fem readers (exepction to my few smut fics), with no mentions to skin colour

If you’re looking to be mutuals don’t hesitate to pop me a message since I don’t have my main account listed here 🤍

☆⋅⋆A Lot

The flat smelled of burnt paper, cheap whiskey, and something a little sweeter—probably whatever was rolled into the joint you were passing between each other. It was one of John’s, which meant it wasn’t just weed. Not quite laced, but there was always something extra when Constantine was involved. Magic, nicotine, whatever he’d found in his coat pockets. Didn’t matter. It hit just right, left your head buzzing like a radio tuned to the wrong station.

The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air and the sound of distant sirens, the hum of the city never quite fading. You were sprawled across the ratty old couch, your legs draped over his lap. John, slouched as always, had one arm stretched across the backrest, fingers ghosting over your shoulder every time he shifted. The other hand held the joint, two fingers stained with smoke and old ink, flicking ash into a chipped ashtray.

He took a slow drag, let the smoke curl around his lips before handing it off to you. His eyes were half-lidded, lazy, but there was always something sharp underneath. Like he was seeing straight through you, even through the haze.

“You know how much I love you?” you murmured, voice thick, slow, like warm honey on a cold night.

John’s lips twitched, like he was about to say something smart, but for once, he didn’t. Just tilted his head, studied you with that same look—half amused, half something he’d never bloody say out loud.

“A lot?” he guessed, voice scratchy, that unmistakable Scouse drawl making it sound rougher than it had any right to.

You took a long drag, letting the smoke sit in your lungs before exhaling slow, watching it curl between you.

“A lot.”

The words felt heavy in your mouth, settling in the air between you. John shifted, tapping ash off the end of the joint, watching the embers glow and fade. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city droned on outside, life carrying on, but in here? In here, it was just the two of you, the hum in your heads, the warmth of his body next to yours. None of the ghosts, none of the debts, none of the horrors waiting in the dark corners of his mind. Just this. Just now.

John sighed, let his head fall back against the couch with a lazy grin. “Christ, y’gonna regret sayin’ that when I drag yer sorry arse into Hell with me.”

You huffed a laugh, smoke slipping past your lips. “Yeah, yeah. You say that like I wouldn’t follow ya prick.”

His grin twitched at the edges, something softer lurking there before he snuffed it out. Instead, he hummed low in his throat, reaching for the joint again. He didn’t say anything else, but his fingers brushed yours as he took it back. Let them linger for just a second too long.

Jason Todd had always been built like a tank—broad shoulders, strong arms, a body shaped by years of fighting Gotham’s worst. But now, standing in front of the mirror, all he could see was how different he looked. The muscle was still there, buried under a softer layer that hadn't been there before. His shirts stretched a little tighter around his stomach, his jawline wasn’t as sharp, and—God—he could feel it every time he moved.

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He'd known this was coming. Hanging up the helmet, giving up the fight—it meant letting go of the relentless training too. The bruises had faded, the broken ribs had healed, but his body had started changing in ways he wasn't prepared for.

The worst part was the guilt. Not just for what he used to do, but for caring so much about this now. He'd survived death. He'd clawed his way out of the grave, fought through pain most people couldn't imagine—and yet, a little weight was what was getting under his skin?

"Stupid," he muttered, gripping the sink.

The door creaked open behind him, and he barely caught your reflection in the mirror before you stepped into the room.

"Jay?" Your voice was soft, careful. "You've been in here for a while."

He exhaled through his nose, not turning around. "Yeah. Just thinking."

You leaned against the door frame, watching him. "What about?"

Jason hesitated. He didn't want to say it. It felt shallow. Weak. But you knew him too well, and he knew you weren't going to let it go.

"... I look different," he finally admitted. "And I don't know how..."

You stepped closer, your hands finding his waist from behind, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his shirt. "Of course you do," you said simply. "You’ve spent years treating your body like a weapon. And now you don’t have to anymore."

He swallowed, his shoulders dropping just slightly. "Yeah, but—I don’t know, I used to be..." He gestured vaguely toward the mirror, frustrated.

"You used to be overworked, underfed, and running on fumes," you countered. "Jason, you didn’t just survive Gotham—you survived yourself."

He went quiet at that.

Your arms wrapped around his middle, and you rested your head against his back. "You're still you. And you're still hot, if you need to hear it."

A short, breathy chuckle escaped him despite himself. "That right?"

You squeezed him tighter. "Mm-hmm. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to."

Jason sighed, a small, tired smile creeping onto his face. He reached down, covering your hands with his. He didn’t know if he’d ever fully shake the feeling, the nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him he wasn’t what he used to be. But you were here. You weren’t letting him disappear into his own head.

[DC Masterlist]

BREAKING NEWS; 'i love you'

The smell of coffee and something sizzling on the stove pulls Jason from the last remnants of sleep as he slouches at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He flips a page, brows furrowed as he skims through the headlines.

You, meanwhile, are by the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, occasionally glancing over at him. “Anything interesting?”

Jason grunts. “Mm. Some billionaire jackass bought another company. City council’s still useless. Oh—guy in Blüdhaven swears he saw an alien at a gas station.”

You snort. “That one’s probably true.”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing this week,” he mutters, turning the page. His jaw tightens as his eyes land on the next headline. "Triple homicide downtown— Yeah, okay, that’s enough of that."

You glance over your shoulder. “Too depressing?”

"Too early for this shit," he mutters, flipping past the bad news until he lands on something less soul-crushing. “Alright, switching gears. Trivia time. What’s the capital of Mongolia?”

You hum, setting a pancake onto a plate. "Ulaanbaatar."

Jason blinks. "Shit. Alright, brainiac. How about—oh, here’s a good one. What’s the most stolen food in the world?"

You pause, thinking. "Cheese?"

He squints at you. “How the hell did you know that?”

You grin, sliding a plate in front of him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Jason eyes you suspiciously but takes a bite of his pancake anyway, grumbling about how unfair it is that you’re better at trivia than him. But there’s a small, fond smile tugging at his lips as he reads you the next question.

╰➤Dish Duty

You pause in the doorway, blinking at the sight before you.

Jason. At the sink. Doing the dishes.

For a moment, your brain refuses to process it. This is Jason Todd, a man whose idea of cleaning is kicking his boots into a corner and calling it a day. A man who has been known to buy new dishes just to avoid washing the ones in his sink.

And yet, here he is, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, looking criminally domestic.

You squint. "What are you doing?"

Jason glances over his shoulder. "Dishes?"

"Since when do you do that?"

"Since you told me you don’t enjoy it." He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, before turning back to the sink.

Your brain short-circuits.

Because what the hell.

Your heart clenches, because it’s such a small thing—so stupidly, absurdly small—but it means everything. He doesn’t say I love you all the time, but this? This is him saying it without words.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. He’s warm, solid, and smells faintly like dish soap and him.

Jason huffs out a laugh. "What, you get turned on by dishwashing now?"

You snort, smacking his side lightly. "Shut up."

He smirks but keeps scrubbing.

And you stand there for a moment, holding him, listening to the soft clink of dishes, feeling your heart swell.

Maybe you’ll start complaining about laundry next.

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯ "AT THE HANDS OF AN ANGEL"

Jason groans as he slumps onto the bed, face-first, with all the dramatics of a man twice his age. His jacket’s already discarded on the floor, his boots half-kicked off, and his entire body just radiates exhaustion.

"Fuck everything," he mutters into the sheets.

You lean in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with amusement. "Everything?"

"Everything. The city, the idiots running it, the dumbass informant who wasted my entire night—" Jason lifts his head just enough to glare at the ceiling. "And most of all? My goddamn back."

You bite back a laugh. "You sound like an old man."

He flops an arm over his face. "That’s because I feel like one."

"Jason, you’re not even thirty."

"I might as well be."

You roll your eyes, but there’s a fondness in it. With a sigh, you push off the doorframe and crawl onto the bed, settling next to him. Your hand ghosts over his back. "Want me to fix it?"

He grunts. "If you can bring me back from the dead again, be my guest."

"Ha-ha." You press your palms into his shoulders, kneading gently. The moment you do, Jason groans—a deep, guttural sound that makes heat creep up your neck.

"Shit," he breathes, "yeah, there. Right there."

You smirk. "Big bad Red Hood, taken down by some muscle knots?"

"Shut up and keep going."

You do, pressing deeper, working out the tension in his shoulders, the knots along his spine. Jason melts. The tension in his body seeps out little by little, his breath slowing, his grip on the sheets loosening.

"God," he mutters, voice muffled. "Marry me."

You huff a laugh. "You’re ridiculous."

"M’serious." He sighs, utterly content. "You wanna stop me from doing stupid shit? This is how you do it. Just bribe me with this."

"Noted," you tease, digging your thumbs into a particularly tight spot. Jason shudders.

"...Okay, but not like that," he mumbles. "I will fall asleep right here."

You roll your eyes, softening. "Good. You need it."

Jason hums, too relaxed to argue.

And yeah, maybe he's not old. But nights like this, when exhaustion weighs heavy and his body hurts, he thinks—if growing old means coming home to this, to you—

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

*̩̩̥͙　-Your Tears Kill Me-ˏˋ⋆

Jason has seen you cry before.

A misty-eyed sniffle when you watched a sad movie. A few stray tears when you laughed too hard. That one time you got frustrated over something stupid and wiped your eyes before you even realized you were crying.

But this? This is different.

You’re sobbing.

Not quiet, not composed. It’s ugly, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking—the kind of crying that makes your whole body tremble, the kind that says this isn’t about one bad day, or even one bad week.

This is everything crashing down at once.

And Jason doesn’t know what to do.

He just stands there, stiff as a board, watching as you clutch your arms around yourself, shoulders shaking, breath hitching violently between sobs. You’re trying to talk—he can tell—but all that comes out are broken, gasping hiccups.

His heart clenches, because fuck, did he—?

"Hey, hey—" He steps forward, hands hovering awkwardly. "What happened? Did I—? Shit, did I say something?"

You shake your head wildly, but it does nothing to stop the tears.

Jason curses under his breath. "Then what? Talk to me, sweetheart."

But you can’t. Not yet. You’re still unraveling, like a dam finally bursting after holding back years of pressure. And Jason—who’s so good at fixing things with his hands, with his weapons, with sharp words and sharp instincts—doesn’t know how to fix this.

So he does the only thing he can.

He pulls you in.

You collapse against him like you were waiting for it, hands fisting into his shirt, your weight pressing into him like you’re afraid he’ll let go. He won’t. He won’t.

"Shh," he murmurs, running a hand over your back, his touch uncertain but there. "I got you. You’re okay."

You shake your head again against his chest, a choked noise escaping your throat. "I’m not."

Jason’s breath stutters.

Because he knows what it’s like to believe that—to feel like no matter how many times someone tells you you’re okay, you never are. And knowing you—someone who always smiles, always finds the light in things, always keeps going—are feeling that way?

It guts him.

"Fuck," he breathes, tightening his arms around you. "I—" He swallows hard. "I don’t know what to say, babe. I don’t know how to make this better. But I’m here. Okay? I’m right here."

You just sob.

And Jason? Jason just holds you through it. Through the shaking, through the gasping, through the way your fingers clutch at him like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He wishes he had the right words, wishes he could take whatever weight you’ve been carrying and break it over his knee like he does to every bastard who deserves it. But he can’t.

So he stays. He holds you, rocks you gently, presses kisses into your hair, murmurs reassurances even if he’s not sure they help.

And eventually, eventually, the sobs quiet. Your breathing evens out. Your grip on his shirt loosens, just a little.

Jason leans down, voice soft. "You back with me?"

You nod weakly.

"Yeah?"

A sniff. A small, fragile, "Yeah."

Jason lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "Good." He presses his lips against your forehead. "Now, you wanna tell me what’s going on, or you wanna just sit here for a while?"

You don’t answer right away. But you don’t pull away, either.

And that’s enough.

So Jason stays. He holds you tighter, presses another kiss into your hair, and lets you breathe.

Because if you ever start breaking again, he’ll be right here to catch the pieces.

Every damn time.

༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹Baby Whats My Name◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ

There are moments Jason never thought he’d get. The quiet ones, the soft ones. The ones that don’t come with gunpowder in the air or sirens wailing in the distance.

But right now, it’s just the two of you, tangled together on the couch, your head resting against his chest, his fingers idly tracing shapes against your back. The TV hums in the background, some late-night show neither of you are really watching, but neither of you bothers turning it off.

And then, out of nowhere, you say, “So… what do you think of the name ‘Samuel’?”

Jason blinks. His fingers still against your back. “For what?”

“For a kid.”

His whole body tenses for half a second before he forces himself to relax. Not because the thought of kids scares him (okay, maybe a little), but because he wasn’t expecting this conversation at 11:42 PM on a Tuesday.

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him properly. “I mean, we’ve talked about having kids before. Might as well get a head start on names, right?”

Jason squints at you. “Are you—?”

“No, I’m not pregnant.” You roll your eyes, amused. “I’d tell you if I was.”

He exhales, a little more relieved than he wants to admit. Not because he doesn’t want kids. But because if that day ever comes, he wants to be prepared. He wants to be ready.

Still, he hums, considering. “Samuel’s not bad. Sam. Sammy.” He shrugs. “Yeah, I could get behind that.”

You smile, clearly pleased with yourself. “Okay, your turn.”

Jason exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. “What about… Elliot?”

You raise a brow. “Elliot Todd?”

He nods. “Sounds solid. Smart. Plus, if the kid hates it, they can go by Eli or Lio or something.”

You tilt your head, considering. “I like it.” Then, after a pause, you add, “I was expecting something way more dramatic from you, though.”

Jason smirks. “Like what?”

You wave a hand. “I don’t know. Something ridiculous. Like Maximus.”

Jason’s grin widens. “Now that would be a badass name.”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Our child is not going to be named after a gladiator.”

Jason snickers. “Fine, fine. No Maximus.” Then, after a beat, he says, “...What about a girl’s name?”

You perk up. “Okay. What about ‘Ivy’?”

Jason hums. “Pretty. Simple. Also, I know a certain someone in Gotham who might be very smug if we pick that.”

You snort. “True. She would take credit for it.”

Jason taps his fingers against your back, thinking. “What about ‘Rosa’?”

You blink. “Like… rose?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s got an old-school feel to it. Plus, ‘Rosa Todd’ sounds cool.”

You test it out under your breath. “Rosa Todd.” Then, you nod. “I actually really like that.”

Jason grins. “See? I do have taste.”

You roll your eyes but kiss his jaw in silent agreement.

Another moment of silence passes, warm and easy, before you nudge him again. “Okay. What if we just went full Gotham legacy and named our kid something over-the-top?”

Jason smirks. “Like?”

You grin mischievously. “Richard..?”

Jason groans so loudly you can’t help but laugh. “Absolutely the hell not, hat's a horrible idea” he says.

“Is it, though?”

“Yes,” Jason insists. “He would gloat for eternity.”

You shake your head, still laughing. “Alright, fine. No Richard.”

Jason sighs dramatically. “Thank god.”

The two of you settle back into a comfortable quiet, your fingers tracing idle circles against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. It’s a silly conversation, maybe even premature, but the fact that you’re having it at all—that Jason’s letting himself have it—means something.

Maybe it won’t be tomorrow, or next year, but one day, this won’t just be a conversation. It’ll be real.

And somehow, that thought doesn’t terrify him. Not like it used to.

He glances down at you, lips brushing against your forehead. “Y’know,” he murmurs. “We’ll figure it out. When the time comes.”

You smile against his skin. “Yeah. We will.”

And for now, that’s enough.

╰┈➤ ❝ [Watching the Stars]

The city never really sleeps. Even this late at night, Gotham hums below—cars rushing by, distant sirens wailing, the occasional shout echoing through the streets. But up here, above it all, it's quiet. Peaceful.

You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you settle against Jason’s side on the rooftop. The fire escape creaked under your weight when you climbed up, but now the metal is cool beneath you, a familiar perch in a city that rarely offers stillness.

Jason leans back, legs stretched out, arms resting behind his head. His helmet is off, tossed somewhere behind him, leaving his face bare in the soft glow of the city lights. He looks exhausted—the kind of tired that sleep won’t fix. You both are. Life pulls you in different directions, obligations stacking up like weights on your shoulders, but tonight… tonight, you just wanted to be with him.

"Been a while since we did this," you murmur, tilting your head to look at him.

Jason huffs out a breath, a half-smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah. Thought you'd forgotten about our old rooftop tradition."

"Never." You smile, reaching for his hand. He laces his fingers through yours without hesitation, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. His hands are rough, warm despite the chill in the air.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just sit there, watching the stars fight for space against the city lights. It’s not the clearest sky—you never get that in Gotham—but there are a few twinkling stubbornly above, peeking through the smog and clouds.

Jason breaks the silence first. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to just... get out of here. Go somewhere quiet, where you can actually see the whole damn sky. No smog, no sirens. Just—" He gestures vaguely. "—stars. Everywhere."

You hum, squeezing his hand. "Sounds nice."

He turns his head to look at you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you say softly. "But as long as you're with me, I don't really care where we are."

Jason stares at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he exhales, shifting to pull you closer, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

"You’re such a sap," he murmurs against your hair, but his voice is too tender to hold any bite.

You grin. "And you love it."

He chuckles, low and warm, and doesn't deny it. Instead, he holds you a little tighter, head tilted back toward the sky, as if trying to memorize the few stars that dared to shine in Gotham’s darkness.

.ೃ࿐Welcome Home

You barely make it through the arrival gate before you spot him.

Jason Todd, all leather jacket and sharp blue eyes, standing just beyond the crowd, arms crossed over his chest like he's trying to play it cool. But you know him. You see the way his fingers tighten around the strap of his duffel bag, how his weight shifts restlessly from one foot to the other. He’s been waiting.

The second your gaze locks, his tough-guy act cracks. His shoulders ease, lips part like he’s about to say something—maybe something sarcastic, maybe something sweet—but you don’t give him the chance.

"Jason!"

You're on him in an instant, arms thrown around his neck as you crash into him. He stumbles back a step but catches you, hands firm against your back, holding you so tight you can barely breathe—not that you care.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick, a little rough around the edges. “Took you long enough.”

You laugh against his shoulder. “Missed me that bad?”

“Tch. Please.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, one hand lifting to brush your hair away from your face. His thumb skims your cheek, soft despite the callouses, and his gaze darkens, turning something softer. “You already know the answer to that.”

Your heart swells. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I missed you too.”

Jason exhales sharply, then tugs you back into his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

And with his arm wrapped tight around you, keeping you close like he’s afraid to let go, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

•°. *࿐Lesson in Love

“You’re holding back.”

Your eyes flick up to meet Dick’s, and even in the dim lighting of his apartment, you can see the amusement dancing in his expression. He’s barely suppressing a smirk, leaning back against the couch like he has all the time in the world.

“No, I’m not,” you grumble, crossing your arms.

Dick tilts his head, studying you, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay. Then why’d you flinch when I kissed you?”

You bristle. “I didn’t flinch.”

“Mm.” He hums, clearly not buying it. “So you didn’t just turn your head at the last second and make me kiss your cheek?”

Damn it.

You sigh, slumping back. “That's not flinching I just… Didn't want to kiss you-”

He leans in again, gentler this time, his voice softer. “Why?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Because I suck at this, okay?” You cover your face with your hands. “I know I’m a bad kisser. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—warm fingers carefully peeling your hands away from your face.

“Hey,” Dick murmurs, smiling. “You could never disappoint me.”

You huff, but your heart isn’t in it. “Easy for you to say, Mr. I-Probably-Have-Fanclubs-In-Every-City.”

He chuckles. “Not every city.” Then, more seriously, “But I do know how to kiss. And I could teach you.”

You hesitate. “Teach me…? What are you my professor-?”

His blue eyes lighten up slightly. “If you want.” The way he says it makes your stomach flip.

“…okay, yeah- yeah, yeah… cool- cool.” you fumble out with clammy hands holding each other.

Dick moves closer, his hands sliding to your waist, anchoring you. “First,” he says, voice low, “Relax.” His thumbs stroke circles over your sides. “You're not getting ready for impact, you're easing into something nice. Don’t think too much—just feel.”

You nod, but it’s hard not to overthink when he’s this close, his breath warm against your lips.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “Let me lead.”

You obey, and then—soft, warm pressure. Dick kisses you slowly, sweetly, his lips moving against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. It’s not rushed, not demanding, just… patient.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless.

“See?” He grins. “Not bad at all.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “…Maybe I need a few more lessons.”

His smile turns into something deeper, more satisfied. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And then he kisses you again.

I Have a Door, Y'know

The loud thud of your bedroom window sliding open nearly scared the life out of you.

“Jesus—!”

Your heart leapt into your throat as a dark figure climbed through the window, moving with a frustrating amount of ease. Before you could react—or throw the nearest object in self-defence—Jason Todd landed on your floor like this was the most normal thing in the world.

You exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to your chest. “Jason. What. The hell.”

He smirked, shoving the window shut behind him. “Miss me?”

“No, but I nearly missed swinging my lamp at your head.” You crossed your arms, glaring. “I have a door.”

Jason had the audacity to shrug. “Yeah, but this is more fun.”

“More fun for who?”

He ignored you, casually toeing off his boots before flopping onto your bed like he owned the place. His arms folded behind his head, his entire body sprawling across the mattress as if he hadn’t just broken into your room through a second-story window.

You stood there, glaring.

Jason cracked an eye open and smirked. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re not really mad.”

“I should be.”

“But you’re not.”

You sighed, exasperated, but your lips twitched at the corners. “One of these days, I’m going to lock that window.”

Jason grinned. “And I’ll just pick it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What if I booby-trap it?”

His eyebrows rose, and his smirk deepened. “Kinky.”

You groaned, chucking a pillow at his face. He caught it effortlessly, tossing it aside before tugging you onto the bed with a sharp pull.

You yelped as you tumbled forward, landing against his chest with an oomph. His arms looped around you instantly, locking you into his embrace, his warmth bleeding into your skin.

You huffed against his chest. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Jason chuckled, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back. “Because I’m irresistible.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Same thing.”

You tried to glare at him, but the way his thumb brushed over your spine—slow and soothing—made your muscles melt against him instead. His scent—leather, gunpowder, and just a hint of something warm, like home—filled your senses, and, annoyingly, you found yourself relaxing.

Jason pressed a slow, lazy kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

You grumbled into his hoodie, face heating. “No comment.”

Jason smirked, pulling you even closer.

Yeah. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Borrowed Comfort

Jason barely glanced up from his book as you climbed into his lap, settling against him with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Because you had.

You were wearing his shirt.

And god help him, it did something to him.

The fabric hung nicely on you, draping over your frame like it belonged to you more than it did to him. The sleeves swallowed your hands, the hem riding up just slightly as you curled up against his chest, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

Jason exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Comfy?” he murmured, flipping a page.

You hummed softly, voice muffled against his skin. “Mm..”

Jason smirked, resting his chin atop your head as his fingers found their way into your hair, absently combing through the strands. His touch was slow, soothing, fingertips dragging along your scalp in a steady rhythm.

You melted against him.

Jason could feel it—the way your body went lax, your breathing slowing as the warmth of his touch pulled you deeper into comfort. The weight of you, small and soft against him, made something in his chest go light.

He turned another page, completely unbothered by the fact that you weren’t moving anytime soon. If anything, his fingers in your hair got lazier, like he wanted to keep you here as long as possible.

Minutes stretched on, quiet and easy.

Then—

“You’re not getting this shirt back, by the way,” you murmured sleepily.

Jason huffed a laugh, fingers grazing the nape of your neck. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You nuzzled closer, grinning against his throat. “It’s mine now.”

Jason smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who takes selfies of you when you're sleeping and keeps them in a folder on his phone because he loves to tease you about your 'sleeping face'.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who will just squish your cheeks with his big hands to see your 'grumpy face' because it makes him laugh and when you try to do it back he knows he looks stupid but you laughing with him is the best.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who would defend you endlessly if someone said something rude about you, but only when you're not there. He knows you can defend yourself and honestly he doesn't want you to see how petty he gets when it comes to you.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that holds your hand when you're nervous and doesn't mind if your skin is clammy

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that will join you if you're ever doing any kind of baking because he firstly wants to steal whatever is coming out of the oven even if it's too hot and also because he wants to get flour on your face.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who loves when you sit in his lap while just mindlessly scrolling on your phone or doing something on your laptop.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who would want to wear matching pajamas because well… who wouldn't? Couples goals or whatever.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that carries you to bed bridal style if you fall asleep watching a movie on the couch or on a long car ride home.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson where physical Touch is his #1 Love Language. This man cannot keep his hands off you—constant casual touches, back hugs, hand-holding, thigh squeezes under the table. If he's in love, he wants you close.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that calls/texts to check in, even when he’s on patrol. Might send a cheeky “I look good tonight” selfie in the suit, followed by a genuine "Miss you. Be safe, okay?"

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson stealing your hoodies, but won't let you have his, he barely has any of his own to begin with. He’ll wear them around the house like it’s totally normal. If they smell like you? Even better. If you call him out? "What? It looks better on me."

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson who has a deep fear of losing you. Sometimes, he just holds you a little tighter, kisses your forehead a little longer, as if grounding himself in the fact that you’re here, and you're safe.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that loves when you play with his hair. If he’s had a rough night, nothing soothes him like your fingers running through his hair while he rests his head on your lap.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson with your pet, If you have a pet as well? He spoils them rotten. They will love him more than you do, and he will use that against you.

Thinking about !Boyfriend Dick Grayson that wants you to look at his butt. He has dropped a pen as a joke before and slowly bent down to show you the dumpy. He's very proud of his glutes and you must appreciate the goods.

⇄ ◃◃ Festive Against My Will ▹▹ ↻

Jason glared at his reflection in the mirror, arms crossed over his chest. “This is stupid.”

“You look adorable,” you countered, adjusting the collar of his ugly Christmas sweater.

The sweater in question was bright red, covered in tiny, grumpy-looking reindeer and a horribly pixelated Santa giving a thumbs-up. Yours was just as bad, except yours had Santa dabbing. Dabbing.

Jason groaned. “Why the hell did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me.” You grinned, standing on your toes to peck his cheek.

Jason grumbled something under his breath but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your waist, tugging you closer as he eyed your matching monstrosity of a sweater.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

You beamed. “And you’re lucky I didn’t pick the light-up ones.”

Jason froze. “There were light-up ones?”

“Oh, yeah.” You patted his chest. “Maybe next year.”

Jason sighed, shaking his head, but when you laced your fingers with his, he squeezed back.

Yeah. He was absolutely whipped.