Jason Todd Doesn't Know How To Love Softly. He Can't. It's Just Not In His Nature. He Died Trying To

“NOTHING’S GONNA HURT YOU BABY — jason todd.

PAIRING! jason todd 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! your roommate is the menacing red hood — who just happens to have a soft spot for you WORD COUNT! 1.5k WARNINGS / TAGS! roommates jason & reader, cursing, smoking, mention of alcohol consumption, reader is described to wear makeup, use of petnames ( doll ) NOTES! i need a vigilante bf sb. based on this req.!! © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THERE IS A STARVED DOG IN THE BACK OF JASON TODD’S THROAT.

It keeps barking, baring its sharp canines at whoever dares to step too close to comfort. It isn’t afraid to bite, to leave permanent marks in its wake because it had been hurt once before and the past hadn’t been so kind. So, it rips things apart, shows its strength to intimidate. A mechanism to keep itself safe. To remain whole.

The dog craves violence and roughness to represent the image it once created. It also craves touch, and not the bittersweet one. The kind that aches to feel, the kind that feels undeserving.

Jason isn’t a violent dog. He doesn’t know why he bites.

He’s chaos wrapped in leather. He’s the rumble of a motorbike tearing down an empty street, the smell of gasoline and adrenaline falling behind him. He’s sharp edges and electricity, the lighting that splits the sky just before the rain comes down. He’s a storm caged in a human shell, unpredictable and restless. Jason is late nights bathed in neon lights and the rush of speed that makes your heart race. He’s fire and fury, a protective shield made of calluses and scars.

You, on the other hand, are the softness in a world that’s far too loud. You’re the quiet that follows the first snowfall, the kind that blankets the earth in white stillness. You’re the warmth of vanilla in a kitchen. You’re the calmness of a gentle breeze, the soft glow of a candle against the darkness. There’s nothing harsh about you; you’re delicate without being fragile, a sweetness that lasts long after you first taste it. You’re a handwritten note, a favorite song played on repeat, kindness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Where Jason is a storm, you’re the eye. He’s the clash of thunder, you’re the calmness that follows. He’s leather jackets and combat boots, you’re large sweaters and bare feet on fluffy carpet. He pushes the word back with his fists while you disarm it with your smile.

Maybe that’s why he has such a soft spot for you.

Jason’s large combat boots were heavy on the hardwood as he stepped through the apartment door. He didn’t use one of the windows tonight since he had the luxury to change out of his vigilante clothing. The brown leather jacket still hung from his broad shoulders, but all the other equipment that created the complete look of Red Hood was safely stashed under the stairs of your fire escape.

Red Hood was one side of Jason’s many personalities he tried to shield you from.

He was quiet, mindful of his steps. He avoided the creaking spot on the floor, and he avoided closing the door too roughly. He had told you one too many times that he could take a look at the things that just made your life annoyingly difficult, but you waved him off with sweet words and he obeyed like a man possessed. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for his liking but he shook it off. You were supposed to be out anyway, something about a party your friends dragged you at.

The faint scent of cigarettes hit him before the quiet breeze of the night air rusted the curtains, and Red Hood was instantly on alert. His fingers moved before his mind could even process the situation, feeling the sharpness of his blade tucked in the belf of his pants.

His legs followed, taking him toward the balcony door and stepping outside into the night. He expected anything: a stray cat wandering through various apartments on a hunt for leftovers or even a rookie thief trying to break in. But he didn’t expect you, sitting on a plastic chair with a cigarette between your lips. One his cigarettes.

There you were, knees pulled close to your chest, the heels of your feet digging into the cheap plastic so you wouldn’t fall.

Draped in one of his hoodies he forgot on the couch earlier, you looked like you were ready to call it a day. Still, impossibly beautiful even with that tired look in your eyes. You pulled the cigarette out, puffing a white swirl of smoke into the darkness.

Jason stepped closer, his tall frame easily towering over yours. “You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing out here?” The sight of you, your cheeks flushed with alcohol and your hair a little wild from the chill wind, tugged at something buried deep in his chest.

Your glassy eyes met his and your lips tugged into a beaming smile. “Hey, Jason,” you mumbled his name out like it was a melody you hadn’t quite learned yet. “You’re home.”

“Yeah, I’m home. And you’re drunk. Smoking my shit.”

“I stole it from your jacket’s pocket when I did the laundry. I figured you wouldn’t miss one,” you held up the cancer stick towards him, as if to say, ta-da! Look what I found.

You were holding a piece of him. He crouched in front of you, his gloved fingers gently plucking the cigarette from your hand before you could protest. “Smoking’s bad for you, you know. I guess I’m a bad influence for you,” he muttered while his thumb brushed over the filter, the bark of the dog in his throat quieting for a moment. There was a faint pink outline on the white paper. A mark of your lips.

You tilted your head, studying him like you were seeing him for the first time. “You could never be a bad influence.”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened as he put the cigarette against the railing, the faint hiss breaking the silence between you. Then, he flicked it over the edge of the railing, watching the embers spiral down into the darkness below. The city roared faintly beneath you, but here, on this tiny balcony, it was just the two of you.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” your brows knitted into the frown he grew to adore.

“That I’m not a bad influence,” his lips twitched, caught between a smirk and something bittersweet. It was all a big joke to him; you didn’t know his true nature and yet here you were defending the man you thought you knew. The irony wasn’t lost on him. “You don’t know me as well as you think, doll.”

Tilting your head to the side, you gazed up at Jason like he hung the moon just for you. The look in your eyes softened. “I know enough, Jay. I know you’d rather jump off this balcony than let anything happen to me. I know you leave food for the stray cat, even though you complain how she’s too noisy at night. And I know that when you’re quiet like this,” you bumped your knee against his, trailing slightly into a quieter tone of your voice, “it’s because you’re hiding something.”

The dog inside Jason growled lowly, warning him to keep his guard up. To start building thicker walls around his bleeding heart. This would only end in tears and anguish. But you weren’t barking back. You held your heart in an open palm, extended toward him.

You leaned forward after a minute of his silence, hand brushing against his knee, and Jason stiffened. “You’re not mad, right? About the cigarette” you voiced your thoughts hesitantly.

Jason sighed, running a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “I should be. But seeing you out here like this . . . ” he trailed off, his eyes flickering over your face and cataloging every single detail. The flush on your cheeks and glass in your eyes. The aftermath of alcohol. “I can’t be mad. Just–don’t do it again, okay? You don’t need to mess with that shit.”

Your lips parted like you were about to argue, but then you closed them again, nodding slowly. Jason exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. He stood up, holding out a calloused hand to you. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold out here.”

You stared at his hand for a moment before slipping your smaller one into it. His grip was warm, steady, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he could feel the way your pulse quickened under his touch. He didn’t let go as he led you back into your shared apartment, the door clicking shut behind the two of you.

The dog in his chest stirred, restless and uneasy. It barked once, softly, a reminder of all the ways he could ruin this. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his jaw tightening against the weight of it. The dog craved destruction, violence, and chaos—it had always craved those things. But now, as he watched you drunkenly lean into him, the dog hesitated.

It whimpered. Then it lay down, its teeth still bared but its growl silenced, if only for tonight. Because for the first time in a long time, Jason felt something strange, something almost unfamiliar.

It wasn’t the absence of violence or the dull ache of longing. It was the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something in this world he didn’t have to break to keep.

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。MAD — AL-HAITHAM.

contents. alcohols consumption (drunk! al-haitham), post argument, fluff, ft. kaveh a real one for dragging home a heavy ass muscle man

al-haitham is good at holding his alcohol—at least, he is unless you’re in the middle of an argument. if you’re both arguing, then he seems much less likely to stay sober.

tonight for example—you open your bedroom door when kaveh (not so quietly) awakens you with his incessant knocking, grumbling under your breath as you reach for the door knob and twist. before you can even fully open the door, a very drunk and very heavy al-haitham is handed to you to hold steady.

“here, he’s your headache now,” kaveh huffs, crossing his arms, “i was supposed to be the heavy drinker of tonight,” he glares at al-haitham (who doesn’t help himself any further when he glares right back), “my day was far more stressful.”

“what draft are you on with this client?” you ask sympathetically.

kaveh flares his nostrils as he grumbles, “six!”

“maybe seven will be the charm,” you hum, chuckling, “i’ll get this headache of mine to bed.”

“please do,” he nods, “and i wish a terrible hangover on him in the morning too.”

with that, the door is shut, and you hear kaveh walk off and slam his as he grumbles some more about the drunk mess in your arms. at least you and kaveh have that much in common tonight—a shared irritation for the akademiya’s ever so charming scribe.

(truthfully, it’s hardly an accurate description at the moment—al-haitham’s charms are currently little to none after earlier.)

“you’re not doing yourself favors,” you turn your attention to you boyfriend, who stumbles a little as he buries his head into your neck. it’s a tad bit adorable—but then you remember the know-it-all attitude from earlier and decide you’re mad again. “disrupting my sleep for your lightweight habits isn’t a good way to apologize.”

“not a lightweight,” he slurs—and then he pulls away and pouts, “still mad?”

“yes.”

“are you sure?”

“very.”

“‘s not nice,” he huffs, burying his face back into your neck.

you can feel the way his lips are curled into a pout as they kiss your neck, and even though you’d like to say you have better self control, you can’t help but wrap your arms around him. it’s just to keep him from falling, you reason—just because you’re mad at him doesn’t mean you want him to potentially fall and break something, and that would only mean taking care of him more, which you do not need right now.

“you know what else wasn’t nice? telling me i’m wrong when i’m right,” you huff, “and then arguing that i’m wrong even though you know i’m right.”

“said i was sorry,” he almost whines—drunk al-haitham has at least a few perks. one of them is how much more affectionate he is, peppering kisses along your jaw until he finds your cheek. “you’re soft,” he hums, “love you.”

“you smell like beer. go to bed,” you grunt, trying (and failing) to pull away and guide him to the bed. you don’t make it two steps before he’s latched back to your body.

“say it back,” he gasps, “say it.”

“al-haitham,” you groan, “you can’t be serious—”

“haitham,” he corrects, “supposed to call me haitham.”

“would you like to sleep on the couch, haitham?” you ask with a dry smile on your face, eyes narrowed as he shakes his head. he tucks it into the crook of your neck, sighing happily as he inhales your scent.

“no, ‘s not good f’my back.”

“your back is the least of your concerns right now,” you mumble bitterly. “okay, let’s get you undressed.”

“you’re not mad?” he brightens up immediately at your words, taking them entirely out of context. his lips lean in to press against yours as his hands snake under your shirt, making you huff and slap his hands away as you turn your head and force his lips to meet your cheek.

“oh, i’m still very mad. don’t even think you’re getting anything tonight,” you scold.

for the nth time tonight, he pouts. and truthfully, you’re only human at the end of the day. if the akademiya’s usually stoic and composed scribe—who happens to be your equally as stoic and composed boyfriend—seems to pout this many times in one night….well, it would make anyone’s resolve crumble. even someone who’s angry after an argument—someone much like you.

“you’re a lot cuter when you’re drunk, you know that?” you giggle, poking his cheek lightly. he hums, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your skin as he leans more weight into you.

“aren’t i always cute?”

“not when you’re stubborn.”

“‘m cute,” he argues, “y’think ‘m cute, right?”

“no,” you grin, just to tease him. it’s a bit fun—pulling those wide eyes and curled lips from him, pulling that slightly crestfallen look that only a drunk al-haitham would let you witness.

it’s not too mean to let yourself indulge in this just once, is it?

“don’t be rude,” he slurs, “love you. say it back?”

“say please,” you tease, chuckling as your fingers thread through his hair.

he seems to brighten when you offer him a bit of affection, leaning into your touch as he sighs happily. “please,” he says politely, pressing a kiss to your skin before adding, “‘m sorry,” for good measure.

“how sorry?”

you plan on dragging this out for as long as you can—is it morally correct to take advantage of your drunk boyfriend? perhaps not….but no one is perfect, and you’re no exception.

“really sorry,” he mumbles, squeezing your hips.

“sorry enough to do the dishes for the week?”

“mhm,” he nods.

“kaveh’s too,” you add, with a satisfied grin on your face.

he nods, mumbling a quiet, “okay. kaveh’s too,” without question.

“how much do you love me?”

“a lot,” he says slowly, and by now, he’s leaning enough weight in you that you can tell he’ll fall asleep any moment. so you chuckle, pulling him along slowly before letting his body hit the mattress.

“this is my side of the bed,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes, but he doesn’t seem to hear you as he closes his eyes and sighs when your hand cups his cheek and rubs the warm, flushed skin. “do you love me more than you love being right?”

“mhm,” he hums, half awake as his eyes droop, “say it back now.”

“i love you too,” you finally crack, leaning in and kissing his lips briefly, “even if you’re rude and impossible.”

“‘m still cute,” he rebuttals, “right?”

“oh yes,” you giggle, “the cutest.”

“good,” he nods. and then his eyes close, and he’s snoring lightly, cheek still pressed against your hand.

you’re supposed to be mad, maybe even give him the silent treatment for a bit—but then you watch him sleep peacefully, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips when your fingers thread through the sweaty locks of hair. regretfully, you can’t stay mad, not when it’s al-haitham—and especially not when it’s drunk al-haitham.

“you’re such a headache,” you mumble, kissing his forehead before joining him on the bed and tucking into his side.

and when he wakes up in the morning, with what is hopefully the awful hangover kaveh wished upon him, you’ll make sure to remind him of his agreement to do the dishes. kaveh’s too.

if u try to tell me al-haitham isn’t a clingy and affectionate drunk, ur wrong. he’s so babie after he drinks

Hello Valiants!! I've been lurking and simply obsessed with your art and writing of them for a while and I was wondering if you have ever done a comic about how the rest of the team take ghostsoap's relationship? Or is it a secret? Ignore this if you have hehe

🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 Hmm maybe this or this Price one was close, but here's an update... (I think it's BARELY a secret)

You knew Damian would take his time getting adjusting to your presence. Of course he would. He’s even slower to warm up than Jason, you knew it before you’d even met him. So you’d had no idea you were even within a five year shot of him even liking you, let alone trusting you.

In spite of it nearing one in the morning, you laid atop your bed covers, watching your shows with passing interest. You’re waiting up for Jason like you usually do, you have a hard time sleeping not knowing if he’s okay or not. He hates it when you do, he says just because he has to be up all night doesn’t mean you do. Unfortunately for him, you’re nothing if not stubborn.

A clatter from the living room has you perking up—Jason’s back. It’s a little early for him to be home already though, and he’s not usually so loud upon re entry unless he’s hurt.

You stand quickly, tossing the book aside, and mentally prepare yourself to tend to injuries.

You open the door to the dark room, the only light available coming from the dim lamp in the kitchen and the moonlight through the open window.

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, scanning the room only to find a figure much, much smaller than expected.

“Damian?”

He looks at you through the darkness, silent. You approach him slowly.

“Hey. Are you hurt?” You ask, getting a bit concerned. Of all Jason’s brothers, Damian is the least likely to drop in, especially unharmed.

“No.” Damian’s always standoff-ish, but he’s exhibiting a particularly strange energy right now. You wonder if he needs something Jason could help with.

“Jason’s not here,” you tell him, watching him closely for any sign of what’s going on.

“I know.” His words are short, measured.

If he knows, that means he was with him tonight. Then why would he come here?

“Is everything okay?”

He says nothing. His gaze is lasered onto a panel of wood among the floorboards, jaw clenched.

You tilt your head. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

He hesitates to answer but it seems like he does want to stay. You don’t know Damian anywhere near as well as Jason does, but you can’t imagine he’s ever seen or shown much vulnerability before.

He seems to decide on biting the bullet and nodding, yes. You make your way around the couch and sit down, looking to him.

Slowly, he does the same, in absolute silence. He sits stiff. His shoulders are hunched up and his body is tightly pressed into the smallest space possible. The way his posture curls in on him makes him look even tinier.

You’ve never seen him anywhere close to upset before, not like this. Most of the time you see him he’s an angry upset, but this…it’s a sad upset. Almost scared.

You fold your legs onto the couch, pulling a blanket off from the ledge behind you. You drape it over Damians shoulders, enveloping him in warmth to contrast the icy bite of the night. He remains still.

You slowly move your hand up to his hair, treading carefully. He’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, though he makes no moves to stop you. You take that as the closest to a blessing you’re going to get from him, so you continue on.

You brush his hair back lightly, fingers threading through his hair with a loving gentleness.

“Damian,” You whisper.

He doesn’t look at you. Even in the dark, you can see his breathing labored and his eyes starting to well over.

You turn to face him and shift a little closer, taking his hand in yours. His chin lowers and his stare hardens, trying desperately not to cry.

You bring your free hand to the far side of his head, gently nudging him your way. He folds immediately, turning to you and throwing himself into your chest, tears flowing violently.

He struggles to breathe right, choking on his sobs as he hugs you tight. You hold his head against you, stroking his hair as he weeps.

You hold him like that for almost half an hour, allowing him as much time to cry as he needs.

He ends up curled up on your lap at an awkward angle, head resting on your thigh. The shaking of his body slows over time, his eyes fluttering shut from the ache of the tears. Not long after, his breathing levels out and his body completely relaxes into sleep.

You continue petting his head, mind wandering around to what could’ve happened. Jason had told you once that the only thing Damian seems to hold in high regard is Bruce, and his mood can easily sway Damian’s.

It’s almost three am when Jason slides in through the window, landing gracefully into a kneel. He tugs off his helmet before looking up and noticing you on the couch.

A split second of a smile before he glances down and sees Damian asleep on your lap, his arms still wrapped around your waist. His mouth drops and his brows furrows as he stands, examining his brother.

“What the hell?” He says quietly, looking back up to you.

You shake your head and shrug your shoulders, “I don’t know. Did something happen on patrol?”

Jason’s eyes drift down to Damian again. “I mean Bruce kind of yelled at him, so.”

“That’ll do it.”

He nods, coming to sit on the opposite side of the couch, careful not to wake him. He observes his brother's vice grip around your middle and your much more gentle hold around his.

“He let you hug him?”

“He hugged me.”

“He what?”

Jason Todd with a gf who isn't good at replying to messages. It's not that you mean to be rude, it's just that you're busy and often you forget about the notification that only lights up your phone's screen for half a second. Besides, if what you're being sent are memes and random tiktoks, then those can wait. But when Jason Todd jumps into the picture? That habit of yours is a problem. At the beginning, you were on top of things, replying in a timely manner—then you got comfortable, and the habit crawled back into your life. The first time you let a message from Jason go unanswered for nearly an hour, you were left with your door hanging off by a single hinge, the wood splintered. You purse your lips together, watching the door sway precariously. Awkwardness bubbles inside your chest, though you're half-convinced it's more of the desperate urge to laugh at the ludicrous situation you're in.

Turning slowly to face Jason with your hands on your hips, you grimace at the tense line of your boyfriend's shoulders and the tightness around his mouth.

"Um...well," you clear your throat. "We know that the door isn't okay, but are...you...okay?" Jason's sigh is laced with a wariness that's bone-deep and you wince, face scrunching as regret stabs through you. You throw him an apologetic, weak smile. "Sorry..." It's safe to say that you put in the effort to consistently answer Jason's texts, purely because you'd rather like your door to remain intact, and to prevent your boyfriend from using his body as a battering ram to get into your apartment.

(And to dodge the long-winded, passionate lecture about how important it is for you to respond to him. It worries him, okay?)

Me all the time 2

Me: I ship A with B

Me: I ship A with C too

Me: B with C isn’t that bad either

Me: But you know what is the best?

Me: Ship another pair!

My Brain: Do a love tringle!

Me: …

My Brain: …

Me: Why are you like this?

The Sovereign Beauty // J. Todd x f!reader

Requested? Yes!

WARNINGS: SMUT 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, loss of virginity (socially constructed theory ok), swearing, discussions around sex/consent (jason is a consent KING ok)

Summary: You can’t tell if the scene in this romance novel is realistic. When Jason finds out why, he offers to help explain.

A/N: the ending sucks, I struggled a lot writing this tbh. It’s so much harder to write first time situations IMO. I also really wanted to balance realism with sexiness. First times are not uber sexy or perfect, but they also don’t have to suck. Picture not mine, found on google.

Aside from the soft croon of Ella Fitzgerald and the occasional shift of a page turning, the apartment was relatively quiet. Gentle rain battered against the windows of Jason’s apartment and the comforting scent of the Bath and Body Works candle you had forced him to accept one day enveloped the two of you.

The tank of a man was sprawled out on the couch with the edges of a crocheted afghan Cass made was tucked around the both of you. Your feet rested in his lap and he occasionally ran his hand over your calf.

Ever since you started dating Jason Todd, days like this were some of your favorites. He brewed some tea, you set out some pastries you picked up from the bagel under your apartment, and the two of you just spent some time reading. No fancy dates, no expectations, just the two of you relaxing.

Keep reading

Number one “reader insert” pet peeve; People tagging stuff as “(f/o) x reader” WHEN IT’S NOT A READER INSERT.

I’ve run into several fanfics about one of my f/os tagged as reader inserts when they AREN’T. They have characters with names, their own appearances, etc- they’re OCs. You can’t claim that’s a reader insert when the character that is “supposed to be the reader” has a name, an appearance, a specfic gender- this is your OC x Canon ship. Which is totally fine, but you can’t tag it as an x reader fic. It isn’t.

It’s not cool, tag your stuff properly. You don’t see me writing my self insert content, and tagging it as “(f/o) x reader”. It’s not, so I don’t use that tag, because it would be putting somewhere that it doesn’t belong and putting it in the view of people who may not want to view it. Use OC x Canon tags. Don’t use the reader insert tag. You just make people upset by doing that.

I don’t care if you say “it’s okay to project onto this character” or “you can insert yourself into (OC)’s place”, and for the love of hell do not try to pull that “your name is (OC) name and you look like blah blah blah” bs. That doesn’t make it a reader insert, because it’s still not the reader, you are misleading an audience by using that tag and trying to inject your content into a tag where it shouldn’t be. Stop it. If self shippers can properly tag their stuff, then so can you.

In conclusion;

If you’re using an OC, do not use reader insert tags. It’s not a reader insert and does not belong there.

“jay—” 

the sentence you somehow thought you could form dies in your throat as your breath shudders in your lungs. 

“yes, my love?” your roommate, jason todd, looks up from where he’s happily situated: between your thighs. his attention now divided, you’re mercifully granted a break. you gulp for air, your hands over your face. 

“i just need—” 

“what? what do you need?” he cuts you off, impatient that you’re pulling him away from what he’s been so dutifully working on for probably an hour..if not more. “you want me to stop?” jason teases, rubbing a warm, calloused hand over the meat of your thigh. “does it feel too good?”

“w-what?” confused, you shake your head. “i don’t—”

“i think you need someone to worry about you for once, huh?” he raises an eyebrow at you, causing your cheeks to heat as your hands fly back up to your face. “what, you don’t agree?” 

you open your mouth to argue, then close it. then open it again, thinking. 

“mm. that’s what i thought.” your roommate smirks at you, turning his gaze back onto the part of you that’s still pulsing with heat from his ministrations. his chin’s slick from how much time he’s spent tongue deep in your pussy. 

but he wants more. 

wants to feel your hands in his hair again, gripping as he draws orgasm after orgasm out of you. wants to feel your thighs tight around his head, your self-control wavering as your back arches off the mattress, again and again. 

wants nothing but to breathe you in as he presses feathery light kisses to your puffy clit, watching you squirm from the barely-there pressure of his lips. 

wants you, all of you, the happy, sad, messy, angry, loving, caring, beautiful you,

—but jason: dead and revived, beaten and bruised, silent and steadfast, your jason, can’t always put that into words, can he?

so he wants you to feel it, really feel it:

in the way he pats your thigh lovingly as he runs his tongue through your folds, over and over. 

in the way he carries you to bed when you fall asleep on him in the living room. kisses your forehead as he tucks you in.

in the way he brushes your hair out of your face before he grabs you by the cheeks and your lips meet. 

in the way he knows your favorite, well, everything. 

in the way he’s always holding your hand when the two of you walk anywhere.

in the way his pupils always widen, huge and blown out, when he looks at you, making your heart pound in time with his as he holds your gaze. 

in the way he washes your hair in the shower, 

makes your coffee in the mornings, 

buys and arranges flowers for you,

wears that cologne you like,

knows the sidewalk rule, 

kisses your forehead,

laughs with you,

smirks at you,

loves you.

and yet you two are.. 

you two, and you both worry. 

of course, you both worry. 

he worries he’s not enough for you—

his lifestyle, his history..how could he ever be what you need? how could he give you the life you deserve?

—and you worry you’re a little too much sometimes. 

a man like that? with his past, his present? and yet he takes care of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. like he could do it in his sleep. 

all you know is that he doesn’t have to worry, shouldn’t have to, because whatever, or however much he thinks he wants something, you want it just as much..if not more. 

and what you want next? to make it official? to really, truly, make him your jason?

well. 

how could he refuse you?