#red hood angst | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starl1ght444 · 4 months ago

Text

jason todd x fem!reader

── .✦ angst

[jason’s hurtful words lead you to leave for a couple days]

long story — [7k word count]

second person writing / edited-ish

*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you don’t even remember what started it.

maybe it was the late nights. the blood on his knuckles. the way he shut you out like a slammed door every time something bothered him. maybe it was the way you kept asking, over and over, “are you okay?” and getting that practiced silence in return. or maybe it was you. wanting too much. needing answers he wasn’t ready to give.

It starts with the quiet. the kind that creeps in before the thunder hits. jason walks in, his jacket soaked with rain and something darker. his eyes avoid yours. you’re used to it, but tonight something in you snaps. “did you kill anyone yet?” you ask. not because you want to accuse him. but because you have to know.

he stiffens. “what the hell kind of question is that?”

you don’t back down. “a serious one. because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what you’re doing out there.”

jason tosses his helmet on the counter with a loud clatter. “don’t start this.”

“no, you don’t get to tell me when I start. you come home covered in blood, you don’t talk to me, you shut me out—”

“because it’s none of your business!” he snaps.

that stings. you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.

“I am your business, jason. or am I just something you keep around to feel normal?”

he laughs—bitter, cold. “don’t flatter yourself.” —silence.

you blink. his words hit you like a slap, and he knows it. he flinches for a second. just one. but he doesn’t take it back. you try to keep your voice steady. “so that’s what I am? just… convenient?”

he doesn’t answer. you’re waiting for him to say no. to soften. to say he didn’t mean it. instead, he mutters, “you knew what this was. don’t act like you didn’t sign up for it.”

that’s the thing. you did know. you knew loving jason todd would mean long nights, fear gnawing at your ribs, and blood on his knuckles when he kissed you goodnight. but what you didn’t sign up for was being invisible.

“I didn’t sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” you say, standing now, voice rising. “I didn’t sign up for being ignored, for being lied to. you don’t talk to me, jason. you just disappear.”

jason scoffs. “and what, I should be reporting in every five minutes? you want a boyfriend or a lapdog?”

your heart aches, but you don’t back down. “i want you. the version of you that lets me in. the one that doesn’t shut down and push me away every time something gets hard.”

“I don’t need you to fix me!” he shouts, voice suddenly cutting through the air like a whip. “I don’t need your sympathy or your constant hovering. you think loving me gives you the right to pry into every dark corner of my life?”

you stare at him, stunned. “It’s not prying when I’m trying to help jay..”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” he barks. “god, you’re so damn exhausting. always needing something. always complaining. maybe I’d be better off without you dragging me down all the time.”

you stare at him like you’re seeing someone else entirely. “you’re a coward.” — wrong thing to say.

jason steps forward, eyes burning. “you think I’m the coward? you sit here in your nice little apartment, judging me like you’re above it all. you don’t know what it’s like out there. you couldn’t last a week in my world.”

“and yet I’ve been trying for months!” you shout, your voice breaking. “but you don’t care. you never really let me in. you just wanted someone to come home to—someone who didn’t ask too many questions.”

“you think you’re some kind of savior?” he sneers. “you’re not. you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

you stop. you feel it crack right there—something fragile and important inside you. “i didn’t want to fix you,” you whisper. “ i just wanted you to let me in.”

he scoffs. “then you wanted too much.” and that’s it. a finial look into jason’s eyes of any hint of regret— nothing. just pure frustration and anger. a weight in your heart dragging you towards the door. no dramatic exit. no final scream. just you walking past him, grabbing your bag, and shutting the door behind you.

at first, jason doesn’t move he doesn’t feel much of anything, honestly. just numb. tired. angry in that hollow way that doesn’t have a target anymore. he just stands there, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open again. It always does.

you always come back. — he grabs a beer from the fridge. sits on the couch. flips on the TV. something violent and loud, because silence feels like guilt.

hours pass. no call. no message.

he scrolls through his phone. no unread texts. he opens your thread—nothing. his fingers hover over the keyboard, then stop. he locks the phone and throws it on the table.

then he starts thinking about what he said. really thinking.

“you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

the way your face changed. he remembers the silence right before you walked out, how final it felt. and something cold settles in his chest. it’s been almost 4 hours since you left.

he starts pacing. that tight feeling in his chest creeps in like smoke under a door. his palms feel clammy. he’s sweating. his vision is narrowing. he can’t think. — you didn’t come back.

you always come back. “shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “shit, shit—”

the room feels like it’s closing in. the walls are too close, the ceiling too low, like everything’s pressing down on him at once. he can’t breathe. his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, gasping for air, chest heaving like he’s drowning. his hands shake. his throat burning.

he didn’t mean it. — of course he didn’t mean it. you’re not convenient..you’re the only thing that’s kept him afloat. you’re the light he pretends he doesn’t need but clings to in the dark.

and now you’re gone. the words he threw at you, the venom he spit out just to win a fight, ring louder than the silence you left behind. he says your name into the empty apartment. once. then again. then louder. like if he says it enough, you’ll hear him. — but you don’t. and now the silence is unbearable.

he can’t breathe. now It’s been five hours since you left, and jason’s chest is on fire. not the kind that comes from bruised ribs or a bullet wound—he knows that pain. he’s good with that pain. this is worse. this is panic. helplessness.—this was worse kind of hurt because it doesn’t bleed.

his phone is clutched so tight in his hand, his knuckles have gone white. he stares at the screen, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts again. he’s already called five times.

no answer. — just the sound of your dumb voicemail message, cheerful and playful and now completely soul-crushing. “haii! Its (y/n), im sorry i missed your call! im not home right now! but i can take a message… let me grab a pencil…hm okay! what would you like me to tell me?” it used to make him smile. now it makes him sick. he hits redial.

one ring.

two.

three.

voicemail. — again. again. again.

he runs both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers hard through the strands like maybe pain will wake him up. like maybe this isn’t real. like maybe you’re still coming home, keys jingling, saying his name like you do when you’re trying not to smile. but the apartment is dead quiet. and it smells like rain and blood and something fading.

“pick up,” he mumbles to no one. “please (y/n).. please just pick up.” he calls again. and again.

his hands are shaking now, so bad he nearly drops the phone. his mind is running circles around itself—what if something happened? what if she didn’t look crossing the street? what if someone followed her? what if she’s hurt?—and he can’t shut it off. his heart is pounding too loud in his ears, drowning out reason. he stands up fast, then stumbles forward, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. everything’s spinning.

he opens your location on his phone. nothing.

either you turned it off or the battery’s dead. or worse. his brain fills in the blanks faster than he can stop it. “goddammit,” he breathes, slamming his hand down on the counter. the sound echoes in the empty room.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to yell, slam a door, crash on the couch, and by morning everything would be fine. that’s how it’s always gone. you fight, you cool off, you come back. you always come back.

but not tonight. tonight, you left like you meant it.

and jason realizes—too late—that he pushed you harder than he ever had. too far. past the point of no return. past the point where an “I’m sorry” could fix it. he scrolls to your name again.

calls. again. “haii it’s (y/n)! im sorry i mi—” he shuts his eyes and grips the phone like he could tear it in half. your voice is soft, light, untouched by the mess he made. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear.

you’re gone. and you’re ignoring him. that’s what finally breaks something inside him.

because jason todd—red hood, vigilante, killer, survivor—can handle almost anything. bullets. torture. death. — but he could not handle being ignored by the one person who made him feel human.

he sinks down against the wall again, chest heaving, lungs burning. his phone slips out of his hand, landing face-up on the floor, screen still lit up with your contact. a tiny, cruel reminder: your not picking up. you don’t want to talk to him.

his mouth is dry. he tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but every inhale feels like it’s too shallow. like he’s not getting enough air. his arms wrap around his knees. he’s shaking. his thoughts are racing.

‘she’s not coming back. you blew it. you pushed too hard. you said too much. she hates you. she should hate you. why would she come back after that?’ he doesn’t know how long he sits there like that—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is the silence. and your stupid voicemail. and the gnawing, tearing fear that he might’ve lost the only good thing left in his life.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says aloud, as if the room cares. as if his regrets can travel through walls and streetlights and find their way to wherever you are. “I didn’t mean any of it.” but the universe doesn’t answer.

he pulls himself off the ground. head still spinning, he can’t keep sitting around for you. he needs to find you. the air outside hits him sharp and cold, but it doesn’t clear his head. the city is still dark, the streets damp with leftover rain. his helmet is in his bag. he doesn’t wear it. doesn’t need it. he’s not red hood right now— he’s just jason. — and jason’s falling apart.

he makes his way through the city on his motorcycle, his mind endlessly searching for you. stopping when he even sees a glimpse of someone with your same hairstyle. everything reminding him of you. he feels hopeless knowing how huge gotham is, even more so how dangerous it is.

he ultimately decides to stop at some of your favorite places, maybe to soothe him with precious memories. he knows it’s to early in the morning for most of these places to be open, but he needs to check. needs to try anyways.

his first stop was a café. your favorite locally owned coffee shop, where you two became regulars. it was a small business, on a strip walk between a laundromat and boutique. — the coffee’s always too strong and the chairs wobble if you don’t sit just right. you loved that place.

he memorized your order. it was always the same thing everytime you came here— your order barely changed. — the smell of coffee, occasionally tea on ur breath, he was craving to kiss your lips just to taste your order again.

jason stands across the street for a second. the lights are off. homemade “closed” sign hangs crooked in the window.

he still walks up. presses his hand to the door like it might open. It doesn’t. he presses his palms to the glass, looking in

your spot is empty. the corner table by the window where you used to sit and steal sips of his coffee when you swore you didn’t want one. where your eyes would crinkle when you laughed, lips covered in foam you never noticed until he wiped it away. he stands there, remembering the time you convinced him to try that stupid seasonal drink with cinnamon and syrup and something else sweet that he pretended to hate—but secretly liked, because you liked it.

he thought if he came here, maybe you’d be sitting there again. your beautiful eyes locked in a book he’d recommend while eating a pastry. but there’s nothing. only cold glass and silence and now an emotional memory.

he sits on the bench outside and closes his eyes, trying to summon your laugh. where you are the happiest, and he remembers your smile when he took you to his favorite library.

it became a sacred place for you to. both calm and quiet while enjoying each-others company. so that was his next stop.

the library.

not a big, fancy one. no marble columns or quiet rules. this one’s cramped, unknown, smelling of dust and secondhand pages. you loved it for its charm—for the creaky floors and mismatched chairs and the old man behind the desk who always smiled when he saw you.

jason picks the lock with trembling fingers. slides through the back door like a ghost. third floor. far left corner. your nook.

he stares at the armchair you always claimed, the stack of dog-eared romance novels that you teased him with—the window seat you used when the weather was just right and the sun poured in like liquid gold. he walks through the aisle, trailing his fingers along the spines of books you once handed him. he can almost hear your voice echo in the stillness.

walking around until he was in the aisle where he first met you. making his eyes burn, to many memories flooding in his head— where he tried so desperately to be cool in front of you, and staring at you from afar admiring how divine your presence felt. — jason reading all the books he thought you’d like before even knowing you and putting his name in the checkout card. and watching your face light up from seeing his name once again. giving him the courage to go and talk to you.

a tear burning his cheek, he puts his head down feeling ashamed of pushing you away when memories like these made him feel alive again.

jason left the library, riding off having the city district him. he rides for a while thinking of any more possibilities. he was about to run out of gas and just decides he needs to take a walk anyways— and when he gets off his bike, he notices he’s at a familiar park — It’s further out, away from the main drag, quiet enough that the chaos of gotham doesn’t touch it. you both used to go there when things got loud—inside his head, inside the world.

It’s mostly empty, just a jogger in the distance and birds rustling in the trees. jason walks the winding path slowly, like a man retracing his own history — here—this is where you tripped over your own feet and he caught you, both of you laughing like kids. over there is the tree you climbed and got stuck in, yelling at him between laughs while he pretended he wouldn’t help you down. there’s a bench under the big oak tree. you kissed him there for the first time. real, honest, vulnerable. no masks, no walls. just lips and nerves and something too tender to say out loud.

he passes through more bench where you sat one night, eyes puffy, telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else. and he’d wrapped his jacket around you and promised—promised—he’d never be the one to hurt you.

he sits down there now, gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles go white. — “i lied,” he whispers to no one, his voice strained. becoming angry with himself.

but there was still no sign of you.. and so he knew despite it all he had a couple more places to check. his mind became desperate. he heads where he should’nt, hoping you’re not there. he still had to check— ‘the narrows’ — ‘ park row ‘ — ‘crime ally ‘

he checks alleyways where addicts linger and criminals circle like vultures. every step, he begs he won’t find you there. But he has to check. has to know. he’s on a rampage now, eyes wild, heart racing. he gets in a guy’s face just for looking at him too long. knocks someone out cold when they make a comment about “that girl he used to walk with.”

he checks rooftops. alleys. places you shouldn’t be, but maybe are. places where bad things happen. — places he belongs, not you. he asks around. no one’s seen you. and those who know who he is don’t dare lie. — still nothing. jason’s a mess—bloodshot eyes, raw knuckles, unshaven. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years instead of just a night.

and then — “jason?”

jason turns around. it’s dick.

“jason?” dick calls, landing on the fire escape in full nightwing gear. “what the hell are you doing back in this part of town?”

jason doesn’t answer at first.

dick jumps down in front of him, blocking his path. “jay—hey. talk to me.” — “I messed up,” jason says hoarsely.

dick blinks. “with…?”

jason swallows hard. “(y/n)... she left. and she’s not answering. It’s been hours. I’ve checked everywhere. the café, the library, that damn park. nothing. I don’t even know if she’s okay. I just—I said too much. I said shit I didn’t mean and now she’s just… gone.— dick, i can’t breathe.”

dick moves quickly, placing a hand on jason’s shoulder. “hey. breathe. look at me.” jason meets his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

dick doesn’t say anything for a moment. then: “alright. sit down.” dick says guiding him to sit on a nearby stoop.

jason does. because for once, he has nothing left to fight with.

“you love her?” dick asks, voice low. jason nods without thinking, like it’s a reflex. “then tell her. find her and tell her. but not like this. you’re spiraling.”

“I can’t stop,” jason whispers. “every second she’s not answering, I keep thinking she’s hurt. that it’s my fault. that I broke her. I can’t even hear her voice without thinking of what I did.”

dick sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “you didn’t break her. you pushed her away. that’s different. and maybe you don’t get to fix it. but you sure as hell don’t stop trying. not until she tells you to.” jason looks at him. “and if she never does?” — “then you mourn. but not until you know for sure.”

jason’s quiet for a long time. watching gotham pass by with his brother “never give up jay, i believe in you” and jason stands up, continuing his search.

but he doesn’t find you.

he checks safehouses. rooftops. he climbs halfway up wayne tower before turning around because he knows you wouldn’t go there.— by the time the sun rises, his hands are shaking.

his head is pounding. his legs feel like lead. and you’re still gone.

he stumbles home like a ghost. kicks off his boots. sinks to the floor. doesn’t even make it to the couch. just sits there.

and stares at the door. It never opens.

three days pass.

no texts. no calls. not even a read receipt.

jason doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. barely moves. the apartment is dead quiet except for the occasional replay of your voicemail, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. by the fourth morning, he can’t take it anymore.

he grabs his bag and heads to wayne manor.

bruce meets him at the batcomputer. he doesn’t ask why jason’s there. just takes one look at him—pale, tired, shaking, blood shot eyes — and knows. “use whatever you need,” bruce says softly, walking away.

jason nods, throat tight. while the system loads, alfred appears at his side with a quiet sigh and a fresh mug of coffee and a blanket. he doesn’t speak right away.

then, gently, “would you like to talk about it, master jason?”

jason’s jaw clenches. he shakes his head, but then his voice breaks. “I ruined it.” a lump in his throat, looking at alfred.

alfred sets the coffee and blanket down and pulls him into a hug without a word. just strong, steady arms and that grounding kind of warmth jason hasn’t let himself feel in years. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.

alfred holds him tighter. “you start with the truth. then you wait. and if she’s worth it—and I suspect she is—you never stop.” jason nods against his shoulder

and for the first time in days, he lets himself cry. sobbing into the older man’s shoulder releasing all the pent up sadness and anger he kept inside for days. “I’ve cleaned blood off your boots, patched holes in your uniform, and stayed up more nights than I can count wondering if you’d make it back. but what worries me most… is how quick you are to believe you don’t deserve good things.. ” he said rubbing jason’s back soothing him, letting himself cry. “i love her so much, alfred— I don’t know how to hold on to good things without breaking them.” jason hiccups “it hurts how much i love her”

and they stay like that for a while, talking about jason’s feelings and what happened causing you to walk away. alfred listening and making him eat and drink to get something in his system. jason slowly getting tired, the comfort he craved slowing his brain down. alfred replacing you for a little while.

you always comforted jason, your touch melted him into a different man. you were his safe place and made him feel completely loved. the unconditional love he never felt before, ‘she’ll come back..’ - ‘ she’s okay, she’s safe’ — he kept repeating to himself, trying any possible way to soothe himself — jason became tried once again, but this time he was willing to sleep. he slept next to the computer, with the blankets alfred placed over him. he got a couple hours in until he woke up, a reminder of what happened.

now five days have gone by—

the coordinates come in just after midnight.

a quiet ping from the batcomputer—courtesy of a city-wide search bruce helped set up. jason had loaded every street cam, signal ping, and facial recognition tool he could, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed he’d find anything.

until now. a small rental apartment in the east end. under a friend’s name. you hadn’t left the city—you’d just gone off the grid. he finally found what he was looking for.

the screen flickered, and your image appeared in the facial recognition software. jason’s heart dropped as he studied the image that was pulled from surveillance footage. your face, usually full of life and fire, looked hollow. the light in your eyes were dimmer than he remembered, like you’d been carrying an unbearable weight for far too long.

your skin was pale, darker circles under your eyes indicating sleepless nights and too many tears shed. lips, once always curled into a small, knowing smile, were now pressed into a thin line. the fight had drained you, and he could see it in every inch of your face.

the camera hadn’t caught the vulnerability posture, but jason knew. you weren’t just physically tired—you were emotionally worn out. the woman he loved wasn’t the same one who had walked out five days ago. this woman, this (y/n), looked like someone who had been pushing through the world alone, all the weight of her pain carried on her shoulders.

he gripped the edge of the desk, eyes locked on the screen, his chest tightening. guilt, sorrow, and a deep sense of regret clawed at him. he had to find her. he had to make things right before it was too late.

he reads the address three times to be sure, then grabs his helmet and jacket and is out the manor doors before bruce can say a word. he jumps on his motorcycle and starts the engine, the loud sound of his tires screeching in the cave as he raced out to find you. he was lighting on the road, dangerously weaving in and out of cars, adrenaline of seeing you alive making him rush even more.

then he makes it to your location. his feet on the pavement, one flight of stairs, then two. his heart is a riot in his chest. his hands are sweating, shaking, cold. an a rush of anxiety washes over him.

what if you slam the door in his face?

what if you don’t even open it?

what if you’re gone again?

what if you don’t want to see him?

but he still knocks. soft at first. then harder.

he hears the lock click. the door creaks open a few inches. you stand there in sweats your friend let you have, eyes puffy, hair lazily in your face like you stopped caring how you looked days ago. and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

your eyes widen when you see him. and that’s all it takes. jason breaks down.

his legs give out. he drops to his knees like something inside him finally caved in. and before he can even stop himself, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your stomach, sobbing. not the angry kind. not the kind that comes with yelling and fists through walls.

the kind that’s quiet and raw and scared. the kind that says thank god you’re alive and I’m sorry and I missed you all at once. he was relieved.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean it, I was angry, I didn’t know how to say it right, I—god, I thought I lost you—” you freeze. shock, sadness and joy all overwhelming your head. your hands hover for a second, unsure, still hurt, wondering if this is a dream or not.

but then they come down gently, slowly, fingers threading through his hair as you hold him against you. your voice is quiet. “jason…” a melody to his ears.

he can barely speak. “I looked everywhere. I thought something happened. I thought—god, I thought maybe I deserved it. maybe you were better off without me. — I’ve never been this scared in my life.” you listen to him, his words muffled into your stomach. as he plants small kisses in between each sentence— his words rambling and gasping in-between for breaths. “baby.. come here.”

you helped him stand up and stared at his face. “I was angry,” you admit. “you hurt me.” — “i know.. i never wanted to hurt you.”

he leans into you like he needs your heartbeat to breathe.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “I keep ruining everything good in my life. I say the wrong thing. I push too hard. I scare people off. and then when I finally realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.” you pull back just enough to make him look at you. — his eyes are red. wet. desperate.

“you didn’t scare me off,” you whisper. “you hurt me. but I left because I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I needed time.”

jason swallows. “you should’ve. said something worse. hit me. I deserved it.” — “you don’t get to decide what you deserve, jason. I do.”

a beat. “and I still choose you.” he exhales a breath that sounds like a sob.

his eyes are rimmed red, exhausted, glassy with the tears he’s still trying to keep at bay.

“I went everywhere. the café, the library—the park,” he continues, his arms tightening like he thinks you might slip away again. “every place we made a memory. every place that still smells like you. I kept thinking, maybe I could find one more piece of us that wasn’t broken yet.— I needed to find you. I was losing it, sweetheart. I checked alleys. dangerous places. I—fuck, I was hoping I didn’t find you there but I had to check. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit still. I just wanted to see you. to say I’m sorry. to fix it.”

you nod slowly, listening to him. watching the way he talked.

“I knew I took it too far, even when I said it,” jason continues, clutching you tighter. “I was mad at the world, not you. but I threw it all at you because I knew you’d still love me, and that makes me the worst kind of person.”

you press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “not a single word. I was angry and afraid and so fucking overwhelmed that I—” his voice cracks. “I lashed out. at the one person who loves me the most. and when you left, I knew. I knew I deserved it.”

you stare at him for a moment. because your silence isn’t punishment—it’s your own unraveling. choosing your next words — “you said I was just a distraction,” you whisper finally, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “that I make things worse for you. that I don’t understand you, and maybe never will.”

jason flinches. physically recoils at the words he remembers far too well. the words that have been haunting him for the past few days.

you swallow, continuing. “you didn’t just lash out, jason. you hit where you knew it would hurt. you said things I’ve been afraid of ever since we met.”

“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers again, desperate. “god, if I could tear the words out of the air and bury them, I would. I would’ve rather taken a bullet than see you walk out that door. I just—” he breathes in deep. “I’m not good with… emotions. with fear. and losing you? that’s the scariest thing in the world to me...”

you nod slowly. “you self-destruct.”— he presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. “yeah. and I took you down with me.”

silence stretches again, but it’s different now. heavy, but not hostile. like the fog after a storm. “I wasn’t leaving forever,” you whisper. “I just needed time. space. I needed to remember who I was outside of what you said.”

running your fingers through his hair. “I love you, jason. that didn’t change. but you hurt me. bad. I will never stop loving you. i will always come back to you— I needed to know I could still choose to come back on my terms. not because you begged. not because you were falling apart. but because I wanted to.”

his arms tighten around you again, and for the first time since last night, his tears start to fall freely. once again. no restraint. no pride. just a man drowning in his own grief, relieved to be seen, still loved despite everything.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into your shoulder, his voice small and shaky.

“no,” you say gently. “but you have me. and that means doing better.” and you both stand there for a while. two exhausted people wrapped around each other like maybe the world will stop spinning if you just stay still long enough.

after a while, you hold out your hand. “come inside.” and he does.

the apartment is small, quiet. the kind of place that smells like lavender and old books and something that’s just you. jason steps inside like he’s walking on glass—like the walls might collapse if he breathes too hard.

you close the door behind him. lock it gently. like you’re not locking him out, but keeping the world away.

neither of you says much as you move to the small couch in the living room. he follows you, slow, cautious. sits on the edge like he doesn’t deserve the whole cushion. like if he gets too comfortable, you might change your mind and tell him to leave.

you notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. the way his knee’s bouncing, nervous. his shoulders are curled in, defensive, like he’s ready to run the second you flinch.

finally, you break the quiet. “why are you sitting like you’re afraid I’m gonna hit you?” jason freezes.

you don’t say it to hurt him. you say it softly. genuinely. because you see it—the hesitation, the fear, the way he’s pulling away without moving an inch.

he exhales. “because I don’t wanna fuck this up again.”

“you think being quiet is safer?”

he shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s safe with you anymore. I keep playing every version of this in my head—if I say too much, if I touch you too soon, if I breathe the wrong way—maybe you’ll walk out again.”

you shift toward him slowly. “I didn’t leave to scare you.”

“I know.” he finally meets your gaze. “but it scared me anyway.”

you nod. “and now you’re trying not to want anything.” he doesn’t answer. “jason, you’re allowed to want me.”

his breath catches. you reach out, gently covering his hand with yours. he looks at the contact like it might vanish.

“you’re not scaring me off,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re hurting. and so am I. but I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t forget all the good just because of one night.”

jason’s voice is raw when he answers. “It was more than one night. I’ve been shutting you out for weeks. I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I turned everything into a war when you just wanted peace.”

“yeah. you did.” he flinches. “but,” you continue, tightening your grip on his hand, “you came back. you searched for me. you let yourself fall apart. that means something to me, and im sorry too. i didn’t intend on being away this long. i just felt so lost” he closes his eyes, jaw clenching.

“i’ve never felt this afraid,” he murmurs. “not even when I died.” you squeeze his hand.

“I’m not good at soft,” he admits. “I can be violent, I can be angry, I can be the guy who kicks in doors and breaks bones. but being… gentle? I don’t know how to do that without thinking I’ll screw it up.” you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“you’re being gentle right now.” he nods, barely. and for the first time since that fight, he lets his hand curl into yours. not tight. just enough.

enough to say I want this.

enough to say I still love you.

he presses his lips to your temple, hesitant at first, then lingering. not hungry. not desperate. just present.

“i love you eternally jason, im sorry too, i’m truly sorry for walking away.”

“i love you so much (y/n), so.. so much it’s a unbearable pain i never want to let go of. you are my heart.. my soul.. my person”

he pressed kisses on your hand inbetween words. whispering softly to you, sweet nothings. just wanting to cherish you. “i cried to alfred, cried like some damn kid and I was just—gone. full-on sobbing in his arms like I was ten again.”

(y/n)’s eyes softened, reaching out but letting him keep going.

“I told him everything. told him I screwed up. told him I was scared you’d leave for good. and he just… held me, made me miss your touch.— i’m still sorry,” he whispers

“I know,” you say. “i am too jay”

the two of you sit there, wrapped in the silence that used to hurt—but now, maybe, it’s just healing in disguise. you pulled jason in to cuddle him. he wraps his hands around your body. feeling fortunate to have you, to touch you, to kiss you. he hasn’t been able to breathe normally since you left, but now his chest feels lifted. he’s calmer and exhausted. he can tell you were too. he rubs your body while kissing all over you until he knows your asleep in his arms. watching you sleep so peacefully puts him at ease, helping him drift off into a wonderful slumber he’s been dreaming about for the past five days.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

ahhh :3 i couldn’t do a sad ending— i was going to!!, but he’s been out through to much already!! haha

hope u enjoyed!! im trying out different writing, angst is one im not the best ask but i like trying! it feels repetitive sometimes :p

have a good day / night!! xx

2K notes · View notes

killishin · 2 months ago

Text

— ♡ my pretty neighbour.

PART 01.

PAIRING: jason todd x witch! reader

CONTENT WARNING: afab reader, blood, violence, alcohol, mention of assaults, more to be added.

CATEGORY: shit ton of fluff and sfw, maybe angst?

SUMMARY: a witch trying her best to lay low and live her life, while being out of every gothams vigilante's radar. turns out red hood had been her neighbour all along. also they have cute little pets.

WC: 4k

A/N: another jason fic yep. i didn't really have a solid idea but i just really wanted to write something so.... enjoy!

fic masterlist. next.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

gotham is filled with all kinds of criminals, masterminds, lunatics, druglords— you name it. each has done such horrible deeds that it has scarred hearts and souls of every innocent, each has a certain level of craziness in them that requires insane amount of intellect to even catch them. and despite the vigilantes giving their utmost best, everyday having to push themselves to think better, be faster... criminals still hide in those dark alleys, unbound and free.

so you can't really blame the protectors of the city, as they like to call themselves, to be cautious of every activity that goes on in the city. they are understandably hostile to superheroes who try to help, a bit too hostile sometimes in your opinion, but maybe the massive workload makes them snippy.

being a witch and living in gotham is a bit tough therefore, you not only have to hide your powers from the normal people but also from the vigilantes. you do not want to be evicted out of the only city where you can afford the rent, that too without any dignity since witches are sort of still discriminated by the myths and fake stories. still, its understandable, mankind has always been afraid of what they can't control or understand.

you had been ridiculously meticulous in your choice of residence, not like you had much choice to begin with. but you had scouted out the area as best as you could to your needs, and upon confirming that there wasn't much vigilante sighting in the neighborhood, you had finally settled.

a barista's salary didn't really help much, but you didn't really have much needs. your only goal was to live a drama free, quiet life where you could experiment with your little spells (harmless ones.. of course) and, the most important, provide for your little gentleman, alfred, a cute little doberman (he's huge). that was your goal, the ideal life you chased— should chase. but often a heart's desire overwhelm the logic of mind.

you have a penchant for getting into trouble. having promised to never get involved in anything that might shed light upon your existence, you strayed from that promise more often than not. all for good deeds, mostly.

"this is the third time this month. i have got to practice some self control." you sigh as you nudge the body of the man on the ground, groaning and coughing up blood. your brows furrow in mild annoyance as you kick his thigh this time.

"i didn't even use a strong spell! come on you wuss!" you softly groaned to yourself before sighing as you looked away for a moment, scratching your brow with your nail. the blood wasn't a problem, to be honest you wouldn't give a crap if he died. he was assaulting a sweet old man, punching him to death— you just had to step in.

...maybe you stepped in too much. now his arm is twisting at an odd angle, you were supposed to teach him a simple lesson. just give him some scare that'll scar him for life. now he got a bonus broken arm.

you've left one too many mens like that lying and crying, and it'll only be a matter of time before they lead those pesky vigilantes to your doorstep.

you put on a spell that altered his memory of your face, in case he saw it, before turning around to be on your merry way. but cue gotham weather's shitty timing, it starts pouring hard.

"mother nature you're really teasing me today..." you murmured sarcastically to yourself, yet sauntering off unbothered, rain never bothered you much anyway. you just hate how the clothes get all damp and clingy, weighing down your body.

by the time you reach your place you're visibly drenched to the bone, humming some tune under your breath, totally not seeing the man walking ahead of you. and so consequently you bump into his back, eyes widening for a moment as you stepped back with an apology right on your tongue.

but they die on your lips when you see the most brilliant bluish green eyes glance back at you, bitter and hostile. but you've always had a weak spot for pretty things, and when the man turns fully, you note he is the most prettiest man you've ever laid your eyes on.

you're far too lost in admiring him that you fail to notice the slight shift in his demeanor. after all, jason was already in a wretched mood and the next second he turns around to see an absolutely drenched women staring back at him. he isn't that easily fazed, your skin glistens, the damp and dripping hair clinging to the side of your face, that makes you look gorgeous but he's seen gorgeous. your eyes though— they seem unreal. feel unreal. there's just something otherworldly about it— ethereal even. and he's not among those to be poetic.

you realise you've been staring for a second too long and the silence becomes awkward real quick, you blink and step back with a polite smile. "sorry. i uh— wasn't looking where i was going." his brow raised slightly at your politeness, seemingly even more sweet due to your low and honeyed voice.

"no problem." he murmured casually, his voice even more grumpy and rougher than usual, a tough night and patrol hasn't even started. he then turned around and ascended the stairs, and so did you, lagging behind by two steps. you couldn't make the pretty man uncomfortable after all.

but he noticed you following him floor after floor, stopping right when he did at his floor before your steps softly followed behind him again. when he reached his door he turned around, and found you looking back at him with the same confusion.

"...hi neighbour?" you jokingly whispered with a hesitant smile but he didn't.

"how long have you been living here?" that came out more as an interrogative question than a confused one and it made your brows raise in amusement. this one's got a feisty side.

"a few months. wasn't aware anyone lived there." you replied back coolly with a smile that bordered serene yet sultry. his eyes dropped down to it for a small second, narrowing slightly as if the smile irritated him. it indeed irritated him because of the shiver that ran down his spine at the sight of it.

"I've lived here for more than a year. never seen you before." he retorted like he's insinuating an accusation and your lips pull to a slow grin.

"you're awfully stingy for a pretty neighbour." you remark, your nose scrunching up in fake disappointment as you unlock your door.

stingy?

"pretty? " he didn't know what of those words baffled him more, yet that was the one that had to come out of his mouth.

"and interrogative. are you in the gcpd or something?" you asked as you leaned your weight against your door which was slightly ajar.

"no. you're the one interrogating now." he scoffed quietly as he turned around, fetching his key out his pocket.

"seems like you don't know the difference between making conversation and interrogation." you lightly chuckle and thats when he realised its your voice thats the root of the irritation being caused in his already irritated mind. its irritatingly sweet and honeyed— addictive may be the right word.

"that's your version of making conversation?" he scowls as he opened his door and stepped inside while your grin widened, he finds your amusement at his expense really insulting.

"only with pretty, grumpy neighbours."

"and is that your way of flirting? cus its not effective."

"slow down, pretty boy. if you think this is flirting then clearly you haven't been properly flirted with before. how sad." if he can't handle your teasing, he'd be a downright mess when you actually flirt then. and those reddened embarrassed cheeks simply intensify the want to flirt with him.

he gives you one last scathing glare before shutting the door on your face. a chuckle quietly escapes your lips as you call out a loud "goodnight!" which you're probably sure he heard and frowned even more.

you step in your apartment and close the door, flicking on the candles with a swish of your hand. you could just switch on the lights but you secretly love the theatrics. a quick spell could dry you but a warm shower would probably help you more.

and it does help you, you're more relaxed and less tense. your muscles feels like mush just like your head. and yet, as you lay on your bed, your eyes are open wide and awake. you're a bit of an insomniac. its a bother and inconvenience but just like ever other nuisance in your life, you've gotten used to it.

just like always you get up, grab a grimoire and your reading glasses, learning a spell or two. it usually takes you more than an hour to understand and practice and most nights it ends up with something getting on fire or your own self. you suppose that's the fun part.

and again, like always, you get bored and lay back on your bed. this time the pretty neighbour occupies your mind, beauty aside, it is a question that you met him just today when he claims to have been living for a year. why didn't you bump into him before?

you hoped for no trouble, yet something tells you he'll make you be neck deep in one.

"again? " jason frowned as he dropped to the ground with a muted thump of his boots, not a noise at his landing, its like second nature to him.

"third this month." oracle spoke through the comms and jason crouched infront of the little blood that was splattered across the gritty pavement, the rain had washed off most of it yet some stayed, seeped into the earth like a taint.

"some random person reported it almost an hour ago and he was taken to get treated." oracle continued and jason scoffed sarcastically, "you're telling me the cops beat me to it? that's a first."

she simply rolled her eyes at that, "i checked his background. a typical small time thief, arrested quiet a few times for mugging and burglary."

he grunted as a response and looked around but nothing else was amiss. with a sigh he got up, "someone's doing our work here. unfortunately for us they're pretty good at it."

"not for long." Jason's brows furrowed a bit on reflex as bruce's voice came in, "they're bound to slip."

"they haven't for the last two month. maybe they might never." course he agreed with bruce, but where's the fun in agreeing?

"they will. and we have to catch them. they're a threat to the city—"

"times like these, wish i was deaf."

"what was that?"

Jason's not that worried about the mysterious person on the loose beating up criminals, he's sure they were probably in the act of committing a crime to deserve this. but bruce's worry has a point, they need to know who it is. not everyone's a protector. they may be saving right now, but is that all they're doing?

jason knows first-hand how times change, how fast people change. how deceiving time could be, how deceiving humans can be.

his mind is immediately pulled to you at that thought, someone who looks pretty harmless, eyes that are both innocent yet alluring like a siren's. you looked even more helpless and naive in your drenched form. yet all it took was for you to smile and that image shattered.

that smile was a warning in itself, an omen as if. innocence might be something of a past to you, your eyes held no fear, no apprehension. your smile was steady and dangerous, he's a man who has fought back death, rendered men almost lifeless with just his fist— and still his gut told him you were not to be taken lightly. harmless you might be, for now, but not innocent.

he returned back at his place at dawn, grunting and groaning at the sore muscles that ached here and there.

"at this point im gonna age faster than alfred." he murmured to himself with an almost pout. a quick shower and some television were supposed to really tire him out, but sleep escaped him. insomnia the trouble of yet another person.

and he doesn't really leave his place much, but today he felt like it. maybe a walk might help him. its still early so he doubts the streets to be that busy.

he really should have thought this through.

"hey pretty neighbour." he gave a deadpanned stare to that same amusing smile of yours.

"ooh you don't seem like a morning person." you pretend to frown, still locking your door before turning around with a wink, "i know you for less than twelve hours and we already have something in common. is this destiny's sign for something more? " you said dramatically, taking huge delight at his annoyance.

"no, but my headache's a perfect sign for nothing ever." he quietly snapped as he slammed his door shut a little too hard tugging on his hood over a bit before walking away.

"so you do have sarcasm." came your voice not too far behind him, but he knows you're not following him. he saw your clothes when he stepped out, formal and perfectly ironed for work. maybe it really was the rain that gave him the innocent illusion last night.

he sighed as he started descending the stairs, shaking his head as he immediately regretted his decision for this walk.

"you talk a lot." he called out and heard your quiet chuckle in response, "you talk too less." his steps became hurried and your grin simply widened.

"would you tell me your name if i ask you?" you asked him, your smile barely contained and he rolled his eyes, "think you already know the answer."

soon both of you stepped out on the pavement and you turned to face him with a teasing smile, "guess I'll just call you pretty neighbour then."

you waved at him goodbye before he could turn the other way, and yelled "bye pretty neighbour!" as loud as you could, making sure it'll turn heads.

his eyes widened for a moment before he glared at you in disbelief, then swiftly turned around to walk away from imminent embarrassment. maybe it was better if he never knew he had a neighbour next door, no matter how beautiful you are. he sighed to himself as your smile flashed in his mind, unfortunately you really were beautiful. damn you.

you loved your barista job, after all it involved brewing and you were, not to brag, quite the master at it. you kept your conversations with the customers at a minimal, there's no need to involve in idle chatter with them. your coworkers though are a bunch of sweethearts, mostly, so its never a headache working there.

but sometimes some assholes walk in, harassing the workers, some be rude to you about the order even when its made just like they want— but you do what you gotta do to survive.

when you're returning on your way back home, your mood's sour than usual. you don't have it in you to even smile. all anyone would want after a shitty day at job, is the damn bed. even if you can't sleep.

but, the world always tests you on your worst days.

you stop dead in your tracks just a few steps away from your unit, whose door is wide open by the way. your senses heightened and every spell on the tip of your tongue. you didn't have to worry about all your witchy things being stolen or affected since they're all safely locked in a cupboard bound by a spell, unseen by anyone other than you. your important things are also spell bound to your home so no thief can take them out of your apartment.

no, what you're worried about is alfred.

you peaked inside in your own home, the lights were on. you slowly pushed the door without making a sound, a little proud at the creaky door to not give you away today.

suddenly your eyes caught the top of someone's head peaking from behind your dining table— alfred's there too! your eyes widened and your brows furrowed into an angry glare.

"step the fuck away from alfred!" you extended your hand, about to cripple the hell out of whoever that is— but then you see your pretty neighbour straighten up fast and alfred perk up before rushing to you, all smiles and happy.

"woah woah chill— wait who??? " his initial shock subsided to one of pure confusion as he stood there with his hands raised.

ignoring him you crouched down to alfred's height, checking him for any injury because heaven knows if there is one, then that pretty neighbour might not leave the world very pretty—

"he's fine." he said as he slowly rounded the table before stopping short at the sight of your glare. it was... a change, different. he had the impression of you being as much of a nuisance as dick is, if not more. but right now all your eyes hold is hostility and distrust.

"i'll be the judge of that." you snapped at him before plastering a helpless smile for alfred who, suddenly, very surprising of him, trotted back to your neighbour. and you just stayed rooted to your position as your mind errored because what the fuck????

alfred barely ever lets anyone touch him. he had a difficult time when he was just a puppy in an abusive household. he only trusted two people, one is you and your best friend.

you look up at the neighbour with the same dumbfounded expression and for the first time he found it in himself to smile, it was a bit cocky but a smile nonetheless.

"you... what.. what did you do to him? and why the hell did you break into my apartment?" you questioned as you rose to your full height, regarding him suspiciously.

he gave you an unimpressed look at your immediate assumptions before sighing, "i was in my apartment when i heard him growling. loudly. then he started barking. turns out someone was lurking outside of your apartment."

"what?"

"yeah. he had already picked the lock actually, acted like he was opening the door and claimed that he lived there. if i hadn't met you last night, i might have been given him the benefit of doubt. when i confronted he said he was dating you. but i knew that was bullshit." he shrugged like it was no trouble.

you were a bit stunned. yes you thought of him pretty, maybe a nice man but you never expected him to be nice, you never expect anyone to be nice. the world had taught you time and time again that humanity is scarce and kindness is a luxury.

"oh." you murmured before lightly shaking your head, "oh that's— thank you. i- where's that man now?"

his lips slightly tugged up in amusement at your stunned look, feeling maybe a teensy bit of pride to wrong whatever misconception you had of him. "he lives two floors up actually. don't worry i made sure he will be kicked out."

"....thanks." you mumbled out before rubbing the side of your face, you hated being in the wrong, and awkward and embarrassing situations like this. how the hell did you miss an asshole like that? you thought you knew everyone from the apartment as a safety measure.

"i- um sorry i assumed and accused you." you took his words as final because alfred was literally sat near his feet. alfred's a great judge of character.

but this time he didn't scoff or smirk, instead there was a soft smile on his face. he understood your anger after all. "s alright. i understand i also have—"

you froze when you felt something brush by your feet, something very soft and— "meow."

you looked down and there it is, a very adorable, very extra soft siamese cat, who is now staring down alfred like he wronged all her ancestors.

you look up at him with raised brows and with a tired sigh he points at himself, confirming your assumption.

"sorry-"

"can i pet?" you asked softly, looking up at him with such hopeful eyes that all he could do was nod. you crouched down and approached the cat carefully, extending your hand. the cat inspected a little before rubbing against your hand.

"who's this beautiful little baby?" you mused, grinning wide as you scratched the cat.

"... miss pearl." he mumbled too quietly but you have good ears, and unlike how he expected you to laugh at that, you simply smiled in great approval.

upon remembering something his brows furrowed again, "um sorry what did you say his name was?" he pointed at alfred and you looked up at him with most proud smile. "alfred."

"huh." that's a really funny coincidence and a small laugh started spilling out his lips slowly. you looked up at him with furrowed brows, "what?"

"no. nothing. great name."

"are you making fun of him?"

"you really think i would?"

"...hm."

you got up finally and smiled at him, it didn't have that sultry undertone— just a smile.

"again, thank you." you said and he nodded suddenly finding his cat more interesting to look at, his ears reddening.

"uh your place. great aesthetic huh." he said, diverting the topic and you looked around. it didn't look that much like a typical witch's home, but there were too many candles everywhere that normally, normal people don't really have.

his eyes narrowed a bit as he smiled amusingly, he did find that... eccentric.

there was a beat of silence as you looked at candles at literally every flat surfaces.

"i just really like candles. they're scented." you said with the most convincing smile you could conjure up. he didn't buy it, but didn't question it either. gotham is filled with every sort of weird after all.

slave to your habit you still ran your eyes around your apartment, while he picked up miss pearl, but everything was at its place. you really gotta put a spell on the damn door now, the lock had already been weak.

he was almost in his unit before you called out behind him, "all this help and you still won't give me a proper introduction?" that teasing tone was back in your voice.

he sighed in exasperation as he turned around, but weirdly enough, to reasons unknown to him, his ears felt warm again.

"jason."

"jason.." you grinned wide and replied back with your name before winking at him. he simply gave a deadpanned stare before shutting his door.

he let pearl go from his arms, while staring off at a distance, his eyes a little hazy as his mind repeated the way you said his name. shaking his head he scoffed, you were nothing more than just a weird little neighbour.

come next morning he's about to head to bed when he heard a knock. his brows furrowed as he wondered who the hell is bothering him this early. but there was no one when he opened the door, nothing but a small little tin box on the floor with designs engraved on it.

he picked it up suspiciously before taking off the lid, in there were some... tea bags? there was also a note, in there was a little message written in neat words.

this helps with insomnia. its my personal favorite too. hope you do know how to brew some tea.

your pretty neighbour ;)

now he realises what exactly feels weird when he sees you, its his silly little heart.

reblogs are appreciated! :))

taglist: @deadbeatphobos @lettucel0ver @fixated29

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood fluff #jason todd fluff #jason todd angst #red hood angst #red hood fanfiction #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #dc fluff #dc fanfiction #dc x reader #dc x you

1K notes · View notes

iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

Text

THE LAST LAUGH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 3.1k synopsis: Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed—until they are. a/n: I feel like I've been spoiling y'all with too much fluff and smut lately. Sooo, here's some angst. warning: Graphic depictions of death, blood and torture, character death

It had started as a routine patrol. A quiet night, for once. Jason had even allowed himself to relax. You’d been on the other end of the comm, he had been teasing you on your so-called cooking skills and threatened to order takeout behind your back while you laughed and scoffed. He was telling you he was going to be home soon and how he wanted to crawl into bed beside you and sleep for a week when everything happened.

Arkham’s roster was sealed. Every major threat was accounted for. There had been no alarms, no alerts, nothing unusual.

He should have known better.

The moment he heard it—that laugh—his heart stopped. High-pitched. Guttural. Gleeful. Echoing faintly through your comm right before it cut to static.

Jason’s blood turned to ice.

Then he was moving.

Every instinct in his body screamed as he pushed the bike harder, weaving recklessly through traffic, past red lights and blaring horns. The city became a blur. He didn’t feel the cold wind biting at his skin or the way his fingers cramped from gripping the throttle too tight. He didn’t even notice the burning in his lungs.

He barely saw the road.

He saw you.

He saw your smile. The way you rolled your eyes at him, the way your voice softened when you held him through his nightmares. He saw every moment that made him believe—for the first time in years—that he could be more than his rage.

And he saw it slipping away.

Jason stormed the building like a force of nature. He didn’t pause to plan or think. He kicked down doors, tore through hallways, left a trail of groaning bodies in his wake. He moved on instinct—pure rage and terror—climbing blood-smeared stairwells two steps at a time.

He reached the top floor and burst through the final door, gun drawn, breath ragged, pulse roaring in his ears.

The room stank of copper and smoke.

His vision tunneled. Under the harsh flicker of overhead light, a crowbar lay bent and bloodied on the cracked concrete floor, the stains of red glinting under the flickering overhead light. there was no sign of the Joker. Only an old speaker crackling from the corner, looping the same sound over and over again.

Your screams.

Your cries.

Jason barely registered it. The sound stabbed through his ears like splinters of glass, but his mind could only latch onto one thing. Because then he saw you.

You were crumpled in the corner—your limbs limp, body slumped at a sickening angle. Blood seeped from the cracks in your lips, staining your skin, your ripped uniform, the floor beneath you. Bruises bloomed across your face and neck in violent shades of purple and black. Your eyes were still open. Staring blankly at the ceiling.

Jason’s world stopped. He dropped to his knees so fast the impact rattled up through his spine, and sent a jolt through his bones.

“No, no, no—”

His voice cracked, raw and panicked. His shaky fingers brushed your jaw. Before he leaned in, listening for breath, for anything. He pressed trembling lips to yours and began CPR, counting beneath his breath through gritted teeth. One, two, three, breathe. Over and over.

He knew it was useless.

You were too still. Too broken.

But he tried anyway—desperate, mechanical, refusing to stop until his chest was heaving and his vision swam with hot, helpless tears.

As he stared down at your lifeless face, something shattered inside him.

He remembered every treasured moment.

Your smile, easy and warm. The sparkle in your eyes when you laughed. God, you always laughed so easily—so pure and genuine. But now, all he could hear were your screams echoing from the speakers.

He remembered the way your hands—soft and steady—would cup his face, kissing the scars that marred his skin. Scars left behind by the very same monster who had done this to you. You never flinched. Never looked away. You had kissed every wound like it didn’t disgust you. Like he didn’t terrify you.

Those hands now lay limp at your sides. Stiff. Cold. Gone.

Jason’s head dropped as the truth crashed down around him like a collapsing building.

And then it tore from him—a guttural scream so raw, so violent, it didn’t sound human. It echoed off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness of the room.

And then the rage came, white-hot and all-consuming.

It surged through Jason like fire in his veins, burning away everything else. The grief, the helplessness, the pain—it all gave way to something feral.

This was the final act. The moment that shattered what little remained of his restraint.

Slowly, he stood. His limbs felt detached from his body, like they were moving on their own. He crossed the room in a few soundless steps and bent down, fingers curling around the crowbar the Joker had left behind like a signature.

He stared at it for a long time.

There was blood matted into the metal, strands of your hair caught in its jagged edges. It was still sticky. Still fresh.

Jason’s grip tightened until the metal groaned in protest.

Then he vanished.

For three days, no one heard from him.

Not a ping on his comms. Not a trace in his safe houses. No movement in the surveillance grid. He refused to contact anyone.

And then the bodies started appearing.

In the Narrows, in alleyways, in burnt-out tenements. One by one, they turned up—Joker’s people. Goons. Smugglers. Middlemen. Anyone who ever associated with the clown.

Some were dead.

Some were on the brink, maimed and tortured.

This was him sending a message.

He was coming after the clown and he wanted the Joker to know.

Back in the cave, the air had turned suffocating.

Bruce stood at the Bat computer, unmoving. He hadn’t taken the cowl off in nearly twenty-four hours. His jaw was locked tight, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with something deeper than exhaustion. On the monitor in front of him, the footage played on a loop—Jason kneeling beside your body, desperately trying to bring you back. His hands stained red. His voice cracking. His scream of utter despair before everything inside of him seemed to shut down as he grabbed the crowbar.

Bruce watched it again. And again. And again.

He blamed himself.

Tim didn’t stop moving. He threw himself into work, hunched over keyboards and monitors, fingers flying as he sifted through surveillance feeds, phone pings, facial recognition scans—anything to find his missing brother. Anything to stop what they all knew was coming.

“Jason’s going to kill him,” Tim said hoarsely, not looking up from the screen. It was the first thing he’d said in hours since he saw the video of your death.

No one disagreed.

Dick took it the hardest—at least the most visibly. He let out a yell as he punched one of the cave’s reinforced walls so hard his knuckles split open, blood dripping down his wrist. Alfred rushed toward him, reaching for his arm, but Dick jerked away, breath ragged and eyes blazing with fury.

“This didn’t have to happen,” he snarled, voice shaking with rage and guilt. “She should’ve never been alone. Where the hell was everyone?”

He turned away, bracing both hands against the wall now, shoulders hunched. The muscles in his back twitched beneath his suit. He couldn’t look at the others. Couldn’t stand to see his own grief reflected back.

You’d been like a sister to him. Not just because of Jason, but in bonds you took the time to form with everyone in the family. In all the ways you’d softened the edges of their lives. You’d been the reason Jason came back to them. You’d bridged the gaps they hadn’t known how to cross and fill.

You were the light in the darkness. And now that light had been snuffed out.

Damian hadn’t said a word since the news.

He’d watched the footage once, standing stiffly as your final moments played out on screen. As Jason collapsed beside your body. As he reached for the crowbar and stalked out.

When the video ended, Damian turned and walked away without a word.

The next morning, Alfred found him in the training room. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t eaten. The punching bag had long since burst, its innards scattered across the floor. Wooden practice weapons lay broken in jagged halves. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the same clothes he’d worn the day before. Bruises covered his arms, angry and dark, and his knuckles were scraped raw.

His bo staff—his favourite—had snapped down the centre.

Damian among the debris, breathing heavily, muscles tight with exhaustion and something far worse—grief.

“I should have gone with her,” he said hoarsely, not looking up. The words were quiet, almost choked. “I could have stopped it.”

“There was no stopping it,” Alfred replied softly, stepping into the room. His voice was heavy with his own sorrow and regret. “Not with that man. You would’ve been another victim.”

At that, Damian turned his head, just enough to meet Alfred’s gaze.

His eyes were colder than they should’ve been. Too old for his young face.

“He should already be dead,” he said icily.

His voice didn’t tremble. But his hands did.

They found Jason three nights later.

The building was a condemned warehouse in the Narrows—one of the Joker’s old haunts. The air inside was stale with rot and copper, a sickening echo of the place you had died.

The Joker was tied to a chair in the centre of the room, barely clinging to life. His face was a ruin—swollen, bloodied, almost unrecognizable beneath the purple bruises and caked blood. One eye was swollen shut. Teeth were missing. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps.

Jason stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, blood spattered across his chest and arms. The crowbar—the same crowbar the Joker had used on you—hung loosely in his grip, stained dark.

“Get the fuck out,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous, without turning to face them.

“Jason,” Bruce said carefully, stepping forward. “Put it down.”

“She begged,” Jason murmured, hollow and distant, as though he hadn’t heard Bruce at all. “You know that? I got here too late… but not late enough to miss the audio loop. He recorded it. Her screams. The way he laughed while he broke her apart.”

Tim looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight.

Dick flinched as though struck, his hands curling into fists.

Damian didn’t speak. He only stood stiffly, his posture rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white.

“This won’t bring her back,” Bruce tried to reason, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Jason snarled whirling around, “How many more of us does this psycho need to kill before you do something?”

His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His helmet masked his face, but they could all imagine what lay beneath—wild bloodshot eyes, tear-tracked cheeks, fury and grief twisting his features.

“He beat her to death with this,” Jason spat, lifting the crowbar, hands trembling. “Same way he did to me. Don’t you remember? because I do. Every. Fucking. Second. She shouldn’t have died like that.” At all.

His voice cracked, just once—but it was enough.

“He laughed while she screamed,” Jason whispered, like he couldn’t stop himself from reliving it. “I heard it. Over and over again, until it was all I could hear. I—”

He faltered, swallowing hard. His grip tightened around the crowbar.

“And now you want me to just… let him live?” Jason’s voice rose, not loud, but sharp—accusing. “After everything he’s done?”

“No,” Bruce said finally. His voice was firm, but the weariness beneath it betrayed him. “I don’t want that. But we don’t cross this line.”

Jason let out a short, bitter laugh—humourless and sharp.

“Ironic,” Jason spat, the word laced with venom. “When killing this scumbag from the very beginning could’ve saved thousands of lives. But you—” he turned his head just slightly, the crowbar still hanging at his side like an extension of his arm, “you let it go on. Again and again. Don’t talk to me about lines, Bruce. You’re no better than him for letting this go on for as long as it has.”

Bruce flinched.

Dick stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Jay—listen, man—just look at yourself,” he said, his voice tight with grief. “You think this is what she would’ve wanted? For you to throw away what’s left of yourself? To lose you after we already lost her?”

Jason’s eyes flicked to him. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and cold, shaking with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare bring her into this to make me spare his life.”

Dick’s breath caught, but he stood his ground. “She loved you, Jason. You think she’d want you to throw everything away like this? You think she’d want her death to break you?”

“She was my everything, Dick.” Jason’s voice cracked again, and this time, he didn’t try to hide it. The grief bled through every word, every breath. “There’s nothing left to break.”

His hand clenched tighter around the crowbar. His shoulders shook—not from rage, not anymore—but from the sheer devastation he couldn’t contain.

No one dared speak.

Tim stood frozen, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t force the words past the lump in his throat. He just stared at Jason, helpless and sickened. There was nothing he could say or do to make this better.

Then—Damian stepped forward.

His boots echoed quietly in the bloodstained room. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as steel.

“He deserves to die.”

All eyes turned to him.

“I would kill him myself,” Damian continued, his tone brutally calm. “For her. For Todd. For all of us.”

He looked at Jason then, gaze unwavering.

“But not like this.”

The room went still.

“Justice,” Damian said. “Not vengeance. Y/N lived by that as strongly as any of us. She believed in it. She wouldn’t want this.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Jason looked away, jaw tightening until the muscle ticked.

“She deserved better,” he muttered. “Better than me. Better than this.”

“No,” Damian said, stepping closer, his voice softer now—earnest, for once, without a trace of sarcasm or pride. “She chose you. Don’t make her death a reason to become the monster she always believed you weren’t.”

For the first time, Jason’s stance faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his own grief had finally settled fully on his back. He swayed—not physically, but emotionally, like a dam cracking under pressure.

“She believed in you, Todd,” Damian added, quieter now. “Even when you didn’t.”

Bruce said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t argue, didn’t try to justify the code he’d sworn to uphold. Because deep down, Jason was right. This was his fault. He’d let the Joker live—again and again—and this was the cost. You and every life Joker had taken was the cost.

Dick’s throat worked around words that refused to come. He looked like he wanted to speak, to reach out, to do something, but the grief caught in his chest wouldn’t let him.

Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. He focused on breathing, slow and steady, like that could somehow keep the guilt from swallowing him whole.

You had been too good for this world.

Too good for them.

They should’ve protected you.

But all they had left was the last moment they saw you—that bright grin you tossed over your shoulder as you hopped on your bike, your voice teasing in their comms, alive and warm

Jason slowly lowered his head. The crowbar slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull metallic clang that echoed off the walls like a gavel striking down a verdict. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he had carried—grief, guilt, rage. His knuckles were bone-white, his hands trembling violently.

But then—

A wet, gurgling noise broke through the silence.

Behind them, the Joker let out a faint, wheezing giggle. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, teeth cracked and smeared red. His face so battered it barely held shape, but somehow—somehow—he managed to laugh. Mocking and triumphant.

Jason’s eyes snapped toward him.

And in that moment, he saw red.

All he heard was your screams. The way you cried his name. The echo of the Joker’s laughter overlaying it all.

Jason spiralled back into that sound. That laugh.

The sound that had haunted him since he was brought back by the Lazarus pit.

The sound he now heard in place of your voice.

He moved without thought.

In one swift, fluid motion, Jason turned, unholstered his gun, and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the hideout like thunder.

The Joker’s head snapped back with a jolt, the grotesque grin still carved into his face—only now, frozen in death. He slumped forward in the chair, limp as a marionette with cut strings, blood blooming in a single, perfect hole between his eyes.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed as they registered what had been done.

Bruce closed his eyes. Not in agreement—never that—but in resignation. Because deep down, he had known. The moment he saw the crowbar in Jason’s hands, he had known how this would end. There had never really been a chance to stop it, not with the Joker breathing, not with your death on that clown’s hands. And though the code he lived by screamed in protest, Bruce said nothing.

Because in the end, justice had failed you.

Dick’s expression twisted with shock, grief, and something dangerously close to understanding. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, as if he’d meant to reach out, to say something—to stop Jason before the line was crossed. But the words never made it past his throat.

What could he even say that hadn’t already come too late?

Tim flinched, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His breath caught like a punch to the ribs, and he instinctively turned his face away from the body. He didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Damian didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His green eyes burned with emotions but he said nothing more.

Jason stood frozen. The smoking barrel of his pistol hung at his side, his arm limp now that the rage had left him. His entire body was rigid, locked in place, his face carved from stone—hard and cold and unmoving.

“She’s dead,” he said, the words brittle and jagged, like ice cracking under pressure. “And now so is he.”

He stared down at the Joker’s body, not with triumph. Not even with satisfaction.

Just emptiness.

“This bastard will never hurt another one of us again.”

#jason todd fic #jason todd one shot #jason todd angst #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood #red hood x y/n #redhood x reader #redhood x you #red hood angst

715 notes · View notes

deansbeer · 4 months ago

Text

ִ ⋆ ⸜ 🏍️ 𓂃 𓈒ㅤ՞ 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 .. !!

eighteen plus …♥︎ minors do not interact.

[ jason todd && fem!reader ]

synopsis! a heated argument quickly ends up in a fight for dominance in bed.

caution! smut + angst, arguing, toxicity, rough sex, make-up sex, dom!jason, light choking, spanking, oral sex [f!receiving], cowgirl position, dirty talk, possessiveness, praising, degradation, jealousy.

notes! i know i said i was taking a break from writing but then jason happened LMAO go and thank bree for putting the idea in my head <3

it starts with something small. it always does. a passing comment. a bitter tone. one look too long at someone else. and then it’s wildfire.

you’re yelling, he’s yelling louder. the walls of the apartment echo with the sharp slap of words neither of you really mean but throw anyway, like knives meant to miss but still cut too deep.

“you think i don’t notice?” jason’s voice is hoarse from the way it’s been rising for the past fifteen minutes. “the way you play it off like i don’t matter the second someone else gives you attention?”

you scoff, arms crossed, standing your ground in the kitchen, your chest heaving with frustration. “oh, fuck you, jason. you’re the one who disappears for days without a text and then gets mad when i talk to someone else.”

“i’m out risking my ass to make this city better—”

“and i’m supposed to just sit here and wait? maybe light a candle and pray you’ll actually come home in one piece?”

his jaw tightens, blue eyes blazing, chest rising and falling with quick, angry breaths. “don’t twist this. you know i care. you know i fuckin’ love you.”

“then stop acting like i’m the enemy,” you snap, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

there’s a beat of silence. a long one. your eyes lock with his, and the air between you could spark if it tried. you’re both breathing hard, adrenaline still pulsing, and then—

he moves. and he’s quick.

his hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, lips crashing into yours with a fury that steals the breath from your lungs. it’s not gentle — it’s claiming. demanding. your fingers fist in his shirt before you even realize what’s happening, your anger bleeding into desire so fast it makes your head spin.

“you drive me fuckin’ nuts,” he growls against your mouth, backing you into the wall. “always got a smart ass mouth. always testing me.”

“maybe you like the idea of being tested,” you breathe, tugging his shirt up, fingers dragging across his pudgy stomach. “you keep showing up for it.”

he growls, low and rough, grabbing your thighs and lifting you with ease. your legs wrap around his waist, caged between his body and the wall, and you gasp as he grinds against you, already hard through the fabric of his jeans.

“you gonna continue being so mouthy?” he hisses against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. “or you want me to shut you up?”

“try me,” you taunt, breathless, already soaked for him.

he carries you to the bedroom like he’s got something to prove. maybe he does. throws you down onto the bed, pulls your shirt over your head, strips you down in seconds. his hands are rough, greedy, claiming every inch of your skin like it belongs to him.

joke’s on him. it does.

he drops to his knees between your thighs, spreading them wide with a look that could bring you to your knees if you weren’t already trembling. jason doesn’t waste time, just dives in like he’s a man starving, tongue licking a stripe up your slit before his lips wrap around your clit.

you cry out, hips bucking, and he grips your thighs tighter, holding you down.

“that’s it,” he mutters against your pussy, voice dark and wrecked. “take it. fuckin’ take it, baby girl.”

your fingers tangle in his dark hair, tugging, and he groans like he likes it — like the pain only spurs him on. he eats you until your hips are trembling, until you’re gasping his name like a prayer and pushing at his shoulders, too sensitive to take more.

“jason—please—need you inside me.”

he pulls back, lips shiny, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s just finished a meal. “yeah, you do. pussy’s soakin’ the damn sheets. so fuckin’ desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

you glare at him, flushed and breathless. “you’re one to talk.”

he climbs over you, dragging his cock against your inner thigh, hot and heavy. “you want control so bad, huh, baby?” he murmurs, hand wrapping around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw. “you’ll get it. but not yet.”

then he’s inside you. one deep, punishing thrust, and your whole body arches, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he stretches you full. his hand tightens at your throat just enough to make your pulse race harder.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, hips slamming into you. “always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

you moan, nails dragging down his back, and he hisses, grinding deeper, chasing the spot that makes your toes curl.

he fucks you like he’s trying to erase the fight, like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to. every thrust is rough, precise, his mouth dragging along your throat, your shoulder, biting and kissing the skin like he needs to mark you.

“fuckin’ mine,” he growls into your ear. “say it.”

“yours,” you gasp, legs wrapped tight around his waist. “all yours, jay. always.”

he groans, the sound deep and raw, and kisses you like he means to ruin you. and you want him to.

you flip him before you even realize what you’re doing — legs slipping around him, pushing him back, riding the wave of heat and fury and need. his eyes darken as you slide down onto him, slow and deliberate.

“oh, fuck,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips. “you think you’re in control now, huh?”

“i don’t think,” you whisper, rolling your hips so slow he trembles. “i know.”

you ride him hard, fast, chasing your own high with reckless abandon. his hands grip you tight, dragging you down harder, matching your rhythm until the room’s filled with the sound of skin on skin, your moans tangled with his gasps.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. “bouncin’ on my cock like you need it to breathe.”

you lean in, kiss him messy, filthy, all teeth and tongue.

“maybe i do.”

his cock twitches inside you and you feel him getting close, but you don’t stop. you fuck him through it, chasing your own orgasm, using his body like it was made for you. only you.

“gonna cum,” he growls, thrusting up to meet you. “you better cum with me, baby girl.”

you nod, breath hitching as your body tightens, pleasure coiling until it snaps, and you cry out his name as you fall apart, clenching around him like a vice.

he follows with a broken groan, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you as he holds you down, buried to the hilt.

you collapse against him, both of you shaking, panting, sweat-slicked and utterly wrecked.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close even as he’s still inside you. his lips press against your temple, his voice rough but soft now.

“still mad at me?” he murmurs.

you laugh, breathless, nuzzling into his neck. “yeah.”

he huffs, fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine. “next time we fight, can we skip to the part where you ride me like that?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “not a fucking chance.”

he chuckles, kisses your hair, and pulls you closer.

“figured.”

and even though the fight still lingers in the air, tangled in the sheets and the bruises you both left behind, so does something else, something steady and real.

him.

you.

and the fire that always brings you back together.

#ೇ ⊹⟆ ♡ ︎⸝⸝.ᐟ ink dreams.#jason todd #jason todd blurb #dc jason todd #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd drabble #jason todd angst #jason todd dc #jason todd smut #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x fem!reader #jason x female reader #red hood #red hood dc #red hood smut #red hood angst

909 notes · View notes

zhkrvyr · 3 months ago

Text

Jason todd fanart with the all blades (σ*´∀｀)

787 notes · View notes

messenger-of-babel · 10 months ago

Text

Just Like Him

Summary: When you argue with Jason, you slowly start seeing less of Jason Todd and more of Bruce Wayne. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: I legit came back home from a night out and sat here editing this till 3am cause I refused to miss a post haha. A little bit shorter due to that and I'll do a second look over it later. Only warning for this is mentions of violence as usual for most of these, and that it hasn't been as edited cleanly as usual. Tomorrow's post might be really delayed too since I've got events tomorrow too. Anyways, enjoy my Lovelies~! xx

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You had loved Jason. You did love Jason.

You loved the boy who was too awkward to hold your hand when you went out in public, who left you notes at your door when he was too frustrated and too pent up to explain himself properly. You loved his habits, his quirks, the way that he cooked you food if he knew he was going to be out for a few days, silently leaving it in the fridge in the hopes you’d keep yourself healthy.

You also loved the dark sides of him, the nightmares he woke up to, skin sticky with sweat. You loved him even when his eyes were lost in the darkness, unable to tell who you were exactly but still seeking the comfort of your arms to shield him. You loved him even when he tensed outside in public, a sound, a smell, setting him off and making him clench onto your hand. His eyes were scared, but you didn’t mind bringing him back into reality, letting him know that you were here for him.

Yet on nights like these, you love for him faltered slightly. These were the nights that you couldn’t temper, the ones here he burned angrily and bit hard. He was currently pacing the kitchen, hands in his hair after a rough patrol.

“You just don’t understand.” He murmured over and over. “Maybe you just don’t get it. Maybe you just never will. How could you even try to?”

That hurt you, the way he talked like you weren’t even there. Like you weren’t in tears on the other side of the kitchen island. Like you hadn’t been having this argument for an hour how, sunset drinking its way into the dusk.

This was the part of Jason that hurt you, the coarse side that snarled and growled at you like he was an injured dog. The side that looked at you with those striking green eyes narrowed into slits, who spat words like he’d never seen you before.

“I do understand Jason.” I you sigh. “You want to protect this city, you want to change Gotham, but don’t you dare tell me what I know or don’t, when I’m asking you to just be home more. Is it really that hard to protect the city and go out for a date?” You sigh, heart beginning to falter under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I know you can’t always be there. Neither can I, but please,” you say, folding your arms across your chest. “Please be there for me.”

“I am.” He groans back out, making a flicker of irritation spark in you.

“Not you’re not.” You counter. “You leave dates, you leave dinners, you don’t come home some nights. No warning, no text, no notice.” You snap back. “Being there for me is being at those dinners, going on those dates, coming home, spending time in bed with me.” You snap. "it's not cold sheets, cold food, cold feet on date nights. Step up."

He throws his hands up in the air, teeth clenched. "Can't you see I'm trying to save the city? trying to stop it from eating itself from the inside? You know its corrupted, you know about the violence. Hell, you got shot." he snaps back. His fists are tightly clenched by his side, eyes burning into yours. You stare back at him defiantly, and it makes the frustration in him rise.

He knows he's not good at words, knows that he's rough around the edges. The voice in his head tells him that when he sits up at night, when he finally comes home. His head leans back against the headboard whole you sleep peacefully beside him, rolled completely onto your side. His fingers twist in the sheets, as it speaks at him, tells him that he's not good enough to be with you. That the city isn't safe enough, that he needs to make it safer. He wasn’t the safest out of Batman's gang of protegees. He had a hit list that had started while he was just a young teenager and continued to have names added every other week. He'd been shot at, stabbed, thrown into and off of buildings, and that was something he was fine with. that was his job, his burden.

But when you got shot, that's when life really had caught up with him. It was like he had been living his life in slow motion up until that point, until it all rushed forward like a wave on double speed. He hadn't erven been there, halfway across town with Nightwing on some stakeout when he got the call. Dick had let him go without a word, merely watching him speed away on his bike before calling in backup from the cave to replace him. He didn't care that Bruce would get mad at him for abandoning his post, he could go to hell. What he cared about was you, and the fact that he hadn't been able to protect you, been able to stop it from happening. He heard about it only when the hospital called him, informing him that you were being prepped for surgery immediately.

How bad was it? Was it just one shot? Did it go cleanly through? Where were you hit? What calibre? What make? What model? Where did it take place?

Those were all questions that Red Hood might have been allowed to ask if he had worn the mask and marched through the emergency department, but he couldn’t do that. If he did it would be a giant target on your back, associating you with his vigilante life in the most obvious way possible. Instead, he had to race through the doors breathless as Jason Todd, the worried boyfriend who had to be held back by security trying to get to your ward.

You had of course recovered, learnt to walk again on the leg that caught a stray bullet from a gang shoot out in Lower Gotham. It had been worryingly close to your artery, but you had pulled through. Jason couldn’t deny the fact that his status as a Wayne kid helped your care and the way the hospital aided your recovery. With a harsh word, Jason could have any of their licenses revoked.

That's why Jason did it. To make sure that the fear that gripped his heart that night never had the chance to wrangle him like that again. He'd fight night after night and come home with a string of broken and bloodied knuckles if it meant that you would be okay. It's all he can think about as he stares you down in the kitchen, watching your jaw twitch.

"Don't you dare use the fact that I got shot, against me." you seethe, hand coming up to point at him. "That wasn’t my fault, and it could have happened to anyone in the town, it's Gotham, Jason." you bite back, and he throws his hands up.

"That's exactly the problem! It's Gotham." he shouts. "You can get shot, or stabbed, or killed. Anyone can. one day you're here, the next you ain't. You really want to go out there, sweetheart? You got shot and you want to tell me not to clean the streets up? The sheets are cold? Well, they'd be a lot colder if you were dead." he spits back, and you are too stunned to say anything. You shake your head, a look of realisation coming over you.

"Oh my god," you breathe out. "you're just like Bruce. You’re no better."

That makes something in his freeze, halting all of his movements and shutting down his train of thought. You see it, see the way his bright green eyes widen and his head tilts slightly, making the white tuft in his hair flop over his eyes as you continue. "You're so obsessed with cleaning up the city. So obsessed with fighting out there that you can't give it up even for a second. You both can't. You criticize the man, tore him apart for his neglect just to do the exact same god damn thing.” Tears begin to prick your eyes in helplessness, lump building in your throat.

"You can’t see yourself out of that stupid helmet." you say, choking up as the tears clog your vision. "When was the last time that you read?" you ask, sniffling. "When was the last time you did a hobby, or rode your bike as a civilian? When's the last time we went on a date or held hands, or went to the park, or the library or anywhere?" you yell at him, hand coming to claw at your heart.

"When was the last time you were Jason?" you whisper softly. "Because right now, I feel like Jason Todd has died for a second time." you choke out. "Except this time, it wasn’t Joker who killed him."

You wipe your eyes with your sleeve while you leave him stunned, pushing past him to go into your bedroom. When the door slams harshly it snaps him out of the stupor he had found himself in, body swivelling on his heel immediately to follow you.

You didn't respond to his soft knocking at the door, or his calls. You didn’t accept the apologies he murmured into the wood, didn't bother to listen to his promises or ways that he swore he could make it better. It was only when he began knocking desperately, worrying building, that you swung it open violently.

Your face is a mess, sticky with tears and chin wet. Your breath comes out in small hiccups as you try to collect yourself, still mid sob as you shout at him. "Couch." you seethe, your puffy eyes glaring at him with a hurt filled dagger before the door slammed in his face. He sighed, forehead against the wood before pushing off the door frame with a click of his tongue. He plops down onto the living room couch with a groan, legs thrown over the side to try and accommodate for his size. He raises an arm to cover his eyes, other arm grabbing a couch cushion and bringing it to his chest.

"You're just like Bruce, no better." rattled around in his skull, making him chew at his lip. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being compared to Bruce, even if he respected the man at times. He had come back, intending to be everything for others that Bruce had failed to be for him. Yet according to you, he was walking the same steps the man before him had traced.

Was he really no better than Bruce?

He groans and removes his arm from his eyes. He casts them over to the turned off TV, catching the sight of a much younger Robin peering back at him. With a smile the boy took off the domino mask and revealed the childish figure that was young Jason Todd. He raises a hand to his face as well, mirroring what he had just seen the reflection do. Except when he pulled his hand away, studying the digits instead of the TV screen, he could still see the remnants of the Hood he failed to leave at the door.

2K notes · View notes

miwsolovely · 2 months ago

Text

—HOLLOWED PLACES

𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason almost loses you. you who built his world, you who is his world.

JASON TODD x READER mimi spitting out fics like crazy era , hint at reader being a vigilante but you’d have to squint, can also imagine reader as like a reporter / someone who searches + reports crime , . requested <3

The air reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and rotting metal. Rust dripped like blood from the beams overhead, and the shattered windows of the abandoned warehouse let in only slivered moonlight—pale and watchful. You ducked behind a rusted-out crate, heartbeat rattling like loose screws in your chest, breath caught somewhere between panic and instinct.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel-strewn floor. Not yours.

You’d come here on a hunch—stupid, reckless intuition. A whisper about a drop spot. A stolen phone pinging in this dead zone on the edge of Crime Alley. You hadn’t waited for backup. Hadn’t told Jason.

Because some part of you still believed you could handle it alone.

A flashbang cracked in the distance—followed by a scream, then silence.

You pressed a hand against your stomach, where the edge of a steel crate had kissed too hard. Bruised, but not broken. Not yet.

With a loud crash that reverberated in your bones, the back doors blew open like a bomb had gone off. Smoke spilled into the room in a crawling, living cloud, and through it walked a figure dressed in blood-red and black—shoulders squared, helmet glinting in the firelight like a demon had risen from the ashes.

Red Hood.

You didn’t even have time to say his name before he opened fire—precision sharp, brutal grace in motion. Two thugs dropped before they could turn their weapons. A third tried to run, and Jason threw a knife with an effortless flick of his wrist, pinning the guy by his jacket to the wall.

He didn’t speak as he approached.

Didn’t say a damn word as he took down the last straggler with a fist to the throat and a low, seething growl. Didn’t even flinch as a glint of a knife in his hand caught skin and pulled.

Only when the silence fell—thick, ringing, and absolute—did he finally turn to you.

His helmet came off with a jerk.

And Jason’s eyes burned like open flame.

“The hell are you doing here?” His voice was a snarl, barely leashed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer right away. The adrenaline was still draining from your limbs like water through a cracked dam.

“I was following a lead,” You said, quieter than you meant to. “I thought—”

“You thought?” He cut in, voice slicing sharp and clean. “You thought this was a good idea? You didn’t even call me. You just waltzed into a goddamn death trap like it’s some kind of—what? Solo mission? Do you think you’re bulletproof?”

The hurt behind his fury made your chest tighten.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it if it turned out to be nothing,” You muttered. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Jason’s expression twisted—shock, heartbreak, and fury mingling in a storm behind his eyes.

“A burden?” He repeated, voice hoarse. “You think I care about being dragged into danger? That’s my job. My whole life is built around pulling people out of burning wrecks—especially you.”

The words punched the breath out of you.

“I thought I lost you,” He added, quieter now. It was raw and it scared you. “You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the ping on that burner you took and by the time I got here. . .” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna find your body.”

Your heart cracked at the edges.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint tremble in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek, but there was fear underneath all that anger—a bone-deep terror carved into every word.

You reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

Jason exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding it in for hours.

He didn’t raise his voice again. He just wrapped an arm around you, sudden and fierce, pulling you against his chest like he needed to feel you breathing just to believe it.

“Next time,” He said, voice low and ragged into your hair, “we go together. Or not at all. Got it?”

You nodded, face buried in his armor. His scent was smoke, leather, and something painfully familiar—home, even when everything around you burned.

“Got it,” You whispered.

He kissed your temple, lingering there like he could imprint safety into your skin.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself feel safe—tethered to the one person who would always come for you, even if it meant tearing down the city to do it.

Jason didn’t let go of you for a long moment. His arms were wrapped around you like he was anchoring you to the present, as though if he let go, you’d disappear into the rubble and smoke like a dream he’d wake from too late.

Then, finally, without a word, he slid his helmet on your head and gently guided you toward his bike.

The ride home was silent—save for the roar of the engine and the occasional sharp gust of wind that tugged at your clothes. Your arms were tight around his middle, face pressed to the worn leather of his jacket, and though the ache in your body hadn’t subsided, something inside you settled with every mile that carried you away from that godforsaken warehouse.

When you finally reached the apartment, Jason parked the bike with precision, killed the engine, and peeled his helmet off your head, smoothing down your hair with a worried look, the lines of tension still hardened on his face.

The lock clicked under his fingers. He ushered you inside with a hand on your back—gentle, but firm, like you were glass and he still hadn’t forgiven himself for watching you crack.

Inside, the low lights flickered on, casting everything in a gold-dusted hush. The apartment smelled like cedarwood and lingering gun oil, the kind of scent you’d once found intimidating and now found oddly comforting.

Jason crossed the room ahead of you, tossed his helmet onto the couch already shedding off his body armor, then turned back with eyes that scanned you top to bottom. “Sit,” He said. “Living room. Let me see.”

You didn’t argue.

The moment you sat, he was already kneeling between your legs, hands surprisingly gentle as they swept over your arms, your ribs, your thighs—checking for bruises, breaks, blood. His brows were furrowed, a storm still quietly raging behind his eyes, but his touch was reverent. Almost apologetic.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, but your voice came out thin. Unconvincing.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and solemn. “Let me take care of you.”

There was no room for pride in that request. No sharp edges, no armor. Just the quiet plea of someone who needed to make sure you were still here, still whole.

You nodded.

He moved like a ghost then, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom with all the familiarity of ritual. When he returned, he cleaned the gash near your hip—nothing deep, but raw and angry-looking. The alcohol stung, but he didn’t flinch when you hissed. He murmured something low—an apology, or maybe a reassurance—as he worked.

His fingers were stained with your blood, but his hands were steady.

When he was done with you, you gestured for him to sit. “Your turn.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

A breath escaped him—half a sigh, half surrender. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the mosaic of fresh bruises blooming along his ribs like stormclouds. A long scrape ran across his side, angry and red.

You worked in silence, the antiseptic sharp between you, the quiet hum of the city outside the only sound. As you pressed gauze to his wound, your hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the sudden, sobering awareness of how close this had been.

“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” You whispered.

Jason looked at you then—really looked—and something in his gaze softened. “So could you.”

You pressed the bandage into place, helped him put his shirt back on, then rested your palm over his chest, just above his heart. It beat strong beneath your fingers, steady and alive. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” You said. Gentle.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly like your hand was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. “You didn’t just scare me,” He said, voice low. “You wrecked me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so instead, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The space between you buzzed with things left unsaid—fear, anger, relief, love—all wrapped in the same silence that hung heavy in the apartment like smoke that never cleared.

His hands found your waist, careful and grounding. Yours rested on his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage you’d just placed.

And together, under dim lights and aching hearts, you held each other—not because either of you were broken, but because in the wreckage of that night, this was what survival looked like.

Quiet. Steady. Earned.

You stayed like that a while—knees brushing, foreheads touching, hearts slowly finding the same rhythm again. The world outside could fall apart, and maybe it had tonight, just a little. But here, in this pocket of warmth and gauze and unspoken promises, you both breathed a little easier.

Eventually, Jason eased back and stood, offering you a hand. His palm was calloused and nicked from years of holding guns and gripping rooftops, but when he held yours, it was soft—like even with all the danger in his bones, he remembered how to cradle something delicate.

“Come on,” He said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Let’s get some rest.”

You followed him into the bedroom, the floor creaking underfoot like it, too, exhaled after the night’s tension. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, but still warm. Jason tugged his shirt over his head again, a wince catching at his side, and you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

“Don’t push it,” You said.

“’m fine.”

“You’re not made of titanium, Jay.”

He snorted faintly, then let you guide him to the bed. The two of you slipped beneath the covers without ceremony, just quiet, exhausted gravity. You settled into him like muscle memory, head tucked under his chin, his arm looping around your waist.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city bleeding in through the windows and the soft cadence of his breathing.

Then, quieter than before, Jason spoke.

“When I found you in that warehouse. . .” His voice cracked a little, like something raw split open beneath the words. “I saw you—on the ground, blood on your shirt, that look on your face. I—” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

Your chest ached.

You looked up, and even in the dark, you could see the guilt etched across his brow, in the way his jaw clenched like he was still trying to keep something buried.

“I’m here,” You whispered. “I made it. Because of you.”

Jason’s arm tightened around you. “You don’t get it,” He said hoarsely. “You’re the one thing I can’t lose. Not after everything. Not you.”

And just like that, the last of the night’s defenses cracked.

You leaned up and kissed his temple, slow and lingering, like a benediction. “You won’t,” You murmured into his hair. “You won’t lose me.”

Silence stretched again—but this time, it was full. Of trust. Of breath. Of healing.

Jason’s breathing slowed, and you felt the tension bleed out of his body bit by bit, until he finally melted into the bed, into you. And you followed soon after, both of you bruised but whole, fragile but stitched back together in the places that mattered.

Outside, the city kept its noise, its violence, its ghosts.

But with him, under the soft hush of shared blankets and battered hearts, there was peace.

It wasn’t perfect or clean; but it was real. And that was enough.

It was the kind of peace that didn’t sing or shine, but rather breathed—low and slow, like the final exhale after a storm’s last crash. It settled in the hollow places: in the cracks beneath your ribs, in the ache of bruised skin, in the place between Jason’s shoulder and your cheek where your breath fogged against his bare collarbone.

The room was dark, but not empty. The quiet wasn’t silence—it was safety. The distant drone of traffic and the occasional siren became nothing more than white noise, swallowed by the warmth radiating from Jason’s body and the slow, syncopated beat of his heart under your hand. You could feel it, solid and relentless beneath your palm, a pulse like a war drum that had finally quieted to a lullaby.

He had one hand curled at your waist, fingers twitching in his sleep like his body didn’t quite trust that you were still there, even now. His other arm was tucked beneath the pillow you shared, cradling your head. Every inch of him—this man built of muscle and scars and rage—was wrapped around you like he was made for it.

And maybe he was.

Jason Todd was not a soft man. He was fire and steel, vengeance with a loaded gun and a restless soul. But in this hour, in this bed, he’d folded down all his edges just to make room for you. Every breath he took was a vow spoken in silence: I’ve got you. I won’t let go.

The ceiling above you was cracked and dim, a canvas smeared by passing headlights, and the shadows that moved across it were slow and reverent—like even the night didn’t dare disturb the stillness that had grown between you.

You didn’t sleep right away. Your body ached too much, and your thoughts—though gentler now—still flickered like old film reels. But you stayed close. You listened. To him. To yourself. To the miracle of being here, alive, and held.

And when your eyes did finally close, it was not from exhaustion, but from surrender.

Not to weakness—but to rest. To the quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. The kind that waited through the worst of you and met you in the wreckage, hands steady, heart bruised but unwavering.

You drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his shirt and his breath warm against your forehead, knowing—deep in the marrow of you—that tomorrow would come, full of city noise and unspoken danger and all the chaos that living beside him brought.

But tonight? Tonight, you had this: blood and balm, thunder and tenderness, wrapped up in the arms of a man who would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.

And that, you thought as sleep finally claimed you, was more than enough.

And as sleep finally threaded its fingers through your hair and pulled you under, you didn’t think of the warehouse, or the bruises, or the mistakes that had almost cost you everything.

You only thought of him—the quiet strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you home—and how, in this fragile sliver of night, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos and care, you were no longer afraid.

Not of tomorrow. Not of falling. Not with him beside you.

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

621 notes · View notes

apple---cider---vinegar · 10 months ago

Text

Jason grunts.

"Sorry, sorry.." you mumble. You're on your knees, unstrapping Jason off his leather and armor as you try to get at the wound on his thigh.

He sits with his legs spread open and his head thrown back, waiting for another slice of pain as you work. His palms are sweaty and he knows he's going to get shivers soon.

For now, he only flinches as you work; trying to hold back more sounds to keep you from panicking.

You carefully pull out whatever shrapnel he'd got stuck in there and though you can't see his face, you know he's in terrible pain. Thighs were such a delicate body part and thinking of him limping his way through work fills you with dread.

"I'm done. You need bandages" you say as you walk away from him. Your words are clean of any sadness, trembling, shivers, tears but he can hear the underlying panic in your calm.

He wants to cradle you in his arms and soothe your worries but he can't get up, nor can he pull you onto his lap. He settles for taking off the rest of his clothes and finds himself shivering at a completely new kind of vulnerability.

Had he bared his body to anyone before this? And in such a vulnerable state?

You come back with the bandages and are quickly on your knees again.

Jason wonders at why he's so weirded out as you work on him.

The realisation is a slap across his face.

You were on your knees.

Tending to him.

The situation looked an awful lot like a devotee with an object they admired!

You looked like you were devoted to him!

Guilt suffuses him as he takes in this new milestone in your relationship. He never did think twice before showing up to you...

You finish your work and lay your head against his knee.

"Jason"

He runs his hands through your hair.

"Yes?"

"Nothing"

"Okay"

#jason todd x reader #jason todd imagines #jason todd scenario #jason todd x y/n #jason todd #jason todd angst #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagines #red hood angst #red hood x you

2K notes · View notes

caution-im-fragile-be-gentle · 5 months ago

Text

Okay y'all HEAR ME OUT

Jason Todd x male reader WITH the dynamic from The Boy and The Wolf in mind.

LIKE IMAGINE IT... The size difference.

I just need y'all to understand 😩

Not only that The Wolf has a MOTORCYCLE and is a vigilante literally perfect

886 notes · View notes

soulsforsales · 6 days ago

Text

Jason Todd and his curse of being left behind

Jason Todd is used to being left behind. That’s all he has ever truly known. Good things never stay, good things never even happen to someone like him. There is no existence of something warm and nice and humane in his life. But bad things—the pain, the rage, the fear—it‘s permanent. It’s familiar. It’s all Jason Todd has ever known.

Until, you—sweet, kind, patient, and so goddamn beautiful it physically ached—came into his life like a storm and a salvation in one. Jason met you at some shitty library placed in the crook of the city where few others frequented. He’s sure he fell in love the second you smiled at him and his book choices, or when you threw your head back and laughed when he called Romeo “an emo kid with no impulse control”. He fell in love the moment you looked at him like he was soft, like the world hadn’t plucked out its thorns and pushed them through his skin. Like his soul wasn’t marred. Like he was worth something more than the monster he made of himself.

Sure, Jason had never meant to make good on his feelings. He never meant to befriend you by visiting the library every day in hopes of running into you—those were mere coincidences. And he sure as hell didn’t mean to stumble in through your window one night after patrol—bruised and bleeding and stupid. He didn’t mean for you to find out who he truly is. He didn’t mean to fall in love with you all over again when you said you didn’t care. like you weren’t bandaging his broken ribs and wiping the blood from his hands.

You loved him like it was the easiest thing in the world and Jason couldn’t believe it for a single damn minute. He was always terrified. Always defensive. Always taking three steps back before he took one forward. He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And eventually, it did.

It started small, it always does. But Jason noticed. He noticed it in the way you begin retreating from his touch—nothing huge—but in the little ways that mattered. He noticed it in the way you still smiled at his terrible jokes but it never reached your eyes. He noticed how you were pulling away slowly, like unstitching a wound. like it was hurting you as much as it was hurting him.

You still let him kiss you, but you didn’t smile against his lips anymore. You let him cradle your face, but you refused to meet his eyes. You curled up against him half asleep, but you stopped reaching for him when you were awake. You held him through his nightmares, his bad days, his silences, but to Jason it started feeling like duty instead of want.

He wondered if you’d started to see it—see him as a chore instead of the man you loved love. He felt like you were getting tired of him. And that scared Jason more than bullets and knives ever could.

It must’ve been his fault. Too many walls, too many armours, too much trauma—too much—all of him. Maybe he hadn’t been open enough. Maybe he pushed you away in some way. Maybe you finally realised that you can do so much better than someone as fucked up as him. He has never been the best boyfriend—far from it. He lashed out, he snapped at you for things that weren’t even remotely your fault, he missed dates, he forgot anniversaries. But he was trying, god, he’s been trying. And he wasn’t going to stop.

Because you’re the one constant Jason needs in his life, and he wasn’t about to go and lose it.

He started with amending his faults. He arranged dates, reserved fancy restaurants, bought your expensive dresses and that pair of earrings you fell in love with. Jason wasn’t good at it. He called Dick for suggestions, asked Bruce to put in a word for him. Hoped that you would see he’s trying. That he hasn’t been the best person but he would change himself for you. He would do anything for you.

But you cancelled dates. You changed plans, you didn’t have time. You were knee deep in work, the only distraction you’d had in your life lately. Jason didn’t even know until you spelled it out for him. You had fully thrown yourself in work. How had he not noticed? Was he so in his head to not even see how much you’ve been carrying?

Jason’s first plan had failed—and rightfully so. He was never the expensive dates and luxury restaurants kind of guy. So he tried the next best thing that made sense to him. He talked to you about it. But, god, has Jason Todd ever been good at putting his feelings into words? He always twists his words, turns them into poison and fuels them with rage. He doesn’t talk, he uses words like weapons. Every talk he had with you ended in an argument. Every defensive, “Just tell me what’s going on because something clearly is” and “im trying to fix things too!” and “why can’t you spell it out like a grown ass adult?!” was only making things worse.

And once again, Jason was really fucking scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of giving you every reason to leave. Scared of being left behind.

So he tried once again. In the realest, sincerest way possible. This time, Jason fixed the small things. He started spending time with you, started staying back home instead of patrolling every single night. He accompanied you to grocery stores and held the cart while you scanned aisles. He took you to watch your favourite movie in an old theatre which smelled like leather and served popcorn with too much butter. He took you to the bookstore where you first met. He made you laugh again over some shitty joke about overpriced coffee. He watched your eyes crinkle into crescent moons as you tried to hide your face behind an open book. And he thought maybe—just maybe you weren’t going to slip through his fingers too.

But then, it happened. The last straw. The final act.

You got a job offer. In Metropolis. You were positively beaming at it. You’d worked so damn hard for the position, it could mean wonders for your career. You were happy. Proud, even. But when Jason found out, he froze. His heartbeat slowed down like the world zeroed in on that moment.

“You’re going to say yes?” He had asked incredulously, stealing the glow from your face.

Your happiness faded in the blink of an eye. “What? Yes, Jason. Of course, im gonna say yes. This is good, you know? I worked my ass down for this job.”

Jason shook his head, expression hardening and breaking at once. “It’s a different city, babe.”

You stared, knowing where this is going. “I know that, Jay, but it’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”

That’s what started it all. “What more is there to change?” He gritted out, snapped, poured all his frustration, confusion, pain, fear into an argument which ended in quiet tears and loud screams.

Jason slammed the door shut when he left. You didn’t stop him. He didn’t come home that night.

The next morning, though, Jason did come back. His eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. He was tired, wrecked, even. But mostly, terrified. Because what if this was it? He had been so stupid. He practically pushed you to the edge. like he was testing your patience, like he was testing just how awful he can be before you finally leave.

And he was right.

That morning, you left.

You left the apartment. You left the city. You left him.

You left everything behind.

You left him behind.

Jason’s knees buckled, the weight of reality crashing down on him like a punch to his stomach, except this time he couldn’t lessen the blow. Couldn’t run away. Couldn’t hide.

He sat down on the living room floor and cried. He cried like a child, like he was sixteen and begging to be saved again. He spluttered broken apologies to the walls and empty rooms. He cursed the universe.

But it cursed him first. Cursed him with a restless death, a miserable life, and a broken soul.

Cursed him with rough edges and bloodied hands. Cursed him with a cavernous need for love and the never ending dread of losing it.

The universe cursed Jason Todd to be a man built out of pain and loss. It cursed him to be left behind.

And who were you to change that?

246 notes · View notes

starl1ght444 · 3 months ago

Text

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

504 notes · View notes

killishin · 3 months ago

Text

— ♡ right person at the right time.

PART 04.

pairing: jason todd x reader

category: lots of fluff, angst, he fell first she fell harder kinda trope, sfw, thinking of making this a slow burn but we'll see.

content warning: afab, mention of death (reader's mother), violence here and there, mention of blood, inaccurate medical talk, not proofread

summary: reader's just a normal citizen of Gotham, scrambling to making ends meet. after a fateful encounter, when he saw the reader kick ass and save a life- he can't get them off his mind. and fate just keeps pulling them together forcing him to do something about it.

a/n: im having a shit week but at least i have time to write. enjoy :)

wc: 3.8k

fic masterlist. previous. next

dividers by @cafekitsune

easing back into normalcy wasn't easy, not after that very weird, very out of the blue— very pretty— gift. you had wrapt it back in its box and kept it safely on your vanity as if your clumsy hands would somehow shatter the rubies. you had decided to give it back to red. you knew well in first glance that it would have hurt his pockets hard enough— and you just can't accept something that expensive as just an apology.

but he didn't turn up. that sly idiot did not come, it has been a whole week now. and you tried to rationalise that he has far more responsibilities on his shoulders than to play buddy buddy with you but you just wanted to return something that you possibly don't deserve.

you kept your grubby hands off of it without any problem initially, then your heart began tugging you along, wanting you to just wear it. its pretty, you love pretty things who doesn't?

your eyes stared at it, lips puckered in a deep frown, struggling with the polite part of you. the rubies stared back, like sirens calling.

that's when there was a knock, no not on the balcony but from the main entrance. you almost released a disappointed sigh as your heart had momentarily awakened in anticipation of that vigilante.

you opened the door and Kira barged in with bags— shopping bags held on both her forearms. you closed the door with an amused smile and folded your arms, "looks like you finally emptied your bank account huh?"

she rolled her eyes but her giddy smile stayed etched, "of course not! i didn't pay for it. at least not mine." your brows furrowed and she continued, "we're going to the gala!"

in contrast to her excited yelling, your brows just further furrowed, lips scrunching up as you walked towards her, poking at the bags in confusion and suspicion. dresses, two in total. "who's we, kira?" you questioned before giving her a pointed look, "tell me you don't mean me."

kira is a reporter, a good one at that, just reaching her prime and she has been to a good number of galas.

her lips turned downturned, brows furrowing and you immediately scoffed, "i can't believe you—"

"but its a gala."

"filled with those snobby, rich, insensitive—"

"it has great wine. and food."

"i can get great food at the diner down the road. and its made by a sweet old lady-"

"its a Wayne gala."

your lips seized for a moment, stopping as you registered the words. in your eyes all those charity galas are nothing but places for the rich to practice their laughs and stew in gossip. but you've heard of the most talked gala, the ones the Wayne's throw. and while you still have your reservations about it, you know its one of the genuinly best parties. it has the best cuisine selected, the wines are somehow always something new and better than last, the arrangement actually shows refined taste.

maybe for a day you can set aside your differences, at least you can have an experience of a gala, the best one at that. even if it'll suck at least you'll have a story to tell.

so you consider, much to your chagrin, you do.

"its still gonna be filled with those pricks." you grumbled, though it sounded more petulant than firm and she bit back a smile, "yeah but who says you gotta talk with anyone of them? I'll quickly scope any scoop i can get then we can dance, and drink and eat- all while looking the most gorgeous in the room."

and she's got you.

"alright when?"

"dress up, pretty. we're leaving in an hour." she winked before happily taking the bags to your room and you followed behind with a sigh.

"its been soo long since we went out together-"

"didn't we just eat dinner together yesterday?"

"that wasn't going out, that was just stewing in each other's depression." she scowled before stopping dead on her tracks, her eyes trained right on the earrings.

"oh. my. god."

"oh shit—" you cursed under your breath before rushing to hastily close the box. she clicked her tongue in annoyance before swatting you away, opening it back up and gasping yet again.

"who gave you these?!"

you reeled back a bit with an offended frown, "why did you assume someone gave it to me? i could have bought it too."

"with that salary? yeah right." she scoffed before back to cooing at the earrings as if its literally her baby.

"out with it. who gifted you these hm??" she teasingly asked and your groaned, pulling the box gently out of her grasp and putting it back down.

"no one. i mean— a friend."

"right a friend." she scoffed, "at least he's a loaded one for sure."

"its nothing kira. im gonna return it."

"why?!" she stares at you like you just committed a heinous crime, making you scoff. "because its too expensive?"

"so??" she scoffed back as she rested a hand on her hips, "come on if this didn't hurt the pockets of the one who gifted you, you should just thank the daylights outta them and wear it."

"but—"

"not wearing it will be a disrespect to the gift. to the person."

"....you know this is called manipulation?"

"not if its for your best interests." she shrugged as a cheshire smile adorned her lips, "also they're just too pretty to return because you're an emotional idiot."

and so she finally convinced you to go, wearing those rubies. you felt a bit bad for wearing them without even thanking him prior to it. the guilt was there, like a persistent ache, but it lightened at the sight of them on you. they really were beautiful, you didn't linger on why he specifically bought rubies, chalking it up to him just really being obsessed with red.

and as you left, lost in the shine of the red on you, you failed to notice the red reflecting off the glass of your balcony.

"kira what the fuck?"

"i know."

it was beautiful, down from the drapes to the architecture, the carefully selected wine that tasted just the right amount of sweet and fizzy, the chandelier— the chandelier. it was straight out of some fantasy, some fairytale and all its missing is the fluffy gowns. of course its ethereal, it would be since its held in the Wayne manor itself— something kira failed to mention.

"you didn't tell me it was hosted right in the manor!" you whispered to her, nervously yet awkwardly looking around. it wasn't that you were a mess at interactions, its just you don't want to be caught fawning over the art and architecture all for a rich snob to sneer at you. you really do not want to out yourself in a sea of sharks.

"it was supposed to be a surprise!" she grinned, this time it really was innocent and you sighed, shaking you head as you smoothened your dress for the umpteenth time.

"you gotta relax, pretty." she reassured, gently steering your shoulders towards herself, "do what you like. flirt with whoever you want or simply geek out about the art. the people here are way too self absorbed to notice us, trust me." times like this you really do feel grateful for a friend like hers.

"and if someone bothers you, i'll take care of them. just holler." she grinned wickedly, winking at you as she pulled back.

"holler? in the middle of the gala?"

"yep." she chuckled as she started walking away, "they won't remember us anyway."

you shook your head as you stifled a laugh, something told you she has brought the wild side of her to a lot of galas.

but then you realise you're alone. while she makes her round for any potential scoops, you need to keep yourself company. so you snatch a wine before looking around, actively avoiding everyone's eye. you pick a relatively empty corner by the huge window stool, leaning against the wall as your eyes admire the particular painting up on the wall.

"not fond of socialising i presume?"

your skin jumped a bit, the wine sloshing around in the glass a bit as you looked beside you. you really didn't hear him— him, oh he's a gorgeous him alright.

"didn't mean to startle. dick grayson." he smiled, a certain playfullness to it before he extended his hand towards you.

your eyes flickered to his hand and then his eyes, skeptical but also a bit confused. not only have you seen him somewhere that name sounds awfully familiar—

"oh!" your brows jumped up as you shook his hand, quite a reflex action since you realised this damn manor was technically his home. "hello— hi. sorry i didn't recognize-"

"its no problem." he chuckled, amusement rolling off of him and you're already starting to see the proof of his charm that the gotham talks about, "i tend to gravitate towards the more interesting people in these boring galas, so i should be the one apologising if i... intruded."

he did not sound apologetic at all, instead his eyes simply flared with delight as he looked down at you. it unsettled you, not exactly in a creepy way, but you do want to be a part of whatever he is concocting in that pretty head of his.

"interesting? how is me standing in a corner interesting?" you mused as your raised a brow at him, willing your nerves down. he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets before looking around, his brows furrowing in fake annoyance.

"you're not among them, gossping and bragging. or feeling me up." he makes an exaggerated shudder of his body before sighing and you stifle a laugh, "the gotham elite has some drama every other tuesday, so i get them needing to gossip." you shrugged and he caught the way you subtly grouped him with them.

"also i thought you liked the attention. i don't mean to assume, but it certainly looked that way in the tabloids." you said and he immediately grinned teasingly , "really didn't take you to be interested in tabloids."

"im not." you come to your defense, quite quickly so, "but i see them here and there. in passing." you're definitely not going to accept that in front of anyone, much less the source.

out of the corner of your eye you noticed the center being cleared, lights dimming down. as if that was exactly what he was waiting for he extended a hand and did a little bow, and you wondered just how many people has he charmed to be this confident.

"great to know you're interested." he said and before you could deny that he tilted his head towards the center, where few had gathered. "a dance? something to break your assumptions." his smile wasn't inviting, it was challenging. everything about him seemed mischievous, as if he was upto no good.

still you accepted, and he was a good dancer. he swayed you right, the dip was perfect— though his hold did get tight suddenly.

dick on the other hand, he wasn't looking at the pretty lady in his arms, no, he was looking at his brother right across the room shooting daggers at him. he smiled back, wide and smug, before mouthing, "she's really gorgeous."

Jason's fist tightened as his jaw clenched in unmasked ire at his brother's antics. he would have regretted coming here, as he always does, but he really can't stand you in his arms.

so what happened was he had... eavesdropped on your conversation with your friend. he only wanted to check up on you but the mention of gala really caught his attention. more when the name Wayne reached his ears, he should have left at that. he never attends Bruce's galas, hates them with a passion— not to mention any interaction with bruce that puts him in the spotlight really throws him off. but then you wore the earrings— his earrings. and just like that his heart swayed.

it swayed so hard to the point he doned on the suit, full black and formal. and while the stares and whispers made his eyes twitch, he was far too enamored by the sight of you, beautiful and stunning. he can't help the pride that swells in his chest as the earrings glint in the warm light, he does have impeccable taste.

he would have approached first, he really wanted to but he wasn't red hood right now, he wasn't the red you knew, he was just.. jason. the man who promised to text back for the settlement of the coffee but left you on unread. yeah he really forgot about that.

and he was content with simply watching, but apparently his brother wasn't. dick was already flabbergasted when jason called him to let him know he's coming, reluctantly requesting him to handle bruce in case he swarms jason. and ever the curious cat that dick is, he needed to know why the sudden change of heart.

and his eyes followed Jason's line of direction and settled on you, immediately remembering you from the cafe.

now being the good brother he is, it is his... duty, you can say, to push his brother on the right path. and so that is why he is swaying with you, your innocent yet awkward smile in sharp contrast to Jason's glare at a distance.

his dimples simply deepened as he watched jason literally march to where you are, so confidently and smoothly evening out his frown before plastering the same charming smile dick has.

"really sorry to cut in." he wasn't. before you even knew what was happening, who it was and why the hell did dick wink at him—

oh.

Jason's hand engulfed yours, intertwining, while his hand slipped around your waist yet it felt as if it was hovering. he didn't even pull you close, the gap almost felt awkward yet his eyes didn't show that discomfort. he was giving you a choice, asking while respecting your space.

"you." you whispered out, and your brows raised slowly, "the guy who helped. jason was it?" you remembered his name, you weren't one to forget so easily. but it did hurt your ego a tad bit to not get a text back, its not like you were hitting on him, you simply wanted to return back the money.

his lips pulled into a sheepish smile as he looked away for a moment, cursing his past self for his stupid decisions. it made sense at that moment, to keep you at an arms length. "one and only."

you stepped closer to him, letting your hand rest on his chest, a silent permission and in an instant his hovering hand rested on your waist. it was just a simple touch, you shouldn't make a big deal out of it yet his touch burnt you— it seared through the very fabrics and found its way to your heart. neck warmed, heart thudded— your breath stuttered for a good second, but it wasn't noticeable enough, you hope.

it was to him.

he looked different, maybe its the lights or the suit, but he looked different, dashing. beautifully so. you couldn't help the subtle way your eyes lingered on him, not stagnant on a particular point but all of him. eyes, cheeks, scars, neck, lips—

"i really want to apologise. for not texting." he said, making your eyes snap up and you hoped he didn't notice how sweaty your hands got, or felt the heat searing your body.

he did.

of course he noticed, he noticed everything— he sees everything. but you don't, and for that he's thankful. he's entirely thankful that you didn't feel the twitch of his hand on your waist, simply to bury the need to pull you closer. you didn't notice the way his eyes softened when you let him be close, the way his lips parted. he could finally let his eyes be, admire you in your beauty while being jason and not red.

"can i know why?" he twirled you and gently tugged you back in his arms, they didn't feel cagey. for some odd reason something about him felt... familiar. the proximity was less than it was with dick, yet it didn't raise any flags in your head.

"i mean i wasn't hitting on you. just wanted to return your money." you shrugged and that tone was enough to drag him out of his happy reverie, plunge him in ice cold water because you do not sound very pleased right now.

"i forgot about it— im so sorry." he winced out a smile as he swayed you a bit more, more snug and your eyes narrowed amusingly, " i forgot about it and since i don't bother with unknown numbers—"

"i mentioned my name. and i think i even added that im the person from the cafe." you cut through, faking an innocent tone but your eyes conveyed all the skepticism you felt , "the very same day too. so unless you've got amnesia— which you clearly don't— i don't see how you forgot about it." your smirk was challenging, taunting and his heart roared. it fucking roared in his chest. he should feel even a tiniest bit guilty but he doesn't. his mistake did lead to seeing you being mean and scathing— he loved that.

and as if some higher power (dick) was helping him, the tempo changed. it was faster than before, it had more tension.

it got his blood rushing, putting his rational side on the bench and letting his heart dictate every move. it was dangerous, it was stupid.

but did it matter?

one look at you, the slight pull of a smile on your lips and he doesn't even have to answer.

nope.

legs worked faster, his hands gripped yours harder, twirled you faster— till your back collided with his chest. you felt the slight brush of his jaw on your cheek, the smell of aftershave. the man you met in the cafe was gentle, reserved but nice. the man you're in the arms of is far more than that.

"anyway i can make it up to you?" he twirled you back around and pulled you close, his hand flat on your back. he tilted his head, and suddenly the gap lessened even more. you could see his eyes— the deep blue, the green. his pupils were dilated, depths that seemed to snatch you in them.

"by taking back the money i guess— you're good at this." you huffed out in slight surprise, your brows furrowing and he chuckled, deep and low enough to reverberate through you. "glad i could impress you."

"you were impressing me?"

"thought that was obvious?"

"no i thought you wanted to forget about me—"

you let out an inaudible gasp as he dipped you suddenly. you didn't know whether to be shocked or mad at him. but your heart didn't care for either, thudding so hard you wouldn't be surprised if the whole fucking room heard it.

"let me take buy you a coffee as an apology?" he whispered, smiling so smugly you scoffed at his audacity as he pulled you up.

"are you asking me out after ignoring me for weeks— no, months?" you questioned cheekily and he laughed, "im never gonna hear the end of it won't i?"

"you sound like you're already sure i agreed. i didn't yet."

"you didn't say no either."

"but i can."

"you won't though."

you glared at him but the smile on your lips gave away your amusement. your eyes caught kira in a distance, wiggling her brows at you.

you stopped before taking a step back, your body didn't appreciate being robbed of his warmth though. "it was nice meeting you again, jason."

suddenly grabbed your hand as you were about to walk past him, "the earrings look beautiful on you by the way." he smiled before walking away, the tip of his ears suddenly red despite the confidence he presented. your hand instinctively touched your earring and you smiled, yeah they are.

Jason's world was crashing down, hands twitching, curling and uncurling as it lamented the loss of you. he got a taste, and now he wants more. he already thought he had enough as red, meeting you in those little stolen moments were enough. but now he saw how you'd look in his arms.

his heart craves that.

its a storm in him, he should keep his distance. sever all ties all together, both as red hood and as jason. that would be the smart thing to do, the right thing. he shouldn't entangle his personal and vigilante life together, not that they weren't already. but at least to you, red and jason were different. and he thought both were undeserving of the warmth of life, all until you.

so why won't his heart want you? selfish, greedy— whatever his heart was it didn't matter, he didn't care. there was more than just a pull towards you, you had already made a snug little home in his heart and he couldn't find it in himself to evict you out. his mind and heart were yet again in a clash.

his phone vibrated. his brows furrowed as he looked down at it. immediately he scoffed out a laugh, you wired back the money. and texted him a lil something.

i don't like owing people. also i'm only free on weekends.

he shook his head. what storm, what clash? it didn't matter. it never did. you were already carving a you shaped hole through the walls around his heart.

"why the hell you didn't tell me you danced like that?!"

jason rolled his eyes at dick. he forgot how both him and bruce must have seen it all.

"i didn't know i could either." he muttered under his breath but dick didn't care, he wiggled his brows again.

"you guys looked snug and cosy."

"that you did." where the hell did Alfred come from?

"we were just dancing!"

"why didn't you tell me you were coming jason? and who was that lady?" great now bruce spawned out of nowhere.

"is this an interrogation?" he grumbled under his breath but dick only grinned.

"did she say yes?"

"to what?" jason frowned in frustration.

"you asked her out. did she say yes?" now he frowned for a whole different reason.

"i didn't—"

"you're dating?"

"excellent choice, master jason."

"im not—"

"oh he is. oh i wish everyone could see it." dick sighed exaggeratedly.

"you will tell no one—"

"already did."

jason rubbed his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"i will shove your face in that horrible cake."

"....it wasn't horrible :("

taglist: @itzmeme @bmyva1entine @sept3mberchild @lightthatgoout @satan-s-ass @deadbeatphobos @starshinegrl @ttdamian

reblogs are appreciated :D

497 notes · View notes

neontiger · 5 months ago

Text

shelter

♡ jason todd x reader

♡ fluffy angst. Jason Todd questions his ability to love and be loved.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

There was a time when you could sleep through the night sounds without stirring - every siren, every shout from the sidewalk, every blaring alarm rolled off your body without so much as a toe twitch.

Nothing was the same anymore. Not since Jason had entered, since you discovered what he did at night, who he was. Now you heard the mice in the walls and the wind on the glass. Always hanging off some precipice, always wondering, asking. Tonight?

Was it worth it? Mostly.

So it's a restless sleep you're pulled from when your phone rings. It jerks you into a sitting position and has your heart punching bruises against your rib cage, your hand reaching to the nightstand to answer before it stops.

One deep breath, to calm your heart, though it doesn't have the desired effect. Your voice still trembles. "Hello?"

"Hey. Did I wake you up?"

Jason sounds the same. His voice is always rougher behind the mask, but the image of him in your head has him without it. Somewhere alone in the darkness of Gotham. You imagine an alley; you don't really know where he goes on these nighttime patrols.

"No," you lie. Your eyes dart to the television, asking if you're still watching? "I was a watching a movie. Where are you?"

He grunts, a noncommittal noise meant to be the answer you're looking for. "I didn't mean to. Sorry."

"It's fine anyway, Jay. I don't mind you waking me." You settle back against the pillows. Habit keeps the spot on the side of the window open for him. "Are you coming over tonight?"

"I don't know."

His words, their tone, wash over you like ice water. Fixing the blanket over your shoulders does nothing. But you don't ask, don't overstep the boundaries he keeps around himself. Don't know how yet.

You're not imagining him right.

Not an alley. He's in an apartment. It's trashed, holes in the fabric of the couch, mold on the walls, trash scattered across the floor. Aside from him, there are two others, a woman and a child. He doesn't know them, but he hurts for them: she's blissed out on some new drug, and the kid's asleep without a care or the knowledge of where the night had taken Jason, or why that even matters to a kid like him. He doesn't know the mistakes that have been made. Not until the sun rises.

He wants to believe it's everything that's happened to him, that's why he's so angry, why he sometimes feels like a million pieces of broken glass trying to fit together again. Why control feels like such a far-off thing, always out of reach. His hands react before the rest of him catch up, and he wants to act like it's everything else - his mother, his father, dying and coming back, Bruce - to blame.

Because if it's on him, then that means he has to be the one to admit it. He has to be the one to fix it.

"Jason." Your voice is soft, like a pillow against his ear. He's woken you up, he knows, and he hates himself for that. He shouldn't have called. Didn't want to talk anyway, but hearing you is fixing something inside him.

"Go back to bed," he says. "I have to take care of some things. You have work tomorrow?"

A little noise, hmm, from your pursed lips. He knows it, makes him smile. The woman nearby moans softly. "Maybe," you say. "Feeling like I might be getting sick, though. Maybe I should skip, just in case."

He's ruining you. Upending your life and throwing it off course, and how undeserving he was of that privilege. This needed an end. It would only get worse from here, and you would end up hating him, or dead.

That thought cuts like a light through the fog. Blinding. Consumes him, swirls in his skull. He looks up at the woman again, and how deserving he is of this scene - of this particular mess he's made, not even considering the kid in the other room who no longer has a father, soon won't have a family at all. Another life destroyed.

Can't destroy yours. This has to end and it has to be now. Better to be hated than speaking at your funeral.

Jason swallows. "I...we need to talk."

"Then come over," you say. "I miss you. I'm worried. You don't sound good."

The words don't come. He's not sure what to say.

"If something happened, you can tell me. Or not, if you're not feeling up to it. I'm not going to act like I understand or I know, like, the shit you do, but you need a space to talk, I'd like to be that space."

Again, he can't answer. He listens not just to your voice but to the sounds you make on the line: the bed complaining as you shift, the rustle of the blanket. And he decides, maybe not yet. Maybe a little longer.

Cruel, that. You deserve more. He can't give it.

"How much longer will you be?" You ask, as if this is the most normal thing.

"Might be morning before I get to you," Jason says. "Don't wait up."

You laugh, and he can't help but smile. "You're not the boss of me. Besides, I don't think I can fall back to sleep. Your fault. I'm not complaining though."

Just a little longer, then he'd figure out a clean break. "Alright. I'll try to be quick."

"Careful over quick, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." His fingers tighten on his phone. There's words he wants to say but he knows he shouldn't, if only because it will make things worse in the end. "I'll see you soon."

"I'll be waiting. Be careful, Jay. I want you home."

Home. Was that you?

"I will. Go back to sleep," he says, again, for no reason. Bids you goodbye and hangs up finally to deal with the situation in front of him. More lives he's about to ruin.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The sun is shaking sleep from her eyes by the time Jason makes it to you, appearing on your fire escape with a soft thud. The sound pulls you from your show, and you watch his grand entrance: prying open your window and slipping inside, still in uniform, mask and hood concealing his face. You leave the warmth of the bed to help him undress wordlessly, and retrieve from your closet clothes he's left here.

"Sorry I'm late." He tugs on a pair of sweatpants while you catefully arrange his uniform on the armchair by the window.

"Better late than never." You close the distance between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his waist before standing on tiptoes to kiss him. "Tired?"

He nods. "Long night."

That's all he'll tell you, and for now you have no option but to accept it. It's fine.

You wonder what he thinks, as he slips into bed with your, pulls the covers up and you into his arms. What goes through his head. Tonight, he smells like iron and gunpowder, like he does so many nights. Maybe that's part of it; there's things he's done he doesn't want forgiveness for. How do you deal with a man like that? One who sees himself in the most undeserving light?

It's confusing, and there were times to give it up, but those have long passed. Now his future is mapped on yours.

You brush your fingers lightly over the scar that cuts down the center of his abdomen. "I love you, Jason," you whisper, words light kisses to his neck.

He hugs you tighter. He won't say it, and that, too, is fine for now. There is always tomorrow, and there always will be.

In time, sleep will come for you both: you first, then Jason. But for now he lays awake, holding you as your lips part and eyes close, your body relaxing into exhaustion again. He thinks about too many things. Can't calm his thoughts.

But maybe there is tomorrow. Maybe for now, you can be his home.

#jason todd #red hood #dc comics #dc #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x fem!reader #batfam #jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd angst #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood x reader #red hood x fem!reader #red hood fluff #red hood angst

415 notes · View notes

sunsburns · 10 months ago

Text

not you too

pairing: jason todd x ex vigilante!reader

summary: for the first time in a long time, you're hurting, deeply. an old wound that's reopened, the knife that was once there finding its place back between your ribs. jason todd comes to you in the middle of the night, bleeding all over your floor, rubbing salt to an old wound.

word count: 3.5k+

warnings: mentions of violence, blood, angst, the good old cleaning the other's wounds after a rough patrol but this one has a little bit of plot and spice to it ngl.

based off of this request

You always try to keep your nights as simple as possible. Working under Commissioner Jim Gordon had its perks, but peace of mind wasn’t one of them. Between juggling case files, analyzing crime scenes, and trying to stay ahead of Gotham’s ever-growing list of threats, your days were more than chaotic.

Gordon, a mentor as much as a boss, trusted you with sensitive information that only a few had access to—and you took that responsibility seriously. What he didn’t know was how deep your connection to Gotham’s vigilantes truly ran.

While Gordon believed in the power of the law, you knew sometimes it wasn’t enough. That’s where Batman came in. Your dual role—an officer of the GCPD by day, and a secret informant for Batman by night—had become second nature. You fed him intel and helped him stay ahead of Gotham’s worst, all while maintaining the facade of loyalty to the department.

You weren't proud about it, but he gave you enough hush money that you don't question it whenever he appears by the office as you leave your later shifts.

Friday nights were your escape. After a week of handling reports, dissecting evidence, and sidestepping questions from Gordon about your mysterious late-night absences, you let yourself disconnect. You skipped the gym after work, came home early, and cooked yourself a proper dinner. By the time the sun set, you were showered, dressed in your comfiest pyjamas, and settled on the couch with a movie.

Tonight was no different. You’d just closed a case with Gordon’s team, a robbery ring, criminals now behind bars, but Gotham never truly rested. Tomorrow would bring another wave of crime, another set of challenges. Still, for now, you had this moment of peace.

The movie droned on in the background as you finished dinner, exhaustion from the week creeping in. Your eyes fluttered shut halfway through, the comfort of your quiet apartment lulling you to sleep. By the time the credits rolled, you were completely out, wrapped in the safety of your little corner of the world.

That is until a faint creak from your window broke the silence.

You stirred groggily, blinking at the clock. It was well past midnight. Gotham was still alive outside—sirens in the distance, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle passing by—but your apartment had fallen into stillness. You stretched, ready to drag yourself to bed, but something wasn’t right.

The creak came again. Your blood ran cold.

Someone was in your apartment.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes darted around the dimly lit room. The faint sound of creaking had stopped, leaving an eerie silence behind, but there—a shadow moved. Your heart pounded, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you reached blindly for something, anything to defend yourself. The remote was the closest thing at hand. You gripped it tightly, feeling foolish but unwilling to let go, and scrambled to stand.

In the faint glow from the streetlight filtering through the curtains, you finally saw him—a large figure by the balcony door, hunched over, struggling to quietly close the glass behind him. He moved slowly, cautiously, as if he didn’t want to be noticed. But you had already seen enough.

The silhouette was unmistakable.

“Jason.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name, freezing in place for a second before turning to face you. Even in the darkness, you could feel the weight of his gaze through the red-tinted visor of his helmet, his expression unreadable beneath it.

You lowered the remote slowly, heart still racing, but now for a different reason. “You can’t—you can’t just break in like this,” you stammered, your voice tinged with frustration and worry. You’d seen him do this too many times, yet it never got easier.

He let out a gruff, annoyed sound beneath the helmet, shoulders sagging as he took a step closer. “Not like you were gonna answer the door.” His voice was rough, and the bitterness in his tone was impossible to miss.

Your irritation flared, but then you noticed something—a slight tremor in the way he moved. His steps were sluggish, almost hesitant, and he favoured his right side, trying to mask it.

He wasn’t just annoyed.

He was hurt.

As he stepped out of the shadow, the dim lamp light caught the outline of his armour. That’s when you noticed it—dark stains creeping across the front of his suit, and the way his hand pressed against his side, the faint sound of a pained breath slipping past his otherwise guarded posture.

“You’re bleeding,” you muttered, the frustration quickly giving way to concern. He didn’t respond, his gaze avoiding yours as he leaned back against the wall, clearly uncomfortable with being here. Jason never wanted anyone to see him like this—least of all you.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he grumbled, the words tinged with a mix of guilt and exasperation. “Go to bed. I’ll be out in a minute. Just needed some stuff. Still got that first aid kit?”

You shook your head, taking a cautious step closer, your heart sinking at the sight of him in pain. “Jason, you can’t just—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off sharply, pushing himself off the wall, wincing as the movement aggravated his wound. His stance was defensive like he was already preparing to run before you could offer to help.

But the moment his knees buckled slightly, the tough exterior he was trying to maintain cracked. You could see it in the way his breath hitched, the way he clutched at his side like he was barely holding it together.

He wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He was here because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Jason pulled the mask off his head, his breath coming in sharp gasps as if the helmet had been suffocating him. He tossed it carelessly onto your dining table before glancing at you, his expression tight. “You got it or not?”

His voice startled you into action. “Uh—yeah, I’ve got it.” You scrambled down the hall toward the bathroom, hands shaking as you rifled through the drawers for the first aid kit. His footsteps echoed faintly in your living room, boots heavy against the hardwood. Now that he’d been caught, his presence filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it was no use. No matter how many times you’d imagined running into Jason again, it was never like this. In your daydreams, you hoped you’d bump into him on the street, or maybe during work.

There were even moments where you’d foolishly fantasized about seeing him at Wayne Manor, handing over files to Bruce as a favour, only to lock eyes with Jason from across the room. But this? Jason bleeding out on your floor, breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night? This wasn’t what you wanted.

When you returned to the living room, he had already shed his jacket, revealing a deep gash along his side. It was messy, and the blood soaked into the fabric of his suit, leaving dark stains that made your stomach drop.

He’d settled into something uncomfortably familiar—boots kicked off by the door, sitting against the wall like old times, but this time he kept his distance, his body tense.

He didn’t want to be here.

You hesitated as you approached, the kit in your hand. “Jason, let me—”

“I’ve got it.” His voice was sharp, cutting you off as he took the first aid kit from your hands without so much as a glance. His glare kept you at arm’s length, and it hurt. The way he shut you out, even when he was barely holding himself together.

He didn’t trust anyone—not entirely.

Not after everything.

Still, seeing him like this made something twist in your chest. Bleeding and worn down, but too stubborn to ask for help. There was a heaviness in the air, lingering in the silence that stretched between you both. It wasn’t just about tonight—it was everything that had been left unresolved before, all the words that had gone unsaid the last time you’d seen each other. But now, with Jason sitting right in front of you, neither of you dared to speak.

You crouched a few feet away, sitting on the floor across from him, watching as he tried to clean the wound himself. His hand shook slightly, though he tried to hide it, his jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth against the pain. It was bad—worse than he was letting on.

“Jason, stop,” you finally said, your voice softer than you intended. “You’re gonna make it worse.”

“I don’t need your help,” he bit out, refusing to meet your eyes. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”

He huffed, annoyed, but when he tried to move again, his breath hitched—pain breaking through the cracks of his tough exterior. His hand slipped, and the antiseptic bottle nearly fell from his grip. You didn’t wait for his permission this time. You slid over, taking the kit from his hand.

“Just let me do it,” you murmured, your voice firmer now.

Jason didn’t argue this time, though his jaw was still set in that stubborn way you knew all too well. You could feel the heat branching off him as you gently touched his arm to move it out of the way and clean the wound. His whole body stiffened at the contact like he wasn’t used to being taken care of—or maybe he just didn’t want it.

His eyes shifted to the far wall, jaw clenched even tighter, refusing to meet your gaze, but you caught the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when your hands moved over his skin.

He wasn’t saying anything, but his body told you enough. Every time your fingers brushed a sensitive spot or when the antiseptic stung, his lips pressed into a thinner line. He didn’t flinch exactly, but his posture—rigid, unmoving—betrayed how uncomfortable he was.

You weren’t sure what was harder for him: the wound or the fact that he was letting you help. His pride had always been a barrier, a wall he rarely let anyone get through. Yet here he was, in your apartment, wounded and unwilling to admit just how much he needed you.

As Jason shifted slightly, wincing, you took the moment to observe him. It had been a while since you last saw him, and for a second, you searched for something—anything—that might’ve changed. But he was still Jason. Still, the same stubborn man who couldn’t stay out of trouble. Even that white strand of hair was right where it had always been. He looked older somehow, but not in the way time ages people. It was something deeper, worn into him from the life he led.

And then his eyes flicked up, catching you watching him. For a brief moment, neither of you moved. His gaze softened, just barely, before the guarded look returned as quickly as it had slipped away.

He shifted again, his body tense, and glanced around your apartment—anything to avoid looking directly at you. His gaze lingered on your desk, the files from your latest case scattered across it, and his expression darkened. You could see it in his eyes—a mix of suspicion and something else.

“You’ve been busy,” he muttered, his tone gruff, though the edge in his voice told you there was more to it than a simple observation.

You didn’t look up, keeping your hands steady as you applied pressure to the wound. “You know how it is.”

Jason’s jaw twitched. “Yeah,” he said, his tone sharp. “I know how it is.”

It was a jab, even if it was subtle. You could feel the accusation hanging between the lines of his words. He wasn't just talking about your busy schedule—he was digging at the gap between you two, at all the things neither of you had addressed. Your loyalty to Batman. Your work with Gordon.

A little fucking traitor to everything Jason worked for.

You sighed, pressing a little harder than necessary to make a point. “You’re not here for that, Jason.”

He winced, and you almost felt bad. Almost. But the look in his eyes—calculated, like he was searching for the truth behind every move you made—made your chest tighten. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

“You’re not going to ask why I’m here?” His voice was softer now, but there was a bitterness to it. He knew you weren’t stupid. He wasn’t here by choice, and you both knew it. You wanted to ask, but what was the point? Jason never came to you for help, never came to anyone unless he had no other option.

“I figured you’d tell me when you’re ready,” you replied quietly, not daring to meet his eyes. His presence in your home felt heavier than the blood on your hands.

He scoffed, shifting to take the bandage from your hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Your hand stilled for a moment, hovering just above his skin. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a reminder of just how close you were to crossing a line neither of you dared to acknowledge. He was still the same Jason, still stubborn as hell, but the space between you felt like it had grown into a chasm. One you weren't sure either of you could cross without everything falling apart.

“Why are you really here, Jason?” you asked, giving in. He was a wanted man, or at least Red Hood was. If you were up to it, you could have him arrested within seconds.

His eyes snapped up, the guarded expression faltering for a moment before his usual defiance returned. “It’s not like I had a lot of options,” he admitted, though the words felt forced like he was offering you an excuse instead of the truth.

“I thought you always had a plan,” you said, words sharper than you intended. “Or is that just another thing you’ve changed your mind about?”

He flinched, and for a second, you regretted saying it. But the hurt between you two had been simmering for too long. His loyalty was always a wild card, and yours? Well, Jason had never forgiven you for staying close to the people he had walked away from.

Jason’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but close. “The Bat keeping you on a tight leash?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or is it Gordon now?”

You stiffened, the accusation hitting home more than you liked. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, knowing it sounded weak but unwilling to offer more. It was always the same with Jason—he pushed, prodded, and pulled at the places you tried to protect.

“Yeah, right. Because we both know where your loyalties lie,” Jason snapped, his tone harsher now. His eyes bore into you like he was searching for something—anything—that would confirm his suspicions. That you’d chosen Batman over him. That you were still working with the people who had crossed him.

“I didn’t betray you,” you said quietly, though even as you said it, the words felt hollow. You didn’t know if you believed them anymore.

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. There was too much between you, too many things left unsaid, and no amount of stitching his wounds would ever fix that. He was right, in a way. You hadn’t chosen him—not when it counted.

Not when he needed you. And for what? For comfort? A little bit of safety? An alliance with Batman? A raise at work? The questions ran through your mind like jagged edges. It wasn’t that simple, but neither of you had ever really said the things that needed to be said back then, too busy trying to fix things that did not need fixing.

His breathing had become more laboured as you worked, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The wound you were treating was deep, and too close to critical areas for comfort.

Jason’s hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists as if he was fighting the pain, refusing to show just how much it hurt. But you could see it in the way his body trembled under your touch—he was reaching his limit.

“Let me finish,” you said, your tone softer, more insistent. "Stop fighting me."

For once, he didn’t argue. His jaw unclenched, his shoulders slackened slightly, and his eyes—usually so guarded—softened just enough to show how exhausted he really was. Physically, emotionally, all of it. He wasn’t invincible, and tonight, that truth was catching up with him faster than he could hide.

You moved closer, hands brushing against his skin as you worked quickly, trying to keep your focus. His skin was warm, slick with sweat and blood, and the faintest tremor ran through his frame as your fingers traced the edge of the wound. But the closeness was unnerving—both of you acutely aware of each other in a way that made the room feel smaller.

You caught his eyes as you reached for more gauze, and for a split second, neither of you looked away. His gaze burned into you, full of unspoken questions, of things he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. And for the first time, you wondered if you weren’t the only one who had felt betrayed.

But you’d both been wrong. You could see it now, in the way his eyes darkened with unsaid accusations, in the way your heart ached with unresolved regret. You thought you were protecting him by walking away—by choosing the safer path, Batman’s path. And Jason, with all his reckless defiance, had been too far gone in his need for vengeance to understand why you couldn’t follow him down that road.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear. “I can’t trust anyone anymore.”

Your fingers stilled, hovering just above his chest. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air between you.

"I never asked you to trust me," you whispered, the words hanging precariously on the line between honesty and regret.

But the truth was, you wanted him to. More than anything.

Jason’s lips tightened into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might push you away. His muscles tensed beneath your touch as if bracing himself for another fight. His hand twitched, lifting halfway like he was going to shove you back, but he stopped.

The strain was written all over his face now, and you could see his breathing growing more ragged. His eyes were slipping out of focus, and you noticed the faint green glow flickering at the edges of his irises—Lazarus. It was always there, a reminder of how far he’d gone, how close to the edge he still was.

“Jason…” you said quietly, watching the pain ripple through him. He was losing consciousness, slipping into the darkness despite his stubborn refusal to admit it. His hand finally dropped, brushing against your arm before it hit the floor, the strength leaving him in waves.

“Just… get it over with,” he rasped, his voice cracking.

You pressed the final bandage into place, your hands gentle now, more careful. For a moment, you let your fingers linger, brushing against the rough skin of his shoulder as you finished. His breathing was shallow, but steady, his eyes fluttering shut. The tension drained from his body as the exhaustion finally won, leaving him vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen in a while.

It reminded you of when he used to sleep beside you. Jason had always been restless, even in sleep, twisting in the sheets, his mind never fully at ease. But there had been nights when he would finally relax, his hand instinctively reaching for yours, his head resting against your chest like he found his peace there, with you. You remembered how you’d stroke that same shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin as you whispered for him to rest, that you were there, watching over him.

And yet, here you were, caring for him again.

He stirred slightly, a soft grunt escaping his lips as he adjusted, trying to find a position that eased the pain. His face softened with the kind of weariness that came from more than just the physical strain. You watched his chest rise and fall, the quiet sound of his breath mingling with the hum of the city outside.

Jason’s hand twitched again, brushing against your knee, his fingers grazing your skin with a familiar yet distant touch. It made your heartache.

There was a time when you would’ve done anything to keep him safe, to protect him from the world—and from himself. But now, all you could do was sit there, hands still resting against his skin, wondering if either of you could ever come back from this.

1K notes · View notes