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buckats · 5 months ago

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Jason Todd x Fem!Reader.

Note: this is literally my first time posting on Tumblr. I have no ideia what I'm doing, so give me a break. Tysm! :)

Summary: Loving Jason was never easy. He’s temperamental, impulsive, got a short fuse and some serious trust issues. He gets frustrated over the smallest things when they don’t go his way.

You love him. And even though it doesn’t always feel mutual, it never stops you from staying.

Jason knows—deep down, he always has—that he’s not good for you. Never was, never will be. He tries to push you away, but somehow, you always find your way back. Like a magnet. Or maybe he just doesn’t try that hard to keep you away. Because at the end of the day, he’s the one calling when everything falls apart. And it hurts you both.

Part 01.

I slipped my phone into the left pocket of my jeans as I stepped into the abandoned motel Jason had told me to meet him at. The walls were peeling, revealing layers of gray and beige paint that had long lost their battle against time and neglect.

The air carried a damp, metallic scent mixed with mildew and rust. The floor was smooth gray concrete, stained with grease and dried blood. The sound of my boots echoed in the deafening silence.

“Jason?” I called out, my voice bouncing off the walls, but there was no reply.

Old, dusty furniture was scattered haphazardly around the room. The place was a mess. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor, some rolling to the side with the breeze sneaking in through a half-open window.

Jason had told me he was in room 69 on the third floor, so I made my way up the stairs since the elevator was out of order.

As I climbed the narrow staircase leading to the upper floors, faint groans of pain became audible with each step. I quickened my pace.

At the top of the stairs, I found a tall, heavyset man in glasses leaning against the wall, clutching a black medical bag in his hands. He wore a white coat—Jason's personal doctor. Although, Jason never actually let him do his job.

My eyes landed on the yellowed door to his right. The number 69, etched into worn metal, hung crookedly above it.

“Where’s Jason?” I asked.

The man lifted his gaze to me, straightening up and regaining his usual professional posture. He looked nervous, scared, uneasy. Jason must’ve said or done something to rattle him. Probably one of his typical threats like, “Don’t touch me, or I’ll kill you.”

“In the bathroom, ma’am” the doctor replied. “He caught a stray bullet in the shoulder, but he won’t let me treat him.”

I nodded, offering him a soft, reassuring smile.

“It’s okay, Freddie.” I gave his shoulder a firm pat. “You can head home if you want. I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure? Mr. Todd said the same thing, but I’m not sure if…”

“It’s fine, really” I cut him off, meeting his worried eyes with a sincere look. “I’ll talk to him.”

I knew how stubborn, arrogant, and impossible Jason could be. The look on the doctor’s face told me everything I needed to know. Jason had likely chewed him out for stepping even an inch out of line.

Finally, the man sighed, giving in.

“Thank you.” He genuinely seemed relieved.

Honestly, I never understood why Jason kept him around if he never actually let the poor man help. All Jason ever did was scare the life out of him.

I watched as the man hurried down the stairs, practically fleeing.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I approached the door, stopping just before touching the handle. It was clear I was about to deal with Jason in one of his terrible moods.

I turned the knob to the right and pushed the door open, its hinges creaking in protest. The room before me was surprisingly tidy, considering the motel’s deplorable condition. However, the walls still bore the same wear and tear—peeling and stained, just like everything else downstairs.

The queen-sized bed was positioned at the center of the room, pushed against the wall. The curtains swayed gently every time the wind blew, and the room was dark. The only light came from the moon reflecting against the closed glass window and the soft yellow glow spilling out from the bathroom.

The only real mess was on the bed: an unloaded pistol rested on the edge of the mattress, next to a bloodstained sheet. Dirty gauze was scattered around, evidence of a clumsy attempt at treatment.

Another muffled groan came from the bathroom, the sound thick with pain and frustration. He was clearly struggling with the bullet.

“Jason?” I called out, my voice low but audible in the quiet room. The space seemed to grow even quieter after my words. “I’m here.”

Taking a few hesitant steps forward, I turned to the left and saw him. Jason was standing in the bathroom doorway, shirtless, staring at me with a rigid, intense expression. His eyes burned in stark contrast to his pale face, his jaw clenched as though he were holding back a storm of anger.

I glanced into the bathroom, taking in the complete mess he had made. There was blood on the floor, mostly around the sink, and discarded gauze and dirty bandages scattered everywhere. The yellowish light flickered intermittently, and the walls were just as worn and weathered as the reception area downstairs.

My eyes shifted back to Jason two seconds after quickly scanning the mess inside. Blood dripped from his left shoulder, trailing down to the floor. His tense muscles were covered in scars and bruises—permanent reminders of everything he had endured. A massive purple bruise stretched from his side to below his abdomen, accompanied by deep cuts and lighter scratches scattered across his skin.

His right eye was swollen and blackened, a fresh cut on his lower lip adding to the collection of old scars, while a red scrape ran along the side of his cheek. He looked battered, exhausted—and yet, he still radiated a raw, untamed intensity.

“Jesus, Jason. Are you okay?” My voice came out soft, sweet, and filled with concern.

“Do I look okay to you?” he snapped, his voice low and rough, hitting like a punch.

"How did this happen?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid of setting him off.

Jason let out a sharp breath, running a hand down his face, clearly out of patience.

"Does it matter?" His words were clipped, loaded with frustration. "It wasn’t even supposed to happen" he muttered, his jaw tight.

He turned away, and for a moment, my eyes couldn’t help but trace the scars on his back. There weren’t as many as on his chest, but the deep purple bruise starting near his ribs and stretching down past his abdomen wrapped around to his back.

My stomach twisted. Seeing him like this—marked, battered, hurting—it all made sense why he always seemed so tense about being touched.

"Why did you call me?"

Jason didn’t answer right away. His hands gripped the edge of the blood-streaked sink, knuckles white. For a second, he looked lost, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror—the hardened lines of his face, the heavy eyes, the scars that held stories he’d never tell.

"Help me stitch it up." His voice was low, rough, but still carried that sharp edge that always seemed to cut through everything.

Was that all he wanted? Probably. It didn’t matter, though. I’d help him. But he’d had someone else here earlier—someone who actually knew what they were doing. Even so, Jason always insisted on handling things himself—or, apparently, dragging me into it.

"Okay" I said quietly, not pushing back.

I stepped closer, trying to ignore the weight of the moment and the tension rolling off him like a storm cloud.

"Sit" I told him, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.

His eyes narrowed in irritation, but he obeyed. His movements were stiff, impatient, like even the act of sitting down was a nuisance.

Jason flinched slightly at my touch. His muscles were taut, tense, as if every fiber of his being was on high alert. He seemed uncomfortable, deliberately avoiding my gaze, and it left me uncertain.

Was it because he was half-dressed? Maybe. I wished I could read his mind, but his expression remained neutral, closed off, completely unreadable. Jason had always been that way—hard to decipher, like a book locked tight and hidden away.

Our faces were almost too close. Sitting down, he was nearly at eye level with me, just a few inches shorter. I kept a careful distance, as though any wrong move could shatter the fragile balance between us. I knew Jason hated being touched, and I’d always respected that.

I picked up the needle and thread with steady hands, ignoring the weight of his gaze as it flicked to them.

“May I?” I asked softly, meeting his eyes for a brief moment.

Jason stared at me in silence, as if weighing whether or not to trust me, before giving a curt, slow nod.

“Are you sure you want me to do this? I might mess it up and leave an ugly scar” I said, my voice low and almost hesitant.

He scoffed, a short, ironic laugh with no trace of humor.

“It can’t get any worse.”

And he was right. Even if I made a mistake, any mark would blend seamlessly with the others, just another piece of the story his body already told in silence.

"Besides, I'd rather take a risk with you" he added, a slight teasing tone in his voice.

“Sure” I murmured softly, mostly to myself, as I prepared to begin. "Can you pass me the cotton?"

He turned his head, reaching for the sink and grabbing what I needed. Without saying a word, he handed it to me.

I took a deep breath, then started cleaning around the wound where the blood had dried. It looked nasty, and the worst part was still ahead.

Holding the needle carefully, I sighed again, almost as if this would hurt me more than it would hurt him. I pressed the tip to his skin and got to work, threading carefully through the torn flesh.

Jason flinched noticeably at the first stitch. He lowered his head, letting out a low curse under his breath. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white, and his palms flushed red.

"I'll clean this mess up when we're done," I muttered, nodding at the blood on the floor, the sink, and everything else.

Jason looked up at me.

"You're not my maid."

"I'm not your girlfriend, either" I shot back. "Not anymore."

He glanced away, like it still got to him. Which is ironic because he's the one who break up with me first.

“Why even bother having a personal doctor if you won’t let him do his job?” I asked, trying to break the tension—or at least get an answer.

“I didn’t ask for him in the first place” he shot back, his voice sharp with irritation. “Bruce hired him. Now I’m stuck with him.”

I chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it.

"Is this his way of apologizing? I thought you two had already settled things" I joked.

The needle pierced his skin again, and Jason exhaled sharply, the muscles in his arm tensing under my fingers. He didn’t immediately complain, but the sound of his teeth grinding was enough to make me hesitate for a second.

“Stay still, it’ll hurt less” I murmured, trying to focus.

“Just get it over with” he grumbled through clenched teeth, impatience clear in his voice.

I ignored his tone and pushed the needle through again, stitching carefully, but he still flinched, letting out a pained grunt that made my shoulders stiffen.

“Fuck!” he growled, his fist slamming into the edge of the sink. “This hurts as fuck!”

“Stay quiet, I’m almost done!” I snapped back.

I knew getting upset would only make things harder. A possible argument was on the horizon, and I didn’t want that. Not again. All I wanted was a little peace with my boyfriend, but the way he acted made it seem like he didn’t want the same. And it hurt, even if I didn’t admit it.

“I’m just trying to help. And you’re the one who asked me for help in the first place!” I added.

“If I’d known it’d be like this, I would’ve just gone with that damn doctor” he shot back, his tone dripping with contempt.

The way he said that made my stomach turn. The casual insults were so childish coming from him, and for some reason, it disgusted me. I mean, he’d always been like that. Even as Robin. But back then, it was lighter, less malicious. Just rebellious teenage stuff. Now it felt like an adult being a jerk for no reason.

“You don’t have to talk like that.”

His gaze lifted to meet mine, and it was like I’d hit a nerve. Or provoked him. I’m not sure which.

“Why? You don’t like it?” he asked, his voice taking on a challenging tone.

“I don’t like people insulting others for no reason” I replied, straightforward and casual. “Especially good people.”

“Yeah? How do you know he’s a good guy? There are plenty of wolves wearing sheep’s clothing out there.”

“He seemed harmless to me” I countered. “And he was trying to help you. Even after you dismissed him so rudely.”

“Of course he was” he retorted, sarcasm thick in his voice. “He’s getting paid to do it. Hell, I’d do it too.”

Well, yeah, he was right. I’m sure Bruce shelled out a hefty amount of money for him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t put so much effort into helping Jason all the time. Or would he? Maybe spending so much time around Bruce has softened me. No one in this damn city does anything out of the goodness of their heart without expecting something in return.

Focused on finishing the last stitches, my hand faltered for just a second when Jason let out another groan. As I moved the needle, my fingers slipped slightly, and the tip pierced deeper into his flesh than it should have.

“Shit!” Jason snarled, suddenly jerking upright, the abrupt movement nearly knocking me over. “What the hell are you doing? That fucking hurts!”

“I’m sorry! It was an accident!” I blurted out, trying to steady myself.

“I’ll do it myself. Fuck.”

Without warning, he shoved me aside. It wasn’t intentional, but it was still forceful enough to make me stumble back a few steps. My chest tightened at the way he treated me, a pang of sadness surfacing only to be replaced by something stronger: anger.

I wasn’t going to let him do this. Not again. I’ve had enough of playing the cat while he insists on being the dog in this. Screw him!

“What is wrong with you, Jason?” My voice came out loud, firm, and full of indignation. "I am here, reaching out to you, despite everything you've done, and you still can't get out of your own way."

Jason turned to face me, fury etched into every line of his face. His eyes burned with an intensity that almost made me back down.

“God! I feel sorry for you!” I spat, my voice laced with contempt and frustration.

Not waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the bathroom.

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” His voice boomed through the room, deep and furious.

In an instant, his large hand gripped my arm tightly, yanking me back toward him. I nearly stumbled into him, my face brushing lightly against his.

“I should’ve turned my back on you ages ago!” I shouted back, my voice trembling, thick with anger and hurt.

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. The tension between us felt like a rope about to snap, every breath feeding the fire that was already out of control. The air between us was heavy, charged. I could hear and feel his ragged breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Then, suddenly, something in his face shifted. The hardness melted into something softer. Almost uncertain. Jason closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, his gaze locked onto mine. Calmer now, but still intense.

He released my wrist slowly, his fingers brushing against my skin as they withdrew. I glanced at the red mark he’d left, and it seemed like he noticed it too. His jaw clenched, and he pressed his lips together, as if silently chastising himself.

With a hesitant motion, Jason brought his hands to mine, holding them with a gentleness that starkly contrasted with the moment before. He lowered his gaze, looking almost ashamed.

“I’m sorry” he whispered, his voice rough and low, as though the words were hard for him to say. “I shouldn't have yelled at you. Or freaked out. I had no right to do it.”

"I'm tired, Jason" I whispered, my voice heavy with the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down every word.

Jason raised his hand to my jaw, tilting my head up so I would look at him. His eyes were deep, filled with regret and a frustration aimed at himself.

"I know. I'm sorry" he whispered, resting his forehead against mine, the closeness bringing an unexpected sense of vulnerability.

"You said things would be different. You promised you’d change." The pain in my words was far from subtle.

I was practically sobbing into his chest, holding back every tear that threatened to fall.

"I'm trying" he replied, his voice laden with a quiet sadness.

As if seeking an anchor, I buried my head against his bare chest, silently asking for understanding, for silence, nestling into his warm body. The strong, steady beat of his heart was both a comfort and a torment.

He wrapped his arms around me, his fingers gently brushing the nape of my neck in a soothing motion, tender and careful, as if trying to calm me.

I needed this—his warmth, his comfort. Rare as it was, it felt like a lifeline, a fleeting solace in the storm.

“Loving you is really hard.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, still and silent, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, his fingers gently stroking my hair as I kept my face buried against his chest. Every movement of his fingers was so delicate, it seemed to contradict the constant chaos he carried inside.

Had I hurt him? Did he feel offended?

His voice broke the silence, rough, deep, and low, like a whisper: “I know.”

Want more? Go on my AO3 account! I'll post the entire fanfic there! ✍🏻

#jason todd #red hood #female reader #jason todd x fem!reader #dc comics #dc universe #arkham knight #eventual smut

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