A Fracture In Fate
Yandere Jason Todd x GN Soulmate Reader (Smut Warning: masterbation, receiving head)
Everyone had a soulmate.
It was one of those universal truths humanity had long since stopped questioning.
The sun rose in the east, gravity kept your feet on the ground, somewhere in the world, there was a person who belonged to you.
The universe simply created pairs. Two souls cut from the same impossible pattern. Destined to find one another if fate happened to be feeling generous.
Nobody knew why it happened.
Scientists had spent decades studying soulmate bonds. Religions had rewritten entire doctrines around them. Philosophers had built careers debating whether soulmates were proof of destiny or merely another law of nature. In the end, nobody had found an answer.
Soulmates simply existed.
Most people never even met theirs.
The world was too large, too crowded. Complicated.
But that never stopped people from dreaming.
The soulmate industry alone was worth billions.
Dating shows dedicated entire seasons to soulmate reunions, news stations regularly featured couples finding one another after decades apart, every bookstore had shelves dedicated to soul bonded stories.
People loved soulmates.
Loved the idea that somewhere out there existed a person made specifically for them.
ââââ
The most common bond was pain resonance.
One soulmate scraped their knee, the other felt sting. One broke a bone, the other suffered for it too.
Entire support groups existed for those unfortunate enough to be paired with athletes, construction workers, and adrenaline junkies.
Other bonds were rarer.
Dreamers could meet one another in sleep.
Some soulmates heard each otherâs thoughts.
Others carried first words on their skin.
There were even people who saw flashes of each otherâs lives through mirrors.
Every bond was different. Every bond was special.
Yours was a mark.
A simple symbol resting against your hip.
Youâd spent most of your childhood believing it was a birthmark.
It resembled a bird frozen mid-flight. Two elegant wings spread wide across the dip in your skin.
When you were younger, youâd trace it absent-mindedly after baths, wondering why it looked so different from everyone elseâs.
Your mother had laughed when you asked. âYouâll understand when youâre older.â
At six years old, that answer had been deeply unsatisfying.
At ten, youâd become convinced your soulmate was secretly an angel.
At eleven, youâd grown embarrassed by the entire theory.
At fifteen..
The mark disappeared.
Not faded. Not lightened. Disappeared.
You remembered staring at your reflection for nearly an hour.
The skin was smooth. Unmarked. Empty.
The shape that had existed your entire life was simply gone.
Nobody knew what that meant.
There were stories, of course. There were always stories.
Old forums. Urban legends. Half-remembered articles. A bond breaking. The universe making mistakes.
None of them were verified. None of them made sense.
You tried not to think about it. âTriedâ being the important word.
Because something else happened that day. Something far worse.
You woke up feeling wrong.
Not sick. Or injured.
Wrong.
Like someone had reached inside your chest and scooped out everything that made you feel human.
Getting out of bed felt impossible. Breathing felt exhausting. Your limbs weighed twice what they should. Food tasted like nothing, and music sounded distant.
Your parents took you to a hospital.
The doctors couldnât find anything. Blood tests came back normal. Brain scans came back normal. Everything came back normal.
And yet it felt as though something sharp had carved straight through the center of you and left a hollow space behind.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The feeling never truly left.
It might have dulled. Became manageable. But every morning you woke with the same strange emptiness sitting beneath your ribs, like grief.
Except you werenât grieving anyone.
You couldnât. You hadnât lost anything.
Had you?
Six months later, the mark returned.
You found it after stepping out of the shower. For several seconds, you simply stared.
Because it was there.
Those familiar wings.
The soul mark, back where it belonged.
Except.. It wasnât exactly the same. The shape had changed. Only slightly, but enough that you almost missed it.
The elegant curve of the wings remained. But now thin fractures cut through the design, like cracks spreading through glass. Like something had shattered and been forced back together.
The mark looked older. Wounded. Broken and repaired.
You remembered touching it with trembling fingers. Remembered the overwhelming relief that nearly brought tears to your eyes.
Your soulmate was alive.
That was the only explanation that mattered.
Alive.
Somewhere.
Breathing beneath the same sky. Walking the same earth. Waiting.
The thought stayed with you through every year that followed.
Even after moving to Gotham. After learning just how cruel fate could be. Even then, some stubborn part of you couldnât help believing.
Because soulmates were supposed to be the one good thing the universe gave people. The one person who would understand you completely. Who would never hurt you. Who would always choose you.
You didnât know it yet, but somewhere in Gotham, your soulmate looked at the matching mark on his own body and believed exactly the same thing.
Moving to Gotham had taught you two things very quickly.
The first was that every story people told about the city was true.
The second was that nobody ever told the whole story.
The news focused on the murders. The riots. The Arkham breakouts. The masked lunatics who seemed determined to turn every holiday into a hostage situation. Every article painted Gotham as a city perpetually teetering on the edge of collapse.
What they didnât talk about were the people.
The old woman who ran the corner store and slipped free candy to local kids when she thought nobody was looking. The mechanic who fixed single mothersâ cars for half price. The teenagers who organised food drives after winter storms. The apartment residents who pooled money together whenever somebody fell behind on rent.
Gotham survived because the people refused to die with it.
Your apartment building was no different.
The first person to welcome you was Arthur.
Arthur lived next door and seemed to possess the unique ability to start conversations with absolutely anyone. Within twenty-four hours of moving in, youâd learned about his late wife, his chronic dislike of modern television, and the fact that heâd somehow managed to get banned from three separate community centers over the course of his seventy-three years.
You still werenât entirely sure whether that last story had been a joke.
The retired soldiers upstairs adopted you shortly afterwards. Every evening they gathered on the rooftop with cheap coffee and folding chairs, spending hours arguing over topics nobody else cared about. Weather patterns. Baseball statistics. Whether Gothamâs pizza quality had declined over the past decade.
According to them, it had.
The children living on the lower floors were worse.
Far worse.
Because children had an alarming ability to decide they liked someone and then never leave them alone again.
You made the mistake of helping one of them carry a backpack. That was all it took.
Within a week they knew your schedule, your favorite snacks, and which apartment belonged to you.
Youâd accepted your fate shortly after.
The women above you remained unpleasant.
Some people simply seemed determined to be unhappy.
Youâd received two separate complaints because your television had apparently been âtoo loud.â
You didnât own a television.
The rest of the building ignored them. It was easier.
Then there was Jason Todd.
At first, Jason seemed normal enough. A little intimidating, maybe.
He was a large man. Not merely tall but solid in a way that suggested years of hard living rather than careful gym routines. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of most shirts. Old scars disappeared beneath his collar and reappeared across his knuckles. There was a heaviness to him sometimes, filled with tension that never seemed to fully leave his body.
Youâd caught glimpses of it occasionally.
The way he favored his left leg. The faint stiffness in his shoulders. The exhausted shadows beneath his eyes. Like someone who carried more weight than they knew what to do with.
Still, he was polite. Helpful. Generally liked by everyone in the building.
Arthur adored him. The children followed him around like ducklings. Even the veterans upstairs occasionally invited him to join their rooftop arguments.
Jason never stayed long, vut he always listened.
There was something strangely lonely about him. Not that you thought about it much.. At least not initially.
The first real conversation youâd had happened three weeks after moving in.
Arthurâs front door had jammed. Again.
The old man was muttering increasingly creative insults toward the lock when youâd returned from work.
Being a decent person, youâd offered assistance.
Being Gotham property, the door immediately declared war.
You eventually managed to force the stubborn thing open by bracing yourself against the frame and reaching up on you tippy toes for leverage.
The door finally gave way with a loud crack.
Arthur nearly fell backward.
You nearly fell forward.
And somewhere behind you, a man forgot how to breathe.
You never noticed.
Never noticed the apartment door opening across the hallway. Or blue-green eyes locking onto the sliver of skin exposed above your waistband. To the soulmate mark. The familiar black wings. The fractured lines running through them.
Jason did.
For one terrible second the world stopped. The hallway vanished. Arthur vanished. The city vanished. All that remained was the mark. His mark.
The same impossible shape heâd stared at in mirrors since childhood.
You.
The realisation hit harder than any bullet ever had.
You.
His soulmate.
Living directly across the hall. Close enough to hear through the walls. Close enough to touch. Close enough to lose.
The thought followed immediately after. Unwanted. Bloody terrifying.
Jason hated it.
Because suddenly every nightmare heâd ever had felt possible.
You could leave. You could move. You could disappear. You could die.
The Pit had returned his life, but it had never given him peace.
Now the universe had handed him something precious and expected him not to panic.
As if that had ever been one of Jason Toddâs strengths.
By the time you straightened, your shirt had fallen back into place. The mark vanished. The moment ended.
Nobody seemed to notice anything had happened. Nobody except Jason.
After that, things became strange.
Not immediately.
Jason tried very hard for them not to. He told himself he would act normal.
Normal neighbors talked. Normal neighbors said hello. Normal neighbors occasionally helped carry groceries. There was absolutely nothing strange about any of that.
The problem was that Jason had absolutely no idea what normal looked like anymore.
So he started noticing things.
You always carried exact change for the vending machines downstairs. You preferred reading digitally to hard books. You bought the same coffee every Tuesday morning. You tapped your fingers whenever you were concentrating. You hummed under your breath while checking your mail. Tiny things. Meaningless things. The kind of details most people forgot. Jason remembered all of them.
Which became increasingly difficult to explain.
Youâd mention something once and heâd bring it up weeks later. Youâd complain about work and somehow heâd remember every coworkerâs name. Youâd mention being tired and heâd somehow know exactly when your schedule changed.
The worst part was that none of it seemed intentional. Jason genuinely looked confused whenever you stared at him suspiciously.
As though he couldnât understand why remembering things about you would be considered unusual.
Then one evening you discovered his weakness. Or perhaps he discovered yours.
You were checking the mail when he wandered into the lobby carrying a grocery bag.
âRed Hood got into another fight with Penguinâs people last night.â
You looked up immediately. The reaction was automatic.
Jason saw it.
The slight shift in posture. The sudden attention. The way your eyes actually focused on him for once.
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. âOh,â he said. âSo thatâs the secret.â
You narrowed your eyes. âWhat secret?â
âThe only way to get you to willingly hold a conversation.â
You scoffed, but you didnât walk away.
Jason noticed that too.
Unfortunately.
From that day onward, discussions about Red Hood became alarmingly common.
You should have found it strange.
Most civilians didnât spend this much time discussing vigilantes.
Jason always had opinions. Always had arguments. Information.
Somehow.
The conversations became routine. Comfortable, even.
And occasionally, very rarely, Jason would laugh. Not the dry, sarcastic thing he usually did. Not the sharp bark of amusement he used around strangers. A real laugh. Unexpected and bright.
For just a second it stripped years from him.
Youâd catch a glimpse of someone younger beneath the scars and exhaustion. Someone who looked like they should have existed a long time ago.
Then it would disappear.
The walls would go back up. The tiredness would return.
And Jason Todd would once again look like a man carrying the weight of something nobody else could see.
You never understood why those moments stayed with you.
Across the hallway, Jason understood perfectly.
Because every time you smiled at one of them, he spent the rest of the day thinking about it.
Youâd simply made the mistake of staying late at work and taking a shortcut home.
The Narrows looked different after dark.
The streets became quieter. The crowds thinned. Storefront lights reflected off rain-slick pavement while distant sirens echoed between buildings.
Most nights nothing happened.
Unfortunately, Gothamâs definition of âmostâ left a lot to be desired.
You were halfway down an alley when the shouting started.
Three men. Maybe four.
Members of the False Face Society if the masks were anything to go by.
Theyâd cornered somebody further ahead.
A teenager. Couldnât have been older than sixteen.
The kid looked terrified.
One of the men shoved him hard enough that he nearly hit the ground. The others laughed.
You stopped.
For one stupid second, you actually considered intervening.
Then common sense returned.
You werenât a vigilante. You werenât bulletproof. You were just some idiot trying to get home.
You reached for your phone instead.
A mistake.
The screen lit up.
One of the masked men noticed. His head turned.
Your stomach dropped.
âHey.â Suddenly four pairs of eyes were looking at you.
The teenager ran. Nobody stopped him. Because now their attention had shifted elsewhere. To you.
There was a very specific kind of fear that only this city could produce. The kind that arrived all at once. Immediate & primal. You felt it settle deep into your bones as one of the men stepped forward.
The alley suddenly felt much smaller.
Your fingers tightened around your phone.
Someone laughed.
Someone else told you to relax.
You took a step backward. Calculating escape routes. The odds. All of them terrible.
One of the men reached for you, and a gunshot cracked through the night.
Everything stopped. The sound echoed between brick walls. A flock of birds exploded from a nearby rooftop.
Silence followed.
Then a body hit the ground hard.
The man whoâd been reaching for you collapsed unconscious. The others barely had time to react.
A dark figure dropped from above. Fast. Violent.
The first criminal went down immediately. The second lasted perhaps three seconds longer. The third tried running.
That mistake earned him a boot to the chest powerful enough to send him crashing into a dumpster.
The entire fight ended in under thirty seconds.
Youâd seen videos before. Hell, everybody had.
Footage online. Security recordings. News broadcasts. None of them captured the reality of it. The sheer speed. The overwhelming physicality.
The way Red Hood moved like someone who had spent years surviving things most people couldnât imagine.
When the final criminal hit the pavement, silence settled once more.
The vigilante straightened. The red helmet reflected nearby streetlights. Smoke curled from the barrel of a pistol.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then he turned toward you.
Your heart immediately forgot how to function.
Because it was him.
Not a photograph or old news report. Not some distant figure standing on a rooftop.
Red-fucking-Hood.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathing through the modulator.
Youâd spent years reading articles. Watching footage. Defending him during arguments. None of that had prepared you.
âYouâre bleeding.â The voice emerged distorted through the helmet.
Only then did you notice the sting.
Your arm.
One of the men must have grabbed you harder than youâd realised.
A shallow cut. Nothing serious.
Before you could answer, Red Hood stepped forward. His gloved hand closed around your wrist to inspect the injury.
Youâd think about the touch for months.
âYouâre fine.â The words sounded almost disappointed. As though heâd expected worse.
Then his attention shifted.
Already elsewhere.
Already moving.
A woman further down the street was crying. The teenager from earlier had apparently found police.
Somewhere in the distance another fight was breaking out.
Red Hood released your arm.
And just like that, the moment ended.
No dramatic goodbye. No lingering conversation. No special attention. No acknowledgement that you existed beyond confirming you werenât seriously injured. He was already walking away. Already focused on somebody else.
Because the night never stopped needing him.
You stood there watching until he disappeared.
Continued to long after there was nothing left to see.
The obsession that followed was embarrassing. Truly embarrassing. You knew it. The rational part of your brain knew it. Unfortunately, the rational part had very little authority.
For the next week, every thought somehow led back to the Vigilante.
You replayed the encounter endlessly. The sound of his voice, the weight of his hand around your wrist, the effortless way heâd dismantled four armed criminals, and the fact that heâd barely even looked at you.
Arthur listened to your retelling twice before banning the topic entirely.
Eventually life moved on.
Work remained work. Bills remained bills. The city continued spinning. The memory dulled. Not vanished. Just settled into a quieter place. Something pleasant to revisit whenever your thoughts wandered.
Then two weeks later Gotham exploded.
Not literally for once.
The headline appeared online first. Then newspapers. Then on every Gothamites TV. Then every social media platform in existence.
RED HOODâS SOULMATE? EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS SPARK CITY-WIDE DEBATE
You nearly dropped your phone.
The article contained several photographs from a confrontation between Red Hood and Black Maskâs men.
Most were blurry. Poorly timed. Worthless.
One wasnât.
The image had captured him mid-fight. Armor damaged. The side of his tactical jacket torn open. And there, visible for the entire world to see, was a soulmate mark.
You forgot how to breathe.
The photograph filled your screen, the shape unmistakable.
Black wings. Thin lightning-like fractures running through the design. Like shattered glass repaired imperfectly. Exactly like yours.
Exactly.
The article itself became meaningless.
You couldnât read it. Couldnât focus. Couldnât fucking think.
That was Your mark.
For a long time, you simply stared.
Then slowly, almost disbelievingly, your hand drifted toward your hip. Toward the soulmark hidden beneath your clothes. To the wings youâd carried your entire life.
The same wings currently displayed across every news station in Gotham.
Your soulmate.
The realisation felt surreal. Terrifying.
.. Wonderful.
Somewhere beneath the panic, excitement bloomed. Warm. Impossible to suppress.
Because after years of wondering, desperately hoping, of believing your soulmate existed somewhere beyond reach, you finally knew.
And unfortunately for your future peace of mind,
Your soulmate was Red Hood.
You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. This was ridiculous.
You'd exchanged approximately six words. Six.
You didn't know his favorite colour. Didn't know his age. Didn't know what music he liked. You didn't even know what his face looked like.
Yet your heart had apparently decided none of those details were particularly important.
A knock sounded against your apartment door.
You nearly jumped.
The article disappeared from your screen immediately. As though hiding it somehow made you less embarrassing.
The knocking came again, four sharp taps.
You already knew who it was. Nobody else knocked like that.
Opening the door revealed Jason standing in the hallway. A grocery bag hung from one hand.
His expression was unreadable. Tired. More so than usual.
You frowned immediately. "Jesus."
Jason blinked. "What?"
"You look awful."
A strange look crossed his face. Gone before you could properly identify it.
Then he scoffed quietly. "Thanks."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"You look like you haven't slept."
Something flickered in his eyes.
For a moment his gaze shifted past you. Into your apartment. Toward the phone still sitting on the kitchen counter. Then back again. "You hear the news?"
You stared.
Jason stared back.
Neither of you said anything.
Then simultaneously: "Red Hood." The words left both of your mouths at the same time.
Jason rubbed a hand across his face.
You pointed accusingly. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about."
"What?"
"You are weird."
His eyebrows lifted. "You brought him up too."
"That's different."
"It literally isn't."
"It is."
Jason looked seconds away from arguing.
Then something changed.
The fight left him. His shoulders sagged slightly, exhaustion settled across his features. The expression aged him. Like someone carrying old wounds nobody else could see.
You suddenly remembered all those nights hearing his apartment door open at absurd hours. The bruises he occasionally showed up with. The limp. The scars. The perpetual exhaustion.
For the first time, a thought occurred to you.
Jason always looked like he was surviving something.
You weren't entirely sure what. Only that the feeling never really left.
"You okay?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Jason froze.
You immediately regretted asking.
Not because it was rude, but cause of the look he gave you. Caught completely off guard. As though nobody had asked him that in a very long time.
Then he smiled. Small, genuine, and unexpectedly soft.
"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Yeah.. I'm okay." The smile lingered. Just for a moment.
Then the walls returned. And suddenly he was Jason again.
Your strange neighbor.
The man who remembered everything. The man who somehow always appeared at exactly the wrong moment. The man standing in front of you while your soulmate's photograph sat open on your kitchen counter.
Jason shifted the grocery bag toward you. "Arthur asked me to bring these over."
You accepted it automatically. "Thanks."
"No problem."
His gaze raked over you for a moment longer, jaw clenching as he holds back from speaking up again.
Then he stepped backwards. Retreating towards his own apartment.
His gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long, almost imperceptible. The sort of thing most people wouldn't notice.
You did.
You always did.
Weirdo. The thought followed you as he disappeared across the hallway.
The door shut behind him.
A minute later you reopened the article, the familiar photograph greeted you immediately.
The wings.
The impossible certainty.
Your soulmate.
Across the hall, Jason sat alone on his couch staring at the exact same photograph.
Only his reasons were very different.
Because while Gotham was busy trying to discover the identity of Red Hood's soulmate, Jason already knew.
And for the first time since finding you, the rest of the world was looking too.
The grocery run had been an excuse.
Arthur had asked him to bring the bag over, Jason had just.. volunteered before the old man finished speaking.
An increasingly common occurrence these days.
His gaze remained fixed on the wall separating your apartments.
Thin drywall. Cheap insulation. A handful of feet. That was all. You were right there. Close enough that he could hear the occasional creak of floorboards. Close enough that he sometimes caught the muffled sound of whatever new show you were half-watching on your laptop through the wall. Close enough to know exactly when you got home from work.
Jason dragged a hand across his face. Exhaustion settled heavily behind his eyes.
He hadnât slept. Not really. The article had been published thirty-six hours ago.
Since then heâd spent every waking moment putting out fires.
Some literal, some not.
The Bats had questions. Villains had questions. Reporters had questions.
The entire city suddenly seemed obsessed with the possibility of Red Hood having a soulmate.
As though the revelation somehow made him easier to understand. Like a soulmate transformed him into something less dangerous.
Idiots.
Jason leaned back against the couch.
His apartment was dark. Quiet. The television remained muted. Half a dozen news articles sat open across his laptop screen. Every one of them made him angrier.
Relationship experts discussing his future. Psychologists debating soulmate bonds. Random strangers speculating about the identity of someone theyâd never met.
Your identity.
His jaw tightened.
One article had suggested that Red Hoodâs soulmate was probably safer remaining anonymous.
Another had argued the opposite.
Apparently Gotham had collectively decided that your existence was public property now.
The thought made something ugly twist in his chest. Fear.
Jason hated admitting it. Even to himself. Especially to himself.
Fear was harder to fight than anger.
Anger was simple. Useful. Anger could be aimed at something.
Fear just sat there. Growing.
The photograph appeared on his laptop screen again.
The damaged armor. The exposed mark. His mistake. A stupid one.
He should have replaced the plating weeks earlier. Should have noticed the weakness. Should have-
The self-recrimination stopped.
It was pointless.
The picture existed. The damage was done.
Jasonâs gaze drifted toward the opposite wall. Toward your apartment.
The memory of your soulmark surfaced immediately.
Arthurâs door.
The glimpse of skin.
The feeling that had followed.
For years he had imagined meeting his soulmate.
Not often. Not even consciously. But sometimes. Late at night, during patrol. On anniversaries heâd rather forget.
Heâd wondered whether they were alive. Whether they were happy. If they hated Gotham.
.. if they thought about him too.
Mostly though, heâd thought about how they deserved better.
Jason Todd wasnât stupid. He knew exactly what he was.
A resurrected crime lord with anger issues.
A vigilante who carried guns.
A man stitched together with skin he no longer recognised as his own.
Not exactly soulmate material.
Then heâd met you.
And somehow everything had become worse.
Because now you werenât hypothetical. You were real.
You smiled at Arthurâs stories. You carried extra snacks for the kids downstairs. You argued passionately about things you cared about. You made faces while reading articles on your phone. You laughed with your whole body. You existed.
And Jason had become terrifyingly aware of how fragile that made you.
Not because you were weak, but because Gotham wasnât fair.
Good people died here every day. Disappeared. Became leverage. Targets. Victims. The city took things.
That was what Gotham did.
A sharp knock interrupted the silence.
Jasonâs head lifted instantly.
The pistol hidden beneath the coffee table was in his hand before the second knock arrived.
Old habits.
The peephole revealed a familiar face.
Dick.
Jason opened the door. âWhat?â
Dick took one look at him. Winced. âYou look terrible.â
âGet out.â
âBruce sent me.â
âTell him I said no.â
âYou donât know what he asked yet.â
âI donât need to.â
Dick sighed heavily, stepping inside anyway.
Jason considered throwing him back into the hallway.
âYouâve seen the articles.â
Jason barked out a humorless laugh. âHard to miss.â
Dick studied him carefully.
Years of experience had taught the younger brother that particular look usually preceded unwanted emotional conversations.
Sure enough, âare they okay?â
Jason froze. The room suddenly felt very still.
Dickâs expression softened. There was no judgment there. No accusation. Just concern.
Which somehow made it worse. Because Dick already knew the answer. The family had figured it out months ago.
Jason hadnât told them. He hadnât needed to.
The Batcomputer had eventually connected enough dots.
They knew.
Not your name. Not where you lived. Not who you were. But they knew Jason had found you. And they knew he hadnât introduced himself.
â..Theyâre fine.â
Dick waited.
Jason hated when he did that. Just sat there patiently until people talked. An infuriating habit. âTheyâre safe.â
Another pause.
ââŚJason.â The warning sat unspoken between them.
Jason looked away first. His gaze drifted toward the apartment wall. Toward the space beyond it. Toward you.
Completely unaware of the storm currently gathering around your existence.
His grip tightened around the edge of the couch. Barely noticeable.
He wasnât like Dick. Didnât gush over his mate like they made stars. He kept them close, private.
To himself.
But he was beginning to realise that may not be enough anymore.
Jason swallowed hard. Then finally said the thing neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
âThe whole cityâs looking now.â
Silence followed. Heavy. Understanding.
Jason Todd had never trusted Gotham with things he cared about, so he wasnât about to start now.
Sleep proved impossible.
You blamed the article. And Arthur for somehow managing to bring Red Hood into every conversation despite supposedly banning the topic.
Mostly, though, you blamed yourself.
ââââ
Eventually, the walls of your apartment began to feel too small. Too warm. Too crowded with your own thoughts.
So shortly after midnight, you pulled on a jacket and went for a walk.
The city never truly slept. Even at this hour, Gotham breathed around you.
Distant traffic rolled through the streets. Neon signs flickered overhead. Somewhere several blocks away, a siren wailed briefly before fading into the night.
The air was cold.
It helped. At least a little.
You wandered without much direction. Past closed storefronts. Past graffiti-covered brick walls. Past the small twenty-four-hour deli one of the kids downstairs swore had the best coffee in Gotham.
Eventually you found yourself standing beside the waterfront. The black water reflected fractured city lights.
For several minutes you simply stood there. Trying very hard not to think.
âYou should be home.â The voice emerged from the darkness behind you.
Your heart stopped.
Then immediately attempted to beat its way out of your chest.
Slowly, almost afraid the illusion would disappear if you moved too quickly, you turned.
A figure stood atop a nearby shipping container. Red helmet. Dark armor. Broad shoulders silhouetted against Gothamâs skyline. Red Hood.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You werenât entirely convinced your brain was functioning.
âYouâve got a terrible habit of appearing out of nowhere.â The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
A surprised huff escaped the modulator. Almost a laugh.
âOccupational hazard.â
Your stomach performed an embarrassing number of flips. âSo thatâs your official excuse?â
âIt usually works.â
âYou need a better one.â
âIâll take it under advisement.â
The conversation felt absurdly normal.
This was Red Hood. Standing ten feet away. Talking to you. Like this happened every day.
The silence that followed wasnât uncomfortable. Just strange.
Heavy with things neither of you knew how to say.
His helmet tilted slightly, studying you. You wondered if he was doing the same thing youâd been doing for weeks.
Trying to fit reality beside expectation.
âYou really should be home.â There was something quieter in his voice this time. Something that sounded suspiciously like concern.
You crossed your arms. âFunny. Thatâs exactly what my neighbor says.â
Another pause.
â..Smart guy.â
You snorted. The sound echoed softly across the water.
For a second you could have sworn Red Hood relaxed. As though hearing you laugh had eased something inside him.
The white lenses reflected distant lights.
âGet home safe.â Simple words.
Nothing special nor dramatic. Yet they settled somewhere beneath your ribs all the same.
Before you could answer, he stepped backward.
Already disappearing into the darkness heâd emerged from.
âWait.â The word escaped fast, internally cringing at how desperate you sounded.
He paused.
You swallowed. Suddenly aware that there were a thousand things you wanted to ask and no idea where to begin.
In the end, only one managed to make it out.
ââŚAre you okay?â The question hung between you.
As though youâd somehow asked the last thing heâd expected to hear.
When he finally answered, his voice sounded different. Lower. Rougher. Human.
âYeah.â
A pause.
âYeah. Iâm okay.â The answer felt suspiciously familiar. Heavy and tasting of salt from the nearby harbor. Like youâd heard it before.
The words were a hollow sentiment, a mask worn by a man who clearly knew the architecture of a lie far too well.
You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. There was a gravity to him, a pull that felt less like curiosity and more like a physical tether snapping taut.
You didn't know that he had been watching you for weeks. Didnât know that he even knew that you were his soulmate.
Didn't know that he had gone through your balcony window far too many times to count just to smell the clothes you leave out across the floor or side of your couch, a starving man finding the only source of light in a dark world. To you, he was a legend. To him, you were the only reason to keep breathing.
"You don't sound okay," you whispered, the coolness of the night air emboldening you.
The silence that followed was deafening. The vigilante didn't move, but the atmosphere shifted. The air grew thick, charged with a sudden, violent electricity. He didn't disappear this time. Instead, he descended.
He moved with a predatory grace, leaping from the container to the pavement with a silent, heavy thud that made the ground vibrate beneath your boots. Before you could even draw a breath to gasp, he was there. He was towering, a wall of leather and pure heat.
He didn't stop until he was inches away, forcing you to meet the white lenses of his helmet. The scent of him hit you hard. A deep musk that made your knees feel dangerously weak.
"You shouldn't ask questions you aren't prepared to hear the answers to." The modulator was off. His gloved fingers catching the edge of the crimson plating.
With a soft, mechanical hiss, he lifted the helmet just enough. He didn't take it off just yet, just freeing his mouth.
Your breath hitched. You were staring at a face that was all sharp lines and bruised shadows, eyes that burned through the helmet with a hunger so primal it felt like it could consume the entire city. He looked like a man who had been wandering a desert and had finally found water.
And then, he leaned in.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision. It was the desperate, starving act of a hunter finally catching his prize.
His lips were firm, warm, and tasted of something dark and metallic. It was a claim. He tasted you like he was trying to memorise your very essence, his tongue sweeping against yours with a possessive rhythm that sent a jolt straight to your core.
You let out a muffled whimper, your hands instinctively finding the hard, muscular planes of his chest.
He didn't care about the shadows of the alleyway or the distant sound of a passing car. He didn't care that the Red Hood was supposed to be a symbol of justice, not a man driven to madness by a single touch. He only cared about the way you melted against him.
Heâd dreamt of this.
His hands, large and calloused, slid down your sides. Gripping your hips with a strength that bordered on bruising. He forced you back against the cool brick of the building, the contrast of the cold stone and his searing heat making your head spin.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. His eyes searched yours, still hidden behind the mask. Frantic and obsessed, looking for the recognition that the bond was screaming in your blood too.
You didn't understand it yet, but you felt it. A deep, aching need to be undone by him.
He dropped to his knees.
It was an act of worship and a display of dominance all at once. The great Red Hood, the terror of the underworld, kneeling in the dirt of a dark alleyway at your feet.
His hands moved frantically, tugging at your clothes, baring you to the midnight air. He didn't wait.
He didn't even ask. He simply descended.
When his mouth found you, the world vanishd.
The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of his breath, the rough texture of his tongue, and the sheer, unyielding intensity of his focus.
He ate you with a desperation that was terrifying, his tongue swirling and probing, seeking out every nerve ending as if he were trying to find the very center of your soul. His jaw aching from the stretch. He was relentless, a hunter who had found the most precious treasure and refused to let a single drop of sensation go unharvested.
You arched your back, your fingers tangling in the collar of his jacket, a choked cry escaping your throat. You were unanchored, drifting in a sea of pleasure. Every lick, every suction, every flick of his tongue was a brand, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.
He looked up at you for a fleeting second, his eyes dark with a terrifying, beautiful madness, before burying his face in you again. He wasn't just pleasuring you, he was consuming you. And as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your gut, you realised with a dizzying sense of awe that you didn't want to be saved from him. You wanted to drown in him.
his hands slid from your hips to your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you to the brick so you couldn't drift away.
He was greedy. He swallowed your gasps, he drank in the sounds you made, as if he were trying to ingest the very proof of your pleasure. The rough texture of his tongue was a beautiful friction against your most sensitive skin, a rhythmic, punishing, perfect pressure that sent white hot sparks dancing behind your eyelids.
"Please," you choked out, though you didn't even know what you were asking for. More. Stop. Don't ever let go.
You hadnât ever felt anything this intensely since you were fifteen and it felt like youâd lost everything.
He responded by surging forward. The sensation was too much. Like a tidal wave. A sudden, violent fracturing of your senses. You felt the tension coil in your gut, tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the point of breaking, until finally, the dam burst.
You cried out, your voice lost to the shadows of the alley, as your body shuddered in the throes of a release so powerful it felt like a seizure.
You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your head lulling back against the wall as waves of liquid crashed through you.
He didn't pull away when you came. He stayed with you, his mouth still pressed to you, drinking in the aftershocks, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. Gulping as he attempted to swallow it all down.
He stayed there until the tremors subsided, until you were left limp and breathless, trembling in the sudden silence of the night.
Slowly, he rose. He didn't stand up fully at first, lingering in the space between your legs, his eyes looking up at you from the darkness. The white lenses of his helmet were gone, replaced by the raw, unfiltered gaze of the man beneath. He looked wrecked. You couldnât recognise him in the darkness.
He looked like he had just survived a war, or perhaps, like he had finally come home from one.
He reached up, his gloved thumb brushing a stray tear or perhaps just sweat from your cheek, his touch unexpectedly tender for a man so violent in his passion.
"Don't ever look at anyone else like that," he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that promised both protection and imprisonment. "Do you hear me? Just me."
You couldn't answer. You could barely breathe. You could only stare at him, realising with a sinking, exhilarating dread that the man you had been idolising from afar hadn't just found you.
He had hunted you down. And he had no intention of ever letting you go.
To anyone else, the apartment was just a quiet, dimly lit space in a safe corner of Gotham. To Jason, the silence was loud. Deafening.
It was a constant, rhythmic thrumming that echoed the frantic beating of his own heart every time he thought of you.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the shadows of the room clinging to his broad shoulders like a shroud. He was stripped down to his joggers, his skin still humming with the phantom sensation of your warmth. It had been weeks since that night in the alley. Weeks since he had tasted you, since he had felt the way you shuddered under his touch and the hunger had only grown.
It wasn't a hunger for food or sleep. It was a hollow, aching void in his chest that only your presence could fill.
He closed his eyes, but that was a mistake.
The moment his eyelids fell, you were there. He could see the curve of your neck, the way your eyes had widened in the dark, the way you had looked so beautifully, helplessly undone by him.
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He hated how much power you had over him. He was a man who had stared down death and spat in its face, yet here he was, a prisoner to the memory of a person who didn't even know the half of what he was thinking.
He stood up abruptly, the sudden movement sending a jolt of restless energy through his limbs. He paced the small expanse of the room like a caged predator, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
His gaze drifted to the door.
The door was a thin, pathetic barrier. Just a few inches of wood and metal separating him from the world. And just twenty feet away, you were sleeping in a bed that wasn't his. You were breathing air that he wasn't providing.
The thought was intolerable. It felt like a physical wound, a fracture in his soul that refused to knit back together.
He wanted to tear the door off its hinges. He wanted to storm through the halls and break down your door until he could wrap his arms around you and never, ever let go. He wanted to mark you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to him by the very scent of your skin.
A low, frustrated growl escaped his throat. He reached for his waistband, his movements frantic, driven by a need that was as much about desperation as it was about lust.
As his hand closed around himself, he groaned, his head falling back. He wasn't just imagining the sensation of your hands or the heat of your mouth; he was visualising the way you would look if he finally claimed you properly. He imagined you pinned beneath him, your eyes searching his, seeing the madness there and choosing to stay anyway.
He closed his eyes tight, his breath hitching as he moved. You, he thought. A silent, prayer like chant in the dark. It has to be you. Has to be mine.
Every stroke was a frantic attempt to bridge the distance. He pictured your face, the way you had looked at him with that mixture of awe and terror. He wanted to protect that look, to be the only thing you ever saw, the only thing you ever felt.
He wanted to be your savior, but more than that, he wanted to be your entire world.
When the release finally came, it wasn't peaceful. It was a violent, shuddering explosion that left him gasping, his body tensing as if he were fighting an invisible enemy. He slumped back against the bed, his chest heaving, the sweat cooling on his skin.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
He stared at the ceiling, his eyes dark and predatory. The hunger hadn't faded; it had only sharpened. The "hunter" in him was tired of the chase. He was done watching from the shadows. He was done being the ghost in your periphery. Done playing the annoying neighbour.
He was going to bring you home. And once he had you, he would make sure you never had a reason to look for anyone else ever again.
The decision settled over him with terrifying clarity.
For months, Jason had told himself he was being patient.
While he learned your routines. While he watched Gotham become more dangerous by the day. While reporters dug through every corner of the city looking for Red Hoodâs soulmate. Patient while criminals, mercenaries, and psychopaths searched for weaknesses they could exploit.
Patient while the universe dangled you in front of him and expected him to trust fate to keep you safe.
He was done being patient.
Jason rose from the bed.
The apartment felt suffocating. Too small. Empty.
Too far away from you.
His jaw tightened.
People always talked about soulmates as though they were something soft. Romantic. Gentle.
They never talked about what happened when a man like Jason Todd found his.
Nobody wanted to acknowledge that fate had teeth.
The universe hadnât given him a lover. It had given him a reason. A purpose. Something precious enough to protect at any cost.
And Jason had never been particularly good at respecting limits.
He crossed the room and stopped beside the window. Gotham stretched endlessly below. A city of predators. A city that took and took and took.
His city.
For years it had stolen everything from him.
His childhood. His family. His life.
It wasnât taking you too.
The thought settled into his bones like concrete. Absolute.
A slow breath left him.
Then another.
The panic that had haunted him since the article disappeared.
The uncertainty disappeared with it.
Because for the first time since finding you, Jason finally understood what he needed to do. Not watch. Not wait. Definitely not hope.
Act.
The realisation settled like relief.
People would worry. People always worried.
Then life would continue.
Heâd experienced it firsthand.
It always did.
Nobody would know that somewhere far from Gothamâs noise sat a small house hidden among thick forests and winding roads.
A place with reinforced doors. A stocked kitchen. Bookshelves filled with things youâd enjoy. Fresh fruit by the windowsill. A home prepared long before Jason admitted why heâd prepared it.
A home waiting for its rightful occupant.
Waiting for you.
His soulmate.
His future.
His.
Jason rested his forehead against the cool glass.
For a brief moment, he imagined the future.
You arguing with him over breakfast. Rolling your eyes at his terrible jokes. Curled against him on quiet evenings. Safe. Always safe.
Youâd fight him at first.
He knew that.
Heâd try his best to remember not to take it personally.
Youâd be angry. Terrified. Confused. But eventually youâd understand. Eventually youâd realise nobody would ever love you the way he did. Nobody would ever sacrifice what he would sacrifice. Nobody would ever protect you so completely.
You were made for him for a purpose, after all.
The soulmate bond had survived death itself. Survived shattered souls and broken destinies.
The universe had torn you two apart once. It would never get the chance to do so again.
A smile touched his mouth. Small.
Outside, Gotham continued to roar.
Inside, Jason finally felt at peace. Because the hunt was over.
He had found what belonged to him.
And this time, Jason Todd wasnât ever letting go.
Gang I tried really hard & researched what others have done to write gender neutral smut. Iâve read it over like a quadrillion times and genuinely canât tell if it even makes sense anymoređŠ
8K+ Words, 48K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 647 paragraphs, 24 minute average reading time, 39 minute average speaking time.
Read Dick Graysonâs part here
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