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@oohyasumi
I am my target audience, you’re watching me through the window at the psych ward
Hi lovely! If you’re still taking requests I was wondering if you could do angst/ comfort where reader doesn’t know Jason is red hood and he keeps missing important events, reader confronts him which leads to a fight so reader stops including him in outings, night outs, work events, etc thinking he’s just not interested.
When he realizes he grovels and confesses? I would eat that up ❤️❤️❤️
The Space You Left
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
The first time Jason missed something important, you told yourself it was just bad luck.
Your company's awards dinner—the one where you were receiving recognition for the project you'd spent eighteen months leading—fell on a Friday night. Jason had promised he'd be there, had even helped you pick out your dress the week before, spinning you around your apartment and telling you that you'd be the most beautiful person in the room.
"I'm so proud of you," he'd said, kissing your forehead. "I can't wait to watch you accept that award."
But when the night came, his seat beside you remained empty.
You checked your phone obsessively between courses. No calls. No texts. Just silence where his support should have been.
You accepted your award with a smile that felt like it might crack your face, thanked your team, and tried not to notice the pitying looks from your coworkers who'd heard you mention your boyfriend would be there.
Jason showed up at your apartment at 2 AM, bruised knuckles and a cut above his eyebrow that he brushed off as "a stupid accident at the gym."
"I'm so sorry," he'd said, pulling you into his arms. "There was an emergency at work. I tried to get out of it, I swear, but my boss—"
You'd accepted the apology because you loved him. Because accidents happened. Because he looked so genuinely devastated that you couldn't stay angry.
The second time, you told yourself it was coincidence.
Your best friend's wedding. You'd been talking about it for months, had your dress picked out, had confirmed with Jason at least five times that he'd be your plus-one.
"I promise," he'd said the night before. "I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it."
But when you waited outside your building in your bridesmaid dress, makeup perfect and hope still intact, he never showed.
You went alone. Smiled through questions about where your boyfriend was. Made excuses about work emergencies and unavoidable conflicts. Caught the bouquet and felt nothing but hollow.
Jason had shown up the next morning with flowers and apologies, another cut on his face, moving stiffly like his ribs hurt.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he'd repeated, and you'd wanted to scream at him but he looked so broken that you'd just cried instead.
By the third time—your mother's birthday dinner, the one where you were finally introducing him to your family—you'd stopped telling yourself anything at all.
You'd just started recognizing a pattern.
The fight happened on a Tuesday night, after Jason missed your work anniversary celebration.
Three years at your company. Your boss had taken the team out to celebrate, had specifically asked you to bring your boyfriend because he'd "heard so much about him."
Jason had promised. Had sworn up and down that he'd be there. Had even set three separate alarms on his phone while you watched.
You'd waited at the restaurant for forty-five minutes, making increasingly desperate excuses, before finally admitting he wasn't coming.
When Jason showed up at your apartment that night—late again, another bruise blooming on his jaw—you didn't let him in.
"We need to talk," you said, blocking the doorway.
"I know. I'm sorry. There was—"
"An emergency at work," you finished flatly. "Right. There's always an emergency at work."
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like, Jason?" Your voice cracked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you just don't care. About me. About my life. About anything that doesn't involve whatever mysterious job you have that always seems to require you at the exact moment I need you."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" You laughed, and it came out bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I've sat alone at four major events in the last six months. Four, Jason. My awards dinner, my best friend's wedding, my mom's birthday, and now this. Do you know how humiliating it is to constantly make excuses for you? To watch people's faces when I tell them my boyfriend couldn't make it again?"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but if you'd just let me explain—"
"Explain what? That your job is more important than me? I already figured that out."
Jason's face went hard. "My job is complicated—"
"Then uncomplicate it! Get a different job! Do something that doesn't require you to disappear at random intervals with no explanation!"
"I can't just—it's not that simple—"
"Why not?" You were crying now, angry tears that you couldn't stop. "Why can't you just be honest with me? Tell me what's so important that you can't even send a text to say you're not coming. Tell me why you keep showing up with bruises and cuts that you brush off with obvious lies. Tell me why I feel like I'm in a relationship with a ghost!"
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"From what?!" You shouted. "From your job? From the truth? Or from having to actually commit to this relationship?"
Jason flinched. "That's not—I'm committed. I love you—"
"Do you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm an afterthought. Something you fit in when it's convenient. When there's no 'work emergency' pulling you away."
"You know that's not true—"
"Do I?" You wiped at your eyes. "Because all I know is what you show me, Jason. And what you show me is that I'm not a priority. That whatever you're doing is more important than being there for me."
"It's not about importance—"
"Then what is it about? Because I'm tired of guessing. I'm tired of making excuses. I'm tired of feeling like I'm in this relationship alone."
Jason reached for you, but you stepped back.
"Don't. Just—don't." You took a shaky breath. "I can't keep doing this. Waiting for you to show up. Hoping that this time will be different. I deserve better than this."
"You do," Jason said quietly. "You deserve so much better than this. Than me."
"That's not—" You stopped. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."
You closed the door in his face and pretended you couldn't hear him standing outside for the next twenty minutes before finally leaving.
After the fight, you stopped inviting Jason to things.
It started small. Your coworker's happy hour on Friday—you just didn't mention it. The gallery opening your friend invited you to—you went alone. Your company's quarterly dinner—you told them your boyfriend couldn't make it and didn't bother asking.
Jason noticed.
"Hey, didn't your team have that thing tonight?" He asked one Thursday when he showed up at your apartment.
"Yeah. It was fine."
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
You looked at him over your laptop. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it."
"You didn't even ask."
"Would you have come?"
The silence was answer enough.
Jason's jaw clenched. "That's not fair. You can't just assume—"
"I'm not assuming anything. I'm just saving us both the disappointment." You turned back to your screen. "Besides, you were probably busy with work anyway."
"I would have tried—"
"Jason." You closed your laptop. "It's fine. Really. I'm not mad. I just... I've adjusted my expectations."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've stopped expecting you to be there. It's easier this way."
You could see the words hit him, watched his expression crack before he carefully put it back together.
"I don't want you to stop expecting things from me," he said quietly.
"Then maybe you should have shown up," you replied, and opened your laptop again.
Your birthday was the breaking point.
You didn't tell Jason about the party your friends were throwing. Didn't mention the dinner reservation. Didn't say anything when he asked what you wanted to do to celebrate.
"Nothing special," you'd said. "Just a quiet night in."
"Are you sure? We could go out, do something nice—"
"I'm sure. I'm pretty tired lately anyway."
It wasn't a lie. You were tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of being disappointed. Tired of feeling like you were the only one trying.
Your birthday fell on a Saturday. You went to brunch with your friends, then to the spa, then to dinner at your favorite restaurant. You laughed and drank wine and accepted gifts and tried not to think about the fact that your boyfriend wasn't there.
Tried not to think about the fact that you hadn't wanted him there.
That night, when you got home to your apartment, Jason was waiting outside your door with flowers and a small wrapped box.
"Happy birthday," he said, smiling. "I know you said you wanted a quiet night, but I thought maybe we could—"
He stopped when he saw what you were wearing. The dress. The heels. The makeup that was clearly not for a quiet night in.
"You went out," he said slowly.
"Yeah."
"You said you wanted to stay in."
"I changed my mind."
"You didn't tell me."
"You didn't ask."
Jason's hands clenched around the flowers. "Where were you?"
"Out with friends. Dinner. The usual birthday stuff."
"You didn't invite me."
"No."
"Why not?"
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the hope in his eyes, the hurt, the confusion. At the flowers he'd brought and the present he'd wrapped. At this man you loved who could never seem to show up when you needed him.
"Because I knew you wouldn't come," you said simply. "Or you'd promise to come and then cancel last minute. Or you'd show up two hours late with an excuse I'm supposed to accept without question. And I didn't want to deal with that on my birthday."
"I would have come. If you'd asked, I would have—"
"Would you?" You unlocked your door. "Because you didn't come to my awards dinner. Or my best friend's wedding. Or my work anniversary. Or any of the other dozen things I've invited you to in the last six months. So forgive me for not believing that my birthday would be any different."
"That's not fair—"
"Stop saying that!" You turned on him, suddenly angry. "Stop telling me what's fair and what's not when you're the one who keeps disappearing! When you're the one with the secrets and the bruises and the mysterious job that always takes priority!"
"I'm trying—"
"Are you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like you're just... going through the motions. Showing up when it's convenient. Leaving when something better comes along."
"You're not—there's nothing better than you—"
"Then prove it!" The words came out broken. "Show up. Be present. Stop making me feel like I'm in this relationship alone!"
Jason looked at you, and you could see him struggling with something. Some secret he wanted to tell but couldn't. Some truth that was caught in his throat.
"I can't," he said finally. "I can't explain. Not yet. But I need you to trust me—"
"I'm tired of trusting you, Jason. I'm tired of waiting for you to let me in. I'm tired of feeling like I don't actually matter to you."
"You do matter. You matter more than anything—"
"Then act like it!" You were crying now. "Because right now, all I feel is alone. And if I'm going to be alone anyway, I might as well make it official."
The words hung between you, heavy and final.
"What are you saying?" Jason's voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm saying that maybe we should take a break. Figure out what we really want."
"I know what I want. I want you—"
"You want the idea of me. The convenient girlfriend who doesn't ask too many questions. Who accepts your excuses. Who waits patiently while you live your secret life." You shook your head. "But I can't be that person anymore. I won't."
"Please. Just give me a little more time—"
"Time for what? For you to miss more events? To come up with more excuses? To keep me at arm's length while you do whatever it is you're doing?" You stepped into your apartment. "I've given you six months, Jason. Six months of understanding and patience and benefit of the doubt. And I'm done."
You started to close the door, but Jason caught it.
"I love you," he said desperately. "I know I've been shit at showing it, but I love you. Please don't do this."
"I love you too," you said, and your voice broke. "But love isn't enough when you're the only one fighting for it."
This time when you closed the door, he let you.
Jason stood outside your apartment for a long time after you closed the door, the flowers wilting in his hand, the birthday present in his pocket feeling like a lead weight.
He'd fucked up. He knew he'd fucked up. But he hadn't realized how badly until tonight, seeing the look in your eyes when you told him you were done.
Done waiting. Done hoping. Done with him.
He made it three blocks before his phone rang. Dick.
"Can't talk right now," Jason said.
"You need to get to the Bowery. There's—"
"Handle it without me."
Silence. Then: "Are you okay?"
"No. But that's my problem. I'm taking the night off."
"Jason—"
He hung up and went to the only place he could think of.
Roy opened his door to find Jason standing there with wilted flowers and a devastated expression.
"She broke up with me," Jason said.
"Shit. Come in."
They sat on Roy's couch, and Jason told him everything. Every missed event. Every excuse. Every time he'd chosen Red Hood over you because it seemed more urgent, more important, more necessary.
"I thought I was protecting her," Jason said, staring at his hands. "Keeping her separate from the vigilante shit. Keeping her safe."
"By lying to her?"
"By not telling her. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Roy leaned back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've been lying by omission for six months. And she noticed."
"I know." Jason's voice was rough. "I just—I thought if I could keep her away from this life, she'd be safer. Happier."
"Was she? Happy?"
Jason thought about your face tonight. The resignation in your eyes. The way you'd stopped expecting him to show up.
"No," he admitted. "She was miserable. Because of me."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know. She said she's done. That she can't keep waiting for me to let her in."
"Then let her in."
"It's not that simple—"
"Why not?" Roy interrupted. "You love her, right?"
"Of course I love her—"
"Then tell her the truth. All of it. The Red Hood stuff. The reason you keep disappearing. Give her the choice instead of making it for her."
"What if she can't handle it? What if knowing puts her in danger?"
"What if keeping her in the dark is what loses her?" Roy met his eyes. "Jason, you're already losing her. At least if you tell her the truth, you're losing her honestly."
Jason was quiet for a long time. Then: "What if she hates me? For lying for this long?"
"She might. But she'll hate you more if you keep lying. And at least if you tell her now, you're giving her the respect of the truth." Roy paused. "She deserves that much, don't you think?"
"Yeah." Jason stood. "She deserves a lot more than I've been giving her."
"So go give it to her."
"Not tonight. Tonight she needs space." Jason headed for the door. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I'm telling her everything."
You weren't expecting Jason to show up at your door Sunday morning.
You definitely weren't expecting him to look like he hadn't slept, or to be carrying a duffel bag, or to say "I need to tell you everything" before you'd even said hello.
"Jason—"
"Please. Just—let me talk. And then if you want me to leave, I'll leave. But I need you to hear this."
Against your better judgment, you let him in.
He sat on your couch, hands clasped between his knees, and for a long moment, he just looked at you.
"I've been lying to you," he said finally. "Not about loving you. Never about that. But about everything else. About my job. About the bruises. About why I keep missing things."
"Okay," you said carefully. "So tell me the truth."
Jason took a deep breath. Then he unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a red helmet.
"I'm Red Hood," he said.
You stared at him. At the helmet. Back at him.
"You're... what?"
"Red Hood. The vigilante. The one who operates in Crime Alley." He set the helmet on your coffee table. "That's my job. That's why I keep disappearing. Why I have bruises. Why I can never explain where I've been."
You sat down hard. "You're a vigilante."
"Yeah."
"You fight crime. Violent crime. Dangerous crime."
"Yeah."
"And you didn't tell me because...?"
"Because I was trying to protect you. Keep you separate from that part of my life. Keep you safe." Jason's hands clenched. "But all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you didn't matter. Like you weren't important enough to let in."
"Jason—"
"Wait. Please. I need to—I need to explain." He took another breath. "Every time I missed something, it was because someone needed Red Hood. A trafficking ring that couldn't wait. A hostage situation. A tip about a weapons shipment. Things that felt urgent. Important. Life or death."
"So you chose them over me."
"I thought I was choosing both. I thought I could keep you safe by keeping you separate. But I was wrong." Jason looked at you, and there was devastation in his eyes. "I was so wrong. Because all I did was hurt you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the thing that matters most."
You were quiet, processing. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Years. Since before I met you."
"And you never thought to tell me?"
"I wanted to. So many times. But I was scared. Scared that if you knew, you'd be in danger. Scared that someone would use you to get to me. Scared that—" His voice broke. "Scared that you'd leave me if you knew what I really was."
"What you really are," you repeated. "And what's that?"
"Someone who's done terrible things. Someone who's killed people. Someone who's more comfortable with violence than he should be." Jason's hands were shaking. "Someone who doesn't deserve you but loves you anyway."
You looked at the helmet on your table. At this man you loved who had been living a double life. Who had been lying to you for six months while you slowly fell apart.
You should be angry. You should throw him out. You should tell him that this was exactly what you were afraid of—that he'd been keeping secrets, that he hadn't trusted you.
But mostly, you just felt tired.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," you said quietly.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Jason's voice was rough. "I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you weren't important. Like you weren't worth being honest with."
"Why are you telling me now?"
"Because I'm losing you. Because I've already lost you. And I realized that I'd rather lose you honestly than keep you with lies." He moved closer, but didn't touch you. "You said you felt alone. That I was making you feel like you didn't matter. And I can't—I can't let you keep believing that. Not when the truth is that you're everything."
"Everything except important enough to be honest with."
Jason flinched. "You're right. And I have no excuse for that. I was scared and stupid and I convinced myself that keeping you in the dark was somehow protecting you. But all I did was hurt you."
You stared at the helmet. "You're really Red Hood."
"Yeah."
"And every time you disappeared—"
"Someone needed help. Or there was an emergency. Or something that couldn't wait." Jason's jaw clenched. "I'm not making excuses. I chose that life over you, over and over again. And I hate myself for it."
"Why didn't you just tell me? Why let me think you didn't care?"
"Because I thought if you knew, you'd be in danger. That someone would figure out you mattered to me and use you against me." He laughed bitterly. "But I put you in danger anyway. Different kind of danger. The kind where you slowly stop believing you're worth showing up for."
You were crying now, angry and hurt and confused. "I spent six months thinking I wasn't enough. Thinking that whatever you were doing was more important than me. Making excuses to my friends and family and coworkers about why my boyfriend could never be bothered to show up."
"I know—"
"Do you? Do you know how humiliating it was? How alone I felt? How many times I cried because I thought you just didn't care?"
"I care." Jason's voice broke. "I care so much it terrifies me. You're the best thing in my life, and I've been sabotaging it because I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of putting you in danger. Scared of—" He stopped. "Scared of a lot of things. But most of all, scared of this. Of you looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
"You did hurt me."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Jason was crying now too. "I would take it all back if I could. Every missed event. Every lie. Every time I made you feel like you weren't the most important person in my world."
"But you can't take it back."
"No. I can't." He wiped at his eyes. "All I can do is promise to do better. To be honest. To show up. To fight for you the way you've been fighting for me."
"What if that's not enough?"
Jason's face crumpled, but he nodded. "Then that's what I deserve. For being too scared to trust you with the truth. For making you feel alone when you should have felt loved."
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the man you loved who had been carrying this secret. Who had been living two lives and somehow managing to fail at both.
But also at the man who had shown up to tell you the truth. Who had brought his helmet, his secret, his entire hidden life and laid it at your feet. Who was crying because he'd hurt you and couldn't take it back.
"I need time," you said finally. "To process this. To figure out what it means."
"Okay." Jason stood. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide you can't do this—can't be with someone who lives this kind of life—I'll understand."
"Jason—"
"I mean it. I want you to be happy. Even if that means being happy without me." He picked up the helmet. "But if you decide you want to try—if you think we can make this work—I promise I'll do better. I'll show up. I'll be honest. I'll prove to you that you matter."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Whatever it takes. I'll fight for this. For you. For us." He moved toward the door. "I love you. I've loved you from the beginning. And I'm sorry it took losing you for me to realize I needed to show it better."
He left, and you sat alone in your apartment with the truth settling over you like a weight.
Jason was Red Hood. A vigilante. Someone who fought crime and saved lives and put himself in danger every night.
And for six months, he'd been doing it alone, keeping you separate, thinking he was protecting you when all he was doing was pushing you away.
You should be angry. Should be furious that he'd lied for so long.
But mostly, you just felt sad. For him. For you. For the relationship you'd both been trying to save in completely different ways.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Jason.
Jason: I know you need time. But I wanted you to have this.
A link to a folder. Inside were dozens of photos—you at your awards dinner, taken from a distance. You at your best friend's wedding. At your work anniversary celebration. At your birthday party.
Another text.
Jason: I was there. Not the way I should have been. But I couldn't let you be alone. Even if you didn't know it.
You stared at the photos. At the proof that while you'd felt abandoned, he'd been watching. Protecting. Trying to be there in the only way he thought he could.
It didn't excuse the lying. Didn't make up for the loneliness.
But it was something.
You texted back: We need to talk. Really talk. About all of this.
The response was immediate: Whenever you're ready. I'll be there.
You: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My place. Jason: I'll be there. I promise.
And somehow, looking at those photos, at the proof that he'd been there even when you couldn't see him—you believed him.
Jason showed up at 6:45, because of course he did.
When you opened the door, he was holding coffee from your favorite place and a bag of pastries from the bakery you loved.
"I know it's not much," he said. "But I wanted—I needed to show up. Properly this time."
You let him in and took the coffee. "You're early."
"I wasn't going to risk being late. Not for this."
You both sat on the couch, careful distance between you, and for a moment neither of you spoke.
"I don't know where to start," you admitted finally.
"Me neither." Jason set down his coffee. "But I meant what I said. About being honest. About doing better. So... ask me anything. I'll tell you the truth."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
You took a breath. "How did you become Red Hood?"
And Jason told you. About dying. About coming back wrong. About the Lazarus Pit and the rage and the years of trying to figure out who he was supposed to be. About choosing to be Red Hood because he could help people in ways the law couldn't.
You listened, and your heart broke for him. For everything he'd survived.
"I'm sorry," you said when he finished. "That's—that's a lot."
"It is. And I didn't want to burden you with it. I thought if I could keep you separate from all of that, you'd be safer. Happier."
"But I wasn't happy. I was miserable."
"I know. And that's on me." Jason looked at you. "I chose wrong. Over and over again. I chose the mission over you because it seemed more urgent. More important. But I was wrong."
"Were you?" You challenged. "If you'd come to my awards dinner instead of stopping that trafficking ring—would those people have been saved?"
Jason was quiet.
"That's the question, isn't it?" You continued. "Because I understand why you chose what you chose. Lives were at stake. People needed Red Hood. And me—I just needed my boyfriend to watch me accept an award."
"That's not—you're not just—" Jason struggled for words. "Yes, people needed Red Hood. But you needed me. Jason. Your boyfriend. The person who's supposed to show up for you. And I failed at that."
"Because you were saving lives."
"That doesn't make it okay. There had to be a way to do both. To be Red Hood and be your boyfriend. I just—I didn't know how to balance it."
"So you chose."
"I chose wrong." Jason moved closer. "I thought I was being noble. Heroic. Putting others first. But all I did was neglect you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the person who matters most."
"How do I know that?" The question came out small. "How do I know I'm not always going to be second to Red Hood? That the next time there's an emergency, you won't choose it over me again?"
"Because I'm going to do better. I'm going to—" Jason stopped. "I can't promise there won't be emergencies. I can't promise I won't have to leave sometimes. But I can promise to communicate. To let you in instead of shutting you out. To stop trying to protect you from my life and start including you in it."
"What does that look like?"
"It looks like honesty. It looks like telling you when I have to leave for Red Hood business instead of making up excuses. It looks like introducing you to my family—the Bats—so you understand the world I'm part of. It looks like showing up when I say I will, and if I can't, actually explaining why."
You were quiet, processing.
"I know it's not perfect," Jason continued. "I know there will be nights where I have to choose. Where someone's life is in danger and I have to go. But I'm asking for the chance to do it right this time. To be honest about it. To let you decide if this life—if I'm—worth it."
"And if I decide you're not?"
Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "Then I'll accept it. I'll hate it, but I'll accept it. Because you deserve someone who can be there for you. Fully. Completely. And if I can't be that person—"
"Jason." You cut him off. "You can be that person. You just have to actually try."
Hope flickered in his eyes. "Does that mean—are you willing to try? To give this another chance?"
"I don't know yet." You were being honest. "I'm still hurt. Still angry that you lied for so long. Still processing all of this."
"That's fair."
"But I also—" You stopped. "I also love you. And I understand why you made the choices you made, even if I don't agree with them. So I'm willing to try. If you're willing to actually let me in this time."
"I am. I swear I am." Jason reached for your hand hesitantly. "Can I—"
You let him take it.
"I'm going to do better," he said. "I'm going to show up. I'm going to be honest. I'm going to prove to you that you can trust me again."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Starting with this." He pulled out his phone and opened his calendar. "These are my patrol nights. The nights I'm Red Hood. I'm giving you access so you know where I am. What I'm doing. When I'll be back."
You stared at the phone. "You're sharing your vigilante schedule with me?"
"I'm sharing my life with you. All of it. No more secrets. No more lies. Just—honesty. Even when it's hard."
Something in your chest loosened. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We can try. But Jason—if you miss one more important event without a really good explanation, I'm done. For real this time."
"Understood." He squeezed your hand. "I won't let you down again. I promise."
"Don't promise. Just do it."
"I will."
And looking at him—at the determination in his eyes, the hope, the love—you believed him.
It wouldn't be easy. There would be hard nights and difficult conversations and moments where you'd have to choose between being understanding and standing up for yourself.
But maybe—maybe—you could make this work.
Together.
Honestly.
Finally.
Three months later, your company's holiday party was the first real test.
You'd told Jason about it weeks in advance. Had marked it on both your calendars. Had confirmed multiple times that he'd be there.
And when the night arrived, you were prepared for disappointment. Had your excuses ready. Had steeled yourself for another lonely evening.
But Jason showed up.
Not just showed up—he arrived early, in a suit that fit him perfectly, with flowers for you and charm for your coworkers. He held your hand. Laughed at your boss's terrible jokes. Told anyone who would listen how proud he was of you.
When your boss pulled you aside to tell you about a promotion, Jason was there to celebrate. When your coworker asked to take a photo, Jason pulled you close and smiled.
"You came," you said later, standing on your apartment balcony while the party continued inside.
"I promised I would."
"I know. But I was still—"
"Scared I wouldn't." Jason pulled you closer. "I get it. I have to earn your trust back. This is part of that."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For trying. For actually doing what you said you'd do."
"I'm going to keep doing it," Jason said. "For as long as you'll let me. I'm going to keep showing up. Keep being honest. Keep fighting for us."
"Even when it's hard?"
"Especially when it's hard." He kissed your forehead. "You're worth it. We're worth it."
And looking at him—at this man who had finally learned to balance his two lives, who made time for you even when it was difficult, who showed up—you knew it was true.
It wasn't perfect. There were still hard nights. Still emergencies that pulled him away. Still moments where you had to be understanding when you wanted to be angry.
But he was trying. Really trying.
And that made all the difference.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too." Jason smiled. "Now come on. Let's get back to your party. I promised your boss I'd tell him the embarrassing story about your first date."
"Jason, don't you dare—"
But he was already pulling you inside, laughing, present, there.
Finally, completely, honestly there.
And it was everything you'd needed all along.
It’s not lost on me how Jason is the only Robin to come from a life of poverty and crime, and is treated like a fundamentally broken monster in many comic books, given even less grace than Damian. “Something is not right with that boy” FUCK YOU DC. He was twelve years old. Him being slightly agressive because he knew, better than Batman or Nightwing or Barbara, how rotten Gotham was because he GREW UP in that environment did not make him evil or broken.
He just wanted to help people.
School AU??
he's working hard!
Brothers going to the gym
you literally cannot find a news story about domestic violence towards women or women being murdered bg their male partners without seeing multiple men in the comments saying some version of “oh well she wasn’t innocent either” or “what did she do to set him off, women always do something” like they hate us so so so fucking bad. electric chair to all of them idc
⤷ ALMOST SAID , JASON TODD .
summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.
cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)
tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.
wc 𓂃 2.1k.
— oneshot request ! part two of this series.
Snow.
It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.
Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.
That posh dickhead Oliver.
Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.
Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."
Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.
He looks like he walked into the wrong building.
And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.
It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.
Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.
"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."
You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.
"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."
He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.
But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"
Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.
He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.
You'd laughed.
He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.
"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."
He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.
Jason's pen snaps.
The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.
"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"
"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."
You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.
He looks away before you can ask.
Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.
Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.
He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.
He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.
You've never treated him like a ghost.
You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.
You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.
You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.
"I'm cold," you'd whispered.
"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.
"Not without you."
You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."
Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.
He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.
The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.
Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.
You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.
"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.
"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.
Jason wants to shake you.
He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—
"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.
Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.
He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.
The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.
Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.
I've known you since we were nine.
I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.
I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.
You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.
And I can't—
"Jason!"
Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.
"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.
You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.
"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"
"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."
You don't drop it. When do you ever?
Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.
"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."
Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.
He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.
"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.
You blink. "Who?"
He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.
"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
The rest of the walk is silent.
He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"
He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.
But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.
You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.
"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Jason Peter Todd."
He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.
"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."
He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."
"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."
Fifteen years. God.
Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.
Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.
He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.
You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.
And you're still here.
You're still here.
"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.
"Who?"
"Oliver."
You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."
"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"I'm acting like one."
You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.
"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"
Because I love you.
Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.
Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.
Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.
Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.
He doesn't say any of it.
He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.
"Jason," you whisper again.
And he thinks — maybe.
Maybe this is the moment.
Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.
His hand moves before he can stop it.
His fingers brush against yours.
You inhale sharply.
And then—
"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."
You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.
Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.
Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.
"Jason."
He turns.
You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.
"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.
He stares at you.
"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."
"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight."
He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—
Maybe.
Maybe next time.
A/N : He’s such a chud loser I love him
Can We Go Home Now?
Track 1ᵎᵎ ⋆ Track 2 ⋆ Track 3 ⋆ Track 4
pairing: jason todd x ex!reader (almost)
summary: 1.6k w.c. It seems like everybody gets to have Jason except you, and now he's here in your living room.
tw!: breakups, angst, no/mis-communication, are definitely not over each other, poor jason is getting put through it yet again, yearnmaxing, oc!jason todd? (Potential mischaracterization?), no use of y/n or gendered pronouns in part 1 note: My first ever fic so pls bear with me! Shout out to my yearning/breakup playlist for all the ideas, this one is inspired by Sweet Boy by Malcom Todd!
He'd promised you it wouldn't happen again.
You can't count how many times he's come back home after a surprise mission or a patrol that ran too late with his same routine, carrying your favourite flowers and bags of groceries while halfway through the same prepared apology.
The worst part is that you know he does care. That he did want to take you out to dinner to make up for missing some milestone you can’t even remember anymore. On a date to the same restaurant, you finally cancelled the reservation for last week after they refused to postpone it for the third time in a row.
You notice the soft tone he takes with you in the same way you notice that everyone in this city is starting to talk about Red Hood more. It’s been coming for a while. Everyone knows the city has always loved the Bats. You’re living proof of that.
You remember when the suit still had its draw. How you’d pretend to be subtle while checking him out. How the leather draped over him, highlighting his broad shoulders and his thighs that you still refuse to admit you have a soft spot for. He’d tease you for it, for how flustered you got, using that gravelly voice that could only come from the modulator.
Jason Todd kisses like a starved man.
He starts by pulling you towards him by the waist using both of his hands, pushing your bodies together, leaving no space for air or doubt. His hands are steady and strong, afraid of the thought of you moving just one inch away, afraid of the separation. He wants you near, he needs to feel you.
One of his hands moves from your waist to your back, caressing it like something precious, while the other one moves to let his entire arm hug your waist, trapping you in position.
And while his arms are around you, his beautiful eyes are scanning every single detail on your face. Admiring you like something holy, something unreal. In your eyes you're the most beautiful being that has ever stepped on the planet earth. He gets drunk by the sight of you, and the feeling of having you with him.
And while he’s taking his time worshipping you, your hands move to his chest, rising to his shoulders, and finally ending in the back of his head, with your fingers intertwining with his hair.
It doesn’t matter how much time has passed since you both saw each other—it could be years, it could be months, or it could be just one day—the moment Jason’s lips touch yours he can’t hold back.
You taste the desire and longing in his tongue. The kiss is deep, heated and long. Jason only pulls apart to groan, making your entire body shiver with pleasure.
He needs you to be impossibly closer. He needs your hands touching him all the time. He needs to feel your breath against his skin. He always needs more when it comes to you.
Sometimes—whenever the situation allows it—without stopping, his kisses start lowering towards your neck; lower, your chest; lower, your stomach; lower-
But, when the situation is different—and he can’t have you like he wants to—he’s the one that pulls apart first. His body doesn’t move, he’s still holding you against him. His grip hasn’t loosened. It’s still strong, holding you against him, like he is afraid you might run away, or just vanish into thin air.
He admires you again, but this time with pride. Proud of being the reason your lips are swollen now. Proud of being the one having you.
Jason Todd kisses like a starved man, but only because he’s obsessed with you.
A/N: Don't ask me what this is, I don't even know myself. This is probably the closest you're going to get to smut written by me.
Jason as a velcro bf imagine/ideas:
Big tsundere vibes, will come up with a “logical reason” on why he HAS to come with you to your doctors appointment. He HAS to stay close to you on the sidewalk. He MUST stay within your perimeter because "anything could happen..." Very common when he first started catching feelings, over time, he was more honest.
Has a BITCH FIT if he wakes up alone in bed and you’re gone. Mr. Grumpy quietly standing at the entry way of the kitchen as you cook breakfast. Groggy and sleepy. In the end, he has you back in bed with him, wrapped tightly in his arms (and one leg). Gives grumpy kisses before he passes out again but you're not leaving anytime soon.
Your conversations don't end if you need to use the bathroom or have to shower. He’s sitting on the toilet as you wash your hair, chatting about his weird dream last night all to venting about Bruce being an ass (again). He’s a chatterbox with you because of how well you listen and how safe you make him feel to express himself. That's very precious to him.
Casually plays with your hair when waiting in line. Twirling your hair or brushing his fingers through your scalp. This isn’t PDA, at least not intentionally, he doesn’t think about it as that. He just fidgets a lot and playing with your hair happens to calm him down, nothing more....(bombastic side eye)
Randomly puts his hands in your pockets, either your hoodie or your jeans, it’s the best feeling ever to Jason yet it makes you flustered that someone needs THIS MUCH physical contact with you. Especially someone as tough and edgy like Jason who keeps to himself from everyone! When cuddling, Jason likes to listen to your heartbeat as you hold him. It's his favorite song that he can listen to for hours. No one has ever made him feel this way. He occasionally glances at your sleeping face and it only fills him with determination to protect you. You weren't someone with superpowers, mastery of martial arts, or special abilities like others he had known. But you've kept him more safe than any hero he's ever met.
And that's worth fighting for.
jay and the dog i made up for him that coincidentally looks exactly like someone elses canon dog
Jason Todd who, after you leave, can't step foot in his apartment without being sick. Every blank space where you were makes his stomach twist and knot. The silence without you threatens to deafen him
"I'll be gone by the end of the week." He tells his apartment manager. He only packs the essentials, leaving behind a semi furnished, sterile apartment
Jason Todd who spends months and months and months living on a new side of town in a new apartment. Away from every corner café that you frequented and stray cat that you fed. He's doing better, he thinks, until he hears your name on the street
You're not supposed to be here. You have a new apartment downtown. Jason, someone who's faced death more times than any person should, stops dead in his tracks when you look up to greet your friend but make eye contact with him instead
Jason Todd who sees the worst of humanity every single night and continues on with easy steps, feels his knees buckles and legs go weak. And yet gravity pulls him towards you
"Hi..." His voice cracks. He looks at you like you're a ghost and an angel wrapped together in one heartbreakingly beautiful being standing in front of him
"Hey..." You whisper. Your friend watches with bated breath, waiting for the inevitable implosion. But it never comes
"Can we talk?" Jason doesn't think before he asks. With your throat tightening all you can do is nod
Jason Todd who gets blurry vision when he's standing on your doorstep. His heart is racing, his mind a swirling mess
He doesn't know why he's even bothering with this or why you're even entertaining him after what he did. And when you don't answer the door? He tells himself to leave. He tells himself this is a mistake
Jason Todd who feels like he can finally breathe again when you open the door and stand in front of him, until he sees your eyes swollen and red from crying
"Please don't- please don't cry because of me." He murmurs into your temple
Jason Todd who knows he's broken. Jason knows his issues are too big for either of you to handle. But he breaks the second you look up at him like he's still the same man who asked you out with a stutter and wilted flowers in hand
"I hate you." You mumble to him. It's half hearted, weak
"Good. You should." He agrees
"I thought I was over you." You hiccup
"I know." He murmurs
"But I'm not." You choke on your words. Jason holds you tighter
"Me either...." He admits out loud for the first time
Jason Todd who swears on his grave and his grave alone that he is going to spend the rest of his life making sure nothing, not even himself, hurts you again
Part 1 | Part 2
no more ghosts - jason todd
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x jason wayne, todd! reader, reader gets hurt, graphic injury, blood, severe abdominal trauma, near-death experience, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, lazarus pit trauma references, medical trauma, panic, guilt, emotional distress, jason’s death trauma referenced, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist | word count 12.6k
Jason Todd did not trust miracles. Miracles had a bad habit of coming with fine print. He had crawled out of his own grave with dirt in his mouth and death still tucked under his fingernails. He had been dragged back into the world wrong, pieced together by rage and green water and people who looked at resurrection like it was a tool instead of a wound.
So, yeah. Jason did not trust miracles.
He especially did not trust people who called themselves healers. Not that you had ever called yourself that. Other people did it for you.
rough Jason Todd page of sketches.
love that little babyjay in the corner.