Red Hood x Reader with ED || Masterlist || Request! A/N: uhh... I have no idea what I just did
Dividers by: @enchanthings
Jason notices something is wrong long before you ever say it out loud. He’s spent years reading micro-expressions on people who are trying to hide pain—criminals, allies, himself—so the way you push food around your plate, the tension in your shoulders when someone mentions calories, the way you disappear after meals… he clocks it. He doesn’t call you out immediately. He just starts paying closer attention, cataloging every little thing so he can help without making it worse.
He never forces you to eat. Never. He knows control is a huge part of it, and the last thing he wants is to become another voice telling you what your body “should” do. Instead he makes food feel safe. He’ll cook simple, nourishing meals with no commentary on portions. If you only manage a few bites, he’ll quietly wrap the rest and leave it in the fridge with a sticky note that just says “whenever you want, no pressure, baby.”
Jason becomes fiercely protective of your recovery space. If anyone (even well-meaning family like Dick or Alfred) says something that could be triggering, Jason shuts it down instantly—sometimes too sharply. He’s not polite about it. He’s seen too many people destroy themselves; he’s not letting anyone speed that up for you.
On bad days when the mirror is your enemy and every inch of your body feels wrong, Jason pulls you into his lap, scarred hands gentle on your hips or waist. He’ll press his forehead to yours and murmur, “You're perfect darling and I'll kill anyone else who'd disagree.” He says it like a vow.
He tracks your good days and celebrates them quietly—new takeout place you actually enjoyed, finishing a meal without disassociating, wearing something that doesn’t hide you. He remembers every single one and brings them up when you’re spiraling: “Remember last Thursday? You ate the whole damn sandwich and called it ‘okay.’ That was huge. You’re still doing huge shit even when it doesn’t feel like it. Now eat baby.”
Jason’s own trauma with his body (the Pit, the scars, the way it was used against him) makes him understand the alienation from your own skin in a way most people can’t. Some nights you trade ugly truths—him about resurrection and feeling like a monster in his own corpse, you about the ED. The vulnerability goes both ways. It’s the most intimate thing either of you have ever done.
He’ll go to appointments with you if you want him there. He sits in the waiting room looking like a tattooed wall of muscle, but he’s nervous as hell and takes notes on his phone like the overprotective boyfriend he is. Later he’ll read whatever resources the doctor gave you and ask thoughtful (if gruff) questions.
Physical affection is one of his biggest love languages with you. He loves touching you—rubbing your back, kissing your stomach even on days you hate it, tracing old scars or stretch marks with reverence. He wants you to associate his hands with safety and want, not judgment.
If you relapse, he doesn’t get angry at you. He gets angry at the disorder. You’ll come home to him cleaning the kitchen with more force than necessary, but the second he sees you he softens, pulls you close, and says, “We start again tomorrow. Or in ten minutes. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s surprisingly good at distraction techniques. Late-night motorcycle rides when your thoughts get too loud, reading to you when you can’t sleep, dragging you to a rooftop to watch Gotham’s chaos so your brain has something else to focus on. He’ll even watch terrible rom-coms with you if it keeps you present.
Jason calls you “his” in that possessive, Red Hood way, but with your ED it takes on new meaning: “You’re mine to keep safe. That includes from the shit in your head.” It’s not controlling—it’s the one place you’re allowed to let someone else carry some of the weight.
On days when you feel like too much or not enough, he reminds you that he fell in love with the person who fights every single day, not a number on a scale. “I’ve died and come back wrong. You think a little scar tissue or whatever the fuck your brain is telling you matters to me? You’re still the best thing in my fucked-up life.”