PAIRINGS: yandere!arkham knight/jason todd x reader | WC: 10k
SUMMARY: when you find out that your situation-ship you met at a bar a while back has literal trackers on you, you try to end things. only problem is that he isn't to keen on letting you go.
WARNINGS: angst, captivity, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, toxic love, emotional abuse, bittersweet ending, lowk only semi-canon jason todd bc it’s a yandere fic…
A/N: another thing from my drafts that i just tidied up. its lowk been a while since ive played arkham knight but it has always been one of my favorites lol. it may be a little ooc tho so my bad! i need more arkham knight verse fics its so good ughhhh. i know a lot of people would say that jason would be a good or at least decent boyfriend, but i feel like that's only after he made ‘peace’ with batman. jason is a traumatized, bruised man, he's not gonna have a perfect relationship with someone. esp since this is a yandere arkham knight jason, i imagine him to be particularly more unstable. if you want me to keep posting please consider hearting and/or reblogging my posts, maybe even following 🥹 i was considering writing a batfam x neglected!sis reader too but i dunno….. plsplsplsplspps send requests in tho
you’re sitting on the worn couch, the one with the springs that dig into your ass if you sit too long. the apartment is quiet, too quiet for your liking at least. it’s always like this when he’s gone. a hollow echo of his absence.
you sit and you wait, and you never fucking know when he is actually going to show up, it takes days to weeks to sometimes (albeit rarely and never more than one) a month.
you trace the faded pattern on the cushion with your finger, your mind replaying the last few months, trying to piece together how the fuck you got here.
it started in that dive bar, the one on the very end of crime alley. you were just trying to forget a shitty day, planning to recklessly spend your last savings on some cheap drink, when he slid onto the stool next to you. dark hair and pretty eyes, and a massive ‘J’ scar on his cheek that promised you chaos.
jason. he also had this massive, ridiculous frame that looked like it belonged on a football field, a white streak in his dark hair that made him look older than he probably was, and a grin that was way too cocky for a guy wearing a jacket with literal stains (whether those were tear or blood stains you do not know and do not want to know) on the collar.
he bought you a beer and he made a terrible joke about the smell of the pier. you laughed, and he looked at you like you were the first person who had actually listened to him speak in ten years.
even though he was cracking jokes, didn’t say much back then. he just sort of… watched you, and god, it was intense. one drink turned into another, then his hand on your arm, a spark, a pull you couldn’t ignore. you went back to your place. it was reckless, stupid, but you didn’t care. you hadn’t felt alive like that in years.
it was a good night. a really great night. after you woke up in the morning, everything felt heavy and loud and sweet that if you were a disney princess, birds would’ve surrounded you and you would've broken out into song.
after all, who wouldn’t be happy about bagging the hot bad-boy guy of their dreams? how could've you known that jason was well…
an actual fucking criminal.
because then the pattern started. the exhausting, fucked up pattern.
he stays for three days straight, sleeping like a dead man with his arms wrapped so tight around your waist you can barely breathe.
he cooks breakfast and burns the toast every single time, muttering under his breath while he scrapes the black stuff into the sink, looking slightly flustered in a way that made you giggle.
it also made you oddly aware that while jason has a strict routine he abides himself to, he really doesn’t know how to take care of himself. you took over breakfast, lunch (unless you both got take out) and dinner while teaching jason to cook meanwhile.
his arms wrapped around you, slowly kissing your neck while paying attention to your teachings with half a mind.
he kisses the top of your head before you go to work. and then, without a single word, he just disappears.
he is more like a storm, or a hurricane. you can't control neither and what they do. because when you guys are good, you're great, and if you're bad, it's fucking awful.
he’d sweep into your life, sweep you off your feet, then disappear without a trace. no calls, no texts, just gone. for days, sometimes weeks.
his phone goes straight to voicemail, that stupid, grainy recording of his voice saying ‘leave a message or don't, i don't care.’
you spent the first week he did this crying, thinking the worst. gotham is a graveyard; people get eaten alive by this city every single day. of course you fucking thought he died! he basically screams danger and danger attracts danger.
especially with that arkham knight guy being on the lose and wrecking havoc - apparently even batman struggled with him.
you checked the news reports for bodies found in alleyways. then, just when you are about to finally pack his extra hoodies into a trash bag and throw them away, he crawls back through your window at three in the morning. he is usually bleeding when he does this and he always smells like gun oil.
this is what made you figure out he probably is a criminal too.
and if you dare to ask him where he was? he snaps. he gets this ugly, defensive snarl on his face, slamming his fist against the kitchen counter until the dishes rattle in irritation. ‘don't start with me,’ he'll yell, his beautiful eyes looking more terrifying than endearing in the dark. ‘i was busy. i’m here now, aren't i? drop it.’
then he pulls you against him, rough and needy, burying his face in your hair until you give up and hold him back. he didn't even put a label on your relationship and never ever referred to you as his girlfriend. there were no promises made. you aren't his girlfriend. you are just the person he runs to when he needs some refuge, and you are so damn tired of it. why should you put up with this?
you’d try to move on each time he was gone, to forget the way his body felt against yours, the way his lips tasted like - but then he’d be back once more. a key in the lock, the heavy thud of his boots.
there was one time jason found out about your ‘moving on’ shit, and went completely off the rockers.
talking as in, he made sure you would never see the guy again as he didn't reach out to you anymore after jason ‘met up’ with him.
luckily he didn't get mad at you, although it was safe to say he was certainly irritated. fortunately (or unfortunately) he stayed a bit longer with you after that.
he’d never apologize and never explain. just took what he wanted, and you, like a fucking idiot, would let him. you’d tell yourself it was just sex… friends with benefits sort of situations to explain the affection. just a distraction, but the way he looked at you, sometimes, like you were the only good thing in his fucked-up world, made you hope. made you darn stupid, too.
to say the least, jason was a paradox. the days he stayed were usually great. he’d fix your leaky faucet without a word, leave crisp hundred-dollar bills on your nightstand, hold you in his arms at night so protectively.
he’d bring you takeout from that little chinese place you loved, remembering your order even when you more often than not forgot it yourself.
a harsh word, a possessive grip on your arm, a flash of anger in his eyes if you even looked at another man. you soon realized into this… situationship that he was one jealous bastard, but you told yourself it was just his fucked-up way of caring because you liked him.
you were a civilian, a nobody, living in crime alley. you didn’t need this drama. but you couldn’t seem to let go.
you were stuck in this hellish situationship, doing everything lovers did, but without the label, without the commitment, without the safety net.
it was exhausting, mentally draining. you felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next disappearance, the next outburst.
today, the tired feeling didn't make you want to cry. it just made you angry.
your eyes drop to the coffee table.
right there, sitting next to a half-empty mug of stale coffee, is the plastic back of your phone. next to it is the little green motherboard, and right in the center of the chip is a tiny, black dot that does not belong there.
it is a tracker. a real, high-tech tracking chip glued right inside the casing. you only found it because your battery was draining in two hours flat, and you took the case off to see if the battery was swelling.
hell, when you thoroughly checked all your apps, you even noticed a small, almost invisible icon.
it was tucked away in a folder you rarely open because you had a lot of apps installed on your phone, buried under a bunch of default apps.
you tapped it and what was it? a damn tracking app alongside a tracking chip. ‘find my phone.’ but you didn’t install it. you’re sure of it.
and that isn't even the worst part.
your hand goes into your pocket, your fingers curling around the cold, heavy square of metal you scraped off the undercarriage of your car an hour ago.
you had to crawl into the wet gravel of the apartment parking lot, ruining your favorite jeans, just to pull the magnetic box off the axle. it has a little red light on the side that blinks every five seconds.
like a little eye watching you turn every corner, watching you go to the grocery store, watching you visit your family.
the bastard was tracking you because who else could it be? the jerk is literally tracking your every move.
the anger in your throat feels hot.
how long has he been doing this? since the bar? since the first time he stayed over? you let this guy into your bed.
you let him hold you while you slept, hell, you slept with him! and all the while, he was treating you like a dog on a leash.
the lock on the front door clicks.
your whole body goes stiff and the heavy wooden door swings open, jason steps inside.
he looks… regular. he is just wearing a black leather jacket and gray jeans, his boots dark from the rain outside. he has his keys in one hand and a paper bag from the bodega in the other.
"hey," he grunts, not even looking at you yet as he kicks the door shut with his heel. "they had those stupid little powdered donuts you like. the bag is greasy, so don't put it on the-"
he stops. he finally looks up, his blue eyes taking in the posture of your body, the way your shoulders are hunched, and then his gaze drops down to the coffee table.
he sees the phone parts and then he sees the magnetic box. he takes a step back and he closes the door behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
jason doesn't flinch at the accusation. he doesn't look guilty. he just sets the bodega bag down on the kitchen counter, his movements really damn slow for someone caught red handed.
he unzips his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the kitchen chair, revealing the tight black t-shirt underneath.
his shoulders are massive, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
"you're scratching the table," he says and it irks you how casual he sounds.
"what is this, jason?" you whisper. you try to keep your voice steady, but the edge of it breaks. you pick up the metal box from your pocket and slam it down onto the wood. it makes a loud, ugly clack. “what is this?"
jason walks over. he doesn't stay across the room; he comes right into your space, towering over the coffee table. he looks down at the little black eye blinking on the wood.
then, his mouth twitches.
a sound comes out of him. a low, breathless huff. his head tilts back, and he actually starts to laugh. it is a ridiculous, barking laugh in the small living room. he rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head like you just told the stupidest joke he has ever heard in his entire life.
is he serious right now? he is laughing?
"oh, man," he mutters, his voice dripping with this dark, annoying amusement. he sets his hands on his hips, looking down at you with a grin that makes your skin crawl. "you actually crawled under the car? wow. i gotta give you credit for that one. didn't think you had it in you to get that dirty."
"stop laughing!" you scream, standing up so fast your knees hit the table, sending the coffee mug rattling. "it isn't funny! you are stalking me! you put a tracker in my phone, jason! you put a tracker on my car! who do you think you are?"
he shakes his head, still chuckling. “you’re so dramatic, doll. it’s just a little precaution. a security measure, if you will.” he walks a little closer. “for your safety, obviously.”
"a security measure?" you feel like you are losing your mind. the room feels smaller. "i am a normal person, jason! i go to work, i come home, i buy groceries. i don't need a security measure! you have no right to do this to me. we aren't even dating! we aren't anything. you're the one who didn't want the labels, remember? you disappear for weeks and you don't tell me anything, but i'm supposed to let you track me like a criminal? what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
the mention of the labels makes his jaw lock. the smirk finally vanishes from his face, replaced by a dark, sudden irritation. his blue eyes narrow, fixed on yours.
"don't use that against me," he snaps, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. "the no-label thing was your choice too. you didn't press it. and don't give me that civilian crap. do you know what city you live in? it's fucking gotham. do you have any idea what kind of people are walking these streets? i put those there to keep you alive. you think i want to wake up one day and find out some guy put a knife in your throat for ten bucks? you think i want you missing?"
"i don't care why you did it!" you yell back, the tears finally burning behind your eyes, hot and angry. "i don't care! it's over, jason. whatever this messed-up thing is between us, it's done. i’m telling you to leave or i will. pack up your boots and get out of my apartment! don't come back. i never want to see you again."
silence follows then, you can hear the rain starting to lash against the glass of the window - a frantic, tapping sound that does nothing to calm your nerves.
you expect him to explode.
you brace your body for him to throw something, to scream, to kick the coffee table across the room. you know his temper.
but jason just stands there.
he tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning your face, taking in your trembling lips, the wetness on your cheeks, the way your hands are clenched into fists at your sides.
the anger seems to drain out of him, but it isn't replaced by regret. it is replaced by this patronizing, deeply unsettling calm. he looks at you the way a parent looks at a toddler throwing a tantrum. like you are just being silly. like you are saying something impossible.
"you're emotional," he decides quietly.
he steps forward, closing the final bit of distance between you. before you can move, before you can bolt, his large, calloused hand comes up. his fingers curl around the side of your face, his palm warm against your jaw.
you flinch, trying to jerk your head back, but his grip is solid. it isn't hurting you - he isn't squeezing - but it is completely unyielding. you can't move an inch away from him.
"get off me," you hiss, your voice cracking.
"shh," he murmurs softly, his thumb moving in a slow, gentle stroke across your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear. his eyes are dead serious now, staring straight into yours with a terrifying kind of clarity.
"you're stressed. you're not thinking clearly right now. you had a bad day, you found the gear, and now you're panicking. there is simply no way you'd leave me."
is he crazy? he has to be crazy. you are literally telling him to leave, and he is talking to you like you're a tired kid.
"i mean it, jason," you choke out, your hands coming up to push against his chest. his muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. he doesn't even budge.
"let go of me. it's over."
"you're not like him," jason whispers, his voice dropping so low it is almost a growl, but he isn't looking at you anymore. his eyes are focused on something far away, something dark inside his own head. "you're not like him. you wouldn't abandon me. that man... he replaced me before my body was even cold in the dirt. but you? you're too good for that. you're sweet. you're gentle. you wouldn't just throw me away over a couple of trackers."
his thumb presses a little harder against your skin, grounding himself.
"i know i have my issues," he continues, his voice steady, reasonable. completely unhinged. "i know i disappear. i know it's hard. but it worked up until now, didn't it? we had fun. we have a good thing here. after everything i've done to keep you safe in this city, you wouldn't just leave. you're just confused."
he pulls his hand back suddenly, leaving your skin feeling cold. he takes a step back, sighing as he checks the heavy watch on his wrist. his demeanor shifts in a second, like he is suddenly remembering he has somewhere else to be.
"i gotta go," he says smoothly, adjusting the collar of his t-shirt. "i have a lot of work to do tonight. some things to take care of downtown."
"did you hear a single word i said?" you scream at his back as he walks toward the front door. "i'm breaking up with you! i am leaving! the second you walk out that door, i am packing my bags and i am going somewhere you can't find me!"
jason stops right by the entryway. he doesn't turn around to face you. he just looks down at his boots.
"you'll understand eventually," he says calmly.he doesn't reach for the doorknob. instead, his hand goes into his back pocket, and he pulls out a sleek, thin control pad. it looks military-grade, the screen glowing with a blue light.
his thumb taps the glass three times.
the sound is massive. it vibrates right through the floorboards, rattling the bones in your feet.
you gasp, spinning around. from the top of your living room windows, heavy, solid steel shutters are slamming down. they drop with a terrifying speed, obliterating the view of the gotham skyline, cutting off the neon lights, cutting off the rain.
the apartment goes completely black for a split second before the dim lamps on your side tables flicker back to life.
then comes the sound from the door.
the heavy deadbolts on your front door are moving on their own. you watch the metal knobs turn, locking once, twice, three times. a computerized hum echoes from the frame.
you sprint across the room, your socks sliding on the hardwood. you throw your weight against the heavy wood of the door, grabbing the handle and pulling with everything you have. it doesn't move. it feels like trying to pull open a bank vault. you twist the lock manually, but the little metal piece is stuck fast, held in place by an electronic current.
you slam your fists against the wood, the impact stinging your knuckles. you can hear his footsteps on the other side, slow and completely relaxed as he walks down the hall.
"just get some rest," his voice comes crackling through the apartment's small intercom system near the kitchen. it sounds smooth, completely unfazed, like he is just telling you he'll be late for dinner. "i'll be back in a few days. don't do anything stupid. don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. don't want you getting hurt, doll."
the intercom clicks off with a dull static hiss.
the apartment is completely silent now. the heavy steel over the windows muffles even the sound of the thunder outside.
it is just you, the dim yellow light of the lamps in the apartment , and the greasy bag of donuts sitting on the counter.
you slowly slide down the front door, your back scraping against the wood until your knees are pulled up to your chest. your hands are shaking so bad you can barely interlock your fingers.
he locked you in. he actually locked you in.
your mind is spinning, a wild, chaotic mess of panic and fear. you look at the broken pieces of your phone on the coffee table.
the tracker is gone, but the battery is out, and even if you put it back together, jason probably blocked the signal somehow.
he did this. jason did this. the guy who holds you when he has nightmares. the guy who looks so small and broken when he thinks you aren't looking.
and the absolute scariest part? the thought that makes your stomach turn completely upside down?he didn't do it because he was angry because you know jason when he's angry. he didn't do it to punish you.
as you stare at the greasy paper bag on the counter, a tiny, sickening thought starts to form in the back of your brain, creeping in like poison.
he really thinks he is protecting you. he genuinely believes that this is love. he thinks that by locking you in a box, by stripping away your choices and your life, he is keeping you safe from the world that hurt him.
he thinks he is saving you.
and you're not tech savy at all, so you have no idea how you are ever going to get out.
what the hell do you do now? you sit on the floor for what feels like hours, the wood is hard and cold under your thighs.
your knuckles throb from where you banged them against the door, a dull, aching heat that matches the rhythm of your heart which is beating like crazy.
the silence in the apartment does only more to creep you out. usually, you can hear the faint rumble of the subway two blocks over, or the muffled shouts of people arguing in the street below. now, there is nothing. just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of the lamps.
jason really did it. he fucking locked you in.
your eyes drift back to the coffee table. the little green motherboard of your phone sits there like a corpse. you push yourself up from the floor, your legs shaking slightly. you walk over and pick up the battery, forcing it back into the plastic slot with clumsy, trembling fingers. you snap the back cover on and hold down the power button.
the screen lights up. thank god… the little loading logo spins and spins. you hold your breath, waiting for the home screen to pop up, waiting to call for help, to call anyone, really. except jason of course.
the screen finally loads… but there are no service bars. there is just a little x next to the signal icon. no network available. you try to connect to the apartment wi-fi. the network name is there, but when you tap it, a red box pops up: access denied by administrator.
"fuck," you whisper, slamming the phone face down onto the couch cushion repeatedly.
he didn't just block the physical door. he blocked the damn airwaves, he erased your voice from the outside world with a few taps on a damn screen. how fucking long did he have this installed anyways and you didn’t know?
you walk over to the living room window, the heavy steel shutter looks like a garage door, thick and matte black, sealing you off from the glass. you reach your hand out, your fingers hovering an inch away from the cold metal.
don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. his voice echoes in your head, so casual, like he was warning you about a hot stove instead of literally electrocuting yourself while trying to break free from him.
you pull your hand back, pulling it tight against your chest. you want to scream. you want to kick the walls until your toes break. instead, you walk into the kitchen.
the greasy paper bag from the bodega is still sitting on the counter. you open it, your eyes burning as you look inside. three powdered donuts, white and fluffy, smelling faintly of sugar and oil.
he bought them because he knows you get a sweet tooth when it rains - knows exactly how you like to get comfortable and put on a movie and snack while listening to the rain. he bought them right before he decided to turn your life into a fucking prison.
the contrast makes you nauseous. he makes you nauseous.
you shove the bag away, throwing it into the trash can under the sink.
you spend the rest of the night pacing. you check the bathroom. no windows there, just an exhaust fan that blows cold air from a vent way too small for a person to squeeze through.
you check the bedroom. another steel shutter, solid and of course, unbreakable.
you are trapped in your own home. four walls, a kitchen, a bed, and a door that won't open.
by the time the clock on the stove says 4:00 AM, the adrenaline finally runs out. your body feels like lead. you crawl into bed, fully dressed, keeping your boots on. you don't pull the covers up. you just lie there on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling, watching the dim light from the hallway cut across the plaster.
your brain won't shut up. it keeps looping back to the bar, when you first met. to the way he laughed, to the way he held your hand when you walked through the park. how did you not see this? how did you let a guy this dangerous get so close to you?
because he was nice, the quiet voice in your head answers. because when he looked at you, he looked like he was starving and you were the only food in the world. he made you feel wanted, needed.
it is a messed up thought. you roll onto your side, burying your face in the pillow, trying to shut it out.
you lose track of morning and night because the shutters never go up. the only way to tell time is the digital clock on the oven. 12:00. 04:00. 08:00. the numbers just keep changing, a slow countdown to nothing.
you try to keep a routine. you wash your face. you eat cereal and snacks because you can't be bothered to cook. you watch movies on the dvds you have stacked under the tv, but you can't focus on the dialogue. your ears are always strained, listening for the door.
on the fourth day, the electronic hum changes pitch.
your whole body goes rigid. you are sitting on the kitchen stool, a glass of water in your hand. you set it down so fast some of it splashes over the counter.
the heavy deadbolts slide back. the door swings open.
he doesn't look like the guy in the leather jacket anymore. he looks tired. really, really tired. he is wearing a dark gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick, pale scars running up his forearms. his hair is messy, sticking up in different directions like he has been running his fingers through it for hours. he carries a large paper bag full of fresh groceries in one arm.
he looks at you. his blue eyes are bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin underneath them.
"hey," he says. his voice is a low, gravelly rasp.
not saying anything back, you just stand up and back away, until your spine hits the refrigerator.
maybe you can make it out?
your eyes slide to the open door behind him. just for a second. just a tiny glance.
of course he fucking notices because nothing can ever go your way. he doesn't get mad, though. he just kicks the door shut with his boot, and the automatic locks hiss back into place before the wood even settles in the frame.
"brought some stuff," he mutters, walking into the kitchen. he sets the grocery bag on the counter right next to where you were sitting. he starts pulling things out. milk. eggs. fresh bread. apples. a couple of steaks wrapped in butcher paper. "figure you were running low on the good stuff. didn't want you living on crackers. not good for your health, y'know?"
he talks like he just got back from a business trip. like he didn't lock you in a box for ninety-six hours.
"let me out, jason," you say. your voice is dry, barely louder than a whisper, but it makes its way through the room.
jason stops. his hand is hovering over a carton of eggs. his shoulders drop, a long, heavy sigh escaping his nose. he doesn't look at you. he just keeps his back turned, his large hands resting on the edge of the counter.
"we're still on this?" he asks, his tone leaning into that familiar, sassy irritation. "i told you, babe. it's not happening. it's dangerous out there right now. things are getting… messy downtown, you're safer here."
"i don't care about downtown!" you scream, the anger exploding out of you because the quiet was suffocating you for four days straight. you step away from the fridge, your fists clenched.
"i don't care about your stupid excuses! you can't keep me here! this is kidnapping, jason! this is a crime! the cops are going to look for me. my job... my boss is going to call the police when i don't show up!"
jason finally turns around. he leans back against the counter, crossing his massive arms over his chest. the dark circles under his eyes make him look menacing, but his expression is completely blank.
"you don't take me for an amateur, do you? that's already handled," he says calmly.
your heart drops. "what?"
"your boss got an email from your account two days ago," jason explains, his voice entirely too casual. "you resigned. family emergency out of state. handled your landlord, too. rent is paid for the next six months in advance. nobody is looking for you… and your friends won't reach you. i'll make sure of that.”
the air leaves your lungs in a painful gasp.
the son of a bitch thought of everything. he systematically erased your life while you were sitting on the couch watching movies.
"you son of a bitch," you choke out. the tears are back, hot and blurry, blinding you. "you absolute piece of shit."
you lunged at him. you don't even think about it, the pure, raw panic taking over your muscles. you swing your fist, aiming right for his arrogant face.
jason doesn't even blink. his hand moves like lightning, catching your wrist in mid-air. the impact makes a dull thud. his grip is like iron, wrapping completely around your skin.
before you can swing with your other hand, he grabs that wrist too, pulling both of your arms down, pinning them against his chest.
you try to pull away, twisting your body, kicking at his shins with your boots. "let go of me! let me go!"
“stop it," he grunts, easily absorbing your kicks. he doesn't hit back. he doesn't even shake you. he just holds you tight against his chest, locking your arms so you can't move. "stop throwing a tantrum. you're going to hurt yourself."
"it's not a tantrum!" you scream right into his face, your chest heaving against his. "it's my life! you stole my life!"
jason's face tightens. for a split second, the calm mask cracks, and you see that raw, volatile anger flashing in his eyes.
he leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.
"i saved your life," he says, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly register that doesn't sound like the man you thought you knew at all. "you think the system cares about you? you think this city cares? if i leave you out there, you're just a target. some freak in a mask or some low-life with a gun will take you just to get to me, or just because they can. i'm the only one who actually gives a shit about keeping you breathing."
he squeezes your wrists a little tighter, just enough to make you wince, before he suddenly lets go. he steps back, breathing heavily, running a hand through his dark hair.
the anger drains out of him as fast as it came, replaced by that weird, unsettling calm. he looks at your red wrists, then looks away, his jaw clenching.
"i'm making dinner," he decides, turning back to the grocery bag. "go sit down."
you stand there for a second, your breath hitching in your throat. your wrists ache where his fingers were.
if you could, you would fight more but your damn knees feel like water. what is happening instead is the reality of the situation settling on you.
there is no police backup coming. there is no landlord coming to check the apartment.
you are completely, utterly alone with him.
you slowly walk back to the living room and sink into the couch.
the kitchen fills with the sound of cooking. the clatter of a frying pan. the sharp hiss of meat hitting hot oil. the smell of butter and garlic starts to drift into the living room. it is your favorite meal. the one you told him about during that rainy night a while ago when you were both crammed into the booth at the diner.
you sit in the dim light, listening to him move around the kitchen.
he didn't hit you at least. he could have broken your wrists, but he didn't. it is a terrifying thought, so you try to shake it away, angry at yourself for even thinking it. you shouldn’t be grateful that he didn’t do it - it's the normal fucking thing to do.
he locked you up, he lied to your boss and he is a criminal.
but as you look at the kitchen doorway, watching his massive shadow move against the wall, a sickening wave of pity hits you.
he looked so tired when he walked in. those dark circles under his eyes... he looks like he hasn't slept since he left.
well, why should you care? your fingers are digging into the couch fabric.
let him be tired. he deserves it. but… the memory of his voice stays with you. i’m the only one who actually gives a shit. he said it with so much conviction. he genuinely, truly believes he is the good guy here. he thinks he is the hero protecting his prize or pretty little civillian.
you look up. jason is standing in the doorway, holding two plates. the steak is perfectly cooked, steam rising from the meat, smelling incredible. at least his cooking has improved greatly.
he has washed the grocery dust off his hands, too. he looks at you, his blue eyes nervous, completely devoid of the anger from a few minutes ago. he looks almost like a little boy waiting to see if he's in trouble.
"you hungry?" he asks softly.
you don't answer, you just stare at the plate.
jason walks over, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of you, setting the plates down between you. he picks up a fork and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours. his touch is oddly gentle now. so soft it hurts.
"eat," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your face, watching for any sign of a smile, any sign that the storm has passed. "i made it exactly how you like it."
you take the fork because your stomach is hollow and you don't have the energy to fight the food. you cut a small piece of meat and put it in your mouth.
instantly, jason's whole face changes. the tension leaves his broad shoulders, a tiny, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes brighten up, completely mistaking the fact that you are starving for the fact that you are forgiving him.
"good, right?" he says, his voice lighter, returning to that sassy, familiar jason from the bar. "told you i could cook. better than that greasy diner crap."
you chew slowly, looking at his bandaged forearms, at the ‘J’ scar on his cheek. your mind is a chaotic mess, twisting itself into knots just to make the air in the room breathable.
if he loves you this much, maybe it's not a cage? maybe you're just the only thing he has left to save. you know that deep down jason is a good guy… you just need to get through his head that locking you up is not okay.
you swallow the food, the warmth of the meal settling in your chest, even as the walls of the apartment feel like they are closing in forever.
the clock on the microwave says it is three in the afternoon, but it might as well be midnight. who fucking knows anymore. trying to convince him that locking you up is a literal crime? yeah, that was a massive waste of breath.
you tried screaming until your chest burned, tried crying until your eyes felt like they were full of sand, and what did he do? he just patted your head like you were some stray mutt throwing a fit over a leash.
you’ve pleaded, you’ve reasoned. you’ve pointed out every single logical flaw in his plan. that locking you up isn’t okay. that it’s illegal?? that it’s wrong. but it doesn’t work. it never works.
he just looks at you, sometimes with a flicker of irritation, sometimes with that infuriating calm he always has. he treats your arguments like tantrums. your attempts to escape, like childish games. he gets low-key pissed, you can tell, but he puts up with it. he just waits for you to tire yourself out. for you to ‘understand’. well, fuck him. you’re not understanding anything.
but the weirdest part is the anxiety. it isn't hurtful anymore. it doesn't claw at your throat the way it did during those first few awful weeks. the panic has dulled into this flat, heavy numbness.
you aren't constantly checking the door handles or looking for a way to break the steel shutters because your brain is just too fucking tired to care. you know exactly what your day looks like: four walls, the same couch cushions, and him.
and honestly? he is around all the time now. he used to ghost you for weeks, leaving you to wonder if he was lying dead in some gutter, but now he is practically glued to the apartment. he is running some massive, terrifying crime empire from your living room, barking orders into a secure radio headset while sitting in his sweatpants, but he never takes his eyes off you for long. you knew he was a criminal but you didn’t know it was this big.
should’ve left him when you had the damn chance, fuck those books for making you believe bad boys are hot.
his personality is still the exact same exasperating, moody mess it always was.
one minute he is making some sarcastic, sassy comment about the trashy reality tv show you're watching, and the next he is staring at the wall with this dark look that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.
but… he is calmer. you can see it in the way his shoulders don't bunch up as much. having you under his thumb twenty-four-seven is apparently like a fucking sedative for him. he knows exactly where you are, so he doesn't have to worry about the world chewing you up.
whenever you do try to pick a fight - whenever you yell at him to give you the door code or throw a couch pillow at his stupid head - he doesn't even take you seriously.
“are you done with your little tantrum yet?" he sighs, not even looking up from the laptop where he is tracking weapons shipments. his jaw clenches, and you can tell he is low-key pissed that you are still complaining, but he just puts up with it. he treats your valid, desperate desire for freedom like a toddler's mood swing. "i told you to sit down. stop stressing yourself out over nothing."
it drives you insane, but the real nightmare hits on another day.
the deadbolts hiss and click with a frantic, messy speed. the front door flies open, and jason practically stumbles into the living room.
your breath hitches. he is wearing that terrifying, high-tech tactical gear - the dark armor, the camouflage plates, the massive arsenals strapped to his thighs. but the bright blue helmet is cracked completely open down the center, pieces of the visor missing, revealing his sweat-soaked, pale face beneath it. his shoulder is torn apart, dark, thick blood soaking through the fabric and dripping onto your rug.
you stand up slowly from the couch, staring at him. and suddenly, the pieces finally click together in your head.
the radio orders… the high-tech military lockdown on your apartment… the brutal, faceless armor.
he's the ‘arkham knight’ or at least thats what you think they call him (not that you could look it up). the psycho the news has been screaming about for months. the guy trying to tear gotham apart and who seems to have a strong vendetta against batman and robin and whatever else bat creature works with ‘em.
fuck. fuck. fuck. you’re living with a supervillain. a fucking supervillain.
you don't run to help him. you just stand there by the cushions, your face completely cold and indifferent. good. you hope it hurts.
jason stops in the middle of the room, ripping the broken helmet the rest of the way off his head and letting it heavy-drop onto the floor with a loud metallic clang. he looks up, his blue eyes bloodshot and wild, taking in your dead expression. his face twists into something incredibly upset, a raw look of betrayal taking over his features.
"you're just gonna stand there?" he asks, his voice cracking, sounding so small and pathetic despite the massive armor. "what? no sympathy? no ‘oh, jason, are you okay?’ after everything? god, you're looking at me like a piece of garbage.”
"you are a piece of garbage, jason!" you snap, the numbness finally breaking as the anger surges back into your throat. "you're killing people! you're running a fucking militia! you're out there hurting the good guys, trying to destroy the city, and you have me locked in a box like a goddamn trophy!”
"the good guys?!" jason yells, stepping toward you, his boots leaving wet, bloody streaks on the floor. his eyes have that scary look once more.
"you think batman is a fucking good guy? you don't know shit! that son of a bitch left me! he let the joker torture me in an abandoned wing of arkham asylum for over a year! a whole fucking year! i was rotting in the dark, screaming for him, and do you know what he did? he replaced me! he got a new robin before my body was even cold! he abandoned me!"
“he’s not the good guy. he’s a hypocrite. a self-righteous bastard who thinks he knows best.” the raw pain in his shout rattles the glasses in the kitchen. his chest heaves under the heavy chest plate, his lips trembling.
"and now you," he whispers, taking another desperate step toward you, his good hand reaching out, his fingers shaking. "why are you trying to abandon me too? after everything i've done to keep you safe from them? why does everyone fucking leave me?"
you feel a sudden pang of pity in your stomach. it makes you feel sick. he looks… so broken. no one ever took care of him. hell, you taught him how to cook and reminded him regularly to care for himself too and not only you. you hate yourself for it, but the thought is there.
fuck. you’re starting to feel bad for him. you’re starting to justify his cruelty because of his past torture. you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but feel bad.
you open your mouth to answer him, to tell him that keeping someone hostage isn't love, but jason violently shakes his head. he slams his eyes shut and pulls back, turning his face away.
he can't handle the truth. he never stays long enough to let you actually answer because he knows it will break his twisted reality.
instead, he forces the old normalcy back into the room like a suffocating blanket. he lunges forward, his large hand gripping your jaw to tilt your head up. he leans down and shoves his lips against yours.
it is a desperate, heavy kiss. he forces his tongue deep into your mouth, kissing you with a frantic, needy hunger, moving his mouth against yours as if this messy, aggressive display of affection can somehow make the kidnapping and the blood disappear.
he acts like you're still those two people from the bar, completely ignoring the prison he built around you.
tears finally slip down your cheeks, hot and miserable. you start to curse at him between his suffocating breaths. "fuck you... jason, stop... let me go, you psycho..."
jason pulls back a fraction of an inch. seeing you cry makes a look of genuine, agonizing heartbreak cross his face. he looks like he wants to die right there just because he made you weep. but his brain snaps out of the panic within a second, his jaw hardening into a defensive line and his eyebrows furrowing as he lets go of you and sighs.
"suck it up," he snaps, his voice rough and loud as he drops his hand from your face. he turns his back on you, gripping his bleeding shoulder. "it's for the best, you're safe here. just stop fucking crying."
he stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door hard behind him.
the apartment drops into a dead, awful silence. you slide down onto the couch, staring at the floorboards. through the thick walls, you can hear him. he isn't patching himself up yet. he is just sitting on the bathroom floor, his back against the door, completely quiet.
you can already guess what he's doing because he tends to lock himself away and sulk after he came back without telling you why - now you know.
he is sitting out there, deeply wondering why you are so unhappy, because his broken mind completely refuses to accept the obvious truth: he is the reason.
twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opens.
you don't hear him yelling or cursing anymore. instead, the clattering of bowls and spoons starts up in the kitchen. he is moving fast, working with a nervous, hyperactive energy.
jason walks back into the living room a few minutes later. he took off the heavy tactical armor, wearing just a pair of loose gray sweatpants. his left shoulder is crudely wrapped in white gauze, a fresh red stain blooming right through the middle of the fabric. in his hands, he is holding a small bowl. it's that stupidly sweet chocolate lava cake you always order when you're stressed out.
he stops in front of the couch, holding the bowl out toward you. his blue eyes are incredibly wide, practically vibrating with anxiety.
"you want a sweet treat?" he asks. his voice is so soft it sounds like a different person. he is totally desperate for you to take it.
you don't even have the energy to fight him anymore.
you are just too mentally tired to shove him away or throw the bowl across the room or do whatever. you take the small spoon and take a bite of the warm, rich cake.
instantly, jason brightens. the terrifying aura he just had a few minutes ago disappears, and the heavy tension completely drains from his massive shoulders. a small, relieved smile tugs at his lips. he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your chocolate-stained lips, and this time, you don't even try to push him off. you just let him hold you.
as his arms wrap around your waist, you sigh.
he looks so tired… your eyes ate tracking the fresh blood soaking through his bandage as the thought from earlier creeps up once more. he was tortured for a year. and knowing that he was ‘abandoned’ (as he put it) by batman, leaves you to guess he was the past robin - which means he'd been fighting for so long. you find yourself actively justifying his cruelty, maybe it’s just your mind bending over backward just to make the captivity feel bearable.
if he is doing this because he was broken by the world, then maybe he isn't a complete monster. maybe he's just someone who went through hell, and you're the only peace he has left.
the clock on the oven says it has been four days since he crawled back bleeding from his fight with batman, and jason hasn’t moved from the couch once (except to go the bathroom or eat something, but thats barely).
the living room smells like old copper and cheap rubbing alcohol be probably used for his wounds. he looks like a giant, broken action figure slumped against your throw pillows, his knees bent because he is way too fucking big to fit on the cushions properly.
you are stuck playing nurse, and honestly? it is the most exhausting shit you have ever had to deal with. you have to change the gauze on his shoulder twice a day, and every single time you peel the sticky white tape back, he tenses up like he’s about to swing at you.
look at him. he’s a literal psycho who runs a militia, and now you’re the one scraping the dried blood out of his skin. this is so fucked.
but as you set the bowl of warm water down on the coffee table, the thoughts in your head do that weird, annoying flip they keep doing lately. you look at the nasty, puckered scars on his collarbone - not the fresh one from batman, but the old ones from, you assume, the joker.
if you were forced to fight all your life, then abandoned and tortured and replaced, no wonder he turned out like this. how could anyone be normal after that?
"you're staring," jason grunts, his voice incredibly raspy from sleep. he shifts his weight, wincing as the movement pulls on his stitches, his jaw clenching hard.
"i'm trying to see if you're dying yet," you say, your voice flat as you sit down on the edge of the couch by his hips. you reach out and pull the zipper of his hoodie down, exposing the messy, blood-stained gauze covering his left shoulder. "sit up. i need to change the wrapping."
jason lets out a sassy, annoyed huff, but he rolls his shoulders back anyway, letting his head drop against the top of the couch. "you wish i'd die. then you'd have to figure out the door code yourself, and you're waaay too dumb for military encryption."
"fuck you, jason," you mutter, but there is no real heat behind it anymore. the cuss words just slide out of your mouth out of habit, like a routine the two of you play.
ou start peeling the old tape away. your fingers are surprisingly steady. a few weeks ago, touching him like this would have made your heart hammer against your ribs in pure panic. now? you just want to get the dried blood off so he stops groaning in his sleep. you dip a clean washcloth into the warm water and start dabbing at the edge of the wound. the gash from batman's batarang is deep, a nasty purple line held together by clumsy black stitches jason did himself in the dark and you're glad that you're not the one fighting the big scary bat of gotham.
jason lets out a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth when the wet cloth hits his skin. his good hand flies up, his thick fingers locking around your wrist.
you freeze, your eyes snapping to his face. "jason. let go. i can't fix it if you're holding me."
he stares at you, his blue eyes wide and entirely too bright. he looks so young when the cocky smirk drops off his face. he is looking at you like he's terrified you're going to push the cloth into the wound on purpose just to hurt him. but then he looks down at your wrist in his grip, notices the way his fingers are squeezing your skin, and his expression instantly softens into that weird, guilty panic. he drops his hand back to his lap like he just got shocked.
"sorry," he mutters, turning his head away so he doesn't have to look at you. "just... it stings, alright? don't press so hard."
“i'm barely touching you, you big baby," you say, but you make your movements even slower, gently wiping the copper-colored crust away from the stitches.
the silence settles over the room again. it’s that heavy, suffocating quiet that used to make you want to scream. but today, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the quiet feels almost... cozy. the steel shutters are still down over the windows, blocking out the absolute hellscape of gotham outside, and for the first time, you don't feel like a hostage. you feel like you're in a bunker. he’s keeping the bad stuff out. the city is full of monsters.
if you were out there alone, who would look out for you? nobody. bruce didn't even look out for him.
you finish cleaning the blood and unroll the fresh white gauze, taping it down securely over his skin. “there, done. stop moving around so much or you're gonna rip the thread."
you start to stand up to take the bloody water back to the bathroom, but jason moves like lightning. his good arm hooks around your waist, his massive hand anchoring into the fabric of your shirt, and with one easy pull, he drags you down onto the couch right next to him.
"jason, stop, the water-"
"leave it," he murmurs softly, burying his face straight into the crook of your neck. he is so heavy, his broad shoulder pressing into your side, his breathing hot against your collarbone. his whole body relaxes the second your skin touches his, like you're some kind of medicine that stops his brain from firing.
“just stay here. i'm freezing."
you sit perfectly still, your hands hovering in the air. you could shove him. his shoulder is hurt; if you pressed your elbow right into the stitches, he'd yell and let you go, and you could run to the kitchen and grab a knife. you could try to fight him.
but as you look down at his dark hair, your fingers twitch. he still looks absolute exhausted. and during your stay here, and even before, you never noticed anyone looking for him. he has nobody else. if you leave him, it will completely break him.
your hands slowly come down, your fingers sliding into the soft, messy strands of his hair. you give a tiny, tired sigh, leaning your weight back against the pillows, completely letting him hold you. jason lets out a low, content sound in the back of his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit more, pulling you so close there is no space left between you at all.
you close your eyes in the dim yellow light of the lamp, completely numb to the trap, just letting the warmth of his body wash over you until the rest of the world doesn't matter anymore.
the apartment is so quiet it makes your ears ring. you sit on the edge of the mattress, your knees pulled tight against your chest, staring at the empty hallway. he’s been gone for five days this time. five whole days of absolutely nothing.
you catch yourself straining your ears, tilting your head toward the front door. you are listening for the heavy thud of his military boots in the corridor. you are waiting for that loud, hiss of the deadbolts sliding back. you even miss the static-heavy crackle of his army radio and the stupid, sarcastic comments he makes about the clothes you wear.
"fuck," you mutter into the dark room, slamming your forehead against your knees.
you get so pissed at yourself. the irritation burns in your chest, making you feel sick and disgusted with your own brain. you know exactly what he’s done. you haven't forgotten the trackers. you haven't forgotten the day he trapped you in this box and systematically erased your old life. he is a criminal, a psycho in a mask, a kidnapper.
yet, the apartment feels completely empty without him.
the reality is just brutal and simple: you have no other company.
jason is the only person you ever see now. he is the only voice you get to hear. he’s the one who brings the bags of groceries so you don't starve, the one who gently cleans the sparks-burns off your fingers when you get too close to the windows, and the one who provides the only warm comfort you can get in this living hell. he completely controls when the doors open and close.
after months and months of that twisted routine, not missing him would almost be stranger. your brain has been entirely re-wired by the isolation, shrinking your whole universe down until he is the sun.
you stand up, your socks padding silently across the floorboards as you walk into the living room. the dim yellow lamp throws long, creepy shadows against the walls.
you sit down on the couch, rubbing your arms against the chill in the air. the apartment feels like a tomb when he isn't here to fill it up with his massive frame and his loud, angry energy.
you stare at the front door, your heart doing a pathetic, eager flutter when a pipe rattles in the wall. false alarm. just the building settling.
you lean your head back against the cushions, closing your eyes in the dark. you hate him for what he did, but god, you just want the locks to hiss. you just want him to come home.
the months just blur together into one long, dark room. you stop looking at the clock on the stove because the numbers don't actually mean anything when the windows stay covered.
the shouting stopped weeks ago. you don't even remember the last time you threw a pillow at him or screamed until your throat was raw. what was the point anyway? it never changed anything.
now, when the heavy door clicks open, you don't look for a gap in the frame to bolt through. you just look at his chest, looking for the dark stains of fresh blood, tracking his posture to see where he is hurting so you can grab the medical kit before he even asks.
tonight, the deadbolts slide back with a soft, familiar hiss.
jason steps inside, but he isn't wearing the heavy, terrifying carbon plates or the broken blue helmet. he is just wearing an oversized, soft gray hoodie and dark sweatpants, his hair messy and damp from the rain. he looks completely normal, like.. civilian-like normal (as civilian like as he could be).
he doesn't say a word. he just crosses the living room with heavy, exhausted strides and slumps right onto the couch next to you. before you can even move the book in your lap, his massive arms wrap around your waist, pulling you hard against his chest. he buries his face straight into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that vibrates right through your ribs.
"missed you," he mumbles against your skin, his voice thick with a deep, crushing weariness.
your hands hover over his shoulders for a second. a few months ago, your brain would have been screaming at you to fight, to scratch his scars and make him feel pain. you would have been calculating how to steal his control pad, tracing the seams of the steel shutters, or figuring out a way to break his high-tech system.
but tonight, your mind is completely quiet. the thoughts that crawl up are different now. they are softer, maybe more dangerous than planning an escape too.
you know this is bad. you know it is totally messed up, but you just can't help it anymore. maybe it really is better to just stay. it's not like a normal civilian could outdo the damn arkham knight anyway. he ran a whole military empire from your coffee table; what chance did you ever have of outsmarting him? plus, when you really think about it, it's not even so bad anymore.
the apartment is warm, the fridge is always full of the food you like and you don’t have to worry about bills or rent or break-ins. the heavy steel shutters over the windows don't feel like a cage anymore. they feel more like a massive shield, keeping the horrific, violent streets of gotham away from the two of you. the city outside is burning, full of freaks and monsters, but in here, nobody can touch you. he keeps you safe.
your fingers slowly drop, sliding into the damp, soft hair at the back of his neck. you lean back into the cushions, letting your body mold against his chest, finding a strange, heavy comfort in the tight, bruising grip of his arms.
jason pulls back just a fraction of an inch, his blue eyes searching your face. his thick thumb comes up, nervously tracing over your lower lip, his shoulders tense as he waits for the usual cold, dead look you always give him.
instead, you look right back into his eyes. and you let out a small, tired smile.
jason gasps. it is a soft, breathless sound, and his entire face instantly brightens with a pure, childlike joy. the dark, paranoid lines on his forehead completely melt away. he smiles back - a genuine, radiant smile that makes him look completely whole, like the boy who never got loved enough.
he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, holding you as if you are the most precious thing in the entire universe.
"you finally understand," he whispers against your mouth, his voice trembling with a massive wave of relief. "you're not going to ask to leave anymore, right?"
you close your eyes, burying your face into the soft fabric of his gray hoodie, completely surrendering to the warmth of the trap.
