HIII !! :0 we've spoken before but I've only realized now I haven't been requesting things anonymously (omg I'm stupid I know lmao) :3 uhmmm here's another idea but it's more of a prompt lol, you can do whatever you want with it :)
Jason or reader : “You stayed.”
Jason or reader : “I’m still deciding if that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
LIKE WE WERE KIDS AGAIN
pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader
"you stayed," you murmur, voice cracking like the childhood promises you both broke. jason doesn’t answer—just holds you tighter, as if his arms could undo years of hurt. (they can’t. but tonight, with your laughter muffled against his chest and his fingers tangled in yours, maybe "broken" doesn’t have to mean "unfixable.")
taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro
the first time jason sees you again, he’s supposed to kill you.
the warehouse is burning around you both, smoke curling thick in the air, the scent of gasoline and gunpowder clinging to the back of his throat. he’s here on orders—some lowlife crime lord’s hired muscle needs to be put down, and the red hood doesn’t ask questions. not anymore.
but then he sees you.
you’re standing in the middle of the wreckage, blood smeared across your split knuckles, a gun dangling loosely from your fingers like you’ve forgotten how to hold it. your eyes are hollow, glazed over—like you’re not really here. like you’ve been carved out and left empty.
he doesn’t recognize you at first. not with the way your shoulders hunch inward, like you’re trying to disappear. not with the way your hands tremble around the grip of the gun, finger twitching near the trigger like you’re fighting the urge to use it. but then you turn, just slightly, and the flickering firelight catches the curve of your cheekbone—the same one he used to poke when you were kids, laughing when you’d swat his hand away and call him an idiot.
"no fucking way," he breathes, the words punched out of him.
you don’t react. your gaze slides right past him, vacant, like he’s just another shadow in the room. like he’s not the boy who used to sneak you candy under the dinner table when your parents weren’t looking, who promised to protect you from monsters under the bed.
(he failed, didn’t he? because here you are—another ghost in a world that chews up kids like you and spits them out. and now you’re standing on the wrong side of his gun, working for the same bastards he’s been hired to wipe out.)
your lips part, just slightly, and he thinks you might say something. but then your jaw clenches, and something dark flickers in your eyes—betrayal. because of course you’ve heard the stories. the red hood doesn’t hesitate. the red hood puts bullets in skulls without a second thought.
and here he is, staring you down like you’re just another target.
(you don’t know that his finger’s frozen on the trigger. that his chest is so tight he can’t breathe. that all he can think is—what the hell happened to you?)
(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
the second time, he corners you on a rooftop.
the wind howls between you, sharp enough to cut, and jason’s boots scrape against gravel as he steps forward. you’re backed against the ledge, panting, one hand pressed to your side where blood seeps through your fingers—a bullet graze, too close for comfort. the red helmet hides the way his throat bobs, the way his teeth grind together at the sight.
you’re hurt.
the realization hits him like a punch to the gut. he’d chased you across half the city, fury burning through his veins because how could you—but now that he’s here, all he sees is the way your knees wobble, the way your breaths come too fast, too shallow. like you’re one wrong move from collapsing.
"what the hell are you doing?" he growls, voice distorted through the modulator, harsher than he means it to be.
you blink at him, slow, like you’re struggling to focus. the moonlight catches the sweat on your brow, the blood smeared across your cheek. when you speak, your voice is rough, exhausted. "surviving."
like it’s obvious. like it’s the only thing left in the world that makes sense.
and jason—
jason wants to scream.
because this isn’t you. the you he knew would’ve flinched at the sight of blood, would’ve squeezed his hand too tight when you crossed the street, would’ve cried when you scraped your knee on the playground and let him carry you home. the you he knew had laughed so loud it echoed, had tucked wildflowers into his pockets when he wasn’t looking, had been alive.
but the person in front of him now?
they don’t even blink as they wipe their bloody hands on their jacket, smearing red across the fabric like it’s nothing. like pain is just another part of the routine.
(he remembers, suddenly, stupidly—the way you’d cling to his sleeve when you were scared. the way you’d whisper don’t let go even when there was nothing to be afraid of.)
"you’re working for them," he accuses, stepping closer. his voice cracks, just slightly. "the same bastards who—"
"i don’t have a choice," you interrupt, voice brittle, breaking.
your hands shake. not from the cold. not from the wound.
from fear.
(he hates how small you sound. hates it even more because he knows, now, that you’ve been afraid for a long, long time.)
for a heartbeat, neither of you move. the city sprawls beneath you, all flickering lights and distant sirens, but jason doesn’t hear any of it. all he hears is the ragged sound of your breathing. all he sees is the way your shoulders curl in, like you’re waiting for a blow.
you think i’m going to hurt you.
the thought makes something in his chest splinter.
(he should. he should. that’s what the red hood does. that’s what he came here for.)
but then you sway, just slightly, and without thinking, his hand shoots out—fingers wrapping around your wrist to steady you.
your skin is cold.
(he doesn’t let go.)
(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
the third time, he finds you in a shitty motel room, and the sight cracks something open in his ribs.
the air smells like stale cigarettes and cheap disinfectant, the kind that burns your nose if you breathe too deep. you're curled into yourself on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you're trying to hold yourself together. the dim yellow light from the flickering lamp paints everything in sickly shadows—the hollows under your eyes, the dried blood on your sleeve, the way your fingers dig into your own arms hard enough to leave bruises.
on the nightstand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits next to a gun.
(jason's stomach turns. he knows what that means. knows what you were thinking when you put it there.)
you don't fight when he sits beside you. don't even look up. just keep staring at the cracked wall across from you, blank, like you're already gone. like you were waiting for death, and he's just the grim reaper finally showing up to collect.
(he wants to shake you. wants to pull you into his arms. doesn't know which would hurt more.)
"why?" he asks, softer this time. voice rough like he's the one who's been crying, even though your eyes are dry.
your lips twitch—something that might’ve been a laugh in another life. it cracks apart before it even leaves your throat, splintering into something raw and wounded, more like a sob caught between your teeth. your fingers curl into the thin motel sheets, knuckles white, as if clinging to them could keep you from falling apart completely.
"they promised they'd kill me if i didn't." your voice is barely there, scraped thin from screaming or silence—he can't tell which. then, softer, breaking: "i couldn't let them do that... not without seeing you for the last time."
the admission hangs in the air between you, fragile as the dust motes drifting in the dim light. jason feels it like a knife to the ribs—because you thought you were going to die, and your last thought was him.
jason's breath catches like his lungs forgot how to work.
suddenly, he's fifteen again—kneeling on hot pavement behind your apartment building, watching through messy bangs as you carefully press batman bandaids over his scraped knees. "hold still, dummy," you'd huffed, but your hands were gentle even when they shook. the cherry popsicle you'd split with him earlier dripped sticky-sweet on your chin, and when he laughed and wiped it away with his thumb, your cheeks went pink as the sunset. in that moment, twelve-year-old jason thought, with startling clarity: i'd follow you anywhere. die for you if i had to.
the memory burns worse than the whiskey in his gut. because now he knows—you never wanted this. never chose the blood staining your hands or the hollows under your eyes. you'd been stolen, just like he was. broken, just like he was.
(he should've known. should've seen the signs sooner—the way your hands trembled even when empty, the way your eyes kept darting to exits like you expected hands to grab you any second. god, how many times had you looked at him, silently screaming for help he didn't recognize?)
the mattress creaks as he shifts closer. his hand hovers over your shoulder, trembling with the weight of every unsaid thing between you. when his palm finally settles against the thin fabric of your shirt, he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting beneath—alive, alive, alive against all odds.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, and it's not enough. will never be enough for all the ways he failed you.
(he doesn't specify what for. the list is too long: for not protecting you. for thinking you'd gone bad. for that last summer before everything burned—when he'd peeked through your bedroom window and saw you muttering to your reflection, practicing how to say "i like you" with reddening ears. he'd nearly fallen off the fire escape grinning, thinking just say it already, i'll say it back, never knowing your confession would be stolen along with everything else the next day.)
you finally look up at him, eyes wide and lost, and jason thinks—
oh.
there you are.
somewhere beneath the blood and bruises and broken pieces, beneath the flinches and the fear and the face you've had to wear to survive—you're still you. the same kid who patched his wounds and shared your popsicles and looked at him like he hung the moon.
and despite the pit's rage, despite the bullets and the bodies and the years of pretending he's someone else—he's still him too. still the boy who promised to keep you safe.
(he won't fail you again.)
(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
"you stayed," you murmur into the quiet, finally meeting his gaze through the dim light. the words taste fragile on your tongue, like they might break if you speak too loud.
he exhales, rough around the edges. "i'm still deciding if that's the dumbest thing i've ever done," he says, but there's no bite to it—just that familiar teasing lilt that makes your chest ache.
(you remember him saying the same thing at twelve when he climbed your fire escape with a black eye, grinning through split lips because he'd "won" the fight. you'd called him an idiot then too.)
but he doesn't leave. doesn't even shift away when you curl tighter into yourself, knees digging into your ribs like you're trying to disappear.
"hey." his finger pokes your cheek—just like when you were kids. "stop that. you're thinking too loud."
you blink up at him. "i'm not a—"
"a gremlin? yeah, you are." his grin is all teeth, the same one he'd flash when stealing your lunchbox snacks. "always were. remember when you tried to eat mrs. mackey's science project because you thought it was jello?"
a startled laugh punches out of you. "it looked like jello!"
"it was a dissection specimen, you menace."
"you ate some too!"
"only after you dared me, you little—"
the rest gets swallowed by your shriek as he suddenly tackles you, fingers digging into your ribs exactly where you're most ticklish. the sound that comes out of you is half-laugh, half-sob, startled and bright after so long without.
(just like that summer when you'd both gotten caught in the rain, how he'd carried you piggyback through the downpour while you shrieked about his cold hands sneaking under your jacket to tickle you.)
you retaliate by shoving your icy feet against his calves, grinning at his yelp. "cheater!" he gasps, but he's laughing too, really laughing, the sound warm and rough and so painfully familiar it makes your eyes burn.
somewhere between breathless wrestling and poorly-aimed pillow attacks, you end up with your face smushed against his chest, his arms locked around you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. the quiet settles over you both, comfortable in a way nothing has been in years.
"missed this," you mumble into his shirt. the admission feels dangerous.
his heartbeat stutters under your ear. "...yeah."
(he remembers your thirteenth birthday, how you'd fallen asleep just like this during your movie marathon, how he'd stayed perfectly still for hours just so he wouldn't wake you. how he'd thought, with terrifying certainty: this. i want this forever.)
your fingers curl into his sleeve on their own accord, clinging like you're eight again and afraid of thunderstorms. jason's breath hitches—then his hand comes up to card through your hair, gentle in a way the red hood never is.
"stay?" you whisper, already half-asleep.
his arms tighten. "'til you're sick of me."
(he means forever. you both know it.)
2.2k full of jason todd and reader being traumatised together...! yippe...! .... AHHHHHH WHY DO I EVEN DO THIS TO MYSELF??? and also, don't worry mysterious anon, you're not stupid at all, don't you EVEN think about it >:[ hope you enjoyed this teehee! <3