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jason todd x female! reader

── .✦ angst

[ 8.9 word count ! ] lowercase intended !

summary : two kids from crime alley grow up side by side, building their own little world out of pinky promises, late-night rooftops, and cherry popsicles, until life pulls jason into bruce wayne’s orbit and slowly, painfully, away from the reader. as gotham gets darker and jason more distant, their unspoken feelings tangle with missed chances, broken vows, and a city that never stops taking. years later, still haunted by grief and what-ifs, the reader crosses paths with the red hood.

warnings: heavy angst, character death, violence/injury, grief, depression, self-blame, implied joker-related torture, parental neglect / failed guardianship.

gotham wasn’t kind to kids like you and jason.

the streets were cracked and crooked, littered with broken glass and newspaper clippings that no one cared enough to sweep away. the city always seemed gray, even when the sun was technically shining. but somehow, even in a place that felt permanently bruised, you and jason found something good.

he moved in down the block when you were seven. you remember because you’d been sitting on your stoop with a melted popsicle, bored out of your mind, and then suddenly there was this loud, messy kid with a too-big backpack and eyes like storm clouds. he plopped down next to you like you’d been friends for years.

“what flavor?” he asked, pointing at the red sticky mess dripping onto your wrist.

you blinked at him. “cherry.”

“gross,” he said.

you scowled. “then why’d you ask?”

he just shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “’cause i wanted to know if you had bad taste.”

you threw the popsicle stick at him. that was the beginning.

you and jason became inseparable after that.

mornings were spent running through the cracked sidewalks on your way to school, afternoons climbing fire escapes like your own private jungle gym, nights lying on rooftops to count the rare stars brave enough to shine through gotham’s light pollution.

he had a laugh that made your chest ache — sharp and bright, like something you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

even as kids, gotham didn’t feel safe, so you two made up a game to cope: pinky promises.

whenever the world felt too big and scary, you’d hook your smallest fingers together and make vows that felt unbreakable.

“pinky promise you won’t get beat up by those jerks again,” you’d whisper after he came home with a split lip from defending you at school.

“pinky promise you’ll sit with me at lunch even if you think i’m annoying,” he’d shoot back, smirking.

“pinky promise we’ll get out of this dump one day,” you said one night, both of you staring at the endless stretch of city lights like they were a prison you’d eventually escape.

he squeezed your finger tight.

“pinky promise,” he said, solemn like it was law.

the first time he stole a book from the library for you, he held it out like a trophy.

“don’t look at me like that,” he said when you glared. “you’ve been wanting to read this for weeks, and the library never has it in stock. consider it… a gift.”

“jay, that’s still stealing.”

“pfft. gotham’s been stealing from us since we were born. this is payback.”

you didn’t argue after that. you never could stay mad at him for long. you read the book together under a flickering streetlight, his shoulder pressed to yours.

sometimes, when the world felt unbearably heavy, you’d end up lying on the roof of your building side by side, your pinkies barely brushing.

he’d talk about the future like it was a real, tangible thing — like one day, he’d be more than just a kid from crime alley.

you’d listen, and secretly imagine yourself right there beside him, always.

but the night that burned itself into your memory forever happened in late summer.

you were both fifteen, sticky with sweat from running around all day, and the air smelled like rain. the two of you had climbed your usual fire escape to your usual rooftop, but tonight felt different. quieter. more fragile.

jason lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the sky. “you ever think about what it’d be like to live somewhere else?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.

you hummed. “like… where?”

“anywhere that’s not here,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the streets below. “somewhere with grass. real stars. maybe a backyard.”

you turned your head to look at him. his profile was sharp in the dim light, his expression caught between hope and bitterness.

“yeah,” you whispered. “i think about it all the time.”

he rolled onto his side to face you. “then let’s promise. one day, when we’re older and actually have, like, money and a plan… we’ll leave together.”

you blinked. “together?”

“yeah, together,” he said, like it was obvious. “you’re my best friend. you think i’m gonna leave you behind?”

your throat felt tight. the words i love you were right there, perched on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. but you swallowed them down. instead, you reached out and hooked your pinky with his.

“pinky promise,” you said.

he smiled — that rare, soft smile he saved just for you — and for a moment, it almost felt like the whole city disappeared.

you didn’t know it then, but that promise would become the one thing you’d cling to, long after everything else fell apart.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

time didn’t move in clean lines anymore.

days bled into each other, weeks disappeared before you even noticed, and suddenly you were sixteen and the little bubble you and jason had built for yourselves started to crack.

at first, you were so damn happy for him.

bruce wayne — the bruce wayne — had seen something in jason and taken him in. it felt like a fairy tale when he told you about it, his grin wide and boyish, his excitement bubbling over.

“can you believe it?” he’d said one night, both of you sitting on the same rooftop where you’d made your promises. “he’s giving me a room, real food, books, even… even a bed that’s mine.” his voice had trembled like he didn’t dare believe it.

and you’d smiled so hard your cheeks hurt, your chest tight with pride. “jay, that’s… that’s amazing. you deserve all of it,” you whispered, meaning every single word.

you hugged him so tightly it felt like maybe you could fuse the moment into your bones forever.

and for a little while, things were good.

he’d visit you after his tutoring sessions, bringing leftover pastries from the wayne manor kitchen, his stories spilling out fast and wild.

you’d listen, leaning against him, laughing when he mimicked the formal way alfred spoke or rolled his eyes about how bruce was teaching him to drive.

you told yourself you weren’t jealous. not really.

because this was what you’d always wanted for him — a way out, a chance to be safe.

you told yourself it didn’t matter if he started smelling faintly of cologne instead of city smog, or if his clothes were nicer, his posture straighter. you told yourself that even if he was beginning to belong to a different world, he was still your best friend.

but then the visits slowed. he’d text you late at night, short and hurried: can’t make it tonight. sorry.

sometimes, he wouldn’t even send that much.

you’d sit on your stoop alone, staring at the cracks in the pavement, telling yourself he was just busy. because he was busy. bruce was giving him tutoring, classes, opportunities you could never imagine.

and you were proud of him, truly.

but pride didn’t keep you company when the nights grew colder.

you started noticing things.

bruises on his knuckles that didn’t match his stories. a haunted edge in his laugh, like he was holding something back. the way he’d flinch sometimes when a siren went by, or how he’d glance over his shoulder like he expected danger to be right there, following him home.

you didn’t know he was robin.

you didn’t know he was slipping out into gotham’s underbelly at night, fighting the very darkness you both had grown up drowning in. all you saw was a boy you loved slowly unraveling, and you had no idea why.

one evening, you confronted him — or, at least, you tried to.

he’d finally shown up after nearly two weeks of silence.

you were sitting on the rooftop alone when he climbed up the fire escape, looking exhausted and older somehow, like he’d lived a hundred lives since you’d last seen him.

“you’re late,” you said, the words sharper than you meant.

he gave you a crooked grin, the kind that used to melt you instantly. “miss me that much, sweetheart?”

“jason.” you crossed your arms. “you’ve been avoiding me. what’s going on?”

he sat beside you, stretching his legs out, staring at the skyline.“nothing. just… stuff with bruce. training. classes.” his voice was too light, too casual.

“you promised you wouldn’t disappear on me,” you said quietly.

he glanced at you, guilt flashing across his face, but he covered it up with a laugh. “c’mon, don’t be dramatic. i’m here now, aren’t i?”

you wanted to push, to demand answers, but you were scared of what you’d hear. so you swallowed your frustration and leaned against him, trying to memorize the warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek.

slowly, a distance settled between you.

not an explosive fight, not a sudden rupture — just a quiet, creeping space where laughter used to live.

he missed your birthday that year.

you didn’t tell him how badly it hurt.

you stopped sharing every little detail of your day with him because he wasn’t really listening anymore. he stopped making pinky promises, maybe because he knew he couldn’t keep them.

and yet, despite everything, you still loved him.

you still sat on that rooftop night after night, waiting for him to come back, hoping he’d remember that you were his safe place.

one night, you found yourself tracing the scar on your own pinky — a tiny line from a childhood fall, nothing serious — and you thought about all the promises you’d made to each other.

the one about leaving gotham together.

the one about always coming back safe.

you whispered into the empty air, like maybe he’d hear it wherever he was: “pinky promise you’ll come back to me, jay.”

but the city didn’t answer.

only the sound of sirens, somewhere far away, filling the space where his laughter used to be. part three: the night before

the night air is thick with rain, clinging to your skin as you sit on your bed staring at the cracked ceiling. another night alone, another unanswered text, another reminder that jason isn’t yours the way he used to be.

you’ve been waiting. always waiting.

you wait for him to come by like he used to, for him to crawl through your window and laugh about something stupid, for him to lean against you and let you feel like the world isn’t so sharp.

but lately, all you’ve gotten are empty silences.

you tell yourself not to care, but it’s a lie.

it’s always been a lie.

tonight, though, there’s a sound you almost think you’re imagining the scrape of the fire escape outside your window, the quiet thud of boots landing on metal.

your heart jumps before you even move. you throw the window open just as jason climbs in, and the sight of him nearly drops you to your knees.

he’s a mess.

blood streaks down his temple, his lower lip split wide. his jacket is ripped at the shoulder, and his right hand is wrapped tight in a makeshift bandage that’s already soaked through.

his pinky finger is swollen and bent at a wrong, ugly angle.

“jay,” you breathe, rushing toward him. “what the hell happened to you?”

he tries to smirk, but it’s weak, shaky. “you should see the other guy.”

“this isn’t funny,” you snap, your voice trembling. you grab his wrist carefully, guiding him toward the edge of the bed. “sit. now.” he obeys, which scares you more than anything — because jason todd never obeys unless he’s really hurt.

you grab the little first aid kit you keep under your bed — a habit you picked up because of him — and start cleaning his cuts with trembling hands.

he winces but doesn’t complain, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

“who did this to you?” you demand.

he shakes his head. “doesn’t matter.”

“like hell it doesn’t matter! you’re hurt, jason. your finger is—” you cut yourself off before the sob breaks loose.

he looks at you then, really looks, and for a moment the tough exterior cracks. “it’s just a broken pinky,” he says softly, like he’s trying to comfort you. “i’ve had worse.”

you glare at him through watery eyes. “that doesn’t make it okay.” you work in silence for a while, wrapping his wounds as carefully as you can.

his skin is warm under your fingertips, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. he watches you, his expression unreadable, until finally he says, “you shouldn’t have to do this for me.”

“then stop getting hurt,” you shoot back, sharper than you intended.

his mouth twists into a bitter half-smile. “if only it were that easy.”

there’s something different about him tonight.

beneath the bruises and the pain, there’s a heaviness in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. you sit back on your heels, searching his face. “jay… what’s going on? where have you been disappearing to? you come back like this and you won’t tell me anything—”

he cuts you off with a soft, broken laugh. “you wouldn’t believe me if i told you.”

“try me.” but he just shakes his head, lips pressed tight, as if the words will kill him if they escape.

the room feels unbearably small, thick with all the things you’ve never said.

you want to tell him you love him. you want to scream at him for shutting you out. you want to beg him to stay, to stop running toward whatever’s eating him alive.

instead, you do what you’ve always done — you reach for him.

you take his broken hand gently in yours and lift it, pressing a kiss to the crooked pinky. “just…” your voice cracks, your tears threatening to spill. “just come back safe, jay. wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing — please. promise me you’ll come back.”

for a moment, something unspoken flickers across his face — longing, maybe, or regret. he hooks his pinky around yours, the motion slow and careful because of the pain. “pinky promise,” he whispers.

and it feels like a prayer, like a vow etched into the marrow of your bones.

you sit together in the quiet, his head resting on your shoulder.

neither of you says what you’re really thinking:

that you love him.

that you’re terrified.

that this moment might be the last one you’ll ever have.

“hey,” he says suddenly, his voice rough but lighter than it’s been all night. “you got any popsicles? haven’t had one in forever.”

the question catches you off guard, and you can’t help but laugh.“are you serious? it’s freezing outside.”

“so?” he shrugs, flashing that crooked grin that still makes your chest ache. “doesn’t mean i don’t want one.”

you shake your head, smiling despite everything. “the only flavor i’ve got is cherry.”

he groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the wall. “ugh, gross.”

you nudge his knee with yours. “still a hater, huh? some things never change.”

“i’m just saying, out of all the flavors in the world, you pick the worst one,” he teases, but there’s no bite to it — only warmth.

“well, i like it,” you say, crossing your arms in mock offense. “guess you’ll have to suffer.”

he looks at you for a long moment, his smile softening, eyes dark and thoughtful. “…yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “i guess i will.”

you blink at him, confused by the sudden shift, but before you can ask, he’s reaching for the imaginary popsicle, his grin returning. “fine, hand it over. i’ll try it — just because it’s your favorite.”

you laugh, shaking your head as you get up to grab one from the freezer. when you hand it to him, he takes it like it’s something sacred, peeling back the wrapper with careful fingers.

he takes a bite, immediately grimacing. “yep. still gross,” he says through a mouthful of frozen red ice.

you swat his arm playfully, and the sound of his laughter fills the room, rich and familiar, wrapping around you like a memory you never want to let go of.

and as you laugh with him, your eyes crinkled and cheeks flushed, jason just… looks at you.

really looks.

like he’s memorizing the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the exact way you tilt your head when you tease him.

he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance to see you like this.

so he soaks it in, silently, his chest tight with everything he’ll never say.

a boy with a broken pinky and a thousand broken promises, holding onto one last perfect moment with the only person who’s ever felt like home. when he finally leaves, slipping back out the window into the rain-soaked night, you almost call after him.

almost confess everything.

but the words stick in your throat, heavy and unspoken.

you go to bed with your chest aching, clinging to the promise he made —

and you never see him alive again.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

you wake up gasping.

your chest heaves like you’ve been running, your skin clammy with sweat. your room is pitch black, and for one agonizing second, you don’t know where you are. then the shapes start to form — your dresser, the cracked window, the faint red glow of the alarm clock.

3:07 a.m.

your heart pounds as you sit up, clutching at your sheets. the dream clings to you like cobwebs, heavy and sticky, impossible to shake. you can’t remember every detail, but there was screaming. smoke. jason’s voice calling your name before it cut off like a snapped wire.

you try to tell yourself it was just a nightmare.

you’ve had plenty before — everyone in gotham does.

but this one feels different.

wrong.

the kind of wrong that lingers in the air even after you wake, like a storm about to break.

the next day, the city feels… off.

it’s hard to explain, but gotham has always been loud — even when it’s silent, there’s a pulse beneath it all. today, that pulse feels broken.

the sky is gray and low, heavy clouds swallowing the light. people move quickly through the streets, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact like they’re afraid to look too long at anyone. there’s tension in the air that you can taste, bitter and metallic.

you tell yourself you’re imagining it.

you tell yourself everything’s fine.

because you have to.

because the alternative — the gnawing worry that something happened to jason last night — would destroy you.

you try to distract yourself.

you clean your tiny apartment.

you go to the corner store and buy your favorite snacks. you even take a book up to the rooftop, telling yourself that if jason wanted to see you, he’d come like always.

you repeat it like a mantra:

he’s fine. he’s with bruce wayne now. gotham’s golden prince. if anyone can keep him safe, it’s him.

so you push down the fear, force yourself to breathe, and wait.

but the silence stretches.

one day.

two days.

three.

by the fourth day, you stop checking your phone every hour.

by the fifth, you almost convince yourself that worrying won’t change anything.

you’re trying, you really are.

trying to let jason live his life.

trying to let go of the desperate need to know if he’s okay

that’s when you hear it.

it’s late — almost midnight — and you’re walking home from a late shift at the diner, the streets nearly empty except for a few shadowy figures lingering near the mouth of an alley.

you don’t mean to eavesdrop, but their voices carry in the stillness. “…waynes are hiding it, i heard. don’t want the press swarming the manor.”

“yeah, well, everyone knows now. bruce wayne’s second kid — dead. real tragic. went out like a damn tragedy play.”

“didn’t even think he had a second son.”

“guess it doesn’t matter now, huh?”

your steps falter.

the world tilts.

second son.

dead.

no.

you whirl around, stumbling toward them. “what did you just say?”

your voice cracks, too high, too sharp.

the men glance at you, startled, then sneer like they’ve been caught. “none of your business, sweetheart,” one mutters. “just rumors.”

but you can’t stop shaking. “bruce wayne’s second son — what’s his name?”

your throat is dry, your hands trembling. the taller one shrugs. “don’t know. some street kid he took in a while back. word is, he got himself killed last week. blew up in some warehouse supposedly, you know how it is.”

your body goes cold.

so cold it hurts.

because you do know. you know exactly which street kid bruce wayne took in. exactly who they’re talking about.

and it feels like someone has reached inside you and ripped out everything you are.

you stumble home in a daze.

the city is spinning around you, blurred lights and smeared faces, voices buzzing like angry insects in your ears.

you tell yourself it’s a lie.

a cruel, ugly joke gotham is playing on you.

people like to talk, to make things up about the waynes.

but deep down, you know.

you know.

you crawl into bed and curl up so tight you can barely breathe, shaking so hard your teeth chatter.

no call from bruce.

no word from anyone.

no funeral invitation, no explanation, no nothing.

just silence.

like jason never existed at all.

the days that follow are a blur of grief and rage. you feel betrayed by bruce — the man who was supposed to keep jason safe, who swooped in like a savior and promised him a better life.

and now he can’t even face you. can’t even give you the dignity of hearing it from his lips.

you feel heartbroken by jason — for leaving you behind, for keeping secrets, for not letting you carry the weight with him.

your last memory of him is laughter over a stupid popsicle, and it guts you every time you think of it.

alone and depressed become your entire existence.

your apartment feels like a tomb.

the rooftop feels haunted.

even the pinky promises feel like curses now, mocking you with everything you’ll never have.

you sit by the window one night, staring out at the city that took everything from you, and whisper his name like a prayer.

“jason.”

the days blur.

you stop counting them because it’s easier than admitting how long it’s been since the world ended. morning and night bleed together, sunlight and streetlamps indistinguishable, everything painted in the same flat, gray tone.

your body goes through the motions of living — eating just enough to stay upright, working when you absolutely have to — but it feels like you’re watching someone else. like you’ve been peeled out of your own skin and left to drift somewhere above it, untethered and hollow.

life moves in slow motion, every sound muffled, every movement heavy.

like wading through water that’s slowly filling your lungs.

bruce shows up one evening.

you don’t open the door right away when you hear the knock. for a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the peeling paint of your apartment door, breathing hard. part of you hopes it’s jason, even though you know it’s impossible. the other part of you hopes it’s no one, so you don’t have to face whatever comes next.

when you finally open it, bruce wayne is standing there — towering, immaculate, carrying the kind of silence that swallows whole rooms.

his eyes are tired, his face carved with something like grief.

you don’t care.

“you,” you breathe, a tremor of rage beneath the single syllable. your fists curl at your sides.

“i wanted to check on you,” he says softly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “i know this must be—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, your voice shaking. “don’t you dare act like you understand.”

he flinches, just barely.

you almost wish he’d fight back, so you’d have somewhere to direct the hurricane inside you. “i did everything i could to—”

“everything you could?” the laugh that escapes you is sharp and cruel, a sound you don’t even recognize. “you’re bruce fucking wayne. you have more power than anyone in this city. you took him away from me, you put him in your shiny mansion, you—”

your throat closes, your vision blurring. “you were supposed to protect him,” you whisper, your voice breaking. you don’t let him get a single word out this time. the second you see bruce’s perfectly pressed suit standing in your doorway, something inside you snaps.

“you think you can just show up here and play the grieving father?” your voice is sharp, venomous, shaking with rage. “you’re the worst kind of person in this city, bruce. you have everything — the money, the resources, the power to actually fix things — and what do you do? you play dress-up savior, collecting kids off the street like they’re trophies for your sick little status.” your breath comes fast, tears stinging your eyes, but you keep going, louder now. “you don’t understand them, you don’t know how to love them, and you sure as hell don’t know how to keep them safe. you think this makes you a father? it’s a joke. a cruel, disgusting joke. you didn’t save jason — you handed him a death sentence and left the rest of us to pick up the pieces and.. and you didn’t even let me know he died.”

bruce’s face twists, pain flashing in his eyes, but you don’t care. because no matter how broken he looks, he’s still standing.

and jason isn’t.

bruce’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. you slam the door in his face before he can try.

you don’t see him again for weeks.

after that, it’s just you.

you and the memories that claw at your ribs from the inside.

you and the endless replay of that night — jason sitting on your bed, laughing about popsicles, his broken pinky hooked around yours as he promised to come back.

you think about that pinky constantly.

the way it bent wrong, swollen and bruised, trembling in your hands.

and now it feels like the cruelest irony. of course he’d leave you with one last thing shattered between you. one last piece of him that wasn’t whole.

every time you look at your own pinky, the scar you got when you were a kid, you feel sick. you can’t stop thinking about how fragile it all was — how easily bones and promises snap.

grief is a strange creature.

some days it roars, loud and consuming, drowning you until you can’t breathe. other days it’s a quiet, constant hum beneath your skin, so soft you almost forget it’s there… until it surges up without warning and drags you under all over again.

you blame yourself more than anyone.

you think about all the ways you could’ve changed things — if you’d told him you loved him, if you’d begged him to stay, if you’d followed him out that night instead of letting him go.

maybe he wouldn’t have died alone.

maybe you wouldn’t have been left behind, standing in the wreckage of everything you built together.

but there’s no reassurance.

no one to tell you it wasn’t your fault, no one to hold you when the nights get too long.

just silence.

and the weight of a thousand what ifs pressing down on your chest. and gotham keeps moving, indifferent to your grief. the trains still run, the criminals still crawl out of the alleys, the lights still flicker on at dusk like nothing’s changed.

but for you, the world has slowed to a crawl.

every step feels heavier.

every sound is dulled, like someone stuffed cotton in your ears. it’s like living underwater, watching everyone else breathe freely while you’re stuck drowning, lungs burning.

you catch yourself listening for his laugh sometimes — in crowds, in the rush of passing cars, in the echo of the wind through the fire escape.

but it’s never him.

it’ll never be him again.

and the pinky promises you made, the ones that once felt like lifelines, are now just ghosts of a past you can’t get back. shattered, like everything else he left behind.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

time didn’t heal you — not really.

it just blurred the edges of your grief, dulling it until the sharpest parts didn’t cut as deep. but the wound never closed.

years passed, and you learned to live around the ache.

you made new friends who didn’t know jason, who didn’t flinch every time they passed a newsstand with bruce wayne’s face on the cover. they got you out of the apartment, out of your head, dragging you to late-night diners and rooftop parties, forcing you to laugh even when you didn’t want to.

you had good days now.

sometimes you even woke up without immediately thinking about him.

but there were bad days, too — the kind that came out of nowhere and gutted you.

a certain laugh on the street, a whiff of motor oil and leather, a kid running past with a too-big backpack — and suddenly you were twenty steps backward, sixteen again and waiting on a rooftop for someone who would never come.

six months after jason’s death, you saw the headline.

BRUCE WAYNE ADOPTS AGAIN: GOTHAM’S FAVORITE PHILANTHROPIST WELCOMES NEW SON.

you stared at the grainy photo of a boy standing stiffly beside bruce, a forced smile on his face, and your stomach turned to ice.

another kid.

another chance to play hero.

another life for him to mold and break.

you thought you couldn’t hate bruce more than you already did, but that day proved you wrong.

you stopped reading the papers entirely after that, because every glimpse of bruce’s face felt like another knife in your back.

the city called him a savior.

you knew better. he wasn’t saving anyone. he was just replacing them when they broke.

your life got better, in a superficial way.

a nicer apartment, a steady job, friends who cared. you learned how to smile without feeling like you were lying.

but the feelings never left.

jason’s ghost never left.

you kept his memory tucked deep inside you, the love you never confessed souring into something heavy and private.

no one knew about the popsicle jokes or the pinky promises.

no one knew about the boy who laughed like sunshine and bled like rain.

and you liked it that way.

it was yours.

your grief, your love, your ruin.

then you met him.

it was a cold night, the kind where the air itself seemed to bite. you were walking home, bundled up and alert like any gotham native, when a fight broke out two blocks over. shouting, gunfire, the sound of someone crying out in pain.

your instincts screamed at you to run the other way, but before you could move, he stepped out of the shadows.

the red hood.

gotham’s newest whispered terror, the vigilante who made even the worst criminals shiver.

you froze as he approached, his helmet reflecting the dim streetlight, his leather jacket darkened by the rain.

he was taller than you expected, broader, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

“you okay?” his voice was modulated by the helmet, low and distorted, but there was a roughness underneath it. something familiar.

you nodded quickly, too stunned to speak. he didn’t linger, just tipped his head and disappeared back into the night, leaving you standing there with your pulse hammering in your ears.

you started seeing him everywhere after that.

or maybe he started showing up everywhere. muggers who used to prowl your block vanished overnight.

you’d hear his name in passing, whispered like a threat: red hood, red hood, red hood.

and sometimes, when you were walking home alone, you’d get the strange, unshakable feeling that someone was watching — not maliciously, but protectively.

it should have scared you.

instead, it made you feel… safe.

and that made you hate yourself a little.

the first real conversation you had was almost violent.

you’d been cornered by two men outside a bodega, their voices leering, their hands too close. before you could scream, a blur of red and black crashed into them, fists flying, bones cracking.

when it was over, you were pressed back against the brick wall, shaking, as red hood stood over the unconscious men.

“you need to be more careful,” he growled, turning toward you.

his helmet gleamed, unreadable, but you swore you could feel his gaze. you swallowed hard. “i… didn’t exactly plan on this happening.”

he didn’t answer.

instead, he stepped closer — close enough that you could see the faint scuffs on his armor, the rain dripping from his jacket. for a moment, you thought he might touch you, but he just… stopped, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back.

“go home,” he said finally, his voice cracking just slightly.

“why—”

“please,” he cut you off, softer this time.

so you went. but you couldn’t stop thinking about him all night.

it became a pattern.

red hood appearing when you needed him most, vanishing before you could thank him. his voice echoing in your head, distorted and strange, yet inexplicably familiar.

there was something about the way he moved, the way he hovered like he couldn’t decide whether to leave or stay.

something that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand.

you didn’t know that every time he looked at you, his breath caught. that under the helmet, his scarred pinky twitched — a crooked reminder of the night he left you behind.

that he’d built this whole new life out of rage and blood, and yet, when it came to you, he was still just a boy sitting on your bed, laughing about cherry popsicles and pinky promises.

the first time you noticed his pinky, it hit you like a gunshot.

you’d reached for his hand without thinking — a reflex, a thank-you — and he’d jerked back too late. your eyes locked on the crooked angle of his smallest finger, and your breath caught in your throat.

no.

it couldn’t be.

it couldn’t.

but deep inside, some part of you already knew.

because of course it would be him. of course the boy you loved would come back like this — angry, broken, hidden behind a mask. of course he’d keep his promise in the cruelest way possible.

and as the realization sank in, you thought of that night, of his finger hooking around yours, and the bitterest kind of irony burned in your chest.

he’d kept his pinky promise, after all.

just not the way you ever imagined.

you don’t sleep that night.

you sit at the edge of your bed, staring at your trembling hands, replaying every second of the encounter until your mind feels like it’s been scraped raw.

the way his voice cracked when he said please. the way his shoulders stiffened when you’d reached for him. the way his crooked pinky caught the light, exactly the same as the night he left you.

it’s impossible.

it’s cruel.

it’s him.

and the thought makes you want to scream, to vomit, to tear the whole city apart just to make it stop.

when you finally leave your apartment, the city feels different — sharper, louder. the noise of gotham presses in on you, overwhelming. every face looks like a stranger wearing a mask, every corner hiding a shadow you don’t trust.

you keep seeing him everywhere.

not red hood. jason.

you see him in a boy laughing with his friends outside a diner. you hear him in the sound of boots hitting a fire escape. you smell him in the faint trace of motor oil drifting from a mechanic’s garage.

and each time, it’s like losing him all over again.

you hate him for this.

you hate him for dying and for coming back.

for letting you drown in grief while he built a new life out of rage and secrets.

but most of all, you hate yourself for still loving him.

you don’t confront him right away.

you can’t.

for days, you just watch.

sometimes you catch glimpses of him across a rooftop, his helmet glowing red like a warning sign. sometimes you feel his presence behind you when you walk home, a shadow that always disappears before you can turn around.

you start to think maybe he’s avoiding you. maybe he knows that you know.

and that hurts worse than anything.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

it finally happens on a rainy night, just like the last time you saw him alive.

you’re walking home when a fight breaks out — a real one this time, close enough that you hear the wet thud of fists, the guttural grunts of pain.

before you can run, he’s there. red hood.

he doesn’t speak at first, just takes down three men in quick, brutal motions. and then he turns to you.

you’re ready this time.

your voice doesn’t shake when you say his name.

“jason.”

he freezes. the rain pounds between you, cold and relentless.

“take it off,” you demand, your throat tight. “take off the helmet.”

he doesn’t move.

he doesn’t even breathe.

“if you don’t,” you say, louder now, “then i will.”

and that’s when he breaks. a strangled sound escapes him — not the modulated growl of red hood, but the human sound of a boy who’s been holding himself together for too long.

his hands rise, trembling, and he pulls the helmet free.

and there he is.

your jason. older, harder, scarred in ways you can’t begin to understand — but undeniably him. the same stormcloud eyes, the same mouth you used to make laugh, the same crooked pinky hanging at his side.

your knees nearly buckle.

“you…” your voice cracks. “you let me think you were dead.”

he flinches like you struck him. “i was dead,” he says, and the rawness in his voice twists the knife deeper. “and when i came back… i didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“like what?” you choke out. “like a coward? like a liar? like someone who let me bury him in my heart and then came back to haunt me?”

“like a monster,” he whispers.

his shoulders shake. “i thought… if you knew what i’ve done, what i’ve become… you’d never look at me the same way again.”

“you’re right,” you spit, tears burning hot trails down your face. “i don’t look at you the same way. because the boy i loved wouldn’t have left me alone in that hellhole, mourning him, thinking i wasn’t enough to fight for.”

he takes a stumbling step toward you, desperation etched into every line of his face. “you were everything i fought for,” he says hoarsely. “you’re the reason i clawed my way out of the grave.”

silence falls, except for the relentless rain.

you shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself like you can hold all the pieces in. “and what am i supposed to do with that, jason? what am i supposed to do now?”

he doesn’t have an answer. he just stands there, broken and alive, with the weight of everything you both lost hanging between you.

finally, he raises his hand — the one with the crooked pinky — and holds it out to you. like he’s offering a bridge back to the past, to the rooftop promises and shared popsicles and a love that never had the chance to bloom.

you stare at it, your breath ragged, your heart splintering.

because you know that if you take it, nothing will ever be the same. but if you don’t… you’ll lose him all over again.

and you don’t know if you can survive that twice.

the rain hasn’t let up, turning the alleyway into a blur of gray and silver. drops cling to your eyelashes, mingling with the tears streaking your face.

jason’s hand is still outstretched between you, palm trembling, his crooked pinky catching the streetlight just like it did years ago. the same hand you used to hold when you were kids, when the world was smaller and safer and full of impossible dreams.

you take it.

you take him.

your fingers curl tight around his, and before either of you can speak, you’re pulling him down into a kiss that’s been waiting to happen since the day he left you.

it’s messy and wet and desperate, your tears slipping between your mouths, his breath ragged against your lips. you pour every unspoken word into it — the grief, the anger, the years of aching love that never had anywhere to go.

jason freezes for half a heartbeat, then he melts into you like he’s been starved for this. his gloved hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

when you finally pull back, gasping, you don’t let him go.

you wrap your arms around him and cling like you’ll never let go again, burying your face against the curve of his neck.

“don’t leave me,” you sob, the words muffled against his soaked jacket. “not again. you don’t get to disappear on me, jason.”

his arms crush you to his chest, his whole body trembling. “never,” he whispers, voice breaking. “not ever again.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers fisting in his jacket.

“you don’t know how hard it’s been without you,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “the city — it’s cruel, it’s heartless. every day felt like being skinned alive. and bruce—” you choke, fury flaring hot even through the grief. “bruce betrayed me. he didn’t even let me know you were gone. i didn’t get to say goodbye, didn’t get to stand at your grave, didn’t get anything. he just… he just left me to rot in the dark while he— while he replaced you.”

jason’s jaw tightens, his stormcloud eyes burning with anger. he cups your cheek with one rough, careful hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. “i’m sorry,” he breathes. “god, i’m so sorry. if i’d known—”

“i thought i could’ve saved you,” you cut in, your voice breaking, tears spilling fast and hot. “if i’d just said something that night… if i’d told you i loved you, maybe you wouldn’t have gone, maybe you would’ve stayed.” your sobs shake you apart. “i keep replaying it, jason. over and over. what i should’ve done. what i could’ve done.”

he hushes you softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “no,” he whispers fiercely, brushing the tears from your face with his thumbs. “no, don’t you dare blame yourself. none of this was on you. i made my choices, and i paid the price. you… you were the only good thing i had. you always were.”

he kisses your forehead, lingering there as you cry, like he’s trying to seal the promise into your skin.

jason pulls back just far enough to study you, his eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. watching you like this — so raw, so full of love — it undoes him completely.

in his mind, there’s nothing but gratitude.

gratitude that he’s alive to see you, to hear you, to feel you clinging to him.

gratitude that despite everything he’s done, everything he’s become, you’re still here, holding him like he’s worth something.

you’ve always been like this.

no bullshit. no lies.

you were the one person in his life who always kept your promises.

always kept him.

and now, as you shake in his arms, he sees how deeply you’ve loved him all along — not the legend, not the vigilante, but him.

“you’re it for me,” he says hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “you always were. i came back from the dead, and the only thing that kept me sane was you. the thought of you, the sound of your laugh, and your pinky promises.”

you let out a shaky laugh through your tears, resting your forehead against his chest. he hooks his crooked pinky with yours, slow and deliberate, just like he did that last night before everything fell apart. only this time, his voice is steady when he says it.

“pinky promise,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “i’m never letting you go again.”

and for the first time in years, you believe him.

life with jason wasn’t perfect — not in the way movies and fairytales promised — but it was yours.

messy and flawed and breathtaking.

he let you hold him now.

that was a victory in itself.

there were nights where he’d flinch at the brush of your fingers against certain scars, nights when he’d pull back with an apology, shame twisting his face like barbed wire. but you never pushed. you just cupped his jaw and kissed his forehead, whispering that you loved all of him, even the pieces he thought were broken beyond repair.

sometimes, he’d wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, trembling, his breath ragged like he’d been fighting ghosts only he could see.

and you’d wrap yourself around him, legs tangled with his, arms locked tight around his chest, grounding him.

you never said the word safe — you just showed him he was.

your love became a quiet, steady thing.

small domestic rituals: morning coffee together before he disappeared into gotham’s shadows, leaving you with a kiss that always lingered like smoke on your lips.

late-night drives on his motorcycle, your arms locked around his waist as the city blurred past.

moments of laughter so genuine they made your chest ache, because there was a time you thought you’d never hear that sound from him again.

he was still hesitant about physical intimacy, his body a map of traumas he wasn’t ready to fully share.

but when he let you trace your fingertips over his scars, when he let you see him — all of him — it felt like the purest kind of trust.

one night, you lay tangled together on his bed, your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

jason’s arm was draped over you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder.

“make me a pinky promise,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his shirt.

he huffed a laugh. “haven’t we made enough of those to last a lifetime?”

“no,” you said firmly, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “i want one more. a real one.”

he hesitated, something tender flickering in his stormcloud eyes. “…okay. what’s the promise?”

you held up your smallest finger, hooking it with his crooked one — the same pinky that had once symbolized a broken past.“no matter what happens,” you whispered, “you’ll keep living. even if we’re apart. even if the world tries to take everything from you again. promise me you’ll survive it.”

his throat worked, his jaw clenching like he wanted to protest.but finally, he nodded, his grip on your finger tightening. “pinky promise,” he rasped, voice breaking. kissing your picky to seal it.

and though neither of you said it aloud, you both knew this was the most important vow you’d ever made.

the night it all fell apart started ordinary. you were late, rushing to meet friends after work, texting jason a quick “i love you” before shoving your phone back into your bag.

jason was across the city, patrolling, his helmet feeding him the endless chaos of gotham’s streets.

but for once, things were quiet. he even let himself think about heading home early — about curling up beside you, maybe teasing you about that last promise.

he checked his phone mid-patrol, a rare indulgence, and saw your message. three simple words: i love you.

he smiled. then, as he went to close the screen, his eyes snagged on your location — automatically shared between you for safety.

his smile vanished.

you were in one of the worst parts of gotham, a decaying sector even cops avoided.

your location dot flickered near an abandoned warehouse district, a place he knew harbored nightmares.

panic seized him by the throat.

“no, no, no…” he muttered, sprinting to his motorcycle, his fingers trembling so badly he nearly dropped his helmet.

he didn’t stop for red lights.

didn’t breathe until he reached the rooftop.

when he found you, the world ended.

you were slumped against the edge of the rooftop, body crumpled like a broken doll. your breathing was shallow, wet and ragged, each inhale a battle you were rapidly losing.

and in your limp hand — mockingly delicate — was a joker card, its painted grin smeared with blood.

“NO!” jason’s scream ripped through the night as he skidded to his knees beside you, scooping you into his arms.

your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, your skin frighteningly cold. “jay…i’m sorry..” your voice was a ghost of itself, thin and fading.

“fuck.. oh god please don’t talk baby,” he choked, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in your side, his own blood-slick fingers trembling. “just… just breathe, sweetheart. please. your okay..i’m here now, i’ve got you, you’re gonna be fine..your okay baby..please..mh.”

but even as he said it, he felt the truth sinking in. you were slipping through his hands, just like everything else he’d ever loved.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, tears spilling weakly down your temples. “i— i didnt see him.. jay ‘cough’ im so sorry”

“don’t you dare,” he snarled, clutching you tighter, rocking you like he could keep you tethered to him through sheer willpower. “this isn’t on you. this is on him. on me. i should’ve been here sooner.”

your trembling hand lifted to cup his cheek, smearing blood across his skin. “no… no, jason. you were… the best thing i ever had.” your breath hitched. “you saved me. from this city, from myself. i— i love you.”

his vision blurred completely. “i love you too,” he sobbed, his forehead pressing to yours. “more than anything. don’t leave me, baby, please. don’t— i need you.. i need your warmth.. your smile.. please baby i genuinely need you.. god please..i’m begging.. cmon my love stay awake.. don’t close your eyes please.. please don’t”

your eyes fluttered, glassy and unfocused. “promise me… you’ll keep living,” you whispered. “even without me. please, jay. pinky promise…”

your pinky twitched weakly against his. he hooked his own crooked finger around yours, clutching it like a lifeline. “i.. pinky promise,” he swore, the words breaking apart in his throat.

and then you were gone.

just like that.

jason didn’t remember screaming, but later he’d recall the sound — raw and animal, echoing across the rooftops. he cradled you long after your last breath, rocking you like he could will your soul back into your body. his sobs hiccuping into your hair.

his chest was a hollow cavity, his heart shattered beyond repair.

because this wasn’t just losing you. this was losing every rooftop dream, every laughter-filled night, every cherry popsicle, every pinky promise you’d ever made together.

the city blurred beneath him, mocking and cold. joker’s card slipped from your hand, carried away by the wind, but its meaning burned into his mind.

you had kept every promise to him. every single one.

and now, jason was left alone — with a final promise he didn’t know if he had the strength to keep. a vow to live in a world without you. a vow that felt like the cruelest punishment gotham could ever inflict.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

KEEP UR PINKY PROMISES 🫵

i’ve had a lot of requests of angst.. okay guys 🙂‍↕️ i get it

</3 the ending feels rushed so i might come back and edit it tbh and make it a tab bit more realistic / angsty?

BUT UM SORRY FOR LAGGING SO BAD! writing lowkey takes a lot outta me, but i really love it. my brain is just trying to find the best wording for everything 💐 but i appreciate everything wholeheartedly and lmk if you want more angst, fluff or smut! i’ll try and write more often! thankk youu mwwwaaahhh!!!

which one do you want more of! :3

angst

fluff

smut

Voting ended onOct 1, 2025

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