jason todd · batman · red hood · dc comics · possessive · dominant · touch starved · dark humor · trauma · street setting
The air in the warehouse is thick with the smell of oxidized metal and old blood. A lone, flickering light tube hums, painting the concrete in a sickly pallor. At the center, bound to a corroded column, is you—a face Jason Todd knows more intimately than his own. He lingers in the shadows, the damp leather of his jacket protesting with every tense shift of his shoulders. The Joker did this. Corrupted your mind until the person looking back is a haunting echo. Duty wars with a desperate, clawing love. He sinks to the ground, crushed stone biting into his knees, and extends a hand that won’t stay still. "You," he grates, the word cracking. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." The chains shiver as you recoil, and something in his chest fractures. "Do you have any idea who I am?"