WARNINGS: I only write fem!readers. Most of writings include brazilian!reader. More warnings included in each piece.
updated: April 24th.
please reblog so everyone can see these writings. it’s just a button. please.
here’s my request masterlist
Peter Parker:
Floweres and Iemanjá masterlist (discontinued)
Jason Todd: (here is the link to my jason playlist)
Fancy Green Lantern
summary: Jason hits a dead-end in a case and help comes from unusual places.
words: 5,777
Delicate
summary: Jason Todd liked the cute bartender that served him just the right whiskey at just the right amount. But it’s delicate.
words: 2,252
Stupid Fucking Galas
summary: Jason hates Wayne galas. But, somehow, he finds the will to enjoy one when he stumbles upon the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
words: 4,151
Drops of Jupiter
summary: Y/N lost a part of herself when Jason died. But, now, he’s back in her atmosphere.
words: 3,040
American Pie
summary: A broken Jukebox leads to a realization Jason wasn't expecting.
words: 2,284
I Had a Dream
summary: She dreamed about him once. And then he appeared in front of her and she just couldn’t believe it.
words: 9,756
ivy
summary: Princess Y/N is forced to accept a deal to save her kingdom from ruin. She kept reminding her that it was merly a business transaction but she couldn’t control the affairs of her heart as well as she calculated.
words: 11,071
Tim Drake:
How You Get the Girl
summary: She was tired of seeing the boy she ahd loved ever since she met run away with some other girl. So, she wrote a letter and hoped for the best.
words: 5,535
Steve Rogers (probably the only one I’ll ever write):
Time
summary: Time was all she wanted. Steve wanted to give it to her. But it seemed it was all he couldn’t give.
words: 10,064
Bucky Barnes:
the last great american dynasty
summary: A short story on how she lived her life after her sweetheart was killed during the war.
words: 1,934
in your eyes
summary: her quiet job in the library got louder when Bucky walked into her life. (Bucky Barnes x telepath!librarian!reader)
words: 11,416
Ben Hargreeves:
Wasteland, baby!:
summary: That girl on the bus stop seemed so lonely, and Ben couldn’t help himself, really. So, he snuck out and became her friend.
CW: fake marriage, undercover as a couple, masquerade ball, mutual pining, sexual tension, secret identities, violence, blood/injury, guns, knives, suggestive banter, explicit sexual content, semi-public kissing/touching
Summary: Red Hood and Moxie know each other well enough to fight back-to-back, but not well enough to know each other’s real names. When a criminal masquerade admits only married pairs, Jason asks her to play his wife for the night, and the line between cover and confession gets dangerously thin.
Author’s Note: this is my first reader-insert fic!! i know it's not really full on smut but i did my best...
Red Hood called you at 2:17 in the morning and opened with, “I need you to marry me.”
You stared at the comm where it sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, its tiny red light blinking up at you with the smug patience of a device that knew it had just ruined your night.
There was blood on your knuckles, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair, and half a strip of medical tape stuck to your wrist because you had been in the middle of wrapping a split across your ribs when his voice came through. Gotham was still rattling against your window in a hard gray sheet. Somewhere below, a siren cut through the Narrows and vanished toward the river.
You picked up the comm carefully. “Say that again, but slower and less like a hostage negotiation.”
A pause. Then Hood, sounding annoyed in a way that meant he had probably practiced the line and hated that you had ruined it. “I have an infiltration job.”
“You need me to marry you for an infiltration job.”
“Fake marry me.”
“Oh, good. For a second there, I thought you were being impulsive.”
“Can you be serious for ten seconds?”
“I can. I just usually charge extra.”
A low sound came through the comm, almost a laugh, before he caught it and killed it. Red Hood had a habit of doing that, letting amusement slip halfway into his voice before remembering he was supposed to be terrifying. The criminals of Gotham still believed in the terrifying part. You believed in it too, mostly. You had seen him put a man’s head through drywall for threatening a kid. You had seen him walk through gunfire like pain was an inconvenience rather than a warning. Red Hood was not soft.
But he was funny when he forgot not to be.
That had been one of your first problems with him.
The second had been the way he trusted you at his back.
You leaned against the sink and pressed a clean cloth to your ribs. “What’s the job?”
“Masquerade tomorrow night. Private estate outside Bristol. Guest list is a who’s who of Gotham’s worst-dressed with too much money. Arms brokers, corrupt judges, traffickers, one Intergang accountant who’s either brave or stupid, and a host who calls himself Mr. Argent because apparently Gotham finally ran out of normal criminal names.”
“Argent,” you repeated. “Subtle.”
“He’s auctioning off a ledger.”
“You called me at two in the morning because of bookkeeping?”
“It’s a buyer list. Names, routes, shell companies, offshore accounts. Enough to gut a weapons pipeline running through the East End, the Narrows, and half of Blüdhaven.” Hood’s voice changed there, the humor thinning out into something harder. “Kids have been turning up with military-grade rifles in their backpacks because these assholes are selling like they’re moving party favors. I want the ledger.”
That sobered you fast.
You pulled the cloth away from your side and looked down. The bleeding had slowed. Good enough.
“What’s the catch?” you asked.
“No solo guests.”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
“The invitation admits married pairs only. Spouses. No exceptions. They verify rings at the door, cross-check the aliases, then keep paired guests together for most of the night. Argent’s paranoid about undercover cops and lone operatives. Thinks people are less likely to make a move if their partner can be used against them.”
“That is either deeply stupid or unfortunately insightful.”
“Both.”
“And you thought of me.”
The pause on the other end went a fraction too long.
You knew Red Hood in pieces, because that was how everyone knew each other in Gotham. You knew the red helmet, the leather jacket, the guns he carried like extensions of his hands. You knew the brutal efficiency of him in a fight, the dry commentary over comms, the way he always put himself between civilians and bullets before anyone could accuse him of caring. You knew Arsenal liked him enough to insult him creatively, Nightwing worried about him with the exhausted fondness of an older brother, and Oracle treated him like a migraine she would still guide home through a burning building.
You did not know his name.
He did not know yours.
That had always been safer.
“Yeah,” Hood said finally. “I thought of you.”
Your fingers tightened around the comm.
Outside the bathroom, your apartment was dark except for the neon wash bleeding through the blinds. Moxie had been a joke once. A stupid little word spat by men who thought it made you sound small, cute, harmless. You had been new to Gotham then, fresh from Star City with one duffel bag, two batons, seven knives, and Roy Harper’s warning that Gotham had teeth. You had kept the name because it annoyed people. Then, you had made it expensive to laugh at.
Red Hood had never laughed.
The first time you worked together, he had found you pinned behind a half-toppled bar with four rounds left, a dislocated shoulder, and a mouth still running badly enough to make three smugglers hesitate before rushing you. He had dropped through the skylight like divine punishment with a gun in each hand and said, “You always this chatty when you’re bleeding?”
You had said, “Only when I’m bored.”
He had trusted you after that. Slowly. In the grudging, suspicious way Gotham vigilantes trusted anyone, but it had counted. You had traded intel, patched wounds, covered escapes, and spent too many dawns sitting on rooftops while the city turned bruised and gold beneath you. Friendship had crept in under the armor. Attraction had followed like a bad idea wearing boots.
Neither of you had said anything.
“So,” you said, because your silence had begun to feel too revealing, “you need a wife.”
“I need a partner.”
“But the invitation says married pairs.”
“Yes.”
“Which makes me your wife.”
“Fake wife.”
“Still hearing wife.”
“Moxie.”
You smiled despite yourself. He only used that tone when he was trying not to react, which made it one of your favorites. “What, no other options? Arsenal busy?”
“He offered.”
“He offered to be your wife?”
“He offered to wear white and make it everyone’s problem.”
You laughed, and this time Hood did not quite hide the answering warmth in his voice.
“Nightwing?” you asked.
“Would spend the whole night making heart eyes at the security cameras so Oracle could laugh at me.”
“She’ll laugh at you anyway.”
“Probably.”
“You could ask one of the Bats.”
“I’m asking you.”
The room seemed to quiet around that.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. The mask was off, leaving only the tired face beneath it. A fading bruise shadowed your jaw. Rain had flattened your hair against your cheek. You did not look like anyone’s wife. You looked like someone who had kicked a gunman down a stairwell forty minutes earlier and still had glass dust in one sleeve.
“You trust me that much?” you asked, softer than you meant to.
Hood did not answer immediately. When he did, the modulator could not quite strip the honesty out of his voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The stupid thing was, you trusted him too.
“All right,” you said. “Send me the details.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”
You straightened. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s a married couple event. We have to arrive together.”
“You can meet me two blocks out like a normal person.”
“A normal fake husband.”
“You’re enjoying this too much already.”
“You’re the one who keeps saying husband.”
“You started this call with a proposal.”
“It was a mission brief.”
“It was a cry for help.”
This time, he did laugh, low and brief and rough around the edges. It slipped under your skin before you could stop it.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Nine. Formal. Mask. Minimal weapons.”
“Define minimal.”
“Enough to keep you alive. Not enough to start a war before dessert.”
“You take all the romance out of organized crime.”
“Wear something you can run in.”
“Wear something you can bleed on.”
“Always do.”
The line clicked off.
You stood there for a moment with the comm in your palm and rain tapping against the glass. Then you looked down at your half-bandaged ribs and sighed.
“Fake married,” you told your reflection.
By the next night, you had decided that if Gotham criminals insisted on being dramatic, you were at least going to make them regret inviting you to be attractive.
The dress was black because subtlety had its limits. It skimmed close where it needed to, moved where it had to, and hid more than one blade in the places people politely pretended not to look. The slit up one side gave your thigh holster room. The structured bodice concealed flexible armor. Your shoes had been modified by a woman in Blüdhaven who believed all formalwear should survive a rooftop chase and at least one attempted kidnapping.
Your mask was matte black, simple and sharp, covering enough of your face to preserve the fiction without interfering with your sightlines. It lacked the tactical comfort of your usual mask. It also made you feel less like Moxie and more like someone who had been invited into a room specifically designed to test whether she could lie prettily while armed.
You arrived two blocks from the estate at 8:56.
Red Hood was already there. He stood beside a sleek black car under the cover of an old stone archway, rain misting silver around him. He was not wearing the helmet. That was the first problem. The second was the suit.
You had seen Red Hood in body armor, leather, Kevlar, blood, soot, and once an ugly green hoodie he had stolen from a safehouse after taking a knife to the shoulder. You had never seen him in a black suit tailored so cleanly that it looked as if it had been built around the breadth of him. His shirt was dark red, open at the throat instead of strangled by a tie, and his masquerade mask covered the upper half of his face in black and oxblood leather. A white streak cut through his dark hair, which had been pushed back like he had fought it into submission and lost only once.
His mouth was visible.
That was unfair.
You stopped under the archway.
He looked up from adjusting his cuff and went still.
The rain filled the silence between you.
You lifted a brow behind your mask. “Problem?”
“No,” he said.
His voice was not modulated tonight. It was lower than you expected, rougher, human in a way that made something in your stomach tighten. You knew Red Hood’s voice through static and armor. You knew the shape of his threats, the cadence of his sarcasm, the way he said your name when he was warning you not to do something dangerous you were absolutely about to do.
This was different.
This was close enough to touch.
“You look…” He stopped, jaw working once. “You clean up nice, Mox.”
The nickname landed differently without the helmet.
You gave him a slow look from shoes to shoulders to mouth, because if he was going to make you feel off-balance, he could suffer too.
“You look expensive,” you said.
“Emergency tailoring.”
“Obviously.”
His mouth twitched. “That obvious?”
“You’re wearing a suit that actually fits, Hood. Either someone threatened you, or you threatened them first.”
“Little of both.”
“That sounds more believable than it should.”
His mouth curved. “You ready?”
“For the crime gala or the fake marriage?”
“Yes.”
You stepped closer, close enough to smell rain, leather, and something faintly smoky beneath his cologne. “Rules?”
He opened the car door but did not move out of your way. “We stay together. We get in, find the ledger, copy it if we can, and steal it if we have to. Argent’s people are running heat sensors at the door and wand checks inside, so anything metal better be hidden well.”
“It is.”
His eyes flicked down for half a second before he caught himself.
You smiled. “Professional, Hood.”
“You brought it up.”
“Are you going to be weird all night?”
“Probably.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Something shifted in his expression. The teasing stayed, but a different tension moved beneath it.
“Speaking of.” He reached into his jacket.
You tensed on instinct before you saw the small velvet box in his hand.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Red Hood noticed everything, which was one of the most annoying things about having a crush on him.
“Relax,” he said. “If I were going to shoot you, I wouldn’t be standing out in the open like this.”
“You got a velvet ring box.”
“It’s part of the cover kit, Mox.”
“You have a cover kit with rings?”
“I have a lot of things.”
“That answer raises more questions than it resolves.”
He opened the box.
Inside were two rings. His was plain and dark, brushed black metal with a thin line of red through the center. Yours was simpler than you expected, a narrow gold band set with a small dark stone that caught the low light like it had a secret. It was not flashy enough to be ridiculous. It was not cheap enough to be meaningless.
For a mission prop, it looked dangerously thoughtful.
Your mouth went dry.
“Hood,” you said slowly.
“They verify at the door,” he said. “Needed to look real.”
“You bought rings.”
“I bought a cover.”
“You bought rings, Hood.”
His jaw shifted. “They verify at the door.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He took the smaller ring from the box. His hand was bare, no gloves, and the sight of it did something stupid to your pulse. Broad fingers, scarred knuckles, a pale line across the back of one hand that disappeared under his cuff. You had seen those hands reload guns, set bones, pull you out of an exploding warehouse by the back of your armor. You had not imagined one holding a wedding ring.
That was a lie.
You would never admit to imagining it.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
You should have made a joke. You usually had one ready, sharp and easy and useful for putting distance between yourself and anything that looked too much like vulnerability. But his voice had gone quiet, and the rain had softened the edges of the city, and there was no helmet between you tonight.
You gave him your hand.
He slid the ring onto your finger.
It fit.
You looked down at it.
Hood held your hand a second longer than necessary. His thumb brushed the base of your finger, barely there, and the carefulness of it landed worse than any joke he could have made.
“How’d you know my size?” you asked.
“I’m observant.”
“That’s a creepy answer.”
“In Gotham, paying attention is the difference between getting home and getting buried.”
The joke caught in your throat before it could fully form, because there was nothing theatrical in his voice when he said it.
“Fair enough.”
You took his ring from the box before he could close it, because letting him have the upper hand for too long was bad for your health. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave you his hand.
His ring slid over his knuckle with a little resistance. You felt the scars there. You felt him watching you.
“There,” you said, because your voice needed somewhere to go. “Tragically wed.”
He flexed his hand once, looking at the ring as if it had personally betrayed him. “For the mission.”
“Obviously.”
“Nothing else.”
“Never even crossed my mind.”
The lie sat between you, wearing formalwear.
“Names?” you asked.
“Anders,” he said. “Daniel and Elise.”
“Elise?”
“You hate it?”
“I sound like I own silk robes and poison my husbands.”
“Useful energy for tonight.”
“How long have we been married?”
“Three years.”
“Too long. I would’ve killed you by then.”
“Two years.”
“Better.”
“We met in Star City. You hated me.”
“That part’s true enough.”
“Got married in Atlantic City after a job went sideways.”
You stared at him. “That is the least believable thing you’ve said tonight.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It’s tacky.”
“It’s criminal.”
“It’s grounds for divorce.”
His mouth curved. “Then sell it, Mrs. Anders.”
He opened the car door wider. “After you, darling.”
You almost tripped on your own dress.
He caught your elbow immediately, steadying you with infuriating ease.
You looked up at him. “Don’t call me that.”
His thumb rested against the inside of your arm. “Noted.”
“You’re going to call me that again, aren’t you?”
Every guest wore a mask.
It made the whole thing feel less like a party and more like a confession waiting to happen.
Hood stepped out first and came around to your side before the valet could reach you. He offered his hand with the smoothness of a man who had absolutely been taught manners at some point and had chosen violence anyway.
You took it.
His ring flashed dark against his hand.
“Smile,” he murmured.
“I am smiling.”
“That’s your I’m-going-to-bite-someone smile.”
“It’s versatile.”
His hand settled at the small of your back.
The contact was light. Polite, even. It still burned through the dress like he had pressed his palm to bare skin. You hated him a little for being able to do that. You hated yourself more for leaning into it just enough that his fingers flexed.
At the door, a woman in silver looked over your invitation with the blank expression of someone paid well enough not to blink at murderers.
“Mr. and Mrs. Anders,” she said.
Hood smiled. It was small, controlled, and completely fraudulent. “That’s us.”
Mrs. Anders. You were going to murder him before midnight.
The woman glanced at your rings. Then at your faces. Then at the security guard beside her, who lifted a scanner.
“Hands,” he said.
Hood went first. Calm. Unbothered. The scanner passed over his sleeves, chest, waist, and legs. It did not beep, which meant either he had actually obeyed the minimal-weapons rule or he had spent the afternoon sourcing enough ceramic, polymer, and carbon-fiber problems to make the scanner irrelevant.
When it was your turn, Hood’s hand shifted against your back.
A warning.
You relaxed your shoulders, lifted your arms, and let the guard scan you. He found nothing. He did not know about the ceramic blade along your thigh, the garrote sewn into your hem, the lockpicks disguised as hairpins, or the tiny flash drive tucked beneath the dark stone of your ring.
Oracle would have been proud.
The woman in silver gave you both a final look. “Enjoy the evening.”
“We intend to,” Hood said.
You waited until you were inside, past the first curtain of security and beneath a ceiling painted with golden saints, before you muttered, “Mr. and Mrs. Anders?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I sound like I run a suspiciously profitable antique store.”
“You do have the vibe.”
“I’m divorcing you.”
“We’ve been married for fifteen minutes.”
“Annulment, then.”
His hand moved slightly at your back, fingers pressing once as a masked couple passed too close on your left. You caught the movement of the man’s hand toward his jacket and shifted before Hood had to pull you, putting yourself just out of reach while looking like you had only turned to admire a vase.
Hood’s mouth twitched.
“Nice,” he murmured.
“I know.”
The ballroom was a glittering fever dream.
Chandeliers spilled gold across polished floors. A string quartet played something elegant and mournful in the corner. The guests drifted in pairs, all silk, velvet, diamonds, and concealed cruelty. Masks transformed familiar monsters into myth. You recognized a judge who had buried evidence in three trafficking cases, a shipping magnate whose warehouses had burned twice under suspicious circumstances, one of Penguin’s accountants, and a woman from Blüdhaven who had once tried to stab Roy Harper with an oyster knife.
Above it all, on a balcony overlooking the room, stood Mr. Argent.
He wore white. Of course he did. His mask was silver, shaped like a fox’s face, and his hair was slicked back so severely it looked lacquered. Two guards flanked him. He lifted a champagne flute as the room applauded, and you felt Hood go still beside you.
“That him?” you murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Punchable.”
“Very.”
“Later?”
“If you behave.”
“I never promised that.”
“No,” Hood said, looking down at you with an expression you did not know how to read. “You didn’t.”
For the next hour, you were married.
It was alarming how well you both lied.
Hood kept you close, his hand at your waist or your back or curled around your fingers whenever someone looked too long. You let yourself be guided without seeming guided, answered questions with a smile, and invented a marriage with him in pieces. You had met in Star City, according to him. Blüdhaven, according to you. You handled private acquisitions. He handled security consulting. You had been married for two years, unless someone asked Hood, in which case it became three because apparently your fake husband believed in committing to details without warning you first. You disliked his driving. He admired your temper. You preferred clean exits, and he preferred making sure no one followed. Somehow, that was the most believable part.
Every time he called you his wife, your body reacted before your brain could remind it to be professional.
“My wife has better instincts than I do,” he told a broker with a scar cutting through one eyebrow.
“That must be difficult for you,” the broker said.
“You have no idea,” you replied.
Hood’s fingers tightened on your hip.
The broker laughed like he thought you were charming.
Hood leaned close to your ear as the man turned away. “Careful.”
“You brought me because I’m charming.”
“I brought you because you’re dangerous.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I could say sweeter.”
Your breath caught.
He did not move away.
The room kept spinning around you, music rising and falling, glass chiming against glass. Hood’s mouth hovered close enough to your ear that you felt each word more than you heard it.
“For the cover,” he added.
You turned your face slightly toward his. “Coward.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
The moment stretched thin.
Then a bell chimed from the center of the room, and Mr. Argent descended the stairs with his hands spread as if he were welcoming guests to a wedding rather than a criminal auction.
“Friends,” he said, voice carrying. “Partners. Devoted halves of dangerous wholes. Welcome.”
You felt Hood’s irritation through the line of his body.
Argent spoke for several minutes, all polished charm and predator’s teeth. He praised loyalty. He praised discretion. He praised the beauty of masks, of chosen names, of the sacred privacy between spouses. It was all ridiculous and unpleasantly effective. This crowd liked being told their secrets were elegant rather than filthy.
The auction would begin at midnight.
Until then, there would be dancing.
“Of course there will,” you said under your breath.
Hood looked down at you. “You dance?”
“I fight people on rooftops in steel-toed boots. What do you think?”
“I think that wasn’t a no.”
“It should have been.”
The quartet shifted into a waltz.
Couples moved toward the center of the floor.
Argent watched from the stairs.
Hood held out his hand.
You stared at it. “You’re kidding.”
“He’s watching.”
“Let him.”
“Sweetheart.”
There was the mission voice again. The one that made you want to argue and obey at the same time, which was probably why you usually chose to argue.
You placed your hand in his. “If you step on my dress, I’m leaving you for Nightwing.”
“Like hell you are.”
“He has better posture.”
“He has worse taste.”
“He still claims you, so clearly.”
Hood pulled you into the dance before you could look too pleased with yourself.
You had expected competence. Red Hood was good at nearly everything physical, which was obnoxious but useful. You had not expected grace. He moved like he fought, controlled and deliberate, except here the violence had been translated into something almost beautiful. His hand settled at your waist, the other holding yours. He led without forcing, gave you space when you needed it, adjusted to your rhythm so quickly you almost forgot to be surprised.
Almost.
“Where the hell did you learn to dance?” you asked.
“Crime Alley community center.”
You looked up sharply.
His mouth curved. “You should see your face.”
“I am going to widow myself.”
“You ask a lot of questions for a woman with at least six hidden weapons at a no-weapons gala.”
“Seven.”
“Anklet?”
“Hair.”
“Nice.”
“You missed it.”
“Did I?”
His hand shifted at your waist, just enough for his thumb to skim the reinforced seam where one of your hairpins had been before you tucked it into place. Heat shot down your spine.
You narrowed your eyes. “Show-off.”
“Observant,” he corrected.
The dance turned you beneath one chandelier, light sliding across his mask. For a moment, with his face half-hidden and his mouth bare, you felt the strangeness of knowing him and not knowing him. Red Hood had carried you once when smoke inhalation made your knees buckle after a warehouse fire. He had sat beside you on a roof while you stitched his arm and complained about his inability to hold still. He had told you which safehouses had clean water and which clinics would not ask questions. He had never told you his name.
You had never told him yours.
Yet his hand fit at your waist like it had always been meant to find you.
“Why me?” you asked.
His steps did not falter, but his expression changed.
“I told you.”
“You said you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“That’s not all.”
Around you, masked couples turned and glittered. Argent’s people watched from the edges. There were cameras in the chandeliers, guards at each door, predators in every corner, and still the most dangerous thing in the room felt like the pause before Hood answered.
“You don’t flinch,” he said.
You could have made that a joke. You should have.
“I do,” you said. “Just not where people can see.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
You hated the mask for hiding their color from you. You hated it more for making you want to know.
“I know,” he said.
The words were quiet enough that no one else could have heard them. They landed with brutal precision anyway.
The dance ended. Applause rose politely around you.
Hood did not let go.
You did not pull away.
Then Oracle’s voice crackled faintly through the tiny comm hidden in your earring. “Argent’s private office just went active. East wing, second floor. You have maybe ten minutes before the auction staff transfers the ledger downstairs.”
You stepped back first, mostly because someone had to.
Hood’s jaw tightened like he had been pulled out of a thought he did not appreciate. “Copy.”
“And try not to make the cameras work harder than they already are,” Oracle added.
“I make no promises,” you said.
Hood shot you a look.
He joined you inside thirty seconds later.
“Cheekbones?” you whispered as the door clicked shut behind him.
“They were very proud of them.”
“You’re mean when you’re jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“They were looking at me.”
“I noticed.”
“That’s jealousy.”
“That’s situational awareness.”
“You’re very committed to being wrong.”
“Part of my charm.”
You grinned and headed for the stairs.
The office was exactly where Oracle said it would be, behind another locked door at the end of a corridor lined with bad portraits of dead men who had probably also committed tax fraud. Hood stood watch while you worked the lock. It took eighteen seconds, which was twelve seconds longer than it should have taken because he stood too close behind you and smelled too good.
“You’re hovering,” you whispered.
“I’m guarding.”
“You’re breathing on my neck.”
“Want me to stop?”
Your pick slipped.
Hood noticed.
You got the door open and shouldered your way inside before he could say anything smug enough to justify stabbing him.
Argent’s office was dark-paneled, overdecorated, and cold. A fire burned low in the hearth, more decorative than useful. The desk was massive. The safe behind the portrait was predictable. The pressure sensor beneath the rug was less predictable, but only because Argent had otherwise shown no taste.
“Left,” Hood said.
“I see it.”
“Camera above the bookcase.”
“I see that too.”
“Drawer’s wired.”
“You know,” you said, crouching beside the safe, “some husbands support their wives in silence.”
“You’d hate that.”
“You’re right. Keep talking.”
The safe took longer. Argent had invested money there, at least. You worked by feel while Hood disabled the camera feed through a device Oracle had given him with a warning not to break it. The room smelled like smoke and old paper. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom below.
When the safe opened, you found the ledger in a black case beside stacks of cash, passports, and a velvet pouch filled with diamonds.
“Bingo,” you said.
Hood came closer. “Can you copy it?”
You opened the case.
Inside was a slim encrypted drive and a paper ledger. Dramatic and paranoid. Gotham criminals really were exhausting.
“Copy the drive, photograph the paper,” you said. “Three minutes.”
“You have two.”
“You always say that.”
“You always take three.”
“And yet you keep asking me places.”
He stood beside you while you worked, close enough that his suit brushed your bare shoulder when he reached past you to shift the desk lamp. The contact made your skin prickle. You ignored it. Then his hand settled briefly over yours to steady the ledger page before it curled.
You stopped.
He stopped too.
For one suspended second, both of you looked at your hands. His ring. Your ring. Inked names of criminals between you.
Then footsteps sounded in the hall.
Hood moved first, crossing to the door with silent speed. He listened, shoulders going tense.
“Two guards,” he mouthed.
You closed the ledger, pocketed the drive, and grabbed the paper book because copying was suddenly less important than leaving.
The office door opened before you reached the safe.
Hood caught the first guard by the wrist and slammed him face-first into the doorframe. You threw the ledger case at the second guard’s throat, followed it with your elbow, and swept his legs when he choked. The fight was fast, ugly, and mostly quiet until the first guard got a hand on the panic button at his belt.
Red light flashed in the corridor.
“Well,” you said, breathing hard. “That’s unfortunate.”
Hood looked at the unconscious guard, then at you. “You said three minutes.”
“You said two. This marriage has communication issues.”
Shouting rose from downstairs.
Oracle’s voice cut in. “Alarm triggered. Multiple hostiles converging on the east wing. Also, Argent just noticed his ledger room is having a moment.”
Hood grabbed your hand. “Not the window.”
You glanced toward the glass. “I wasn’t going to suggest the window.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was considering all exits.”
“You were thinking the window.”
“Fine. I was thinking the window.”
“Too exposed. Service corridor.”
He pulled the office door open just enough to check the hall, then drew you out after him. The alarm had not yet become a full lockdown, but the estate had shifted around you. Music still drifted from the ballroom, strained and elegant beneath the first signs of panic. Somewhere below, a guard barked orders into a radio. Somewhere closer, expensive shoes moved quickly over the polished floor.
You made it down one hall, then another, before voices rose ahead of you.
Hood stopped so abruptly you nearly collided with his back.
“Storage room?” you whispered.
“Locked.”
“Can you open it?”
“Not before they turn the corner.”
“Then what?”
He looked at you.
You had just enough time to understand before his hand slid to your waist and he walked you backward into the shadowed alcove beside a half-open terrace door. Rain breathed cold against your bare shoulders. His body covered yours, broad enough to block you from the hall, close enough to steal your balance. The ledger pressed between you.
The sensible thing would have been to wait until the footsteps faded completely, then slip away.
The less sensible thing was Hood looking down at your mouth.
“Careful,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours. “With what?”
“You know what.”
“We’re still undercover,” he said.
“You say that like it explains why your hand is on my ass.”
He had the decency to look caught for half a second before the corner of his mouth tilted. “It’s a convincing cover.”
“We’re in the middle of an active alarm.”
“Gotham criminals love drama.”
“You are so full of shit.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Maybe.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
It was supposed to be a cover. You understood that. You understood it with the part of your brain still tracking footsteps, sightlines, cameras, and the weight of the stolen drive hidden beneath your ring. The guards were coming. You needed a reason to be tucked into a dark corner with his hands on you, and Gotham criminals were much more willing to believe in lust than competence.
Knowing that did nothing to save you.
Hood kissed like he had been waiting for permission and hated himself for needing it. His hand tightened at your waist, the other braced near your head, and when the first guard rounded the corner, you let yourself make a soft, irritated sound against his mouth as if being interrupted were the only crime happening.
“Hey,” the guard snapped.
Hood lifted his head slowly.
You had to give him credit. He looked exactly like a rich, dangerous husband being inconvenienced in the middle of something private.
His mouth was damp. His mask was slightly crooked. His hand tightened at your waist before the guard could decide whether to look embarrassed or afraid, and when his voice came, it was low enough to make the man rethink his life.
“You lost?”
The guard looked like he was seriously considering saying yes. His gaze flicked from Hood’s face to your hand fisted in his lapel, then to the ring on your finger.
“Restricted wing,” he said, but the authority had already leaked out of him.
You smiled from beneath Hood’s shoulder, breathless enough that it was not entirely acting. “We were looking for somewhere quiet.”
“This isn’t—”
“My wife gets bored at parties,” Hood said.
Your nails dug warningly into his jacket.
He did not even flinch.
The second guard muttered something into his radio. The first looked between you again, then made the obvious and incorrect calculation that two half-dressed socialites sneaking away from a masquerade were less urgent than the alarm coming from Argent’s office.
“Return to the ballroom,” he said.
“Eventually,” Hood said.
The guard looked like he wanted to argue. Then Hood smiled.
The guard chose life.
When they disappeared around the corner, neither of you moved.
The sensible thing would have been to break apart immediately and run.
Instead, Hood’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Convincing,” you said, but your voice had gone thin.
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah.”
“For the cover?”
“That was the idea.”
“And now?”
His gaze lifted to yours.
The alarm wailed louder somewhere behind you. Your heart was worse.
“Now I’m waiting for you to tell me to back up,” he said.
You should have. The mission was still burning around you. Argent’s men were searching the estate, Oracle was probably developing a stress migraine, and you had a stolen ledger digging into your stomach.
Instead, you caught his lapel and pulled him down again.
The second kiss had no excuse at all.
Hood made a low sound against your mouth and crowded closer, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, the other cupping your jaw with surprising care. He kissed like he did everything else, with focus, hunger, and a barely leashed intensity that made your knees threaten to forget their job. You kissed him back just as hard, biting at his lower lip because you had wanted to know what he would do.
He groaned.
That sound nearly undid you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
Your laugh came out uneven. “I was hoping it wasn’t just tonight.”
His forehead touched yours. Rain slid down between you. “Not just tonight.”
The admission settled under your ribs, warm and terrifying.
Then Oracle said, with the precise exhaustion of a woman who regretted every friendship in her life, “I know this is a very meaningful moment for whatever emotionally constipated thing you two have going on, but the armed men are still armed.”
You closed your eyes. “Oracle.”
“East stairwell is blocked. West service corridor is clear for maybe ninety seconds. Also, Hood, if you get lipstick on that suit, Roy is going to know the emergency tailor trip was for a date, and I refuse to moderate that conversation.”
Hood froze.
You pulled back just enough to stare at him.
Roy.
The suit.
Hood’s mouth tightened.
Your brain, traitorous and quick, began putting pieces together. Arsenal’s teasing. Nightwing’s fondness. The way Hood moved through certain rooftops like he knew the Bat-routes and hated that he knew them. The way Roy had texted you earlier that week, complaining that getting his friend Jason into a tailor’s shop had required bribery, threats, and the promise of post-mission chili dogs.
Jason Todd, scowling in Roy’s kitchen three months ago with a beer he barely drank and a book tucked under one arm like a threat. Jason Todd at a crowded charity event Roy had dragged you to, wearing a suit with the stiff irritation of a man who understood formalwear but resented having to surrender to it. Jason Todd, who had once apparently threatened a tailor over sleeve mobility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
“You’re Jason,” you said.
Hood’s eyes narrowed. “We are being hunted.”
“You’re Jason Todd.”
“Moxie.”
“I made fun of your tie at Roy’s birthday.”
“It was an ugly tie.”
“You said you liked my boots.”
“They had knives in them.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice a lot of things.”
You stared at him, outrage and desire tangling so tightly you could barely separate them. “Did you know?”
His expression shifted, something almost helpless moving through it. “Not until tonight.”
“Tonight when?”
“At the door,” he said. “You smiled like you were about to rob the place and insult me for helping.”
“That is not specific. I smile like that often.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping. “That was part of the problem.”
The shouting grew louder.
Oracle cleared her throat over the comm. “The identity crisis is very compelling, but your ninety seconds is down to thirty.”
Jason—because it was Jason, because of course it was Jason—looked down at you, rain bright on his mask and your lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth.
“We’re finishing this conversation later,” he said.
“You showed up in a custom suit, called me your wife, and let me figure out you were Jason Todd during an active alarm. We’re finishing several conversations later.”
His mouth curved. “Looking forward to it.”
“Thirty seconds,” Oracle warned.
You tightened your grip on his lapel, outrage and desire still tangled somewhere behind your ribs. “Run, husband.”
His grin flashed, sharp and delighted.
You ran.
The next twenty minutes were chaos in formalwear.
You and Jason moved through the service corridors like you’d done it a hundred times before. He covered your left without needing to be asked. You ducked under his arm when he fired over your shoulder. You broke a man’s wrist with one hand and held the ledger against your chest with the other. Jason used a serving tray to knock a guard unconscious, which you appreciated as both violence and commentary.
At one point, you vaulted over a dessert cart, and he caught you by the waist on the other side because the floor was slick with spilled champagne.
“Careful, honey,” he said.
You elbowed him in the ribs.
He laughed as he shot out the lock on a service door behind you. The door swung hard enough to clip one of Argent’s men in the face, which was probably not intentional but still felt like a gift from the universe.
Argent made it as far as the conservatory before his sense of self-preservation failed him. He had two guards, a silver briefcase, and the deeply unfortunate confidence of a man who had never been tackled by Red Hood while wearing formal shoes.
Jason hit him beside the orchid display.
The fountain took both of them.
Water surged over the marble lip. Argent shouted. Jason came up soaked to the chest, one hand locked in the back of Argent’s expensive white jacket and the other already reaching for a zip tie.
You handled the guards.
By the time Nightwing arrived through the shattered glass roof with far too much acrobatic flair, Argent was bound to a marble cherub, Jason was dripping wet in a custom suit, and you were holding the ledger in one hand and one of your broken heels in the other.
Nightwing landed lightly beside you and took in the scene.
Then he looked at Jason.
Then at you.
Then at the rings.
“Oh,” he said, with terrible delight. “This explains so much.”
Jason pointed at him. “Say one word.”
Nightwing’s grin widened. “Mazel tov?”
You covered your mouth with your hand but couldn’t hide your laugh.
Jason looked betrayed. “You too?”
“You’re soaked in fountain water and wearing a wedding ring,” you said. “I’m only human.”
Nightwing pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m honored to have been here for the reception.”
Jason started toward him.
Nightwing wisely flipped backward onto the fountain edge, still grinning. “Oracle says police are six minutes out. Arsenal also says, and I quote, ‘Tell the happy couple I’m claiming visitation rights.’”
“I hate all of you,” Jason said.
“No, you don’t,” you said.
He looked at you.
For a second, the wreckage of the night narrowed to the space between you. Broken glass glittered on the conservatory floor. Rain poured through the ruined ceiling. Your mask was still in place, and so was his, but the fiction was gone. He knew you. You knew him. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to make the wanting feel less like a dangerous mistake and more like a door neither of you had realized was unlocked.
Nightwing’s expression softened, which made you want to throw the broken heel at him.
“I’ll take Argent,” he said. “You two should go before the cops arrive and ask why she has seven knives and a ledger full of people who are going to want her dead by morning.”
“Six knives,” Jason said automatically.
Nightwing stared at him.
You stared at him too.
Jason glanced at you. “You lost one in the east wing.”
“You counted?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said, and there was something warm under it. “You noticed.”
Nightwing made a sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. “Go. Both of you. Before I start making a speech.”
“Don’t,” Jason said.
“Oh, I have several prepared.”
Not awkward, exactly. You and Jason had survived too many injuries together for silence to become fragile that easily. But this was different from your usual post-mission quiet. There was no helmet between his voice and your ears. No modulator to make his breathing sound distant. No way to pretend you had not kissed him in a dark alcove, learned his name while being hunted, and liked both too much.
The rings were still on.
You noticed every time his hand moved on the steering wheel.
He noticed you noticing, because of course he did.
“Say it,” he said eventually.
You looked out the rain-streaked window. “I’m deciding which thing.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, there are categories.”
His mouth twitched. The bruise along his jaw had darkened. There was still a faint smear of lipstick near the corner of his mouth, half washed away by rain and fountain water.
You reached over without thinking and rubbed at the mark with your thumb.
Jason went very still.
The car slowed at a red light on an empty street.
Your hand remained against his jaw. The stubble there rasped lightly beneath your thumb. His eyes flicked to yours behind the mask, and the air in the car changed so quickly it felt like a drop.
You withdrew your hand. “Lipstick.”
“Right.”
“Couldn’t let Roy win.”
Jason huffed a laugh, but his fingers tightened on the wheel.
Neither of you said anything for the rest of the block.
When he pulled into the alley two streets from your apartment, the rain had softened to a mist. He parked beneath a fire escape and cut the engine. The sudden quiet felt deliberate. You could hear the ticking of the car cooling, the distant hum of traffic, your own pulse refusing to calm down.
Jason removed his mask first.
You had seen his face before. That was the worst part. You had seen him across Roy’s kitchen, half-lit by the open fridge while he argued about takeout like it was a tactical decision. You had seen him at that charity event, bored and handsome and restless, as if all that polished wealth irritated his skin. You had not known then that he was the man who called you Mox over comms when he was worried. You had not known he was Red Hood.
Now the two versions slid together and made something sharper.
You took off your mask.
Jason stared.
Not like he was surprised, not exactly. More like the last remaining doubt had just been removed, and he had no armor ready for what came after.
“Hi,” you said, because apparently you had lost access to every clever line you had ever had.
His laugh was soft and almost disbelieving. “Hi.”
“That’s it? No dramatic comment?”
“I’m having a moment.”
“Should I wait?”
“Probably.”
You smiled, and his gaze dropped to your mouth again.
The car felt much smaller than it had a minute ago.
“We should talk,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“About identities.”
“Yeah.”
“And boundaries.”
“Definitely.”
“And the fact that you apparently knew my ring size.”
“I guessed.”
“You did not guess.”
“I made an informed estimate.”
“That’s worse.”
He dragged a hand through his damp hair. The ring flashed again, dark metal and red line catching briefly in the low light.
Your smile faded around the edges.
Slowly, you twisted your own ring. It slid halfway up your finger before Jason’s hand closed over yours.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too raw for the joke he clearly meant to attach to it.
You looked down at his hand over yours. “Jason.”
His name felt new in your mouth. His fingers tightened.
“I know it was supposed to be a cover,” he said. “I know. But don’t take it off like it meant nothing.”
Your throat went tight.
There he was. The man beneath the helmet, beneath the suit, beneath all that practiced brutality. Not soft, exactly. Jason Todd would probably never be soft in any simple way. But honest, when cornered. Brave enough to bleed where you could see it, if not quite brave enough to ask.
You turned your hand beneath his, palm to palm.
“It didn’t mean nothing,” you said.
He exhaled as if something in him had braced for impact.
“But,” you continued, “you don’t get to fake marry me, kiss me in a hallway, let me find out you’re Jason Todd, and then look wounded when I try to return the prop.”
“I didn’t look wounded.”
“You looked extremely wounded.”
“I have a bruise.”
“Emotionally.”
He made a face. “That sounds like something Nightwing would say.”
“Nightwing is emotionally literate.”
“Don’t compliment him right now.”
“There’s the jealousy again.”
“Threat assessment.”
“Jason.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and all the banter thinned into something warmer and far more dangerous.
“I wanted it to be you,” he said. “Before I knew. The job, the partner, the whole stupid fake-married thing. I wanted you there. Then you showed up in that dress, and you were you, and I kept thinking…” He stopped, jaw working. “I kept thinking I was screwed either way.”
Your chest ached.
You had imagined, once or twice, what Red Hood might sound like if he ever admitted wanting something. You had imagined arrogance, maybe. A filthy grin. A hand around your wrist in an alley. You had not imagined this careful, frustrated honesty, as if desire were easier for him than hope.
“You could’ve said something,” you said.
“So could you.”
“I was being professional.”
He gave you a look.
“I was being emotionally avoidant,” you corrected.
“Yeah. Same.”
You laughed, quiet and helpless.
Jason’s thumb brushed your ring again. “You can take it off if you want.”
There was the out. Offered plainly, because whatever else he was, Jason had never once tried to trap you. He had asked you to trust him and then given you room to choose.
You looked at the ring. Something bought for cover. Something worn through gunfire. Something neither of you had meant to make real, except maybe that was not true. Maybe the wanting had been real for months, and the ring had only given it a shape.
You slid it off.
Jason’s expression closed before he could stop it.
Then you placed the ring in his palm and folded his fingers around it.
“Next time you want a date, ask me properly.”
He stared at you.
The silence lasted one breath. Two.
Then his mouth curved, slow and stunned and devastating.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret being romantic.”
“You’re calling that romantic?”
“I’m new at it.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face had gone warm. “You owe me explanations.”
“I know.”
“Real ones.”
“I know.”
“And dinner.”
His smile deepened. “Explanations, then dinner?”
“That order, yes.”
He leaned closer. “What about kissing?”
You pretended to consider it. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How convincing you are.”
Jason reached out and touched your cheek, giving you plenty of time to move away.
You did not.
The second kiss was nothing like the first. There was no alarm, no audience, no cover to excuse it. It was slower, deeper, and somehow more dangerous for being honest. His hand slid into your hair carefully, avoiding the pins he knew were weapons. Your hands found the front of his shirt, still damp from rain and fountain water, and pulled him closer until the console dug into your hip and neither of you cared.
He kissed you until your breath broke.
Then he murmured against your mouth, “Tell me to go, and I will.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
The heat between you flared so fast it almost startled you. It was not as if you had not wanted him all night. You had wanted him at the door, in the ballroom, in the dark alcove, in every narrow space where his hand found your back and his voice dropped low near your ear. But here, with your mask off and his name still warm in your mouth, the wanting became something else.
Still, you pulled back enough to meet his eyes.
“Not because of the mission,” you said.
“No.”
“Not because of the cover.”
“No.”
“Not because we almost died and adrenaline makes people stupid.”
Jason’s thumb swept along your jaw. “I’m always stupid about you.”
That should not have worked on you.
It worked on you.
You kissed him again, harder this time, and felt him smile against your mouth for half a second before hunger took over.
By the time you reached your apartment, you had both forgotten at least three reasonable boundaries about elevators, hands, and the general decency owed to security cameras. Jason kept one hand at your waist, his body angled between you and the hallway, even now, even here, and something in your chest went painfully soft at the thought.
Inside, the door barely closed before he had you against it.
He stopped before pinning you there fully, breath rough, eyes searching your face. “Still good?”
You hooked two fingers into the open collar of his red shirt and pulled him down. “Jason.”
His name was answer enough.
He kissed you as if the sound had snapped the last of his restraint.
The dress that had survived knives, guards, and a criminal masquerade nearly lost its battle against Jason Todd’s patience. He found the hidden zipper with insulting speed, paused only long enough for your nod, and drew it down slowly while his mouth moved along your throat. You shivered when the cool air touched your back. He noticed that too, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw as if the reaction pleased him more than he wanted to admit.
“Still six knives?” he murmured.
“Five,” you said, breath catching when his teeth grazed your skin. “Lost another on the way out.”
“Careless.”
“I was distracted by my husband tackling a man into a fountain.”
His hands stilled at your waist.
You smiled against his cheek. “Too much?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, intent, and stripped of every joke. “Say it again.”
Your pulse jumped.
“My husband,” you said softly.
Jason made a sound that was almost a groan and kissed you hard enough to make your spine arch against the door.
After that, things blurred into touch and heat and the shedding of every last defense. His jacket hit the floor. Your heels followed. The dress slipped down, and Jason followed it with his mouth, kissing each place the night had left a mark as if he could argue with every bruise. You pushed his shirt from his shoulders and found scars beneath, old and new, a map of violence written into him. He went still when your fingers traced one across his chest.
You kissed it.
The breath left him all at once.
“Baby,” he said, rough and warning and wrecked.
The endearment settled low in your stomach.
You looked up at him. “That one for the cover too?”
“No.” His hands tightened at your hips. “That one’s mine.”
You should have had a clever answer.
You had survived worse nights than this. You had talked your way out of locked rooms, gun barrels, bad dates, worse missions, and once, memorably, a hostage situation involving a chandelier and three men who had severely underestimated your patience. You should have had something sharp ready for him.
Instead, you caught Jason by the front of his shirt and pulled him with you toward the bedroom.
His laugh followed you, low and breathless, half disbelief and half surrender. It lasted until you stumbled backward through the doorway, and then he was on you again, one hand braced against the frame, the other sliding firm and careful around your waist.
“Impatient,” he murmured.
“You’re still talking.”
That did it.
Jason kissed you like the words had snapped the last thread of his restraint. He crowded you back with the heat of him, with the rain still clinging to his hair and the city still written in bruises across both of you. His mouth found yours hard enough to steal the next thing you meant to say, and you let him have it. Let him have the sound you made when his hand settled at the small of your back. Let him have the way your fingers dug into his shoulders. Let him have the moment your knees hit the edge of the bed and you pulled him down with you because distance suddenly felt offensive.
He caught himself before his full weight landed on you.
Of course he did.
Jason Todd, who had thrown men through glass tonight, who had tackled Argent into a fountain like subtlety was a language he had never bothered to learn, stopped himself with one hand planted beside your head and the other cupping your hip like you were something breakable.
The tenderness almost annoyed you.
Almost.
“You can touch me,” you said.
His eyes searched yours, dark and intent. “I am touching you.”
“You’re treating me like evidence.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, rough and quiet. “You are evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That I’ve lost my mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, and his gaze dropped to your mouth like the expression had done him personal harm.
Then he lowered himself over you.
The weight of him settled slowly, carefully, and your breath caught before you could stop it. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His attention sharpened immediately, that same devastating focus he brought to fights and locks and exits turning entirely on you. On the way your fingers tightened in his shirt. On the places you tried not to flinch. On the places you leaned closer.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Words.”
The command should have irritated you. Instead, it went through you like heat.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Only then did he kiss you again.
This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Less like a collision and more like a decision. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of patience that made your pulse kick in frustration, like he had all night, like there were no sirens waiting in the distance, no bruises blooming beneath your skin, no ledger full of enemies, no blood drying at the edge of his collar.
Just Jason, above you.
Jason, kissing you until your cleverness dissolved completely.
His jacket hit the floor first. You pushed it off his shoulders with more force than grace, and he let you, smiling against your mouth when it caught at one wrist.
“Bossy,” he murmured.
“You like it.”
His smile flashed against your skin. “Yeah.”
The honesty in it landed harder than the teasing had.
You pulled at his shirt next, impatient with buttons, fabric, anything that kept him from you. Jason helped only when your frustration became obvious, sitting back just long enough to drag it over his head. The movement bared him to you by degrees: the broad line of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the scars.
Old ones. New ones. Some pale, some angry, some so familiar-looking in their violence that your throat tightened.
You reached before you thought better of it.
Your fingers traced a line across his chest, not the worst of them, not the newest, just the one closest to your hand. Jason went still.
Immediately, you stopped. “Sorry.”
He looked down at you, and something in his face shifted. Not away from you. Not quite toward you either. Inward, maybe. Somewhere you could not follow unless he let you.
Then his hand covered yours.
“Don’t be.”
His palm was warm over your knuckles. His heartbeat moved beneath your fingertips, steady and alive and too close to miraculous for either of you to joke about.
So you didn’t.
You lifted your head and kissed the scar instead.
Jason’s breath left him all at once.
For a second, he did not move. Then his hand slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needed somewhere to put the feeling before it broke loose. When you kissed another mark, lower this time, his fingers tightened.
“Careful,” he said, voice uneven.
You looked up at him. “You first.”
Something in his expression cracked open.
Then he was kissing you again, and this time, there was nothing careful about his mouth.
He was careful with the bruises. Less careful with your lips. You liked both. You liked the contradiction of him, the control and the hunger, the way his hands could disarm a man in three seconds but trembled once at the zipper of your dress. You liked the way he paused there, waiting, until you nodded. You liked that he needed the nod. You liked that he looked wrecked by it.
The dress slipped down by inches.
Jason followed it with his mouth.
He kissed your shoulder first, right where the strap had been, then lower, where the night had left a shadow on your skin. Each bruise earned a touch so gentle it made your chest ache. Each scrape got the brush of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the silent fury of a man trying to argue with every mark violence had put on you.
“Jason,” you whispered.
His name changed something.
You felt it in the way he paused against your skin, in the way his hand flexed at your waist, in the half-second when his control faltered before he gathered it again.
“Say that again,” he said.
You should have teased him.
You really should have.
Instead, you said his name again, softer this time, and felt him shudder.
His mouth found your collarbone. Your throat. The place beneath your ear that made your entire body go tense and then loose beneath him. Your hands slid into his hair, and he made a sound against your skin that you felt more than heard.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Not smoothly. Not like a line. Like the words had been dragged out of him against his will.
It hurt more than it should have.
You pulled him down until his weight settled over you. “You’re overdressed.”
His smile returned, brief and dangerous. “Still bossy.”
“And yet you obey.”
That got you his laugh again, but it broke when your hands moved over him, learning him in return. The strength of him. The scars. The heat. The places where his breath caught. The places where he tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend it had not.
Outside, thunder rolled over the city.
Inside, Jason bent his head and said your name.
Not Moxie.
Your real name.
You barely remembered when he had started saying it like that. Somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom, maybe. It mattered anyway. It mattered when he said it against your mouth. It mattered when he pressed it into your shoulder. It mattered when he used it like a promise, like a confession, like something he had no right to keep and wanted anyway.
Everything after that softened and sharpened at once.
The night had been all alarms and violence, all running feet and broken glass and blood under your nails. This was slower. Hotter. More dangerous in a way you had not prepared for, because Jason did not just want you. He paid attention to you. He watched your face, listened to your breath, checked in with quiet words and searching hands until you were almost angry with how much it undid you.
“You still with me?” he asked.
You touched his jaw. “Yes.”
His eyes closed briefly, like that single word had gone straight through him.
Then he kissed you through the next breath, and the next, and the next, until the storm outside felt distant compared to the one he built under your skin. You answered with your hands, your mouth, the tilt of your hips, the helpless little sounds you would deny later if anyone had the nerve to ask. Jason learned each one with ruthless attention. Worse, he remembered. He returned to every place that made you gasp, every touch that made your fingers twist in the sheets, every kiss that turned his name into something unsteady on your tongue.
By the time he moved over you again, bare skin warm against bare skin, the teasing had burned down to something quieter.
He paused.
Of course he did.
His forearm braced beside your head. His hair fell forward, damp and dark, and his eyes moved over your face as if he were trying to memorize you before the world remembered it had claims on either of you.
You touched his cheek. “Jason.”
“I know,” he said.
But his voice shook slightly.
Your heart turned over.
“Just looking,” he admitted.
The tenderness of it nearly undid you more than the hunger had.
For once, you had no armor left. No mask. No joke sharp enough to save you. There was only the warmth of him, the weight of him, the impossible gentleness in his hands after a night that had given neither of you any reason to be gentle.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer.
“Look later.”
Jason lay beside you with one arm under your head and the other across your waist, holding you like he was trying to pretend he was not holding on. His hair was a mess. There was a scratch near his shoulder that you were fairly certain you had left there. The bruise at his jaw had darkened, and your lipstick was long gone.
Your ring sat on the nightstand beside his.
Two mission props in a pool of warm lamplight.
You reached for his hand beneath the sheets. His fingers laced through yours immediately.
“Still awake?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“Thinking?”
“Dangerous habit.”
“About?”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. Without the mask, without the suit, without the red helmet or the ballroom or the gunfire, Jason looked younger and more tired and more beautiful than was fair.
“You,” he said.
Your chest warmed. “That’s vague.”
“I’m working up to poetic.”
“Take your time.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I’m thinking I should’ve asked sooner.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then shifted closer until your forehead touched his shoulder.
“You did ask me to marry you.”
He huffed. “Fake marry me.”
“You should be more specific next time.”
“Next time?”
You smiled against his skin.
Jason went quiet.
Then he reached past you toward the nightstand. You watched as he picked up your ring, turning it between his fingers. It looked smaller in his hand than it had any right to, dark stone catching the lamp light.
He did not try to put it on you.
Instead, he held it out.
“Dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow night. No masks. No aliases. Explanations first, because I heard you the first three times. Then dinner.”
You took the ring from him.
Your fingers closed around it. “That sounds dangerously like a date.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. His voice was rougher than it needed to be. “That’s the idea.”
“And if you completely screw it up?”
“I’ll ask for another one.”
“That confident?”
“No,” he said. “That stubborn.”
You laughed softly.
He smiled at you like he had won something he did not know how to hold.
You looked down at the ring in your palm, then slid it back onto your finger yourself.
His breath caught.
“For safekeeping,” you said.
“Right.”
“And because it’s pretty.”
“Obviously.”
“And because you look like you might pass out if I don’t.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jason rolled toward you, pinning you gently beneath him with a look that promised retaliation and probably more bruises you would enjoy explaining to no one.
“Keep talking, wife.”
The word should have felt like a joke.
It did not.
You reached up, touched the bruise on his jaw, and smiled.
“Make me, husband.”
Jason kissed you again as Gotham rumbled beyond the windows, all rain and sirens and secrets.
On the nightstand, his ring waited beside your mask. In the morning, there would be explanations, consequences, teasing from every mutual friend with a pulse, and probably at least one lecture about professionalism.
For now, there was Jason’s mouth on yours, his hand over the bought-for-cover ring, and the dangerous, wonderful realization that some covers were only lies until someone chose to keep them.
I don't care if they're the highest grossing movies on planet freakin Earth, you say "Avatar" and everyone and their mom still thinks that bald little bitch and his magic cow. Soggy James can keep his millions, he'll never have the streets.
The first photos are coming in from Artemis II, and they are stunning. Photos of our home planet from humans we are sending further than anyone has gone before.
And now two more. The first of which being taken by Commander Reid Wiseman just minutes from the other Blue Marble picture seen above, showcasing the effect of different camera setting on space photography. Pictures of our home, where all but four of us are looking up from.
Zoro x shy reader ft Mihawk who’s the strongest swordswoman, member of straw hat crew and the adopted daughter of Mihawk. When the crew are exhausted, they thought it’s good idea to find shelter and shy reader mentions there’s a mansion she’s living in with her adopted dad. When they arrived the mansion & Mihawk is happy to see his precious daughter. For dinner, the crew especially zoro can see how much Mihawk loves her despite being adopted since she was a newborn. Mihawk isn’t surprised shy reader & zoro are together. Pretty cool Shy reader Powers & Abilities: * Telepathy: Mental bolts, mind control, illusions, psychic shields. * Telekinesis: Creating force fields, flight, telekinetic katana/psi-knife. * Martial Arts: Highly skilled fighter. Like the character Psylocke from X men: Apocalypse
pairing: OPLA!Roronoa Zoro × reader
genre: fluff, romance, adventure
summary: The exhausted Straw Hats find refuge at Mihawk’s fortress, revealing his protective side as a father.
word count: ~4.5k
c/w: mentions of alcohol
a/n: I'm not sure of this one but I hope that you will like it!!
➤ opla masterlist (REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!) )
𑣲 taglist
The salt spray was a welcome companion, even as exhaustion clung to the Straw Hat crew like a second skin. The Grand Line had been relentless lately, a series of islands each more bizarre and dangerous than the last. Now, adrift on the calm but vast expanse of the sea, the Going Merry creaked softly, a tired vessel carrying an equally tired crew.
Luffy was slumped over the figurehead, his usual boundless energy finally depleted. Sanji leaned against the railing, smoking a cigarette with uncharacteristic slowness, while Nami meticulously checked her maps, a furrow of concern on her brow. Usopp was passed out under a pile of fishing nets, his snores a gentle counterpoint to the lapping waves.
And then there was you. You sat near the mast, knees pulled to your chest, watching the horizon with a quiet intensity that was uniquely yours. You were the newest member of the crew, a young woman of few words but immense presence. Shy and reserved, you often faded into the background, but those who paid attention knew there was a well of incredible power lurking beneath your demure exterior. You were their swordswoman, their psychic shield, and perhaps most surprisingly, the adopted daughter of Dracule Mihawk, the man they all aspired to one day defeat.
Zoro sat beside you, not close enough to crowd your space, but near enough that his solid presence was a comforting constant. He was cleaning his swords, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel a familiar, meditative sound. He didn't need to speak to communicate with you. Over the months, you'd both developed a silent language, a current of understanding that flowed between you. He felt your exhaustion, and you felt his quiet concern for the crew.
"I think we need to find an island soon," Nami finally said, her voice tight with worry. "Supplies are low, and we all need a real rest. A proper bed, not a hard deck."
Luffy stirred, lifting his head. "Island! Meat!"
"But where, Nami-swaaan?" Sanji sighed, flicking his cigarette butt into the sea. "The log pose is spinning. We're in the middle of nowhere."
A heavy silence fell over the deck, the weight of their situation pressing down. It was you who broke it. Your voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it cut through the despair like a blade.
"There's... there's a place," you murmured, not looking at anyone but the endless water. "Not far from here. If we head east for about half a day's sail."
All eyes turned to you. Even Zoro paused his polishing.
"A place?" Nami asked, her navigator instincts kicking in. "What kind of place? An island? A port?"
You hesitated, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "It's... a mansion. On a small island. It's where I... where I live. With my dad."
The revelation hung in the air. Your dad. Mihawk. The World's Greatest Swordsman. The crew had met him briefly during the ceremony at Marineford, but the concept of him having a home, a life, a daughter was still something they were processing.
"Your dad?" Luffy was now fully alert, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and hunger. "You mean Mihawk? He has a house? With food?"
You gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "He... he wouldn't mind. If it's us."
Zoro looked at you, his single eye unreadable. He knew how much you loved your adoptive father, but he also knew the immense pressure you felt under his shadow. To invite the entire crew, his rival included, into his sanctuary was a huge step for you. He gave a slight, almost invisible tilt of his head, a silent question. Are you sure?
You met his gaze for a fleeting moment, and in that instant, a wave of reassurance washed over him. It wasn't a thought, more like a feeling—a quiet certainty that this was the right thing to do.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Luffy shouted, scrambling to his feet. "To Mihawk's house!"
Nami, ever the pragmatist, was already unfolding a chart. "East, you said? Can you give me a bearing?"
You pointed a slender finger, and Nami adjusted their course accordingly. The mood on the ship shifted instantly. The exhaustion was still there, but now it was laced with a potent cocktail of curiosity and anticipation. Usopp, woken by the commotion, was now wide-eyed with terror and excitement. "We're going to the World's Greatest Swordsman's house? Are you crazy? He'll slice us in half!"
"He won't," Zoro grunted, resuming his polishing. "Not if she's there."
The journey was short, just as you'd promised. As the sun began its descent, casting long, golden rays across the water, a small island appeared on the horizon. It wasn't tropical or lush, but rather a rugged, dramatic outcropping of dark rock, crowned with a few gnarled, wind-swept trees. And perched on the highest cliff, overlooking the sea like a silent, watchful sentinel, was a mansion.
It was magnificent and intimidating. Built from the same dark stone as the cliffs, it was a sprawling structure with soaring towers, pointed arches, and large, imposing windows. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress, a fitting residence for the man they called Hawk-Eyes.
"Wow..." Usopp breathed, his fear momentarily forgotten by the sheer spectacle. "He lives there?"
As the Going Merry drew closer to a small, well-constructed stone dock, a figure emerged from the mansion's main entrance. Even from a distance, his silhouette was unmistakable. The tall, imposing frame, the wide-brimmed hat, the long black coat billowing in the sea breeze. Dracule Mihawk.
The crew fell silent, a nervous energy crackling in the air. Luffy was practically vibrating with excitement, Sanji was eyeing the mansion with professional curiosity, and Nami was already calculating the property value. Zoro stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, his gaze fixed on his rival.
You were the first to step off the dock and onto the solid ground of the island. As you did, Mihawk began to walk down the path to meet you. His pace was unhurried, but there was a distinct change in his demeanor. The fearsome Warlord persona seemed to melt away, replaced by something else entirely.
"Tesoro," he said, his deep, resonant voice holding a warmth that the Straw Hats had never heard before.
You ran the last few steps, your usual shyness forgotten in the face of your father's presence. He caught you in a firm, gentle embrace, one hand resting on the back of your head. It was a gesture of such pure, unguarded affection that it left the watching crew utterly speechless. This was the Hawk-Eyes Mihawk? The man who had faced down fleets with nothing but a dagger and a stare?
"I wasn't expecting you," Mihawk said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you, though it carried on the quiet sea air. He held you at arm's length, his sharp golden eyes scanning you from head to toe. "You look tired. And you've brought company."
You nodded, stepping back and gesturing nervously toward the ship. "They're... my friends. My crew. We needed a place to rest."
Mihawk's gaze swept over the assembled pirates on his dock. It lingered on Luffy for a moment, then on Sanji, and finally, it came to rest on Zoro, who had now stepped onto the dock. A flicker of something—amusement? Recognition?—crossed his face.
"The Straw Hat Pirates," he stated, his voice once again assuming its formal, commanding tone. "My daughter's new associates. An interesting choice." He looked from Zoro's three swords to your own katana, which was sheathed at your hip. Then he looked back at Zoro, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And Roronoa Zoro. I should have known."
Zoro met his stare without flinching. "Mihawk."
There was no threat in the greeting, no challenge. It was a simple acknowledgment between two swordsmen who now shared an unexpected, and far more complicated, connection.
"Come," Mihawk said, turning and gesturing towards the mansion. "The night is drawing in. You are my daughter's guests. You will be shown hospitality."
The interior of the mansion was just as imposing as the exterior, but with an unexpected coziness. The main hall was vast, with a ceiling that disappeared into shadowed rafters. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, a crackling fire casting a warm, dancing light. The floors were polished dark wood, covered here and there with intricately woven rugs. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to capacity with ancient-looking tomes. There were no frivolous decorations, no overt signs of wealth—just quality, craftsmanship, and an atmosphere of quiet strength.
"Wow," Luffy said, his eyes wide as he spun in a circle. "This place is huge!"
Mihawk led them through the hall and into a dining room that was just as impressive. A long, heavy table of dark wood could have easily seated twenty. At its head, a single chair was slightly more ornate than the others. Mihawk took this seat, and you instinctively sat to his right. The Straw Hats
hesitantly found places along the length of the table, their earlier boisterousness replaced by a cautious awe. Zoro sat directly across from you, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of unfamiliarity.
"Make yourselves comfortable," Mihawk said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Sanji, was it? The cook. If you require use of a kitchen, you will find it through that door. My stores are at your disposal."
Sanji, who had been vibrating with a mixture of culinary curiosity and professional terror, nearly bowed off his seat. "M-Mihawk-sama! It would be an honor! I would not dream of imposing!"
"Nonsense," Mihawk waved a dismissive hand. "My daughter has informed me of your 'All-Blue' ambition. A man who pursues such a dream with passion deserves a proper kitchen. Feed my crew. They look like they haven't had a decent meal in weeks."
While Sanji practically skipped into the kitchen, already babbling about spices and techniques, the rest of the crew sat in a somewhat stiff silence. It was Usopp, of all people, who broke it. "So, uh, this is a really nice place you've got here, Mihawk-sir. Very... drafty. In a good way! Very atmospheric!"
Mihawk's golden eyes swiveled to the long-nosed sniper, and for a moment, Usopp looked like he might evaporate. But then, the corner of the Warlord's mouth twitched. "Atmospheric. I suppose that is one word for it. It is built to withstand the cyclones that frequent this sea. Comfort was a secondary consideration to survival."
A servant, a quiet, older woman who moved with silent efficiency, began to bring out wine and glasses. She poured a deep red liquid into each glass, her hands steady as she served even the most infamous pirates at the table.
Luffy, never one for patience, grabbed his glass and drained it in one go, his face scrunching up. "Blech! This is gross! It tastes like old grapes!"
"Luffy!" Nami hissed, mortified.
Mihawk, however, let out a low, genuine chuckle. A sound so unexpected it made Zoro blink. "He is not wrong. It is an acquired taste. More for the rest of us." He took a slow sip from his own glass, his gaze drifting to you. "She never developed a taste for it either. Prefers juice."
The simple, domestic observation hung in the air. This was Mihawk, the man who had struck fear into the hearts of countless pirates, commenting on his daughter's beverage preferences as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Soon, the most glorious smells began to waft from the kitchen. Sanji, in his element, had outdone himself. He emerged with a procession of dishes that would have made a king weep: roasted seabird with herbs, a savory seafood stew, steamed vegetables in a garlic butter sauce, and fresh, warm bread. The table, which had seemed so cavernously empty, was now groaning under the weight of the feast.
"For my honored guests, and for the father of our dearest nakama!" Sanji announced with a flourish, presenting a perfect plate to Luffy, who immediately began shoveling food into his mouth with ecstatic cries of "MEAT!"
The tension finally broke. The universal language of a magnificent meal took over. Even Mihawk watched the spectacle with a look of detached amusement, picking at his own food with a refined elegance that contrasted sharply with Luffy's chaos.
As dinner progressed, the crew began to relax, their exhaustion melting away with each bite. They talked and laughed, their voices echoing slightly in the grand room. And through it all, Zoro watched. He wasn't just watching his crew; he was watching you and your father.
He saw it in the small things. The way Mihawk's eyes would find you in the midst of the chaos, a silent check-in. The way you would instinctively lean slightly towards him when the laughter got too loud, seeking a familiar presence. The way Mihawk would subtly push the bread basket closer to you when he noticed you hadn't taken any.
At one point, you reached for the water pitcher at the same time as Nami, your hands briefly colliding. You flinched back with a soft gasp, your shyness asserting itself. Before anyone else could react, Mihawk's hand shot out, not with the speed of a swordsman, but with the swift, protective grace of a father. He steadied the pitcher, his fingers brushing yours for a moment.
"It is quite alright, tesoro," he said softly, his voice only for you. "There is plenty." He poured the water for you and Nami, his gaze never leaving your face until he saw you relax.
Zoro felt a strange tightening in his chest. He had always respected Mihawk as a warrior, as the pinnacle of the swordsmanship he sought. But seeing this side of him—the doting, protective parent—was disarming. It was a powerful reminder that the man who held his ultimate ambition was not just a goal, but a person. A person who, against all logic and reputation, loved fiercely and quietly.
Later, as the plates were cleared and Sanji was happily cleaning the kitchen with the older servant, Mihawk leaned back in his chair, a glass of wine in hand. He looked at Zoro, his expression unreadable.
"So," he began, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. "You are the one who has captured my daughter's attention."
The table went silent. Luffy stopped mid-chew. Usopp choked on a piece of bread. Nami's eyes darted between you, Zoro, and the imposing Warlord.
You froze, your face turning a shade of crimson that could rival Luffy's vest. You stared down at your hands, wishing you could become invisible.
Zoro, however, didn't flinch. He met Mihawk's gaze head-on. "I am."
Mihawk took a slow sip of his wine, his golden eyes holding Zoro's. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge. This was it. The test. The confrontation he had been subconsciously dreading.
"I am not surprised," Mihawk said at last, his voice calm.
That... was not what Zoro had expected. "You're not?"
"No. I saw the way you looked at her in Marineford. Even then, there was a focus there that went beyond simple rivalry. And she..." He glanced at you, and for a moment, his expression softened. "She has always been drawn to strong wills. To a quiet determination that mirrors her own. It is why she found you so fascinating."
He looked back at Zoro. "Your ambition is to defeat me. That is a worthy goal for a swordsman. But if you ever, ever, cause her pain or distress, that ambition will become the least of your concerns. Do we have an understanding?"
The threat was delivered not with anger, but with a cold, absolute certainty that was far more terrifying. It was a promise from a father protecting his child.
"We do," Zoro said, his voice low and firm. There was no hesitation. No defense. Just a simple, solid acknowledgment of the terms.
"Good." Mihawk's gaze shifted to the rest of the crew. "You will all stay the night. The guest chambers have been prepared. You will leave in the morning, rested and refitted. My island is not on any chart, but your navigator seems capable enough to find her way back to a standard sea route."
The matter was settled. Just like that.
Later that night, you found yourself standing on one of the mansion's many stone balconies, the cool night air a welcome balm to your heated cheeks. The moon was a perfect silver disc, casting a shimmering path across the dark water. Below, the Going Merry rocked gently at the dock, a small, familiar shape in the vastness.
You heard his footsteps before you saw him. You didn't need to turn around to know it was Zoro. His presence was as distinct to you as the scent of the sea or the feel of your own sword.
He came to stand beside you, resting his forearms on the cool stone railing. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just watched the waves, the comfortable silence stretching between you.
"Your father's... intimidating," Zoro said, his voice a low rumble.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "He tries to be. But he's not like that with me. Not really."
"I saw that," Zoro replied, turning his head to look at you. The moonlight softened the sharp lines of his face, making his single eye seem almost gentle. "It was... good to see."
You looked up at him, your heart swelling with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire inside. "He wasn't too hard on you, was he?"
Zoro grunted. "He gave me the warning. The one I expected."
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your gaze dropping back to the sea. "I didn't mean for him to—"
"Hey." He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't you dare apologize for that. It means he cares. It means he's a good dad. I'd have been worried if he didn't threaten to gut me."
A small smile touched your lips. "He wouldn't actually gut you. He'd just use Yoru to pin you to a wall for a few days."
"See? Good
dad," Zoro said, a rare, genuine grin spreading across his face. It was a sight that still made your breath catch, a crack in his hardened exterior that was reserved only for you.
You leaned into his touch, his rough thumb gently stroking your cheek. The shyness that was your constant companion seemed to melt away under the moonlight, replaced by a deep, abiding affection for the man beside you. He understood. He always understood.
"I was so worried," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper on the sea breeze. "Bringing everyone here. I thought... I thought it might be too much. For him, and for you."
"Too much for me?" Zoro's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would it be too much for me?"
"Because... he's your goal. The person you're trying to surpass. And I brought you right to his doorstep. Into his home. It felt like I was... diminishing your dream, somehow."
Zoro was quiet for a long moment, his gaze turning back to the vast, dark ocean. He let his hand fall from your face, but only to lace his fingers through yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "You don't get it, do you?" he said, his voice low and serious. "My dream is to be the World's Greatest Swordsman. That hasn't changed. But seeing this... seeing him as a father, seeing where you came from... it doesn't diminish it. It makes it real. He's not just a title or a legend I'm chasing. He's a man. A man who raised you."
He squeezed your hand. "And if he's half the father he is a swordsman, then you had the best in the world. That just makes me respect him more. And it makes me want to be worthy of you."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of overwhelming emotion. You squeezed his hand back, a silent thank you for the words you could never find yourself. In that moment, you didn't need telepathy. You knew exactly what he was feeling, and you knew he felt the same from you.
"You know," you said, a playful thought entering your mind, "when I was little, I used to practice with wooden swords out on that cliff." You pointed with your free hand to a jagged outcropping bathed in moonlight. "He'd watch me, but never correct me. He'd just let me find my own way. Sometimes, I'd get so frustrated that I'd throw my sword down."
Zoro listened, completely captivated.
"One day, I did that, and it just... stopped in mid-air," you continued, a small smile forming on your lips. "Just hung there. I looked over at him, and he was just watching, one hand raised slightly. He didn't say anything. He just... held it there until I calmed down, and then he let it drop. He was teaching me control without ever saying a word."
Zoro whistled softly. "Telekinesis. That's a hell of a training method."
"It was how he taught me everything," you said, your voice distant with memory. "He knew my powers were stronger than my physical strength. He taught me to blend them. To make them one and the same." You looked from the cliff back to Zoro, your eyes shining with a newfound confidence. "Wanna see?"
He didn't have to ask what. He simply nodded, his expression one of intense curiosity.
You let go of his hand and took a step back onto the balcony, closing your eyes. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, reaching for the familiar energy that hummed just beneath your skin. It was like a warm current, a river of power that flowed through you. You didn't draw your katana. Instead, you held out your hand, palm up.
At first, nothing happened. Then, the air around your palm began to shimmer, to warp like heat haze. Slowly, a shape began to form, coalescing from the psychic energy you were manifesting. It was long, slender, and sharp. A blade. It was a perfect, shimmering replica of a katana, crafted from pure willpower. It glowed with a soft, violet light, the edges humming with barely contained power.
Zoro's single eye was wide, a look of profound awe on his face. He had seen you use your abilities in battle—creating shields, sending psychic bolts, the occasional telekinetic push. But he had never seen this. This was creation. This was art.
You opened your eyes, and the psi-blade solidified, its glow intensifying. It felt weightless in your hand, an extension of your own thoughts. With a fluid motion that mirrored years of practice, you moved into a basic stance, the blade held at the ready. You weren't just holding a weapon; you were the weapon.
Then, you began to move.
It was a dance. A kata you had practiced a thousand times, but this time it was different. There was no resistance of steel, no weight of the hilt. You flowed through the forms, the psychic blade slicing through the night air with a soft, ethereal hiss. It was a breathtaking display of grace and power. You executed a perfect vertical cut, then a horizontal slash, then a complex thrust-and-parry combination against an imaginary foe. Each movement was precise, economical, and deadly.
Zoro watched, utterly mesmerized. He wasn't just seeing a cool light show; he was seeing the very soul of your swordsmanship. He saw the influence of Mihawk's elegance in your posture, but he also saw something uniquely you—a fluidity, an unpredictability that came from a power he couldn't begin to comprehend. This was your true strength. The perfect fusion of the physical and the psychic, the sword and the mind.
You finished the kata, holding the final pose, the glowing blade pointed at the moon. For a moment, you were still, a silhouette against the night, a warrior of impossible power. Then, as gently as it had formed, the psi-blade dissolved, shimmering into motes of violet light that faded into the darkness.
You lowered your hand, your breath coming in soft pants. The display had taken more out of you than you let on, but the look on Zoro's face was worth it.
"That," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "was the most incredible thing I have ever seen."
He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands coming up to cup your face. He didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. He simply leaned down and kissed you.
It wasn't a kiss of fiery passion, but of deep, profound reverence. It was slow and tender, a silent acknowledgment of everything he had just seen, everything you were. It was a kiss that said, "I see you. All of you. And I am in awe."
When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes closed. "He taught me that," you whispered. "That my mind is my greatest weapon. That a sword is just a tool."
"He's right," Zoro murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. "But you're the one who wields it."
From the shadows of the doorway behind you, a figure watched. Mihawk had come to check on his daughter, to ensure she was settled. He had intended to simply offer a quiet goodnight. Instead, he had witnessed the entire display. He had seen the mastery of her powers, the grace of her form, and the raw, unadulterated love in the eyes of the first mate of the very crew she had joined.
He saw Zoro kiss his daughter, and he felt not anger, not possessiveness, but a strange, quiet sense of peace. He had spent years raising this child, this powerful, shy, incredible young woman, preparing her for a world that would surely try to break her. He had taught her to fight, to survive, to be strong. But he could not teach her this. He could not give her the simple, unwavering devotion he saw in the swordsman's eyes.
He saw the way Zoro looked at her—not just as a woman, but as an equal. As a warrior. He had seen the awe, not just for her beauty, but for her strength.
Mihawk allowed himself a small, private smile. Roronoa Zoro was still his rival. The day of their duel was still written in the stars. But the man had earned his respect. And more importantly, he had earned the right to stand by his daughter's side.
Without a sound, the World's Greatest Swordsman turned and walked back into the shadows of his fortress, leaving the two young swordsmen to their moonlit peace. The future was uncertain, the seas were chaotic, but for tonight, on this isolated island, a new kind of legacy was being forged—one of swords, of psychic power, and of a love as strong and as true as the sharpest blade.
Summary | You should’ve known better than to bring a mysterious plant aboard the Going Merry. When you run into some strange side effects from its pollen, Sanji offers to lend you a hand.
Warnings & Notes | 18+, fem!reader, sex pollen, smut, porn with v little plot, friends-to-lovers, fingering, oral (f receiving), some spit play, lil bit of dirty talk, unprotected sex (oops sanji cums inside)
Author's Note | Impatiently awaiting the release of S2 got me inspired to write a personal favorite trope of mine. I've never written a sex pollen fic before, so I hope everyone's happy with the results (and that I got Sanji's characterization right lol)!
WC | 8.2k
God, you were so stupid. As the crew’s botanist, it was your job to know plants, to determine what was safe or deadly, what could serve as a salve or a poison.
Yet, the flower you encountered on a recent stop to an exotic port - beautiful, bright, and fragrant - left you perplexed. You couldn’t identify it immediately, and your curiosity got the better of you, so you eagerly brought it aboard the Going Merry for study.
And now, you understood why the salesperson seemed to be laughing at you as they happily accepted your coin; you should’ve known that something so pretty would be dangerous.
The damned thing was an aphrodisiac, a kind of strange stimulant that you’d never encountered before. Once you’d finally found an entry on it amidst the pages of your botanical reference books, your stomach dropped with dread. You’d had the plant aboard the ship for days, though thankfully it had been secluded to the closet serving as your sad excuse for a room - you were cramped in there with your books and tools and that stupid flower, none the wiser to what it was slowly doing to you.
You’d been exposed to its pollen for days, breathing it into your lungs as you pondered over it, touching the delicate petals and coming away with soft grain on your fingertips. At least you weren’t dumb enough to have ever thought about consuming any part of the plant - that would have made things truly unbearable, as you’d come to learn that that was the fastest means for its reactions to take hold.
At first, you thought maybe the flower wouldn’t have any effect on you, considering that you hadn’t felt any different in those days isolated with it. And even once you’d found another entry in your encyclopedia detailing its slow burn results, you thought that perhaps you’d incorrectly assessed it, again because you felt nothing.
But after three days around the thing you felt… something. A twisting in your stomach, a heat stoking at your core. You tried to ignore it as the day went on, but with each passing minute you could feel something taking over - Usopp’s smile made you antsy and nervous, Nami’s pretty legs crossing one over the other shot desire through you like lightning. Shit, you had no business getting all worked up about your friends like that, but it was simply out of your control.
And it only got worse when Sanji tried his usually fruitless flirty tactics, lingering close enough that you could smell his enticing musk, his suddenly silky voice forcing you to clench your legs. Once that happened, you all but booked it away from everyone else and locked yourself up, only leaving your room to chuck the offensive flower overboard in a panic. There was no way you’d risk keeping it here even a second longer, because just your luck the pollen could somehow get to the rest of the crew, too.
You’d already been cooped up in your room for an entire day, feigning illness. Everyone had stopped bothering you after you practically screamed at them to get the hell away from you. Save for Sanji, annoyingly, who simply couldn’t help but check in on you regularly, offering food and drink and even company.
Sanji had probably done so a dozen times before you couldn’t take it anymore.
You caved to your impulses, throwing open your door and yanking him inside abruptly. You pinned him against the door, hands twisted in the front of his jacket, eyes crazed as you looked into his face. You could feel his body heat, could smell him overwhelmingly. Sanji - blissfully unaware of the state you were in - looked far too pleased to be pressed between you and the door, eyes gleaming and grin cheeky.
You loathed to tell him what was going on - you didn’t want any of your fellow Straw Hats to know about this embarrassing predicament you’d landed yourself in. The plan was to stay locked up until it passed, but Sanji just wouldn’t leave you alone.
“Look asshole,” You spoke through your teeth, body clenching at that stupid smile on his face, a wave of heat washing through you, “there’s… an issue and it’d be better if you stopped bothering me.”
“An issue?” Shit, was his voice always that hot? Despite the twisting in your belly, your glower darkened in an attempt to dampen this ridiculous pining.
Frustratingly, his wolfish grin grew larger, and with a sharp intake of breath, you dropped your gaze before you could do something bad, “Yes, an issue, and it’s not your business, so go away.”
“You don’t look so good,” Sanji began, tone sultry - or was that just in your head? As if he was testing your limits, he lifted the back of his hand to your forehead, and you all but jumped with a gasp, “God, you’re on fire. Maybe a little tea to make you feel better?”
“No.” You relinquished your grip on his jacket, needing as much distance between you two as possible, though this damn room was so cramped it wasn’t nearly enough. Sanji looked you up and down curiously, and even that had the unfortunate effect of causing desire to pool white hot inside you.
“Soup?” He offered in a taunting voice, evidently finding your current state amusing, not realizing the enormity of it. His brow furrowed some as he moved towards you, to which you pointed in harsh warning.
“Sanji, just go.” You insisted, trying to resist your urge to jump his bones, to drag him back towards you without restraint.
Though still grinning impishly, he held his hands up in surrender, and, shit, that look on his face dared to make you wet, “I don’t like seeing your beautiful self unwell like this, I’m just trying to take care of you.”
Unexpectedly, you moaned at Sanji’s words; his flirtatious remarks had never worked on you before, and you so wished you’d had more control than this.
Your illicit sound caused both your eyes and Sanji’s to widen, and shamefully you tried to step back, but your legs bumped your mattress, meaning you had nowhere to run as you looked about yourself in a panic.
Though there was uncertainty in his gaze, Sanji’s eyes still gleamed with mirth, he still smirked with playful intent. He gave you another slow once over, eyes crawling the length of your body; you had to press your lips tightly together to hold back any more noises that dared to come out of you, your thighs clamping stiffly.
When his gaze eventually trailed back up to meet yours, you clenched your hands, nails digging into your palms, feeling tense all over with how desperate you were for some kind of release. There was something salacious about Sanji’s stare - you could no longer tell if it was real or your imagination. As if he could sense the effect he was having on you, he grinned wickedly.
“If you do need anything,” he started, voice so much more appealing than it had any right to be. He took a careful step towards you, looking between your eyes intently, “you know where to find me.”
A small whine caught in your throat, and you prayed it was quiet enough to be imperceptible. You had to drop your gaze, feeling utterly flushed with heat. But your luck had already run out for the day, because Sanji dipped his head some, and you caught that alluring musk of him again, making you stir.
“What is going on with you?” He teased before stepping back. He turned, hand twisting the door knob when you abruptly blurted out.
“That stupid flower did something to me!” Your words came out fast, slurring together; you weren’t sure what came over you to babble without a thought, but the pollen had seriously dampened your impulse control.
Sanji stopped and quickly spun back towards you. No longer was his expression flirtatious; instead, his brow knotted in concern, his hands grasping your shoulders before you even had the chance to stall him. You took a sharp breath, heat coursing deep in your center and head flustered from his touch.
“What do you mean? Are you okay?” Sanji’s worried tone just made you crave him even more, his instinct to take care of you way too enticing right now; fuck, when would this pass?
“I’m fine,” You squeaked out, thighs rubbing together desperately, “It's just…”
“It’s what?” With a focused look, Sanji felt your forehead again, then pressed his hand gently to your cheek, “You really are on fire, love, maybe we need--”
Again, your words spilled out like a tsunami, “I need you to stop touching me or I’m going to lose it!”
But Sanji didn’t move, so taken aback that he wasn’t sure what to do with you. His expression twisted that little bit more, driving you insane.
“Sorry, what?”
“The plant!” You grabbed his wrists, sure that you must look like a crazed woman right about now. You tried to push Sanji away, but he stood firm, “The pollen was an aphrodisiac and I’ve been unintentionally dosing myself with it for days! So, please Sanji, I feel like I’m about to burst and it's already embarrassing enough that I told you, so go!”
Sanji showed about a hundred emotions in the span of only a few seconds - worry, confusion, understanding, confusion again, until ultimately landing on that dreaded, impish inquisitiveness of his. You could see the exact moment it all clicked, that gleam of delight at your expense, that relishing curiosity. You practically threw his wrists away when you realized that you were still clutching them, groaning deeply with frustration.
Oh, how you loathed the glee in Sanji’s expression; you’d try to slap it away, except you feared doing so would just make you wetter than you already were. As he looked you over again with that trademark grin, you clenched your legs again, toes curling.
“Aphrodisiac?” Was he taunting you? “So that means--”
“Yes, it means I’m horny, okay!?” You hated how feral and aggressive you sounded, hated the way your attitude only seemed to bring him greater entertainment. With a dramatic, vulgar sigh, you dragged your hands down your face, turning away; when your shoulder bumped Sanji’s in your retreat, you jolted with a gasp.
“Well, isn’t that something?” God, he was enjoying this far too much.
“Sanji--!”
“Wait, wait.” He insisted. You closed your eyes, trying to take a soothing breath, but your body just wouldn’t calm down, the desire burning inside you only grew hotter now that he was in on your secret, “How long is this going to last?”
“I really don’t feel like talking about it right now!”
“I’m only asking--” You cut him off with a mean groan, whipping back around to glare at him. Once more, he held up his hands, but the shit-eating grin on his face was enough to make you throb. He waited a beat before trying again, licking his lips far too sinfully for your liking, “Maybe… I can help?”
“Oh my god.” You whined, your body yearning in spite of your better judgement, his suggestion making your pussy clench with the need to be touched. Foolishly, you met his eyes, which only did the job of making you want to throw yourself at him, “Sanji, don’t be stupid--”
“Is it stupid?” He insisted, stepping into your personal space again, your head dizzy with yearning. He ducked his head, eyes staring into yours earnestly, a look not quite like his usual coy ones, “Because, look, would I enjoy a little romp with you? Obviously.” You mewled smally, to which surprise briefly flashed across Sanji’s face, “So, if you think it might help, then by all means, just say so.”
You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your desire in check, because you feared that you could burst any second now. Though you tried desperately to look mean and glaring, you felt far from intimidating; if that wanton look on Sanji’s face was anything to go by, then you failed miserably.
You wished that you wanted to say no. Oh, that would be so much better than agreeing to Sanji’s offer, because doing something like that with your crewmate - your friend - sounded like it would open up a whole new kind of trouble. But just the idea of it made you squirm, made your body coil like a spring; even just a moment’s thought about the things you could do made your eyes flutter.
You knew better than to go along with it. You weren’t so far gone that you couldn’t think, after all - you knew this could be bad. Unfortunately, the pollen had other ideas.
“No one can know.” You bite, body clenching again.
Sanji shrugged agreeably, playing it casually, “Of course.”
“And it won’t happen again.”
“Sure.”
“… Okay.”
“Okay.”
You stared at each other for a long beat, your chest heaving, Sanji’s eyes hooded as he shamelessly took in your expression.
God, you hoped you wouldn’t regret this.
The space between you was small already, the warmth of his breath across your cheeks causing you to shudder; the corner of his mouth quirked up in response, finally sending you over the edge.
You flung yourself at Sanji like a woman starved, winding your arms around his neck, bodies crashing together ungracefully. He was so damn sturdy, barely stumbling back as your lips feverishly met, teeth clumsily clashing. His arms wrapped around your middle, hands firmly gripping your back, fingers flexing possessively.
The moan that escaped you was downright sinful, your heart pounding rapidly inside your chest, body like static beneath Sanji’s exploratory touch. Fuck, you couldn’t tell if this was helping or hurting, your core hot and cunt pulsing, your jumping under his tender fingertips. It was pathetic the way you clung to him like a lifeline, bodies flush and mouths brazen.
As your fingers tangled in Sanji’s hair, a groan rumbled in his chest that made you frenzied, your kisses growing sloppier, tongue snaking between his lips. God, his taste was intoxicating, his tongue twining with yours, his hands unyielding nonetheless gentle as he groped at your body. Rolling your hips against his, you made yourself whimper at the feel of his firm chest, his pelvis pressing to yours.
Maybe you should have done this sooner.
Determined not to break from Sanji’s luscious lips just yet, you blindly spun the two of you around, his calves bumping the bed. Understanding what you wanted, he gripped you tightly while dropping down atop the mattress, drawing you into his lap as you moaned again.
Mouths heatedly pressed together, you shifted to better straddle Sanji’s fit legs, his cock twitching near your center. If your head wasn’t already spinning you may have been embarrassed by how wet you were, soaking through your panties.
Sanji’s hands wandered, squeezing your ass hard enough to make you gasp, using his grip to grind your hips down against his. You tugged roughly at his hair as you moved together, rutting back and forth along his growing length, clenching with the need to be filled.
Your mouths were greedy, tongues feverish, kissing as if desperate for one another’s air, noisy sounds of pleasure humming in both your throats. Sanji’s hips bucked just right beneath you, meeting you in time with the deep grind of your hot pussy.
When finally he broke from the kiss, a string of drool connected your lips, a whine sounding from your throat. Keeping up his slow, steady rhythm, Sanji met your eyes darkly, drinking you in with utter desire; you damn near came just from that look alone.
“However you want me,” he whispered against your lips, noses brushing, breath mingling. Your hips stuttered, to which he greedily grasped your ass and matched your rhythms again, “Yours to do with as you please.”
“Fuck--” You couldn’t help but gasp, feeling impossibly more turned on. You almost hated him for how damn effortlessly those sultry words came to him, grinding your hips roughly against his cock, delighting in the way his eyes momentarily crossed, “Promise?”
A short, lustful laugh escaped Sanji, his fingers groping you nice and tight, “Like this, love, I’d promise you anything.”
Another desirous sound whined in your throat as you captured his lips in a searing kiss, fire scorching bright inside you. Hips rutting rapaciously, your hands wandered down his neck and torso, shoving at his jacket as if it personally offended you. Urgently, Sanji threw it off before he grasped at you again, not wanting to lose a moment of exploring your body.
The flex of his muscles beneath your hands was maddening, taut and strong and just asking to be bit and kissed. You frantically worked the buttons of his shirt, nearly popping them as you worked your way down, down, down till the damned thing was open. Your fingers slid along Sanji’s washboard abs, causing you to groan because, fuck, this was the body he’d kept covered up all this time?
As if you couldn’t trust your touch, you split from Sanji’s lips to lean back and drink in the sight of his body, hissing desirously at how damn good he looked. Your nails scratched up his sides, over his pecs and abs, and when your lustful eyes turned back towards his, you practically keened at the focused way he was watching you.
Holding eye contact, you leaned down to nip at his chest, causing him to yelp; your body tightened as you giggled hungrily, mouth trailing up his collarbone and neck, kissing just below his jaw. Sanji leaned his head back as he twitched between your legs, letting you ravage his skin, biting and sucking and kissing to your hearts content, hickeys or teeth marks be damned.
As you all but consumed him, Sanji’s hands slid up the back of your shirt, palms hot as he traced your skin, arching into his touch. Both of your hips had fallen out of rhythm, and so Sanji reached up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you away so he could meet your eyes again.
“Let me touch you.” It sounded like both a question and an instruction, your cunt tight with utter desire. You nodded, catching your breath, and then Sanji abruptly flipped you onto your back.
Splayed on the bed, you ogled as Sanji brushed back his hair and dropped his shirt to the floor. You bit your lip, eyes hooded as he crawled over you; he pressed a single, dizzying kiss to your mouth, pulling back before you could latch onto him again.
As if understanding your urgency to be touched, Sanji’s hands reached beneath your shirt again, yanking it over your head speedily, exposing your hot skin to the cool air before he did the same thing with your shorts. You wiggled under his wandering gaze, drinking in every curve and blemish of your body like you were a three-course meal.
He lowered his mouth to your chest, biting your breast as you had done to him earlier; you bucked and gasped, feeling his smile against you. He sucked at your skin, insistently creating a hickey just above your bra, meanwhile reaching between your warm bodies, fingertips grazing over your pelvis, to which you whined.
Sanji sighed longingly as his hand moved lower and lower, teasing at you through your thin, damp panties; you clenched with a wanton mewl, desperate for so much more of him. Kissing far too tenderly over the hickey he left behind, his mouth trailed down, tongue gliding a wet trail along your stomach, ghosting along the flimsy fabric keeping him from you. For a moment, you held your breath, hands eagerly twisting in the bedsheets.
Hooking his fingers in your panties, Sanji tugged them down to your ankles, his hot breath teasing near your clit as you shucked the undergarment away with a wiggle of your foot.
He lingered painstakingly, and you looked down your nose at him, brow knotted with impatience, mouth agape as you sucked in a breath of air. His eyes were large and black with lust as he, too, glanced back towards you, expression both sweet yet taunting. You were tempted to reach out and grab his hair, to guide him towards you, but even in this fervor you managed to refrain, though you weren’t sure how long that flimsy self control would last.
“Look at you…” He sounded awestruck, and the lust in his tone made longing swirl tight around your heat, toes curling.
Now, you did reach out, fingers weaving into his hair a little more roughly than intended; it felt as if you had less control the more your desire continued to stew.
“Sanji, please.” You whispered keenly. The sound of his name on your lips like that stirred something deep in him, his gaze dark and craving, “I… shit, I need you.”
He grinned wickedly, though even the taunting in his tone was flirtatious, “About to come undone already?”
You nodded, eyes pleading, “I’m like a fucking cat in heat.”
Sanji chuckled, breathing hot against your clit, causing you to twitch, “Oh, love, I’ve got you.”
And with that, he plunged a finger inside you without warning, a surprised mewl leaping from your lips as you threw your head back. God, there was no way in hell that alone could feel so good, and yet your eyes crossed, hand flexing in Sanji’s hair. He, too, groaned at the feel of you as if utterly enthralled.
Under his breath, he groaned faintly; you were so wet, clenching around his finger, making his cock twitch in his trousers. He pumped once, twice, before sliding a second digit between your slick folds with ease, wasting no time or teasing; your body was so utterly ready for him that it was intoxicating.
The pace of his thrusts steadily picked up, your hips rolling with his movements, gasps escaping your parted lips. Your head lulled, swimming with lust as your body pulsed around him, limbs twisting pleasurably.
Fingering you greedily, the scent of your desire hit Sanji, his hips bucking against your leg in need of friction.You felt nearly pathetic, the way you rocked against his hand, the way you writhed with moaning satisfaction. Even his heavy breathing, hot on your inner thigh, sent burning waves up your spine; and when he pressed the heel of his palm against your clit, you fucking shuddered.
God, you thought this would help, but Sanji’s fingers buried inside your cunt only seemed to make you wetter and needier, as if nothing would be enough to satiate you. And when he spread his fingers wide, stretching you out deliciously, you cursed that damned plant, even as pleasured whines slipped past your lips.
As he fingered you nice and deep, Sanji’s mouth trailed hot, wet kisses along the inside of your leg, sighing contently at the taste of your salty skin on his tongue. His fingers hooked, curving up into your cervix, palm steadily massaging your clit as you keened unabashedly, toes curling and knees shaking, yanking roughly at his hair. With a hiss, he bit your flesh, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to surprise you, your hips bucking again.
“Fu-uck--!” You whined, his hand unrelenting as your eyes crossed, orgasm washing over you with a surge. For that split second, it was utter bliss, vision starry and limbs melting; but like some cruel joke, your body almost immediately grew tense and tight and desperately unfulfilled again.
That stupid plant.
You tugged encouragingly at Sanji’s hair, meeting his gaze over the swell of your heaving breasts - he was still knuckles deep inside you, eyes blown and an enthralled grin on his lips. You caught your breath, pussy clamping around his fingers, causing him to moan deep inside his chest; your body shook from the aftershocks of pleasure.
“I need more,” You instructed breathily, more like a plea than anything else. You felt as if your body was crawling, causing shakes and pulses, a twisting heat growing so big inside you that it hurt. Oh, that small bit of logic still within you was embarrassed at the way you were practically begging Sanji, needing him to make you feel good.
“My pleasure…” He said huskily, immediately tossing all of your embarrassment out the window because, fuck, he was so hot right now, making you feel so good, taking care of you like this--
Then his mouth was on your clit in the next instant, and you could have fucking burst right then and there. Your hips bucked up against his warm tongue, Sanji using his free hand to keep you down, fingers flexing in the fat of your thigh. A contented hum vibrated in his throat and your pussy, making your knees quake.
Bursts of pleasure pulsed through you as Sanji sucked your clit, his fingers continuing their wanton pumping, slower and deeper than before, pressing delectably against your cervix again now that he realized just how frenzied it made you. Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling eagerly as your hips rocked against his mouth, eyes rolling back with sinful mewls. Fuck, his tongue was goddamn perfect, swirling where you were most sensitive, lapping from pussy to clit, teasing as he slowly pulled his fingers from you before plunging back in.
Your legs were already shaking again, buzzing with satisfaction; Sanji groaned deeply at the sweet taste of you, and your knees nearly clamped around his head with a gasp.
His fingers stopped pumping, pulling out of you so he could ravage your pussy with his mouth instead. You jolted as his tongue dove between your folds, his hands tightly grabbing your legs to keep you still.
You threw your head back, drool pooling on your tongue as you rode against Sanji’s mouth, tugging his hair harshly, struggling to keep your legs spread for him. He consumed you like a man starved, licking along the strip of your cunt, diving into you, nipping your clit. Every single touch was like electricity shooting through your veins, body twitching and jumping, at the will of Sanji’s touch.
His tongue was feverish, growing sloppier and more insistent, fucking in and out of you, his own hungry sounds driving you crazy. Your body felt out of your control as you writhed, legs shaky in Sanji’s hands, hips stuttering with each lap of his tongue, fingers twisting tightly in his hair.
“Fuck, please, please--!” You muttered a nearly incoherent mantra as your hips rolled greedily, hands tugging harshly at his scalp. Sanji knew exactly what he was doing to you, mouth gaining urgency, causing your legs to nearly clasp around him again; but still, he kept them wide open in his grip. The titillation was practically unbearable as you wiggled beneath him, crying with delight, quaking as your vision went black with another earth shattering orgasm.
As you came, eyes crossed and expletives escaping you, Sanji continued his ravaging, eating you out as if he couldn’t get enough of your taste. The stimulation was nearly overwhelming, whining high in your throat, hands yanking at his hair again and again because you felt so damn good that it nearly hurt.
He finally relented, coming up for a gasp of air. His lips were shiny with your slick as he grinned wickedly, delighting in your blissed out expression while crawling up your body.
Catching your breath, that scorching heat reignited like an unscratchable itch, causing you to groan desperately in Sanji’s face. He chuckled, an enticing rumble in his chest that made your body ache for him. You could smell your fragrance on his mouth as he hovered over you, arms braced either side of your head as your noses brushed.
“You alright, love?” He spoke against your lips, the taste of yourself drawing another hum from inside you.
You wound your arms tight around Sanji’s neck, catching his lips in an impassioned, feverish kiss. Hooking your ankles around the back of his legs, you drew his body atop yours, rolling your hips against his straining erection and causing him to grunt. Your tongue snaked past his lips, tasting yourself everywhere.
As you rubbed your body with his, Sanji’s hand cupped your jaw with a surprising tenderness. There was something almost romantic about it, and you found that thought so intimidating that you abruptly broke away from the kiss, darkened eyes finding his urgently.
You ached again, the lustful needs of your body feeling like a drug high, pussy still wet and desperate, an ache coiling greedily within you. Sanji’s dick teased you through his trousers, and you ground against it insistently.
“Sanji,” the way you whined out his name caused his cock to twitch, both of you gasping with hunger. Normally, you wouldn’t speak so plainly, but considering you weren’t exactly in your right mind, the words just spilled out of you, “It’s getting worse.” When he raised his brow, you elaborated while slowly grinding against him, “Everytime I come, I need more.”
Sanji’s jaw hung slack, enjoying the way you moved against him, enraptured by your unrestrained ache for him. His voice was low and erotic against your lips, “I told you to use me, didn’t I?”
You whined again desperately. Even as you burned for him, you managed to taunt, “Confident you can keep up?”
But even that quip conjured thoughts of all the ways he could make your body feel good, and your legs flexed hungrily around him. If you weren’t so high with need, you would have glowered at that dangerous look he gave you, but unfortunately, it just made you want him more.
“For you? Oh, I could do this all day.”
You tightened like a spring, a desperate moan in your throat as you clumsily began to fumble with Sanji’s trousers, practically ripping them off in your haste. For a moment, the two of you were an awkward tangle of limbs as he shoved out of the remainder of his clothing, skin hot and sweaty to the touch, dick grazing along your stomach and pelvis as you grew hungrier for him. Your nails raked along every bit of skin you could reach, dragging along his abs and waist, trailing down his back to the curve of his ass, where you dug in just a little.
Sanji propped himself up on his hands, drinking in the sight of you as you ripped off your bra, the final offensive article of clothing flung away blindly. You took the opportunity to cast your gaze down between you, licking your lips as you eyed Sanji’s cock, red and swollen and just right.
God, you couldn’t believe that you’d just written him off this entire time, that all this time you ignored this striking man with his wicked smile and sultry eyes, his goddamn perfect physique and--
“Droolin’, love?” He teased, drawing your eyes back up. Yes you wanted him deep inside you, you wanted to take all of him; but you weren’t so foggy with desire that you couldn’t taunt him back.
“Are you?” You ask with a jeering curve of your brow. Impulsively, you opened your mouth good and wide, sticking your tongue out flat with a look of anticipation.
Sanji let out a long breath at the sight of you like this, his eyes growing dark as he grasped your jaw. Much as you would have enjoyed him to be rougher and more domineering, it wasn’t quite in his nature; no, his grip was firm yet careful, finger and thumb squeezing your cheeks as he drew you up to meet him halfway. Without breaking eye contact, he spit into your open mouth, your body shivering, surprised that he followed through with it. You swallowed with a cheeky, flirtatious smirk.
“Fuck…” Sanji muttered, dragging you up for a brief, searing kiss. You grabbed at his hips, nails digging into his skin, growing impatient for him to make you feel good again. His lips broke from yours, pressing your foreheads together, “How do you want me?”
The question alone made you whine, cunt clenching. The instruction left your mouth before you had time to think about it, “On your back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sanji grinned, one arm wrapping around your middle and hastily swapping places with you, sheets tangling as you nearly fell off the edge of the narrow bed.
Your head was swimming with need now that you were on hand and knee over Sanji, so hungry for him that you wasted no time ogling his body or nipping at his skin the way you normally would with a lover. No, you were desperately wet, and you needed him inside you now or else you may lose it.
You felt like an animal, the way you situated yourself over Sanji, reaching between you to give his hard cock a single pump in your hand before guiding him to your entrance.
Staring into one another’s eyes, you sat back on his dick in one slick motion, taking him to the hilt as you both groaned shamelessly, his thighs flexing beneath your ass. You lingered for a moment, cunt pulsing around him, Sanji’s hands gripping your hips, chests heaving. And as if he lit the fire inside you, you began to bounce up and down the length of his shaft.
“My god…” He growled, eyes back and fingers squeezing your hips as you bobbed on his dick, so goddamn slick and wet, bracing your hands atop his sturdy chest. He filled you so well, thick head pushing into you with each drop, sliding between your walls like he was meant to be there.
Oh, being on top was a bad idea, you realized as your eyes crossed, your neediness making you sloppy as you rolled your hips, your bouncing rhythmless as you chased your high. But it felt so good, every damn part of you, the fullness of Sanji’s cock making you dizzy, the way he stretched you out, the way he held onto you almost possessively. Shit, you couldn’t tell what felt best because you were so sensitive, going wild for how deep he reached, for the way his head caught inside you because he couldn’t pull out at this angle, the bit of pressure against your clit each time you moved.
You leaned back, steadying your palms just above Sanji’s knees, the shift causing his dick to meet your cervix, your head lulling back with a cry. You ground your hips in an eager, hectic pattern, clenching and whining at how full you were, gasping as Sanji bucked up into you to get that little bit deeper.
Shit, you were too horny and wet, that damned pollen making you feel like you were on the verge again, every minuscule movement felt good enough to make you cum already. And you knew you would, over and over again, Sanji’s cock fitting like a glove, thrusting against your sensitive clit, filling you to the brim--
“Fucking made for me--” You whimper like a woman possessed as you cum suddenly, abruptly, overwhelmingly. Your nails dug into Sanji’s thighs, body going rigid as you stared up at the ceiling. He twitched inside you, the both of you moaning together at the sensation. If you had the wherewithal, you would have been embarrassed by the thing you blurted out, by the fact that you came so fast again, but already desire was winding back through your body with no end in sight.
“Another one already, love?” Sanji whispered with a mystified grin, lazily rocking his hips with yours, hands trailing up to grope your waist and breasts. All you could do was hum with satisfaction, back arching as he tweaked your nipples. He gave a particularly deep, calculated thrust into you, delighting in the way you mewled, “Ah, but you’re not done yet.”
“Not even close.” You challenged, even as your voice wavered.
Sanji squeezed your breasts firmly, urging you to lean down towards him; he kissed you chastely before dipping his head, your back arching as his tongue swirled one of your peaked nipples.
As he bit and sucked at your breast, his hand massaged your other; his hips slowly began to thrust up into you again. Whimpers spilled past your lips over and over, Sanji’s cock hitting you a little harder each time, his tongue and teeth on your nipple causing your head to spin.
His hands trailed down to grab your ass while his mouth continued ravaging you, giving one cheek a firm slap before pressing you down on his cock. You were so hungry for him, needing more even with him balls deep, needing him like fresh water.
Sanji sucked a dark hickey on the inside of your breast, lips popping as he broke away from your skin. When he looked up at you through his lashes, you cupped his jaw and kissed him earnestly, which was far too intimate considering that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. The thrust of his hips faltered for a moment, as if he, too, realized the warmth of it, but he quickly sped up his rhythm as if to compensate, skin slapping skin as you groaned into one another’s mouths.
When you gasped for air, you kept your forehead to Sanji’s, the angle of his pelvis rubbing against your clit making you clench and shake. His breath was hot on your lips as his cock drove into you, hand slapping your ass again just to hear you whine.
“I ne-eed--” Your voice hitched, his dick burying particularly good into you, “--need deeper.”
Sanji huffed out an ensnared laugh, thrusting inside you then lingering there. He rolled you against him, captivated by the way your pussy tightened around him, “Deeper?”
You bit down on your lip as he taunted you, grinding your hips together, “Mhm…”
Sanji’s nose grazed along your cheek and down your neck, mouth ghosting along your skin as he spoke lowly, “In that case: up.”
He stopped grinding, spanking your ass again encouragingly. You pushed yourself back to sit atop him, and Sanji’s brows rose pointedly.
“Up.” He repeated, and you then realized what he meant. You lifted off his cock, crying at how empty you were as Sanji pushed out from under you. As he stood, you eyed him up and down like a slab of meat, sighing longingly at his goddamn hypnotically perfect cock. He grasped your chin, tilting your head back to look up at him; he looked good like this, taking charge and commanding.
His gaze trailed from your eyes to your mouth then back to your eyes, a silent instruction that you eagerly obliged, opening your mouth so he could spit into it again. Your cunt tightened as his saliva hit your tongue, wet and needy for him to be back inside you.
Sanji gave you a swift kiss before releasing your chin, watching through hooded eyes as you arranged yourself doggy style before him, though your narrow bed forced you to brace your hands on the wall beside it. You peered back over your shoulder, arching your back impatiently as he simply took a moment to ogle your alluring body.
Just as you were about to whine with frustration, Sanji leaned over you, grabbing at your hips and pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck. You pushed your ass back, the full head of his cock brushing against your curves; he took in a deep breath of your scent, face in your hair, causing you to shudder.
His lips were so soft and sweet along your skin - too sweet, considering the carnal need eating you from the inside out. Maybe under any other circumstances you would have enjoyed Sanji’s tenderness - not that you’d dare tell him as much - but at the moment, all you could do was groan insistently while pressing your ass back.
“Sanji, fuck me.” You urged, causing him to lift his head and meet eyes over your shoulder; you couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but there was something serious in his gaze. Just as quickly as you noticed it, though, it was gone, Sanji leaning back to regard your ass, one hand squeezing it while he grabbed his erection in the other, lining himself up with your entrance.
His head nudged at your cunt, teasing up and down the slit, prodding at your clit. Just the baiting alone made you yearn, back arching again needily. He met your eyes once more as he slowly sunk into you, this new angle causing vulgar moans to escape you as he so easily bottomed out, filling you completely. Fuck, he got so deep, head just prodding at your uterus, your pussy constricting around his girth.
He lingered, as if allowing you to adjust to his size, though you were so damn wet and high that you just wanted him to fuck you till it hurt. With a drunken look in your face, you pushed back against his hips, mewling with satisfaction, hands flexing against the splintering wall. Behind you, Sanji, too, groaned, reaching around you to swirl his fingers over your swollen clit; the sensation caused your head to lull back, falling onto his shoulder.
You were damn near tempted to beg for him, to plead that he take you rough and quick. But as the words almost left your mouth, Sanji pulled out, stopping when all that was left was his head, before slamming back into you. You yelped with surprise, eyes crossing as he began to pump his hips, sinking into you over and over, so fast and deep that it was nearly painful - exactly how you wanted it, that goddamn mindreader.
The sounds spilling from your lips were so crass and pornographic - you were never so vocal before, but now you simply couldn’t help it. Not with Sanji’s cock buried perfectly between your folds, his hands squeezing your hips, his mouth hot on your skin. You couldn’t be sure if it was the damned plant making you like this or if it was really, simply him.
As Sanji fucked you like he was the one who needed it, you curved back into him, his chest to your back, hair tangling as his heavy panting blew across your face, the angle of your neck allowing you to rest your sweaty forehead against his chin. God, his own grunts of pleasure were all-consuming, making your cunt tighten and your knees shake; you had to grope tightly at the wall for purchase, feeling as if you could lose your grip at any moment.
“This how you want it?” Sanji muttered hoarsely, to which you hummed eagerly, “More?”
“God, ye-es,” You slurred.
He immediately started snapping his hips with even more intensity, a deep cry leaping from you. He leaned into you heavily, bracing his hands on the wall either side of yours, and you felt like you were going to come undone from how good he made you feel, how his hard cock plunged deep into you, how his hips slammed against your ass urgently.
Shit, there were stars in your eyes as you took him, pussy soaking wet and clenching tight, legs shaky with pleasure. You couldn’t help the way your limbs began to dissolve into jelly, struggling to stay upright, arching as you pressed forward, cheek to the wall in front of you, drool teasing as the corner of your mouth.
Feeling you melt on him, Sanji’s arms snaked around you again, cupping your breasts and forcing you back against him, sweat slick between your bodies as the angle change caused you to keen. His hands were delectably rough, one fondling your nipple as the other snaked down to your front, lingering just out of reach from your clit. His fingers splayed across your pelvis, pressing you back into him firmly, holding you steady as his cock thrust up into you.
“Really am made for you,” Sanji grumbled into your hair, teeth nipping at your ear. With the way your head spun, you nearly forgot what you’d said earlier until he recalled it, the gruffness of his words making you pulse around him. He moaned deep in his chest at the feel of you, hips driving with particular intensity, the pressure above your clit making you dizzy.
Sanji’s hand on your breast trailed up your neck to your jaw, urging you to turn your head so he could kiss you sloppily, his tongue shoving hungrily into your mouth, thrusts unrelenting.
When your lips broke apart, he kept you there, forehead to yours as he groaned, “Say it again.”
The request made a spring tighten deep inside, a moan falling from your mouth into his. Again, under different circumstances, you’d be nearly embarrassed by your dirty talk, but now it just made you wetter.
“Your cock was made for me,” You mewled, voice hitching, lips brushing Sanji’s with each word. He whined, hips persistent up against yours, only encouraging you, “Fits me so fucking good--”
Unexpectedly, his cock slammed up hard into you, the both of you yelping as he stiffened and held you tight. You could feel him cumming deep inside, twitching and grunting, filling you to the brim. And you were right there behind him, turned on so much by the fact that he was spilling into you; you lost control with a wild cry, body trembling with your release.
For a long beat, the two of you stayed just like that, tangled together and panting heavily. Your head was still spinning, Sanji’s cum slowly leaking down your thigh; and like the curse that just wouldn’t quit, your body lit up again carnally, ready to keep going and going and going.
“Shit,” Sanji hissed into your hair, finally coming back down to earth.
The both of you quivered as his hands dropped to your hips, easing himself slowly out of you with a low keen; the loss of him caused his seed to ooze out of you, soaking the inside of your legs. He rested his sweaty forehead between your shoulder blades as he caught his breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d cum that fast.”
You hummed contently, blindly reaching back to knot your fingers through his hair. Even as your body ached for him again, your lips curved up with jest, “You can do this all day?”
To your teasing, Sanji roughly squeezed your hips; you could feel his smile against your clammy skin, “Oh, I promise that. Just gimme five minutes.”
True to his word, Sanji recovered in record time; you spent those few minutes waiting touching yourself, though even that couldn’t make you feel as good as he did. That goddamn pollen was unrelenting - you’d lost track of how many orgasms you had once Sanji returned to you, using his hands and mouth and cock to bring your ruination time and again. And even then, you kept begging for more.
By the time your body had stopped burning, you realized just how spent you really were, muscles aching in all the right ways, limbs quivering even while you did nothing.
Fuck, even once you were back in your right mind, you couldn’t stop thinking about Sanji - that was the best fucking sex of your life, but how the hell could you tell him that? This was your crewmate, your friend, an obnoxious flirt, and, apparently, some kind of sex aficionado, considering all the ways he managed to make you cum. Once he eventually left the safety and comfort of your room, the spell would really be broken, you weren’t sure how you were ever going to look at him normally ever again.
But right now, as you watched him redress slowly - because he was just as worn out as you were - you tried not to let the panic set in. You were certain there was no fucking way you could just be normal with him moving forward. The thought that you and Sanji would be sharing a secret this big made something coil inside you, and for a moment you nearly panicked, thinking that maybe the plant’s effects hadn’t totally worn off and were back with vengeance.
But, no, it had nothing to do with the damned pollen. You realized, frighteningly, that it was completely and utterly you getting worked up thinking about what Sanji was able to do to you; your reaction had nothing to do with that plant at all.
You weren’t certain if Sanji could tell that you were panicking, because you weren’t sure what was going on in his head, either. Yet, when he met your watchful gaze while shrugging into his shirt, he gave you that dazzling, gorgeous grin of his, and you couldn’t help smiling back; though, the butterflies swirling in your stomach filled you with something akin to dread.
Sanji bit the inside of his lip as he studied your face; it seemed like he was trying to make up his mind about something, which only made you more nervous.
Before you could think or react or stop him, Sanji swiftly dipped down to where you lay on the bed, tenderly cupping your cheek and swooping in to steal a kiss that made your heart skip a beat inside your chest.
Shit, maybe this did mean something after all. And that terrified you most of all.
.
.
Addt, Author's Note | Been a little while since I've written smut, so hopefully this wasn't just repetitive or disappointing lol. I don't totally love the ending, but it isn't the worst, so c'est la vie~
fun fact about me: When I was 6 years old I sent so much hate mail to the president (the second Bush) that the mail carrier had to tell my mom I needed to stop before we got FBI’d
I was COMPLETELY unaware of the US political scene or why the adults in my life hated Bush, but I knew I hated him because he let people shoot wolves from helicopters and that’s mean and shitty
I also had a poor grasp on how stamps worked, so given that I wasn’t allowed to continually throw money away by putting stamps on my presidential hate mail, a lot of the times I just drew squares with little pictures inside on the corner.
Love, love, love reading more proof that everyone should encourage the children in their lives to write to elected officials--it teaches them about citizenship and can also be very funny.
When I taught second grade, one of the options for students who had finished their work was to write a letter to the president. I would send all of the letters in a big envelope at the end of every month.
Watching my students get more and more frustrated with him (and concerned about his wellbeing) was not the result I'd hoped for when I came up with the idea, but it was kind of hilarious.
See, Obama had a standard packet with information and activities about his dog he'd send in response to letters from very young citizens...and of course his office sent one back to our class every single time we sent mail.
So eventually all of the letters looked something like this:
Dear President Obama,
I am writing about the environment. I am sad that the Great Barrier Reef is hurt. Also the Amazon Rainforest. Can you help? PLEASE DON'T WRITE BACK TO TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DOG AGAIN. WE ALREADY KNOW ALL ABOUT BO. WE COMPLETED THE MAZE AND COLORED HIM IN. It is good that you love your pet a lot. But try to remember the environment. It is also important.
hey sorry your boyfriend died and he came back hornier. yeah he’s more or less the same but all he can think about is going down on you. sorry i know you just wanted the gentleman back but he’s more of a demon now. yeah sorry
Summary: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
AKA: You give Jason Red Hood merch for a Secret Santa exchange, it goes about as well as you expect.
Word Count: 10.5k
Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader wears makeup and has a purse but I don’t go into much detail, Nosy reader lol, Crack fic treated seriously, Scenes jump around a lot, Fluff, Don’t think about canon when reading this, Probably ooc, Do not take this fic seriously, Convenient plot stuff had to occur for this story to work okay
A/N: Happy holidays guys! I actually can’t believe I finished this before Christmas (at least for me) enjoy this little fic. This will probably be my last fic before New Years :)
DC Masterlist , Fatson Todd Bonus Fic (Part 2)
—
Something was off about the Wayne family, and not in the way you might’ve expected from people as rich as they are.
What’s funny is that you had come to that conclusion in the most unconventional way. You didn’t mean to start investigating the Wayne family, but somehow you did. One might think that with a public imagine as widespread as their own, somebody would eventually slip up.
That was not the case here.
About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?
The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.
Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot.
—
You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.
“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it.
Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.
You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.
“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.
“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”
In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.
However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.
There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."
So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss.
It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.
Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.
“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.
“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”
Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?
“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.
There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.
Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”
You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.
Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.
Everything you thought was wrong.
At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization.
This isn’t him talking about his shifts.
“You haven’t told the others, right?”
This isn’t about work at all.
“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”
This was about his family.
Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.
You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted.
At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.
Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.
Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.
Bruce Wayne.
With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.
You found articles.
Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.
Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.
Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.
With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…
However, this might be worth investigating.
At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”
You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.
—
Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations.
You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.
Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.
You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter!
The driver absolutely lost it.
You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.
So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley.
Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.
Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.
Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.
Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.
“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.
The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you.
The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.
It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes.
“What—” He calls out.
You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”
It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.
“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”
You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”
He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.
You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”
He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”
The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.
“Do you—”
“How did—”
You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.”
He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.
You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”
Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.”
You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.
However, it’s Red Hood.
While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.
“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.
“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.
You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses.
“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.
The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.”
Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”
“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.
You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?
A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…
You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.
—
Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.
His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same.
Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.
Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.
“Do you want to meet my family?”
You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”
He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”
You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.
Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”
You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.
He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.
You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.
Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.
Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone.
“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object.
He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”
You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”
“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.
“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”
You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you.
“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”
You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”
His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”
“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”
He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”
“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”
Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”
“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”
He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”
You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”
“Yeah?” He smirks at you.
“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.
—
“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.”
Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”
“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”
You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”
Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.
You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”
Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.
At your entrance, the room goes silent.
You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch.
The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.
Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.
What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.
You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.
This is Batman.
Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.
The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.
For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.
Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.
You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.
“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely.
You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.
You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.
“Does she know?”
Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support.
“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.
Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”
The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.
Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”
Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.
Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”
Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair.
Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.
Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”
Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”
Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”
Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”
“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.
“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.
“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.
“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”
Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”
“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take.
“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight.
Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.
You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.
As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason?
“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.
“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.
Jason
Holy shit.
You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect.
A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?
You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.
“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.
“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.
He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.
“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.
His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”
You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.
“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.
Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.”
You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”
He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”
You smirk, “The perfect idea.”
“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.
“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”
You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.
“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”
His eyes soften, “I know.”
—
red hood merch
red hood keychain
red hood figure
You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.
You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this.
You add it to the cart.
“You’re still up?”
Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.
He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”
“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.
You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.
“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”
You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again.
You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”
He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”
You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”
He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas.
You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.
Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.
You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face.
Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.
You buy it.
“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head.
Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”
He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.
You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”
—
Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family.
It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.
“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays.
You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”
Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”
“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”
There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.
“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”
He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”
“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.
“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.
“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.
“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.
You never drove home so fast.
Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway.
You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.
Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.
Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.
“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?
“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved.
Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.
“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”
He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues “… Is it for me?”
You grin, “Perhaps.”
He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.
You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.
“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.
You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.
It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.
Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.
You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.
Perhaps he was too scared to tell you?
It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him.
You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.
Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.
—
“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.
A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.
So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls.
You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.
You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.
He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.”
You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).
He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.
You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.
“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.
You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”
“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.
“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”
He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”
“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face.
He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”
You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”
An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”
“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”
He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?”
“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.
His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.”
You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.
Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.
As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.
“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”
“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.
“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”
There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.
Thankfully you aren’t first again.
Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.
You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.
You had to be strong.
When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.
Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you.
Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp.
It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point.
“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.
Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.
Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.
You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise.
You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.
He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.
Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction.
“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.
Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.
“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.
“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!”
“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.
“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly.
Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him.
He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”
“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch.
Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”
You grin at him, not offering an answer.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.
He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.
Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.
The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.
Yeah, you know.
Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.
Everybody.
Loses.
Their.
Mind.
Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.
Then you turn to Bruce.
The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.
Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.
A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.
You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.
“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.
You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”
Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”
You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”
He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—”
“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”
His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.
You know he is Red Hood.
“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks.
You nod, “I know.” You repeat.
He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”
“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.
His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”
You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.
He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”
You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”
Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”
Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”
You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”
You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”
He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”
You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand.
He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”
You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”
He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”
You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.”
“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.
“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.
“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.
The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did.
“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.
You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.
“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.
“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.
You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.
He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”
Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.”
He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.”
-> Fatson Todd Bonus Fic
ㅤ
A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao.
Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type.
Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve/happy holidays to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!
Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!
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