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[svmvnthasworld]

weird ass girl with brown eyes

[cherryysunshine]

Something Borrowed, Something Bruised

Pairing: Jason Todd/F!Reader

Word Count: 11.5k

Rating: Explicit

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.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Red Hood divider ❤️💛

[lunarg4ze]

wow this was actually peak

[ciricearts]

my bi queen for pride month<3

[myladyship]

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

[myladyship]

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

[fanaticfanboy]

I don’t think we as a fandom realize how INSANE the achilles spot is for percabeth. He hasn’t really processed his feelings but when he gets in the river styx, Annabeth pulls him through. He imagines Tyson, his brother. He imagines Grover, his best friend. He imagines his mother, Sally fucking Jackson, and it’s not enough

But you know what is?

Annabeth Chase. She is the thing keeping him there. She is quite literally the reason he stays alive. That is his Annabeth.

I’m going fucking insane

[lunarg4ze]

whenever i see people hating on a fancast, 90% of the time it's bcuz it's a POC. And ofc, all the booktok accounts will be the first to argue saying the character wasn't described to have nonwhite features.

If you're really saying this abt an office romance, a teen rom-com, or even a fantasy book like ???? Race is usually irrelevant...so let ppl imagine characters however they'd like?? Just bcuz it doesn't fit your definiton, doesn't make it bad. ALSO HALF THE TIME IT'S HYPOTHETICAL!!

Exception: if a character's identity or cultural background for a certain race is specific and an integral part of the story, then keep it true to the book

Otherwise, it really irks me when I see a good POC fancast for something but go into the comments and see something about how "this wasn't how they were described" and the description is "tall, handsome, broody, dark hair" or something like ???

POC have every right to be popular main characters.

The only POC some people know are michael b jordan, zendaya, dev patel, and simone ashley (but they won't even say her name they call her "the indian girl from bridgerton"

(No hate to them i love all of them down)

There's so many talented actors in every shape, size, and color, and all of them deserve a chance and opportunity to be a part of a project. I care more that they're passionate and care for their character

Everyone deserves representation. I'm not saying white ppl should never be casted ever again, I'm just saying it's good to see different kinds of people. It depends on the project, story, etc

[lunarg4ze]

Dionysus!daughter reader x Jason Todd....

Reader who helps Jason through cycles of madness after the Lazarus Pit

Jason Todd who can see through the mist after coming back to life

Is this worth exploring....

Or fuck Son of Hades or Ares!Jason Todd ???

[thylogale-procavia]

"Listen to the city on the other side of the walls. The cars racing to places people don't want to go. The ambulances racing from horror to hope. Listen to the people shouting and laughing and loving and fighting and giving birth and taking lives. Listen for the heartbeat among the chaos of Gotham City... like I did when I was a kid and slept on the sidewalk on more than one night. There is a world out there in this one city. Can you hear it?" - (Red Hood and the Outlaws Vol 2 4, 2017; by Scott Lobdell)

[mellkellyismyhero]

“Things always end up where they should,” Luke says, while holding the dagger that’s going to kill him

GOD this show

[lunarg4ze]

WHY DIDJT I CLOCK THIS HOLY SHIT

[sufferingbooknerd]

The gods in S3 realizing that Annabeth Chase, who Poseidon’s son admitted that he’d “burn it all (Olympus) down” for, is missing and presumed dead

[loveridden1999]

[lunarg4ze]

just realized if max wakes up, her body is still broken and she's still blind bcuz of what vecna did to her so she can't go to her movie date w Lucas... she's going from running around and seeing in her mind for the past few months to technically being confined in her body in another way due to her injuries

Duffer brothers give my girl a break please

[lunarg4ze]

erm spoiler update⚠️⚠️⚠️...she CAN see! I thought she went blind after the vecna snap crackle pop thing but i guess not. Either way i'm happy seeing her back on screen

[lunarg4ze]

just realized if max wakes up, her body is still broken and she's still blind bcuz of what vecna did to her so she can't go to her movie date w Lucas... she's going from running around and seeing in her mind for the past few months to technically being confined in her body in another way due to her injuries

Duffer brothers give my girl a break please

[yenvengerberg]

PERCY JACKSON & ANNABETH CHASE 'Clarisse Blows Up Everything'

[lunarg4ze]

your honor i'm sobbing.

[simple-dorito]

You: I’m going to hold your thighs when I tell you this

You: *proceeds to hold Jason’s thighs*

Jason: okay? What’re you going to tell me?

You: oh no I just wanted an excuse to hold your thighs *gives them a squeeze or two*

Jason: you’re unbelievable.

You: and your thighs are incredible.

[lunarg4ze]

LMFAOO

[moonologyy]

PROTECTOR OF THE INHERITED CROWN

pairing: knight!jason todd/princess!reader

synopsis: whereas, a knight is assigned to guard the princess. However, things don’t go as planned when you find yourself falling for the knight, aware it’s a forbidden relationship that’s not allowed, you both still find solace to be with each other, even if you’re in an arranged marriage. Though, will this forbidden relationship end in flames with tears that tries to extinguish the fire, or will this relationship wreak havoc while you stand with each other in the end.

cw: reader is an arranged marriage, suicidal thought mentioned once, no smut just fluff, SLOWBURN, a tad-bit of angst, hurt/comfort, your dad is a shitty person, and I wish fictional men (jason todd) are real. yearning reader lwk and yearning jason lwk. jason is probably ooc, but it’s like… au… so he’s going to act different anyway…

wc: 16k part 2 coming soon!

Your eyes stayed fixed on the figure reflected in the gold-framed vanity mirror.

An opulent piece carved with sunbursts and curling vines, polished so thoroughly, not a sign of usage despite its purpose. You were still, holding your spine straight, shoulders set, your expression serene and deliberate.

Not a single flicker of discomfort crossed your face despite the coordinated flurry of hands working over your body, yet treating you as a precious jewel that shouldn’t be allowed to rust away among the other jewels, shining brilliantly to grasp others’ attention.

Your chambermaid braced a steady palm against your back as she pulled at the silk cords of your corset, drawing them tighter until your ribs felt caged in ivory.

Another guided gentle fingers through your hair, combing and coiling each strand into place, pinning it with jeweled slips that caught the morning light.

A third knelt before you with a delicate hand, brushing a soft flush onto your lips with a color you’ve familiarized, then rubbing an ointment of jasmine warmed with rose against your pulse points, a fragrance to linger amongst others.

You were a jewel to be admired, but never claimed.

However, that changed.

Your Creator, your Father in name, and your King in every breath of duty, had finally declared you of age. At eighteen years old, he believed you were ready to be promised to another, ready to be shaped into a bride, ready to surrender whatever pieces of yourself still belonged to you.

The announcement did not come softly.

It arrived with the weight of ceremony, delivered by messengers who bowed too deeply and guards who watched you too closely. Whispers carried through the halls long before the words reached your ears, whispers that curled beneath doors and drifted between tapestries, reminding you that your life was no longer your own to hold.

To him, eighteen was not a milestone of freedom.

It was a doorway he had been waiting impatiently to open. A number that transformed you from a child under his roof into a valuable asset to be placed, traded, or used for whatever purpose suited him best.

In the King’s eyes, you were finally ready to stop belonging to yourself.

You were to be promised to a man from the North, a figure spoken of in hushed tones, a commander whose reputation was threaded with cruelty and cold ambition.

He ruled his lands with iron and winter, a wicked man by every whispered account, yet perfectly suited to uphold the alliance your father had been scheming toward for years.

Once you were fully prepared, you rose from the vanity, the skirts of your crimson gown cascading around you like a pool of silken light.

The dress had taken hours to assemble, the layers of soft fabric resting one over another, the outermost embroidered with gold thread that shimmered whenever you moved.

The bodice hugged your waist with elegant rigidity, the neckline framed with delicate lace that brushed your collarbone. Every step made the gown whisper against the floor, a reminder of the role you were expected to play.

You turned to face your mother, who stood near the edge of the room in her own formal attire, a muted gown of deep plum that contrasted sharply with her expression. Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles tight against the smooth gloves she wore.

Despite her practiced composure, her eyes carried a weight she could not disguise.

She offered a small, solemn nod, her gaze sweeping over you as if trying to anchor herself in the sight.

“You are to be engaged in two years,” she said quietly.

Though she tried to keep her voice even, a faint tremor pushed through the words. She lifted her handkerchief to the corner of her eye, catching the tear before it slipped down her cheek, patting lightly so the carefully applied powder on her face would not smear.

“My poor daughter,” she wept, her voice breaking as she stepped forward and placed her hands on your shoulders.

Her palms rested atop, fingers trembling slightly against the puffs of your dress. Up close, she smelled faintly of lavender water and pressed petals, a familiar comfort that only made the moment feel heavier.

Her chin quivered as she looked at you, her eyes glassy and rimmed red despite her efforts to stay composed. Everything about her, your mother’s posture, her gown, her jeweled hairpins was arranged with elegance, yet nothing could hide the quiet devastation beneath it.

“Mother, it’ll be alright,” you softly whispered, brushing a gentle smile onto your lips, crafted more for her comfort than your own conviction.

You lifted a hand to cover hers, hoping the touch alone might steady her trembling worries. You tried to sound certain, even though the truth sat heavy in your chest: you were destined to become the bride of a tyrant, a future carved by power rather than choice.

“There are still two years before the wedding,” you continued, your voice warm but thin around the edges, as if the reassurance was something delicate you were afraid might shatter in your own hands. “There’s still time for His Majesty to change his mind.”

You knew he wouldn’t.

But even so, your mother’s expression eased, her distress smoothing into something calmer, something she could bear before her arms fell from your shoulders to her lower stomach, clasping each other with the handkerchief.

You gathered a breath, arranging your gown with a practiced sweep of your hands before speaking with the composure expected of a royal daughter.

“Let us make our way to His Majesty’s throne,” you stated, adopting the refined cadence drilled into you since childhood. “His Majesty has summoned our presence for the Accolade Ceremony, and I am to be bestowed a knight sworn to my protection and service.”

The words left your tongue with a dignified elegance, each one carefully measured— courtly, polished, befitting someone raised under gold ceilings, intricate vases, and sharpened expectations.

You offered your mother your arm, lifting your chin.

“We must not keep Him waiting and the audience.”

You both linked arms, the movement elegant and measured as you stepped forward together. Still, a faint tremor shivered through your body.

A sense of impending doom lingered at the edge of your thoughts, whispering that your fate had already been written.

In truth, it had.

When you reach your twentieth year, you will be wed to the northern lord, bordering his fifties.

You would not be his first wife.

You would not be his only wife.

You would simply join the ranks of his household, becoming another treasure displayed to solidify the alliance that would keep your father’s kingdom from falling under the northern control.

While you serve to be a brood mare, just as your mother once had.

Your mother had fulfilled her duty by bearing a child, only to be cast aside when the child was a daughter rather than the son your father desired to inherit the crown. He had treated her usefulness as something finite, something that ended the moment she placed you in his arms.

Now you were still expected to inherit the crown, just as your sisters were.

The royal blood in your veins was a burden more than a blessing, a promise wrapped in silk and thorns.

Yet even that inheritance carried no true freedom.

Each princess of the Eastern Kingdom was destined for the same ending, no matter the gilded titles whispered into her cradle.

A crown would grace your head one day, but it would not be the familiar circlet of your homeland.

It would not bear the sunburst crest of your lineage or the engraving of your ancestors. Instead, you would wear a foreign coronet, forged in a kingdom that did not raise you, ruled by a man who did not love you, only lust for you.

Your future throne would stand in a land where the winds were colder and the language harsher, a place where your presence would serve as a symbol of alliance rather than a claim of your own authority.

You would bow to customs not your own, smile for nobles who would watch you with calculating eyes, and settle into a role designed to bind two realms together.

But did you want that?

No.

Why would you ever desire such a fate?

Who in their right mind would welcome a life built upon sacrifice, silence, and servitude?

The very thought of being forced into such a life ignited a cold, merciless fury within you, a rage sharp enough to carve through bone.

You watched the towering doors ahead of you, their surface carved with intricate patterns of curling vines, rearing griffins, and panels of hammered gold that caught the light like captured fire.

At the center of each door gleamed the sigil of your house, etched so deeply into the wood that it seemed almost alive beneath the gilded finish.

The guards pushed them open in perfect unison, the motion smooth and ceremonial.

A rush of sound spilled out first, the hum of chattering courtiers, rustling fabrics, and clinking ornamentation. The doors continued to widen, and that noise softened, thinning until only the slow, resonant creak of the ancient hinges remained.

The nobles beyond turned toward the entrance one by one, the hall falling into a hush as if the very air bowed in acknowledgement of your arrival, thinning to silence to signal the beginning of the Accolade Ceremony as the trumpets began to make noise.

You would rather spill your own blood across the marble floors than submit to a fate that sought to reduce you to flesh and function, nothing more than a royal mare bred for convenience.

Your heels clicked in perfect harmony with your mother’s, each step measured and regal as you crossed the threshold into the throne hall. You kept your gaze forward, steady and unflinching, as etiquette demanded of a princess making her entrance.

Squires stood lined along both sides of the hall, their polished armor catching the glow of the chandeliers above.

Their expressions remained disciplined and neutral, yet every one of them straightened as you passed, acknowledging your rank with silent deference. Near the base of the dais stood the commander of the royal regiment, a man forged from discipline and iron, positioned close to your father like a loyal shadow.

The long red carpet unfurled before you, guiding your steps toward the elevated throne where your father awaited. The throne itself rose beneath a canopy of silk and gold, flanked by the seated consorts who had once held the King’s favor.

You and your mother advanced to the foot of the dais, the red carpet soft beneath your heels. At the first step leading upward, your mother slowly slips away from your arm to meet your father at his side, giving a slight bob of her gesture of respect to Him.

He gives a slight nod of acknowledgment to your mother before his gaze finds yours.

You begin to lower yourself.

Your Creator, the King who shaped every path you tread.

The moment your head inclined, the blare of trumpets faded into perfect silence, as if the entire hall inhaled and held its breath in reverence.

All eyes remained fixed on you, the daughter kneeling before Him.

“Your Majesty, I, the Twelfth Lady of the Eastern Kingdom, humbly present myself to formally honor the sacred bestowal granted on this day.”

The words flowed from your tongue with the poise of courtly upbringing, each syllable shaped with reverence and precision.

Your gown swept around you in a flawless arc as you remained bowed, the gold embroidery on your crimson gown catches the throne hall’s light like captured starlight while many eyes are on you, drawing attention as if you were a shooting star.

Your voice, though soft, carried through the chamber with the clarity expected of a princess addressing her sovereign.

“Your Royal Highness,” he intoned, your name following with the same immaculate precision one might use when reciting a decree.

The words carried ceremony rather than sentiment, authority rather than kinship.

“It is My honor to bestow upon you the assignment ordained for this day. We shall now proceed with the Accolade Ceremony. The final squire to kneel before this throne shall rise as your Dutiful Knight.”

He instructed you with the full gravity of his this moment, even though you already knew every step of this ritual.

You had watched it unfold for your elder sisters, one after another, at least five times since you were three years old before your turn arrived, the last daughter.

You nodded, rising smoothly to your feet, your gown settling around you in a soft sweep of fabric. You moved to stand at your father’s opposite side, the position reserved for the royal heir undergoing a ceremony.

From there, you watched him ascend from his throne with deliberate majesty, every motion controlled and steeped in authority.

The Commander stepped forward, presenting the ceremonial sword with both hands.

The blade gleamed like captured moonlight, its edge honed to perfection, its hilt wrapped in dark leather and adorned with the crest of the Eastern Kingdom.

The man who offered it, Bruce Wayne, was your father’s own Dutiful Knight, loyal to the crown with a reputation carved from discipline and unyielding honor.

Your father accepted the sword with a solemn nod, the hall falling into absolute stillness as the weight of tradition settled over the room.

Then he began to call forth each squire by name, summoning them with the full ceremony and gravity befitting the honor of knighthood.

One by one they stepped forward, each young man kneeling before the throne to receive the sacred touch of the sword upon shoulder and brow.

It was a ritual steeped in centuries of tradition, a privilege reserved for those deemed worthy to stand as shields of the realm. Each name echoed through the vaulted hall, carried by the hush of courtiers who understood the significance of witnessing a new knight being bestowed upon the crown.

“Cassandra Cain!” your father called, his voice carrying through the throne hall with the weight of absolute authority.

From the line of squires, Cassandra stepped forward.

Her movements were quiet and controlled, each stride purposeful. Her fierce gaze did not waver even as she lowered herself onto one knee before the King. Her head inclined in flawless submission, her fist pressed against her heart.

Your father lifted the ceremonial sword, its polished blade catching the glow of the chandeliers above. He touched the flat of it to Cassandra’s left shoulder, then her right, before resting the tip lightly at her bowed head.

“By the grace of the Eastern Crown,” he declared, each word resonating through the hall, “I confer upon you the sacred title of Knight of this Realm, the first woman to gain this honor. You shall rise as protector of this kingdom, defender of its people, and sword of unwavering loyalty.”

He lifted the blade slightly, continuing the vow.

“Serve with honor, stand with courage, and uphold the laws that bind our kingdom in peace. Let your strength be a shield against all who seek to do us harm. Rise now, Cassandra Cain, Knight of the Eastern Kingdom.”

He lowered the sword with finality.

Cassandra rose in a single, fluid motion, her face composed into a mask that revealed nothing.

The audience whispered in shock while her pledge was sealed, her place among the King’s chosen carved into the air with silent certainty.

How interesting.

The first woman to ever claim the title of Knight of this Realm now stood before the throne, unshaken and utterly formidable.

You felt a stir of something rare within yourself, a faint mix of admiration and unfamiliar yearning.

You wondered if you could ever possess that kind of strength, the kind that allowed a person to wield steel without trembling, to lift a weapon not as an ornament but as an extension of their will.

For a fleeting moment, you imagined yourself in her place, carrying a blade rather than a burden, standing in defiance instead of obedience.

Serving this God-forsaken kingdom with a sword in your hand rather than your body on an altar.

But such thoughts were luxuries, and luxuries were dangerous.

Then, after all the chosen squires, or knights were rightfully given the title, an hour flew by.

The unexpected happens.

Your Majesty deliberately withdrew the sword, the very blade he had solemnly laid upon each knight’s shoulder throughout the ceremony, and extended it once more to the commander, Bruce Wayne.

The seasoned knight’s brow furrowed in unmistakable confusion, his fingers tightening briefly around the hilt as if seeking clarity amid the unexpected turn.

“Your Grace,” the commander began with measured deference, his voice steady yet edged with hesitation, “you have overlooked Her Highness—”

Before the words could fully leave his lips, Your Creator raised a commanding hand to silence the chamber.

He settled once more into the carved throne that bore the weight of countless generations, his gaze fixed upon you with a calm intensity that burned with unmistakable intent.

“Her Highness shall bestow her own Knight.”

A delicate ripple of disbelief spread through the hall, soft as the rustle of silk yet sharp as a finely honed blade.

The assembled nobles stiffened in their seats, caught between rigid protocol and sudden astonishment.

Every eye turned toward you, brimming with expectation, inquiry, and incredulity.

Such a moment was not inscribed in any ceremony you had been taught to expect.

No whispered counsel nor rehearsed recital had ever hinted at this unprecedented decree.

The familiar script of tradition fractured before your very eyes, replaced by a summons to seize an uncharted destiny.

Your gaze met your father’s and there it was— an unwavering, almost sinister smile curling upon his lips. It was a silent challenge, a game woven in shadows and cunning design.

His expression dared you to rise and wield this sudden power, no matter how uncertain or perilous the path.

Your mother’s breath caught audibly as her delicate hand tightened against the folds of her gown, surprise and concern flickering across her composed features.

He turns to His Majesty, concern flashing over her eyes.

“Your Majesty, this is not part of the—”

He raised a hand to silence her which made your mother’s shoulder droop with unease.

She was right.

This isn’t part of the ceremony.

And you weren’t sure what to exactly do.

Yet, it must go on.

Murmurs rippled through the grand chamber like a rising tide, the air charged with tension and anticipation.

The hall, once steeped in solemn ritual, now pulsed with the quiet thunder of impending change.

Every breath seemed to hang suspended in the gilded air, every eye drawn irresistibly to you— the daughter, the princess, the unexpected sovereign summoned to claim this newfound authority.

Though the weight of the moment pressed heavily upon your shoulders, you met your father’s gaze and offered a deliberate nod, cloaking the flutter of doubt within you behind a mask of unwavering poise.

With measured grace, you stepped forward, the hem of your gown lightly tracing against the polished marble floor, closing the distance to where Bruce Wayne, the stoic commander, awaited with the sword in hand.

The past five Accolade Ceremonies, you’re trying to remember each procedure—

What do you even say?

How do you—

Oh gosh, what’s the Knight’s name?

The commander answered your last question softly, his words cutting through the stillness like a finely honed blade.

“Jason Todd,” he intoned quietly to you, loud enough for both of you to hear, the name carrying the weight of destiny and duty alike. “That is your chosen knight. Call him forth.”

The hall seemed to grow even quieter, the grandeur of the chamber swallowed by the thick hush of anticipation.

The moment your hand closed around the sword, its weight settled heavily against your palm, but heavier still was the pounding of your heart, each beat echoing the restless tide of nerves and the silent fear of failure.

You feared not just faltering in the ceremony, but becoming a spectacle, an embarrassment beneath the gilded ceilings and watchful eyes of the court.

You stepped forward to the very spot where your father had stood moments before, the weight of countless expectations pressing down upon you.

You close your eyes for a fleeting moment, you sought to still the tempest of nerves swirling within, to silence the tremor that threatened to betray you through a stutter or a crack in your voice.

Your hands moved deliberately, fingers curling around the cold steel of the sword’s hilt. You took a slow, measured breath, willing yourself to steady the faint slickness of sweat that betrayed your resolve, anchoring yourself to the ritual and the gravity it demanded.

Your eyes flutter open, the weight of the hall’s deafening silence pressing upon you like a tangible force. Every breath held, every heartbeat amplified in the stillness as countless eyes bore down, waiting with bated breath.

With a voice steady yet commanding, you speak into the hush that stretches like a silk thread across the chamber.

“Jason Todd, step forward.”

The words ripple through the air, crisp and clear, carrying the full authority of your newly claimed station.

The summons hangs heavy, a summons that will forever alter the course of both your fates.

Within a heartbeat, a figure detached himself from the ranks of bestowed Knights that only left him and stepped forward, breaking the taut silence like a sudden storm.

His presence commanded the room without a word, a magnetic force that drew every gaze toward him.

He was striking, an embodiment of noble strength and refined grace.

His piercing blue eyes gleamed like polished sapphires, sharp and clear, holding a depth that seemed to both challenge and captivate.

Those eyes alone could steal one’s breath away, cool and penetrating, yet flickering with an unspoken fire beneath their icy veneer.

His features were sculpted with classical perfection.

A strong, chiseled jawline framed lips set in a line of quiet resolve. High cheekbones caught the ambient light, lending his visage an almost statuesque quality.

Dark hair, impeccably kept yet tousled with effortless charm, crowned his head like a shadowed halo.

His stature was commanding, tall and broad-shouldered, every movement measured and controlled.

He carried himself with the unwavering confidence of a born leader, the kind forged in battle and tempered by discipline. The weight of the ceremonial armor he bore seemed light upon him, as if it were but a second skin, each plate and chain tailored to accentuate his powerful frame.

He lowered himself gracefully to one knee, the polished armor glinting as he bent forward in a gesture of solemn respect. His gaze first fell upon the delicate peak of your heels, their hue perfectly matched to the rich fabric of your gown, before slowly lifting to meet your eyes.

When his piercing blue eyes met yours, there was a flicker of something unreadable— a subtle trace of surprise, perhaps, or an unspoken question. In that moment, the weight of the ceremony hung between you both, charged with expectation and the silent promise of what was to come.

The cool weight grounding you amidst the swirling currents of expectation.

The hilt felt smooth beneath your fingers, a tangible connection to the centuries of tradition and power the blade embodied. Drawing a steadying breath, you lifted the sword and began the solemn rite.

First, you lowered the flat of the gleaming blade gently onto his left shoulder.

The metal pressed softly against the polished armor, sending a faint echo through the stillness of the hall. You held it there for a moment, the silence deepening as the significance of the act settled upon all present.

Slowly, with equal reverence, you moved the sword to rest upon his right shoulder, the cool steel a tangible symbol of trust and charge.

Your voice rose then, clear and unwavering, carrying through the vaulted chamber like a solemn vow.

One that spoke differently than Your Creator.

If He wants a surprise, then you’ll show Him a surprise.

“With this blade, I do not merely charge you as a Protector of the Inherited Crown but as the keeper of my honor and the executor of my will. You shall stand unwavering beside me, a sentinel against the shadows that seek to undo us.”

The red carpet beneath your feet seemed to absorb your decree, etching it into the very foundation of the kingdom. This was no mere ritual passed down by heart. This was your assertion your sovereignty wrought in steel and spoken with the undeniable power of your voice.

The hall seemed to lean closer with bated breath as your words wove through the air, binding him to a sacred trust far deeper than the ceremony itself.

“Let your sword be sharp, your resolve unbreakable, and your loyalty as enduring as the mountains that guard this realm.”

Slowly, you raised the sword, its tip resting lightly upon his bowed head, the gleam of the blade catching the light in a halo of purpose.

“Rise now Jason Todd,” you proclaimed, your voice steady and commanding, “not as a mere knight but as the shield of my blood and the sword of my justice. Carry this honor with fierce courage, unyielding loyalty, and a heart tempered by fire.”

“From this day forth you are bound to me and to the fate we shall carve together.” You finished, watching his eyes stare indefinitely at you.

A profound silence followed, thick with the weight of destiny and solemn duty.

Jason lifted his head at last, the movement slow and reverent, as if savoring the gravity of the moment that bound your lives together.

When he rose to his feet, the armor upon him whispered with the sound of tempered steel, each shift of metal echoing through the vast chamber like the heartbeat of something newly awakened.

He stood tall before you, his eyes no longer merely piercing but alight with a fire, as though your words had struck something deep within him. The hall remained suspended in breathless silence, the gathered nobles and courtiers watching with rapt attention. Even your father leaned forward ever so slightly, curiosity sharpening the lines of his expression.

Jason bowed his head once more, a full 90-degree gesture full of respect and a silent pledge of devotion with a pound of his fist against his heart.

His voice followed, low and steady, carrying across the room with the smooth resonance of a promise sealed in iron.

“I accept this charge with my life, Your Royal Highness. The sword is yours to command, my shield and armor are to protect your blood, my strength is yours to wield and my loyalty is yours to claim.” His words fell like a vow carved in stone, unyielding and complete.

Trumpets blared their triumphant notes once they noticed a complete silence from the room that soaked in his words, the sound rising to the vaulted ceilings in a celebratory roar. The courtiers bent in a synchronized bow, paying homage to the newly appointed knight and to the princess whose authority had shaped this moment into something more profound than tradition.

Your mother exhaled softly beside you, her gloved hand pressing to her heart, relief mingling with worry.

The consorts bowed their heads in acknowledgement, their jeweled veils glittering. Even the seasoned Commander Bruce Wayne regarded Jason with a subtle nod of recognition, the faintest signal of approval.

As Jason stepped back into formation, no longer a squire but a knight bound to your command, the tension in the hall loosened at last. In its place rose a swell of triumphant sound, a roar that rippled through the chamber like a rising tide.

Nobles and courtiers lifted their voices in exuberant acclaim, celebrating both the sons and someone’s daughter who had earned their knighthood and the Princess of the East who now stood before them with a protector of her own.

The applause thundered beneath the vaulted ceilings, echoing through the marble pillars and across the gilded balconies.

Before you fully realized it, the glamour of the ceremony began to ebb away. The dances slowed, the cheers softened into distant echoes, and the triumphant calls of trumpets faded beneath the vaulted ceilings. What had once been a spectacle of gold and sound dissolved into murmurs and movement as the court shifted onward.

Through it all, you felt your father’s gaze linger upon you. His expression had darkened into a frown, yet beneath it flickered unmistakable surprise.

You had not faltered.

You had stood unshaken as you bestowed knighthood upon a squire, wielding authority with a steadiness he had not anticipated.

It lingered heavily on your mind as many advisors, sponsors, and others congratulated you on your bestowal. A surprise to many as it was not common, nor heard of from other kingdoms, including your own to watch a princess bestow their knight.

You found yourself walking the familiar corridors of the palace with your knight trailing just a step behind you.

You were internally exhausted along with your heels that emit a kind of ache that you would feel relief once you take them off, soak in a hot bath, and relax in your bed.

The silence stretched comfortably, unbroken yet heavy with awareness.

Though no words were exchanged, you felt him there all the same, attentive and watchful as you made your way toward your chambers. The torchlight cast long shadows along the walls.

“Sir Jason,” you began, your tone gentler now, threaded with a note of relief you no longer bothered to conceal. “I am thankful it was you who was chosen to be my sworn knight.”

You turned your head slightly as you spoke, allowing yourself that small indulgence. A smile curved at the corner of your lips, subtle yet sincere, softening the weight of the crown you did not yet wear.

The light caught in his armor as he slowed, then stopped, as though your words had anchored him in place. Jason inclined his head in a respectful bow, but when he lifted his gaze to meet yours, there was something earnest there, something unguarded.

“The honor is mine, Your Royal Highness,” he replied quietly. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a warmth that had not been present in the hall. “I would have stepped forward even if I had not been named by His Lord, I would still stand at your side no matter what. It is no burden to be handed with great responsibility, it is a privilege.”

You nodded at his words with a grin, a quiet acknowledgment settling between you, but there was an expectant pause that lingered all the same.

This was not the first time your paths had crossed.

You had seen him long before today, in passing moments the court never noticed.

In the training yards at dawn, when you would linger at the balcony under the guise of fresh air and watch him spar with a ferocity that set him apart from the rest.

In the corridors near the armory, where he had once bowed too slowly, eyes lifting just long enough to recognize you before remembering his place with a sharp remark aimed towards him by second-in-command Dick Grayson.

There had even been a moment, brief and entirely improper, when a sudden storm had broken over the palace gardens.

Rain had fallen in heavy sheets, the paths slick beneath your slippers, and it was Jason who had appeared at your side without hesitation and without knowing he was there in the garden from a distance that had watched you carefully navigate the beauty despite its cloudiest night.

His hand had closed firmly around your elbow, guiding you from the open terrace and through the shadowed corridors toward your chambers. His apology had been murmured far too close, his breath warm against your ear as he ensured you were unharmed, lingering only a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

Another day, far less gentle in its memory, had carved itself into you just as deeply.

You had been within the East City, escorted yet momentarily separated, when danger revealed itself in the form of grasping hands and sharp voices.

Bandits, emboldened by arrogance and desperation, had tried to take you to sell.

Panic had barely found its footing before Jason intervened out of nowhere.

Steel had flashed and in a blur of movement he had pulled you free, placing himself squarely between you and danger without hesitation.

The clash of metal and the shouts of startled men rang in your ears as he moved with ruthless precision, shielding you with his own body as though it were instinct rather than duty.

He had whisked you away through narrow streets and hidden passages known only to those who lived and fought beyond palace walls.

His grip on your wrist was firm and unyielding, guiding you through alleys and winding turns, his focus absolute until the noise behind you faded and safety finally settled around you.

It was only then, as you caught your breath beneath a dim lantern, that you noticed his attire. He wore no armor, no insignia of a squire or soldier. Only a simple tunic clung to his frame, darkened with sweat, and worn trousers marked by travel and combat. There was nothing ceremonial about him at that moment, nothing polished or ornamental.

Those moments had forged a familiarity neither of you had dared to name.

He had protected you long before he was ever sworn to do so. And now, as he walked beside you in the quiet of the palace halls, bound by oath and steel, it felt less like a beginning and more like a truth finally acknowledged.

Familiarity had grown in those stolen glances and unspoken acknowledgments, quiet and restrained, but undeniably present.

Jason seemed to remember it all as well.

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and when he spoke again, his tone lacked the rigid polish of court address.

“You were never just a name spoken from the throne to me,” he mumbles quietly. “Even before today.”

You continued toward your chambers, the soft cadence of your steps echoed and matched by Jason’s own pace.

It was as if fate had chosen Jason Todd to be your sworn knight from the very beginning.

“I still have not thanked you properly for that day,” you remarked, your voice carrying sincerity in it, unguarded and genuine. “For placing yourself in danger on my behalf.”

You glanced toward him as you spoke, curiosity softening your expression.

“Is there any wish you would seek from me,” you asked quietly, your tone earnest, “as gratitude for the risk you took and the burden my situation forced upon you?”

Jason furrowed his brow slightly, giving the question its due consideration.

To refuse a royal offer outright would be considered discourteous at best, dangerous at worst. Declining such a gesture could be read as an insult, an unspoken message that said, this gift is sweet, but it is not enough to satisfy me.

Such a misstep could tarnish a royal’s image, invite gossip, or worse, turn the moment into a laughingstock that would linger far longer than intended. He understood the weight of courtly implications well enough to know that whatever answer he gave had to be chosen with care.

“If I may ask for anything at all, Your Royal Highness,” he began, his voice calm and deliberate, “then grant me this.”

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, unwavering and sincere, devoid of pretense.

“Allow me to remain near you whenever duty permits. Not merely as a knight in title, but in practice. Let me walk where you walk, stand where you stand, and keep watch when others would assume you are already safe.”

There was no greed in his request, no hunger for status or reward. Only quiet resolve, steady and unyielding.

“It would be honor enough.”

A few weeks passed in the quiet wake of the Accolade Ceremony, the grandeur of that day fading into routine and whispered memory. Life within the palace resumed its measured rhythm, yet something had undeniably changed.

Jason carried out his duties as any knight of the realm would, but always as yours first and foremost. He followed you through marble corridors and sunlit courtyards, stood vigilant outside council chambers, and lingered just beyond the threshold of your private studies. His presence was constant yet unobtrusive, a steady shadow shaped by loyalty rather than obligation.

Where once you had walked alone or flanked by interchangeable guards, now Jason remained at your side, attentive and watchful, moving in quiet sync with you as if this had always been his place.

However, this also meant that he accompanied you during your quietest hours, in moments untouched by ceremony or expectation. He followed you into the small sunlit room tucked into the palace’s corner, a place that overlooked a forgotten stretch of courtyard that few ever noticed and none ever lingered in, except you.

Here, the light spilled softly through tall windows, warming the room and filling the space with a rare stillness. There were no courtiers to impress, no duties to perform, no titles that demanded acknowledgment.

The room held little in the way of excess. Only a small collection of books rested upon a low shelf, their spines worn from your hands alone.

Another chair sat near the window, seldom used, and upon the table lay sheets of vellum and a quill, waiting for letters of invitation or careful replies that would later be sealed and sent away.

Here, you allowed yourself small mercies.

You slipped off your heels and set them aside, a quiet sigh of relief escaping you as your bare feet met the cool stone floor. You loosened the bodice of your gown just enough to draw a fuller breath, the tension of the day easing from your shoulders as the stillness of the room settled around you.

“You do not have to stand all day, you know,” you said, the last remnants of formality slipping easily from your voice.

The words came softer, more natural, shaped by the familiarity the past weeks had quietly built between you. When it was only the two of you, titles felt unnecessary, even burdensome.

“It would be rather unprofessional of me to do so, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, ever measured, even here.

You grinned at that, the formality only encouraging your defiance.

“There is no need to call me that every time,” you said lightly. “My name will do just fine.”

You demonstrated it for him, drawing out the vowels and careful pronunciation of your name as though it were something to be savored rather than announced.

The sound lingered in the quiet room, and at that, the corner of Jason’s lips betrayed him, curving upward in an amused, reluctant smile.

“Your Royal Highness is far too professional, and it is far too…” you paused, searching for the right word before settling on it. “Pretentious?”

He huffed softly, the hint of that smile still present.

“Well,” he replied, dry but not unkind, “you are rather pretentious.”

You frowned at his response, feigning offense though your eyes betrayed your amusement.

“I would prefer something else,” you mused, shaking your head lightly. “The title is too much.”

You tilted your head at him, studying his expression.

“Would you rather I call you Sir Jason every time?” you added, hint of mischief threading through your tone. “I know it irritates you. You always huff at the title, and I even saw you roll your eyes when one of the advisors referred to you as such.”

Jason stiffened at that, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly as realization dawned that he had been caught.

His lips pressed into a thin line, posture straightening with sudden discipline, as if composure alone might undo the admission.

You almost laughed.

“Then,” he begins, choosing his words with deliberate care, “when it is only the two of us, in private, you may refer to me simply as Jason.”

You perked at that, listening closely, already hearing the unspoken but lingering in his tone before he could finish the thought.

“I will still address you by your proper title,” Jason finally stated, his tone firm but not unkind.

He watched as your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the playful confidence draining from your posture. You bit the inside of your cheek, resting your chin against your hand, a gesture that betrayed your disappointment more than any words could.

The subtle expression of dissapointment on your face made the corner of his lips twitch upward, a brief betrayal of amusement before he smoothed it away.

“I believe calling you by your given name would be far too informal,” Jason explains after a moment, his tone careful, considered.

“The most I can offer is this. I will call you Princess.”

Your brow arched at that, interest immediately piqued.

Of all the titles he could have chosen, that one sat just right. It was a quiet concession, a step down from Your Royal Highness without crossing into impropriety.

It carried respect without the grand title, familiarity without presumption.

You found yourself enjoying it more than you expected.

“Okay,” you nodded, leaning more heavily into your hand. “I suppose I can accept that.”

You would happily accept it, as it turned out.

A grin curved across your lips as you reached for one of the books, opening it with practiced ease. The bookmark rested exactly where you had last left off.

“I am not joking,” you added, glancing up from your book, your tone gentle but insistent. “You may sit down, Jason.”

He obeyed your silent command, settling into the chair across from you with a quiet smile playing at his lips.

His gaze drifted to the books resting on the table, lingering thoughtfully over the worn spines and delicate pages.

You watched as Jason’s gaze lingered on a single book, its cover unlike the others.

The leather was richly embossed with delicate patterns, each line and curve carved by the steady hand of the author, a rare and precious detail.

You recognized it immediately— a romance, obvious by its faded title and the worn edges that spoke of many readings. The story told of a poor woman who, against all odds, became a princess overnight and a prince that had danced with her before she had gone away.

“Would you like to read the book?” you asked gently, watching him with quiet curiosity.

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, breaking his gaze from the worn cover. “Thank you, but I’m okay,” he replied, though the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

You sighed softly, not convinced.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind…”

You nudged the book a little closer to him, your fingers brushing the leather.

Jason hesitated for a moment, the tension in his body flickering with uncertainty.

Then, almost reluctantly, his finger traced along the edges of the cover, flipping to the back before slowly opening the front page, then the next for a brief second, skimming briefly with a furrow to his brow.

He could only sigh, closing the book before he placed it back onto the table.

“… your offer is kind, Princess.”

You blinked at him, watching him shift awkwardly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“There’s no one around us, you can read—”

You try to nudge, but his voice raises slightly.

“I can’t read, Princess.”

Ah.

You… didn’t think about that.

It was well known that education was a luxury, a rare gift not afforded to many.

One might assume that knights, sworn to protect and serve, would be literate, but most were only familiar with the essentials, reading the layout of battlefields on maps, knowing the names of kingdoms, understanding commands and orders, and the skill to take aim.

“Does Commander Bruce Wayne not teach?”

Jason shook his head, relaxing at your tone that didn’t seem to take any offense of his words or his slight hostility.

“No, it is not his duty to teach literacy. His duty is to train us in the art of the sword and the knowledge required to be a knight.”

He glanced back at the book with a faint exhale.

“Books are tools of duty, not objects of leisure or pleasure.”

The idea of reading simply for enjoyment was foreign to them, a privilege reserved for those born into worlds of quiet study and sheltered halls.

“Then, do you want me to teach you?”

You blurt that out unexpectedly, as if it was instinct to say.

Jason was surprised.

The idea of being taught to read by a Princess was never an offer and an unexpected privilege that kindled a subtle warmth deep within Jason, a sudden mix of feelings from a background that didn’t have the luxury to afford bread, is suddenly offered to have the one thing he wanted.

It was a small kindness, something far removed from the harsh demands of his duties and the rigid expectations placed upon him.

Jason had long feared that you might mock his origins or take amusement in the hardships he had endured.

He was no noble, born into wealth or privilege.

Rather, he came from a humble background, the son of a woman who struggled tirelessly to make ends meet, battling every hardship just to provide for him before her death.

In her final days, she struck a desperate bargain with Bruce Wayne, who had taken pity on the both of them when he made visits to the city, seeing the frail woman beg on her knees to have her son have warm bread on the table.

It was Bruce who had brought the young Jason Todd within the walls of the castle, offering shelter and a chance at a new life once his mother had passed away.

In that moment, beneath the quiet light of the sunlit room, he felt the faintest glimpse of possibility— something beyond obligation, beyond honor, a connection that promised something quietly profound and unexpectedly human.

“Your generosity is unexpected, and I am unsure if I am worthy of such a privilege. It feels… beyond my place,” Jason admitted quietly.

You smiled warmly, shaking your head gently.

“Nonsense. You greatly underestimate yourself. This is not about privilege or status.” You close your book that you haven’t even read a single word from where you left off, leaning slightly forward with your arms crossed, listening intently.

“This is simply two people sharing knowledge, nothing more.” Your eyes held steady, filled with quiet conviction. “There is no room here for doubt or hesitation— only the willingness to try. If you are willing to learn, then I will be here to teach.”

Jason tapped his finger thoughtfully against the table, eyes narrowing as he considered your offer.

“I cannot have you empty-handed, if it is two people sharing knowledge.” He slowly phrased, his voice low and deliberate.

“Is there anything you wish for me to teach in return for your lessons?”

You hummed thoughtfully of his offer, your mind wandering through the lessons you had been given as a princess— how to embroider delicate patterns by candlelight, to sing melodies that could soothe even the harshest of crowds, to dance with grace and poise, to carry yourself with impeccable manners, and to wield words as carefully as a blade in diplomacy.

But none of those lessons had ever prepared you for the weight of ruling, or the quiet strength needed to stand firm when the world demanded sacrifice.

Perhaps there was something more practical, something deeper, that only someone like Jason could teach you.

Lessons that lay far beyond courtly grace and polished smiles.

Lessons of resilience, courage, and survival, earned not through words alone but through action.

Your thoughts drifted back to the ceremony.

To the woman who had been bestowed a knight.

To the weight of the sword that had required both of your hands to steady it as you bestowed Jason with knighthood.

You remembered the unfamiliar balance of the weapon, the quiet thrill of holding something meant for command rather than ornament.

They were dangerous thoughts.

Luxuries of admiration and yearning, of defiance rather than obedience.

Perhaps it would not hurt.

You had only two years left.

You might as well make them worthwhile.

“Would you… teach me to wield a sword,” you asked softly, then added after a breath, “or a dagger?”

Jason stared at you blankly.

“Excuse me?”

You straighten slightly, resolve settling into your posture.

“Could you teach me how to wield—”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

He cuts in, disbelief plain in his voice.

He studied your face as though searching for the trace of a jest, for any sign that this was a passing fancy rather than a considered request.

There was none.

His expression shifted, concern threading through the surprise. “Princess,” he began more carefully now, “those are not lessons of sport or ceremony. A blade is meant to wound. To kill.” His jaw tightened. “Once you learn, there is no pretending otherwise.”

The room felt smaller, the sunlight heavier.

Still, he did not dismiss you.

He waited.

“I understand,” you said, lips thinning as you held his gaze. “But I saw how Cassandra Cain was able to become a knight, and I have thought…” Your voice trailed, your eyes lowering to your hands.

They bore no scars, no calluses, no marks of labor or battle. Delicate and unblemished, shaped only by silk, parchment, and needlework.

“I have thought it might be nice, for a change,” you continued quietly, “to learn what it is like to want something that was not simply handed to me. To learn something not placed before me by tutors chosen by my mother and His Majesty.”

You curled your fingers slightly, as though imagining weight where there was none.

“To earn it.”

Jason remained silent for a long moment, processing your words that held a quiet strength to them.

His gaze followed the subtle curl of your fingers, as though he could already picture the weight you imagined there, the unfamiliar heft of steel against skin untouched by hardship.

The disbelief in his expression slowly gave way to something more measured, more thoughtful.

“You speak as though effort has been kept from you,” he said at last, his voice low, not unkind. “Yet to want to earn something rather than inherit it is no small desire.”

He shifted in his seat, posture straightening, the discipline of a knight settling into place. “If I agree to this, it will not be gentle, your hands will blister, your muscles will ache, and you will fall more times than you will stand.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, steady and unwavering. “I will not allow this to be a game, nor a passing act of defiance.”

There was a pause, deliberate.

“But if this is truly what you want,” he continued more quietly, “not for novelty, not for rebellion, but for yourself, then I will teach you as I would any other.”

He leaned towards you with his hands folded against his chest..

“Tell me plainly, Princess. Is that what you choose?”

You did not hesitate.

“Yes,” the word leaves you steadier than you expected.

“That is what I choose.”

Jason studied you in silence, as though committing the answer to memory, searching for any flicker of doubt.

Finding none, he exhaled slowly.

“Then we begin carefully,” he replied. “It will remain between us for now. The court does not need to know, and neither does His Majesty.”

You grinned at that, unable to hide your satisfaction, and in return he allowed himself a small smile, brief but genuine.

“We will begin with a dagger,” he went on, his tone steady and assured. “Every two days. It is lighter, easier to hide, and far more truthful in its purpose. A sword thrives on space and display. A dagger requires intent.”

His gaze softened, just slightly, the severity of a knight tempered by quiet reassurance. “We will train your hands first. Your strength will come in time while control must come before courage.”

You nodded, agreeing to his terms. “Then I shall teach you how to read on the days between,” you replied with your own proclamations. “Before the days you taught me how to wield a dagger.”

Jason gave a small nod in return, accepting without any fuss. The plan formed easily between you, and a spark of excitement flickered through your veins.

And since you were already here, tucked away in this secluded corner of the castle, you find the easiest book you have on the table, aiming it slightly toward him and said softly—

“Read with me.”

Jason hesitated only briefly before leaning closer, his attention settling on the open page.

He shifted in his chair, one arm resting against the table as though bracing himself for something unfamiliar.

“All right,” he said quietly, a trace of anxiety threading through his tone.

You noticed it at once and softened your gaze. “I am only trying to understand where you are,” you said gently. “What words you recognize, what comes easily to you. I am not expecting perfection.”

Jason relaxed a tad-bit.

You began with the first line, reading it aloud at an unhurried pace, letting each word fall clearly into the space between you.

When you finished, you tapped the page lightly.

“Your turn.”

He followed the line with his finger, brow furrowing in concentration.

The first few words came slow and uneven, spoken carefully as though each one carried weight. He stumbled once and twice, then paused, inhaling through his nose before trying again.

You did not correct him.

You waited.

When he finished the sentence, imperfect but complete, you smiled. Not wide or indulgent, just enough to let him know he had done well.

“Again,” you said gently, turning the page.

And so you read together.

Sentence by sentence.

Page by page.

The sunlight shifted across the floor as time passed, the world beyond the room continuing on without either of you. For Jason, the words slowly stopped feeling like obstacles and began to take shape, meaning forming where there had once only been symbols.

You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and pulled it closer, dipping the quill before carefully writing out the alphabet, each letter deliberate and neat.

“I suppose I should have started with this,” you softly spoke, a small, almost sheepish smile touching your lips. “But I wanted to see what you already knew first.”

You turned the parchment so it faced him, the ink still dark and fresh.

“Most people are taught this first,” you continued gently. “But that does not mean it must be the beginning for everyone.”

Jason leaned in, studying the letters with focused attention.

His eyes traced the shapes, committing them to memory as though they were unfamiliar weapons.

He nodded once, slow and thoughtful.

“I know a few of these,” he admitted. “Enough to recognize they form words, and stuff.”

“That is more than you think,” you replied easily.

You slid the quill toward him.

“Try.”

He hesitated, then took it, fingers stiff and uncertain around the shaft of the quill. His first attempt was careful, awkward, the letter uneven but legible.

He frowned at the result, dissatisfaction plain on his face.

“I don’t see the point in this.”

You chuckled quietly, shaking your head. “It matters if you wish to read,” you gently nudged with encouragement. “You must recognize the letters, sound them out, and write them yourself to truly understand. There is no need to rush, and certainly no need to make your handwriting beautiful.”

He slowly nodded his head, listening as he tried again.

The two of you bent over the table together, quiet save for the soft scratch of ink against parchment.

Each letter came with effort, but also with a growing sense of accomplishment. When he finally set the quill down, his shoulders eased, just slightly.

He glanced at you then, something new in his expression.

“Thank you,” he whispers, low and sincere.

You met his gaze, surprised by the softness in his voice, and smiled in return.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” you replied just as quietly. “You did the hard part.”

Jason let out a slow breath, eyes drifting back to the parchment as though seeing it differently now. The letters no longer looked like enemies to be conquered, but steps, small and steady, leading somewhere new.

“I never had the time for this,” he admitted. “Or patience, I suppose.”

“Then we will make time,” you said simply, closing the book beside you, attaching a bookmark. “Little by little. There is no hurry.”

That earned a faint smile from him.

In a secluded clearing deep within the forest, far from the watchful eyes of the court, your mother, and even your Creator, the lessons came to an end sooner than expected.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, warm against your skin, as the world felt momentarily untouched by titles, rules, or expectation.

You held the wooden dagger as Jason did, your long skirt brushing against your calves as you adjusted your stance. It fell just above your ankles, light and breathable, nothing like the heavy gowns of court, and for once your movements were not restricted by a bodice or corset.

You could breathe freely, bend, shift, and move without resistance, your body finally allowed to exist without constraint.

“Here, I’ll help.”

Jason stood close beside you, so near that the warmth of his presence wrapped around you like a quiet tide.

His hands reached out gently, fingers brushing lightly as he guided your wrist into the proper angle. The touch was subtle but overwhelming, each movement deliberate and careful.

You felt your heart quicken, a flutter of warmth rising to your cheeks.

Your breath hitched slightly as his steady gaze met yours, and for a moment, the world beyond this secluded clearing seemed to fade.

“Balance first,” he murmured, his voice low and calm. “The weapon follows your hand, not the other way around.”

You shifted your footing, mirroring his stance, though your fingers trembled ever so slightly around the dagger’s handle.

Jason’s fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary as he adjusted your grip once he noticed it was off, and you couldn’t help but swallow hard.

The steady rhythm of his breathing mixed with the faint rustle of leaves overhead, filling the quiet space between you.

“Focus on your center,” he advises, his voice steady but gentle, as if grounding you. “Feel the weight of the dagger, let it become part of your arm.”

You nodded, trying to steady the rapid beat of your heart, but every time his gaze met yours, a wave of heat rose to your cheeks. It was a strange feeling— both unsettling and strangely comforting. You realized just how much his presence had already begun to affect you.

Jason stepped back slightly, giving you space but never breaking eye contact. “You’re doing well,” he compliments quietly.

“One step at a time.”

You offered a small, grateful smile, cheeks still flushed, as you readied yourself to try again.

The wooden dagger felt heavier now, not just in your hand, but with the weight of new possibilities resting on your shoulders.

“Wow! That felt a lot different than before,” you exclaimed, your fingers brushing over the dagger’s handle as you tested the new stance Jason had carefully helped you adjust.

He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and easy. “It’s all in the details,” he said softly. “Small changes make the difference between fumbling and control, Princess.”

His eyes met yours, a flicker of approval hidden beneath the calm exterior.

For a while, Jason patiently guided you through the basics, demonstrating a few maneuvers and watching closely as you moved under his careful instruction.

His corrections were gentle and precise, often the same small adjustments repeated— your stance, the angle of your wrist, the placement of your feet.

You weren’t slow to learn.

You knew exactly what you had done wrong and how to fix it.

Yet, despite your awareness, you found yourself making those mistakes to feel when his hands lingered a little longer on yours or slipped briefly to your waist.

His quiet praise, a soft “you’re doing great,” whispered close enough to catch your breath, sent a wave of warmth down your neck, behind your ears, and a wave of butterflies in your stomach.

You caught yourself thinking, half-jokingly, that you might just get a heat stroke from the warmth that spread through you— an unexpected side effect of lessons far more distracting than the dagger itself.

Then, all of a sudden, the air between you shifted after a couple of hours of learning. It became less about the lessons, less about titles of your honor, and it became just you two.

You both laid against the tree, soaking in the warmth and the wind that would bypass.

Jason’s gaze softened, and his voice dropped just enough to feel like a shared confidence rather than a command.

“You know,” he began hesitantly, “it’s easier to teach when the person wants to learn… not just because they have to.”

You smiled, “I want to learn,” you admitted quietly. “More than just what’s expected of me.”

He nodded slowly, as if understanding something deeper.

You spoke without thinking, your voice barely above a whisper as you watched Jason absently fiddle with the blades of grass slipping through his fingers.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do when I’m engaged to the Lord of the North,” you confessed softly, the weight of the words settling heavily between you.

Jason’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, the usual steadiness replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. “You won’t have to face it alone,” he comforts quietly, though there was an edge of uncertainty beneath his calm.

You looked away, tracing patterns in the dirt beneath your feet. “I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not just of him, but of everything— losing myself, my home, and any freedom I thought I had.”

Jason’s hand hovered near yours, hesitant but steady, a quiet offering of comfort that carried more weight than words.

“It’s possible His Majesty may change his mind,” he repeats the words your mother has told you, though the doubt in his voice betrayed the hope that you knew.

You gave a small shrug, sighing heavily.

“I still have two years,” you murmured. “There’s freedom in that time, but it feels more like an impending doom, counting down to a fate I can’t escape.”

For a moment, silence wrapped around you both, filled only by the soft rustle of leaves and the steady beating of two uncertain hearts.

Then Jason’s voice broke the quiet, gentle but curious.

“Then, what does your ideal freedom look like? What would it feel like to truly be free?”

You hesitated, considering the question as your eyes drifted to the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches above. “It would mean… having a choice,” you slowly began. “To live without fear of being traded like a token, to follow my own path, to wake each day knowing I belong to myself and no one else.”

Jason nodded, his gaze steady and understanding.

“A hard thing to want when the world expects so much else.”

“But worth fighting for,” you said quietly, a flicker of determination lighting your eyes. “I want to know what freedom feels like right now— to be bathed in warm sunlight, to sit by the water’s edge with a book in hand, feeling the soft breeze on my skin.”

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips as a vivid image formed in your mind.

“And to have you feed me fresh fruits, one by one, as I laugh at how clumsy you might be with something so simple.”

Jason’s eyes brightened with amusement, the usual seriousness in his expression softening into a genuine, rare smile. “I suppose I would have to be a very dedicated servant,” he jokes, his voice low and warm, carrying a teasing kindness.

In that moment, surrounded by the gentle rustle of leaves and the quiet flow of time, you spoke softly once more of your wishes of a future you couldn’t grasp, “I want to live in a cottage with fields of flowers all around. I don’t want anything grand or filled with riches— just simple, peaceful days where I can breathe and be myself.”

Jason slowly nodded, absorbing your words with quiet thoughtfulness.

After a pause, you met his gaze and asked a question.

“What about you, Jason? What is it that you want?”

Jason hesitated, his eyes darkening with memories he rarely voiced.

“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly.

“For most of my life, I have been fighting just to survive— each day a struggle to keep going, to stay alive in a world that didn’t give me much of a choice.” He glanced away for a moment, jaw tightening as if wrestling with the weight of his past.

When his gaze found you again, it was softer, almost vulnerable.

“Perhaps what I want most now is simply peace.”

The words settled between you, quiet and unassuming, yet they struck something deep within your chest.

You did not realize it then, did not name the way your breath caught or how your heart stumbled over itself, as though it had recognized something before your mind could.

You only knew that you looked at him differently after that, as if the world had shifted ever so slightly on its axis.

Time, relentless and careless, moved on.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

Lessons became routines, and routines became moments you found yourself waiting for with excitement with each passing day. You would read together in sunlit rooms while your Butler Alfred would make a surprise visit of tea, fruit, biscuits, and such with a kind smile, you would train in hidden clearings, shared silences that felt fuller than conversation.

And somewhere along the way, without ceremony or permission, you realized you had fallen for him.

Just as, in ways just as quiet and just as inevitable, Jason had fallen for you.

“‘It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.’”

The room fell quiet once he finished, finishing the paragraph without a stutter.

He stared at the page for a moment longer than necessary, as if the ink itself might change if he looked hard enough. Then he exhaled softly, something unguarded passing across his expression.

“After six months since your first lesson,” he quietly whispers, almost in disbelief, “I went from learning the alphabet, to sounding out vowels, to reading small books.” His thumb brushed the edge of the page, grounding himself. “And now I can read a paragraph from a classic without stuttering.”

Your grin came easily, bright and unguarded, even as your heart betrayed you.

He had chosen that passage without stumbling, you didn’t know whether it was on purpose, or accidental, but without hesitation he read it, and the simple fact of it felt far heavier than it should have.

You said nothing, but something in your chest tightened all the same.

The words he had read rang painfully true, settling into you like both a quiet curse and an unspoken promise.

It was not possible to love and part.

You could pretend otherwise. You could tell yourself that duty would dull the edge of it, that time would soften what it carved into you, that distance might make it manageable. You could try to reshape it into something safer, bury it beneath obedience, ritual, and silence, until it resembled nothing more than fond regard.

But love did not leave.

It did not bend to crowns or borders or the slow turning of years. It lingered in stolen glances held a heartbeat too long, in the memory of his hands guiding yours with patient care, in the way his voice softened whenever he spoke of peace, as though it were something delicate and rare.

You understood it now with a clarity that ached.

The poets were right. Love was not fleeting, nor fragile.

It was enduring, stubborn, and eternal.

And once it took hold, it stayed.

“I’m so glad,” you laughed softly, warmth lacing your voice, “my lessons paid off.”

You had not realized just how close the two of you were until then, seated near enough that your shoulders brushed with every small movement.

The contact felt unremarkable and yet impossible to ignore.

Jason’s lips curved into a faint smirk, his gaze lifting to meet yours for a fleeting moment before drifting downward.

His eyes lingered on your hands.

The skin there bore faint evidence of your training.

Blisters that had once burned and split had long since healed, leaving behind only slight traces, reminders of effort rather than pain.

He remembered tending to them, the careful way he had applied ointment, his touch steady and unhurried, as if he were handling something precious rather than merely wounded skin.

“They did,” he said quietly, approval woven into his tone. “You’ve grown steadier with the dagger. Are you certain you do not wish to learn the sword as well?”

You shook your head without hesitation. The answer felt settled, known.

“I will be all right,” you replied softly. “The dagger feels right in my hand. I can wield a sword if I must, but I think I am content without it.”

Before you could second-guess the motion, you leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder.

The cool steel of his pauldron brushed your chin, grounding and solid, so unlike the fragile silks you were accustomed to.

Jason stilled at once, breath catching almost imperceptibly, yet he did not pull away.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The closeness felt natural, dangerous, and comforting all at once, a quiet defiance against everything waiting beyond these walls.

“Did Advisor Gordon’s daughter, Barbara, lend you more books?” Jason asked, his tone curious. “I have never seen this one among your stacks.”

His thumb remained tucked between the pages as a careful marker while he studied the cover. The maroon leather was plain but well worn, the title A Room With a View carved neatly into the surface, the author’s name set modestly at the corner.

You nodded lightly. “She did. She said I would enjoy it.”

Jason hummed softly in response, eyes lingering on the book a moment longer before lifting back to you on his shoulder, a quiet appreciation in his gaze.

“You still have to work on your handwriting,” you teased, a grin spreading across your face.

Jason let out an exaggerated groan, tilting his head back in mild annoyance. “I fight sweaty men with swords and train every day,” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Yet ink and vellum are what defeats me.”

Despite his protest, there was no real irritation in him.

There was only the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, betraying how far he had come and how little he minded your teasing.

“You’ve come a long way,” you leaned a tad-bit closer into his shoulder, closing your eyes. “It does not look like careless chicken scratches, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Jason let out a low chuckle.

“Ah, so it did look like chicken scratches before, then.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing in playful reproach as you gave his arm a light slap.

“I absolutely did not say that.”

He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“You implied it, Princess.”

“I did not imply that, Jason.”

“Denial isn’t the answer, Your Royal Highness.”

The audacity a man could conjure.

Jason only grinned wider at your silence, unfazed and utterly charming in his boldness.

“Do not test me, Jason Peter Todd. I will have you know I hold the power to forbid your attendance at tomorrow’s Winter Ball if you continue this debate.”

He met your gaze with a sly smile, unbothered and teasing from the usage of his full-name.

“Is that so, Princess? Then I suppose I must find a way to truly earn my place there.”

You leveled him a pointed look, though the faintest smile betrays your stern gaze.

“Yes, you must find and know your place,” you declared, folding your arms with a tilt of your chin in a mock display of haughty arrogance. Jason couldn’t help but exhale a low chuckle at your playful act.

He leaned in slightly, one hand resting firmly on the edge of the table while the other settled gently on the back of your chair, closing the distance between you.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, sparkling with a mischievous challenge before it met your eyes.

“And tell me, Princess, would a single dance be enough to earn forgiveness and favor from your ever-devoted knight?” He murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending an unexpected flutter through your chest.

You were suspended in that fragile moment, caught between the irresistible pull of his lips and the depths of those half-lidded eyes, which held a fierce tenderness that both unsettled and captivated you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, narrowing down to the warmth of his presence and the flicker of temptation in his eyes.

The world around you faded away until nothing remained but the magnetic tension that hummed in the space between your breaths, an unspoken question hanging in the air, daring you to close the distance.

For a moment, time seemed to hesitate, holding its breath alongside you.

Then, just as his lips brushed the edge of yours, a distant sound shattered the spell— a sharp knock echoing through the quiet room.

“Sir Jason, Second-in-Command: Richard Grayson, has requested your presence!”

Jason pulled back slightly with an annoyed sigh, mumbling under his breath of a curse onto the Second-in-Command, the intensity of the moment breaking like glass.

His shoulders were so depleted that it looked comical.

His gaze locks onto yours for a brief second, running a hand through his dark hair as an unspoken apology is told in his hues before his usual composure settles back into place.

“Forgive me, Princess.” He grumbled, “duty calls.”

You blinked, your cheeks still feeling rather flushed as you watched him rise from his seat, the playful challenge in his eyes softened by the interruption.

Unfortunately, you don’t see Jason the entire day.

The day stretched long and quiet without Jason’s presence.

It was expected— tomorrow was the Winter Ball, and he was undoubtedly occupied with preparations, assigned to tasks that demanded his unwavering attention.

Still, the absence left an unfamiliar emptiness, a silent reminder of how much you had come to rely on his steady figure.

It wasn’t as if you had time to dwell on it. Moments after Jason’s departure, one of your advisors arrived, bustling in with updates and reminders. The days ahead were filled with preparations— your dresses to be fitted, dances to be rehearsed, and alongside your mother, the ever-important task of reviewing the guest list for the Winter Ball, this year held in the East Kingdom.

The palace buzzed with activity, but beneath the flurry, your thoughts drifted back to Jason, wondering when you might see him again.

You longed for that single dance with him amidst the grandeur, a fleeting moment stolen from the swirling opulence.

Yet before you could linger on the hope, the day slipped quietly away, giving way to the grand night.

The ballroom blossomed with shimmering chandeliers, whispered conversations, and the elegant steps of the kingdom’s highest society, each movement weaving into the tapestry of the Winter Ball’s dazzling spectacle.

You wore a royal blue ballgown that seemed to capture the very essence of winter itself.

The fabric shimmered like frost-kissed ice beneath the ballroom’s glowing chandeliers, its rich hue echoing the deep, clear sky of a cold winter’s night. Delicate embroidery traced along the hem and bodice, resembling swirling snowflakes and icy tendrils, perfectly blending with the sparkling decorations that adorned the grand hall. The air was crisp with anticipation, and you felt as though you were part of the season’s very soul.

You scanned the glittering crowd, your heart lifting with hope as you searched for Jason’s familiar figure.

You longed to catch his steady gaze and gladly accept the hand he would offer for a dance.

Before you could find him, a sharp clearing of the throat cut through the music and chatter, commanding attention with its unmistakable authority.

It was not Jason’s usual casual sound that is soft and hesitant.

Your eyes snapped toward the source, curiosity and a flicker of unease tightening in your chest.

The Lord of the North stood before you, strands of gray weaving through his dark hair, his face etched with wrinkles that spoke of years spent maneuvering through power. His eyes gleamed with a calculating sharpness, and a sleazy smile curled on his lips as he bowed with practiced charm.

“Your Royal Highness, it is very much a pleasure to finally meet the future consort of the North Kingdom,” he greets smoothly, his voice polite but carrying an unmistakable edge beneath the surface.

“Oh, um, it’s a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” you replied with a graceful bow, though a flicker of nervousness betrayed your calm facade.

This was your first encounter with the Lord of the North, and you already knew it would not be your last.

“Do you care for a dance?”

He extended his hand with a knowing smile, one that left no room for refusal. The customs of the court made it clear that rejecting a dance with the future consort of the North Kingdom would be seen as a serious slight. It was not just a matter of personal respect but of honoring the alliance their marriage symbolized.

Your fingers hesitated for a fleeting moment before slipping reluctantly into his, the heavy burden of duty settling firmly upon your shoulders.

“I could care for a dance.”

As the orchestra swelled, the music wrapped around you both, binding your movements in a measured rhythm. His other hand slid confidently to your waist while your own rested lightly on his shoulder.

The contact felt unfamiliar and stiff, a rigid reminder of the obligations you bore.

Still, you forced yourself to move gracefully, pushing past the discomfort to fulfill the role expected of you.

He chuckled low, the sound tinged with a mix of amusement and something sharper. “Your father, His Majesty— he is quite the man, isn’t he? I must say, I find it rather entertaining how he offered you as a bargaining chip to keep his lands out of my hands.” His eyes gleamed with a cold amusement, the weight behind his words hanging heavy in the air.

You stiffened slightly, the cruel truth in his words striking a nerve.

Your voice remained steady, though laced with quiet defiance.

“Perhaps, but I am not a prize to be traded or a pawn to be moved. I am more than a land or a contract.”

You met his gaze, unwavering despite the tension that tightened in your chest.

“Do not mistake my presence here as acceptance of your terms.”

His laugh was low and amused, carrying a hint of challenge as he pulled you closer, spinning you effortlessly. The deep blue of your gown fluttered gracefully across the polished marble floor, catching the light with every turn.

Your feet moved with surprising ease, matching the unpredictable rhythm of his steps, though a flicker of tension remained beneath the dance’s surface.

He pressed closer, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost conspiratorial tone.

“Yet, here you are— tied by the contract, yes, but only because it suited my terms. You chose to accept it, did you not? All for the sake of protecting your people. How noble of you, to sacrifice so willingly, just like your father.”

You bit down your tongue, exhaling deeply.

Your eyes locked with his unwaveringly, a fire simmering beneath your composed exterior. Your voice held a steady strength, laced with the anger that had quietly built since that very first day six months ago.

“I will not be a pawn in your game, no matter how skillfully you weave your schemes.” Venom laced in your tone and his grin that only widened. “Your aim is clear— not just to claim land, but to unseat His Majesty from his throne. I may not possess the education of men like you, but make no mistake, I am His Majesty’s daughter, the twelfth daughter of the throne and I am neither blind nor deaf to your intentions.”

You held his gaze, unwavering and fierce, each word a deliberate challenge.

“You and His Majesty both know I am no bird to have my wings clipped. Though, I stand for the people of our kingdom, I am no dove to be tamed, caged, or claimed.”

Your voice was steady, carrying the weight of a spirit that refused to be broken or subdued.

His voice dripped with a dark amusement, every word carefully laced with poison that you’re forced to intake as he spins you around under the chandelier.

“What a bold claim— to dream of unseating His Majesty, to imagine overthrowing the very land that raised you, and to call yourself a dove untamed, so free and defiant. Tell me, Princess,” he says in a mocking tone. “Are these the fantasies that dance through your mind when you read novels? Or are they merely the desperate daydreams of someone clinging to a throne that will never be hers?”

Then, as the music faded to silence, he eased his movements to a stop, his gaze locking onto yours with sharpened intent.

He smiled— a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent a chill through you.

“Entertain me,” he demands, “who has been whispering these dangerous ideas into your ear? Who dares to fill your head with such rebellious thoughts?”

A firm hand gently clasped your shoulder, steady yet urgent.

You turned to see a man whose eyes held a warm, practiced enthusiasm, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed the seriousness beneath.

“Your Royal Highness,” he declares softly but with purpose, “I’ve been searching for you everywhere throughout the Winter Ball— you’ve been summoned.” His gaze flicked quickly toward the imposing figure of the Lord of the North standing nearby, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

With a measured, respectful bow, the man addressed the other of higher status, “Lord of the North, it is an honor.”

Then, the Northern Lord’s eyes landed on the knight, his voice dropping to a low, respectful grunt as he added, “Second-in-Command, Richard Grayson. A surprise, your achievements speak for themselves— impressive beyond measure.”

“Why, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”

The slight nod that accompanied his words carried weight and sincerity, a rare and unspoken approval that hung heavily in the air.

Though the Lord’s words of Richard’s accomplishments carried a trace of annoyance rooted in the past and tad-bit of regret, the Lord’s chuckle was dark and laced with bitter irony.

“If only I had taken you in under the North’s decree,” he mused, the weight of old wounds evident in his tone.

Richard Grayson let out a low laugh, sharp and defiant. “Yeah, If only you hadn’t killed my mother and father, the entire village of my people. I would’ve possibly agreed.”

The exchange hung between them, heavy with history and unspoken pain, the tension thick beneath the polished surface of the ballroom.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us— I must take Her Royal Highness,” Richard offered a respectful hand to guide you, his frown deepening as he watched the Lord retreat with a bow, but not without a word.

“Until we meet again.”

Richard weaved smoothly through the crowd, his grip firm but gentle on your hand. He catches the faint frown that had settled on your lips, glancing at you with quiet worry.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low enough to be only for you.

“Oh,” you snap out of your thoughts from the interaction between them, “yeah, I’m fine, thank you for saving me back there, Commander.” He shook his head with a smile.

“It’s not a problem, Your Royal Highness,” you hummed at that, letting a brief second of silence overtake as Richard led you through the crowd without hesitation. After a moment, curiosity nudged at you.

“Actually, where exactly are we headed?”

He glanced back with a playful wink.

“Like I said, someone had summoned you.”

You followed him, the soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses fading into the background as your mind raced with questions, wondering where you’re being led to.

Richard guides you toward a more secluded part of the palace.

The grand chandeliers above cast a warm, golden glow, their light flickering off the polished marble floors.

As you approached a heavy oak door, Richard paused and looked over his shoulder with a subtle smile.

“Go ahead,” Richard gestures quietly to the door, positioning himself beside the entrance rather than opening it.

“I’ll be guarding this area.”

You raised a brow as your hand pressed against the heavy oak door, the wood cool and solid beneath your palm. It gave way with a low creak, and the moment it opened, the night rushed to greet you. Cool air swept over your skin, tracing along your shoulders and arms, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone, winter flowers, and distant pine.

It slipped beneath the fabric of your gown, a sharp contrast to the warmth and perfume of the ballroom you left behind, the sounds of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by the hush of wind through hedges and the distant trickle of a fountain. Lanterns hung along the terrace walls, their light soft and golden, casting long shadows across the stone beneath your feet.

The night was cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and frost.

For a moment, you thought you were alone.

Then you noticed a familiar figure standing near the balustrade, his back to you, shoulders squared as he stared out over the gardens as if they held answers he could not find inside the palace walls.

Jason.

The armor had been exchanged for formal attire, it was rare for a knight, especially Jason, to wear a suit that had a blue tie, matching your gown of the Winter Ball. It was dark and immaculate, but his posture was unmistakable.

The same steady presence you had come to recognize, now framed by moonlight instead of the candle glow of the armor that reflected your figure on it.

He turned at the sound of your heels clicking against stone.

And just like that, the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.

The blue of his tie drew your attention first, rich and deep, the color sharpening the intensity of his own blue eyes when they lifted to you.

They did not rush, nor did they linger crudely. Instead, his gaze moved with quiet reverence, taking you in as if committing the moment to memory.

The way the gown draped over your form, the way the fabric caught the light, how its color softened your complexion and made your presence feel unmistakably radiant. There was an unspoken appreciation in his expression, something thoughtful and restrained, as though he were struck by the careful balance you carried.

You looked poised yet young, graceful yet unguarded, a meeting point between the girl you had been and the woman you were becoming. And in the way his eyes returned to yours, steady and warm, you could tell he thought—

“You’re beautiful.”

It was a simple word, nothing ornate or rehearsed.

“…Thank you,” you find yourself replying after a pause with a smile that graces your lips. “You look rather handsome, Jason.”

It wasn’t like the elaborate verses or flowery declarations that poets might weave in grand gestures. No rehearsed lines, no lofty metaphors meant to dazzle a crowd or win favor of your heart.

It was a single, honest word spoken quietly between two people.

And Jason was nothing like that.

Your Jason isn’t a poet.

He’s your sworn knight, a man of few words but deep meaning, a presence that anchored your world through the steady rhythm of everyday moments.

You hadn’t fallen for the grandeur of romance or spectacle, but in the quiet spaces shared between lessons, conversations, and silences filled with understanding.

So when he said it, just once, just softly, beautiful, it struck harder than any sword could.

Your heart clenched with an intensity you had no language for. The word sank into you, warm and unguarded, melting something deep inside your chest.

His voice, steady and unpretentious, transformed a mere compliment into a declaration that echoed louder than any poetic stanza.

He extends his hand.

“Do you care for a dance, My Lady?”

The chill of the night wrapped around you, but the warmth that spread through your chest as your fingers slid into his was undeniable.

A soft laugh escaped you from the change of title, gentle and sincere, as you nodded. Your other hand found its place on his shoulder, steady and sure, ready to move with him beneath the stars.

Jason’s grip was firm but careful, guiding you with practiced ease as the music swelled softly from within the palace that could barely be heard from outside. The cool night air brushed against your skin, but with him so close, the cold seemed to fade away.

“I thought you were stationed,” you nudged your head to the side to emphasize the ballroom, controlling a bit of the dance when you found yourself moving more of the waltz. “I was trying to look for you.” You admit, watching him shake his head with a glance to the oak door.

“I was with Dick, or well, Richard,” Jason admitted as he stumbled for a moment, nearly missing a step.

He caught himself quickly with a furrow of his brow in concentration before it relaxes, guiding you smoothly back into the rhythm of the waltz before spinning you gently.

Your gown fanned out in soft waves and fluttered like a delicate breeze. “He was… teaching me how to dance,” Jason added, his voice steady now. “He’s someone I trust to give us a little privacy.”

You responded with a soft hum of approval, your hand sliding naturally to rest against his chest. Your fingers felt the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric, grounding you as your eyes locked with his.

His gaze lingered, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting back to your eyes— slow, intense, and familiar.

The memory of that secluded room flickered between you.

The worn wooden chairs tucked by the window, the stacks of well-loved books scattered about, and the quiet garden beyond where the sunlight spilled gently through the glass.

It was a world away from the glittering ballroom, yet the same quiet intimacy thrummed between you now.

Jason’s voice lowered to a soft murmur, a secret meant only for you. “The way you look at me,” he confessed, each word tender and heavy with longing, “it makes me want to step beyond the bounds of what a knight is meant to be. Tell me, is it so wrong that I want to kiss you?”

You didn’t hesitate— your head shook gently, and the hand that had been resting in his found its way around the nape of his neck, fingers curling into the soft strands of his hair.

Your other hand joined, warm and sure, as both of his hands slid down to your waist, drawing you closer to him with an urgency that took your breath away as your head rested against his.

The music around you blurred into a distant hum, the grand ballroom fading into shadows.

Time stilled.

Your bodies moved together, no longer bound by the rhythm of the waltz but by the unspoken pull between two hearts.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile and full of hope.

Jason’s eyes met yours, breaking open like dawn spilling light across a shadowed world. His gaze held something deeper than want, something urgent and undeniable.

“Yes,” he breathed, voice thick with something raw and true. “Every day since the moment I have fallen for you, I have needed to kiss you the way the earth needs rain. Without it, I wither. You are the water that sustains me, the breath that steadies my heart.”

Without thinking, you closed the small space between you.

And in that moment, the weight of the princess’s crown and the knight’s oath slipped away.

Your hands moved to cradle his face gently as your lips met his.

The kiss was tender at first, a soft merging of two souls that had longed for this moment from lingering touches, shoulders brushing, eyes that would find each other, and the simple presence of one another in day-to-day lives.

It grew warmer, more certain, as if every moment spent apart had built to this quiet, perfect union.

When you slowly pulled away, barely breaking the contact, Jason’s eyes darkened with a raw, aching need.

His breath hitched as he reached up, gently cupping your cheek, his voice trembling with longing.

“Please.”

He whispered, his tone desperate yet tender.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered against your lips, his voice raw and desperate. “I’ve waited so long for this— for you.”

You could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his entire being seemed to lean into that single word.

Your heart tightened at the sight of his vulnerability— the knight who had always stood strong now unguarded before you, breaking down from the simple pull.

Without hesitation, you closed the small space between you once more, your lips meeting him in a kiss that was softer this time, but no less full of promise and an addiction that you couldn't find yourself to stop.

His other hand tangled itself in the fabric of your dress, fingers gripping tightly as if afraid you might drift away.

And in that breath, your heart ached with a quiet, unbearable longing.

You wished with every part of yourself that Jason was the one you were meant to wed.

You wished the white gown you would wear on your wedding day is for the man in front of you.

You wished you weren’t a princess with a duty to protect your own kingdom.

You wished you had been a commoner girl that Jason happened to meet in town and fallen in love without any expectations of a princess and a knight.

But the weight of the world pressed down on you both, and the impossible truth lingered between your trembling hearts like a fragile, bittersweet shadow.

And, so you wished the world had not been so cruel to ignite a fire between your hearts, a flame that burned too brightly and too fiercely, only to fade quietly in the shadows of what could never be.

A love born in stolen moments and silent rebellion, destined to remain unclaimed, for he was no longer a protector of the inherited crown.

a/n: did I cook or DID I COOK? 👩‍🍳 I’m not dead, yall. LMFAOO I actually cried when I made the ending of this, because the pure imagery in my head and the plans I have for part 2. Sigh. I already said it, but there will be a HAPPY ENDING. though there’s a bit of angst, lol. I’m actually really proud of this, I had started this like…. Last month? But never got the motivation until now, so I hope it was up to your satisfaction!!! Please like, comment, and reblog!!! I would appreciate to hear everyone’s thoughts on this piece of work. And lmk if yall want to be tagged for part 2!!

@t1mbits and thanks to MY GOAT!!! for listening to my ideas for this fic and giving me the motivation to FINISH THIS IDEA!! I hope this genuinely reached your expectation 🫶

🏷️ : @rorel1a @filmcamerasanddice and thank you guys for commenting on this idea and wanting this out!! I appreciate you guys!!

[lunarg4ze]

best knight x princess fic i've read holy shit