Summary: One year after you crashed your Christmas work party with the Red Hood, you seem to be caught up with yet another evil CEO: Tim Drake. You and Hood are on the case. But why does it feel like you're missing something?
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 11.6k
Warnings/tags: christmas/holiday special! anxious reader (but she's in therapy! huzzah!), sweet jason who acts like a crow with a crush, more silly vigilante antics, a healthy suspicion of tim drake, romance, fluff, galas.
happy new year!! first fic of 2026 :)
the divider
“Do you know how to make salt dough?”
You look up from your computer. Jessie is in front of your desk, somehow in a chair even though you have no spares. She has Pinterest pulled up on her phone.
“Huh?” is all you can say.
She’s scrolling through what looks like Christmas crafts. “My nephew Ben is three and I want to do crafts with him but I have to make sure they’re toddler-safe. He puts everything in his mouth.”
“Why don’t you make cookies?” You type some code and test it. Fail. You curse and delete the section, then retype.
“That’s what I said! But apparently her MIL is a total bitch.” She says MIL like ‘mill.’ “She’s making gingerbread with him, so if I also make cookies with Ben, she will somehow know and give my sister shit for it. How crazy is that?”
You nod, eyes glued to the screen. “Pretty crazy.”
Jessie sighs. “I told her to marry an orphan. In-laws are almost never worth it. Now look where we are.”
Jessie Bromlin is a marketing analyst who works on your floor. She’s the second friend you made at Wayne Enterprises since you started working here almost a year ago. She’s pleasant, chatty, and has been here long enough to show you the ropes.
She also is almost never at her desk. You have no idea how she gets her own work done.
Fail! says your computer. You frown. “That should’ve worked.”
“What should’ve?” Jessie asks.
“Just some code. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“You should take a break. Let’s go to Penny’s. They’re doing special roast sandwiches for Christmas. Ooh! Are you going to the gala in two weeks?”
“There’s a gala?”
“Of course! It’s Bruce Wayne. All the WE employees get in free. It’s a lot of fun. Good food and music. And alcohol.”
You grimace. “I don’t really do Christmas work parties.”
“No, trust me, this one rocks. You’ll have fun. Oh my God! We need a Santa. I have to go find one. You wouldn’t happen to know a Santa, would you?”
You smile, glancing up from your screen for a second to look at Jessie. “No, sorry.”
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’ll catch up with you at Penny’s.”
“‘Kay. Peace.”
You try the code again. This time, there’s an error message you’ve never seen before and the monitor flickers. Weird. You google the error message, but there’s no results. You send it to the IT group chat.
You: hey, anyone know what this means?
[img_5.png]
Sasha: doesn’t look familiar
Toby: did you google?
Mikey: idk. run it again with a different input and see if you get the same msg
You ignore Toby, because Toby never has anything helpful to contribute, only the glaring obvious. You’re new to back-end work; at Emerson Corp, you mostly did front-end design stuff concerning the user interface. But this position at WE has given you a chance to practice more back-end work, and you work extra long and hard on projects as a result, trying to prove yourself. You do Mikey’s suggestion and run the test again with a different input. This time, the program automatically quits, the window closing. You smack your desk in frustration.
Maybe Jessie’s right. You need a break. So you turn off your screen and grab your wallet and coat, heading to the elevator. You pull out your phone.
Unknown Number
You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work
?: What’s up?
You hesitate. This is probably just your paranoia from last year’s situation with Emerson. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You scroll; the last message you sent is from five months ago, when there was a news report about a fire by the docks, caused by Black Mask.
[August 24th, 2025]
You: oh my god I just saw the news are you okay??
[August 25th, 2025]
?: Hey. I’m okay.
You start to type I think there’s something weird happening with the work computers when you see shoes in your peripheral vision. You freeze and barely avoid colliding with a security guard. He turns around and smiles. You smile back.
“Hi, Peter,” you say, pocketing your phone.
“Hey,” he says. “Y’okay? Did I swipe ya?”
You shake your head. “All good. I haven’t seen you in so long!”
Peter adjusts his shades, grimacing. You’ve never seen him without his nondescript, red baseball cap or his shades. They’re black. You can’t even see if his eyes are light or dark.
“Yeah, been on the late night shift more often than not,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”
Peter is tall, and big. You’ve only seen him a few times with his sleeves rolled up, but you can tell he’s muscular. Which makes sense, considering he’s a security guard, but you’ve never seen one who looks like they bench press cars on their lunch break. Peter was your first friend—first anything, really—at Wayne Enterprises, when you started in January. He’d carried your box of stuff to your new desk and had shown you where the restrooms and vending machines were, all without you asking. It’s like he’d sensed your anxiety. When he first approached you, you feared the worst, wondering if maybe you’d brought in a gun without knowing. But he’d merely introduced himself, and asked if he could help you get to the floor you needed to go.
Peter’s not always around, because the security assignment changes, according to him. But somehow you bump into each other when he’s on your floor.
“It’s okay.” You sound mopey to your ears. You know Peter will pick up on it.
“Rough day?”
You shrug. “Just some code I was fiddling with. It’s been giving me a hard time. Almost like it’s—”
You stop, catching yourself. You like Peter, but this isn’t a conversation for him. You don’t trust him like that.
“Like…?” he prompts.
“Nothing. Anyway, do you know about some Christmas gala? Jessie was telling me about it, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
Peter leans against the wall, sending a waft of his cologne in your direction. You can’t place where you’ve smelled it before, but it’s nice. Spicy and woody. He smells like a man, and if you weren’t such a nailbiter, you’d probably shoot your shot. As it is, you don’t want the reason you leave this job to be because you had a falling out with a security guard.
“Sure. Pretty spectacular, if you’re into that. The big boss and his kids attend. There’s food, drink, dancing. He doesn’t spare any expense.” Peter snorts. “Not when it comes to work, anyway.”
Your eyes widen. Peter has, for the most part, never had a bad thing to say about the company, or Bruce Wayne, who you’ve only seen once at work.
“Is that derision I hear?” you ask.
Peter smiles a little. “Maybe. I just hate parties. Bruce makes such a to-do out of ‘em.”
You nod. “I hear you. Jessie said it would be fun, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d rather stay home. Too much excitement for me.”
“Well, no one would fault y’for it, if you did. This isn’t that kinda company.”
You blink, surprised. “Oh. Good to know.”
He looks at his watch. “You should eat something. ‘S way past lunchtime.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than Jessie. I’m going, alright? She said there’s Christmas special roast sandwiches at Penny’s. Want me to bring you one?”
He smiles. “Nah, that’s okay. I ate. Thanks, though.”
“We should eat lunch together sometime,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening your messages. You start to type again. I think someone is hacking the… but you delete it. You have no idea if any hacking is going on. You can hear his voice in your head. Gotta ease those nerves.
You look up, realizing how rude you’re being. “Sorry. Did you say something?”
“I said sure,” Peter says. “Y’seem glued to your phone today. Got a hot date?”
You make a face. “Not at all. Sorry. Work is distracting me. I’ll catch up with you later?”
He nods. “Count on it.”
You continue your trek to Penny’s, stepping onto the elevator. Employees get a monthly lunch allowance, which can be used at the company cafeteria or at neighboring restaurants. You’ve never worked for a company that cares so much for its workers. Wayne Enterprises provides full healthcare coverage, including mental health services that you don’t have to pay a dime for. Emerson barely provided healthcare and dental. He couldn’t have cared less about his employees.
Why he’s in jail, you think, putting your coat on and bracing yourself against the cold air as you sweep through the revolving doors and onto the pavement. Gray slushy snow is clustered around the curb, and you sidestep it neatly as you cross the street to Penny’s, a local cafe. You open the door, the bell overhead ringing. Penny’s has been around for decades, according to the locals. It mostly attracts nearby workers at lunchtime, and plenty of WE employees can be found here throughout the day. You wait on line, scanning the cafe for Jessie. She’s sitting with some people from her department. You still aren’t keen on sitting with people you don’t know at work. It’s part of every job, but at Emerson Corp, you would alternate between eating at your desk or on a bench across the street when it was warm.
The little sign that says Christmas Sandwich Special has an empty row behind it. The woman in front of you asks about the sandwiches.
“Sorry, no more today,” the chef says. “We’ll have more tomorrow. We didn’t know there’d be such a high demand.”
So you order a tuna fish sandwich instead and a cinnamon roll. Sweet treats are an important part of your work day. You wonder if Peter likes cinnamon rolls. You purchase another, on impulse, to bring him.
“Hey!” Jessie waves at you, calling your name. “Come sit with us!”
Well. Here you go.
You sit next to Jessie, who scoots over to make room for you. She goes around the table and introduces you to the five other people. Three work in Marketing, one works in Finance, and one works in PR for the company, Marisol. You say hi and keep your coat on due to how often the door opens and heat rushes out.
“Marisol was just telling us about the conference she covered with Tim Drake last week,” Jessie says.
You raise your eyebrows. “Wow. Tim Drake. How’s he?”
“Not bad, actually,” Marisol says. “And I’ve worked with a lot of CEOs. You’d think he’d be unbearable because he grew up with Jack Drake and then immediately was invited to the Wayne fortune, but he’s actually decent. He never misses a Xanax dose, which helps.”
Dennis, one of the Marketing people, nods soberly. “Sometimes my anti-depressants are the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Marisol soft-launched Tim and his boyfriend last year,” Jessie says proudly. “Best press I’ve ever seen.”
“We were worried about that one,” Marisol admits. “Not everyone’s as forward thinking, even in Gotham. But, um…” She leans in, and gestures for you all to do the same. “Okay, you obviously can’t tell anyone. It’ll probably come out soon, but I don’t want it to come from here. I… I think Tim might be cheating.”
Jessie, a great lover of theatrics, gasps. “No!”
“I’m not surprised,” says Bianca, the finance worker. “He’s lived with Bruce Wayne since he was fifteen. What do you suppose a boy learns being around him all the time? No morals, that’s for sure. I’m sure all of his kids are screwed up in some way or another.”
Marisol rolls her eyes. “Bruce Wayne would have to be in a relationship longer than a day to get a chance to cheat.”
“I still think all his flings are a cover for his long-term relationship with Batman,” says Dennis.
“No one wants to hear your crackpot theories, Denny,” Bianca says. “Anyone with eyes can see that Batman’s with Catwoman.”
“My throuple theory! Batman, the cold, stern lover. Bruce, the—”
Bianca holds up a hand. “Please, spare me.”
“Anyway,” Marisol says, and delicately sips her ginger ale. “Back to my gossip. Tim Drake disappeared from his hotel like five times. He wouldn’t tell anyone where he went. In my experience, that’s classic affair behavior. And he’s been doing this for about three months, you know, dipping from meetings, working later, having long lunches and not putting them on the company credit card so no one can see what restaurant he was at. It’s definitely suspicious.”
“I hope he’s not cheating,” Jessie says. “They’re such a cute couple. And when they settle down and have kids? Adorable! Although, I don’t agree with nepotism. I support class consciousness.”
“If you caught him, are you sworn to secrecy?” you ask.
Marisol shrugs. “Probably. I mean, he wouldn’t want an Instagram post about it, that’s for sure. My own morals aside, this is the job, you know? It sucks but it is what it is.”
You shiver, biting your sandwich. You wouldn’t want to be on either side of that. Secrets stress you out. Doubly so if you’re keeping them for someone else.
A glob of tuna suddenly plops onto your coat collar. Another lands on a button. A third on a pocket.
“Shit,” you say, putting the sandwich down with too much force. Jessie instantly passes you a wad of napkins, and you try to dab the mess up as best as you can. But you can already tell your coat will smell like tuna, onions, and pickles for the rest of the day.
“Poorly constructed sandwich if you ask me,” Marisol says.
“Well, at least tomorrow’s laundry day.” You shrug off your coat. You abandon your sandwich for the cinnamon roll. Jessie pats your shoulder consolingly.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure no one on the train will notice the smell. It already smells so bad!”
You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”
****
There’s no way the train will mask the smell.
You stare at your coat, debating. It was a mistake to keep it under your desk; you’re pretty sure the heat from the computer has made the smell a hundred times worse. A janitor was kind enough to give you a recycling bag for it so no one rioted over the smell. But still. You’re hesitant to take it out of the bag now. You don’t know if you can handle dirty looks for a forty-minute train ride. And you don’t want your other clothes to smell.
What’s worse? Peter left early, so you can’t give him his cinnamon roll.
You go outside. It’s cold, especially now that it gets dark at practically noon. But if you walk fast, it’ll be fine, right? You pull your scarf tighter around your neck.
“What are you wearing?”
You spin around, clutching your chest. Red Hood is leaning against a streetlamp, arms crossed. Half of him is shrouded in shadows, which would freak you the fuck out if you weren’t more irritated than anything.
“Don’t do that!” you say. “Jesus Christ.”
“What did I say about that Lexapro, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “You said Xanax. And I’m in therapy, okay? She wants me to try this before committing to meds. Have a little faith in me.”
“Oh, I’ve always had faith in ya. Except now, ‘cause you’re not wearing a coat when it’s fuckin’ thirty-three degrees out.”
“I spilled tuna on it. Tuna, onions, pickles… the tuna essence has seeped in.”
“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”
“Nag,” you mumble.
“What was that?”
You look up wearily. “Nothing. I didn't know you were coming. I never texted you back.”
Hood takes off his brown bomber jacket and takes your coat bag and purse. He puts his jacket on you, holding it steady while you dazedly stick your arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to your chin. What the fuck.
“Tell me now,” he says.
“Hood, you’re cold!”
“Talk fast.”
“Dude.”
“Oh, you don’t have anything to tell me? Alright, then I’ll just head out.”
“Wait!” You shimmy your hands through his ginormous sleeves. “Okay. I think something shady’s happening at work.”
Hood crosses his arms. You’d think that he’d look less intimidating with your yellow purse over his shoulder and a recycling bag with your coat in his opposite hand but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. His gray tac suit is skin-tight, outlining every curve of muscle and fat. His pecs look obscene.
Oh no. No, don’t look at that. Think of something else. Toby’s hyena laugh. Tuna juice smell. Santa Claus… Hood as Santa Cl—no! Nope.
Hood seems to take your silence as anxiety. “Okay, I know we’re gettin’ close to when the stuff happened with Emerson last year, but—”
“Come on,” you say exasperatedly. “Do you think I’d want to ruin such a great job?”
“No, but I think the mind’s a funny thing and you get nervy sometimes.”
“This isn’t that. Can I tell you my evidence?”
He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”
“Okay, so I’ve been working on this piece of code for, like, months, and it won’t let me finish this program. And I’ve worked on difficult code before, so that’s not the problem, but it’s like now there’s a firewall installed that’s preventing me from accessing stuff. And it only happens when I work on the security part of it, but no one else is experiencing this problem. Today, I tried again and it closed me out of the program! Just shut off! That’s not normal.”
Hood sighs. “Look—”
“Wait! Another thing is that when I returned to my computer after lunch and tried to work on the program again, I saw that Tim Drake had edited some of my code. The CEO, Hood! That’s totally weird. And…” You take a deep breath. “This woman from PR told me about how Tim keeps disappearing from meetings and stuff and how she thinks he’s cheating, but what if it’s something more nefarious? What if he’s messing with the company’s security system?”
“If Tim Drake was doing some shit like that, there’s no way Bruce wouldn’t know about it,” Hood says.
“How do you know? Bruce Wayne doesn’t really seem all there.” You point to your head.
Hood snorts. “Looks can be really deceiving, trust me. I checked him out. He’d know.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he says softly. “I think it’s fantastic you’re so alert about this stuff, but everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you work here if it was dirty.”
“You aren’t listening to me!” you say, balling your fists. “Hood, I really think there’s something happening. Why don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then why won’t you even poke around? You love to poke.” And shoot, but you hope he won’t go there.
“I’m not gonna break into Wayne’s company just ‘cause of some weird code. That’s not enough. And maybe Timbo really is cheating. That’s a moral failing but it’s not a crime.” He rubs the chin of his helmet. “‘Course, his boyfriend would kick his ass if he knew…”
You scowl. “It isn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“You sound like me.”
“Someone has to!” you say, throwing your hands up. “Apparently, Red Hood no longer operates on a reasonable amount of suspicion and paranoia.”
“Alright, alright. How ‘bout this: we’ll do a stakeout tomorrow night. I’ll set up cameras and everything. But if nothing’s out of the ordinary, you drop it. Capisce?”
“Yes,” you say, spirits lifting. “Yes, that's very good. Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. How’s work, besides that?”
“It’s good.” You smile, thinking of Peter. “Security’s nice.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You look up, remembering yourself. You and Hood do not have that kind of relationship. You’re not sure what relationship you have, but it’s not that.
“Yeah. A-anyway… do you like cinnamon rolls?”
If you could see Hood’s face, you imagine he’d be raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” you repeat, going to your purse, which is still over Hood’s shoulder. He obediently holds it while you take out the box from Penny’s. You hold it out to him.
“What’re you—”
“It was for my friend, Peter,” you say. “But he left early, I guess. He didn’t tell me he would, I don’t know why he wouldn’t but…” You shake your head. “Anyway. Do you want it?”
“You have it,” Hood says gently.
“I already had one. It was my reward for enduring tuna essence. Please take it, Hood, I want you to have it.”
So he takes it. You smile.
“They’re best warm. You have an oven, right?”
He snorts. “What, y’think I’m some miscreant who squats in abandoned warehouses?”
“No! No, I just… I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you cook. Most guys your age don’t.”
“I cook,” Hood says. “Quite a bit, actually. I make a mean lasagna.”
You grin. “Really?”
“Sure. Peer-reviewed. I’ll make ya one sometime.”
That flusters you, and you clear your throat, fidgeting to take your purse from Hood. He takes it off and puts it over your shoulder.
“I should go,” you say. “Um… oh! Your jacket—”
“‘S a long walk to the train,” he says, backing up, holding your coat. “Just keep it. You can give it to me when we meet for the stakeout.”
“Hood, I’m not gonna take your jacket,” you say, beginning to take it off.
“Seriously. ‘M fine. I got Pit water in me. Helps insulate.”
You try to hand it back, but Hood’s faster. He dodges you, darting away before you can throw his jacket at him.
“See ya tomorrow!” he says, and disappears around the corner. With your coat.
“You have my coat, man!”
Nothing. You huff, shoving your arms back through the sleeves. Vigilantes. There’s no reasoning with them.
…His jacket really is warm. You wonder what the lining is made of. It’s so soft.
****
“Where’d you get that jacket?”
Jessie is already at your desk when you walk in. You look up, frightened. Your heartbeat slows as you realize Jessie’s genuinely curious. She slides around your cubicle and touches your sleeve. The leather is taken care of. You don’t know much about clothing that’s not made of cotton or polyester blend, but from what you understand, real leather jackets require upkeep. It’s clear that Hood does that. It’s obviously worn—aside from the fact that it smells like man cologne, there are scratches and patches from God knows what. Probably bullets and knives. But it’s soft, warm. Well-loved.
“I think this is real leather!” Jessie says, impressed. “What’s it lined with? Wow. I didn’t know you wore that. Pri-cey.”
“I don’t,” you say quickly. “It’s from my—” What? It belongs to a crime lord you’re sort of friends with? You grimace. “Uh, I found it thrifting.”
“Oh, I love thrifting!” Jessie gushes. “Do you think Ben would like thrifting?”
You unravel your scarf. “I don’t think three-year-olds care much about clothes. Like, at all.”
“True. Ugh! I have no ideas on what to do with him. They’re coming this weekend.” She rubs her temples. “And her husband has, like, very high expectations. High expectations? Fuck him! Did he push Ben out of his fucking va—”
“Jessie,” you say, widening your eyes. “Why don’t you take Ben to the community theater’s showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
She claps her hands, pointing at you. “You’re a genius. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”
You watch her sprint away, presumably to do anything but her work. You glance behind you, where Toby and another coworker is trying to see how much balled up paper they can land in the wastebasket. You roll your eyes.
Well. You can do your job.
You type your login and wait for it to load. You take off your—Hood’s—jacket. This is terrible. Where could he have possibly taken your coat?
You pull out your phone. You’ve considered changing his contact name, but it feels weird having Red Hood as a contact. My close, personal friend Red Hood. You don’t want to call him Todd, because that’s probably not his name. And anyway, it’s too normie for a guy who wears a helmet and shoots people on the daily.
Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most.
You: can i have my coat back today?
?: I would never hold your coat hostage. :)
You: could’ve fooled me. don’t be surprised if yours has tuna juice on it.
?: Ho-ho, ha-ha, comedy! Your coat isn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Be grateful.
You won’t win that argument, so you don’t try.
You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?
?: Tf is pineapple?
You: that’s you know who’s code name… aren’t u supposed to be a super experienced vigilante?
?: Pineapple is a terrible code word. You’re supposed to replace the whole action, like “I’m taking out the trash.”
You: okay man whatever. are we taking out the TRASH tonight?
?: Yes. 7pm. Parking garage across the street. I’ll call you.
You put your phone in your bag, exhaling. This isn’t even that good of a jacket. Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and smells good but… your coat has character! And not the ballistics kind. You’re pretty sure that the mended hole on Hood’s jacket sleeve isn’t because he snagged it on a fence.
You open the program you’ve been working on for months. The screen freezes, the code glitching. The cursor moves on its own, flicking around the screen. Your eyes bug out of your head. You perform an emergency override, something you were taught when you first started working for Emerson. When you work with sensitive information, being able to pull the plug is crucial.
You force-quit the program. The screen goes dark.
Well. Shit.
****
“Have a good weekend!” Jessie calls after you. You flinch, not realizing anyone was behind you.
You tuck your scarf tighter, smiling. “You too.”
“I got the tickets for Charlie Brown,” she says happily. “I dare that prickly mother-in-law to top that!”
“You’ll be his favorite aunt for sure.”
Jessie reaches to give you a half-hug. “Thanks. Have you given any more thought to the gala? You can bring a plus-one for free!”
Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”
“We can go together. The party favors are so good, too.”
“Maybe,” you say. “I… I’ll think about it.”
Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”
She heads off in the direction of the company parking lot. You wait until she’s out of sight before you cross the street. Your phone rings. You answer.
“Fourth floor,” comes Hood’s voice. “Left side. Black Jeep.”
“Isn’t a black Jeep kind of an obvious stakeout car?” you ask, following his directions. You step onto the elevator and press four. “Isn’t that what the FBI drive?”
“You watch a couple of cop movies and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”
The elevator doors open. You walk down the parking lot. You’d be terrified if you weren’t on the phone with Hood. “There must be some truth to those, right?”
“Ha, not really. ‘Cept the fact that they make cops a lot smarter in the movies than they really are.”
“The police are stupid in Die Hard,” you say, opening the passenger-side door of the black Jeep. There are no other cars on this floor.
Hood hangs up, watching you as you get in and close the door. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. “Die Hard is unrealistic for other reasons. Who could take out twelve guys barefoot?”
You could, you don’t say. You decide not to mention that John McClane was also shirtless and barefoot for the last third of the movie, making his kill count extra impressive. Hood could probably take out thirty men barefoot and shirtless. Hmm…
“Your coat’s back there,” he says, pointing to the backseat. “Had it dry-cleaned.”
“Oh.” You blink. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“Helps it last longer,” Hood says. “Preserves the insulation.” He tilts his head, presumably eyeing his jacket on you. “Y’don’t have another coat? Yours is wearin’ thin.”
“What’s next? Eating steak five times a week? I don’t have money for two coats, Mr. Moneybags.”
He hums, resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the back of your seat. He lifts his hips to sit more comfortably. You look straight, focusing on a lit window across the street. Your cheeks are hot.
“I’ll getcha another coat for Christmas,” he says casually, and it wouldn’t fluster you so much if you didn’t think he actually meant it.
“You don’t have t—”
He holds up his hand on the steering wheel. “Can’t let my best informant freeze.”
“I’m your informant?”
Hood looks at you, helmet eyes glowing. “No.” He pauses. “You’re my… I dunno what.” He clears his throat. “The cinnamon roll was good.”
You smile. “Yeah? It was from Penny’s.”
He hums. “Never been. I’ll have to try. You cold?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Your jacket is really warm. My friend Jessie asked what it was lined with.”
“Alpaca. I got it on a job in the Andes.”
“With Roy?”
“Wow, you remember that. Yeah, actually, with Roy. He was the friend I had to break out of prison.”
“Does he also do…” You gesture. “This?”
“He does more international jobs these days, but yeah. Great guy. Better than me.”
“I think you’re good,” you say quietly.
“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”
“Then most people would be wrong.”
Hood doesn’t say anything. He reaches behind him and pulls out a set of binoculars. He gives them to you.
“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”
“Okay.” You put them to your eyes, finding the WE building. Some of the windows are lit, which isn’t weird. Some floors work later than you. “When I was working on the program today, I couldn’t even get on. It crashed and logged me out.”
Hood’s quiet. You pull the binoculars away and look at him.
“What?” you ask.
“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”
You perk up. “So something could be going on?”
“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”
You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”
“‘F I didn’t know better, I’d think you want a corrupt CEO.”
“It’s our Christmas tradition,” you say, grinning.
Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”
You put the binoculars back to your eyes. You pan up, up to the thirtieth floor, and…
“Hood!” You put down the binoculars. “The light is on in Tim Drake’s office. I saw him leave! And I asked his receptionist if he was available to make sure, and he said Tim had a business dinner.” You unlock your door.
“You did all that?” Hood asks. “Hey, hang on!”
“It’s smart, right?” you say excitedly, happy that your suspicions seem to be confirmed. “I’m terrible at lying, though. When his receptionist asked me why I wanted to speak to Tim, I got so flustered I blurted out that I had a personal surgery for him to green-light.” You thump your head. “Stupid.”
“Takes practice, lyin’ on your feet,” says Hood. “Try exhaling as you say the lie. Your voice levels, your breathing regulates.”
You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes I think, ‘what would Hood do?’ And I knew you would’ve questioned the receptionist first.”
“I dunno if I should be flattered or worried that you’re thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do.”
“What do you mean? You have good advice sometimes.”
You wait for him to get out. Hood closes his door and locks it.
“Just sometimes?” he asks.
“Other times, your advice is scary. And illegal.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
You start to walk to the exit.
“Hey, slow your roll,” Hood says, catching up to you. “What exactly are you gonna do?”
“If Tim’s up there after hours and he lied about leaving, then surely he’s doing sketchy stuff, right?”
He sighs, glancing at the WE building, then at you. “I want you t’be careful. I mean it.”
“I’m always careful, Hood. More than you, remember?”
“Well, lately, you’re like a fuckin’ Black Widow, so I feel like y’need a reminder.”
“Have you met a Black Widow?”
Hood nods. “Once. Nice lady. Scary as hell. And she was careful.”
You preen at the comparison. If she scared Hood, she must be one hell of a woman.
Reluctantly, Hood leads you out of the garage. He makes you stay three steps behind him the whole time. You enter Wayne Enterprises through the back entrance with your key card. Hood promises that he’ll erase the log, at your insistence. You take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, then walk up the extra flight to the thirtieth, so that the elevator sound won’t alert Tim Drake. That’s your idea. Hood is impressed.
You sneak to the hallway of offices. Sure enough, light peeks out underneath the door. But what can you do? It’s not like you can just kick the door down.
“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.
“Let’s not,” Hood says, holding you back by the collar of his jacket. “Stakeouts take patience. You gotta wait for an opportunity.”
The door opens, light spilling out into the hallway. Tim walks out, away from you and Hood. You run. You don’t think about it. If you did, you’d probably better digest what a fantastically dumb idea it is to run into Tim Drake’s office alone.
“Wait!” Hood hisses. “Stop! Son of a—”
You quietly open desk drawers, flick through files, anything you can. Nothing. Tim’s desk is unusually clean. And then it hits you. Duh. A CEO in their twenties is going to be digital. So you move the mouse and override Tim’s login. You go straight to the program you’ve been struggling with for months, and sure enough, you’re able to get on. The edit history shows that Tim was indeed the one who removed your and others’ access to the program.
Your phone buzzes.
?: Hide.
Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you log out and turn off the screen. Frantically, you search for a place to hide. There’s only the tiny closet. You run in, pulling the door shut. A coat in a plastic dry cleaning cover hangs on the end, and you have to bend your head to stand without bumping your head. The door has Venetian blinds cut into the wood, and you peer through the slats. Tim walks in, followed by two men. One you recognize as state senator Brian Osborne, who’s trying to run for governor this year. His face is plastered all over the conservative towns in New Jersey. He’s in his thirties, and housewives of right-wing voters adore him. You don’t trust anyone with perfectly white teeth. Or someone who’s too orange. The other man seems to be a bodyguard, which is smart. Why doesn’t Tim Drake have a bodyguard?
“Please sit,” Tim says. He looks perfect even though it’s nearly nine o’clock at night. You’ve never seen him not look perfect and put-together. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
Your chest hurts.
“I have to say, I didn’t expect your call,” Osborne says, sitting across Tim’s desk. “Considering who your father is.”
“Bruce doesn’t represent me,” Tim says coolly. “Anyway, I know a good deal when I see one.”
“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”
“Wayne Enterprises is having a Christmas gala next week, at the Gotham Gallery. I have a private collection room where no one will bother us.”
You shift, your shoulders stiff with pain from how you’re hunched over. Your movement causes the coat on the hanger to rattle. Shit.
Osborne turns his head, looking at the doorway. “Is someone else here on the floor?”
Tim Drake looks in your direction, and you swear he locks eyes with you through the slats in the door. Your heart stops.
Something clatters down the hallway, much louder than you were. Tim gets up, following Osborne out the door. “There shouldn’t be anyone else. I checked.”
They leave his office and you listen for their fading footsteps before you slip out of the closet. Your hands are clammy with adrenaline. Blindly, you go the same way you came, eyes peeled for Hood’s helmet. Someone grabs your wrist and you open your mouth to yell. It’s quickly covered by a gloved hand. You thrash, but another hand pats your waist, and you relax, relief nearly making your knees buckle.
“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Hood hisses in your ear. “Was I speakin’ in tongues when I told you to wait?”
He drags you backwards, pushing the stairwell door open. He lets go of you when the door clicks behind you, and you turn around.
“That was so scary,” you say, breathless.
“Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell with the way you charged in like a bull! What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.
“Don’t ever do that again. I’m so fuckin’ serious. That could’ve gone so wrong and—”
“He’s working with Brian Osborne!” you blurt.
That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety.
“Are you sure?”
You scoff. “No, Hood, it was some other orange conservative freak with sink porcelain teeth. I thought you said you trusted me!”
“I do, I do, ‘s just…” He groans. “Shit. What else did ya find out?”
“They’re going to meet and do the final exchange at the Wayne gala next week. Something about security technology, I’m not really sure. That must be why I couldn’t log on today!” Your mouth forms an O, gears in your mind turning. “Hood! You have to come to the gala. Then you can take down Tim Drake and Osborne in one go. It’s perfect!”
“Oh, is it? I’m so glad you got my Friday night plans all set. Wayne’s gala is extremely high-profile. ‘S not like Emerson’s Christmas party. I can’t sneak in as Santa this time.”
“I can be your eyes,” you say. “And you’ll just stay in the shadows until you can catch them in the act.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ so close to them. Tonight almost went to shit. Osborne’s no joke. His PR is so good ‘cause he’s so damn bad. He’s been on my list for a long time.”
“Well, this is your chance to get him,” you say. “And it’s not like I’d gun him down. As soon as I find out when he and Tim are meeting, I'll text you, and you’ll do the rest.”
“You get a new job and all of a sudden you’re Butch Cassidy,” Hood mutters.
“Isn’t this the best way to take down Osborne? Catching him in the act?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”
“But what?”
Hood shakes his head. “Nothin’. You’re right. If you’re really sure about this, then fine, we’ll do it. Or… I could go alone.”
“I can do it, Hood, honestly. My anxiety is a lot better.”
He hums. “‘S not what I meant, sweet. I know y’can do it, I just… this stuff is dangerous. Seriously.”
“I helped you last year,” you say.
“Yeah, and y’did a great job. But that was under dire circumstances, y’know? I pretty much peer-pressured you into it.”
“I wanted you to dress up as Santa.” And be my fake-boyfriend, you don’t add.
He groans. “I remember. That beard shed everywhere.”
You laugh, then turn, suddenly remembering where you are. “Shit. Will they find us?”
“Nah, they left. I saw ‘em get on the elevator before I found you.”
You sag in relief, then tense again. “What about the cameras?”
“I put ‘em on a loop. What kinda operation you think I’m runnin’ here?”
You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”
He lightly taps your shoulder with two fingers. “C’mon. Think that’s enough spycraft for one night, yeah?”
You go to the elevators and go out the side exit this time, on the opposite corner. As you wait for the light, you point at a billboard advertising The Mighty Crabjoys.
“I love them!” you say.
Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”
You nod. “I tried to get tickets for their concert next month but they sold out in, like, fifteen seconds. Same thing happened to me with Hozier.”
“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”
You cross the street to the garage. “You do?”
“Well, sure. It’s Hozier. I dunno much about Mighty Crabjoys, though.”
“Their music is fun.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
You ride the elevator up in silence. Tonight was scary, but not nearly as much as last year’s events. You’re getting good at this!
“My therapist suggested doing things that scare me, to help with my therapy,” you say as you get into Hood’s car. “She said she thinks exposure will help me the most.”
“Doubt she meant this stuff.”
You shrug. “I dunno. I think I’m getting better at facing my fears.”
Hood turns the key in the ignition. “‘M such a bad influence.”
“You’re not,” you say, but you don’t expand. You don’t point out that before last year, you were terrified of Red Hood, of what he stood for, but now you understand that he’s more on your side than any grubby-handed politician who swears to stand for you. For all of his hard violence, Hood is fair, and kind, and really fills out those pants. You’ve had the occasional dream since last year’s party, where Hood is still your Santa boyfriend, but not because you’re chasing a criminal. And all you see are those blue-green eyes, boring into you like he knows your heart races when you’re around him, and it’s not because of any anxiety attack.
The drive home is quiet. You gave Hood the address and it’s been silent for minutes. No music. You wonder what kind of music Hood listens to. You wonder all sorts of things about him.
“Thanks for believing in me,” you say, while you wait at a light.
Hood nods. “Yeah, well, you called it ‘bout Drake, so—”
“No, I mean…” You flatten your palms over your pants. “For helping me with WE.”
“You helped yourself.”
You shake your head. “You helped me and you didn’t have to. You were really nice, Hood. No one’s ever been so nice to me before. I think… I think meeting you was the best part of my year.”
“Yikes,” he says, maybe trying to release some of the tension. It’s not a bad tension, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Like Hood doesn’t know what to do with your honesty.
You laugh, watching downtown Gotham pass you by. “I guess getting my new job was pretty good too.”
“Well, I’d hope so.”
You fold your hands in your lap. This feels like a moment you’re going to replay over and over in your head tonight. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Thank you too,” he says. “Not just for helpin’ me take down one dirty CEO at a time. But thanks for, uh, bein’ a friend.”
You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.
“We’re friends?”
He shrugs. “‘F y’don’t mind bein’ friends with the bastard Red Hood.”
You smile and think of your coat in the backseat. “No. I don’t mind at all.”
****
Friday, gala night, comes sooner than you expect. Miraculously, the program at work doesn’t give you any more trouble. But you worry about working on it, conscious that it might be part of a dirty deal and Brian Osborne’s campaign for election. So you twiddle your thumbs and call out sick once, which you never do. You let Jessie distract you with pictures of her nephew. And above all, you do not contact Hood.
Not that he told you not to, or anything. It’s just a personal rule you’ve set for yourself. You felt jittery when you got out of his car last week, your dry-cleaned coat in your arms. You thought about it all the way up to your apartment, and then you stared at it while you made dinner and watched Die Hard.
Maybe this will be the last time you meet up with Hood. At least for a year. A part of you is sad that soon, you won’t see or speak to him regularly, after he nabs Tim Drake and Brian Osborne, and the fact that you’re disappointed terrifies you.
“Hey.”
Peter’s standing in front of your desk. He has a bag with Penny’s logo on it. He sets it on your desk. You look up at him.
“Hi,” you say, staring at those black, black shades. “Happy holidays!”
“Happy holidays,” he says. “D’you like cinnamon rolls? They had a special this morning. Two for one.”
You laugh. “Oh my God. I actually was gonna bring you a cinnamon roll last week.”
He grins. “Yeah? We must be psychically linked.”
“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“‘M sure.” He watches you pull out the cinnamon roll. There’s a plastic fork and knife in the bag too. How nice.
“You got a fork,” you say, opening the container. “How’d you know I hate getting icing on my fingers?”
He shrugs. “Intuition. Psychic connection. Take your pick.”
“Thanks,” you say. “Seriously. I needed this.”
He nods. “I figured. I saw your name on the list for tonight. Changed your mind?”
“Oh.” You lick icing off your lip and swallow hard, pretending to chew for longer than you need to. “Yes, actually. Jessie wore me down. And I thought, why not? You’re working security, right?”
“Yeah, probably, but you might not see me. I’m s’posed to stick close to the Wayne heirs all night. Timmy and Dickie.”
“Dick Grayson will be there?”
Peter nods. “Yeah. Pretty much the whole family. Bruce takes his galas very seriously. This one is the biggest one of the year.”
Maybe you should text Hood that he’ll need to be wary of all those Wayne kids. You don’t need Hood’s involvement—or yours—splashed across page one on the Gotham Gazette next week.
“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you ask.
Peter shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a believer or celebrator of much.”
You blink, pursing your lips. Peter tilts his head.
“What?” he asks.
“No, nothing, just…” You laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like someone’s said that to me before. Deja vu.”
“Huh. Maybe I got that from a movie or somethin’.”
You smile. “Like Die Hard.”
“They say that in Die Hard?”
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something a friend said. So, no plans? Are you working?”
“Pretty much all break,” says Peter. “Actually, ‘s kinda unfortunate. I got tickets to see The Mighty Crabjoys next month, but I can’t go ‘cause of work. Been tryna unload ‘em so they don’t go to waste, but no luck.”
“Really?” You sit up in your desk chair. “I love them, actually. I wanted to see them.”
“Did ya? Shit, that’s perfect. I’ll email ‘em to ya.”
“Are you sure you don’t want them?” you ask. “You could make a crazy resale profit.”
“Oh, don’t cha know? They pay me the big bucks to protect Wayne’s secrets.” Peter grins. “‘M retirin’ in a month.”
You laugh. “Did you find out you’re a secret Wayne heir, or something?”
Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Mm. Somethin’ like that. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout the money. Think of it as a one-year celebration of your survival at WE.”
“Ah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly bashful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Peter.”
He clicks his tongue. “Now that’s not true. You made your own way.”
You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Chatter from the hallway draws your attention. Tim Drake walks onto the floor, flanked by three people you don’t know, and Dick Grayson. Peter clears his throat.
“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, gently tapping your shoulder. “Break’s over.”
“Oh, okay. Happy new year if I don’t see you.”
“Happy new year,” he says. “Y’deserve a good one.”
Peter leaves through the stairwell door on the opposite side. You stand when Tim walks to Toby’s desk, which is three desks down from yours. You don’t know why you stand, but you feel like you should. You notice he’s wearing the coat you bumped into last night in his closet. Your heartbeat ratchets.
Tim says something to Toby, who looks terrified. Good. You hope he said something along the lines of do your fucking job.
But then Tim looks at you. And so does Dick Grayson. You nearly swallow your tongue.
They walk to you. Tim shoos everyone but his brother away, instructing them to “find something constructive to do.” They scatter.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Tim asks.
“W-what? You mean Peter?”
“Peter,” Dick echoes. He’s smiling, but it makes you nervous. He’s studying your face like he’s trying to pick you out of a lineup. “Do you know Peter very well?”
“He’s—I mean, we’re friends. He’s a security guard.”
Dick nods, no longer looking so intense. “Hmm. Okay.” He sticks out his hand. “Dick Grayson.”
You wipe your hand in what you hope is a discreet fashion so you don’t rub sweat on Dick Grayson’s palm. “Nice to meet you.” You say your name.
“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.”
When they don’t say anything else, you start to fidget. Your gaze darts between them. “I’m sorry, am I in trouble or something?”
“No trouble,” Tim says. His eyes narrow at you. Shit. Shit! “Everything’s fine. There were some bugs in the program your team’s been working on, but Toby figured it out.”
You highly doubt Toby has ever figured out anything of importance: code, the female body, normal responses to a funeral announcement. And the way Tim and Dick are staring at you feels like an interrogation.
“Oh, great,” you say, taking a deep breath and exhaling as you speak, like Hood taught you. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been working on the program for months. Mostly front-end work.”
Tim’s smile is polite but frosty. “I appreciate it. I know you all work extremely hard.”
“A company would be nothing without I.T.,” Dick chirps.
You laugh nervously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”
He smiles knowingly. Dick Grayson is reported to be wholly pleasant and friendly. Right now, you feel like you’re being hunted for sport.
Tim checks his watch and nods crisply. “I have a meeting.” He sweeps a glance across the office. “Keep up the good work!”
They leave. Air fills your lungs once more. You sink into your chair. Then you pull out your phone.
You: oh my god oh my god
You: hood
You: hood
You: please
?: What’s up? I’m working.
You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME
You: are you SURE he can’t tell i was taking out the trash?
?: Excellent use of code. Yeah, I’m sure. Take a breath. What do you mean he’s onto you?
You: okay well he fucking came to my floor and he asked if i knew this security guard which isn’t part of it but he had this LOOK hood. and dick grayson was there too and his smile was so freaky, it’s like he knew exactly what i was thinking
? is typing…
You watch the speech bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
?: He asked if you knew a security guard? Who?
You: peter. he’s my friend. hood i think my cover’s been blown
?: You don’t have a cover. Your identity is literally a programmer at Wayne Enterprises.
You: oh my god even worse!!!!
?: Please try to relax. None of that means anything. I’ll check on Drake when I finish what I’m doing.
You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH
?: Warhead
You’ve been gnawing on a fingernail this whole time. The text annoys the shit out of you, but you obediently open your drawer and take out a Warhead from a party-size bag and pop it into your mouth. You’ve been on the hunt for a candy that’s even more sour for the bigger panic attacks, but the Warhead works today.
You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait. If you don’t go, you’ll be home. You’ll be unaccounted for. That’s exactly how people go missing. No, it’s better to be at the gala, close to Hood. Tim Drake can’t assassinate you if you’re at the same event as him on the night of his exchange with Osborne.
You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go
?: Are you eating the Warhead?
You: yeah
?: Eat another one.
You do.
****
You: does this look okay?
You: [img._6]
Jessie: you look great!! I love that color :) dark red is perf for xmas
You look at your reflection, smoothing down your dress. You wanted something glamorous, and you sifted through three different discount sections at three different Macy’s. You lucked out with this dress: dark red, long-sleeved, long skirt but not too long that you’ll be tripping all night. And you can run, if need be. Not that you think you will. But still.
You: i’ll be in a red dress btw
?: Okay. How do you feel?
You: fine. Are u already there?
?: Almost. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.
You pocket your phone and grab your purse, heading out the door. It’s luckily not snowing, or you’d take a taxi. But the walk to the train isn’t too bad. You’re back to wearing your coat, which is good, because it goes better with your dress than Hood’s would. But you kind of wish you could’ve worn his. It’s admittedly warmer.
The gala is held at the Gotham Art Gallery this year. Bruce Wayne had made a statement that all of the proceeds from tonight’s event would be donated to the local orphanage. He’s Gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t have any particularly strong opinions on him. He seems decent enough, for a billionaire. His son, however…
Well, whatever. That’ll be over soon enough. You have the utmost faith in Hood tonight.
The gallery is hosting the party in its main hall. The roof is made entirely of class, so clear it looks like the night sky is bearing down on you all. The moon is an inky dot of cream above you, almost but not quite full. Waiters circulate with appetizers and alcohol. You take a flute of champagne when it’s offered, but you only take a few sips. You need to be sharp to help Hood.
Bruce and Dick go on stage to talk about the gala, but you’re not listening. You look around. You don’t expect to see Hood, of course, but your eyes are peeled for Peter. He said he’d stick close to Dick, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.
You take out your phone.
You: have you found the trash?
?: Lol. Not yet. Stay put. Relax. I’ll let you know when I take care of it.
You take a deep breath and try to do as Hood says. It feels weird to not be directly involved. Your phone buzzes.
?: Pretty dress.
Your face immediately goes aflame. What do you say? If you were being honest, you’d say that you didn’t wear red just because it’s Christmas. But you feel that that’s too bold. Bolder than you’re willing to be.
You pocket your phone, too alarmed to say anything. You gulp more champagne, forgoing your rule. Hood told you to relax, right?
The night goes on. Jessie lures you to the dance floor. She introduces you to more people at the company.
And then you spill champagne on your dress.
You sigh. “Great.”
Jessie is sympathetic. “No! Oh no, not again. Want any help cleaning up?”
“No, it’s fine.” You wave her away, a little uncoordinated from the alcohol. “Be right back.”
You start your hunt for the bathroom. It’s only a little champagne, but it’s right on your neckline, and it’s uncomfortable. At least you won’t smell like tuna.
You pull out your phone.
You: spilled champagne :P
You finally find the bathroom and carefully dab the champagne with a wet paper towel. Then you check your phone again. Your message remains unread and unreplied to.
A cold, sinking feeling pools in your stomach. You tap Hood’s contact, about to call. You pause. What if he can’t answer the phone?
This is just your anxiety talking. That’s why you avoid drinking; your anxiety always gets worse. But maybe you have a right to be worried now. Hood always responds quickly. If not in depth, then a simple yes. Why wouldn’t he respond now?
You throw away the paper towels and leave the bathroom. What did Tim say? His private collection room.
There are some staff, but they clearly don’t give a shit about wandering guests, too busy catering to demanding one percenters. You’re not the next 007, but it’s easy enough to find the private collection room. The door has been left slightly ajar, and you carefully pull it open. There are wooden crates piled everywhere, so you duck behind the nearest stack.
There’s a pause. You cringe. Did you make too much noise?
“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says.
You crawl on your hands and knees, shuffling so you can peer around the crates. Osborne has his bodyguard from last night, as well as three other men. Tim is alone except for—
Oh God. Peter?
Your lips part in shock as you take in the sight of your formerly favorite security guard. Your mind races. Is this why he was so evasive about his schedule? Why he didn’t care about selling the tickets? Yes, you’re sure that being a massive jerk-off and helping billionaires commit crimes is very lucrative.
You scowl. He can’t see you from this angle, but you sort of wish he would, even though you can very clearly see his holstered gun. Would he even care, seeing you? Or would you be another body to dispose of?
You lean back against the crates. Your reaction time is a little slow from the champagne. You pull out your phone and text Hood again.
You: security guards suck ASS
You put it away and watch Tim take out a briefcase. He opens it for Osborne. You can’t see what’s inside. Osborne opens his own briefcase, and those contents you can see. Stacks of cash.
“Committing election fraud has never been easier,” Tim says airily.
Osborne laughs. “Fantastic. You’re my inspiration, Mr. Drake.”
Maybe you should be recording this. You open the camera app and press record, trying to be steady as you zoom in. Peter is on his phone.
Ding!
?: Where are you?
“Shit,” you whisper, trying to mute your phone.
Peter looks up and sees you. You shoot him what you hope is your meanest face.
“What the fuck is this?” Osborne asks, snapping his fingers. One of his goons wastes no time in going and hauling you up by your arm.
“Let go of me!” you shout, swatting at him. He holds you firmly.
Tim looks at you icily, blue eyes wide. You fear he’s going to order Peter to kill you right then.
“Who are you working for?” Osborne asks you.
You lift your chin, feeling more confident than you feel. Damn champagne. “The Red Hood. And he’s gonna kick your ass.”
Tim glances at Peter, chewing his lip. He nods at you. “Take care of her.”
“No,” Osborne says. “Let’s see if this Red Hood character does show. He’ll be looking for his partner, no doubt.”
His confidence makes you queasy. Did Osborne already get to Hood?
You find it hard to believe. Hood can handle himself, no doubt. But he had to sneak around tonight, didn’t he? If he is somewhere, like a basement or shoved into a dusty sarcophagus, no one will be looking for him.
“I can handle her, sir, honestly,” Peter says, and you hiss at him.
“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.
But Osborne doesn’t. He squints at you, then Tim, then Peter.
“Do you know her?” he asks.
“Of course not,” Tim says. “Let him take her into a back room so we can get on with this.”
Osborne shakes his head, closing his own briefcase. "No, this is fishy. Red Hood’s partner happens to stumble onto our deal? …You almost got me that night at the office, explaining away the noise. Well, not tonight. I smell a rat. And I take care of rats immediately. Finish it."
The guard pulls out a gun and cocks it against your temple. But you’ve barely felt the press of cold metal before it’s gone, your arms free. He's on the ground, blood gushing from both legs. Peter’s gun smokes.
Gunfire erupts. Peter dives for you, dragging you behind crates. You fight him all the way.
"You asshole," you snap. “You fucking asshole! How can you do this? Tim Drake is—”
"Stay here," he says, angrier than you've ever seen him. "Un-fuckin’-believable."
You peer around the crates. Tim is wrestling with one of Osborne’s goons who has a gun. Peter goes for the other two. They fire and you duck back behind the crates.
“Should’ve known not to trust a Wayne!” Osborne shouts. “Especially one who beds men! Just like your filthy father!”
“You fuck men too, Brian,” Tim says, heaving the guard over his shoulder in a very impressive takedown. Since when does Tim Drake know MMA? “Does your fanbase know that?”
Peter fires and Tim snaps, “Don’t shoot, dumbass! The art is on loan!”
“I’m the dumbass? Meeting here was your bright idea!” Peter snarls, and that voice sounds very familiar…
Osborne’s bodyguard punches Peter and cracks his shades, which fly off his face. Peter instantly knocks him out cold. Seafoam eyes, such an unusual col—holy shit. Holy shit.
“Hood?” you blurt, so surprised, you forget to hide.
This time, Osborne fires at you. Hood shoots at Osborne, who flees. He wastes no time in grabbing you, swinging you back behind the crates. You peek over and see Tim follow Osborne out, with the remaining two goons at his heels.
You whip your head to look at Hood. Peter. “What the f—”
“Shush.” He scoops you up, hoisting you over his shoulders like you're a sack of potatoes. You writhe in protest.
"What the hell! Put me down, Neanderthal!"
“You’re unbelievable, y’know that?” he says, carrying you out of the collection room and down the hallway.
“I’m unbelievable? Exactly how many identities do you have, Peter Todd Red Hood?”
Hood sighs and sets you down. You’re in the main part of the gallery, which is currently closed to guests, but you doubt Hood gives a shit about that. It’s empty, and that’s what matters. He holsters his gun and rests his hands on his head, like he just ran a marathon.
“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.
You put your hands on your hips. “That would be nice, yes.”
Hood smiles a little. You frown.
“What?” you ask, aggravated.
“I dunno. You used to be so skittish ‘round me. Now you’re, like, hm. My friend, I guess.”
You drop your arms, startled. “I…” You look away. “You’re working for Tim Drake. You’re no better than Osborne.”
Hood scoffs. “Even if I was dirty, you wouldn’t catch me dead working for Timbelina. No, sweet, ‘m not. I’m the same Red Hood you’ve always known. Still after the bad guys. But Tim Drake…” He pauses. You look at him. “Is Red Robin.”
“What?”
He raises his right hand. “Swear it. And, uh, my name is Jason. Jason Todd.”
Your mouth falls open. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s s—”
“Ward,” Jason cuts you off. “Yeah. But trust me, I wouldn’t be here willingly. See, uh, you’re actually a spectacular spy. Like, better than the FBI.”
“I am?”
“Sure. Tim’s not really a corrupt CEO. He was just playin’ the part to lure Osborne. We’ve been after him for a while. No one was supposed to detect anything ‘cause nothing’s public, to protect Tim’s image, but…”
“I’m really good at my job,” you say breathlessly.
Jason grins. “Y’sure are. I couldn’t deter you, and I couldn’t tell you the truth. Didn’t wanna endanger you. I tried to make y’drop it, but you wouldn’t quit. Could go into the detective business, honest.”
“Wow.” You lean against a pillar. “Sorry.”
Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”
He edges a little closer. He probably thinks you won’t notice but you’re a detective.
“So you were Peter this whole time. You were… watching over me?”
Jason licks his lip, mouth forming shapes. “I mean, officially, I was makin’ my identity legit so Osborne wouldn’t get suspicious. I saw you when you came in, and I guess I couldn’t help but say hi. I thought you’d recognize me, but those shades were worth their money.”
“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.
He clears his throat. “Right. So, um, I guess I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. And then we kept talkin’ and, I dunno. Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything, I guess. For enterin’ your life and stayin’ in it. I get it if y’want me to leave you alone.”
“No.” You take Jason’s hands, so his fingers rest on the insides of your wrists. “Hood—sorry, Jason. You make me less nervous. And I’m relieved that your alter ego isn’t a bootlicker.”
Jason’s face is disgusted. “No way in hell.”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Oh, well, I’ve already made about three, so evening it up would be great, yeah.”
You swallow. "Okay. Well, last year when you pretended to be my Santa boyfriend, I kept thinking about what if it had been real."
Jason's pupils are enormous. "Yeah?" he whispers. "Was it a good thought?"
You nod. "I felt so conflicted, thinking about you and also thinking about Peter. And now…"
“Mmhm?”
You look at Jason’s lips. He has a scar that cuts through his Cupid’s bow, but it’s quite pretty. The Red Hood has a pretty mouth. Huh.
“Is my pulse steady?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes. You lift your wrists slightly.
Jason’s eyebrows lift in realization. “Yeah. Not one lie told.”
“I wish you’d kiss me.”
He leans in, and you meet him halfway. He’s taken off his gloves, so when he cups your neck, hot, rough skin sears you. Oh, you like him. Lightning shoots down your chest and back. He’s a shy kisser, and that pleases you even more. There’s something thrilling about the fact that you can make him moan first. Just from a kiss.
Footsteps echo on the marble, and you pull back, fearing Osborne and his men. But it’s much worse: Tim Drake is ten feet away, holding a bo staff.
"Really?" he asks, annoyed. "This is why you couldn't follow us?" He nods at you. "Hey."
"Hi," you say, utterly mortified. "I am so sorry. Please don't fire me."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What, for sucking face? Please. Bruce will be thrilled to know that Jason isn't nearly as maladjusted as he thought."
"Fuck off," Jason says, pulling you closer by your waist, almost subconsciously.
"Crowbar victim."
Jason’s gaze is steely. "Ninety-nine. Failed. Clone attempts."
Tim looks impressed. "Wow. Dug deep for that one."
"I've been reading B's files to fill the gaps."
"There’s some fucked-up shit in there."
"Seriously." He looks at you, and it’s like his entire expression changes. You wonder if he’s been looking at you like that the whole time. He turns to Tim. “Gimme a minute.”
"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna track down his bodyguard. I think one of them hacked my computer last week.”
“Actually, that was me,” you say. “I overrode your firewall.”
Tim's eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. "For real?"
"Yeah, I was looking for your edit history on the project. When I, you know, thought you were on Osborne’s side.”
Tim doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you thought he was evil for several months. "Wow. Wanna come work for me privately?"
Jason grunts. "Back off."
Tim grins with all of his teeth. "Okay, I'll spare you. Hurry up.”
Jason flips him off. You turn to him after Tim's gone. "So he’s your brother?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But… legally?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately. And the one you met a few days ago, Dick? That one’s mine too. Legally. He’s on different meds, though.”
“Oh.” Your eyebrows rise. “Oh. So when Dick asked today if I knew Peter very well…”
“He did not mean in the coworker way, no. They all think we’ve been secretly dating for a year.”
You frown. “But we haven’t.”
Jason throws his arms up. “Tell me ‘bout it! World’s greatest fuckin’ detectives. Psh. I told them to butt out, for the record. Told them they didn’t know what was goin’ on. And do they listen? Does anyone listen to me in this godforsaken family? Nope!”
“I listen,” you say.
Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”
“I think you should probably go help Tim, though.”
He waves a hand lazily. “In a minute. He’s fine. Tryin’ to figure something out first.”
“What?”
“Whether I believe in Christmas miracles or not.” Jason pushes his tongue under his lip, smiling. He leans in to kiss you again. You meet him in earnest.
thinking about jason coming back from the gym all sweaty wearing a tank top and reader going absolutely feral because LOOK AT THOSE TREE TRUNKS HE CALLS ARMS
what about... watching him work out + sweaty arms 👀 jason x afab!reader (no pronouns). mildly nsfw but no smut. you're (i'm) lustful for this man! estab relationship. all fics rb'd to @sanguinelibrary
****
The gym isn't too crowded for a Friday. You don't usually meet Jason here, but you got off work early and you wanted to surprise him. You ordered pizza to pick up on the way home as a treat. Jason's been stressed over a case, and he does his best to not let it interfere with his life with you, but you're sympathetic all the same. Hopefully a night in with pizza will cheer him up.
It now occurs to you that you've never actually seen Jason exercise. You know he does. Even if you didn't know he's Red Hood, you'd assume he must do some kind of strength training just based on his physicality. A very nice physicality.
But you don't see Jason in action. He's not Red Hood or a vigilante or anything else besides himself around you. He's just Jason, your sweet boyfriend, who cooks for you and brings home trinkets he thinks you'll like. He's wildly funny, clever, a movie buff. He leaves his reading glasses everywhere, and he much prefers to sleep facing you, your limbs entangled.
So sue you if you forget, sometimes, just how deadly competent your boyfriend is. And the maintenance that's required to upkeep such skill.
He's got headphones in, and you hold off on sending him a text. Jason always seems to sense when you're around, finding you before you find him. So you wait, if only to boast your own stealth later.
What Jason's doing, however, makes your face immediately hot. You've never seen him lift weights, and maybe that's for the best because it all looks obscene to you. Jason's exercising his legs, thrusting his hips up to lift the weights. You can't see how much weight it is, but it looks like a lot. His thighs plump up with each rep, the muscle gaining shape, then returning to rest.
If you were closer, you'd get to hear the sounds Jason makes: quiet grunts, sighs, hums. You know he isn't loud—ever, even when you encourage him to be. The gym would be no exception because Jason would never want to be rude or make people uncomfortable.
But oh, you're teetering into dangerous territory now, watching Jason lift, because you wish you could hear his sounds and feel his breath. You'd like to press down on his stomach and hear him whine, the muscles tender from exertion.
"Hi, sorry, are you needing help?" the woman at the front desk asks. She snaps you out of your trance of grossly ogling your boyfriend. Jesus, you must look like a creep.
"Oh! No, sorry, thanks. I'm waiting for my boyfriend. Over there." You weakly point at Jason.
"Oh, okay," she says brightly, letting you be. Maybe you don't look as creepy as you feel. That's good.
Jason finishes his reps. When he gets up from the machine, his loose tank top rides up, showing you his sweaty backside. Oh Lord. You turn around and take out your phone, sending a quick text.
Hi baby! I'm here at the gym :) take ur time <3
Jason pauses and looks at his phone. It's not long before he scans the gym and his eyes land on you. He lights up, waving. You wave back, your throat dry. He types on his phone. The notification pops up.
Just got one more exercise, then I'll be out okay? I love you
You give him a thumbs up. Jason returns it and wipes down the machine. Then he moves to the dumbbells. This shouldn't be so bad, right? Jason's arms are delicious, but—oh, he's squatting. With the weights. Mother of Pearl.
It's a good thing Jason's facing the side, so he can't see how you're laser-focused on his ass. You have a rounded appreciation for Jason's body, but maybe you've been neglecting his glutes. Wow.
Reel it in! Christ. What's up with you? It's not like you and Jason are going through a dry spell. Jason always pleases you, as sweet as pie. Right now, you'd like to chew on him.
He finishes up and you go to sit by the door, so it doesn't look like you've been lurking. Jason comes out a minute later, face shiny with sweat. He has a hoodie on, unfortunately hiding his body, but that's okay. You're patient.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, cheeks flushed. "'M all sweaty, so if y'don't wanna hug, I totally g—"
You cut him off with a hug, and he nearly lifts you off the ground, your toes dragging. His pulse pounds against your hand. It's clear that the adrenaline from the workout makes Jason eager and excitable. He's usually not so open with affection in public, but you're not complaining.
Jason is indeed sweaty, but it's a clean sweat mixed with his deodorant. His hair is spiky with moisture. He smells so much like a boy, like a really cute, jacked boy who likes you and can toss you onto a bed if you wanted him to. And do you ever.
You'd grope his ass if you didn't think it would get both of you banned for life. So you keep it PG, pretending like you haven't been wet for the last fifteen minutes.
"Hi, Jay," you say, your soft voice masking how dizzy with lust you are. Who needs pizza? You can eat Jason for dinner.
"Hey, honey," he says, brushing your cheek with his knuckle. God. Jason's tender and you want to jump his bones. "This is such a surprise. Thought you were working late."
"It ended early, so I came by. Wanted to see you. And I ordered pizza for us to pick up."
Jason melts even more, if that’s possible, leaning in to kiss you. "So nice of ya. Didn't have to."
"Wanted to," you say, eyeing his massive shoulder. Don't bite! "Should we go?"
The pizzeria is a few blocks down, and Jason's apartment is a few blocks from there, so you two take your time walking. Jason holds your hand. He's so warm from the gym. His skin sears yours.
"I actually saw ya before you texted," he says. "Couldn't say hi while I was doing my reps though."
"Oh," you say, swallowing. "That's fine. Those reps looked, um, intense."
Jason shrugs. "They get a little easier the more you do 'em, but yeah."
"You didn't seem to struggle." Your voice is totally giving away how much you liked it. It's no surprise how Jason looks at you now.
"I guess 'm just practiced," he says slowly. You know he's scrutinizing you, watching for your tells. "Did you... like watching me?"
"I wasn't watching you."
Jason laughs, low and sure. "Baby, I saw you. You were glued to that spot. Thought you were just bein' sweet and attentive until..."
"Until?" you ask, voice pitched up. You stop walking. He stops with you.
He grins. "'Til now." He leans in, hands going to your waist, mouth near your ear. "How much did y'like it?" He's begging. Jason loves when you tell him how much you want him, how good he is to you. It gets him hotter faster than anything else.
You carefully fit your knee between Jason's legs and press. He whines, a broken sound, not hushed enough for being in public. You have to be mindful, even if the sidewalk is empty. But the sounds Jason makes are tempting. You quite like how eager he is after the gym.
"Be good, and I'll show you when we get home," you say.
Jason draws back and looks at you, half-lidded. He nods. "Y-yeah. Okay."
Hm. Maybe you've cracked the code to make Jason get loud.
Sanne my love, if you're taking requests could I humbly ask for some jealous reader x Jason? Maybe they're at a gala or Jason's working with another vigilante and they're alllll over him. Meanwhile reader is sulking in the corner.
cute! Thanks for the request <3 jason todd x gn!reader. jealous reader (and jason eats it up are u kidding). friends to... jealous friends?
****
Upon your return to the main hall after asking three different waiters for directions to the bathroom and nearly getting lost on your way back, you can't find Jason. But only for a moment. The panic ebbs as you scan the crowd and find him not far, his red tie standing out easily. You'd worn red to match, but Jason hadn't commented on it beyond telling you that you look nice.
You slink up next to him, trying to shrink. You've made yourself small all night, not wanting to give anyone here a reason to notice just how much you don't belong.
Jason is with Dick and Princess Elizabeth, who everyone has talked about all night. A real, live princess in Gotham. She's around your age, and she's beautiful.
"Hey," Jason says warmly as soon as you walk over. "Find your way back okay?"
"I got kind of lost," you admit, self-consciously glancing at Elizabeth. She was probably born with an innate sense of direction and knows where the bathroom is at every gala.
"I would've gone with you," Jason says. He offered many times, but you felt silly being escorted to the bathroom. Jason's been nothing but thoughtful tonight, considering how terrifying high society can be.
"It's okay," you say, begging him to drop it. You look at Elizabeth again. She smiles.
"How do you do?" she says. You awkwardly bow, and she laughs.
"Oh, please don't. There's no need for such strict formalities. Are you a friend of the Wayne's?"
"Jason's. I'm his plus one. It's my first gala."
"Well, welcome," Elizabeth says. "They become dull very fast."
"Isn't that the truth," says Dick. "How long are you here for, Elizabeth?"
She talks and Jason leans over to whisper in your ear.
"Didja eat something?" he asks.
You shake your head. "I don't know what most of the food is and I'm too afraid to ask. What happened to cheese and crackers?"
Jason laughs, deep and rich in your ear. You want to lean into him. "They always overcomplicate stuff. It's better when Bruce hosts. He serves crowd-favorites. I'll come with ya."
You nod, relieved. At least you have Jason. He promised he'd stick by you the whole night.
"—Wouldn't you say so, Jason?"
Elizabeth looks at him expectantly.
"Sorry, Liz, I missed it," he says.
She giggles and touches his arm, then slides to his hand. "Oh, it's quite alright. I was just telling Richard that so many of these galas are a way to matchmake. Has your father impressed that on you?"
Jason snorts. "Bruce is lucky if I don't tear up Gotham. The last thing he's concerned about is me gettin' married."
"I see. I suppose it's different for men. Does that mean that you aren't interested in marriage?"
Elizabeth is still touching Jason's hand. What's happening right now?
"Y'know, if it happens, great. But I don't anticipate a lotta offers. Dickie here is swimming in proposals."
Dick rolls his eyes. "Swimming is an exaggeration."
"Oh, I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't make you an offer, as you call it," Elizabeth says, eyes roving over Jason. "No reason at all."
"Awfully forward of ya, Princess," Jason says.
"Apologies." She's nearly breathless.
You feel incredibly queasy suddenly. You and Dick lock eyes, and you look away, not wanting anything to show on your face.
"We should dance," Elizabeth says. "Jason, do you dance?"
"Not well. Y'should take Dick. He's a tango master."
"I am sure you aren't as bad as you claim." Elizabeth offers her hand. "Please?"
"You should, Jason." The words corrode your throat. "It's rude to keep a princess waiting."
Elizabeth beams. "Precisely!" She tugs at him, as dignified as a princess can be. "Just one dance, I request."
Jason looks at you. You try to smile. He smiles back.
"Alright, pull my arm, why don't ya?" He accepts her hand.
You turn around, instantly miserable. You slip away without another word, not particularly concerned about your manners. You doubt Elizabeth will notice anyway.
Well, whatever. It's fine. You're perfectly capable of figuring out the food for yourself. You don't need Jason. You never have, really. You did just fine until he swept into your life two years ago.
Other guests line up and request concoctions of appetizers you've never heard of. You try to guess based on context, but what you're coming to learn is that rich people will eat anything. Then it's your turn.
"Uh," you say. The waiter looks at you, smiled pasted on their mouth. "What's popular?"
"This is the favorite of the evening." They gesture to some stuff on what you hope is a regular, normal piece of bread.
"It's not liver or anything like that, right?"
"No, this is vegetarian."
You nod, relieved. It can't be that bad, can it? You accept the plate as the waiter fixes it for you. Then you search for a quiet corner in the hall to eat. Maybe you should go outside to the courtyard, but it's balls-cold tonight. Still, it'd be a great way to avoid running into anyone...
"Those are sea grapes."
You spin around, startled. Jason, who's smiling, holds up his hands. The top button of his shirt is unbuttoned. You feel queasy again.
"Didn't mean to scare ya, sorry," he says. "But trust me when I say don't eat it. It's awful. The kinda food you get at one of those tasting restaurants that's a thousand dollars per person. The dumplings are superior."
You put the whole bread bite in your mouth. The sea grapes are briny and the roughage, whatever it is, isn't pleasant. There are flavors you didn't know were possible to create on this planet. But you choke it down with minimal reaction.
"I like it," you say breezily. Your eyes sting from the salt. Your throat is dry.
Jason raises his eyebrows. "Oh. Uh, okay. I—"
There's a bunch of wines at the next table, and you hurry that way. Why can't these galas ever have orange soda?
Jason follows you to the wines, hands in his pocket as you look over the selection and pretend to know what any of it means.
"So where's the princess you were dancing with?" you ask. You have no idea what any of the French or Spanish means. Jason probably does, being so good at languages, but like hell you'll ask him. You were already humiliated enough not finding the bathroom, thank you.
"Liz?"
"Is that her name?" You point at a random green bottle. Sherry is a word you recognize. Sherry's sweet, right? That's the only wine fact you know. The waiter pours a third of a glass and hands it to you.
Jason reaches for your hand. "Wait, I don't think you're gonna like th—"
You take a big gulp and immediately spit the wine back into the glass.
"Oh my—" You cough. "Oh my God, that's disgusting." Your voice is hoarse. "What the actual fuck is that? Seawater? Why is it salty? Why is everything here unnecessarily salty?!"
The waiter looks offended like he grew the grapes himself. "That is a sixty thousand dollar bottle of Manzanilla sherry. It is not a dessert wine, hence why it is at this table."
"Well, you should put a warning or something!" you say, scraping your tongue with your teeth. "Signage is useful, so I know what wine to gift my sworn enemy."
The waiter stays quiet with the most egregious sneer you've ever seen. You scowl and stomp away. Tonight is the worst. You can't even enjoy the food because it's all trying to shred your throat, apparently.
You feel a hand on your shoulder. Jason's followed you, and for some reason, he thinks you're amusing. You scowl.
"Why do you keep following me?" you snap.
There's a brief hurt in Jason's eyes before he recovers and becomes neutral. "'Cause you're my plus one."
"Yeah, I thought so too."
He cocks his head. "Alright, what's going on? You've had an attitude since the sea grapes."
"An attitude? Really? You ignore me for half the evening to flirt with a princess and you think I have an attitude?"
"I didn't ignore you!" Jason says, frustrated. "And I barely talked to her. She's over there dancing with some dignitary."
"You said you were going to stay with me the whole time," you say, hating how childish you sound. "I don't know anyone here, Jason. I don't know what Manzanilla sherry tastes like. I'm sorry I'm not a princess or whatever, but—"
"Why d'you keep bringing her up?"
"I don't know! I just didn't know you were like that."
Jason frowns. "Like what?"
"Like you can flirt with princesses and know what sea grapes taste like and choose wine. I forgot that you were exposed to this stuff with Bruce and that you've traveled a bunch as Hood. You're learned and shit. I don't even know why you brought me tonight."
"I brought you 'cause I thought you'd like it. You always said you wanted to go to a Wayne gala. You're the only person I'd suffer through this stuff for. 'M not like Bruce, I don't live in this world. Never have, never will."
"Princess Elizabeth really liked you," you mumble. "She was touching your arm a lot."
Jason's quiet for a moment. He's squints, tilting his head.
"Are you... jealous?" he asks.
"Wh—no. No, I'm not jealous. Please, I don't even care. Marry her if you want. Become a prince!"
Something unreadable crosses his face. Jason holds your gaze. It's always too intense when he looks at you like that. You feel like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
"Dick said..." he trails off.
"Said?"
He shakes his head. "Nothin'. It's—I dunno. It was silly."
"Okay."
You cross your arms, feeling stuck. You really want to go home, but Jason's your ride. The two of you don't argue often. The distance that has wedged between you tonight is nearly unbearable. But you don't know how to fix it. You aren't sure you do. If Jason really does like dancing with princesses, you don't know if you can get past that.
"Y'know you're, like, my favorite person, right?" Jason says, scooting closer to you.
You look at him, eyes wide. "I am?"
"Sure y'are. No one else I'd wear a tux for."
"I'm sure that's not true." You don't know why Jason's being so sweet, but you aren't ready to let go of your anger yet. "So many people looked at you tonight. They probably all appreciate your tux."
"Don't really give a shit what other people think," Jason says. "Came here with you."
Your arms unfold. The problem, perhaps, is that you're too attached to Jason. He can unravel you with a word, and usually, you don't mind. But lately, your attachment has begun to feel dangerous. It feels like maybe you're in too deep, and turning around, being less with Jason, will be painful.
"Why're you saying that stuff?" you ask quietly.
"Thought maybe you didn't know," Jason says in that airy way, where you can't tell if he's joking or not.
"You can dance," you say. "Why did you tell Elizabeth you can't?"
He shrugs. "I don't dance for just anyone. 'Sides, she can find much better dance partners than me. We went for half a waltz, then I politely excused myself. She found a way to entertain herself without me."
The relief this brings you is both thrilling and frightening. It shouldn't make you this happy. It shouldn't.
"Oh," you say, grossly pleased. "I'm sure you're right."
Jason's eyes are half-lidded. He leans in, fingers brushing your back. Your heart beats faster but not out of fear.
"You look really nice," you say, voice pitching higher.
"Yeah?" he asks. "Not nearly as nice as you. Y'know red's my favorite color."
Oh, you know. "I thought it would be better than black. Spot me in a crowd. People could return me to you if I got lost."
He licks his lips. "Mm. But I wouldn't lose ya."
"You almost lost me coming out of the bathroom."
Jason shakes his head. "I was watchin'. Would've gone to find ya if it'd taken you any longer."
"What a gross invasion of privacy, Mr. Hood."
He hesitates for a moment, like maybe you really are repulsed. So you step closer, crowding him. You hold his arm. It's bold. You don't often touch each other.
"It was wrong of me to get possessive," you say, close enough to feel Jason's warmth and the flex of his bicep. "Sorry. I don't own you."
Jason looks at you, gaze heavy. "'S okay. Really. I only wanna dance with you, to be honest."
He looks like he wants to say something more. He doesn't, but he holds your waist, ear bent to your lips, and that's enough, really. You're no longer worried about princesses.
thoughts on jason who keeps forgetting to cut his hair until it’s curling around the nape of his neck. you walk by and yank at it playfully to remind him it’s getting long and the moan he lets out is so loud he wants to apologize to the neighbours.
xoxo sunnie (@fic-over-cannon)
oh hell yeah sunnie baby<33 jason x gn!reader. nsfw. heavy makeout
****
As soon as you get home, you drop your things and flop onto your boyfriend, who's on the couch with a book.
"Thank God," you say, climbing onto him. "My favorite pillow's here."
You let out a loud sigh and burrow deeper into Jason's chest. He's warm, his chest rising and falling steadily. You feel him laugh, his body jostling you.
"Hi, baby," he says, rubbing your back. "Everything okay?"
You peek one eye out. Jason smiles down at you. God, he's cute. You quell the urge to bite his pectoral.
"Better now that you're here. Work's just being a bitch."
He nods sympathetically, probably ready to offer a solution like leaving dead rats on your boss's doorstep. But you suddenly find something far more interesting, something that has you sitting up and momentarily forgetting your woes.
"When did your hair get so long?" you ask, straddling Jason's lap. He accepts you easily, one hand resting on your hip to brace you.
"Is it? Jus' cut it a month ago," he says, free hand running through his dark curls. Fluffy, baby curls poof and gather at the nape of his neck. You've always been jealous of how fast Jason's hair grows and how thick it is.
"You look like you're gonna sing about how we all need to love each other," you say, grinning. "Another month and you'll rival Dick's mullet era."
Jason rolls his eyes. "I'd never hear th' end of it from him."
You shrug, pushing a curl behind his ear. "I dunno. I like it, Jay. You look really cute."
"Yeah?" he asks, bashful as ever over your compliment.
You grin, immediately endeared. Your hand travels deeper into his hair, gathering a fistful.
"Yeah, I do, sweetie." You lazily meet his mouth, and Jason's eager as always to touch and be touched. He kisses you sweetly, thumb rubbing circles on your waist.
You're not really thinking about what you do next. Jason's kissing you, and you're holding his hair. Usually it's not long enough for you to get such a grip on it.
He squeezes your thigh. You pull.
Jason moans loudly into your mouth, hips jerking forward. You exhale in surprise, your grip loosening. Your mouths part.
His face is red, as red as it gets after a long workout, or that time you made him come so hard he cried.
"F-fuck, sorry," is the first thing out of his mouth. You feel him shift his hips away from you, and the realization strikes you like lightning: Jason's hard from a few kisses and a hair pull.
"You so don't have to apologize for that," you say, going on your knees so that you can grab his face and look down at him.
Jason looks up at you, teal eyes big from this angle. He's got long lashes and freckles dotting his nose. You rest your tongue on your teeth, and your fingers creep back into his hair. He holds your waist, like he can't help but touch you.
"You liked that, huh?" you ask, grip tightening again.
Jason's face is still red. "Um, you—it, well, it caught me off-guard, but... yeah. Sorry."
You pull his hair again, a little harder this time. He moans again, struggling and failing to be quiet. His pink lips form a perfect O, lids fluttering. You want to eat him alive.
"What did I say about apologizing?" you ask sternly.
Jason's back straightens. "You said not to. Won't do it again."
"Good boy," you say, sinking back down to kiss him. You feel him hard against your thigh, and the thrill of Jason getting so worked up in your hands makes you hot.
"Mm, maybe we should leave your hair long." You suck a mark on his neck. Jason whines.
"'F you want me to, I will," he says, hips shifting under you. You grind against him and Jason makes a choked sound. He's so fucking easy.
"Oh, yeah?" you ask. "It's my choice, huh? Never mind the fact that you're already big and hard from a little kissing and pulling. I barely have to do anything and you're gagging for it. You want me, baby?"
Jason nods vigorously. "Yeah, y-yeah. Want cha. Anything you want, I'll d—nnngh!"
You pull again. Jason's hips lift so high and fast that you go up with them. His strength makes you dizzy. The fact that he's hard and docile beneath you makes you dizzier.
"You're so sweet, honey pie," you say, hand traveling under his waistband, wrapping around his cock. Jason's moan is strained. "Don't you dare touch a pair of scissors."
⤷ "Just us two..." "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "…Three?"
jason todd x fem!reader
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ Jason loves your alone time. Jason also loves Damian. Jason does not want to share your alone time. Damian loves you both. Damian will make him share your alone time.
aka ›››› "You can’t force me to participate in no-nut November."
word cnt. 3.4k
⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ first fic that doesn't have young!Damian being called demon or bat guys/j ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.
Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.
Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.
Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.
Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer. All he knew was that one night, both of them came home from patrol bloodied and bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.
You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, antiseptic and laughter. It was supposed to end there.
It didn’t.
Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.
Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.
Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.
“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”
Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.
There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.
You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.
And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.
Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.
Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.
He did not like your choice in company.
And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.
“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.
You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.
“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.
That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.
You spoke like he did.
And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.
“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.
He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.
His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.
Perfect, as always. Yours as always.
“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.
Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”
“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.
Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.
Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.
“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.
“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.
Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.
You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”
“Vegetable,” Damian added.
You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”
Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.
When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.
By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.
The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.
“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”
Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.
“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.
Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.
Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”
His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.
You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”
You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.
But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.
“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”
There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.
He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.
Especially not around Damian.
It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.
Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.
Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.
He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.
So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.
He misses you.
Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.
He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.
Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.
Apparently, you could.
Apparently, you could rival a monk.
And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.
Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.
“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.
Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”
You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”
“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.
You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”
“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”
You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”
Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.
You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.
Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”
“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”
“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”
You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”
Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”
“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”
“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”
You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”
He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”
“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”
“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”
You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.
Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”
“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”
Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”
“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”
You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.
Jason already knows.
And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:
“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”
You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.
The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.
“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”
Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.
“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.
“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”
You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.
Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.
“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.
“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”
Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.
You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”
He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.
“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”
You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”
“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”
You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.
“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”
You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”
“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.
“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.
“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.
You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”
Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”
“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.
He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.
Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.
ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ
authors note! I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
you're jason's biggest secret ノ the clock on the nightstand glowed 2:37 a.m., its blue light cutting through the dark like a heartbeat—steady and patient. the rest of the apartment was draped in silence, save for the faint hum of the city seeping through the windows: a car passing below, the dull rhythm of tires against wet asphalt, a far-off siren singing to no one in particular.
the curtains swayed slightly in the draft, carrying with them the faint scent of rain that gotham seemed born from. the room, your room, felt small and warm—too soft a space for someone like him, maybe, but it was yours. the two of you had built it together out of quiet mornings and stolen hours and an unspoken promise that peace didn’t have to be permanent to be real.
you stirred at the sound of the door clicking open. you didn’t move, not yet. you could feel him before you saw him—the air itself shifting, the stillness breaking the way it always did when he came home from the city’s dark edges.
he moved like a shadow. every step was precise, every sound carefully softened. his presence filled the apartment even when he tried to disappear inside it.
there was the familiar sequence: the soft thud of boots on hardwood, the faint clink of metal as holsters came undone, the whisper of leather sliding off his shoulders. a ritual of exhaustion. a language you’d come to understand without needing words.
you could hear the subtle tremor of his breath, heavy from the night, edged with the weight of things he’d never quite tell you—what he saw, who he fought, what he had to become to come back to you in one piece.
when the mattress dipped under his weight, you opened your eyes. he sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed, a figure carved out of shadows and tension. even in the dark, you could make out the lines of his face—the dried blood near his temple, the faint split at his lip, the fatigue sunk deep beneath his eyes. you reached for him, brushing your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble against your skin. his breath hitched softly, a sound too small to belong to someone like him.
“you’re late,” you murmured, your voice breaking the quiet like a soft sigh.
he exhaled, eyes closing for a beat. “yeah,” he said, the word coming out on a sigh that carried more apology than explanation. “things got… complicated.”
you shifted, sitting up enough for the blanket to fall from your shoulders. the dim city light from the window caught on his arm as he stripped off his gloves, revealing the pale knuckles bruised along their edges.
“you promised you’d make it for dinner,” you said quietly. iIt wasn’t reproach, not really. just the ghost of disappointment you couldn’t quite hide.
“the big bat had other plans,” he murmured. “i couldn’t just walk out on him.”
you tilted your head, a soft sound escaping you. “you could’ve called.”
he looked up then, a flicker of something guilty in his expression. “didn’t want to wake you,” he lied.
you smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over the faint scar near his mouth. “you always say that.”
“and i should’ve known by now that you’re not sleeping until i’m here...”
that earned him a soft snort. you leaned in, resting your forehead against his shoulder, the scent of gunpowder and rain clinging to him. “you’re supposed to be taking it easy,” you said.
“i am,” he said, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you know me. i’m real good at easy.”
you let out a quiet laugh against his chest, but the sound softened when you felt him go still. your belly pressed against him when you shifted closer, the faintest swell—barely showing, but enough to make his breath catch.
his hand moved instinctively, resting over the curve as though it was the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb brushed small circles over the fabric of your shirt, and for a moment, all that exhaustion melted away. the city, the noise, the chaos—it all fell silent around him.
“still don’t want to tell them?” you asked, your voice gentle.
he was quiet for a long time. then, softly: “no. not yet.”
“jay…”
he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “it’s not that i don’t want them to know. i just—” he raked a hand through his hair, voice dropping to a low murmur. “i need time. bruce will think it’s reckless. dick will try to fix it, like everything needs fixing. and the others… they’ll make it into a thing. they’ll drag the life i’ve built here into that world. and this—” he pressed his palm against your stomach again, his voice breaking around the word. “this is the only thing i’ve got that’s mine. the only thing i didn’t have to fight for or steal back. i just want to keep it safe a little longer. keep you safe.”
you felt the ache in his voice. you knew the way he loved—how it burned and bled, how it was always a rebellion against a world that told him he didn’t deserve anything good. you lifted your hand to his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. “okay,” you whispered, barely more than breath. “for a little longer.”
he nodded, his eyes softening. then he leaned in, kissing you once, slow and careful, then again, lingering like he could memorize the warmth of your skin through the exhaustion in his bones. he stayed close after that, forehead pressed to yours, the silence between you filling with everything unspoken.
when he finally pulled back, you traced the dried blood along his temple with your thumb. “come on,” you said softly. “i’ll start your bath.”
he shook his head. “nah. just a quick shower.”
“you need to soak,” you countered gently.
“i just need you,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple. “i’ll be right back.”
he left the room, the door closing softly behind him, and you listened to the faint hiss of water from the other side. for a moment, it was easy to believe this life would stay hidden forever.
but peace never lasted long in gotham.
a week later, dick broke through the safehouse window, his voice echoing like thunder in the quiet. jason hadn’t answered comms in fully seven days, had gone completely dark after telling them he’d be off-grid for the week, and dick’s worry had eaten through his patience. he’d expected a fight. a confrontation. maybe even blood.
he did not expect this.
jason was standing by the stove, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, stirring something that smelled suspiciously like garlic and tomatoes. the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, his hair damp from a shower, and there was a softness in his eyes that didn’t belong to the man dick knew.
and there you were—perched on the counter beside the sink, legs swinging idly, a bowl of fruit in your lap. you were laughing at something he said, your smile easy and bright, your hand absently resting over your small but unmistakable bump.
for a moment, dick just stood there, half inside the broken window, half out of breath. It was the most domestic scene he’d ever seen in his life—and the last thing he ever thought he’d find in jason todd’s apartment.
jason looked up, eyes narrowing, voice sharp as a knife. “the fuck are you doing here?”
dick blinked, his jaw slack, and managed, “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
taglist ﹕@lyvhie @spacejip @bamjjwi @averyhotchner | if you'd like to join the taglist, fill out this form! / part two
Imagine Jason Todd bending down to hear you better during a mission…
that man is huge too
like you’re just trying to tell him something quiet and he leans down, one hand on his thigh, helmet tilted a little so you know he’s actually listening??
That subtle head tilt like, “yeah, sweetheart? what’d you say?” in that gravelly voice??
And you can feel the heat coming off his jacket, smell the faint scent of gun oil and leather, and suddenly whatever you were gonna say just evaporates from your brain.
Then he goes, all teasing,
“You gonna tell me, or did I crouch down here for nothing?”
i know people like bulky but i struggle not giving him old man bod 😆 hot, but i still want to capture that he's in his 20s... the fat storage is different! idk! U know what i mean
you and jason don't fight too much, but when you do, it can get ugly.
he shouts, you yell. the back end of his fist bangs against the wall. your eyes water with tears you refuse to release. you both say things you don't mean, words you wish you could take back the second they leave your lips.
these arguments usually center around one issue. jason's abhorrent communication skills. it can take many forms -- he's struggling but won't come to you for help, he's distant and making you feel at fault, you feel like you're drowning but don't know if you can depend on him to be there.
whatever the specifics may be, it always ends the same way. you, in a storm of fiery defiance, snatch your pillow and blanket from the bed. he scoffs, sarcastically asks you where you're going. you don't give him an answer. you simply make your way to the couch, slamming the bedroom door behind you as loud as you can.
while you set yourself up on the large sectional in the living room, jason is left in empty quietness. he hates it. he doesn't want to be the one to apologize. he doesn't want to need you more than you need him. but more than that, he hates when you're mad at him.
so he lays down, his body stiff and his eyes trained on the ceiling. he waits. he gives it an hour, maybe two if the fight was particularly bad. then he gets up and creeps out to the living room. he scans the dark area bathed in the tv's glow, ensuring you're asleep before he pads closer. he's only correct half of the time, but you let him think you're always unconscious.
carefully as he can, he joins you on the sofa, silently thanking your past selves for buying the one with the wider seats. his thick arm loops around your waist, and he pulls you flush against himself.
he doesn't say anything. he just watches you sleep. he watches how peaceful and perfect you look. he wonders how it was even possible that he was angry at you such a short time ago.
his breath fans against the back of your neck, and he stays still for a minute, making sure you stay asleep. once he feels like you're not at risk of waking up, his hand sweeps over the side of your head. his fingers press against your hair, moving any stray locks away from your ear.
he kisses behind your ear once, twice, then three times, following the curve of the shell. he keeps his face against your skin. your scent floods his head, and warmth fizzles throughout his body. finally his eyes close.
there's no whispered 'i love you' or 'i'm sorry,' but there doesn't need to be. you know those things are true. you can feel them.
Jason Todd is weird because, yes, he comes home smelling like gunpowder and smoke after being out all day doing who knows what. And yes, sometimes you won’t let him lay in bed with you until he’s showered because he smells like outside. But sometimes, when he’s traded a night on the streets for a little more time with you, and when he’s in warm clothes instead of his rugged gear, you catch a whiff of baby powder. No, Jason Todd does not use baby powder. In fact, he rarely uses cologne. He’s not really the type.
So it comes as a shock to you, that beneath all the dirt and grime, he smells like a newborn baby. It’s just his natural smell. For a long time, it was a mystery. Figured he picked up a new laundry detergent on the way home. But all of your shampoos and soaps are vanilla scented. And, sure, whatever you use, he uses. But this is his scent, and you prefer this over anything.
Sometimes the scent is stronger than usual. Like when he’s found himself a hiding spot in between the curve of your jaw and shoulder, cold nose pressed to your pulse point. Like this, he doesn’t smell like a man who carries guns in holsters. He smells like innocence. It also doesn’t help that when he sleeps, he looks so peaceful. His rose-colored cheeks fatten up from where they’re smushed against your sternum. Big paw curled under his chin. He looks so content like this, which is good for your worrisome heart. Because when he’s awake, he’s usually so grumpy, always pouting about something, the big baby. But when he’s fast asleep, you can take a second to admire every little detail about him.
The way his hair curls at the base of his neck and around his ears, or his lips that are a bit more pink from the sleepy kisses before bed. And that baby sweet scent he swears up and down, he does not have. He gets even shyer when you insist on shoving your face in his neck to get a better trace. You can’t help it, it’s kind of funny even. Big rough Jason Todd secretly smells like vanilla and fresh linen. Don’t tell anyone, though.
drabble scenario with your big baby boyfriend!jason todd (gn!reader as always)
a/n: this has been in my google docs drafts for.... 5 days say hello i dont PLAY abt jason fluff
Jason is a really big baby, that he won't admit.
You could be holding him in your lap, him sitting sideways while his head rested against your shoulder. Fingers fiddling with the stings of his hoodie, all red and flushed from the embarrassment of how contradicting this was to the attitude he shows to others. While you're (happily oblivious) feeding him popcorn during movie night, just soft to see him mushy for you.
Change of positions won't stop anything. Straddling him still means you cooing sweet, exaggerated, simplified words into his ear while running your fingers through his hair, every word that slips out of you will grant Jason trying to hide his face in the crook of your neck nuzzling closer like the evident crimson from his ears is leaving your peripheral vision.
You only found this out a few months back when you were helping him with his bandages after a really troubling mission. “Baby…Told you to call me.” you whispered cupping one side of his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone, slow and fond. You stood in front of him while he sat on the couch, multiple layers of gauze around his stubborn wounds, the smell of antiseptics filling the small space between you two.
Oh if you could go back in time to do this again you’ve already abused that power. That kicked puppy face of his deepened while he looked up through his lashes. You could see them bat unconsciously as a subtle pout formed from his lips. You kissed it away of course.
When you would accidentally slip a phrase you frequently use in babying him while around people he just gives you a stare and knitted eyebrows, but you know that's not what's actually happening.
And if you do get that alone time, he's clutching onto the fabric of your shirt arms tightly encircled around your waist while shuddering out a breath. “Say it again. Please.”
He gets so embarrassed. It's cute. One of the main reasons you do it a lot. Jason feels very loved when you do, finally letting his brain shut off for a few minutes just giving in to your touches.
You tease him sometimes for it. “My big baby.” you giggled out lightly as foreheads touched, he glared but seeing no genuine heat in his eyes, his grip on your thighs tightening fractionally as you guys laid down. “Shut up.” Like hell you would.
Of course it doesn't happen without reciprocation from his side. When you get a bad day he does the same things trying to get you to relax in his arms. He doesn't take and not give back, especially to the person who he will die for.
Trying to get Jason to show vulnerability at first was hard, knowing his past and such it wasn’t a surprise, albeit it didn't make you like him any less. Finding the right buttons to push with patients is more rewarding than you thought.
You know he's a big baby, he knows he's a big baby, but you don't expect him to say it out loud when you already know a single sound of him shuffling to you with his head low means another night of giving him the praises he needs and craves.
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
janainaart
