‘cause maybe close just isn’t close enough
normal au . nsfw (violence not smut) . secret admiration . fluff . onesided pining . series . celebrity fem reader . fighting crime but make it romantic . knight in shining armor
► previous chapter . next chapter . masterlist
The crystalline chandeliers of the Wayne Enterprises Grand Ballroom hung like frozen galaxies, catching the warm, flickering glow of a thousand floating beeswax candles. They cast a shimmering, amber hue over Gotham’s elite, softening the sharp, calculating edges of the city's power brokers.
The air inside the expansive hall was thick, almost suffocatingly opulent, layered with the intoxicating scent of expensive French perfume, roasted vanilla orchid, and the crisp, sharp fizz of vintage Dom Pérignon.
Melodic strings from a live quartet drifted lazily from the balcony, a soft, classical tapestry that barely masked the low, hummed roar of high-society gossip and transactional laughter as you stood near the exact center of the polished marble floor, slowly, elegantly swirling a crystal flute of champagne.
The heavy, double-faced silk of your emerald gown caught the light with every micro-movement, clinging to your frame, but the true focal point of the evening was nestled heavily against your collarbone.
It was a priceless, archival Chanel necklace. The piece was a masterpiece of layered platinum and cascading South Sea pearls, culminating in a central, flawless pink diamond that seemed to absorb and refract the very light of the room.
It felt cold against your skin, a beautiful, fragile weight.
“A toast,” Monsieur Laurent murmured. The elderly owner of Chanel smiled warmly, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with an affectionate, fatherly pride as he raised his own flute toward you.
“To the most stunning ambassador the House has ever seen. You wear the archive piece beautifully, ma chérie. It was made for history, but tonight, you give it life.”
“Thank you, Laurent,” you replied softly, your voice carrying a genuine warmth as you leaned in, clinking your glass against his. The clear, musical chime of the crystal rang out between you, a pure note in a room full of noise.
“It’s an absolute honor to represent the brand tonight. Though, if I'm being entirely honest, I’m terrified I might scratch it! Every time someone steps too close, my heart stops.”
“Nonsense!” Laurent chuckled, waving a dismissive, impeccably manicured hand as a wealthy couple approached the periphery of your circle.
“You remind me so much of my own daughter when she was your age—full of grace, yet utterly fierce underneath. If anyone deserves to wear a piece of history, it is you. Do not let these vultures intimidate you.”
“Oh, he’s absolutely right,” Mrs. Falcone chimed in, smoothly gliding into the conversation.
She adjusted a glittering, diamond-encrusted magnifying glass, leaning over slightly to inspect the central stone with a practiced, predatory eye. “The craftsmanship is divine! It’s the undisputed jewel of the charity gala. Tell me, Laurent, did Bruce Wayne ever find the time to RSVP? I haven’t seen him drifting around the buffet yet, and heaven knows he loves an entrance.”
Laurent sighed, a theatrical, weary roll of his shoulders following the sound. “Ah, alas, no. I spoke with his secretary just this morning.”
“Mr. Wayne sent his deepest regrets and a rather generous donation check, but he claimed he was terribly swamped with sudden, emergency Wayne Enterprises board meetings. A shame. The man misses the finest parties.”
“Busy with work, as always,” you murmured with a slight, knowing smile, taking a slow, grounding sip of the crisp, cold champagne, letting the bubbles track down your throat.
It didn’t fade out naturally, the strings cut off with a harsh, screeching scrape of a resin-heavy bow across a cello string, a sound that grated violently against the ear.
A heavy, unnatural silence fell over the grand ballroom for a single, agonizing heartbeat as the laughter died, and the glasses stopped clinking.
The massive, reinforced mahogany double doors of the ballroom blew inward with a deafening, concussive roar. The shockwave rattled the glass flutes in people's hands, shattering several on the perimeter.
The smell of burning gunpowder, scorched wood, and acrid chemical smoke instantly choked out the delicate scent of perfume and vanilla.
Screams, raw and panicked, erupted from the crowd as a dozen heavily organized, heavily armed mercenaries flooded the room in a synchronized tactical wedge.
They wore matte-black body armor, ballistic masks, and bore the chilling, familiar crest of the Penguin’s syndicate spray-painted in a jagged white emblem on their shoulders. “Nobody moves! Hands where we can see them!” a gruff, synthesized voice boomed through a megaphone, punctuated by the terrifying, mechanical rack of an assault rifle being chambered.
Laurent’s fatherly instincts kicked in instantly. His face turned a sickly, pale white, his hands trembling violently as he reached out and grabbed your forearm with surprising strength. “We need to leave now! Come, out the terrace doors—”
Before you could even take a single step backward, a massive, high-intensity spotlight mounted to the lead mercenary’s tactical vest swept over the panicked crowd, cutting through the haze of smoke until it locked directly onto you.
The beam was blinding, forcing you to raise a hand to shield your eyes. “Well, well, well,” the leader of the crew sneered. His heavy, steel-toed combat boots thudded with a terrifying deliberation against the polished marble as he strode directly toward your circle, his men fanning out to corral the rest of the screaming guests. “Look what we have here. The crown jewel of the evening.”
Laurent tried to step in front of you, his frail chest heaving, his voice cracking with a desperate fear. “Leave her out of this! Take whatever money you want, the vault is—”
Without a word, a mercenary ruthlessly shoved the elderly man. The butt of a rifle caught Laurent squarely in the chest. He hit the marble floor with a sickening, hollow thud, a breathy groan escaping his lips.
“Laurent!” you cried out, your breath catching in your throat.
Before you could kneel to help him, a rough, calloused hand clamped around your bare upper arm with a bruising, agonizing grip.
You were violently yanked backward, your heels clicking sharply and unevenly against the floor as you tried to wrench yourself free. “Let go of me!” you gasped, twisting your body against the tight restraint, but the mercenary easily pinned your arm behind your back.
He wrenched it upward toward your shoulder blade, forcing a sharp, painful gasp from your lips as the fabric of your gown strained.
“Shut up,” the leader barked, pulling out a modified satellite phone from his tactical vest. He tapped the screen, and a live-streaming red light began to blink, casting a sinister glow on his mask.
“With a global celebrity like you in our hands, your little fan club is going to fund our operations for the next decade. Look at the camera, sweetheart. Time to make a public statement to Gotham.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird as you glared directly into the lens, refusing to let them see you cry, though the raw terror of the situation made your knees tremble beneath the silk of your dress.
The entire world seemed to shatter as the massive, vaulted glass ceiling of the ballroom imploded violently. Shards of heavy, crystalline glass rained down like a deadly, glittering waterfall, slicing through the air and catching the ambient candlelight before every single power grid in the building blew out in a synchronized explosion of sparks.
The ballroom was plunged into an absolute, suffocating, pitch-black darkness. “What the hell?! Check the skylight! Turn on the night vision!” the leader screamed, his voice entirely losing its confident edge, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic.
Through the pitch black, a heavy, mechanical sound echoed—the distinct, terrifying hiss of a vocalizer filtering a voice that carried the weight of a graveyard.
“You boys picked the wrong night to look for a payout.”
It sounded like an angry god corporate-forged in the depths of Gotham’s underbelly.
The mercenaries opened fire blindly. The flash-hiders on their rifles failed to contain the blinding, strobing muzzle flashes that illuminated the room in chaotic, fragmented bursts of light, but Red Hood moved like smoke between the frames of a horror film.
You heard a brutal, heavy thud as a massive body launched from the upper rafters, landing squarely on a mercenary directly to your left.
In the brief flash of gunfire, you saw Red Hood seize the man’s throat, slamming his head back into the marble floor with a wet, heavy crack that silenced his breathing instantly.
“He’s behind us! He’s—argh!”
The sound of gunfire was entirely eclipsed by the pure, unadulterated brutality of the fight. Red Hood dismantled them with a terrifying, calculated ferocity.
Another muzzle flash lit up the dark: Red Hood caught a mercenary's extended arm, twisting it backward until the elbow joint popped and shattered with a horrific, splintering sound.
The man didn’t even have time to scream before a heavy, armored boot caved into his ribs, sending him crashing into a pillar with a dull, broken thud as the air grew thick with the smell of copper and sweat.
You heard the heavy clatter of assault rifles hitting the floor, the frantic, terrified breathing of the remaining mercenaries, and the terrifyingly calm, heavy footsteps of the vigilante tracking them down. In the brief, erratic flashes of light, you caught glimpses of him—a towering, massive silhouette dominating the space, the blood-red dome of his helmet gleaming like a beacon of death in the dark.
He caught a third man by the tactical vest, lifting him entirely off his feet and driving him spine-first into the edge of a heavy oak buffet table, snapping the wood and the man's vertebrae in a single, fluid motion.
The man holding you completely panicked. His grip on your arm turned frantic as he pulled a heavy sidearm from his thigh holster, aiming it wildly into the dark. “Stay back! I’ll kill her! I swear to god I’ll—”
A heavy, silver-plated custom automatic pistol whipped out of the darkness as the solid steel barrel struck the mercenary directly across the temple.
The impact was loud—a dull, heavy smack of metal meeting bone—and the force of the blow sent him flying off his feet. His body crashed into a tiered catering table, sending silver platters and smashed ice scattering across the floor as he went completely limp, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Before you could even process that the pressure on your arm was gone, that you were free, a massive, armored hand reached out of the pitch-black shadows and gripped your wrist.
You gasped, your survival instincts completely overriding your reason. Assuming another terrorist had claimed you in the dark, you began to struggle wildly. “No! Let go of me! Get off!”
You kicked out, your heels catching on your dress, your small hands pushing and clawing frantically against what felt like a solid, unyielding wall of absolute iron and Kevlar.
The size difference between you was staggering as he towered over you, easily over six feet of pure, dense muscle and heavy tactical plate, making you feel entirely engulfed by his shadow.
He didn’t budge an inch against your frantic, panicked movements. Instead, with a motion that was surprisingly slow, deliberate, and unhurried, he effortlessly wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you backward.
He guided you into the deep, velvet-curtained recess of a window alcove, shielding your body entirely from the rest of the room with his massive frame.
“Stop. Stop struggling,” his voice rumbled.
But it wasn’t the terrifying, mechanical rasp he had used on the mercenaries as the vocalizer clicked off with a soft, electronic beep.
What was left was a deep, rough gravel—a voice that was incredibly human, entirely devoid of the synthesized grit, and laced with a quiet, breathless panic that didn’t make any sense for a killer.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, his large, leather-gloved hand shifting from your wrist to gently cup the side of your bare arm.
His thumb brushed over your skin with a heartbreaking, reverent softness that made your breath hitch in your throat. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, I’m here to save you.”
You froze, your chest heaving violently against the hard, cold plates of his tactical vest. The air in the small alcove suddenly felt incredibly thick, heavy with an unspoken, suffocating emotional tension.
Up close, the scent of the gala was entirely gone. He smelled of cold Gotham rain, old leather, the metallic tang of copper, and a faint, sweet trace of a familiar cedar wood-smoke scent—a smell you couldn't quite place, but one that felt painfully close to a memory you thought you'd lost.
Through the dark, you couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but you could feel the intense, burning gaze of his hidden eyes looking down at you, searching yours.
His hand remained on your arm, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was actually holding you, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he let go.
“You’re Red Hood,” you whispered, your voice shaking, your heart pounding for a completely different reason now. “You… you know who I am?”
A short, breathless sound escaped his lips—a bittersweet, aching laugh that he quickly choked back, turning into a rough exhale.
He pulled his hand away slowly, drag by drag, as if tearing himself away from a dream he didn’t want to wake up from, though his massive body remained firmly, protectively positioned between you and the rest of the dangerous room. “Yeah,” he murmured softly into the dark, his voice filled with a quiet, unresolved yearning that made your chest tighten.
“I know exactly who you are.”
The echoes of automatic gunfire and shattered crystal still rang through the cavernous grand ballroom, but within the heavy velvet shadows of the alcove, the air felt thick, isolated, and impossibly quiet.
It was as if the world had shrunk to the space of a few square feet. You were entirely swallowed by his shadow, your chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps against the cold, unyielding plates of his tactical chest rig.
A sudden, sharp draft swept through the broken skylight above, carrying the bitter, unforgiving chill of the Gotham winter night.
The temperature dropped instantly as you shivered violently, your bare shoulders trembling beneath the thin, useless silk straps of your emerald gown.
Through the tinted red visor of his helmet, Red Hood felt his heart violently thud against his ribs like a caged animal. His secret, pathetic crush on you—the one he usually confined to crumpled magazine pages, stolen society column clippings, and late-night, whiskey-fueled pining—was currently threatening to choke him.
Seeing you like this, small, freezing, and vulnerable in the bleeding center of a warzone, made his protective instincts flare into an absolute, blinding frenzy.
“Hey. Look at me,” he murmured. His voice was incredibly deep, stripped of its mechanical rasp, carrying a raw, gravelly tenderness that felt entirely private.
Before you could even form a response, his large, calloused hands moved to the heavy steel zipper of his canvas flight jacket. With a swift, fluid motion born of years of muscle memory, he shed the outer layer, leaving himself in just his tight, form-fitting black body armor as he draped the oversized jacket over your shoulders.
The garment was massive, retaining the intense radiating heat of his body. It smelled overwhelmingly of him.
It instantly swallowed you whole; the hem fell well past your knees, and the sleeves buried your hands, trapping your body heat inside its heavy, protective embrace.
“We need to move. Now,” he whispered, his massive, gloved hand settling firmly against the small of your back to guide you out of the recess. “Stairs are our best bet. Elevators are death traps in a blackout.”
You didn’t protest. In fact, as he steered you toward the heavy iron fire doors at the back of the ballroom, your hand instinctively reached out from the oversized sleeve and wrapped your fingers tightly around the thick, armored strap of his chest rig.
You leaned heavily into his side, completely and unconditionally trusting this violent vigilante to keep you alive as Red Hood practically choked on his own breath.
His entire body went rigid for a split second, a sudden wave of sheer, unadulterated panic washing over him. ‘... She’s holding onto me,’ his brain screamed, his face flushing a furious crimson beneath the safety of his helmet.
He had faced down Batman in a blood rage, stared into the eyes of the Joker, and fought the worst monsters Gotham had to offer without a single blink—but your tiny hand gripping his vest made his knees feel entirely like jelly.
He forced his legs to function, his massive combat boots making absolutely no sound against the concrete steps as he hurried you upward into the dim stairwell.
By the time you reached the landing of the tenth floor, the muscles in your calves were seizing, and your feet were screaming in agony.
The towering, six-inch designer heels you had worn to look elegant for the gala were never meant for a tactical retreat up a concrete fire tower.
Your ankle gave way on a cracked step, snapping outward, and you stumbled forward with a soft, pained gasp.
Red Hood caught you instantly as his massive arm hooked around your waist like a steel crane, effortlessly lifting your weight to keep you upright before you could crash into the concrete.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your face burning with embarrassment as you leaned against his chest for support, the heavy scent of him filling your senses. “I need to take these off—! They’re killing me...”
You awkwardly bent down, struggling with the intricate, delicate silk straps wrapped tightly around your ankles.
Your fingers were trembling far too much to undo the tight knots, only tightening the silk further against your skin. “Let me—” Red Hood started, dropping heavily to one knee to assist you, but the loud, metallic clang of the fire door two levels below slamming open cut him off entirely.
“Up there! I heard something! Check the levels!” a gruff, echoing voice shouted from the lower stairwell.
Three heavily armed mercenaries appeared on the lower landing, their tactical flashlights cutting through the dark, their assault rifles raising in perfect synchronization. Red Hood didn’t even hesitate for a heartbeat.
He surged to his feet, throwing his massive, broad-shouldered frame directly in front of you, completely blocking you from view like a human shield.
The fight that followed was a masterclass in controlled, claustrophobic brutality. Red Hood attacked the mercenaries with a fluid, terrifying aggression, but he was visibly restraining his usual style.
He didn’t use his flashbangs or grenades, and he kept his movements tightly bound to the center of the landing, refusing to take a single step that would leave the space between you and the incoming gunfire unprotected.
The lead mercenary lunged as Red Hood caught the swinging stock of the man’s carbine with his bare forearm, the impact ringing against his bracers.
In a flash of lethal intent, his right fist shot forward, the carbon-fiber knuckles burying themselves into the mercenary’s trachea with a sickening, hollow crunch as the man collapsed, clutching his throat.
But the tight, cramped quarters of the concrete stairwell worked against Red Hood’s massive size. A second mercenary managed to circle around his left flank, utilizing a heavy, polymer tactical riot shield to slam Red Hood hard into the concrete wall.
The impact echoed through the stairwell with a sickening, echoing thud. Dust and chips of masonry rained down. For a horrifying second, Red Hood was pinned, the wind knocked from his lungs as his primary sidearm was violently jarred from his grip, clattering down the stairs.
Driven by pure, unadulterated adrenaline, you finally ripped your right foot free from the tangled shoe, tearing the silk strap. Gripping the shoe by its toe, you lunged forward from the shadows of the landing.
With an arc born of desperation, you brought the heavy designer heel down with all your might, driving the dangerously sharp, metal-reinforced stiletto tip directly into the exposed, flexible mesh of the mercenary’s neck armor.
The sharp metal spike punctured deep into the soft tissue. The man let out a wet, bubbling shriek of pure agony, dropping his shield instantly and stumbling backward into the stairwell railing, blood instantly welling around the wound.
Red Hood’s visor snapped toward you, his jaw practically dropping inside his helmet. “Shit—duck!” he roared as you instantly dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and covering your head.
The sound of his customized .45 caliber pistols firing in the enclosed, echoing concrete stairwell was absolutely deafening.
The concussive force felt like a physical blow against your eardrums, forcing you to squint your eyes shut and press your hands tightly over your ears.
The acrid, sulfurous smell of burnt gunpowder filled the tight space instantly, heavy and suffocating. When the echoing roars finally faded, the silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the heavy, dying groans of the men below.
Red Hood dropped heavily to his knees in front of you, his large, trembling hands instantly grasping your shoulders. He was slightly breathless, his broad chest heaving beneath his armor.
“Hey, hey, look at me. Are you alright? Did a stray round hit you? Talk to me,” he demanded, his rough voice laced with a raw, desperate panic that completely betrayed his tough exterior.
You blinked through the daze, the ringing in your ears slowly fading to a dull hum as you nodded your head, still a little stunned by your own violence. “I’m okay. I’m okay, I promise.”
Despite your reassurance, his hands moved with an almost frantic gentleness, checking your arms, your neck, and your waist for any signs of blood or injury.
In his haste, his thick, leather-gloved fingers accidentally slid down, locking perfectly around yours. His hand completely enveloped yours, the sheer size difference making you feel incredibly small, yet entirely protected.
“We need to get to the roof,” Red Hood said, his voice dropping to a serious, low rumble as he pulled you to your feet. “My ride is parked a few buildings over. We zipline across.”
“No,” you disagreed instantly, shaking your head firmly as you looked up into the blank white lenses of his mask. “We shouldn’t go up there.”
The white lenses of his helmet narrowed slightly in confusion. “And why is that?”
“Because there might be more of them waiting upstairs,” you said, your voice entirely serious, your eyes wide. “That’s exactly where they’d put a sniper or an ambush. Especially in action movies. They always trap the main characters on the roof because there’s nowhere left to run.”
A sudden, sharp sound broke through the lingering tactical tension—a genuine, deep laugh that rumbled right out of Red Hood’s chest, vibrating through his armor. “Action movies? Seriously? Sweetheart, I am an action movie.”
He squeezed your hand gently, a playful, teasing edge entering his rough voice. “But fine. I’ll humor you. Where to, boss?”
You fully gripped his hand back, pulling him toward the tenth-floor hallway door.
You were completely barefoot now, the cold, polished tile of the corridor a sharp, freezing contrast against the soles of your feet. “Follow me,” you whispered, leading him through the maze of carpeted, dimly lit hallways.
“Care to tell me where we’re going?” Red Hood questioned, his massive combat boots squeaking softly on the plush carpet as he easily kept pace with your quick, silent strides. “Because if this is a dead end, we’re cornered with no exit.”
“My hotel suite is on this floor,” you explained over your shoulder, your heart racing as you navigated the turns. “The balcony window connects to a lower, flat rooftop of the adjoining boutique hotel. We can cross over from there without being seen from the street.”
“Smart,” he murmured, genuinely impressed by your spatial awareness.
You finally reached the heavy door to your luxury suite as you frantically reached into the deep pockets of his massive canvas jacket, searching for your clutch or your belongings, before a cold wave of dread washed over you. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“I dropped my keycard,” you gasped, turning to look up at him in sheer panic. “It must have fallen out when I was wiggling away from that mercenary in the ballroom.”
Red Hood looked at the heavy, reinforced mahogany door, then down at your worried face. A small, confident smirk touched his lips beneath his helmet, invisible but entirely palpable.
“Step back,” he ordered softly.
You hurried backward a few paces. Red Hood aligned his massive, armored shoulder with the center of the doorframe, coiling his muscles. With a single, explosive burst of raw power, he bodyslammed his entire weight against the wood.
The heavy mahogany door splintered instantly, the brass lock tearing away from the frame with a loud, groaning screech of ripping screws.
He caught the ruined door with his gloved hand, bracing his massive frame against it to hold it wide open for you. “After you,” he murmured, a hint of old-school, ironic gallantry in his tone.
You hurried into the dark, luxurious suite, your bare feet sinking into the thick, plush rug. You ran straight toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window that led to the balcony.
Below it, about a twelve-foot drop, was the flat, gravel-lined roof of the neighboring building. “Alright,” Red Hood said, walking up right behind you, his towering presence instantly enveloping you in warmth.
“The drop isn’t bad. I’ll jump first, then I’ll catch you. Trust me.”
You looked down at the dark, dizzying distance, the gravel looking like jagged teeth in the moonlight, and your legs instantly turned to absolute jelly.
You stumbled back a step, shaking your head wildly. “Are you completely insane?! I am not jumping out of a tenth-story window! Twelve feet looks a lot bigger from up here!”
“It’s perfectly safe, I swear,” Red Hood argued, his hands coming up in a rare, placating gesture. “I catch people for a living. You won’t even hit the ground.”
“I don’t care! There has to be another way—”
“Find them! Check every room on this corridor! Leave no door unturned!”
An aggressive roar of footsteps and the distinct, terrifying sound of automatic gunfire test-firing erupted from the hallway, just three doors down. They were clearing the rooms, and they were coming fast.
Red Hood’s tactical instincts completely overrode everything else. Before you could even utter another syllable of protest, his massive hand gripped your waist.
He didn’t throw you out the window; instead, he spun your body around and shoved you directly into the nearby walk-in closet, stepping in right after you and pulling the heavy, slatted wooden doors completely shut until they clicked.
The darkness inside the closet was absolute, and the space was excruciatingly, suffocatingly cramped. Because of Red Hood’s massive size and broad shoulders, there was absolutely nowhere for you to go.
Your back was pressed flat against the rear wall of the closet, amidst hanging silk blouses, and your front was pushed directly against the solid, unyielding iron of his chest armor.
You were completely tucked underneath his chin, your head resting right over his sternum as the silence inside the closet was agonizingly intimate. Through the thin fabric of his undersuit, right beneath the metal plate, you could hear it.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump!
It was a loud, rapid, violent rhythm echoing from his chest. It was hammering so hard and so fast that you could practically feel the physical vibrations through your own ribcage. ‘Wow,’ you thought to yourself, your heart aching with a sudden, deep wave of sympathy in the dark.
‘He looks so terrifying, brutal, and confident out there... but he’s absolutely terrified right now. He must be really nervous about the mercenaries finding us…’
You had absolutely no idea that Red Hood Todd didn’t give a single damn about the mercenaries outside.
His heart was hammering against his ribs solely because the person he had been secretly, desperately in love with for the past year was currently pressed flat against his chest, breathing in his scent, and holding onto his armor in the pitch-black dark.
Red Hood kept his hands raised, palms pressed flat against the closet walls on either side of your head, intentionally keeping his heavy weight off you so he wouldn’t crush you.
He held his breath, his eyes locked onto the top of your head in the dark, the unresolved emotional tension between you so thick it felt completely intoxicating.
Outside, the heavy thuds of the mercenaries’ combat boots entered the hotel suite, breaking furniture, but inside the closet, the only thing that existed was the wild, frantic rhythm of his heart against your ear as the heavy wooden slats of the closet door filtered the chaotic sounds of the hotel suite—shouted orders, the violent tearing of dresser drawers, and the cold clatter of tactical gear.
But inside the pitch black, the space felt entirely divorced from reality. Slowly, your eyes began to adjust to the faint, slivered lines of amber light cutting through the slats.
The ambient glow illuminated the smooth, crimson curve of his helmet just inches from your face.
Then, with a soft, distinct electronic click, the white lenses of his visor flared down, dimming their brightness until they went entirely dark. He didn’t take the helmet off, but the sudden change felt like he was stripping away a layer of defense.
In the dim, shadowed space, you could feel the exact moment his gaze locked onto yours.
The eye contact was immediate, heavy, and blindingly intense. Even through the mask, the sheer, unadulterated heat of his stare felt like a physical touch as the silence between you stretched, growing so thick and suffocatingly intimate that the air seemed to evaporate from the closet.
The proximity was dizzying; you could feel the warmth of his breath puffing through the lower vents of his helmet, brushing against your forehead.
It quickly crossed the line from comforting to excruciatingly heated as the unspoken tension wrapped around you both, turning incredibly awkward as the seconds ticked by.
Panicking slightly under the weight of his gaze, you jerked your eyes away, looking down toward the floor to break the spell. You gulped nervously, your throat tight, trying to focus on anything other than the massive breadth of his chest pressed against you.
As your eyes adjusted to the floor shadows, you blinked as your breath hitched for a completely different reason.
Because of the painfully cramped quarters, Red Hood had been forced to shift his stance, stepping back into the deepest corner of the walk-in closet.
In doing so, his heavy, mud-stained combat boot was planted directly in the center of your delicate, wicker undergarments basket—specifically, right on top of a pile of lace and silk.
Your eyes widened. You stared down at the absolute disaster, your brain short-circuiting.
Red Hood, hyper-attuned to every single micro-movement of your body, immediately noticed your sudden, rigid freeze.
He felt your gaze drop, tracking your eyes down to the floor between his boots. “What? What is it?” he whispered, his rough voice hitching as he instinctively began to tilt his massive helmet downward to see what had caught your attention.
“No—!” The word nearly choked you.
Driven by pure, unadulterated mortification, your hands flew up before your brain could even process the action as you lunged forward the fraction of an inch available, your palms planting flat against the smooth, cold sides of his helmet.
You firmly cupped his cheeks, forcing his head back up and locking his gaze straight ahead so he couldn’t look down.
“It’s nothing! It’s absolutely— nothing!” you squeaked out in a panicked, breathless whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Red Hood froze entirely, his muscles turning to absolute stone beneath your hands.
It was only in the immediate, agonizing silence that followed that you realized exactly what you had just done. Your hands were still framing his face, your fingers pressing against the sides of his helmet.
Because you had lunged forward to stop him, the distance between you had completely evaporated. Your faces were bare inches apart since you could see the subtle mesh texture of his visor, could feel the rapid, uneven heat of his breath, and your own chest was pressed flush against the rigid emblem on his armor.
A heavy, stunned stillness fell over him.
Beneath your palms, you could actually feel the sudden, intense rush of heat radiating through the helmet as a massive blush crawled up his neck, coloring his face a furious, deep crimson beneath the mask.
Jason P. Todd—the feared, brutal Red Hood, the man who routinely dismantled Gotham’s worst syndicates without breaking a sweat—grew entirely, devastatingly shy.
His hands, which had been bracing the walls on either side of your head, trembled slightly. He awkwardly pulled his elbows inward, trying to make himself smaller, utterly terrified that his bulk would crowd you too much.
The white lenses of his mask rapidly flickered, a telltale sign of his internal panic as his brain completely melted from the proximity.
He couldn’t look away from you, his hidden eyes wide and completely captivated, utterly defenseless against the feeling of your hands holding him.
Outside, a heavy glass vase shattered in the bedroom as a mercenary kicked over a nightstand, but inside the closet, Red Hood was completely paralyzed, his breath caught entirely in his throat as he melted under your touch.
The heavy thud of combat boots echoed directly outside the slatted wooden doors, accompanied by the cold, metallic clatter of an assault rifle being slung over a tactical vest. They were right outside the closet.
His entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second as the bashful, flustered boy beneath the armor vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal, calculating efficiency of Red Hood.
His towering frame, easily standing at a massive six-foot-two of dense muscle and reinforced plates, shifted subtly to shield every square inch of your smaller body.
The sheer size difference between you was staggering; you felt completely enveloped by his shadow, your front pressed flush against the rigid Kevlar of his chest as his large, leather-gloved hand slid down to his hip, the thick fabric of his tactical belt creaking softly as his fingers wrapped around the cold, textured metal of a flashbang grenade.
Leaning down so low his helmet brushed the soft strands of your hair, he pressed his lips near the curve of your ear.
The vocalizer remained off, leaving only his deep, gravelly whisper to fill the agonizingly tight space between you, “Hey. Look at me,” he breathed, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, sending a heavy spike of adrenaline through your veins.
“Close your eyes. Shut them tight, and cover your ears the second I throw this. Do you hear me, sweetheart?”
Panic flared in your chest. Your fingers tightened against the rigid edge of his chest plate, your wide eyes searching the dark visor of his helmet. “Red Hood—what are you going to do?” you whispered frantically, your voice trembling with raw fear.
Through the faint amber light filtering through the slats, the white lenses of his mask briefly deactivated, revealing a quick, reassuring wink from a pair of intensely striking teal eyes. “Just a little party trick,” he murmured.
With an explosive, fluid motion, Red Hood slammed his elbow back into the closet door. The wooden slats shattered outward with a loud crack, and before the mercenaries could even register the noise, he yanked the pin from the grenade and hurled it directly into the center of the luxury suite.
You instantly squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face against the crook of his neck while raising your hands to tightly cover your ears.
But right before the world exploded into blinding light and sound, you felt his massive, calloused fingers gently catch your right hand.
With a surprisingly slow, deliberate tenderness that felt entirely insane given the life-or-death situation, Red Hood slid the cold, metallic loop of the grenade’s safety pin down the length of your ring finger.
It settled firmly against your knuckle like a makeshift, metallic wedding band—a silent, deeply hidden tease, a phantom marriage born from a crush he was too terrified to voice.
The concussive blast of the flashbang tore through the room, accompanied by the agonizing shrieks of the blinded mercenaries.
Before you could even process the ringing in your ears, Red Hood’s massive arm wrapped securely around your waist. He lifted you entirely off the floor, but instead of throwing you, he placed your bare feet firmly on top of his heavy, reinforced combat boots.
He bore your entire weight, ensuring that the soles of your feet wouldn’t touch the deadly, jagged shards of glass littering the balcony floor. “Hold on!” he roared through his vocalizer, which had clicked back on with a heavy, mechanical rasp.
Together, you crashed straight through the remaining glass pane of the balcony window.
The world tilted on its axis as you jumped at the exact same time, plunging into the bitter, open air of the Gotham night. As you descended, your eyes flew open for a terrifying fraction of a second.
In his right hand, Red Hood was tightly gripping his signature, custom twin automatic pistol, tilting it outward to monitor the drop. The ambient neon light of the city streets caught the dark, matte finish of the barrel, and a sudden, violent realization hit you like a physical blow.
Your legs turned to jelly.
It was the exact same silver-and-black pistol from six months ago. Your mind raced backward to a rainy afternoon in a small, quiet Gotham cafe, when an incredibly broad, ruggedly handsome ‘civilian’ with a distinct white streak in his dark hair had approached you.
He had been so nervous, his large hands trembling slightly as he handed you a metallic permanent marker, asking for your autograph on a custom, matte-black prop piece he claimed he was collecting.
You had laughed, teasing him gently before signing your name in elegant, silver cursive across the sleek metal.
Seeing the gun now, in the hand of the Red Hood, the puzzle pieces violently slammed into place as you realized exactly who was behind the red mask.
A suffocating wave of shock paralyzed you; you didn’t know what to say, or if you should even dare to speak his name out loud in the middle of a warzone.
The sheer terror of the fall and the weight of the secret made your breath hitch as you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him back with an absolute, desperate tightness, burying your face deep into the heavy, leather scent of his chest to block out the rushing wind.
Red Hood held you just as fiercely, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your cheek. With his free hand, he fired a pressurized grapple line, the high-tensile wire whistling through the air as it anchored deep into the brickwork of the adjoining building.
The line snapped taut with a violent jerk. Red Hood used his immense upper body strength to swing your combined weight inward, pulling you up toward the flat, gravel-lined roof of the boutique hotel.
A loud, terrified scream tore from your throat as the wind whipped around you. “I’ve got you! I’ve got you, sweetheart, just hold on!” Red Hood bellowed over the rushing air, his arm squeezing your waist so tightly it nearly bruised.
Suddenly, a choked cough echoed from the smoke-filled balcony above. One of the mercenaries, recovering from the blast, stumbled into the open air, raising an assault rifle directly down at your dangling forms.
Red Hood didn’t hesitate. One arm remained wrapped unyieldingly around your waist, keeping your body pinned safely against his broad torso, while he raised his custom pistol with his right hand.
He unleashed a rapid barrage of suppressive fire into the air, the deafening bang-bang-bang echoing off the brick walls as the muzzle flashes illuminated the dark.
From the absolute corner of your eye, as the gunfire lit up the dark, you saw it.
There, etched deeply into the sleek metal of the gun’s slide, catching the strobing light, was a familiar, sweeping signature.
It was your own name, written in your distinct handwriting, preserved perfectly on the weapon of Gotham's most lethal vigilante.
He had carried your name into battle with him every single night.
Before you could even process the sheer, overwhelming weight of the unresolved emotional tension crashing down on you, the trajectory of your swing changed.
Red Hood adjusted his grip to haul you over the ledge, but for a terrifying split second, his hold on your waist loosened as he reached for the stone parapet as the sudden loss of his solid weight made your stomach drop.
Your grip around his neck got even tighter, your nails digging deep into the leather of his shoulders as a sudden, overwhelming wave of fear overtook you.
Cold tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, your chest heaving as you sobbed from the pure terror of falling. “Hey, hey, look at me—no more falling, I promise. You’re safe,” Red Hood’s voice cracked, entirely human once more as the vocalizer clicked off.
With a final, explosive burst of power, he pulled your body completely up and over the stone ledge, tumbling with you onto the flat, gravel-lined rooftop as he rolled instantly, taking the brunt of the impact against the hard gravel before jumping up to his feet right after you.
The silence of the rooftop was absolute, save for the distant wail of police sirens below as Red Hood immediately dropped to his knees in front of you, entirely ignoring the danger of the city around him.
His large, leather-gloved hands came up, his thumb gently wiping the hot tears away from your cheeks with an excruciatingly tender, soft touch.
He kept one massive, heavy hand resting flat against your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin to help you catch your breath, his hidden eyes burning with a quiet, desperate affection that he still couldn't bring himself to say out loud.
The cool, biting kiss of the midnight wind swept across the flat gravel rooftop, carrying away the lingering stench of acrid gunpowder and acrid smoke. Below, the distant, rhythmic wail of Gotham police sirens cut through the dark, but up here, the world felt incredibly small.
You forced a long, shaky breath into your lungs, consciously locking in and swallowing down the remaining knots of panic as the frantic trembling in your chest slowly began to subside.
Reaching out from the sprawling sleeves of his massive canvas flight jacket, you firmly grabbed the hard edge of his armored shoulder, using his solid frame to steady yourself on the rough, uneven gravel.
Red Hood immediately froze beneath your touch, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy, silent rhythm.
Through the dark tint of his red visor, his eyes tracked every shift in your expression, entirely consumed by the overwhelming urge to protect you. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying a sudden, distinctly cocky roll that didn’t quite mask the rough gravel of his tone.
He shifted his stance, flexing those massive, broad shoulders that easily made him look twice your size in the moonlight. “Since you almost took out a guy with a six-inch stiletto and nearly died of a heart attack in my arms,”
“I think you’ve done enough cardio for the night. Come here. Let me carry you. It’s a complimentary service for damsels who look exceptionally pretty in oversized jackets.”
He stepped closer, his towering six-foot-two frame completely eclipsing the city lights behind him, hands extending slightly as if it were the most natural thing in the world to scoop you up.
A sudden, breathless laugh bubbled past your lips, breaking the heavy tension as you shook your head, gently batting his armored hands away with a soft smile. “Oh, absolutely not. I’m not letting you carry me across Gotham like a sack of potatoes!”
“I’ve already burned down a luxury hotel door and destroyed my shoes tonight. I think I can manage a walk without bothering you any further.”
Red Hood’s hands hovered in the air for a split second, his jaw subtly tightening beneath his helmet as the confident, swaggering posture he had just thrown up cracked instantly, a sudden, endearing wave of shyness rushing through him.
He awkwardly dropped his hands back to his sides, the metal buckles of his gear clinking softly. “Bothering me?” he repeated softly, the mechanical vocalizer completely offline as he rubbed the back of his neck with a large, leather-gloved hand.
He looked away, his helmet tilting slightly downward as a fierce, invisible blush warmed his cheeks. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t be a burden if you tried. Trust me. I’ve carried heavy tactical crates that had way worse attitudes than you.”
He cleared his throat, trying and failing to regain that smooth, unbothered edge. “But, uh, fine. Have it your way, boss. Walk it out.”
Turning side by side, you both began to make your way toward the far ledge of the rooftop to find the access stairwell that led down to the alleyways where his vehicle was hidden.
As you took your first few steps, your bare soles winced against the cold, jagged gravel. Without a second thought, you reached out and slid your fingers directly into his massive, gloved hand, fully gripping it.
Your small hand was entirely swallowed by his, the contrast in size almost comical, yet the safety it brought you was absolute.
You trusted him completely—not just with your life, but with the massive, staggering secret currently resting heavily between you as Red Hood gasped, a sharp, choked intake of air rattling in his throat as your fingers locked with his.
His heart violently pounded against his ribs, a frantic, heavy thud that felt loud enough to echo off the brick walls.
He gulped nervously, his throat tight as his brain completely short-circuited from the simple, trusting warmth of your palm against his.
His thick fingers carefully, almost reverently, curled back around yours, squeezing with a heartbreaking gentleness, terrified of squeezing too hard.
Up close, the heavy, intoxicating aroma of your expensive French gala perfume drifted upward, instantly mixing with the rich, comforting scent of rain, worn leather, and cedar wood-smoke radiating from his jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
It was a suffocatingly sweet, intimate blend of scents that filled his lungs with every breath, making the unresolved emotional tension between you tighten until it was almost too much to bear.
“You know,” Red Hood cleared his throat again, desperately trying to summon his usual cocky bravado to save face as you walked hand-in-hand toward the shadows, though his voice trembled just a fraction.
“Most people in this city would run screaming if I tried to hold their hand. I’m supposed to be the big, bad outlaw, remember? You’re kind of ruining my street cred here, sweetheart.”
You squeezed his massive hand tightly, looking up at the crimson helmet with a soft, knowing smile that made his knees feel entirely like jelly. “I think your street cred can survive a walk to the motorcycle, Red Hood.”
Beneath the mask, his teal eyes widened, his heart skipping a massive beat as the quiet, aching yearning in his chest flared to life.
He couldn’t say a word, completely trapped in the beautiful, silent magic of the Gotham night, entirely content to just hold your hand in the dark.
The descent down the rusty fire escape was a slow, deliberate dance. Red Hood insisted on stepping down first, his massive, broad-shouldered frame blocking the wind and providing a literal human wall between you and the drop.
Every time your bare foot hit a cold, iron grating, his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction, steadying you before you could even think about slipping.
When your feet finally touched the solid concrete of the damp, narrow alleyway below, the scent of the city changed. The clean, winter air of the rooftops faded, replaced by the familiar Gotham blend of wet asphalt, old brick, and the faint, industrial tang of exhaust.
“Alright, look alive, sweetheart,” Red Hood murmured, his voice returning to that low, rumbling register as he guided you deeper into the shadows of the cul-de-sac.
He cast a quick, scanning glance over his shoulder, his cocky swagger bleeding back into his stride now that he was in his element.
“The bat-clan usually complains about my taste in parking spots, but I happen to think it's prime real estate. Safe, secluded, and completely out of sight from the Penguin’s idiots.”
He led you toward a heavy, industrial canvas tarp tucked behind a rusted dumpster. With a smooth, theatrical flourish of his free arm, he yanked the fabric away.
There, resting in the gloom like a sleeping predator, was his motorcycle. It was massive—easily twice the size of a standard street bike, custom-built to support his towering, muscular frame and heavy tactical gear.
The body of the machine was painted a sleek, matte black that seemed to absorb the dim alley light, punctuated by aggressive, sharp accents of a deep, metallic blood-red that perfectly matched his helmet.
The tires were thick and heavily treaded, built for high-speed pursuits over Gotham’s notoriously cracked and uneven pavement.
“Behold,” Red Hood said, leaning back against the handlebars with a smug, self-satisfied tilt of his helmet. He ran a gloved hand along the sleek, red trim of the gas tank, clearly showing off to impress you.
“Custom engine, reinforced carbon-fiber frame, and enough horsepower to outrun a GCPD chopper without breaking a sweat. Go ahead, you can say it. It’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound echoing softly against the brick walls as you stepped closer, still entirely engulfed by his oversized flight jacket.
“It certainly matches your aesthetic, Mr. Red Hood… very subtle.”
“Hey, subtlety is overrated when you look this good,” he shot back quickly, the cocky retort slipping past his lips with practiced ease.
But as you stepped into his personal space, the sheer size difference between you became apparent again. Standing right next to the massive bike, you looked incredibly small, your bare toes peeking out from beneath the long hem of his jacket.
Red Hood’s eyes tracked downward, taking in your shivering frame and your bare feet, and the playful, arrogant armor he was wearing melted away into pure, stuttering shyness once more.
“Uh... right,” he mumbled, his vocalizer clicking off as he rubbed the back of his neck, his helmet turning slightly away to hide the immediate blush creeping up his jaw. His voice dropped to a quiet, nervous gravel.
“Anyway. It’s, um... it’s a long ride back to your house. And since you flat-out rejected my very generous offer to carry you like a gentleman, you’re going to have to hold onto me. Tight. If you’re, you know... cool with that.”
He swung his long leg over the seat, the heavy leather of his suit creaking as he settled his weight onto the bike.
He gripped the handlebars, coiling his broad back, leaving a space behind him that felt impossibly intimate as you stared at his broad shoulders, your heart executing a sudden, erratic flutter against your ribs.
The unresolved emotional tension between you stretched tight, humming like a live wire in the quiet alley.
He carried your signature on his weapon.
And yet, neither of you was ready to break the fragile, beautiful spell of the secret just yet. Nodding softly, you stepped up onto the footpeg and slid onto the seat behind him.
Your bare knees pressed against his armored thighs, and with a hesitant, tingling warmth, you wrapped your arms completely around his broad waist, burying your face directly into the space between his shoulder blades.
Red Hood let out a shaky, uneven breath, his stomach doing a violent flip as he felt your body flush completely against his back.
He gulped nervously, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the handles, entirely intoxicated by the scent of your perfume swirling with the leather of his jacket. With a low, deep growl, the massive engine roared to life, vibrating through your entire body as he kicked the bike into gear, ready to carry you both away into the dark.
The massive engine of the motorcycle thrummed beneath you, a deep, rhythmic vibration that vibrated through the metal frame and into your chest.
As Red Hood kicked the bike into gear and rolled out of the dark alleyway, the sharp, freezing rush of the Gotham wind whipped past, but you barely felt it.
Swallowed entirely by his heavy canvas flight jacket, you were locked in a cocoon of radiating heat that belonged entirely to him as the adrenaline that had kept your heart hammering for the past hour finally began to recede, leaving a profound, bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Your grip around his broad waist tightened instinctively. You pulled yourself closer until there wasn’t a single millimeter of space left between you, burying your face completely into the center of his muscular back as the fabric of his undersuit was thin enough that you could feel the hard, shifting contours of his shoulder blades with every movement of the bike.
Your eyelashes fluttered against his back, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier as the steady, hypnotic motion of the motorcycle began to soothe you into a deep daze.
Up front, Red Hood felt the exact moment you completely surrendered your weight to him. When your body flushed entirely against his spine, his breath hitched so sharply it caught in his throat.
‘God, she’s so close,’ his mind raced, his heart hammering a chaotic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. ‘Don’t freak out, Todd. Just drive. Do not crash this bike.’
But then, with a slow, agonizingly tender motion, Red Hood slid his left hand off the handlebar. He reached back, his large, leather-gloved fingers searching in the dark until they found your small hand wrapped around his waist.
He slid his palm against yours, intertwining his thick fingers with your delicate ones, pinning your arm tightly and securely against his torso.
He squeezed gently, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. As the bike idled at a deserted, fog-slicked intersection under the amber glow of a streetlamp, Red Hood’s eyes instinctively drifted upward to the motorcycle’s side mirror.
Because of how deeply you were tucked into his back, your head had moved slightly to the side. Your eyes were closed, your breathing soft and even as you drifted on the edge of sleep, completely at peace against a man the rest of the city feared.
The oversized collar of his jacket framed your face, making you look impossibly delicate against his massive silhouette as Red Hood stared at your reflection through the mirror, his throat tight, completely captivated. ‘Look at her,’ he thought, a wave of fierce, consuming tenderness washing over him so intensely it felt like a physical ache.
He gulped nervously, the intense, unresolved emotional tension vibrating through his veins. He wanted to turn around, to pull off the helmet and tell you everything, but the sheer shyness of his hidden crush kept him locked in place.
He was Red Hood—brutal, cocky, unyielding—but right now, looking at your peaceful face, he felt entirely defenseless.
A soft, sleepy murmur escaped your lips as you stirred slightly against his back, your fingers tightening their grip on his gloved hand as Red Hood’s thumb gently rubbed the back of your hand, a quiet, breathless exhale escaping his lips as the vocalizer beeped off.
“Yeah... just sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered into the quiet, fog-laden air, his teal eyes softening behind the dark visor as he looked back at the mirror one last time. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
© konseur — DON’T copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do NOT use/feed my works to AI.
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
kaledo-art