⟨ COMPLETE⟩
Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' McTavish x female!Reader
Summary: You and Johnny are two professors at a university, and he often catches you working late in your office.Also, you're just really good friends and there's probably more to it
YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN one YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN five
YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN two YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN six
YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN three YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN seven
YOU'RE ONLY SIXTEEN four
⟨ COMPLETE⟩
Platonic story.
Summary: child soldier joins Task Force 141, stuff is complicated
IT'S ALL AN ACT one
IT'S ALL AN ACT two
⟨ ON GOING ⟩
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader (Acotr!AU)
Summary: Actor!Bruce plays as your love interest in your up-coming movie
IRRISISTIBLE prologue
IRRISISTIBLE one
IRRISISTIBLE two
⟨ ON GOING ⟩
Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Rockstar!AU
Summary: Your band is headlining for the next summer festival tour, but sadly, your rival band gets to perform in the same festivals as you. The fans are ecstatic, they get to see two popular bands in several festivals, and potentially get to witness more drama between these two rival bands. But will it actually be as entertaining as your fans expect it to be?
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: roy calls you at 2 am, apparently jason is drunk and needs you
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.1k words, none, fluff, CRACK, sort of part 2 for this, roy is there too, 1 sexual comment, not edited just proof-read 🚬
<𝟑: art creds to @quezartt
You’re currently wearing one of Jason’s Gotham U hoodies (you suspect it’s not actually Jason’s) that reaches down to your legs, along with your winter boots. Aside from that, you’re wearing your pyjamas and nothing else.
You’re absolutely freezing your ass off, and by the time you barge into the club Roy sent you the address to, you swear you’re on the verge of hypothermia.
You would’ve told him to fuck off because it’s literally two a.m. But he called with Jason’s phone, and told you to come right now.
You need to come. It’s Jason.
Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.
He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.
Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.
Just come.
So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.
He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.
"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."
He raises a brow. "Sure.”
"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"
His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"
"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"
But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.
The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."
You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.
The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.
You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.
"Roy! Jason!" you call.
Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.
And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.
"Baby!"
You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.
He lets you. Then he picks you up.
He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.
"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."
"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."
The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.
You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"
He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."
Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.
"Why is everyone looking at us?"
Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"
"Bouncer?"
He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."
You blink. "Facts?"
"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”
You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.
"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."
Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."
Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."
Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."
You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."
He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."
He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."
You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."
"And you also make me really hard."
Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.
"Yesterday, for example, when you—"
"Jason," you say sternly.
His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.
You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."
"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."
"I do not—"
Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."
Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."
Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.
Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.
"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.
Roy blinks. "Okay?"
Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."
"Congratulations.”
He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."
"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.
Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."
The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.
Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.
The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.
What if she’s hungry?
Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.
She’s an adult, man.
She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.
Jason wants to crawl into the Lazaurs Pit and disappear.
Another set of flowers? Can‘t your host get enough already?
With a soft huff, you pull your hood down and set the mask off, blinking a few times before you trudge back to your bed, falling asleep quickly after the full night of patrol.
However, you are still confused about the flowers once you wake up, and spot them in the kitchen. Now that you are you again, no longer the alter ego from last night, you can‘t seem to recall buying flowers for yourself off patrol ever.
It is not the first time flowers appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Sure, you tend to dissociate and do stuff you normally do, but on autopilot, then come back to discover all the random things you have done while being in such state. Most of it was simple stuff, like going out to buy random stuff like these flowers – even though they appeared more often than you‘d like – or going to places and then not remembering how to get back. Stuff like that always happened. No big deal. But those flowers were starting to confuse you.
Every week, there was a new, fresh set of flowers waiting for you at the windowsill. Always placed the same way, always neat, and smelling sweet. After the fourth time, you stopped questioning it and just accepted that some alter ego of yours decided to buy flowers for yourself every week. Sure, it was weird, made you cringe sometimes because it was always your favourite— but at least it had something nice to it for once.
»For the love of god, stop squirming and tell me why you are here?« You snarl at the terrified burglar in front of you, tied down to a chair, face beaten up bloody and eyes wide in shock as if he doesn‘t know any better. After another tense second of silence passes, you huff out and step closer, only for him to flinch and finally speak up.
»He— I-I swear, I‘m not making any of this up! Just hear me out and let me go after I tell you! Please! I swear it‘s the truth—«
»Oh my god, just tell me already.« You sigh out tiredly, lowering your crescent dart so the poor victim will stop sweating so much.
»It‘s.. bullseye! He told me to tell you that he wants to ask you out, and to go out on a proper date instead of leaving the flowers in your apartment.«
You stare back at him, clearly taken aback and more than puzzled, blinking behind your mask as if it would help you understand any of this better.
»The flowers? I bought-- well, one of us bought the flowers for me. Who the hell is bullseye anyway?« The panicked man flinches again once you step closer, not having expected for you to be confused about his message.
»I swear, that is all that I had to say, so please let me go, I have a family, a dog, a house to look after, I have to pay taxes like a normal man, goddamnit--«
»Oh, for fucks sake,« slash!
The poor man‘s head falls off onto the floor, and heavy silence settles over your apartment. A tired sigh slips off your lips after a moment before you start to clean the mess up, still thinking about the man‘s words.
Bullseye. Date. Flowers.
The next few days went by in a blurr. Mostly because your alter egos kept changing and it kept messing up your perception of time. You forgot about the whole bullseye situation a long time ago, didn‘t mind the flowers in your kitchen, and you only ever heard of him again in the newspaper.
A deadly and precise killer who happens to operate in the same area as you. Surely, he won‘t get in your way.
Patrol was easy tonight. No dramatic speeches from villians, instead getting to beat up some low-life criminals who think causing pain to innocent civilians is the solution for their low egos.
After being done with the last goon, you hear a deep voice come up behind you.
»You know, you never answered.«
You turn around slowly, only to see none other than who seems to be bullseye. The literal bullseye on his forehead at his mask gives it away. Still, you squint at him under your mask, utterly confused.
»...what? Excuse me, who are you, sir?«
That earns a low chuckle from him as he crosses his arms, eyes focused solely on you. An awkward moment of brief silence washes over the alleyway before he speaks up, gaze turning serious.
»You actually don‘t know what I‘m talking about?«
You shake your head and shrug, unsure as to what exactly he is referring to. Maybe he confused you with someone else?
»Nope.«
»Huh...« Bullseye shifts his weight, seemingly in thought until he speaks up again.
»Was my messanger too unclear with you?«
»What messanger-- oh. Oh, shit.«
You take a step back, finally remembering some bits of pieces from a distant memory. He seems to notice, eyes crinkling behind his mask in what seems to be a smile.
»Finally remember me?«
Bullseye questions, the smirk audible even through the mask. However, something seems to block your memory, something seems to make you feel defensive and on alert. None of the past interactions are in your head, suddenly feeling way more on guard than before.
The flowers stopped appearing at your windowsill. Memories only flooded in steadily, bit by bit as every memory seemed to be more absurd than the next. It had been a few weeks since the flowers stopped taking up space in your kitchen, and you finally came to the terms of all your memories being true.
Bullseye was stalking you for months. Bullseye was the one who left the flowers in your apartment-- not one of your alter egos. You beat up bullseye into a pulp after that interaction.
The guilt wrapped heavily around yourself. Sure, he did stalk you, but he was one of the good guys.
He never seemed to be threatening or of bad intentions. It was just your system that seemed to have a problem with that. Not the best way to court a person with multiple personalities. But then again, how could have he known any of it?
How long have you been staring at the moon, talking to it, asking for advice for? Only the moon knows. You turn around at the sound of footsteps behind you, instantly recognising the sillhoutte.
Silence falls over you both, neither of you moving for a tense moment before you manage to speak up.
»I… sincerely apologise for… when I fought you. I did not mean to. And in fact-- that wasn‘t even me. Well, technically, not me.«
The man just looks at you, either unimpressed or processing what you just said. You shift your weight on your feet, unsure if this interaction will become a disaster like the other time or not.
»What do you mean?«
Finally, he spoke up, feeling uncertain of what you could be refering to.
»Um, well-- I have a system, you see. Multiple personalities type of thing, one of them is this vigilante, the other one who beat you up, my host-- yeah.«
Another second of silence falls over the rooftop until he chuckles softly, crossing his arms out of habit.
»And here I thought I was the insane one in the relationship.«
You tilt your head, pointing at him. »Relationship?«
This time bullseye full on snickers at your confusion, waving it off as if he got ahead of himself for saying such thing.
Summary : Your first date with Dex turns out to be an unforgettable one.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak, pen pal (?) meet cute, Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, task force murdered, stalking, break-ins, stolen clothing, surveillance photos, kidnapping, guns/knives/blood, food, sexual tension (no actual smut), you have a roommate called Mia and she's mentioned to be an arms dealer. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 9.7k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : Y’all I have lots of work this week, so I won't be posting as much. I do have a John Walker kofi request for this Friday, and Bucky and Dex Blurbs scattered throughout the week. The title is inspired by a Royal Blood song of the same name. Enjoy!
You had never actually met Bullseye.
This, unfortunately, had never stopped him from ruining your day.
You picked up the paper, saw BULLSEYE STRIKES AGAIN printed above a body you had stabbed seven times, and nearly spat coffee all over the kitchen counter.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Your roommate, Mia, looked up from the table, where she was eating cereal beside an open ammo case. “Good morning?”
The guns she was disassembling meant there was less room for your food, but hey, you’ve gotten used to living with an arms dealer. Could you really complain? She gives you a friend-exclusive discount, after all.
You slapped the paper down in front of her. “They gave him credit for another one.”
Mia leaned over the headline. “Another another one?”
“Yes, another another one.”
She glanced past you at the fridge.
You didn’t need to look. You knew what was there.
Pinned under a strawberry magnet and a concerning number of takeout menus was the magnetic whiteboard you had made two weeks ago.
At the top, in red marker:
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME: 4
Underneath, in blue:
KILLS I STOLE FROM BULLSEYE: 4
Beneath that, taking up most of the fridge, were the newspaper clippings. Task force murders that were yours but had been attributed to him. Task force murders that were his but had somehow been attributed to you, because apparently every cop in the city had been dropped on the head as a baby.
Mia slowly chewed her cereal. “You’re losing.”
Your head snapped toward her. “We were tied.”
“Were.”
You scowled, tore the article out of the paper with unnecessary violence, grabbed a marker from the junk drawer, and stormed over to the board. You begrudgingly added one angry little tally mark that went under Bullseye’s side.
5.
Mia made a soft, faux-sympathetic noise. “Oof.”
“This is not oof,” you rolled your eyes. “This is fucking police incompetence! What was all that budget increase for, huh?”
“It is kind of oof.” She took another bite of cereal. “But you can catch up. He’s only up by one.”
You stared at the board. Your eye twitched.
Mia lifted her bowl toward you like a toast. “Very exciting season.”
“These stupid cops can’t tell the difference between a stab and a long-distance throw.” You turned back around, waving the paper like evidence in a trial you were fully prepared to win. “Look at the wound. Look at it. That’s clearly close quarters.”
Mia squinted at the grainy crime scene photo, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The image was bad, blurred edges and cheap newspaper ink, but even from across the kitchen she could tell what it was: yours.
“Maybe they thought Bullseye walked up to him,” Mia said.
You stared at her.
“Bullseye doesn’t walk up to people. He has a ricochet fetish.”
Mia choked on a laugh, nearly spilling cereal milk onto the table. “Oh, so now you know him.”
You corrected her. “I know his work.”
“You know his work,” she repeated, deadpan. “You mean you’ve been staring at the leaked photos you saved again?”
You ignored her, because Mia had this very annoying habit of being right in ways that didn’t make you feel good about yourself.
The worst part was that you were angry.
That had been your kill. It was clearly your style. You were a melee specialist, for fuck’s sake!!! You liked the intimacy, the nearness. You like watching the life drain out of your victims’ eyes, being close enough to watch their face change when they finally understood why you were there.
Bullseye was different.
Bullseye liked a little distance. Bullseye was impossible accuracy. He could turn a room into a murder weapon without crossing it, and no, you definitely didn’t admire that.
You just understood skill when you saw it.
That was all.
But under the anger, in the small, horrible place where your dignity went to die, there was a humiliating feeling that curled in your stomach every time you thought about him opening the paper.
Because Bullseye was going to see this.
He was going to read the same headline, look at the same shitty photo, and know it was wrong.
He would know.
Maybe he would be offended. Maybe he would laugh. Maybe he would tilt his head at the paper and think, No. That wasn’t me.
Maybe he would wonder about you, and at this point, you were certain he knew of you. Because some of his knife-related rampages had been attributed to you too. Not often, but enough that sometimes your name got dragged into his mess, enough that you had stared at a clipping once for ten full minutes, heart crawling up your throat, because the paper had called one of his kills yours and you had hated how badly you wanted to know whether he had noticed.
Mia was staring at you again.
You folded the paper too carefully. “What?”
“You’re doing the thing again”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend to be mad,” she said, pointing her spoon at you, “but really you’re hoping your murder crush noticed you.”
You frowned “He’s not my murder crush.”
Mia smiled into her cereal and ignored the denial altogether. “Want me to get you more knives for today?”
You looked down at the headline.
“Yes,” you finally said. “The nice ones.”
Mia’s grin got wider. “You dressing up, too? Just in case you run into him?”
“I’m hunting,” you corrected.
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Wear something slutty and stab-proof!”
You threw the newspaper at her.
—
Later that night, you went out in the jacket Mia called your “bad decision jacket” (it had extra knife sheaths) which was rich coming from a woman who kept grenades in a biscuit tin.
You were definitely not hoping to run into Bullseye. You were working.
There was a difference, even if Mia would have said hahhaha, sure.
The AVTF agents were exactly where your source said they would be, inside a half-empty municipal building wearing the kind of confidence that came from believing the badge still meant something. They had files they should not have had, names they should not have known, and enough blood on their hands to make your little visit feel almost civic-minded.
You made it quick.
Messy, but quick.
You handled most of it the way you liked best: Close, direct, personal enough that nobody could pretend it was an accident. But halfway through, because you were still one point behind on the stupid fridge-board and your pride had apparently become an emergency, you tried to make it look like Bullseye.
Just a little. Just enough to even the score.
You threw a knife. It hit a filing cabinet and dropped to the floor with the saddest little clatter you had ever heard.
One of the AVTF men stared at it like what the fuck was that?
“Shut up,” you said, before he could say anything.
Then you threw a smaller knife, in the hopes that it was easier to control.
It bounced off a desk lamp, went nowhere useful, and spun under a chair.
Fine.
Whatever.
Throwing stuff was harder than it looked, which was annoying because he made it look like flirting with physics. You were not built for distance. So you gave up and did it properly.
By the time you left, the crime scene was mostly yours, with two deeply humiliating attempts at his signature scattered around like evidence of a mental breakdown. You lingered on the fire escape for a few seconds longer than necessary, checking the neighbouring rooftops.
Nothing.
No figure in black. No little glint of movement across the street.
Which was fine.
Obviously.
You were not disappointed.
—
When you got home, Mia was out. Work, she had said, which meant she was probably meeting Turk in the back of some terrible bar and calling an arms deal “networking”.
The apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
Not unusual.
You stepped in, a takeout bag hanging from one hand, the other already sliding toward the knife under your jacket. The kitchen was empty. Mia’s cereal bowl was still in the sink. Mia’s boots were next to your sneakers.
Everything seemed normal until you saw the fridge.
Huh.
Your magnetic board had been straightened.
Not cleaned or erased. It was fixed.
The crooked newspaper clippings had been lined up into neat rows. The takeout menus had been stacked by alphabetic order, it seemed. The strawberry magnet sat dead centre at the top, no longer holding up three different things at once. Even the tallies had been corrected into clearer, cleaner marks.
And below your personal Bullseye vs Me board, in new black marker, someone had written:
I’ve been looking for you too.
Your gaze snapped to the wide-open window, and realised, oh my god.
He had been here.
—
Dex came back to his studio apartment with a smile on his face.
He locked the door behind him, slid the chain into place, and reached into his jacket for the shirt he had taken from your apartment.
Your shirt. It was a plain white shirt he’d seen you wear before, and you looked pretty in it. I mean, Dex thought you looked pretty all the time, but still.
The fabric was soft in his hands. In his head, it still felt warm, even though it had just been hanging over the back of a chair when he found it. You had been careless and made it easy for him, really. You basically left it out like you had no idea someone could come in through your window and take a piece of you home with him.
Dex knew better now.
He knew how your apartment sounded in the dark. He knew which floorboard creaked near the kitchen. He knew your roommate left dishes in the sink. He knew your takeout menus were a mess, your knives were hidden well but not well enough, and your window lock was insultingly easy to pick.
He knew how you smelled now.
Dex sat on the edge of his bed and brought the shirt to his face, breathing in like he was trying to memorise your scent: Detergent, metal, and city smoke.
He closed his eyes.
He had stalked people before. Julie. Matt. Vanessa. Targets. Problems. People he wanted. People he needed to understand. But this was different.
This was not surveillance, or a job, or a petty attempt to become a good person, whatever that meant anymore.
This was you.
Dex had been infatuated with you since the first time he saw one of your kills credited to him.
From there, he found a photo of you in the database: grainy, badly angled, and almost useless for the cops. You had silver reflective paint smeared around your eyes to ruin facial recognition, strange under the flash, but Dex knew enough to know what he was looking at.
Before long, he figured out who you were.
And now, he had been watching your window for almost a month.
Tonight was just the first time you and Mia were both gone long enough for him to finally climb inside.
And then, he found that you had made a board.
The thought should have made him happy, and it had, at first. For one perfect second in your dark kitchen, Dex had stood in front of that fridge and realised, you had noticed him, too.
You had clipped the articles. You had tracked the kills. You had written his name in red marker and stood there thinking about him long enough to make tallies.
Then he read the rest.
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME.
His smile had died so fast it almost broke his heart.
Stole.
You thought this was a competition.
Dex stared down at your shirt in his lap, fingers tightening in the fabric.
That was wrong.
That was so wrong it made his skin feel too tight for his body. He had not stolen anything from you. He had never thought of it that way. Every time the papers confused you for him or him for you, every time your names bled into each other in some stupid journalist’s mouth, Dex had felt it like a sign that you belonged together.
The mistaken murders were just evidence that you were close to him without even trying. Your work was intertwined, cosmically, with his. Your violence answered his. His name kept finding yours in the paper, in police files, like the whole city already understood a fact you were denying.
You and Dex were linked.
Obviously.
So why had you made sides?
Why had you put a line down the middle and placed him across from you like he was just another person to beat?
Dex swallowed, still holding your shirt to his mouth and frowned.
He thought you liked him.
He thought you understood. He thought, maybe, when you saw his kills printed under your name, you felt the same obsessive pull he did. The same recognition.
Instead, you were mad. You were keeping score. You had written him down like a rival.
His jaw tightened.
That was okay.
It really was.
You were confused, that’s all. You had misunderstood. People did that all the time.
You would understand eventually.
He had fixed the board for you, so maybe you’d realise there was no ill intent. He had straightened the clippings. Alphabetised the menus. Corrected the tallies. Left the message underneath because you needed help getting to the obvious conclusion that you belonged together:
I’ve been looking for you too.
In his head, it didn’t look threatening. It was merely a correction. Perhaps a little nudge in the right direction.
Dex lay back on the bed, dragging your shirt with him until it was pressed beneath his cheek. He breathed you in again, slower this time, and the hurt in his chest eased.
You thought it was a game.
Fine.
He could play.
He could let you have your angry little board and your angry little tally marks. He could let you pretend you were chasing him, fighting him, competing with him.
But eventually, Dex would fix that, too.
Eventually, you’d want him as much as he wanted you.
—
You wiped the note off before Mia got home, even though you didn’t really want to.
You stood there for an embarrassingly long time first, staring at the neat black marker beneath your board while your stomach did a stupid flip.
Then you remembered Mia was weird about outside people being in the apartment.
Fair. You were also weird about outside people being in the apartment, usually. Usually, if someone broke in, you handled it with a knife and made Mia bleach the floor while you tied a brick to the body and sunk it in the Hudson.
But this was Bullseye.
So you erased it, like an idiot getting rid of DNA evidence.
You wiped the board twice, fixed the strawberry magnet, and tried to look normal when Mia came home carrying a bag that clinked against her hip.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway and squinted. “Did you redo the murder board?”
You didn’t look up from your hot chocolate. “No.”
Mia stared at the fridge.
The whole thing looked less like a breakdown and more like a very well-done administrative system. “Why is it nicer?”
You took a sip. “I got bored.”
Mia looked at you. You looked at her.
Then she shrugged. “Whatever. It was ugly before.”
Totally clueless, Thank fuck.
By the next morning, you had bought reinforced locks, and not because you were scared of him getting into your apartment again. If anything, the memory of the open window had been sitting in your mind all night. You kept thinking about him standing in your kitchen. Touching your board. Straightening your things. Writing to you like he already knew you would read it and think about it all night.
So no, the new locks were not there out of fear. They were a message.
You installed them yourself, one after another, until all the windows looked almost impossible to open from the outside.
Then you stood back, smiled despite yourself, and imagined him finding it.
He’d know the message then:
If you want to get in again, earn it.
—
Three nights later, the paper was waiting on the kitchen table.
Mia had left it there under her empty coffee cup, either as a warning or because she had run out of coasters. You found it while the kettle boiled, still barefoot, still half-asleep, and then very suddenly awake.
AVTF INFORMANT FOUND DEAD.
You stared at the headline.
Then the photograph.
Then the headline again, and then the subtitle, crediting the kill to you,
But that kill wasn’t yours.
You knew it before you read the article. You knew it from the angle of the body, the precision of the knife in a fatal artery. He had not been stabbed. He had been aimed at by distance, by calculation.
Bullseye.
And the papers had given it to you.
For a second, all you could do was stand there while the kettle clicked off behind you.
Then you smiled a small, helpless twitch of your mouth before you walked across the kitchen, uncapped the blue marker, and added one clean tally to your side of the board.
5-5.
Yay! Level again!
You leaned back on your heels and looked at it.
Perfect.
Almost.
You picked up the paper again, meaning to cut out the article, when something in the crime scene photo caught your eye. It was half-hidden behind the dead man’s shoulder, smeared on the wall, small enough that most readers would miss it.
Not a threat or a boast, but a question, written in blood.
why the locks?
Your hand tightened around the paper.
Oh.
He’d left you a message.
You could almost feel him in your kitchen again, standing in the dark in front of your board, touching the magnets, straightening the clippings, noticing what had changed. Of course he had noticed the locks.
You stood there for too long, long enough that the tea went bitter in the mug you forgot to drink.
When Mia came in later, tying her hair back and looking for her keys, you had already finished cutting the article out with careful hands.
She glanced at the board.
“Even again?”
“Mhm.”
“Congrats.”
She took her keys off the hook and left without noticing the way your fingers hovered over the little blood-written question in the photograph.
Good.
You did not need an audience for whatever this was becoming.
—
You answered him three nights later, when you eventually found Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment building.
It took patience, two evenings of watching, a borrowed set of binoculars. One very stupid moment where you almost slipped on a drainpipe and decided not to think about how humiliating it would be to die before the flirting even got interesting.
But eventually, you found his window. Child’s play, really. As if going under a stupid fake name like “Tony” would ever hide him from you.
That night, you waited until the light in his apartment went off.
Then you left a brand new lock on his fire escape.
The same brand as the ones you had put on your windows. Heavy, reinforced, and annoyingly expensive. It was still sealed in its packaging, with the little paper instructions tucked under the shackle.
You added a note:
Jealous?
Then you left.
—
Dex found it before sunrise.
He hadn’t slept much. He had your shirt twisted between his fingers, the fabric pressed into his palm until his knuckles ached. He had been sitting across the window for hours the night before, looking across at your apartment, at the little row of reinforced locks catching the streetlight like tiny silver insults.
You were keeping him out.
On purpose.
He kept telling himself not to be hurt by it, which was useless, because he was hurt. He was so fucking hurt it made his chest feel crushed, like an anvil had been dropped on his ribs and left there. You had changed the windows because of him. You had looked at the place where he got in, thought about him standing in your kitchen, touching your things, breathing your air, and your first instinct had been to shut him out.
Dex hated that.
Dex hated that so much he almost hated you for half a second.
Then, that morning, he opened his window and saw the lock waiting on his fire escape.
He went still.
It sat there perfectly placed, right where his hand would find it. Same brand as yours, same little shine in the dark.
For a moment, he didn’t touch it.
Then he picked up the note.
Dex read it once.
And then, he smiled.
Because now he knew you hadn’t locked him out because you wanted him gone.
You had wanted him to notice.
You had wanted him to see the effort. You had wanted him to look at your windows and understand that you had been thinking about him too. You had not made a wall. You had made a challenge. You had left him the same lock like a matching star, like a little joke only the two of you were deranged enough to understand.
Dex sat on the fire escape with the lock in his hand until the sky began to lighten.
The note went into his wallet.
The lock went on his window.
—
The next mistake came no less than a week later.
You had gone out the night before. You had driven the knives into the agents and controlled the room, kept the distance intimate enough that any half-competent investigator should have known better.
Unfortunately, half-competent was not what New York had.
By morning, the headline said it was Bullseye.
You stared at the paper in silence. Ugh. You were losing again.
That was irritating, up until you realised he would see it.
He would know the city had handed him something that belonged to you again, and you hated how badly you wanted to know whether that would make him smile.
It did.
Dex smiled so hard it almost hurt.
He read the article at the counter of a diner, coffee untouched, thumb pressed lightly over the blurred photograph like he could feel the shape of your work through the cheap ink.
Obviously yours.
They had called it his, but it was yours. Anyone who understood you would know that.
I understand you.
The thought sat inside him like a lit match.
He folded the article with almost painful care and took it home.
That night, when you came back to your apartment, nothing was out of place.
The windows were shut. The door was bolted. Every lock you had installed still sat exactly where it was supposed to, heavy and unpicked.
For one stupid second, you were disappointed.
Then you saw the kitchen window. Outside the glass, taped neatly to the pane where you could not miss it, was the newest clipping.
Oh. So he had climbed all the way up to your window, pressed flat against the glass like an offering.
At the bottom of the clipping, in small black marker, Dex had written:
they got it wrong again.
Your heart climbed into your throat.
You stepped closer until your reflection overlapped the words. It looked strange like that, his handwriting across your chest in the dark glass.
It was as if it was the two of you against everyone else’s incompetence.
You didn’t leave it there. Mia would see it in the morning. Mia would ask why Bullseye was leaving notes on your window like some homicidal pen pal, and you had no answer that didn’t sound insane. That, and Mia just ordered in a bunch of assault rifles. The last thing you needed was your roommate pointing it at Dex when he visited.
So you opened the window just enough to reach out, peeled the clipping carefully off the glass, and tore away the strip with Dex’s writing.
You didn’t throw it out. Instead, you folded that little scrap of paper twice and tucked it into your jacket pocket, right over your heart like an idiot.
Then you pinned the clipping to the fridge yourself, neat and straight beneath the strawberry magnet, just the way Dex would like it.
You updated the score, still a bit annoyed.
6-5
And somewhere outside, across the dark gap between buildings, you hoped he had seen you keep it.
—
The next one made it even again.
You knew it the second you saw the headline, before you even got to the photograph. There was a kind of cleanliness to Dex’s violence that the papers never understood. They called it brutality because they didn’t have better words, but you did.
TASK FORCE OFFICER FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY.
Attributed to you.
You stood in front of the bodega newspaper rack for so long the man behind the counter asked if you were buying it or grieving it.
By the time you got home, the board was waiting for you.
You added the blue tally slowly, smiling despite yourself.
6-6.
They had given you his kill, and you should have been pleased because that was the game. That was the whole stupid point. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the photograph, to the blurred dark shape on the floor beside the victim’s hand.
It was a knife.
His, you thought.
Maybe the police had missed it in the chaos of the shot, or maybe the photographer had caught it before evidence got bagged. Either way, once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking.
He had left something behind, but he wasn’t careless
Which meant he had either wanted it found, or he had been interrupted.
So you went to the scene of the crime.
You waited until the scene thinned out, until the uniforms got bored and the detectives started making the kind of mistakes tired people made. You kept to the edges: fire escapes, alleys, rooflines, with the courtesy of a little patience.
To your surprise, the knife was still there, half-hidden beneath a radiator, dark with day-old blood, beautiful even like that.
You took it.
At home, you cleaned it carefully, until it gleamed again under the kitchen light. You sharpened the edge until it caught against your thumb, cutting a little bit of your skin to check.
A little blood trickled off. Yep. Sharp enough.
Then, you wrapped it in a strip of clean white cloth and waited until night.
You climbed the rooftop up until you got to Dex’s apartment building. His window was closed when you reached his fire escape.
The lock you had given him sat there now, installed properly, bright on the frame. For one second, the sight of it made your heart warm.
He had actually used it.
You crouched outside the glass and placed the knife carefully on the sill where he would find it.
Then you tucked the note beneath it.
they keep getting us wrong :(
You stared at the little sad face for a second. Then you almost snatched the note back because, Jesus Christ, that was humiliating.
But the light in his apartment flicked on.Through the thin curtain, you saw his shadow move.
So you left it and climbed away before he reached the window, heart kicking hard against your ribs like you had done something worse than trespassing on a known assassin’s fire escape.
Behind you, Dex opened the window.
His hand appeared, picking up the knife first.
Then he found the note.
Dex read it and chuckled.
He sat down on the edge of the fire escape with your note in one hand and his knife in the other. You had cleaned it. Sharpened it. Brought it home to him like it mattered.
Like his things were worth taking care of.
Like he was.
As this all happened in the background, the score climbed.
7-6.
Your kill, his credit.
Then finally, after one long, ugly night that left half an AVTF unit dead and every paper in the city contradicting itself, the board settled again.
Then 7-7.
His kill, your credit.
Perfectly even.
After that, the messages got cuter, which somehow made them worse.
The first note Dex left was taped to the outside of your kitchen window with a polished bullet casing tied beneath it in red thread.
there’s an us now?
You stared at it for so long your tea went cold.
Your answer came two nights later, left on his windowsill beside an AVTF badge you put there like an offering
don’t get sentimental. but yes.
After that, it became ridiculous. A loose knife sheath returned with a note that said you left this behind. be careful. A newspaper clipping from you with wrong again :( scribbled in the margin. A black marker from him, because he could tell from your last note that yours was running out. A little evidence tag folded into a paper heart, which you immediately flattened, put under your pillow, and thought about all day like an idiot.
That night, somewhere across the street, a shadow moved on the opposite rooftop.
You didn’t wave or smile, but you left the window unlocked when you went to bed.
—
The next morning, there was black fabric at the foot of your bed.
For one confused, half-asleep second, you stared at it like your brain hadn’t finished loading. Then you sat up, hair a mess, blanket sliding down your shoulder, and realised it was a black shirt.
It was folded very neatly, sleeves tucked in, collar smoothed flat, like whoever had left it there had taken his time.
Underneath it was a note:
I took one of yours. It’s only fair.
Your mouth parted. Then, you smiled.
“Oh,” you whispered.
That was where your white shirt had gone.
Of fucking course he had taken it, likely on the first night he broke in. And last night, he had climbed through your unlocked window like a nightmare with good manners, walked into your room while you were sleeping, stood close enough to see the rise and fall of your chest, and decided the polite thing to do was leave you one of his in return.
You picked up the shirt and brought it to your face before dignity could stop you. So this was he smelled like: gun oil, soap, cold air, and a metallic tang underneath that made your eyelids flutter for one horrible second.
Fuck.
You were actually smelling his shirt. Worse, you were smiling about it.
You pressed the fabric harder against your mouth, grinning into it like an idiot, because the thought of Dex standing at the foot of your bed while you slept should have made you afraid. It should have made you check the locks, grab a knife, call Mia, do literally anything normal.
Instead, all you could think was: he was here.
He saw you asleep and he didn’t hurt you. He saw you vulnerable and all he did was give something back.
Then, from the hallway, Mia’s voice floated through the apartment. “What the fuck?”
You froze, lowering the shirt from your face. “What?” you called out.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
You scrambled out of bed, still clutching Dex’s shirt in one hand, and padded into the hall.
Mia stood at the entrance to the living room in yesterday’s shorts and a tank top, hair sticking up in six different directions, one hand wrapped around a pistol and the other holding a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST CRIMINAL.
You followed her stare. Then you saw what Dex had done.
There was a man tied to one of your dining chairs in the middle of the living room.
Alive. Barely conscious, but alive.
His ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs. His wrists were bound behind him. His mouth was taped shut. A neat little bow made of red ribbon had been tied around his chest like Dex had either found gift-wrapping funny or had no idea how gifts worked.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then Mia turned her head very slowly and looked at you with the exhausted expression of a woman who had been through a lot with you and was still somehow finding new reasons to be disappointed.
“I didn’t do that,” you said immediately, which was technically true and therefore the best kind of lie. You lowered the shirt slightly behind your thigh and hoped she was too busy processing the tied-up man to notice you were holding another assassin’s laundry.
Mia blinked at you. “There is a task force rat in our living room with a bow on him.”
“I can see that,” you said, stepping closer like you were being practical about it and not fighting the urge to smile. The man, when he finally opened his eyes, made a muffled sound through the tape, eyes wide and wet with panic, and you ignored him because the coffee table was more interesting.
Dex had laid out everything the man had been carrying in neat rows: A burner phone, a badge, a small recorder, a folded surveillance schedule, and four photographs of your building sat arranged with almost romantic precision.
One was of you, from your bedroom window, wrapped in your towel after a shower. Two photographs were of your living room window: one of you enjoying the sunset from the fire escape, and the other was of you and Mia drinking beers and sitting on the counters by the kitchen last week. One was of your window last night, zoomed in close enough to show the lock you had left undone.
Your stomach dropped and warmed at the same time, which was deeply inconvenient. You reached for the note pinned to the red thread across the man’s chest before Mia could get there first.
Underneath, in smaller writing:
I didn’t like that. You should be more careful.
You stared at the note for too long, long enough for Mia to notice exactly how not-horrified you were. That was the problem with Mia; she was nosy, armed, and unfortunately not stupid.
“What is that?” she asked, taking half a step toward you. You folded the note before she could read it properly and tucked it into your waistband like it was nothing.
“Evidence,” you said, because again, technically true.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding a shirt?”
You looked down as if you had only just noticed the black fabric in your hand. “Laundry.”
“That’s not your shirt,” Mia said, huffing. “That is very obviously not your shirt.”
You forced yourself to shrug and moved past her into the living room, putting your body between her and the note on the hostage’s chest like that would somehow fix everything. “Maybe he brought it,” you said, nodding at the informant, which was such a stupid lie that even the tied-up man looked offended.
Mia stared at you. Then she stared at the man. Then she stared at the shirt again, and you could practically see her connecting dots you were trying to kick under the sofa.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I woke up to a federal informant in our living room, Mia. I think weird is allowed,” you said, and crouched in front of the man before she could keep interrogating you. His eyes fixed on you with desperate relief, like you were the reasonable person in the room, which was honestly insulting.
He had not killed the man. He had found him, hurt him, wrapped him up, and left him breathing in your living room because he knew you would want the choice.
That wasn’t sane. That wasn’t normal. That was not something you could explain to Mia without her opening the biscuit tin full of grenades and declaring a turf war in your apartment.
So you just tilted your head, and Mia watched the movement with open suspicion, her pistol still raised but her attention now split between the hostage and whatever the hell was happening to your face.
Instead of giving her a second of your time, you crouched in front of the informant and smiled like this was business as usual. Behind you, Mia muttered something about needing stronger coffee, and you tried not to think about Dex standing in your bedroom while you slept, leaving you something comforting before placing something violent in the next room.
“Morning,” you said.
The informant whimpered again. You softened your voice, and smiled just enough to make him regret being awake.
“Where shall we start?”
The man made a desperate noise behind the tape, eyes blown wide his whole body jerking against the zip ties like panic had gotten under his skin. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, Dex’s black shirt still clutched in one hand and hidden half-uselessly against your thigh.
You reached forward and pinched the edge of the duct tape.
The man started shaking his head before you even pulled it free, frantic little sounds building in his throat, but you only smiled at him and said, “Relax. I’m helping.”
Then you tore it off.
The second his mouth was free, he gasped so hard it sounded painful. “Bullseye sent me!”
You froze.
Mia’s confusion manifested in a little huh? behind you, but you barely registered it. The man was already blabbing, words falling out of him too fast to be clean. “Please, please, I swear, I swear to God, that’s all this is. He told me to deliver a message. That’s it. I’m just the messenger. I didn’t ask to come here. He grabbed me, he tied me up, he said if I didn’t tell you exactly what he said, he’d come back and cut my hands off, and I believe him, I really, really believe him.”
You crouched a little closer. Your heartbeat had gone quick under your skin. “What message?”
The informant swallowed. His eyes flicked to Mia’s gun, then back to you, and whatever he saw on your face made him more terrified. “He said it’s a date. He said that specifically. A date. He told me to say date, not meeting, not job, not negotiation. Date. He said if the city keeps putting your names together, maybe you should stop letting everyone else have all the fun. He said you should meet him tonight at eleven-thirty at The Black Rabbit on 46th. The back booth. He said you’d know which one because. He said you’d know it because you cut through the alley behind it last Thursday after the task force thing, and he said you ordered fries there once and didn’t finish them because the oil tasted old, and— and I don’t know what that means, I swear I don’t know what that means.”
Oh.
Oh, that absolute freak.
Your mouth parted before you could stop it. You knew The Black Rabbit. It was small, low-lit, always half-empty after ten. You had used the alley behind it twice. Of course he had picked somewhere cute in the most deranged possible way.
The man saw your expression and started crying harder. “Please. That’s all. That’s all he told me. back booth, I told you. I delivered it. Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell the task force. I won’t tell anybody. I’ll leave the city. I swear, I swear, I swear—”
You were not listening anymore.
A date.
Dex had called it a date.
The thought landed low in your stomach, warm enough to be embarrassing. You looked down at his shirt in your hand, at the black fabric bunched between your fingers, and your thumb dragged over the seam before you could stop yourself.
You would’ve gotten lost in your own head if Mia did not shoot the informant in the head, and the man slumped on the floor so suddenly the ribbon went crooked across his chest.
You flinched, blinking yourself back into the room. “Mia.”
“What?” she said, lowering the gun with the exhausted irritation of someone who had just turned off a very loud alarm. “He’s a messenger. He delivered the message.”
You looked at the body, then back at her.
Mia stared at you for a long second. Her eyes dropped to the shirt in your hand, then to the dead man, then to your face, which was doing a terrible job of pretending it had not just been lit from the inside. Her mouth flattened when she connected the dots.
“Oh,” she said. “So you’ve been in contact with Bullseye and didn’t tell me.”
You opened your mouth.
Mia lifted a hand before you could say anything. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. It’s not like I’m your best friend or anything.”
“It’s not like that,” you said, which was stupid, because there was a corpse in your living room wearing a bow and you were holding another man’s shirt like a keepsake.
Mia looked at the body again. Then at you. Then at the note still pinned under the ribbon. “Right. Not like that. Obviously. Men are always sending women hostage invitations to bars for completely normal reasons.”
You tucked Dex’s shirt closer to your side, as if that helped. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
“Mia—”
“No, you know what?” she said, rubbing at her forehead with the heel of her free hand. “Fine. Go on your date.”
You had no answer for that, which was irritating, because you usually had an answer for everything.
Mia sighed so deeply, because this concern had come from years of friendship, unpaid rent, and every bad decision she had ever watched you make. She stepped around the dead informant, pistol still loose in her hand, then paused in the hallway and looked back at you with total, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Couldn’t he just send a singing telegram like a normal psychopath?” she muttered. Then, before you could smile too hard, she pointed the gun vaguely at your face. “Whatever. I’ll get you a gun. Just in case.”
You looked after her, trying and failing not to grin.
“And you’re telling me everything afterwards,” Mia called back.
—
You walked into The Black Rabbit at eleven twenty-seven wearing a skirt, a jacket, and Dex’s oversized black shirt tucked messily into your waistband.
It was a mistake.
You knew it the second he saw you.
Dex was in the back booth under the cracked mirror, one hand around a beer he hadn’t touched. He looked up when the door opened, and whatever expression he had prepared for you died instantly.
His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to your skirt. Then back to your face.
For a second, Bullseye looked like he had forgotten how breathing worked.
You stopped at the edge of the booth. “Hi.”
Dex stood up too fast, almost hitting his knee on the table. “Hi.”
It was so stupidly endearing, you almost forgot your combined body count.
You looked him over, trying to be smug and failing because he was staring at you like you had walked in wearing his heart instead of his laundry.
“You picked a bar,” you said.
“I wanted it to be normal.”
“You sent a dying man to ask me out.”
Dex swallowed. “I wanted you to know I was serious.”
Your stomach flipped.
God. He was insane. Why did you think he was being cute about it?
His gaze dropped again, helplessly, to the shirt hanging loose off your shoulders. “You… wore what I gave to you.”
“You broke into my bedroom.”
“I gave it to you,” he repeated, like that was the important part. Like he had not stood at the foot of your bed in the dark and watched you sleep. Like that wasn’t the most frighteningly intimate thing anyone had ever done to you.
You should have been angry. Instead, you smiled.
Dex saw it and looked like he was about to explode.
Oh.
Your heartbeat kicked hard.
The bar noise blurred for a second: the jukebox skipping in the corner, the bartender moving glasses around, someone laughing too loudly near the door. Dex didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was looking at you with frightening, naked concentration, his hands flexing once at his sides like he wanted to touch you and was using every violent part of himself not to.
You slid into the booth across from him.
Dex sat after you did, still watching, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
“If you want to talk,” you leaned back, trying to play it cool, “then talk.”
“I… I know you hate being miscredited,” he said. “I know you check rooftops when you leave a scene. I know you keep your knives cleaner than your kitchen. I know you pretend you’re angry when you’re interested. I know you left the window unlocked for me.”
Your mouth went dry.
Dex’s voice dropped. “And I know you wore my shirt because you wanted me to see it.”
You stared at him.
For one long second, neither of you moved.
Then you reached across the table, picked up his untouched beer, and took a sip.
It was awful. Bitter and poured badly and exactly the kind of thing he would order because he had no idea what people were supposed to enjoy.
You set it down and smiled. “You’re very confident for a man who had to kidnap someone to ask me out.”
Dex’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed ruined. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“You look surprised that I did,” you tilted your head with a genuine smile.
“I’m not surprised.” His gaze dragged over you again, softer this time, worse. “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. “Like what?”
Dex looked at your mouth.
There it was.
The whole ridiculous game of notes and locks and knives suddenly collapsed into one fact sitting between you in the booth.
Dex wanted you.
Not abstractly or poetically. Not as some distant counterpart in a newspaper headline.
He wanted you right here, in his shirt, across the table, smiling like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
You should have made a joke. You should have leaned away. You should have reminded him that this was public, that he was dangerous, that you were dangerous, that Mia had told you to report back and would absolutely ask invasive questions.
Instead, you leaned in.
“Careful,” you murmured. “It’s only the first date.”
His eyes darkened. Very slowly, he smiled. “Then I’ll be good.”
Fuck.
You were in trouble.
—
Talking was easy after that.
Annoyingly easy, actually. Once the first charged silence broke, once Dex stopped looking at you like the sight of you, awake and talking, had rewired everything essential in him, the conversation settled into normal. Well, almost. If normal could mean two killers sharing beer in the back booth of a shitty Hell’s Kitchen bar, talking about murder like it was music theory.
It started with the board, obviously. You accused him of taking your credit. He genuinely seemed upset, not because of the murders themselves, but because you put each other on opposite sides.
You should have laughed at him.
Instead, you understood it.
See, under all the insanity, he made a horrible kind of sense. His violence was clean where yours was intimate. Yours got close. His made distance feel personal. You said as much, lightly at first, and watched the words hit him harder than any knife could have.
Dex went quiet after that, as if he was moved by your observation. You’re starting to get it, he said.
He talked like nobody had ever looked at the ugliest part of him and called it skill without feeling afraid. Like nobody had ever understood the difference between chaos and control before you. He sat across from you with his beer untouched for too long, staring like he wanted to crawl inside into your lap and live there.
The two of you kept talking for hours. Murder one-to-one. Technique, preferences, mistakes other people made when they tried to imitate either of you. Bad police work. Worse journalism. The insult of being misunderstood by people too stupid to deserve the blatant fucking evidence left in front of them. It should have been ridiculous, and it was. But Dex listened like every petty complaint mattered, like your irritation was holy because it matched in the one in him.
He had never felt so understood before.
You could see it on his face, which was embarrassing for both of you. Every time you leaned forward, every time the collar of his shirt shifted against your shoulder, his focus narrowed so intensely it made the air feel thin.
You could’ve continued talking there for hours if your phone didn't buzz.
You glanced down, expecting Mia to be demanding details or threatening you if you died before telling her everything. Instead, your informant had sent you an address. Then another, along with a list of names. AVTF agents moving together, not far from the bar, practically gift-wrapped by circumstance.
You looked at the message for a second.
Then you smiled.
You slid the phone across the table, and Dex read the text.
You leaned forward, his shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Wanna go hunting?”
—
By the time you reached the rooftop across from the location, you were only starting to realize how intimate this was, even though it should feel like mostly work.
From your crouch near the ledge, you could see the building your informant had sent. It had everything a vigilante could ever dream of: rooftop access, bad perimeter awareness, two lit windows on the upper floor, a side entrance that might as well have had an invitation nailed to it.
Dex, meanwhile, looked exactly as he had in the bar, which was to say unfairly good. He had that same wound-too-tight stillness, only now it had somewhere to go. Neither of you really needed to change because this was who you were. The bar hadn’t been the disguise. If anything, the bar had just been two vigilantes forced briefly into civilian setting, and now the city had handed you both an excuse to slip back into yourselves.
His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket, and when it came back out, there was the mask. He looked down at it for only a second before starting to pull it on like it was muscle memory, like it belonged to the shape of his body as naturally as breath.
Your fingers closed around his wrist, before you thought too hard about it.
Dex stopped, startled, his mask half-unfolded in his hand.
Then you took it from him.
For one long second, he just stared. Not suspicious or annoyed. He just looked completely thrown off, all his composure knocked sideways by the fact that you had interrupted him so casually, like this was your right.
You should have said something then. Instead, you just pulled the mask over your own face.
Oh.
The fabric settled over your features, and you felt Dex go catastrophically still.
His shirt was still hanging off your frame beneath your jacket, the hem tucked into your skirt carelessly in a way that had already ruined him once tonight. The skirt itself was too short to qualify as practical, which had been part of the fun. And now, on top of all that, you were wearing his mask?
It was not subtle, what it did to him.
Dex looked at you like something inside his brain had simply stopped functioning, overloaded so completely there was nothing left for him to do but stand there and take it.
You could practically see the short circuit happen.
His mouth parted uselessly. His eyes dragged over you, and you could've sworn you had never seen anyone look so gone while still technically upright.
You smiled under the mask.
“Hold still,” you murmured, reaching into your little bag, the one you never left home without, fingers finding the small tin by touch alone. It was silver reflective paint.
You flipped open the tin and stepped closer.
The silver caught the rooftop light as you dipped your fingers into it. You reached up and touched him beneath the eye first, dragging one clean line of paint over the sharp plane of his cheekbone, right above his scar. Then another, across the bridge of his nose, your hand steady, his breathing not.
Dex didn’t move. He was holding himself together just to let you do this. The city noise carried below you, distant traffic and sirens and the hum of night, but up there on the rooftop it felt strangely intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
You painted the silver around his eyes the way you did your own, ruining cameras, distorting the face, making him look stranger and somehow even more himself. When you were done, you leaned back just enough to look at him properly.
“Pretty,” you said.
Dex’s throat worked. His gaze pierced your eyes. If he had looked overwhelmed before, now he looked outright haunted. Like being handed pieces of you had already been bad enough, but having your paint on his skin, his disguise on your face, the two of you standing there in each other’s signatures… it was something else entirely.
And for one absurd, breathless second, on a rooftop above a building full of men you were both about to kill, it felt less like getting ready for a job and more like the strangest, sweetest kind of undressing.
For a second, neither of you moved. Below you, through dirty windows and bad blinds, Task Force agents moved around inside the building like they had no idea the night had already chosen death for them.
Then someone inside laughed too loudly, and the moment snapped.
Right, work.
Or something like a work-date.
You laughed sweetly and dropped first, down the fire escape and through the service entrance, Dex behind you without needing a word. There was no need to gesture twice or whisper instructions. He moved like he already understood where you would go, which side you preferred, you wanted distance cleared and when you wanted a body left close enough for your knife.
It should have unnerved you. Instead, it made you giddy.
You had known he was good. You had studied the clippings, the photos, the evidence left behind. But watching Dex work beside you was something else entirely.
Every throw made space for you. Every little movement answered one of yours. He never crowded you, never interrupted, never treated the room like it belonged to him alone.
He made room for your violence like he had been waiting to see it up close.
And you gave him a show.
You moved through the agents with your style, close and quick and pulsing with adrenaline. Dex stayed in the shadows until he didn’t, a small knife flashing from his hand, then an agent behind you dropped before you even turned.
You couldn’t help but laugh.
It bubbled out of you, delighted though completely inappropriate, and Dex heard it through everything. His eyes found you across the room, stunned.
Like he had never heard anything lovelier.
Fuck, it was wonderful how well you worked together.
You ducked when he needed you to duck. He shifted when you needed space. You slid under his arm once, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. It was like dancing, if dancing was a criminal offence and everyone else in the room had arrived mortally underprepared.
Where the hell have you been all my life?
You thought it so clearly it almost became speech.
You only chuckled again, and Dex looked at you like he might never recover.
By the end of the bloodbath, twenty dead agents later, the building had gone quiet.
The euphoric, ringing kind of quiet. Broken glass glittered under the lights. A chair had been knocked onto its side and papers had been scattered across the floor. The agents were ruined, and the two of you stood in the middle of it like the last two people left after the world ended.
You were breathing hard, and so was he.
Dex had silver paint smudged beneath one eye now, a little messier than when you had put it there. His jacket was open. His hands were flexing at his sides, not because he needed a weapon, but because he didn’t know what to do with all the wanting still left in him.
You knew the feeling.
So you walked across the room before either of you could make a joke and ruin it.
Dex did not move away.
He watched you come closer with that open hunger on his face.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down.
The kiss landed through the mask, a frustrating thin piece of fabric between your mouth and his.
Dex froze for half a second, and then the restraint in him cracked just enough for you to feel it. His hands lifted, stopped, hovered near your waist like touching you might be another line he needed permission to cross. You smiled against the mask, and that was somehow worse, because he made a low, wrecked sound into the almost-kiss like you had done an unforgivable sin.
You pulled back, and he followed.
Only an inch, maybe less. But enough.
Enough to tell you exactly how badly he wanted the real thing.
His eyes were dark now, fixed on the place where your lips hid beneath his mask. He looked almost hurt, almost betrayed by the fabric, almost desperate enough to forget every wall he had built for your benefit.
“Take it off,” he said, rough, almost a plea. “Do that again.”
Your heart picked up a beat.
You stepped back just far enough to make him feel the loss.
You smiled beneath his mask.
“Earn it.”
And as Dex stared at your mouth through his mask, silver still wet beneath his eyes and twenty bodies cooling around you, you wondered, almost fondly, who the cops would blame for this one.
—end.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5.
That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation. If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3
CW: fake marriage, undercover as a couple, masquerade ball, mutual pining, sexual tension, secret identities, violence, blood/injury, guns, knives, suggestive banter, explicit sexual content, semi-public kissing/touching
Summary:
Red Hood and Moxie know each other well enough to fight back-to-back, but not well enough to know each other’s real names.
When a criminal masquerade admits only married pairs, Jason asks her to play his wife for the night, and the line between cover and confession gets dangerously thin.
Author’s Note:
this is my first reader-insert fic!!
i know it's not really full on smut but i did my best...
Red Hood called you at 2:17 in the morning and opened with, “I need you to marry me.”
You stared at the comm where it sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, its tiny red light blinking up at you with the smug patience of a device that knew it had just ruined your night.
There was blood on your knuckles, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair, and half a strip of medical tape stuck to your wrist because you had been in the middle of wrapping a split across your ribs when his voice came through. Gotham was still rattling against your window in a hard gray sheet. Somewhere below, a siren cut through the Narrows and vanished toward the river.
You picked up the comm carefully. “Say that again, but slower and less like a hostage negotiation.”
A pause. Then Hood, sounding annoyed in a way that meant he had probably practiced the line and hated that you had ruined it. “I have an infiltration job.”
“You need me to marry you for an infiltration job.”
“Fake marry me.”
“Oh, good. For a second there, I thought you were being impulsive.”
“Can you be serious for ten seconds?”
“I can. I just usually charge extra.”
A low sound came through the comm, almost a laugh, before he caught it and killed it. Red Hood had a habit of doing that, letting amusement slip halfway into his voice before remembering he was supposed to be terrifying. The criminals of Gotham still believed in the terrifying part. You believed in it too, mostly. You had seen him put a man’s head through drywall for threatening a kid. You had seen him walk through gunfire like pain was an inconvenience rather than a warning. Red Hood was not soft.
But he was funny when he forgot not to be.
That had been one of your first problems with him.
The second had been the way he trusted you at his back.
You leaned against the sink and pressed a clean cloth to your ribs. “What’s the job?”
“Masquerade tomorrow night. Private estate outside Bristol. Guest list is a who’s who of Gotham’s worst-dressed with too much money. Arms brokers, corrupt judges, traffickers, one Intergang accountant who’s either brave or stupid, and a host who calls himself Mr. Argent because apparently Gotham finally ran out of normal criminal names.”
“Argent,” you repeated. “Subtle.”
“He’s auctioning off a ledger.”
“You called me at two in the morning because of bookkeeping?”
“It’s a buyer list. Names, routes, shell companies, offshore accounts. Enough to gut a weapons pipeline running through the East End, the Narrows, and half of Blüdhaven.” Hood’s voice changed there, the humor thinning out into something harder. “Kids have been turning up with military-grade rifles in their backpacks because these assholes are selling like they’re moving party favors. I want the ledger.”
That sobered you fast.
You pulled the cloth away from your side and looked down. The bleeding had slowed. Good enough.
“What’s the catch?” you asked.
“No solo guests.”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
“The invitation admits married pairs only. Spouses. No exceptions. They verify rings at the door, cross-check the aliases, then keep paired guests together for most of the night. Argent’s paranoid about undercover cops and lone operatives. Thinks people are less likely to make a move if their partner can be used against them.”
“That is either deeply stupid or unfortunately insightful.”
“Both.”
“And you thought of me.”
The pause on the other end went a fraction too long.
You knew Red Hood in pieces, because that was how everyone knew each other in Gotham. You knew the red helmet, the leather jacket, the guns he carried like extensions of his hands. You knew the brutal efficiency of him in a fight, the dry commentary over comms, the way he always put himself between civilians and bullets before anyone could accuse him of caring. You knew Arsenal liked him enough to insult him creatively, Nightwing worried about him with the exhausted fondness of an older brother, and Oracle treated him like a migraine she would still guide home through a burning building.
You did not know his name.
He did not know yours.
That had always been safer.
“Yeah,” Hood said finally. “I thought of you.”
Your fingers tightened around the comm.
Outside the bathroom, your apartment was dark except for the neon wash bleeding through the blinds. Moxie had been a joke once. A stupid little word spat by men who thought it made you sound small, cute, harmless. You had been new to Gotham then, fresh from Star City with one duffel bag, two batons, seven knives, and Roy Harper’s warning that Gotham had teeth. You had kept the name because it annoyed people. Then, you had made it expensive to laugh at.
Red Hood had never laughed.
The first time you worked together, he had found you pinned behind a half-toppled bar with four rounds left, a dislocated shoulder, and a mouth still running badly enough to make three smugglers hesitate before rushing you. He had dropped through the skylight like divine punishment with a gun in each hand and said, “You always this chatty when you’re bleeding?”
You had said, “Only when I’m bored.”
He had trusted you after that. Slowly. In the grudging, suspicious way Gotham vigilantes trusted anyone, but it had counted. You had traded intel, patched wounds, covered escapes, and spent too many dawns sitting on rooftops while the city turned bruised and gold beneath you. Friendship had crept in under the armor. Attraction had followed like a bad idea wearing boots.
Neither of you had said anything.
“So,” you said, because your silence had begun to feel too revealing, “you need a wife.”
“I need a partner.”
“But the invitation says married pairs.”
“Yes.”
“Which makes me your wife.”
“Fake wife.”
“Still hearing wife.”
“Moxie.”
You smiled despite yourself. He only used that tone when he was trying not to react, which made it one of your favorites. “What, no other options? Arsenal busy?”
“He offered.”
“He offered to be your wife?”
“He offered to wear white and make it everyone’s problem.”
You laughed, and this time Hood did not quite hide the answering warmth in his voice.
“Nightwing?” you asked.
“Would spend the whole night making heart eyes at the security cameras so Oracle could laugh at me.”
“She’ll laugh at you anyway.”
“Probably.”
“You could ask one of the Bats.”
“I’m asking you.”
The room seemed to quiet around that.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. The mask was off, leaving only the tired face beneath it. A fading bruise shadowed your jaw. Rain had flattened your hair against your cheek. You did not look like anyone’s wife. You looked like someone who had kicked a gunman down a stairwell forty minutes earlier and still had glass dust in one sleeve.
“You trust me that much?” you asked, softer than you meant to.
Hood did not answer immediately. When he did, the modulator could not quite strip the honesty out of his voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The stupid thing was, you trusted him too.
“All right,” you said. “Send me the details.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”
You straightened. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s a married couple event. We have to arrive together.”
“You can meet me two blocks out like a normal person.”
“A normal fake husband.”
“You’re enjoying this too much already.”
“You’re the one who keeps saying husband.”
“You started this call with a proposal.”
“It was a mission brief.”
“It was a cry for help.”
This time, he did laugh, low and brief and rough around the edges. It slipped under your skin before you could stop it.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Nine. Formal. Mask. Minimal weapons.”
“Define minimal.”
“Enough to keep you alive. Not enough to start a war before dessert.”
“You take all the romance out of organized crime.”
“Wear something you can run in.”
“Wear something you can bleed on.”
“Always do.”
The line clicked off.
You stood there for a moment with the comm in your palm and rain tapping against the glass. Then you looked down at your half-bandaged ribs and sighed.
“Fake married,” you told your reflection.
By the next night, you had decided that if Gotham criminals insisted on being dramatic, you were at least going to make them regret inviting you to be attractive.
The dress was black because subtlety had its limits. It skimmed close where it needed to, moved where it had to, and hid more than one blade in the places people politely pretended not to look. The slit up one side gave your thigh holster room. The structured bodice concealed flexible armor. Your shoes had been modified by a woman in Blüdhaven who believed all formalwear should survive a rooftop chase and at least one attempted kidnapping.
Your mask was matte black, simple and sharp, covering enough of your face to preserve the fiction without interfering with your sightlines. It lacked the tactical comfort of your usual mask. It also made you feel less like Moxie and more like someone who had been invited into a room specifically designed to test whether she could lie prettily while armed.
You arrived two blocks from the estate at 8:56.
Red Hood was already there. He stood beside a sleek black car under the cover of an old stone archway, rain misting silver around him. He was not wearing the helmet. That was the first problem. The second was the suit.
You had seen Red Hood in body armor, leather, Kevlar, blood, soot, and once an ugly green hoodie he had stolen from a safehouse after taking a knife to the shoulder. You had never seen him in a black suit tailored so cleanly that it looked as if it had been built around the breadth of him. His shirt was dark red, open at the throat instead of strangled by a tie, and his masquerade mask covered the upper half of his face in black and oxblood leather. A white streak cut through his dark hair, which had been pushed back like he had fought it into submission and lost only once.
His mouth was visible.
That was unfair.
You stopped under the archway.
He looked up from adjusting his cuff and went still.
The rain filled the silence between you.
You lifted a brow behind your mask. “Problem?”
“No,” he said.
His voice was not modulated tonight. It was lower than you expected, rougher, human in a way that made something in your stomach tighten. You knew Red Hood’s voice through static and armor. You knew the shape of his threats, the cadence of his sarcasm, the way he said your name when he was warning you not to do something dangerous you were absolutely about to do.
This was different.
This was close enough to touch.
“You look…” He stopped, jaw working once. “You clean up nice, Mox.”
The nickname landed differently without the helmet.
You gave him a slow look from shoes to shoulders to mouth, because if he was going to make you feel off-balance, he could suffer too.
“You look expensive,” you said.
“Emergency tailoring.”
“Obviously.”
His mouth twitched. “That obvious?”
“You’re wearing a suit that actually fits, Hood. Either someone threatened you, or you threatened them first.”
“Little of both.”
“That sounds more believable than it should.”
His mouth curved. “You ready?”
“For the crime gala or the fake marriage?”
“Yes.”
You stepped closer, close enough to smell rain, leather, and something faintly smoky beneath his cologne. “Rules?”
He opened the car door but did not move out of your way. “We stay together. We get in, find the ledger, copy it if we can, and steal it if we have to. Argent’s people are running heat sensors at the door and wand checks inside, so anything metal better be hidden well.”
“It is.”
His eyes flicked down for half a second before he caught himself.
You smiled. “Professional, Hood.”
“You brought it up.”
“Are you going to be weird all night?”
“Probably.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Something shifted in his expression. The teasing stayed, but a different tension moved beneath it.
“Speaking of.” He reached into his jacket.
You tensed on instinct before you saw the small velvet box in his hand.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Red Hood noticed everything, which was one of the most annoying things about having a crush on him.
“Relax,” he said. “If I were going to shoot you, I wouldn’t be standing out in the open like this.”
“You got a velvet ring box.”
“It’s part of the cover kit, Mox.”
“You have a cover kit with rings?”
“I have a lot of things.”
“That answer raises more questions than it resolves.”
He opened the box.
Inside were two rings. His was plain and dark, brushed black metal with a thin line of red through the center. Yours was simpler than you expected, a narrow gold band set with a small dark stone that caught the low light like it had a secret. It was not flashy enough to be ridiculous. It was not cheap enough to be meaningless.
For a mission prop, it looked dangerously thoughtful.
Your mouth went dry.
“Hood,” you said slowly.
“They verify at the door,” he said. “Needed to look real.”
“You bought rings.”
“I bought a cover.”
“You bought rings, Hood.”
His jaw shifted. “They verify at the door.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He took the smaller ring from the box. His hand was bare, no gloves, and the sight of it did something stupid to your pulse. Broad fingers, scarred knuckles, a pale line across the back of one hand that disappeared under his cuff. You had seen those hands reload guns, set bones, pull you out of an exploding warehouse by the back of your armor. You had not imagined one holding a wedding ring.
That was a lie.
You would never admit to imagining it.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
You should have made a joke. You usually had one ready, sharp and easy and useful for putting distance between yourself and anything that looked too much like vulnerability. But his voice had gone quiet, and the rain had softened the edges of the city, and there was no helmet between you tonight.
You gave him your hand.
He slid the ring onto your finger.
It fit.
You looked down at it.
Hood held your hand a second longer than necessary. His thumb brushed the base of your finger, barely there, and the carefulness of it landed worse than any joke he could have made.
“How’d you know my size?” you asked.
“I’m observant.”
“That’s a creepy answer.”
“In Gotham, paying attention is the difference between getting home and getting buried.”
The joke caught in your throat before it could fully form, because there was nothing theatrical in his voice when he said it.
“Fair enough.”
You took his ring from the box before he could close it, because letting him have the upper hand for too long was bad for your health. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave you his hand.
His ring slid over his knuckle with a little resistance. You felt the scars there. You felt him watching you.
“There,” you said, because your voice needed somewhere to go. “Tragically wed.”
He flexed his hand once, looking at the ring as if it had personally betrayed him. “For the mission.”
“Obviously.”
“Nothing else.”
“Never even crossed my mind.”
The lie sat between you, wearing formalwear.
“Names?” you asked.
“Anders,” he said. “Daniel and Elise.”
“Elise?”
“You hate it?”
“I sound like I own silk robes and poison my husbands.”
“Useful energy for tonight.”
“How long have we been married?”
“Three years.”
“Too long. I would’ve killed you by then.”
“Two years.”
“Better.”
“We met in Star City. You hated me.”
“That part’s true enough.”
“Got married in Atlantic City after a job went sideways.”
You stared at him. “That is the least believable thing you’ve said tonight.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It’s tacky.”
“It’s criminal.”
“It’s grounds for divorce.”
His mouth curved. “Then sell it, Mrs. Anders.”
He opened the car door wider. “After you, darling.”
You almost tripped on your own dress.
He caught your elbow immediately, steadying you with infuriating ease.
You looked up at him. “Don’t call me that.”
His thumb rested against the inside of your arm. “Noted.”
“You’re going to call me that again, aren’t you?”
Every guest wore a mask.
It made the whole thing feel less like a party and more like a confession waiting to happen.
Hood stepped out first and came around to your side before the valet could reach you. He offered his hand with the smoothness of a man who had absolutely been taught manners at some point and had chosen violence anyway.
You took it.
His ring flashed dark against his hand.
“Smile,” he murmured.
“I am smiling.”
“That’s your I’m-going-to-bite-someone smile.”
“It’s versatile.”
His hand settled at the small of your back.
The contact was light. Polite, even. It still burned through the dress like he had pressed his palm to bare skin. You hated him a little for being able to do that. You hated yourself more for leaning into it just enough that his fingers flexed.
At the door, a woman in silver looked over your invitation with the blank expression of someone paid well enough not to blink at murderers.
“Mr. and Mrs. Anders,” she said.
Hood smiled. It was small, controlled, and completely fraudulent. “That’s us.”
Mrs. Anders. You were going to murder him before midnight.
The woman glanced at your rings. Then at your faces. Then at the security guard beside her, who lifted a scanner.
“Hands,” he said.
Hood went first. Calm. Unbothered. The scanner passed over his sleeves, chest, waist, and legs. It did not beep, which meant either he had actually obeyed the minimal-weapons rule or he had spent the afternoon sourcing enough ceramic, polymer, and carbon-fiber problems to make the scanner irrelevant.
When it was your turn, Hood’s hand shifted against your back.
A warning.
You relaxed your shoulders, lifted your arms, and let the guard scan you. He found nothing. He did not know about the ceramic blade along your thigh, the garrote sewn into your hem, the lockpicks disguised as hairpins, or the tiny flash drive tucked beneath the dark stone of your ring.
Oracle would have been proud.
The woman in silver gave you both a final look. “Enjoy the evening.”
“We intend to,” Hood said.
You waited until you were inside, past the first curtain of security and beneath a ceiling painted with golden saints, before you muttered, “Mr. and Mrs. Anders?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I sound like I run a suspiciously profitable antique store.”
“You do have the vibe.”
“I’m divorcing you.”
“We’ve been married for fifteen minutes.”
“Annulment, then.”
His hand moved slightly at your back, fingers pressing once as a masked couple passed too close on your left. You caught the movement of the man’s hand toward his jacket and shifted before Hood had to pull you, putting yourself just out of reach while looking like you had only turned to admire a vase.
Hood’s mouth twitched.
“Nice,” he murmured.
“I know.”
The ballroom was a glittering fever dream.
Chandeliers spilled gold across polished floors. A string quartet played something elegant and mournful in the corner. The guests drifted in pairs, all silk, velvet, diamonds, and concealed cruelty. Masks transformed familiar monsters into myth. You recognized a judge who had buried evidence in three trafficking cases, a shipping magnate whose warehouses had burned twice under suspicious circumstances, one of Penguin’s accountants, and a woman from Blüdhaven who had once tried to stab Roy Harper with an oyster knife.
Above it all, on a balcony overlooking the room, stood Mr. Argent.
He wore white. Of course he did. His mask was silver, shaped like a fox’s face, and his hair was slicked back so severely it looked lacquered. Two guards flanked him. He lifted a champagne flute as the room applauded, and you felt Hood go still beside you.
“That him?” you murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Punchable.”
“Very.”
“Later?”
“If you behave.”
“I never promised that.”
“No,” Hood said, looking down at you with an expression you did not know how to read. “You didn’t.”
For the next hour, you were married.
It was alarming how well you both lied.
Hood kept you close, his hand at your waist or your back or curled around your fingers whenever someone looked too long. You let yourself be guided without seeming guided, answered questions with a smile, and invented a marriage with him in pieces. You had met in Star City, according to him. Blüdhaven, according to you. You handled private acquisitions. He handled security consulting. You had been married for two years, unless someone asked Hood, in which case it became three because apparently your fake husband believed in committing to details without warning you first. You disliked his driving. He admired your temper. You preferred clean exits, and he preferred making sure no one followed. Somehow, that was the most believable part.
Every time he called you his wife, your body reacted before your brain could remind it to be professional.
“My wife has better instincts than I do,” he told a broker with a scar cutting through one eyebrow.
“That must be difficult for you,” the broker said.
“You have no idea,” you replied.
Hood’s fingers tightened on your hip.
The broker laughed like he thought you were charming.
Hood leaned close to your ear as the man turned away. “Careful.”
“You brought me because I’m charming.”
“I brought you because you’re dangerous.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I could say sweeter.”
Your breath caught.
He did not move away.
The room kept spinning around you, music rising and falling, glass chiming against glass. Hood’s mouth hovered close enough to your ear that you felt each word more than you heard it.
“For the cover,” he added.
You turned your face slightly toward his. “Coward.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
The moment stretched thin.
Then a bell chimed from the center of the room, and Mr. Argent descended the stairs with his hands spread as if he were welcoming guests to a wedding rather than a criminal auction.
“Friends,” he said, voice carrying. “Partners. Devoted halves of dangerous wholes. Welcome.”
You felt Hood’s irritation through the line of his body.
Argent spoke for several minutes, all polished charm and predator’s teeth. He praised loyalty. He praised discretion. He praised the beauty of masks, of chosen names, of the sacred privacy between spouses. It was all ridiculous and unpleasantly effective. This crowd liked being told their secrets were elegant rather than filthy.
The auction would begin at midnight.
Until then, there would be dancing.
“Of course there will,” you said under your breath.
Hood looked down at you. “You dance?”
“I fight people on rooftops in steel-toed boots. What do you think?”
“I think that wasn’t a no.”
“It should have been.”
The quartet shifted into a waltz.
Couples moved toward the center of the floor.
Argent watched from the stairs.
Hood held out his hand.
You stared at it. “You’re kidding.”
“He’s watching.”
“Let him.”
“Sweetheart.”
There was the mission voice again. The one that made you want to argue and obey at the same time, which was probably why you usually chose to argue.
You placed your hand in his. “If you step on my dress, I’m leaving you for Nightwing.”
“Like hell you are.”
“He has better posture.”
“He has worse taste.”
“He still claims you, so clearly.”
Hood pulled you into the dance before you could look too pleased with yourself.
You had expected competence. Red Hood was good at nearly everything physical, which was obnoxious but useful. You had not expected grace. He moved like he fought, controlled and deliberate, except here the violence had been translated into something almost beautiful. His hand settled at your waist, the other holding yours. He led without forcing, gave you space when you needed it, adjusted to your rhythm so quickly you almost forgot to be surprised.
Almost.
“Where the hell did you learn to dance?” you asked.
“Crime Alley community center.”
You looked up sharply.
His mouth curved. “You should see your face.”
“I am going to widow myself.”
“You ask a lot of questions for a woman with at least six hidden weapons at a no-weapons gala.”
“Seven.”
“Anklet?”
“Hair.”
“Nice.”
“You missed it.”
“Did I?”
His hand shifted at your waist, just enough for his thumb to skim the reinforced seam where one of your hairpins had been before you tucked it into place. Heat shot down your spine.
You narrowed your eyes. “Show-off.”
“Observant,” he corrected.
The dance turned you beneath one chandelier, light sliding across his mask. For a moment, with his face half-hidden and his mouth bare, you felt the strangeness of knowing him and not knowing him. Red Hood had carried you once when smoke inhalation made your knees buckle after a warehouse fire. He had sat beside you on a roof while you stitched his arm and complained about his inability to hold still. He had told you which safehouses had clean water and which clinics would not ask questions. He had never told you his name.
You had never told him yours.
Yet his hand fit at your waist like it had always been meant to find you.
“Why me?” you asked.
His steps did not falter, but his expression changed.
“I told you.”
“You said you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“That’s not all.”
Around you, masked couples turned and glittered. Argent’s people watched from the edges. There were cameras in the chandeliers, guards at each door, predators in every corner, and still the most dangerous thing in the room felt like the pause before Hood answered.
“You don’t flinch,” he said.
You could have made that a joke. You should have.
“I do,” you said. “Just not where people can see.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
You hated the mask for hiding their color from you. You hated it more for making you want to know.
“I know,” he said.
The words were quiet enough that no one else could have heard them. They landed with brutal precision anyway.
The dance ended. Applause rose politely around you.
Hood did not let go.
You did not pull away.
Then Oracle’s voice crackled faintly through the tiny comm hidden in your earring. “Argent’s private office just went active. East wing, second floor. You have maybe ten minutes before the auction staff transfers the ledger downstairs.”
You stepped back first, mostly because someone had to.
Hood’s jaw tightened like he had been pulled out of a thought he did not appreciate. “Copy.”
“And try not to make the cameras work harder than they already are,” Oracle added.
“I make no promises,” you said.
Hood shot you a look.
He joined you inside thirty seconds later.
“Cheekbones?” you whispered as the door clicked shut behind him.
“They were very proud of them.”
“You’re mean when you’re jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“They were looking at me.”
“I noticed.”
“That’s jealousy.”
“That’s situational awareness.”
“You’re very committed to being wrong.”
“Part of my charm.”
You grinned and headed for the stairs.
The office was exactly where Oracle said it would be, behind another locked door at the end of a corridor lined with bad portraits of dead men who had probably also committed tax fraud. Hood stood watch while you worked the lock. It took eighteen seconds, which was twelve seconds longer than it should have taken because he stood too close behind you and smelled too good.
“You’re hovering,” you whispered.
“I’m guarding.”
“You’re breathing on my neck.”
“Want me to stop?”
Your pick slipped.
Hood noticed.
You got the door open and shouldered your way inside before he could say anything smug enough to justify stabbing him.
Argent’s office was dark-paneled, overdecorated, and cold. A fire burned low in the hearth, more decorative than useful. The desk was massive. The safe behind the portrait was predictable. The pressure sensor beneath the rug was less predictable, but only because Argent had otherwise shown no taste.
“Left,” Hood said.
“I see it.”
“Camera above the bookcase.”
“I see that too.”
“Drawer’s wired.”
“You know,” you said, crouching beside the safe, “some husbands support their wives in silence.”
“You’d hate that.”
“You’re right. Keep talking.”
The safe took longer. Argent had invested money there, at least. You worked by feel while Hood disabled the camera feed through a device Oracle had given him with a warning not to break it. The room smelled like smoke and old paper. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom below.
When the safe opened, you found the ledger in a black case beside stacks of cash, passports, and a velvet pouch filled with diamonds.
“Bingo,” you said.
Hood came closer. “Can you copy it?”
You opened the case.
Inside was a slim encrypted drive and a paper ledger. Dramatic and paranoid. Gotham criminals really were exhausting.
“Copy the drive, photograph the paper,” you said. “Three minutes.”
“You have two.”
“You always say that.”
“You always take three.”
“And yet you keep asking me places.”
He stood beside you while you worked, close enough that his suit brushed your bare shoulder when he reached past you to shift the desk lamp. The contact made your skin prickle. You ignored it. Then his hand settled briefly over yours to steady the ledger page before it curled.
You stopped.
He stopped too.
For one suspended second, both of you looked at your hands. His ring. Your ring. Inked names of criminals between you.
Then footsteps sounded in the hall.
Hood moved first, crossing to the door with silent speed. He listened, shoulders going tense.
“Two guards,” he mouthed.
You closed the ledger, pocketed the drive, and grabbed the paper book because copying was suddenly less important than leaving.
The office door opened before you reached the safe.
Hood caught the first guard by the wrist and slammed him face-first into the doorframe. You threw the ledger case at the second guard’s throat, followed it with your elbow, and swept his legs when he choked. The fight was fast, ugly, and mostly quiet until the first guard got a hand on the panic button at his belt.
Red light flashed in the corridor.
“Well,” you said, breathing hard. “That’s unfortunate.”
Hood looked at the unconscious guard, then at you. “You said three minutes.”
“You said two. This marriage has communication issues.”
Shouting rose from downstairs.
Oracle’s voice cut in. “Alarm triggered. Multiple hostiles converging on the east wing. Also, Argent just noticed his ledger room is having a moment.”
Hood grabbed your hand. “Not the window.”
You glanced toward the glass. “I wasn’t going to suggest the window.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was considering all exits.”
“You were thinking the window.”
“Fine. I was thinking the window.”
“Too exposed. Service corridor.”
He pulled the office door open just enough to check the hall, then drew you out after him. The alarm had not yet become a full lockdown, but the estate had shifted around you. Music still drifted from the ballroom, strained and elegant beneath the first signs of panic. Somewhere below, a guard barked orders into a radio. Somewhere closer, expensive shoes moved quickly over the polished floor.
You made it down one hall, then another, before voices rose ahead of you.
Hood stopped so abruptly you nearly collided with his back.
“Storage room?” you whispered.
“Locked.”
“Can you open it?”
“Not before they turn the corner.”
“Then what?”
He looked at you.
You had just enough time to understand before his hand slid to your waist and he walked you backward into the shadowed alcove beside a half-open terrace door. Rain breathed cold against your bare shoulders. His body covered yours, broad enough to block you from the hall, close enough to steal your balance. The ledger pressed between you.
The sensible thing would have been to wait until the footsteps faded completely, then slip away.
The less sensible thing was Hood looking down at your mouth.
“Careful,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours. “With what?”
“You know what.”
“We’re still undercover,” he said.
“You say that like it explains why your hand is on my ass.”
He had the decency to look caught for half a second before the corner of his mouth tilted. “It’s a convincing cover.”
“We’re in the middle of an active alarm.”
“Gotham criminals love drama.”
“You are so full of shit.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Maybe.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
It was supposed to be a cover. You understood that. You understood it with the part of your brain still tracking footsteps, sightlines, cameras, and the weight of the stolen drive hidden beneath your ring. The guards were coming. You needed a reason to be tucked into a dark corner with his hands on you, and Gotham criminals were much more willing to believe in lust than competence.
Knowing that did nothing to save you.
Hood kissed like he had been waiting for permission and hated himself for needing it. His hand tightened at your waist, the other braced near your head, and when the first guard rounded the corner, you let yourself make a soft, irritated sound against his mouth as if being interrupted were the only crime happening.
“Hey,” the guard snapped.
Hood lifted his head slowly.
You had to give him credit. He looked exactly like a rich, dangerous husband being inconvenienced in the middle of something private.
His mouth was damp. His mask was slightly crooked. His hand tightened at your waist before the guard could decide whether to look embarrassed or afraid, and when his voice came, it was low enough to make the man rethink his life.
“You lost?”
The guard looked like he was seriously considering saying yes. His gaze flicked from Hood’s face to your hand fisted in his lapel, then to the ring on your finger.
“Restricted wing,” he said, but the authority had already leaked out of him.
You smiled from beneath Hood’s shoulder, breathless enough that it was not entirely acting. “We were looking for somewhere quiet.”
“This isn’t—”
“My wife gets bored at parties,” Hood said.
Your nails dug warningly into his jacket.
He did not even flinch.
The second guard muttered something into his radio. The first looked between you again, then made the obvious and incorrect calculation that two half-dressed socialites sneaking away from a masquerade were less urgent than the alarm coming from Argent’s office.
“Return to the ballroom,” he said.
“Eventually,” Hood said.
The guard looked like he wanted to argue. Then Hood smiled.
The guard chose life.
When they disappeared around the corner, neither of you moved.
The sensible thing would have been to break apart immediately and run.
Instead, Hood’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Convincing,” you said, but your voice had gone thin.
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah.”
“For the cover?”
“That was the idea.”
“And now?”
His gaze lifted to yours.
The alarm wailed louder somewhere behind you. Your heart was worse.
“Now I’m waiting for you to tell me to back up,” he said.
You should have. The mission was still burning around you. Argent’s men were searching the estate, Oracle was probably developing a stress migraine, and you had a stolen ledger digging into your stomach.
Instead, you caught his lapel and pulled him down again.
The second kiss had no excuse at all.
Hood made a low sound against your mouth and crowded closer, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, the other cupping your jaw with surprising care. He kissed like he did everything else, with focus, hunger, and a barely leashed intensity that made your knees threaten to forget their job. You kissed him back just as hard, biting at his lower lip because you had wanted to know what he would do.
He groaned.
That sound nearly undid you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
Your laugh came out uneven. “I was hoping it wasn’t just tonight.”
His forehead touched yours. Rain slid down between you. “Not just tonight.”
The admission settled under your ribs, warm and terrifying.
Then Oracle said, with the precise exhaustion of a woman who regretted every friendship in her life, “I know this is a very meaningful moment for whatever emotionally constipated thing you two have going on, but the armed men are still armed.”
You closed your eyes. “Oracle.”
“East stairwell is blocked. West service corridor is clear for maybe ninety seconds. Also, Hood, if you get lipstick on that suit, Roy is going to know the emergency tailor trip was for a date, and I refuse to moderate that conversation.”
Hood froze.
You pulled back just enough to stare at him.
Roy.
The suit.
Hood’s mouth tightened.
Your brain, traitorous and quick, began putting pieces together. Arsenal’s teasing. Nightwing’s fondness. The way Hood moved through certain rooftops like he knew the Bat-routes and hated that he knew them. The way Roy had texted you earlier that week, complaining that getting his friend Jason into a tailor’s shop had required bribery, threats, and the promise of post-mission chili dogs.
Jason Todd, scowling in Roy’s kitchen three months ago with a beer he barely drank and a book tucked under one arm like a threat. Jason Todd at a crowded charity event Roy had dragged you to, wearing a suit with the stiff irritation of a man who understood formalwear but resented having to surrender to it. Jason Todd, who had once apparently threatened a tailor over sleeve mobility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
“You’re Jason,” you said.
Hood’s eyes narrowed. “We are being hunted.”
“You’re Jason Todd.”
“Moxie.”
“I made fun of your tie at Roy’s birthday.”
“It was an ugly tie.”
“You said you liked my boots.”
“They had knives in them.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice a lot of things.”
You stared at him, outrage and desire tangling so tightly you could barely separate them. “Did you know?”
His expression shifted, something almost helpless moving through it. “Not until tonight.”
“Tonight when?”
“At the door,” he said. “You smiled like you were about to rob the place and insult me for helping.”
“That is not specific. I smile like that often.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping. “That was part of the problem.”
The shouting grew louder.
Oracle cleared her throat over the comm. “The identity crisis is very compelling, but your ninety seconds is down to thirty.”
Jason—because it was Jason, because of course it was Jason—looked down at you, rain bright on his mask and your lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth.
“We’re finishing this conversation later,” he said.
“You showed up in a custom suit, called me your wife, and let me figure out you were Jason Todd during an active alarm. We’re finishing several conversations later.”
His mouth curved. “Looking forward to it.”
“Thirty seconds,” Oracle warned.
You tightened your grip on his lapel, outrage and desire still tangled somewhere behind your ribs. “Run, husband.”
His grin flashed, sharp and delighted.
You ran.
The next twenty minutes were chaos in formalwear.
You and Jason moved through the service corridors like you’d done it a hundred times before. He covered your left without needing to be asked. You ducked under his arm when he fired over your shoulder. You broke a man’s wrist with one hand and held the ledger against your chest with the other. Jason used a serving tray to knock a guard unconscious, which you appreciated as both violence and commentary.
At one point, you vaulted over a dessert cart, and he caught you by the waist on the other side because the floor was slick with spilled champagne.
“Careful, honey,” he said.
You elbowed him in the ribs.
He laughed as he shot out the lock on a service door behind you. The door swung hard enough to clip one of Argent’s men in the face, which was probably not intentional but still felt like a gift from the universe.
Argent made it as far as the conservatory before his sense of self-preservation failed him. He had two guards, a silver briefcase, and the deeply unfortunate confidence of a man who had never been tackled by Red Hood while wearing formal shoes.
Jason hit him beside the orchid display.
The fountain took both of them.
Water surged over the marble lip. Argent shouted. Jason came up soaked to the chest, one hand locked in the back of Argent’s expensive white jacket and the other already reaching for a zip tie.
You handled the guards.
By the time Nightwing arrived through the shattered glass roof with far too much acrobatic flair, Argent was bound to a marble cherub, Jason was dripping wet in a custom suit, and you were holding the ledger in one hand and one of your broken heels in the other.
Nightwing landed lightly beside you and took in the scene.
Then he looked at Jason.
Then at you.
Then at the rings.
“Oh,” he said, with terrible delight. “This explains so much.”
Jason pointed at him. “Say one word.”
Nightwing’s grin widened. “Mazel tov?”
You covered your mouth with your hand but couldn’t hide your laugh.
Jason looked betrayed. “You too?”
“You’re soaked in fountain water and wearing a wedding ring,” you said. “I’m only human.”
Nightwing pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m honored to have been here for the reception.”
Jason started toward him.
Nightwing wisely flipped backward onto the fountain edge, still grinning. “Oracle says police are six minutes out. Arsenal also says, and I quote, ‘Tell the happy couple I’m claiming visitation rights.’”
“I hate all of you,” Jason said.
“No, you don’t,” you said.
He looked at you.
For a second, the wreckage of the night narrowed to the space between you. Broken glass glittered on the conservatory floor. Rain poured through the ruined ceiling. Your mask was still in place, and so was his, but the fiction was gone. He knew you. You knew him. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to make the wanting feel less like a dangerous mistake and more like a door neither of you had realized was unlocked.
Nightwing’s expression softened, which made you want to throw the broken heel at him.
“I’ll take Argent,” he said. “You two should go before the cops arrive and ask why she has seven knives and a ledger full of people who are going to want her dead by morning.”
“Six knives,” Jason said automatically.
Nightwing stared at him.
You stared at him too.
Jason glanced at you. “You lost one in the east wing.”
“You counted?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said, and there was something warm under it. “You noticed.”
Nightwing made a sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. “Go. Both of you. Before I start making a speech.”
“Don’t,” Jason said.
“Oh, I have several prepared.”
Not awkward, exactly. You and Jason had survived too many injuries together for silence to become fragile that easily. But this was different from your usual post-mission quiet. There was no helmet between his voice and your ears. No modulator to make his breathing sound distant. No way to pretend you had not kissed him in a dark alcove, learned his name while being hunted, and liked both too much.
The rings were still on.
You noticed every time his hand moved on the steering wheel.
He noticed you noticing, because of course he did.
“Say it,” he said eventually.
You looked out the rain-streaked window. “I’m deciding which thing.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, there are categories.”
His mouth twitched. The bruise along his jaw had darkened. There was still a faint smear of lipstick near the corner of his mouth, half washed away by rain and fountain water.
You reached over without thinking and rubbed at the mark with your thumb.
Jason went very still.
The car slowed at a red light on an empty street.
Your hand remained against his jaw. The stubble there rasped lightly beneath your thumb. His eyes flicked to yours behind the mask, and the air in the car changed so quickly it felt like a drop.
You withdrew your hand. “Lipstick.”
“Right.”
“Couldn’t let Roy win.”
Jason huffed a laugh, but his fingers tightened on the wheel.
Neither of you said anything for the rest of the block.
When he pulled into the alley two streets from your apartment, the rain had softened to a mist. He parked beneath a fire escape and cut the engine. The sudden quiet felt deliberate. You could hear the ticking of the car cooling, the distant hum of traffic, your own pulse refusing to calm down.
Jason removed his mask first.
You had seen his face before. That was the worst part. You had seen him across Roy’s kitchen, half-lit by the open fridge while he argued about takeout like it was a tactical decision. You had seen him at that charity event, bored and handsome and restless, as if all that polished wealth irritated his skin. You had not known then that he was the man who called you Mox over comms when he was worried. You had not known he was Red Hood.
Now the two versions slid together and made something sharper.
You took off your mask.
Jason stared.
Not like he was surprised, not exactly. More like the last remaining doubt had just been removed, and he had no armor ready for what came after.
“Hi,” you said, because apparently you had lost access to every clever line you had ever had.
His laugh was soft and almost disbelieving. “Hi.”
“That’s it? No dramatic comment?”
“I’m having a moment.”
“Should I wait?”
“Probably.”
You smiled, and his gaze dropped to your mouth again.
The car felt much smaller than it had a minute ago.
“We should talk,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“About identities.”
“Yeah.”
“And boundaries.”
“Definitely.”
“And the fact that you apparently knew my ring size.”
“I guessed.”
“You did not guess.”
“I made an informed estimate.”
“That’s worse.”
He dragged a hand through his damp hair. The ring flashed again, dark metal and red line catching briefly in the low light.
Your smile faded around the edges.
Slowly, you twisted your own ring. It slid halfway up your finger before Jason’s hand closed over yours.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too raw for the joke he clearly meant to attach to it.
You looked down at his hand over yours. “Jason.”
His name felt new in your mouth. His fingers tightened.
“I know it was supposed to be a cover,” he said. “I know. But don’t take it off like it meant nothing.”
Your throat went tight.
There he was. The man beneath the helmet, beneath the suit, beneath all that practiced brutality. Not soft, exactly. Jason Todd would probably never be soft in any simple way. But honest, when cornered. Brave enough to bleed where you could see it, if not quite brave enough to ask.
You turned your hand beneath his, palm to palm.
“It didn’t mean nothing,” you said.
He exhaled as if something in him had braced for impact.
“But,” you continued, “you don’t get to fake marry me, kiss me in a hallway, let me find out you’re Jason Todd, and then look wounded when I try to return the prop.”
“I didn’t look wounded.”
“You looked extremely wounded.”
“I have a bruise.”
“Emotionally.”
He made a face. “That sounds like something Nightwing would say.”
“Nightwing is emotionally literate.”
“Don’t compliment him right now.”
“There’s the jealousy again.”
“Threat assessment.”
“Jason.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and all the banter thinned into something warmer and far more dangerous.
“I wanted it to be you,” he said. “Before I knew. The job, the partner, the whole stupid fake-married thing. I wanted you there. Then you showed up in that dress, and you were you, and I kept thinking…” He stopped, jaw working. “I kept thinking I was screwed either way.”
Your chest ached.
You had imagined, once or twice, what Red Hood might sound like if he ever admitted wanting something. You had imagined arrogance, maybe. A filthy grin. A hand around your wrist in an alley. You had not imagined this careful, frustrated honesty, as if desire were easier for him than hope.
“You could’ve said something,” you said.
“So could you.”
“I was being professional.”
He gave you a look.
“I was being emotionally avoidant,” you corrected.
“Yeah. Same.”
You laughed, quiet and helpless.
Jason’s thumb brushed your ring again. “You can take it off if you want.”
There was the out. Offered plainly, because whatever else he was, Jason had never once tried to trap you. He had asked you to trust him and then given you room to choose.
You looked at the ring. Something bought for cover. Something worn through gunfire. Something neither of you had meant to make real, except maybe that was not true. Maybe the wanting had been real for months, and the ring had only given it a shape.
You slid it off.
Jason’s expression closed before he could stop it.
Then you placed the ring in his palm and folded his fingers around it.
“Next time you want a date, ask me properly.”
He stared at you.
The silence lasted one breath. Two.
Then his mouth curved, slow and stunned and devastating.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret being romantic.”
“You’re calling that romantic?”
“I’m new at it.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face had gone warm. “You owe me explanations.”
“I know.”
“Real ones.”
“I know.”
“And dinner.”
His smile deepened. “Explanations, then dinner?”
“That order, yes.”
He leaned closer. “What about kissing?”
You pretended to consider it. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How convincing you are.”
Jason reached out and touched your cheek, giving you plenty of time to move away.
You did not.
The second kiss was nothing like the first. There was no alarm, no audience, no cover to excuse it. It was slower, deeper, and somehow more dangerous for being honest. His hand slid into your hair carefully, avoiding the pins he knew were weapons. Your hands found the front of his shirt, still damp from rain and fountain water, and pulled him closer until the console dug into your hip and neither of you cared.
He kissed you until your breath broke.
Then he murmured against your mouth, “Tell me to go, and I will.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
The heat between you flared so fast it almost startled you. It was not as if you had not wanted him all night. You had wanted him at the door, in the ballroom, in the dark alcove, in every narrow space where his hand found your back and his voice dropped low near your ear. But here, with your mask off and his name still warm in your mouth, the wanting became something else.
Still, you pulled back enough to meet his eyes.
“Not because of the mission,” you said.
“No.”
“Not because of the cover.”
“No.”
“Not because we almost died and adrenaline makes people stupid.”
Jason’s thumb swept along your jaw. “I’m always stupid about you.”
That should not have worked on you.
It worked on you.
You kissed him again, harder this time, and felt him smile against your mouth for half a second before hunger took over.
By the time you reached your apartment, you had both forgotten at least three reasonable boundaries about elevators, hands, and the general decency owed to security cameras. Jason kept one hand at your waist, his body angled between you and the hallway, even now, even here, and something in your chest went painfully soft at the thought.
Inside, the door barely closed before he had you against it.
He stopped before pinning you there fully, breath rough, eyes searching your face. “Still good?”
You hooked two fingers into the open collar of his red shirt and pulled him down. “Jason.”
His name was answer enough.
He kissed you as if the sound had snapped the last of his restraint.
The dress that had survived knives, guards, and a criminal masquerade nearly lost its battle against Jason Todd’s patience. He found the hidden zipper with insulting speed, paused only long enough for your nod, and drew it down slowly while his mouth moved along your throat. You shivered when the cool air touched your back. He noticed that too, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw as if the reaction pleased him more than he wanted to admit.
“Still six knives?” he murmured.
“Five,” you said, breath catching when his teeth grazed your skin. “Lost another on the way out.”
“Careless.”
“I was distracted by my husband tackling a man into a fountain.”
His hands stilled at your waist.
You smiled against his cheek. “Too much?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, intent, and stripped of every joke. “Say it again.”
Your pulse jumped.
“My husband,” you said softly.
Jason made a sound that was almost a groan and kissed you hard enough to make your spine arch against the door.
After that, things blurred into touch and heat and the shedding of every last defense. His jacket hit the floor. Your heels followed. The dress slipped down, and Jason followed it with his mouth, kissing each place the night had left a mark as if he could argue with every bruise. You pushed his shirt from his shoulders and found scars beneath, old and new, a map of violence written into him. He went still when your fingers traced one across his chest.
You kissed it.
The breath left him all at once.
“Baby,” he said, rough and warning and wrecked.
The endearment settled low in your stomach.
You looked up at him. “That one for the cover too?”
“No.” His hands tightened at your hips. “That one’s mine.”
You should have had a clever answer.
You had survived worse nights than this. You had talked your way out of locked rooms, gun barrels, bad dates, worse missions, and once, memorably, a hostage situation involving a chandelier and three men who had severely underestimated your patience. You should have had something sharp ready for him.
Instead, you caught Jason by the front of his shirt and pulled him with you toward the bedroom.
His laugh followed you, low and breathless, half disbelief and half surrender. It lasted until you stumbled backward through the doorway, and then he was on you again, one hand braced against the frame, the other sliding firm and careful around your waist.
“Impatient,” he murmured.
“You’re still talking.”
That did it.
Jason kissed you like the words had snapped the last thread of his restraint. He crowded you back with the heat of him, with the rain still clinging to his hair and the city still written in bruises across both of you. His mouth found yours hard enough to steal the next thing you meant to say, and you let him have it. Let him have the sound you made when his hand settled at the small of your back. Let him have the way your fingers dug into his shoulders. Let him have the moment your knees hit the edge of the bed and you pulled him down with you because distance suddenly felt offensive.
He caught himself before his full weight landed on you.
Of course he did.
Jason Todd, who had thrown men through glass tonight, who had tackled Argent into a fountain like subtlety was a language he had never bothered to learn, stopped himself with one hand planted beside your head and the other cupping your hip like you were something breakable.
The tenderness almost annoyed you.
Almost.
“You can touch me,” you said.
His eyes searched yours, dark and intent. “I am touching you.”
“You’re treating me like evidence.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, rough and quiet. “You are evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That I’ve lost my mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, and his gaze dropped to your mouth like the expression had done him personal harm.
Then he lowered himself over you.
The weight of him settled slowly, carefully, and your breath caught before you could stop it. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His attention sharpened immediately, that same devastating focus he brought to fights and locks and exits turning entirely on you. On the way your fingers tightened in his shirt. On the places you tried not to flinch. On the places you leaned closer.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Words.”
The command should have irritated you. Instead, it went through you like heat.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Only then did he kiss you again.
This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Less like a collision and more like a decision. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of patience that made your pulse kick in frustration, like he had all night, like there were no sirens waiting in the distance, no bruises blooming beneath your skin, no ledger full of enemies, no blood drying at the edge of his collar.
Just Jason, above you.
Jason, kissing you until your cleverness dissolved completely.
His jacket hit the floor first. You pushed it off his shoulders with more force than grace, and he let you, smiling against your mouth when it caught at one wrist.
“Bossy,” he murmured.
“You like it.”
His smile flashed against your skin. “Yeah.”
The honesty in it landed harder than the teasing had.
You pulled at his shirt next, impatient with buttons, fabric, anything that kept him from you. Jason helped only when your frustration became obvious, sitting back just long enough to drag it over his head. The movement bared him to you by degrees: the broad line of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the scars.
Old ones. New ones. Some pale, some angry, some so familiar-looking in their violence that your throat tightened.
You reached before you thought better of it.
Your fingers traced a line across his chest, not the worst of them, not the newest, just the one closest to your hand. Jason went still.
Immediately, you stopped. “Sorry.”
He looked down at you, and something in his face shifted. Not away from you. Not quite toward you either. Inward, maybe. Somewhere you could not follow unless he let you.
Then his hand covered yours.
“Don’t be.”
His palm was warm over your knuckles. His heartbeat moved beneath your fingertips, steady and alive and too close to miraculous for either of you to joke about.
So you didn’t.
You lifted your head and kissed the scar instead.
Jason’s breath left him all at once.
For a second, he did not move. Then his hand slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needed somewhere to put the feeling before it broke loose. When you kissed another mark, lower this time, his fingers tightened.
“Careful,” he said, voice uneven.
You looked up at him. “You first.”
Something in his expression cracked open.
Then he was kissing you again, and this time, there was nothing careful about his mouth.
He was careful with the bruises. Less careful with your lips. You liked both. You liked the contradiction of him, the control and the hunger, the way his hands could disarm a man in three seconds but trembled once at the zipper of your dress. You liked the way he paused there, waiting, until you nodded. You liked that he needed the nod. You liked that he looked wrecked by it.
The dress slipped down by inches.
Jason followed it with his mouth.
He kissed your shoulder first, right where the strap had been, then lower, where the night had left a shadow on your skin. Each bruise earned a touch so gentle it made your chest ache. Each scrape got the brush of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the silent fury of a man trying to argue with every mark violence had put on you.
“Jason,” you whispered.
His name changed something.
You felt it in the way he paused against your skin, in the way his hand flexed at your waist, in the half-second when his control faltered before he gathered it again.
“Say that again,” he said.
You should have teased him.
You really should have.
Instead, you said his name again, softer this time, and felt him shudder.
His mouth found your collarbone. Your throat. The place beneath your ear that made your entire body go tense and then loose beneath him. Your hands slid into his hair, and he made a sound against your skin that you felt more than heard.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Not smoothly. Not like a line. Like the words had been dragged out of him against his will.
It hurt more than it should have.
You pulled him down until his weight settled over you. “You’re overdressed.”
His smile returned, brief and dangerous. “Still bossy.”
“And yet you obey.”
That got you his laugh again, but it broke when your hands moved over him, learning him in return. The strength of him. The scars. The heat. The places where his breath caught. The places where he tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend it had not.
Outside, thunder rolled over the city.
Inside, Jason bent his head and said your name.
Not Moxie.
Your real name.
You barely remembered when he had started saying it like that. Somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom, maybe. It mattered anyway. It mattered when he said it against your mouth. It mattered when he pressed it into your shoulder. It mattered when he used it like a promise, like a confession, like something he had no right to keep and wanted anyway.
Everything after that softened and sharpened at once.
The night had been all alarms and violence, all running feet and broken glass and blood under your nails. This was slower. Hotter. More dangerous in a way you had not prepared for, because Jason did not just want you. He paid attention to you. He watched your face, listened to your breath, checked in with quiet words and searching hands until you were almost angry with how much it undid you.
“You still with me?” he asked.
You touched his jaw. “Yes.”
His eyes closed briefly, like that single word had gone straight through him.
Then he kissed you through the next breath, and the next, and the next, until the storm outside felt distant compared to the one he built under your skin. You answered with your hands, your mouth, the tilt of your hips, the helpless little sounds you would deny later if anyone had the nerve to ask. Jason learned each one with ruthless attention. Worse, he remembered. He returned to every place that made you gasp, every touch that made your fingers twist in the sheets, every kiss that turned his name into something unsteady on your tongue.
By the time he moved over you again, bare skin warm against bare skin, the teasing had burned down to something quieter.
He paused.
Of course he did.
His forearm braced beside your head. His hair fell forward, damp and dark, and his eyes moved over your face as if he were trying to memorize you before the world remembered it had claims on either of you.
You touched his cheek. “Jason.”
“I know,” he said.
But his voice shook slightly.
Your heart turned over.
“Just looking,” he admitted.
The tenderness of it nearly undid you more than the hunger had.
For once, you had no armor left. No mask. No joke sharp enough to save you. There was only the warmth of him, the weight of him, the impossible gentleness in his hands after a night that had given neither of you any reason to be gentle.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer.
“Look later.”
Jason lay beside you with one arm under your head and the other across your waist, holding you like he was trying to pretend he was not holding on. His hair was a mess. There was a scratch near his shoulder that you were fairly certain you had left there. The bruise at his jaw had darkened, and your lipstick was long gone.
Your ring sat on the nightstand beside his.
Two mission props in a pool of warm lamplight.
You reached for his hand beneath the sheets. His fingers laced through yours immediately.
“Still awake?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“Thinking?”
“Dangerous habit.”
“About?”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. Without the mask, without the suit, without the red helmet or the ballroom or the gunfire, Jason looked younger and more tired and more beautiful than was fair.
“You,” he said.
Your chest warmed. “That’s vague.”
“I’m working up to poetic.”
“Take your time.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I’m thinking I should’ve asked sooner.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then shifted closer until your forehead touched his shoulder.
“You did ask me to marry you.”
He huffed. “Fake marry me.”
“You should be more specific next time.”
“Next time?”
You smiled against his skin.
Jason went quiet.
Then he reached past you toward the nightstand. You watched as he picked up your ring, turning it between his fingers. It looked smaller in his hand than it had any right to, dark stone catching the lamp light.
He did not try to put it on you.
Instead, he held it out.
“Dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow night. No masks. No aliases. Explanations first, because I heard you the first three times. Then dinner.”
You took the ring from him.
Your fingers closed around it. “That sounds dangerously like a date.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. His voice was rougher than it needed to be. “That’s the idea.”
“And if you completely screw it up?”
“I’ll ask for another one.”
“That confident?”
“No,” he said. “That stubborn.”
You laughed softly.
He smiled at you like he had won something he did not know how to hold.
You looked down at the ring in your palm, then slid it back onto your finger yourself.
His breath caught.
“For safekeeping,” you said.
“Right.”
“And because it’s pretty.”
“Obviously.”
“And because you look like you might pass out if I don’t.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jason rolled toward you, pinning you gently beneath him with a look that promised retaliation and probably more bruises you would enjoy explaining to no one.
“Keep talking, wife.”
The word should have felt like a joke.
It did not.
You reached up, touched the bruise on his jaw, and smiled.
“Make me, husband.”
Jason kissed you again as Gotham rumbled beyond the windows, all rain and sirens and secrets.
On the nightstand, his ring waited beside your mask. In the morning, there would be explanations, consequences, teasing from every mutual friend with a pulse, and probably at least one lecture about professionalism.
For now, there was Jason’s mouth on yours, his hand over the bought-for-cover ring, and the dangerous, wonderful realization that some covers were only lies until someone chose to keep them.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Red Hood divider ❤️💛
Anam Cara — understood and loved for exactly who you are
Jason Todd x Mute!Reader
soulmate!au
summary: Jason's soulmate is mute, but he doesn't know any ASL.
warnings: none, fluff, slight angst, short mugging scene, slightly awkward Jason, no y/n used
based off of this request
The first time he saw you, was in the local bakery, where you communicated with the baker through a small notebook, writing down your order with a small smiley next to it. Sure, it was strange seeing it, taking a second to register why you are using it like that. Maybe you were deaf?
After observing subtly, it was clear that you were actually mute. You still reacted to noise, to what the baker asked with either a nod or shaking your head 'no', you still managed to steal his whole attention every time you smile sweetly at the baker. Something about you drew him in so easily, and he didn't mind it one bit.
What's your name?
Is the first thing you decide to write down once Jason got your attention after approaching you on that same day.
Oh, right. I hope she can read my handwriting, Jason thinks to himself before taking your pen gently and writing his name in the most beautiful handwriting he can manage. He can feel your eyes on his hand, quietly analysing every single thing, from how he holds the pen, to the way his breathing slowed down, as if it could hurt you if he were to breathe too loudly.
You smile softly at his written name on the notebook, meeting his eyes briefly, before pointing at yourself and writing down your own name next to his. He studies it briefly before repeating it to you, looking for affirmation.
It is then when his wrist starts to hurt, ignoring it for the time being so he can focus fully on you instead. Jason doesn't notice the way you hide away your own wrist under the small table between you.
The conversation starts to flow easily from that moment, the pages of your notebook filling endlessly with both of your handwritings. Eventually, the bakery starts closing, and you get kicked out into the fresh air together.
When can I see you again? Jason writes down, forgetting he can just ask it outright now that you two are alone. You seem to ponder for a moment before scribbling down your answer quickly, turning it over to let him see.
Does tomorrow work?
Jason never said yes so quickly in his life before. Before actually going your separate ways for the day, you exchange your phone numbers, just in case something comes up.
You go home feeling both thrilled and uneasy. It has been a while since you genuinely met someone who seems to be interested in you, and you are not sure how to fel about that.
The rain wouldn't seem to stop anytime soon, and you were already late to meeting Jason. You managed to stroll into the local cafe without slipping on the wet floor, quickly finding the white tuft of hair among the other guests, and seat yourself next to him.
Jason smiles faintly and shifts to make more room for you. The notebook finds its place on the table in front of you, sitting right between you so it is more comfortable to write into it.
Did you order already? You write down quickly before looking up at him, waiting for his answer. Jason hesitates briefly before nodding his head once. Something in his mind seemed to click a second later, straightening up in his seat.
»Oh— I can order for you, what do you want from here?« His voice is even more gentle, a soft rumble that reminds you of a dark but cosy autumn evening.
Your brain scrambles for an order before scribbling it down for him. He reads it quickly before nodding and wandering off to the front counter, ordering your coffee order. The light sting on your wrist slowly appears again, but you quickly disregard it once Jason walks back to your table.
You let the pen down against the notebook, letting him take it if he wants to write down something.
Do you read books?
That's exactly how it started, before you both get into another easy and long conversation, mostly ranting about books and other mutual interests. The pages start to fill again, becoming fuller and messier, and at some point you can't read some of his handwriting as he becomes more passionate about the topics.
At some point, the gentle conversations slow down, and you both focus more on your coffee orders. You manage to catch a glimpse of the initial carved into his wrist when his sleeve pulls down for a brief moment. That's not— no, it can't be. Mute people can't have soulmates.
The day ends with Jason driving you back to your apartment block, insisting on it since it got dark quickly. You didn't tell him about never having been on a real motorcycle before, but he seemed to notice when your hands were shaking around his shoulders before he took off. Jason didn't mention it, just quietly made sure you were okay the whole time.
Just tap my shoulder two times to signal you are okay. Three times means you are uncomfortable. He wrote down before driving you back home safely.
You fell asleep feeling the faint rumble in your whole body from the motorcycle, and the slight sting on your wrist from his initial.
Your next encounter was completely accidental. You were carrying your groceries back home from the subway station when suddenly someone yanked at your bag, forcefully pulling it out of your grasp, and ripping the shopping bag in half on accident.
You didn't make a sound despite your heart racing and growing pale, trembling terribly as the mugger screams at you to pick it all up for him. Through the panic, you don't realise the man approaching the scene quickly and shielding you behind his back. You can't even register what happens next, but soon enough, the mugger escapes after the man threatened him badly, and got your groceries back together for you.
»You alright, sweetheart?« He didn't mean for the pet name to slip out so easily, but he didn't care at the moment. You barely manage a nod before curling against his chest, silently letting out sobs against his opened jacket. Jason's arms circle you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head to keep you steady.
»Shh, it's okay... I'm here now, hm?« He consoles you as best as possible, voice a sweet rumble underneath your cheek.
Slowly but surely, he helps you get back to your apartment, ensuring your safety the whole time. Once inside, you refuse to let go of his hand. He understand immediately.
The rest of the evening is spend with him helping you with stocking up the kitchen again, and completing some of your chores together. There's a comfortable silence lingering between you, while you focus on your tasks, that neither of you wants to interrupt.
»Sweetheart, I have to go soon. Is that okay with you? Uh, work calls.« Jason eventually speaks up after it's all done, looking for your reaction. You nod simply, already calmed down from the earlier mugging. You don't even question anything anymore, just feeling too tired to do anything else.
Jason takes your nod as a yes and steps up closer to you, being cautious to keep a reasonable distance between you. His hand raises up to you before it goes back to his side, letting out a quiet huff.
»Sorry— yeah, I should go. You should get some rest.«
That makes you frown immediately. You shake your head and step closer instead, catching his wrist into your hand to keep him close. His body tenses up briefly before relaxing, looking down at you to try and figure out what your next plan is. You blink up at him before nodding toward your bedroom, letting out a soft sigh. Jason's eyes widen, trying really hard not to let his mind wander to other places.
»Uh... okay.« He follows you into your room, watching as you sit down on the edge of your bed and pull out your notebook from your nightstand.
Stay until I fall asleep. Please. Jason reads your written words and nods once, sitting down on the floor beside your bed, still holding your hand in his. You settle under your blanket and shut your eyes, squeezing his hand gently before slowly drifting off to sleep.
He can't help but watch you the whole time, the way your breathing slows down and your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones, the fact that you feel so safe with him that you fall asleep.
He doesn't go to patrol that night.
BONUS:
»Jason, care to explain why you are learning ASL?« Damian judges from the side, not bothering to hide his facial expression from his older brother.
Hey, so I actually only really know marvel and batfam Fandoms.. But that is okay
So my favorite au is soulmate. I also love comfort fics so:
A mute reader who doesn't have many people who know ASL.. So she has to carry around a book and pen with her
Not sure who your favorite characters are, but I don't mind who you do a soulmate au with
(My faves are: Jason, Damian, Bucky, Peter and Clint - but that is becuase he himself is deaf which is amazing for a hero.
Also enjoy: Dick, Duke, Stark, Steve and Strange)
great idea!! i was thinking on making more of these mute!reader fics anyway, so I'll see what i can do! I can definitely make some more of these in the future ^0^
Sugawara Koshi who always gets your favourite coffee order for you in the morning, so you don't have to worry about it anymore.
Sugawara Koshi who worries about you in the heatwave and makes sure to check up on you during breaks... sometimes it gets so much that your students become suspicious.
Sugawara Koshi who waits for you every evening at your classroom until you finish up with everything.
Sugawara Koshi who helps you with work without you asking, and tends to use stupid pick up lines when you thank him, which earns him a confused expression from you. (He beats himself up for it afterwards, claiming he should be more clear with you next time)
Sugawara Koshi who gets protective during teacher conferences whenever someone talks over you, or doesn't let you finish your sentences.
Sugawara Koshi who has to physically refrain himself from telling the other rude teacher to tone it down. His eye twitches anyway, jaw pressed together tightly.
Sugawara Koshi who plays along when students tease him about his obvious crush on you, claiming he is working on it to make his love confession as fancy as possible.
Sugawara Koshi who backs out every time he gets the perfect moment to confess, instead opting to changing the topic and hopefully confess some other time.
Sugawara Koshi who loves to ruffle your hair to tease you, loving the way you lean into his touch despite claiming it's annoying.
Sugawara Koshi who does not deny the crush allegations at all. Proud and loud of his crush.
Hi i absolutely love your father figure Jason Todd writings so I was wondering if you could do one where readers trans (ftm) and a vigilante. Like they’re binding while out on patrol and end up getting hurt because of it.
Safer
Father!Jason Todd x ftm!Reader
wc:
summary: Unsafe binding during patrol.
warnings: unsafe binding, insecurities, dysmorphia, hurt/comfort, no y/n used
It was your fault. It was your own fault, and you knew it, and you still did it anyway.
You knew very well binding while out on patrol — doing heavy exercise and heating up, wasn't a good idea. Still, you couldn't get yourself to care about it as long as you got a flat chest while out.
It worked for a while. Sure, it got exhausting after every patrol, getting back home and quickly taking off the bandages around your chest so you can breathe again, and feeling the relief when you can finally breathe properly again... it still caught up to you.
»What's up with your back, kid?« Red Hood questions when he sees you hunched over at the rooftop, taking a few steps closer to you already.
You quickly straighten your back and look over to him, waving it off.
»Just tired today.«
»Uh-huh...«
The patrol goes on like every other night. New alert, get to the location, deal with it, get to the next one. There was rarely time for a break or a snack most of the times. Luckily, tonight was rather quiet in comparison to other nights.
Red Hood was talking about some mission reports he still has to write and send over to Batman some day, while you were actively trying not to breathe too deeply so your ribs wouldn't collapse under the binder. He didn't notice your discomfort until he finally looked over to see why you were being so quiet.
Once Jason saw your labored breathing, his words got stuck in his throat.
»Hey, kid— you doin' okay? Did that bastard hit you too hard earlier?« He questions and asses your body for any possible injuries from the fight earlier, helmet tilted slightly to the side.
You cross your arms tightly and lean away, nodding your head in reassurance.
»Yep, da— Jaso— Red Hood... I am fine.« You exhale heavily in response, clearly irritated and frustrated all together.
Jason stares at you for a moment longer in silence before a faint sigh leaves his lips.
The next thing you know is how he scoops you up before nearly fainting. You can hear him mutter something under his breath, but it's barely audible.
It's not the first time you've fainted on him before. However it is the first time that you managed to faint without even getting injured by anyone else. And Jason was starting to get more worried about you. He knew about your transition and was very supportive when you came out to him, even when he was slightly confused at the start. Even when he still gets confused sometimes, he tries his best to help you and be your best support.
»Bandages? ...as bindings?« He questions once you regain your consciousness, meeting your eyes in the light room.
Slowly, you're registering where you are. The sofa is soft beneath your back, as well as the pillows right under your head. Your mask and the top piece of your suit is sitting on the floor beside Jason's helmet, looking like it was discarded in a rush.
»You know that doesn't look very safe, kid.«
His voice reaches you finally, no longer being muddy like it was on the rooftop. »But I think you know that.« Jason adds after a pause, green eyes piercing into your own, filled with nothing but worry and confusion.
You try to say something about it, maybe even defend yourself and your actions of binding your chest unsafely, but your throat gets stuck up.
Without losing any more breath, Jason starts to carefully unwrap the bandages, then stops right before getting it all off so you can do the rest. He disappears into another room for a while before returning, having grabbed some body tape from his first aid kit.
»There... next time, just ask me for tape. I have them for medical reasons, but you can use them. I can just buy more.«
He holds it out to you before also handing over one of your hoodies so you can get dressed and warm again.
There was no scolding. No blaming you for your obvious mistake, or anger for doing such stupid thing. He simply got you something safer to bind your chest with, and made your favourite midnight snack before tucking you into bed.
»I'm proud of you, son.«
Jason whispers quietly into the dark room before pressing a quick kiss to your temple. He adjusts the blanket one more time around you before rising from the floor, ruffling your hair once more until he finally leaves the room, letting you fall asleep peacefully.
siddy I knwo you probably have a lot on ur back rn and like don't get me wrong I genuinely don't wanna add onto that burden but could you pretty ppuuuuhhlllllleeeeeaaasssssssseeeeeeeeeee write more of (angsty) fatherfigure!dick grayson when you get the time 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Father!Dick Grayson who got home from patrol and misses his child that was supposed to be back home hours ago. He knows you were out with friends, but not for how long.
Father!Dick Grayson who thought it was strange and started to worry and pace around, until he finally sat down at the table and waited for your return.
Father!Dick Grayson who tensed up once he heard the key turn in the lock, staring at the door and the way you try to sneak back in as quietly as possible.
Father!Dick Grayson who notices the redness of your eyes immediately.
Father!Dick Grayson who gets off the chair in panic and disbelief, only to realize that being panicked won't help either of you.
Father!Dick Grayson who demands an explanation but quickly gives up once you seem to be way too high to form proper sentences.
Father!Dick Grayson who makes you a midnight snack to help you sober up and makes sure you drink enough water before going to bed, lingering at your door once he tucked you in.
Father!Dick Grayson who lectures you about drugs and their consequences the next morning.
Father!Dick Grayson who also tells you about his own youth, and his usage of drugs — only for missions.
Father!Dick Grayson who tells you "Once I tasted heroin off the ground— please don't do that."
Father!Dick Grayson who checks up on you more often after that, making sure you actually get home on time and is even more strict about drug rings on patrol now.
Father!Dick Grayson "I don't want you to get into any trouble."
i miss getting these notifs where did you go bro are u okay🫤😥
oh my gosh hi!! thanks so much for asking, this is really cute,,, sorry about my absence, but i've been really busy lately and just dealing with a lot of stuff while also trying to put my life together again, but i'm alright!!
the fics are gonna take a good while, so stay tuned (^3^)/
however the askbox needs to stay closed for a while longer (uωu*)
