Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Not much had changed in five years, you had to admit. Gotham was still Gotham. Your apartment was still your apartment. Your job as a barista in a little coffee shop on the east end was still your job, though you’d had a couple of merciful pay raises since you started. It was one of those jobs that you get fresh out of high school, maybe for the summer, and then you move on.

You just… never did. 

It wasn’t a bad job. The owner was an older woman with deep smile lines and she liked you, called you “kiddo”. She made sure you took your breaks when you were supposed to and would chase down anyone who disrespected you with her broom. She was kind, when you lost Jason. 

Maybe that’s why you never left. Because that little coffee shop was where you met Jason. 

You’d just started working there a couple weeks prior when he walked in, rough around the edges and tired-eyed. He was clean, in good shape—but there’s a roughness that Crime Alley gives someone that just doesn’t go away, no matter how hard they try to hide it. 

And then he smiled at you. 

He had a nice smile. Toothy and reckless and it put sparkles in his blue eyes. The room lit up around him when he smiled, and it made your heart beat that little bit faster. 

He introduced himself. Jason. You liked that name. You made a comment about him missing his Argonauts, and he laughed. You liked his laugh, too.

He ordered a frappe and a piece of pumpkin bread. When you finished up his order, he handed you a napkin in trade, his phone number scrawled on it. 

You raised your eyebrows. Looked him up and down. He looked about your age, but you never know. You asked how old he was, and he smiled that smile again. 

“Eighteen,” he said, taking a sip of his frappe and humming in contentment. “Don’t worry, I’m legal.”

You laughed. You were only seventeen, but you figured that was close enough. 

You took the napkin and smiled back. 

Jason was a whirlwind. Impulsive and wild, he made you feel like flying every time you were together. He took you on adventures, showed you hidden gems you’d never seen—who knew Gotham had a botanical garden? But your most wonderful dates were the ones where there were quiet moments. He’d take you to the bookstore and nerd out over Austen special editions, or you’d go sit together in the library, enjoying each other’s company. 

You’d never been in love before. 

He didn’t tell you much about Bruce Wayne, not that he didn’t want to. You just knew that Bruce kept him working hard, which was why your dates could never go too late, why he always had those dark circles under his eyes when you saw him. 

When Jason told you he had to take a sudden trip to Bosnia, you’d learned well enough not to ask him too many questions. It would be fine. It was always fine. 

It wasn’t. 

You’d just moved out of your parents’ place. Jason helped you move. You were excited to cook for him in your own kitchen, to sit together on your secondhand couch and read novels. You were so excited for the life you might have with him, but that life—it was cut short. 

Because Jason was dead. 

You went to the funeral. It was closed casket. There weren’t all that many people there, truly, and certainly not many who really knew Jason, and not like you did. 

Bruce Wayne didn’t speak to you. A nice older man did, though, introducing himself as Alfred Pennyworth. Jason had talked about Alfred before, how your baking could put Alfred out of a job. You always laughed. 

Now, you just wanted to disappear. 

You left the funeral as soon as you could, unable to bear the pain in your chest. You didn’t have any right to be there. Sure, you and Jason had been dating for six months, but it was your first serious relationship. You were never going to be together forever, so why did you have any right to mourn him? Why did you get to mingle with his family and act like you knew him? You didn’t even know where he went on those late nights. Just because…

Just because you loved him?

Five years. Five years, and a picture of him was still tucked into the corner of your bathroom mirror. Five years of shitty first dates and making coffee and sleeping and eating and sleeping again, and you still thought of him. You thought it would get easier. And it did, in some ways. Not in others. 

Every year on the anniversary of Jason’s death, you got a call from Mr. Pennyworth, though he insisted you call him Alfred. He’d check in with you, ask you how you were holding up. Invite you to visit Jason’s grave in the Wayne Manor cemetery. 

You politely declined. 

At work five weeks ago, though, months after the anniversary of Jason’s death, you got a call from a number with no caller ID. Not out of the ordinary, with all the scams running around, and you couldn’t even explain to yourself why you answered it. 

“Hello?”

There was no response. Whoever was on the other side hung up, your phone beeping against your ear. You made a face, scowling. Probably just a prank call. A customer walked in and you didn’t have any more time to think about it, ignoring any further calls during that shift. 

It’s not out of the ordinary for a new villain or vigilante to appear in Gotham. You’ve seen a few come and go in your time living here, and you’re almost certain there have been more you didn’t know about. When the Red Hood starts causing trouble, you don’t think much of it. You hear about him on the radio and make a mental note to keep an eye out, but that’s all. It’s just another fact of life in Gotham City. 

That is, until you’re working the coffee shop at closing time. The owner was out of town, and she trusts you to close up shop in her absence. You’d done it before—shouldn’t be any kind of trouble, it was late in the day and a quiet part of town. 

The revving of a motorcycle caught your attention right as you flipped the sign to “Closed” and locked the door. 

There he was. Right outside. Black bike. Brown jacket. Red helmet. 

Red Hood. 

Your heart leapt into your throat, your entire body locking up. What was he doing here? Why was he… watching you? 

The near-glowing white eyes of his mask narrowed and you straightened up, appraised by his gaze. 

The motorcycle revved again, and you were frozen in place as you watched him drive away. You waited for feeling to come back to your limbs, the sun setting beyond the buildings in the distance as you stood there, staring at the spot he used to be. 

Why you? From what you’d heard through the news and the rumor mill, Red Hood was mostly interested in running drugs and killing criminals. A Batman-type that didn’t mind the blood on his hands. You couldn’t think of a reason he’d be after you of all people, some early 20s burnout hung up on her dead boyfriend, but your mind was rushing to figure out what minor crimes you might have committed and forgotten about. 

You lingered in the coffee shop as long as you could justify, waiting for it to feel safe to step outside. 

It didn’t, but you had to go home eventually. 

When you finally left the coffee shop, the sun had disappeared, leaving only hints of purple in the rapidly darkening sky. You wrapped your hoodie around yourself, trying to block out the chill that wasn’t all due to the temperature. You clutched your phone in your pocket, your house keys tucked into the knuckles of your other hand. Just in case. 

But the way home was almost peaceful. There were plenty of people around when you got to the train station, and you lingered in crowds the whole way back to your apartment. Safety in numbers and all that. 

You stayed in the throngs until you got to your block, turning off the avenue to walk down your street. It was darker than normal, one of the streetlights flickering weakly. You shivered, squeezing your house keys tighter. 

You could have sworn you heard another set of footsteps shadowing yours, but when you turned to look, there was no one there. 

Your hands shook as you pressed your fob to the reader on the front door of your building, buzzing yourself in. It was stifling inside—the landlord always cranked up the heat the moment it got cold. Normally, you’d open your windows.

You didn’t think you would tonight.

Trudging your way up to the fourth floor—the elevator was out of order again—you finally started breathing a little easier. You were safe inside, or safer. Besides, it was probably just a coincidence that the Red Hood happened by the coffee shop. Hell, maybe he wanted a coffee. 

Yeah. That was probably it.

Entering your apartment, you locked the door behind you and sagged against it. Your eyes fluttered shut, a cool breeze kissing your cheeks—

Wait.

The window was open. You didn’t leave it open. You never left your windows open when you weren’t home, even with the screens. You weren’t that stupid. And you can’t have been tired enough in the morning to forget to close it, you’d never…

Every sound was magnified. The weak whir of the heater, the soft whistle of the wind, the distant honking of cars. You grabbed your keys between your knuckles again, creeping closer to the window. 

The screen was still down. Untouched, save for…

A little slit at the bottom, allowing access to the locking mechanism. Just big enough to break in but small enough to almost go unnoticed. 

You slammed the window down with all your strength, trying to still your racing heart. You should call the police, or maybe your dad, or someone so you wouldn’t be alone tonight—

“Cute.”

You went still. Terribly, terribly still. The reflection in the window was all you could see of him, but it was enough. Enough to know exactly who it was, crimson helmet gleaming in the glass, his chest nearly touching your back.

The Red Hood.

Your hand trembled around your keys as you tried to make your arm move, tried to force your body to respond and attack, defend yourself. But as you stood there, paralyzed, you felt the soft brush of leather against your arm, trailing downwards. His hand, much larger, wrapped around yours, gently prying your fingers open and letting your keys fall to the ground. 

Your breath shook. Your whole body was starting to shake with it.

“Don’t be scared,” Red Hood said, voice heavily modulated by his helmet. “I won’t hurt you. Not if you behave.”

You refrained from saying that that wasn’t particularly comforting.

He laced his gloved fingers with your bare ones and for half a moment the sensation was so familiar that you blinked. When was the last time someone…

Not since Jason. 

No. You couldn’t be thinking like that. You couldn’t start picturing Jason when Red Hood touched you, no matter how gentle Red Hood’s hands were touching. You couldn’t taint Jason’s memory like that, couldn’t use Jason’s ghost to make you less terrified. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. Not to Jason. 

Red Hood squeezed your hand and you shuddered, the tiny intimacy terrifying. 

“Close your eyes,” Red Hood said, just enough gravel in the words for it to sound like an order. Almost involuntarily, your eyes fluttered shut. He hummed in approval, squeezing your hand again before releasing it, hooking his arm under your knees and scooping you into his arms. You yelled and he grunted a bit in exertion but still lifted you without trouble, holding you close to his chest as you began to squirm. “Eyes closed,” he reminded, holding you tighter. “Struggle all you want, pretty girl. I think you know you’re not getting away from me.”

You did know that. Which didn’t stop you from struggling, though you kept your eyes closed. 

You weren't sure why. Maybe it was fear. 

Maybe it was something deep in your gut that wanted to yield to him. 

He carried you a short distance, but with your eyes closed you couldn’t tell where he was taking you. Not until he placed you down on something soft—your bed, left unmade. You were in a rush this morning.

You opened your eyes to see him standing above you, red mask unreadable. Your leg darted out, instinct compelling you to kick him, but he caught your ankle without trouble. “That’s cute,” he said, a low purr that ran along your spine. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. I’ll make it feel good.”

“What are you—“ the words dried up on your tongue as he pulled your leg aside, climbing up onto the bed to kneel between your legs. You tried again to kick him away, but he grabbed you by the calves and held you down. You sat up, taking a wild swing, but he dodged, releasing one leg to grab your wrist. 

“Enough,” he growled. He cocked his head to the side, rubbing the inside of your wrist with his thumb as his tone grew gentler. “You want to be good, don’t you?”

“I’m not just going to let you—“

“Yes, you are,” he said, matter-of-fact and confident. He released your arm slowly, letting it fall to your side. “You don’t want me to tie you up, do you?” Your gut heated and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Well, maybe you’d like that.”

“You don’t know me,” you croaked, the words surprising you most of all. You tried to squirm away, towards the headboard, but he sighed and grabbed your ankles, tugging you back towards him. “Let go!”

“Stop struggling,” he said, letting go just to press down on your abdomen, holding you there. “Then I won’t have to hold you and we can start having fun.”

“I don’t want to have fun with you!”

He shrugged. “Maybe you should broaden your horizons.”

“Fuck you!”

“Careful,” he said, just low enough to be dangerous. “Might give you something else to do with that filthy mouth.”

You gaped for a moment and he chuckled, curling his fingers ever so slightly on your stomach. Then he let out an exaggerated sigh, raising his hand from your stomach to tug off his glove. His bare hand slipped under your shirt, warm skin and sliding fingers toward your waistband. You went very, very still. “But tonight isn’t about me,” he lamented, playing with your belt. Sliding it free of the buckle, popping the button of your black work jeans loose. His voice lowered, growing scarier with every word. 

“I’m gonna make you feel good tonight, pretty girl.” He gripped the zipper of your jeans, sliding it downwards inch by inch. “And you don’t really have a choice in the matter, so I’d recommend some deep breaths. Maybe a mantra or something?” He tugged your jeans open, shrugging again. “Whatever butters your biscuit.”

You barely heard him. All of your focus was narrowed on his fingers, brushing the waistband of your underwear. “D… don’t,” you croaked, but it didn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him.

His fingers grazed your center and your body locked up. He let out a low whistle, laughing to himself as he ran two fingers through your folds. “So wet,” he cooed, pressing against your clit and listening to your little gasp. “Could it be?” You could hear him grin. “Little whore.”

You whimpered, your brows knitting together as he dipped his fingertips inside you, your walls clenching around him. “So tight,” he murmured, pushing his fingers deeper, lubricated by your reluctant but undeniable arousal. He looked you up and down, curling his fingers just right. How could he know your body so well? He played you like an instrument, relishing every little sound you made. He pushed his hand further down your pants, groaning softly as he delved deeper into your soft warmth. 

“Tell me what you need,” he said, the husky growl of his voice brushing against your nerves and setting you on fire. When you didn’t respond he curled his fingers again, hitting that perfect spot and drawing a ragged whine from your throat. “C’mon, use your words.” He moved his fingers, stretching you ever so gently. “I’ve got all night to tease you if you don’t answer me, pretty girl.”

“Stop,” you managed to say, but he clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“None of that,” he said, scolding you as he withdrew his fingers only to plunge them deeper, prompting a truly undignified squeal. “No lying to me. Only the truth, baby.”

“I need…”

“Yes?”

You moaned, arching as he pushed his fingers in and out, in and out. “I can’t, I—“

“Yes you can, love,” he purred, moving his other hand to cup your breast, glove rough against your sensitive flesh.  

“You’re not making it—easy to—“ Your hips writhed without your input, desperately seeking more of his touch, “—think.”

“And yet you still think too much.” He pulled his fingers away, admiring the glint of your juices on them in your bedroom’s lamplight. You were cold without his touch. “Tell me what you need. Now.”

The word was on your tongue before you knew how to stop it.

“You.”

You wished you could see his face. Wished you could see the undeniable smile on his lips as he leaned in, sliding his fingers inside you again. “Good girl.”

Those words, those two beautiful, dangerous words made your body catch fire. And it had been so long, so long since Jason and the life you thought you’d have, the life you still yearned for with everything you had left. So long since you stood in that apartment with that man, that boy, and hoped for a world beyond Gotham’s smog. So long since you believed in a love that could outlast anything.

A love that would always come back for you.

When you came, you called out Jason’s name. When you slumped with the Red Hood’s fingers still inside you, the room went horribly silent. A terrible humiliation washed over you, your chest aching as you remembered that boy was not this man and you were alone, alone, alone. You’d relished the Red Hood’s touch, mocked Jason’s ghost with your every wanton whine.

Red Hood pulled his fingers free, wiping them on the hem of your shirt before sliding his glove back on. 

“See you next time,” he promised, cupping your cheek.

You didn’t even have the strength to reach for him as he slipped away, into the shadows and into the night.

Chapter Text

JASON

Okay. Yeah. Wasn’t my brightest idea. But how was I supposed to know she still worked at that shop? Or still lived in that crap apartment? 

It was nice to see her, though.

I wasn’t intending to break in when I first got to her apartment. Wasn’t intending to do much of anything at all. I just wanted to see if it was still her place, and then when I got there and saw little fragments of her cast in the sunset spilling through the window, I couldn’t resist. 

When I slid her screen open and jimmied her window lock, I almost fell off the fire escape. 

It smelled like her. Sure, five years had dulled the memory, but it was still her. Undeniably her, the smell of her perfume and shampoo and lotion. 

I didn’t mean to look through her place. Didn’t mean to be a creep or a stalker or anything like that. But I couldn’t help but wonder.

My spare toothbrush was still in her medicine cabinet. My photograph was still tucked into the frame of her mirror, though the boy in the photo didn’t look anything like me anymore. My hoodie, the one she stole, was still on her coatrack. 

I left marks on her home. On her heart, maybe. 

I couldn’t just leave after realizing all that, could I?

It was so cute, watching her from her dark kitchen. Seeing her realize that her window had been tampered with—I had left it open, it was hot as balls in there—and that little look of fear in her eyes. Probably makes me a shit person and an even shittier boyfriend, but I felt a jolt in my cock when I saw how scared she looked. 

I mean, I’ve had sex since I came back. I’ve jerked off since I’ve been back. But shit, looking at her made me feel like my cock was officially back from the dead. My tongue brushed over my lips beneath my helmet and I swallowed. When was the last time I was nervous?

Look, I know it’s wrong. I’m aware that I shouldn’t have forced her, shouldn’t have touched her like that.

But I’m the bad guy now. In Batman’s story, certainly. Maybe in hers, too. 

Might as well embrace it and have a little fun.

YOU

Sleep came too fast. You wanted to stay awake, shower until you felt clean, make sure every window was locked tight. 

But fear and pleasure left you exhausted. Once you made sure every possible entrance and exit was secure and you had a kitchen knife tucked into your bedside table, you slumped into bed. Didn’t even bother to change clothes.

You fell asleep, hints of leather and sex still lingering in the air. 

When you woke, your alarm clock glared at you. 3:56am. It was sweltering, the closed windows and cranked-up heat taking their toll. Drenched in sweat, you rolled out of bed, rubbing your forehead and flipping on your lamp. The evening, what happened, Red Hood—all of it had faded to a dull, half-blocked memory. A not-entirely-bad dream, confirmed only by the soreness between your legs. 

You could have sworn you caught a glimpse of someone else’s gaze in your window’s reflection, Jason’s eyes looking back at you, but there was nothing there. You knew there was nothing there.

Hadn’t stopped you from seeing him around corners and in mirrors for five years. Thousands of dollars worth of therapy hadn’t stopped it, either. Eventually, you just started telling the few friends you still had that you’d stopped seeing him. It was easier than explaining. Easier than telling your first dates that there was a dead man staring at you from the candle in the middle of the table. 

Not that your first dates tended to stick around anyway. 

You moved to take off your jeans and paused, blinking. 

You’d found pleasure in the Red Hood’s touch. You’d cried out Jason’s name. And sure, you’d had lovers since Jason died—but men had this terrible habit of never making you come, and you faked it nine out of ten times. And that was probably being generous. After a while, it started feeling pointless, all the apps and first dates and men tripping over themselves for a chance to get their dicks wet with a real live woman. 

Not to mention the significant risks of meeting strangers, especially in Gotham. Your pepper spray got more use than you’d care to admit. 

But Red Hood made you come. More than that, he didn’t seem to care much about making himself feel good, focusing all his attention on you. Making you feel good, even though you begged him not to. 

It was… nice.

No. No, it absolutely was not. You were assaulted by a strange man in a mask, and just because you came didn’t mean you liked it, or accepted it, or wanted it—

You weren’t sure who you were justifying yourself to. 

Sleep was evasive when you got back into bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours before grumbling, rolling over to pick up your smartphone. You blinked. 

1 Missed call, 1 voicemail: Alfred Pennyworth.

It wasn’t exactly strange for Mr. Pennyworth to call you—he checked in from time to time. The voicemail, though, that was odd. If you didn’t answer, Alfred usually just accepted that you didn’t want to talk or called back later. Voicemail meant urgency. Voicemail meant emergency.

You pressed the button, holding the phone up to your ear. Alfred’s voice was warm as always, even through the recording. Yet there was a slight hesitation, a twitching anxiety.

Hello, miss L/N. I hope you’re alright. I don’t want to worry you, but… we have reason to believe that someone is antagonizing Jason’s loved ones. Please call me back and let me know that you’re alright. If anything strange has happened, or you feel unsafe, you would be welcomed at Wayne Manor. 

A pause. A deep breath.

I know it’s strange, being around Jason’s family. I know you might not feel like you belong. But Jason loved you very much. He would want you to be safe. You’re welcome with us.

Enjoy your evening.

Beep.

You stared at your phone, swallowing hard. Your evening definitely qualified as strange, but you weren’t sure you were willing to share it. You were still warring with yourself regarding how, exactly, you felt about the experience. 

But… someone antagonizing Jason’s loved ones. Was that why the Red Hood had come for you? Because of Jason? 

Your phone buzzed in your hand, a message coming in from an unknown number. 

an invitation to wayne manor? Another message. wouldn’t recommend it, cutie. buncha stiffs over there.

You shuddered, your grip on your phone tightening. Your eyes searched the room and you whirled towards the window, but there was no one there. 

Buzz. Message.

what’s your favorite scary movie

You stumbled out of bed, checking your window lock and pulling your ratty blinds shut.

Buzz.

lol

The room was dead silent, broken only by your ragged breaths and the periodical buzz of your phone. You fought the urge to hurl it across the room, but you knew that wouldn’t make the messages go away—it would just break your phone. You fumbled with the device, looking at the unknown number.

Buzz.

don’t block me

Buzz.

i‘ll have to come in person if you do

Buzz.

pretty sure you don’t want that

You were also pretty sure you didn’t want that. For some reason you didn’t doubt the threat, keeping your finger off the block button and slowly backing up towards your bed. You grabbed a pair of pajama shorts and put them on without taking your eyes off the window, keeping watch for any intruders.

The night went on. You kept glancing at your phone, anxious about every ping and buzz, but no more texts came from the unknown number. Sleep continued to avoid you so you passed the time by checking your locks every half hour or so and staring at the windows waiting to see something. You didn’t even realize the time was passing, really, not until the sun began stretching its rays over Gotham. You shivered despite the heat from the radiator, exhaustion messing with your temperature regulation. 

Your phone buzzed, reminding you that it was at 20% battery. And your work alarm was going to go off in an hour.

Grumbling, you slumped onto your couch and covered your eyes with your arm. Your phone buzzed again, another message from the unknown number, the first in hours. 

make me a coffee