#jasonstripperau

[whltlock]

Verse: Sex!Worker Reader/Jason Todd

C/W: implied sexual violence (mentioned, not described), reader is injured, hurt/comfort

Jason lands gracefully on the rooftop, a blithe red and black panther that glides through the night.

Harsh sobs fill the air and immediately, he rips his helmet off and strides towards the couch. He sinks in front of you. You’re crumpled in on yourself, face hidden, hands cradled to your chest. His heart aches at the sight.

Slowly, Jason places a hand on your knee and whispers your name. It makes you cry harder, and his chest constricts. His mouth goes desert dry, but he manages to ask, “What’s going on?”

You don’t answer as your body continues to rattle with weeps. They sound deeply wounded, like they’re emanating from your very core. Unfixable. Jason wonders if this is the night he gets you out of here.

But he can’t do that yet—he can’t just whisk you away. He needs your permission. He gives you the control you don’t get anywhere else. The self-determination you deserve.

Instead, he rests his chin on your thigh. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here. I got you. You’re safe.”

Jason repeats it again and again, his tone low, mouth brushing over your skin so you know it’s okay. His fingers graze your knee. He doesn’t know if it’s too far, but you don’t object.

Eventually, your sobs lessen, and you let the sounds of the night take over. You shift a little and expose a slither of your face in the process.

“What…?”

As you uncurl fully, the question dies on his tongue. It’s a slap to the face as he takes in your split shirt, the loosely hanging collar that reveals a bikini beneath, and the uneven tear in your skirt. Fury piles in his veins.

He pushes onto his knees and his hands turn to white-knuckled fists. His teeth are bared as he swears in a dangerous tone, “Motherfuckers.” A violent plan forms behind his eyes. Blood will coat the walls, and they’ll have to redecorate with carved bone ornaments.

Jason doesn’t have to ask for an explanation. Looking at you, he gets the gist. He knows something bad, awful, terrible has happened. You’ve had the night from hell and he wasn’t there to stop it.

He wants to get to his feet and take care of things, but one glance at you, and he pauses. Your face is sallow and slightly bruised, but what scares him more is the faraway look to your eyes. He sinks back onto his haunches and says your name like it’s a plea. Come back to me. Come with me.

Your eyes flick to him, gaze uncharacteristically shaken. He forces himself to maintain eye contact, to swallow the bile that burns his throat.

They hurt you, worse than usual, perhaps irreparably. The thoughts run on a cycle through his mind. He might not see you again because of it.

His lips form around your name, though they never make it out. You flinch, then wrap an arm around your opposite elbow in a poor imitation of a hug.

“He…” you say, and your voice box sounds broken as you speak for the first time since the assault. “A client wanted…” Your eyes drop to your lap, teary. “What I don’t do,” you say. “Where I don’t…” Want it, is what you try to say. Even a whore has her limits.

You choke a little as Jason’s forehead falls against your knee. You feel his shaky breath, like he’s just as distraught. Cautiously, he wraps his arms around your calves and holds you like that; the only comfort he feels he can offer.

“Did he…?” Jason croaks out the question. Did they get their way?

“Not tonight,” you rasp, voice fraught. “Next time,” you say, and then repeat, “next time they’ll make me.”

His head lifts and he focuses on you. His mouth is sour. That previous plea sings again—

But you’re not looking at him. Your eyes are on your hand. The hand, he notices, that’s bent at an odd, disgusting angle at the wrist, mangled with dark bruises and swelling.

His breath hitches, and instantly he knows, “It’s broken.”

“I should’ve let them have me,” you say raggedly. “Shouldn’t have fought it…”

“Don’t,” Jason says, nostrils flaring momentarily. Either way, it was an impossible choice. “You’re not to blame, alright?”

The intonation at the end doesn’t rise—it’s not really a question. You swallow.

“It hurts,” you whisper pathetically, allowing him to pry it closer into view.

His indignation softens. “I know,” he murmurs and places a kiss to your thumb. “Christ, I’m sorry.” Jason sighs as he readies himself for your next argument. After an anxious beat, he says, “I gotta get you fixed up.”

“No,” you’re quick to reply. “No hospitals. You know I can’t—”

He says your name firmly, and then, “There’s a clinic in the Narrows and the docs are discreet. No hospitals, promise.”

Your eyes dart across his face wildly. “They’ll break my other one.”

At that, Jason stands. He cups your face with both hands, expression serious, and tilts your chin skyward. “If we don’t get some kinda cast on this it won’t heal right,” he says. “We’ll wrap it inconspicuously and be back in a flash, okay?”

Your functional hand clutches at his. “Jason…”

“Please, sweetheart,” he says softly, gaze earnest as he stares at you. “Let me do my thing and help you for once.”

Tears trickle down your cheeks, but you relent with a nod.

[whltlock]

“Please don’t lie” and “kissing knuckles” w stripper reader and jay?

Sex worker!Reader/Jason Masterlist Tag

“Rough week?”

His hands rest in your lap, stained like Macbeth’s, raw and bruised. Cracks have decimated the fine lines of his skin, giving them the appearance of someone far older than he is.

You reach for the side table and swipe some sweet-smelling oil, then rub it between his fingers until they soak it up, and then you do it again.

“No,” Jason says.

Your eyes flick up as you say, “Don’t lie to me.” Carefully, you bring one of his hands to your mouth and kiss from knuckle to fingertip.

He watches, floundering in the gentleness. Hoarsely, he says, “You’re gonna get in trouble.”

Your mouth curls, wily in that seductive way of yours. “I don’t mind getting into trouble with you.”

Jason feels the flicker of something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years. In the recesses of his mind, a wisp floats by that sounds a lot like ‘I wanna get in trouble for you.’

He clears his throat, then says, “Not with me.”

Your expression softens. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” It comes out gruffer than he meant, but he pushes guilt aside. “It’s not,” he repeats, less harsh this time. “Don’t get yourself hurt over me.”

You sigh against his knuckles, breath slightly ticklish to him. “Okay,” you whisper.

But there’s something about the way you say it, the insistent press of your lips to his skin, that has him knowing this’ll end in trouble anyway.

[whltlock]

for the blurbs can i ask for more Jason x sex worker!reader? I'm high key obsessed with them

A/N: this is set further in the future than my other one-shots, when they're realising they're falling in love 🥰 just plain ol' mundane domesticity

Jason ducks around the corner at the same time you reach it. You peek over your shoulder, eying how far you’ve wandered from the club. Sometimes, if you’ve been good, Tomas doesn’t mind as much if you take a little trip around town. As long as you come back within a couple of hours. And usually, you have an escort, but what he doesn’t know won’t kill him. Even if it might kill you.

Jason watches your fur coat bristle in the breeze. It’s dark and lush, perhaps one of the few items you own that is; it also shields your body from passersby.

You squeeze it tighter around yourself as you look up at him. “Hi,” you say, voice delicate rather than sultry.

“Hey,” he replies. He glances down at his hands where two steaming cups are housed, then holds one out. “Dunno if you drink coffee, so I got hot cocoa,” he says, a little sheepish. “Whipped cream, too.”

He’s mesmerised by the smile that lights up your face.

Your hand curls around his as you take the cup, but you stay there a moment, wishing he wasn’t wearing his gloves; wanting a bit of human contact.

Slowly, you trade.

“Mmm,” you hum after a sip, expression still bright. Your eyes land on him and he thinks the splotch of cream on your lips is adorable. So, so different to the persona you use to survive.

Until your tongue flicks out and licks it away, then his chin drops as his cheeks grow hot. Your smile turns wily.

He thinks he likes your company. Likes it a lot. Maybe too much.

“We’re not allowed chocolate,” you say then, pulling him from his embarrassment.

“Figured,” Jason says, and it tastes sour on his tongue. The perils of man-unkind. “Could you hide some if I got more?” he asks.

The tang worsens when your mouth tugs forlornly.

“Probably not.”

He sighs. Not wanting to ruin the mood, he continues, “You need anything?”

You shrug casually. “You’re not the delivery man, you know.”

Jason makes a displeased noise. You smile.

“Blankets? Socks?” he suggests, ignoring your amusement.

You shake your head. There’s such a fine line between what will and won’t be noticed; what will put you on the boss’ radar in a bad way.

He deflates.

Your eyes trace the cup that’s cooling as you search for a name. There isn’t one. Your fingers tap the thin cardboard.

Your eyes drag up again, tracing his dark clothing, the couple days’ worth of stubble, the sharpness of his features. His eyes that are bright and feel omnipotent. The nervous swallow that passes through his Adam’s apple.

Every time you see him, he gets more handsome. You think about kissing him.

He’s not the saviour the world pictures, but he’s better, you think, because he actually cares about you. Not the glory or the money or the blood—just you.

Finally, you ask, “What’s your name?”

His weight shifts feet. He stares. You wait.

He clears his throat, and then, “Jason.”

“Jason?” you echo.

He nods.

Jason.

You step forward. Jason watches your every move, terrified of the power that he’s handed over.

You look him up and down, then quickly and to his surprise, you hug him. He sways as his balance is interrupted.

“Jason,” comes out muffled against his shirt. You feel his warmth and nuzzle into it; breathe in his delicious, inviting cologne. “Thank you.”

It’s not just a thanks for the drink; it’s for everything.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the gratitude, and gradually, he sinks into your arms. His nose settles in your hair, and just like you, he savours the sensations, all of them new and thrilling.

Jason.

Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason.

It rings in your head like a prayer and you want to fold yourself into him, a willing disciple.

His hand lingers on your spine as he says, “I got you.”

Your eyes slide upwards. Slyly, you tease, “I had you first.”

He doesn’t let you deflect as his palms swiftly cup your cheeks. He holds you firm and steady, unwavering eyes on yours. “I got you,” he says, each word pronounced gravely. “I’m with you. Understand?”

You can’t help but glance at his mouth, although you nod. “Yes,” you whisper. Without realising it, your fingers have tangled with his, mirroring the hammering insides of your chest. He squeezes them.

“Good.” After a moment, as the seriousness fades, he taps your nose with glittering eyes. “Now drink up. I got more snacks on me.”

MASTERLIST IN NOTES

[whltlock]

“I’m really flexible…” Jason and stripper reader w the sexual tension please 💔

A/N: anon how did you know i've been wanting to write a sex work reader???????? ty for giving me the perfect opportunity. Sex Worker!Reader/Jason Masterlist

As soon as you have Red Hood in the doorway of the private booth, you push him in. It’s both graceful and graceless—an act of innocence; an accident; a sultry appeal beneath it all. He falls onto the couch with his legs splayed. You twirl in front of him, giving him a good look at your skimpy outfit.

But Jason’s eyes don’t stray. He’s not here for a god damn lap dance. However, you blatantly ignore the memo as you clamber onto his lap.

His thighs are thick and delicious beneath you; enticing you to wiggle a little, toying with him. “I won’t tell if you touch,” you murmur seductively as you steer his hand towards your chest. He barely feels the material of your bra before he jerks his arm back. “Oh, you’re an ass man, hm?” you tease.

He leans against the sofa with a grunt. “C’mon, I’m not here for that and you know it.”

Your bottom lip falls into a pout as you trace the bat symbol on his chest. “But you’re my most exciting customer.” You tug at the collar of his shirt and reveal a sliver of white skin. When your fingers drag over it, he shivers. “You should loosen up, Mister Hood. I can show you how.” You grasp his throat lightly. “I’m really flexible,” you purr.

That’s the final straw for Jason. He snatches your wrist and rips it off him. Your hands hang in the air between you.

“Enough,” he says. “Cut it out. You know I’ll pay you.”

This time, you wrench him closer, although he fights against it. Through gritted teeth, you mutter, “There’s cameras, you idiot.” You let him go to soothe a hand over his shoulder. “Play along.”

Stiffly, he nods, realising his mistake. He should’ve known that a club owned by creeps wouldn’t suddenly believe in privacy.

Your fingers wander to his helmet. “Let’s make a deal.”

Jason remains quiet, unsure what you could possibly ask for aside from money.

Your painted nails tap the metal. “You take this off and I’ll spill.”

He considers it, because he needs the information, but hadn’t you just said there were cameras?

He understands your devious plan as you fall off him and onto the couch. Your leg stays around his hip as you beckon him to, “Lay down.”

Withholding a groan, Jason does as he’s told. It’s uncharacteristic of him, but he slinks overtop of you, allowing his body weight to sink into yours. You smile at him slyly as your arms wind around his neck to hide him from prying eyes—and lenses.

“Go on,” you encourage.

Reluctantly, he removes the helmet. He places it on the floor, head ducked the whole time. His muss of dark, curly hair flops forward.

“Oh,” you breathe, drinking him in like a glass of refreshing cold water. He still wears a domino, but he’s even better than you imagined. Shell-shocked, war-torn, but… handsome. Very much so. “What’s a pretty boy like you getting messed up in these things?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Jason makes a noise. “You don’t need to charm me.”

“I was being serious,” you say, deflated. Nonetheless, you decide to give him what he wants. You lean up, lips grazing over his skin as you make your way to his ear. Your breath tickles as you say, “He’ll be here on Tuesday night, ten PM.”

Jason’s nose brushes your cheek as you let yourself fall back onto the cushions. It’s the faintest hint of intimacy without the threat of violence, and it restores your will to keep living. That one day, all of this pain will be worth it.

Jason nods. “Thank you,” he says, voice quiet, perfectly gravelly. He stays hovered above you. It’s a surprise when he touches your knee—but no higher than that—as he lets it jut into his hip, playing the game. He’s busy swimming in his thoughts. “Are you… okay?” he asks then. He might have refused to indulge in the poison of the venue, but he’s seen your bruised skin. “Do you want to get out?”

The question is so out of left field—you’ve never even heard it before while here—that it almost makes you choke up. Instead, you paste a wobbly smile on your face. “Are you asking me out?”

It’s the first time you think Red Hood’s ever smiled in public. It’s tiny, but it’s there. “No,” he says, amused. His elbow shifts as his chin dips to the side. “I’m asking if you need help.”

“I… I’m okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he says, matching your tone. “If that ever changes, let me know.”

You nod.

It’s then he reaches for his helmet, but a hand on his arm stops him.

“Mister Hood, I… I could do with a friend,” you say, sadness unintentionally filtering into your voice. “Come back sometime?”

Jason’s heart aches for you. He doesn’t hesitate when he promises, “I will.”

[whltlock]

“please look at me.” “is he really just a friend?” part 2 stripper reader lets gooo

Sex Worker!Reader/Jason Masterlist

A/N: this is probably not what you imagined for this prompt but it is what it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

C/W: reader is strangled

All at once, you’re unceremoniously shoved into Tomas’ office. His guards bolt the door behind you and stand tall on the other side, casting shadows through the obscured glass. It promptly incites fear in you.

You try to right yourself as you look at your boss. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with someone who radiates violence—whose face sports a scowl no matter his temperament. You slink into quietude, feeling utterly exposed in your threadbare costume.

His lips smack as he twirls around on the chair. His eyes don’t land on you immediately; instead, he starts the performance by letting them float over the room first.

He calls you by your stage name, the one he gave you himself, effectively erasing your previous identity. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

You try not to swallow visibly. “No.” Hoping to maintain your cool, you offer, “Would you like to preview my set for tonight?”

Tomas’ tongue clicks. “Not now,” he says. He stands then, and you have to hold in a flinch. “I want to discuss a customer.”

“Who?” comes your soft response, even though you already know. You try to reign in the new wave of fear that threatens to flood your nervous system. Upsetting Tomas rarely ends well.

He rounds the table slowly, prowling closer. “A certain vigilante seems to have taken a liking to you,” is all he says.

“I guess so,” you murmur.

He continues on as if you’ve said nothing, “He rarely wants a dance. Only to talk.”

Cautiously, you nod. “He’s lonely,” you say. It might be true, but you’re the lonelier one.

His gaze flicks to yours, a predatory glint to it. Your heart drops as you realise you’ve stumbled into dangerous territory.

“Is he?” You don’t answer as he stalks towards you. “Does he think you’re friends?” His words are gruff and lined with ill-intent.

“Of course not,” you manage.

You don’t fight when Tomas grabs your throat. His fingers dig into skin harshly.

“Are you friends?” he taunts, wanting to pull a reaction from you, wanting the thrill of smothering your hope.

“No—”

“Is he planning to save his damsel in distress?”

“N—o—!” you try to argue, although his hand tightens around your neck, cutting off your ability to talk.

“You owe me a debt,” he reminds you. “Did you forget I saved you?”

You choke on your next, “No.”

Darkly, he says, “You know what happens to those who don’t repay me.”

You nod vigorously as if it’ll shake your vision free of the spots.

It’s abrupt when he lets go. “Good,” he says smoothly like he didn’t just strangle you. Tomas walks back to his desk. “Keep the money coming and you’ll be in the black soon enough.”

It’s a lie. No one leaves unless it’s with a bullet in their back or between their eyes.

But you give a gracious farewell as you scurry out.

A helmet-less Red Hood slumps into the worn out couch beside you. You don’t turn to look, too emotionally exhausted to move in the slightest. You haven’t even touched the stash of coke that’s downstairs. It couldn’t fix what had settled in your bones anyway.

Silence sits between you as you simply bask in the crisp air and the pitiful view. Out here on the rooftop—and only late at night—is the only reprieve you have access to. In the brighter afternoons, it’s home to the other girls as they ready themselves for the work that awaits them in the dark.

With a sigh, your head tips backwards.

Jason spots the fresh bruises quickly. Quietly, he asks, “What happened?”

You eye him casually. “You hang around too much, apparently.”

He frowns at that. He would’ve thought the money he oh so charitably donates would get him a pass. “You want me to come ‘round less?”

“No,” you rush, fearing desolation; that it would snap the last thread within you. “Tomas will find another reason to punish me for the lost revenue.”

He doesn’t feel better. Vengeance simmers in his veins.

Instead, he lets his knee fall against yours so you know he’s there to lend an ear if nothing else.

“Where would you be,” you begin, “if you didn’t feel a sense of duty to the city?”

Jason glances at you as he considers it. “I’ve never known anything else.”

You elbow him. “Use that brain of yours.”

His mouth twists wryly. “I don’t know. Somewhere that sees the sun more than once a month?”

You hum in agreement. “That would be nice.”

It’s a few more minutes before he speaks again. “Do you have a plan? For… after?”

“No.”

He scratches his jaw as he takes a long look at the city. “Maybe one day we’ll find that place,” Jason says in a hushed tone, still stewing.

You shoot him a soft smile. Maybe the thread cords itself a little tighter, enough to hold on another day. “I hope we do.”