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callsign-rogueone · 8 days ago

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jason todd x hostess!reader

words: 3.1k

Jason meets a girl who doesn’t care if she lives or dies, and makes it his personal mission to get her to choose life — but involving her in Red Hood’s business might fuck that up entirely.

🏷️: very much Inspired by selina’s work at the iceberg lounge + bats having her be an informant, but changing things up a little! implications that reader is depressed and passively suicidal. up to you if she is an actual sex worker or just a hostess — she works in an unnamed gentleman’s club in Gotham, and is supposed to get cuddly with her clients. mentions of extreme religious (Christian) shame around sex and her line of work, date rape drugs, kidnapping… typical week in the life of a young lady in Gotham.

WEDNESDAY

You don’t so much as flinch when you step out into your alley to see Red Hood sat on a pile of wooden crates, disassembling one of his guns — just settle down across from him, stretching out your legs.

“You’re not scared of me?”

“I’m not scared of dying,” you correct, watching your breath fog the night air the way one would watch cigarette smoke. “Besides, this was my alley first.”

“There are worse things than dying.”

“Living, for one.”

His face is covered, but you can still see him pause — watch him sit in his discomfort for a moment before he speaks. “A sense of humor. I like that in a girl.”

“Don’t you have criminals to be hunting down?”

“Even vigilantes are allowed to take breaks.”

You can’t argue with that.

THURSDAY

“Hiya, Red.”

“Hi, pretty girl. How are you?”

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” you offer.

“It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

Your eyebrows raise. “You read?”

“You wound me, sweetheart.”

“You just don’t seem the type, is all. But I guess I don’t seem like the type who studied Literature in college,” you crack, referring to your outfit. “Or went to college at all.”

He doesn’t ask what led you, a presumably good student, to be working here, in the shittiest part of Gotham. “Two nights in a row that you’re out here without a coat. Ain’t you freezing?”

“I am,” you reply. “I just needed to feel something.”

“Is it working?”

“I don’t know.”

FRIDAY

“High profile guest in the back. Asked for you specifically.”

You’re surprised to see a new face — but still one you recognize: Jason Todd. You’ve never seen a Wayne family member down here — probably because they’re the last real upstanding society people in Gotham — but Jason did always seem to be the black sheep, anyway. And if he’s here to waste daddy’s money, you’ll happily let him.

“Hiya, gorgeous.”

“Hi yourself,” you purr.

Even sitting down, there’s no word to describe him but big. His shoulders must be three feet across, and he has to be at least a foot taller than you, if you don’t count your towering high heels.

“Those can’t be comfortable.”

You crack a smile. “They aren’t. But beauty is pain, right?”

“Sit,” he coaxes.

He doesn’t pat his leg like most men do, doesn’t make any indication that he wants you to sit in his lap, so you settle beside him, crossing your legs and leaning forward, subtly entering his personal space. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

He just smiles. “First time for everything.”

You’re actually almost disappointed when he leaves.

SATURDAY

Dick makes a perfect landing, of course, adjusting his sticks and looking over at his brother. “Any reason you spent three full hours at the gentleman’s club on Pike last night?”

Damn those two and their tracking devices. “I was meeting a friend.”

“A friend, or an informant?”

“She can’t be both?”

Dick sighs. “If you’re trying to rescue her… she might not want to be rescued.”

Jason immediately tenses, his response automatic. “I know she’s not happy there.”

“It’s her decision to keep working there, and it’s not your job to convince her to leave, especially not because you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” Jason echoes.

“Come on. You think you’re the only rich kid whose jokes she laughs at?”

His heart drops at the realization — you’re paid by the hour to flirt with anyone who looks at you. Had all of your conversations been pretend, even the ones in that back alley?

No, you would never tell a client that kind of thing, never admit that you were struggling and alone… Unless it was all part of an act — to get him to lower his guard, to make you seem easy and approachable… No. You wouldn’t do that to him, or anyone. That’s not the kind of person you are.

“It’s not like that,” he defends. “I met her off the clock, as Hood. She’s a good person. I’m just helping her, is all.”

He doesn’t specify how. There’s no good way to explain what he’s doing— and why he needs to be the one to do it.

“But then you decided to show up there as yourself. Do you have any idea how dumb that was? All she needs to do is figure out that you’re both equally giant, and it’s all over.”

He bites back a response about you not telling anyone — both of the brothers know that’s a promise he can’t make.

————————

He’s already there this time.

Maybe it’s foolish to think he was waiting for you. Red Hood surely has more interesting, prettier women falling into his lap, ones from better parts of the city, who don’t sell their bodies for a living, and haven’t been used and abused.

But why else would he be spending this much time in your alley, come back twice now and held these conversations with you?

“Didn’t see you last night,” he says by way of greeting. “Got worried about you.”

Your eyebrows raise. “You worried about me?”

“I do have a human heart under all this metal, you know. Was it just your night off?”

“No, I was here. Just… tied up with a client. I didn’t take my break.”

He nods, not saying anything.

“Mondays are my night off,” you blurt, compelled to fill the silence. “Sometimes Tuesday, too. Nobody goes clubbing on those days anyway.”

“Makes sense.”

Your lips curve into a catlike smile. “You were worried about me.”

“Should I stop? Does it ruin my tough-guy image?”

“No,” you muse, “if anything, it makes you more…” You don’t finish the sentence.

He gives you a nod of understanding, undoubtedly grinning beneath the helmet. “See you in a few days, sweetheart.”

——————

It takes him another week of conversations to work up the courage— to get over the fear of fucking whatever the two of you have up and just ask already, dammit.

“Could you… help me with something?”

“I don’t know what I could do that you can’t, but maybe.”

“I appreciate your confidence, sweetheart, but when it comes to coaxing information out of people, you’d be more… delicate than I would.”

You immediately tense, and he knows he fucked up. “The beauty of this business model is that the girls are paid not to rat on a client.”

“Even if they’re a no-good two-timing son-of-a-bitch?”

“What did he do?”

“Huh?”

“I’m asking, genuinely, what did he do to you, or to someone else, that you need to spy on him — have me spy on him for you?”

“How do you know he’s a he?”

“You said son-of-a-bitch, but even if you hadn’t, it would be a lucky guess, predicated on ninety-eight percent of them being men. And if it were a woman, you’d be capable of seducing her yourself.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Well, from the shoulders down you’re alright. The helmet kills it for me. You should replace it with a mask. The eyes are important. Hard to find someone attractive without seeing them.”

“I’ll take it under consideration.”

“Now, what did he do?”

“It’s less what he did, and more what he’s going to do.”

——————

“Breathe through your nose,” someone calls, rising from a creaky desk chair. You take their advice, inhaling as deeply as you can. The air is damp, stale. “There you go.“

Your chest heaves with each breath, heart pounding against your ribs. Are you tied down? Did your target figure out you were baiting him, and decide to do whatever mob torture shit he does to others who cross him?

But the person walking toward you isn’t him — he’s much younger, looks much less connected than anyone who’d work for the mob.

Maybe they’re subcontracting these days.

He reaches forward, toward your face, pulling the rag from between your teeth. “Sorry about that. Just didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression if you woke up on our way home.”

Home.

You’re at this guy’s house, yet you’re still in your work clothes. You certainly didn’t agree to come home with him — you’d never cross that line with a client, never see them outside the club.

“How…” you whisper, “what did you…”

“When I saw you were working in that disgusting club, I knew I had to get you out of there. You should be thanking me, honestly.”

Do you even know this guy?

“It’s not too late, you know. There’s still time to repent.”

Holy fucking shit. It’s your downstairs neighbor. The one who keeps leaving bible verses taped to your door, who had looked absolutely scandalized when he’d seen you in the laundry room wearing short shorts and a tank top — it had to have been ninety degrees in your building, with the busted AC and all, but clearly that didn’t excuse the behavior in his eyes.

You’d wanted to cuss him out for his unnecessary comments then, but now… You could probably take him if you tried — and if you weren’t so goddamn tired. This feels like a hangover, mixed with the full body ache of the flu. Whatever it was you were dosed with dehydrated you, big time.

You’ll have to try to reason with him, then, sweet talk your way into making him untie you, and you can make a break for it.

“Joseph…” you begin, not sure where to go from here. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a while. I’ve thought about it, and I think you might be right — you are right. What I’ve done is wrong, and I need help getting back on the right path.”

He looks absolutely elated — and then he notices the wire running down the side of your neck, that’s become exposed in your struggling.

The earpiece is discovered and subsequently yanked out, crushed under one of the man’s boots. Jason loses the audio, but he can tell that your captor is yelling at you.

A gloved hand slaps you across the face, and the image blurs as if it’s underwater.

You’re crying. You, his unflappable, nonchalant girl, are crying, pleading with whoever it is to let you go.

He’s gonna beat this motherfucker to a pulp.

The camera shakes as you squirm, trying to escape his touch — but it’s futile. Your eyelids start to droop, narrowing the camera view.

A gloved hand comes into frame, reaching up to stroke your hair as the feed goes dark.

Halfway across the city, Jason wants to vomit. He has no idea where you are. He should have put a tracker on you. How could he have been so careless?

Because you’d been giving him those eyes when he’d stepped close enough to help install the wires, that soft, sad look that almost felt like you could see his face through his helmet, like you were truly making eye contact. That’s how.

Deep breaths. You’re smart, and this guy doesn’t seem to want to kill you. But how does he know you? You’d addressed him by name, but he wasn’t a regular of yours. You’d met outside of the club, and more than once, but where?

Your phone is easy enough to trace back to the club. It must still be in your locker in the dressing room.

Clearly you’ve moved since then. Okay. He’ll retrace your steps and try to find out what happened, anything he missed that could lead the way to you.

He rewinds the footage.

You’d stepped out for some fresh air, into the alley you’d met in, saying you felt sick to your stomach.

“I just… don’t feel good,” you mumble, eyes shifting back and forth.

“You’re doing great,” he’d reassured through the earpiece — but the video only captured your words, not his.

“I don’t know, I…” Your eyes flutter closed as you take a deep breath.

When you open them, everything’s a little blurry for you, but the camera sees just fine — sees the toes of your very impractical shoes as you stumble over the concrete.

He called your name, but you didn’t respond.

Your eyes fall shut again, blackening the feed, and then there’s a muffled thud that can only be your body hitting the pavement.

But how?

You didn’t have anything to drink, didn’t touch any of the many substances the lounge had to offer. You must have been dosed with something instead, when you weren’t suspecting it, and it must have only been given to you — your captor seems infatuated with you specifically, and Jason would have heard by now if the ladies of any of Gotham’s clubs were fainting en masse.

Clearly this guy’s a creep, and he knows you, somehow. But all Jason has is a name, and there has to be ten thousand Josephs in this godforsaken city.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Tim? I need your help.”

——————

The door creaking open has you blinking awake from your fitful sleep, your muscles tensing.

But it isn’t Joseph. It’s the person you’d wished would find you.

“He’s out, at the corner store down the street. We don’t have much time.”

Black mascara and flakes of blue glitter drip down your cheeks, stubbornly sticking to the skin no matter how much you swipe at it with the backs of your newly-freed hands.

If you weren’t in this creepy ass apartment, he’d take his time helping you remove it, brush the tears away with gentle strokes of his thumb and apologize to you over and over, for involving you in his stupid schemes, for not noticing that you’d been dosed, for taking so long to find you…

He settles for helping you up out of the chair. “It’s not safe for you to go home,” he murmurs, “but you can hide out with me for a while.”

You just nod, wordlessly following him.

The stiff armor and cold leather are oddly comforting — though that might just be because you know it’s Hood underneath. He keeps you close as you slip down the stairwell and out the back door.

The drive to his place is a blur — partially due to the speed at which he’s driving, and partially due to the lasting effect of whatever drugs are still lingering in your system. All you can do is hold on to him for dear life, pressing your cheek against his back and letting the wind whip at your hair.

His apartment complex is a bit nicer than yours, but definitely still somewhere to tread carefully, and definitely somewhere that people like him would hang out — for better or worse. But the interior is… normal. There are knickknacks on bookshelves, souvenir magnets on the fridge… no family pictures, of course. That would ruin the whole secret identity thing.

He notices you shivering, that little dress doing nothing to keep you warm, and reaches over to pull a cardigan off the back of a chair. You accept it gratefully, wrapping yourself in the thick knit fabric that smells so him, the same dizzying scent that seems to cling to his armor — though with considerably less gunsmoke.

He pulls a pack of makeup wipes from a drawer, the kind you used back in college. Maybe you aren’t the only girl he’s brought home. But you’re definitely the only one who was here to hide from her Puritanical downstairs neighbor.

You just sit on the edge of the table, letting him gently wipe away the ruined makeup. His shoulders tense when he notices the beginnings of a black eye, and the split across your cheekbone from your fall.

“Look up?”

You comply, raising your chin and letting him pull out the contact lens, which he places in an unassuming plastic container.

You finally start to cry, the sensitivity of your eyes just the last straw.

“Sweetheart,” he soothes, “I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” you choke, turning your head. “I was the one who chose this job, and I knew it was looked down on, that people would judge me for it…”

“Whoa, hey. Look at me, pretty girl. None of this was your fault. None of it at all.”

“I know that. But I don’t know what to do now,” you say quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe in that apartment, knowing he’d bugged it like that, and I still don’t know how he drugged me the first time… but whatever he did, he got around the security at the club, too. I’ll have to quit, find another club to work in and somewhere else to live, I guess.”

“Did you enjoy it? Working there?”

“Three nights,” you answer, closing your eyes. “My first shift, when I was just so happy to be wanted, that people thought I was pretty, and a week later, when I got my first check.”

“And the third?”

“The other day— bout a week ago. When someone treated me like a real person. Like I mattered, not my body.”

About a week ago.

His breath hitches. “What did they do?”

“Was the weirdest thing,” you murmur. “Asked for me by name, but we’d never met— I guess a friend of his recommended me. He didn’t want a dance or anything physical, just let me take off my heels for a while n’ gave me a calf massage while we talked about mundane things.”

“Huh,” he says, because there isn’t much else to say. “He pay you?”

“Enough to cover my rent for the month.”

He whistles low. “Maybe I need to get into this business.”

You look back up at him. “If you value yourself at all, don’t. And I don’t mean that in some bullshit Christian purity way like he did. I mean that it fucks with your head, with the way you see yourself… ninety-nine point nine percent of your clients don’t want you, they just want your body — not even your body, just a body. They wouldn’t notice if you disappeared, never came back.”

“Do you think about it? Disappearing?”

You both know what he’s implying.

“Sometimes.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Bathroom’s down the hall on the right, bedroom on the left — take whatever clothes you want, get cleaned up and get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back in the morning. Well, probably more like noon. But I’ll bring donuts, and we can discuss Kerenina.”

You smile, for the first time that night. “Sounds nice.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #liz.txt #mine #dc x reader #batboys x reader

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