You and Jason had been dating long enough for the lines between your lives to blur completely. It was normal now staying at each otherâs places, sharing meals, or just driving around the city with no destination.
And, of course, it was entirely normal for you to wear Jasonâs oversized hoodies. He always made sure to tell you exactly how good you looked in them.
But then, you started... well, not stealing, but definitely migrating his clothes back to your apartment. A t-shirt here, a flannel there. And even though Jasonâs pride would never let him admit it, he secretly loved the gesture. Still, he couldn't help but feel it was slightly unfair. You got to take a physical piece of him home, while the only thing he had left of you during the day was the faint, lingering scent of your shampoo on his pillows.
"Why canât I borrow something from your closet?" he asked one afternoon. His face was deadpan, completely serious, as if discussing a high-stakes, life-or-death mission.
You shrugged, chuckling softly as you folded one of his worn-out henleys. "I mean, if you want to wear nice dresses, tiny tops, and vintage band shirts... go right ahead, Jay."
It was a joke, obviously. But Jasonâs brain processed the information in a completely different, dangerous way.
A few days later, you arrived back at your apartment after a long shift. The moment you saw the lights on, you knew he was there. You were hoping to find him in the kitchen, since he absolutely loved cooking for you, but instead, his deep voice called out to you from the bedroom.
The sight waiting for you when you pushed the door open was one for the history books.
There, standing right next to your bed, was Jason Todd. He was wearing the tightest, shortest little black dress you owned. His massive, scarred hands were awkwardly hovering over his front, trying (and failing) to look casual.
"What theâ" the words died in your throat.
"I know, right?" Jason interrupted smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face. "It looks so much better on me."
To prove his point, he deliberately turned around, flexing his broad back and thick shoulders. The poor seams of the fabric groaned in agony against his muscles.
"Jason! Youâre going to stretch it out!" you shrieked, though your eyes were already scanning his body. The contrast of the delicate black fabric against his rugged, intimidating frame was... surprisingly working.
A smirk crawled onto your face. You stepped closer and sharply pinched his ass.
Jason jumped, a startled gasp leaving his lips. He spun around to face you again, his hands instantly dropping to cover his front as his pale skin flushed all the way up to his ears.
"W-what?" he stammered, completely losing his cool.
You just leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms with a smug grin. Damn it, he had to double down now.
"Yeah? You like it?" Jason muttered, trying to regain his composure. He flexed his arms again, parading your tiny dress as if it were the greatest medal of honor he had ever won on the streets of Gotham.
You walked over, wrapping your arms around his tightly clad waist, looking up at him with pure amusement. "I love it. But if you rip it, Todd, you're buying me a new one. And you're wearing it to the store."
Jason laughed, a deep, rumbling sound against your chest, finally relaxing as he wrapped his heavy arms around you. "Deal. But only if I get to keep this one."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
how hilarious it would be if you ever made Bucky a father.
established relationship. congressman bucky. fluff.
You met Bucky the exact moment he transitioned into a rising congressman. By then, you had already been working Capitol Hill for years, you knew every piece of legislation, every political trap, and exactly what the media whispered about him. But now? After months of secret late-night drives and quiet mornings, you knew him far better than any of your coworkers ever could.
It worked beautifully. Same workspace, same exhausting schedules, same meetings.
Tonight, you were at a grand political gala, blending into the background and working the room as usual. You had allies in the Capitol, friends youâd known for years. So, it was no surprise when one of them frantically asked you to hold her toddler while she went to network with some high-profile donors. Naturally, you agreed.
The kid was barely a year old, completely mellow. He didnât cry, he wasnât scared. Honestly, the little guy barely even realized he existed.
But when you slipped back through the crowd and approached Bucky with a baby resting on your hip, his confident politician facade instantly cracked. Surprise washed over sharp features.
"Whose kid is that?" Bucky asked, his blue eyes shifting from his champagne glass to the boy, watching with an intense curiosity.
"Oh, Iâm just taking care of him while his mom finishes a meeting," you smiled, gently rocking the little guy, whose tiny legs were wrapped comfortably around your hip. "Isn't he a cutie?"
Bucky just nodded, standing entirely rigid. The formidable congressman clearly had zero experience with children.
"Do you want to try holding him? Heâs really sweet," you offered playfully.
James quickly shook his head, taking a half-step back. "No, doll. Absolutely not. I wouldn't want to scare him and make this venue even louder than it already is," he sighed, casting a glance over the roaring cocktail party.
You stepped closer, deliberately pushing the baby into his personal space. "Come on, just take him for a second while I run to the restroom... please, Congressman?"
He hesitated, eyeing the kid like a tactical threat, before finally giving in with a defeated nod.
As expected, Bucky Barnes had absolutely no idea how to carry a child. He held the baby at a considerable, defensive distance from his chest with both hands, using only his right hand to grip the body and keeping his left prosthetic arm entirely stiff under his expensive suit, terrified of accidentally applying too much pressure. You burst out laughing at the sheer contrast of his massive, broad shoulders looking completely paralyzed by eight kilos of diapers and cheeks.
"Stop making fun of me," Bucky muttered under his breath, staring down at the child between his arms with utter confusion and a slight pout.
Before leaving him to his fate, you leaned in, your hands guiding his large hand, shifting his grip to show him how to actually cradle the baby safely against his chest.
You made your way through the sea of expensive silk dresses and flowing champagne. Standing in front of the restroom mirror, you quickly adjusted your makeup, the cold marble of the sink a sharp contrast to the sudden warmth settling in your chest. You didn't dare articulate the thought out loud, but your reflection knew it anyway.
When you returned to the main hall, the sight waiting for you in the corner of the lounge made you stop in your tracks.
The cold, calculated politician hadn't completely disappeared, but he had let his guard drop just enough for an audience of one. Bucky had retreated slightly from the heavy crowd, the boy now resting comfortably against his chest. He wasn't making a scene, but his thumb was gently tracing the babyâs tiny knuckles, and he was murmuring something low and private that made the toddler tug clumsily at his silk lapels, completely unaware to the dangerous history of the man holding him.
"So... how did it go?" you asked softly as you approached, extending your arms to take the baby back.
But Bucky took a deliberate step back, his arms tightening just a fraction. He didn't want to let go yet. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips, breaking the rigid lines of his congressman persona.
"Well," Bucky murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, private register meant only for you. "Turns out the little fella loves my arm. And he highly enjoys laughing directly in my face whenever I try to look serious."
The mere thought of the sound of the sea or hiking up a mountain was the only thing keeping you alive during finals week. After all, you had quickly learned that the main attraction in Gotham was the idiots who chose this city for an exchange program.
That included you.
Being a foreigner was hard enough, but being a foreigner in Gotham required a special type of survival instinct. If you really wanted to escape for the summer, you needed money. And to get money, you had to work.
The universe seemed to be on your team (or so you thought) when you found a flyer looking for a cashier at Batburger. Why not? you reasoned. Serving cold fries and taking orders with names such as "Robin Nuggets" while dressed in whatever ridiculous corporate costume they forced you into didnât sound too terrible.
The ease with which you got the job should have been your very first warning.
When the manager handed you your schedule, your blood ran cold. You were assigned the graveyard shift: 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM. The toughest, most dangerous hours in the city.
At least you didnât have to wear the stupid Batman ears.
That was your life for a few weeks. Frequented more by low-lifes than actual customers, you got so used to looking down the barrel of a Glock that the cold metal stopped making you flinch. You watched local shops get robbed through the grease stained windows, and eventually, you learned the patrol schedule of a certain red-helmeted vigilante who visited you far too often.
Tonight was no exception.
The patties for the two Batburger Deluxes he always ordered were already sizzling on the grill when the bell above the door chimed. Your face remained a mask of pure boredom as two teenagers pointed a shaky gun straight at your chest.
âGive me the money,â the tallest one said, his voice dropping an octave in a pathetic attempt to sound older.
âWhat money? I havenât sold a single thing today,â you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter. The fatigue in your bones was heavier than the threat of their gun.
âYou canât fool us! The money. Now!â the chubbier one barked.
You opened your mouth to tell them to get lost, but a deep, rough voice cut through the heavy air from the entrance.
âYou heard her. She said she doesnât have any.â
Your eyes drifted. There he was. Your most loyal, unhinged customer: Red Hood.
He was leaning against the doorframe, posture loose and almost playful. He took two slow steps toward the kids. He didn't even draw a weapon, but his massive silhouette was enough to make the air in the room turn freezing.
The two boys bolted, stumbling over their own feet as they fled into the night. No blood. No bullets. Just the terrifying weight of his presence.
The vigilante turned his helmet toward you. You could practically hear the smug, self satisfied grin hidden beneath the red helmet.
âSo⌠um, two Batburgers Deââ
âDeluxe. Yeah, theyâre already on the grill,â you interrupted, a small smirk tugging at your lips.
He nodded, taking a clumsy step back. âThank you⌠by the way.â
You watched him walk over to a corner booth. Before he slid onto the plastic seat, he yanked the red helmet off. He was attractiveâor so you thought. You had seen his face before, but the black domino mask still clung to his skin, hiding the secrets in his eyes.
When the food was ready, you placed the tray on the counter. He was already there, waiting.
Tucking his heavy tactical gloves into his belt, he began applying condiments with a terrifying, almost surgical precision. Not too much, not too little. Just perfectly aligned lines of mustard. God, the Bat-kids are so weird.
You leaned over the counter, arms crossed. âDo you want a drink?â
You saw his sharp jaw clench. He swallowed hard, his posture instantly stiffening. âUhh⌠a milkshake.â
He seemed⌠shy? The sudden shift in the air was dizzying.
âWhat flavor?â
âChâStrawberry! Yeah.â He cleared his throat violently, shrugging his broad shoulders as if it were the most natural choice for a lethal crimefighter at three in the morning.
But it wasn't. What was obvious was how hard he was trying to claw back the "big, bad vigilante" persona he had just used to scare those kids away.
A strawberry milkshake. At 3:00 AM. You wondered if this man had ever experienced a normal day in his life.
When you returned with the cup, he was already tearing through the second burger. He almost choked when you set the drink down, eating with the desperate, animalistic hunger of someone who forgot to be human. He muttered a quick thanks and slurped the straw like a man dying of thirst in a desert.
That was when it hit you. This was the first time he had actually stayed to eat inside. Usually, he took his greasy bags and disappeared into the shadows.
The heavy silence of the restaurant was broken only by the aggressive sound of his straw hitting the bottom of the cup and the loud crinkling of paper wrapper. Instead of hiding in the kitchen, a sudden wave of bravery hit you.
âSo⌠rough night?â
The moment the words left your mouth, he snapped completely straight, his shoulders locking up. Why did your good ideas always turn into disasters?
He finished his food in silence. You slid the receipt toward him, taking his trash to toss it into the back bin. When you returned, the cash was on the counter along with a ridiculously generous tip.
Jason was leaning heavily on one elbow, waiting. He cleared his throat again, louder than necessary. As your fingers brushed the cash, he finally spoke.
âSo⌠the Hood is, um⌠Red.â
His voice actually cracked at the end. Your brain stalled. Was he⌠trying to flirt with you?
You blinked once. Twice. Looking at him with sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.
A sudden, tight tension climbed up his neck, his jaw hardening as his ears turned a sharp shade of red. He immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.
Damn it. You were actually starting to feel bad for Gotham's most feared protector.
âItâs hard to call a night rough,â he scrambled, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush as he tried to fix the tension. âYou asked if I had a rough night, but I get shot almost every night. Itâs pretty normal for me. I barely flinch, actually... You wanna try shooting me?â
Your eyebrows knitted together in utter disbelief. What the hell was wrong with him?
âNo, I meantâŚdonât shoot people.âHe shook his head furiously, his large hands waving in the air between you.
âYeah. Right. No shooting people. Noted.âA soft, genuine chuckle escaped your throat.
Hearing you laugh made his entire frame relax. The rigid, defensive armor he carried seemed to melt away, leaving just a tired guy in a diner. He picked up his helmet, but before sliding it over his head, those masked eyes locked onto yours.
âAm I your last customer?â
âYou were the only one today, actually,â you said. Then, catching the unspoken weight behind his question, you added, âMy shift ends in thirty minutes.â
He nodded, the red fiberglass clicking into place. He stared at you in dead silence for a good, agonizing twenty seconds before he turned on his heel and walked out.
You couldn't tell if it was creepy or just incredibly endearing, but at least he hadn't offered you a gun again.
Thirty minutes later, you locked up the restaurant. The night air was crisp, and your body was already softening at the thought of your warm mattress.
Yet, as you unlocked your car, you couldnât shake the feeling of being watched. You glanced up.
High above the streetlights, perched on the edge of a brick rooftop, a tall silhouette was cut against the moon. A faint red gleam reflected in the dark. When you blinked and looked again, the roof was empty. Only the wind remained.
You smiled to yourself, turning the key in the ignition. At least you knew you were going to make it home safe.
