ďšâ ââLOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING...
âďšâ paring: fem!deadpool!reader x jason todd.
âďšâ summary: jason todd used to think dying was the worst thing that ever happened to him. then he met you.
âďšâ warnings: +18, dni. hate fuck. rough sex, oral sex, hair pulling, a little bit of spanking, filthy dirty talk, degrading, unprotected sex. swearing, blood, guns, suggestive dialogue, deadpool being deadpool, reader and jason throwing punches in the kitchen. enemies to lovers (?). the divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws. thank you!. some of deadpool's lore. red hood's lore. 4k words!.
JASON HAD BEEN TORTURED, murdered in a warehouse explosion, and shoved into the Lazarus Pit like some experiment. He came back different; angrier, colder, with a permanent itch under his skin he could never quite scratch. Heâd clawed his way back into a city that barely noticed he was gone, wearing a new mask and a grudge like armor. And then heâd spent years readjusting to a world he never asked to return to, trapped in a body that felt more like a cage than himself. But none of that, none of that life-long, soul-crushing suffering, prepared him for the torment of working with you.
Standing by your side made him believe in karma. Hell, even divine punishment at this point. Maybe those christians were onto something after all, because just hearing your voice made him want to put a gun in his mouth. That was the level of his despair.
You, with your mouth that never shut up. Your warped moral compass. Your blood-soaked sense of humor. Your fourth-wall-breaking commentary that made him wonder if he was the one hallucinating. You were a walking migraine. A useless, brainless cheap merc from New York who somehow hadnât managed to die permanently â thanks only to that freak-show healing factor. And, of course, your kill count that made even him raise an eyebrow.
And now you were in his city.
Bruce was pissed. Truly, deeply furious, the kind of mad that led to terse one-sentence orders and sending Red Hood to "clean up the mess". Which meant Jason got stuck playing babysitter to a lunatic who treated Gotham like it was her new theme park. You kept taking contracts on people too close to the Batâs interest; mob bosses under surveillance, corrupt judges, the occasional undercover informant. Important people. The kind of people you werenât supposed to make disappear without blowing up months of work.
Months of his fucking work, by the way.
And now here he was, trying to keep you from burning his city to the ground while resisting the urge to shoot you in the face. Not that it would work. Heâd tried. Twice. Shoot you right in the face, and in the thighs at least four times. You just laughed at him. Like the bitch you are.
But in the end, the two of you had a few things in common. You were both taking out terrible people, and itâs not like the old man and his cult could really do anything about it, youâre basically immortal. So, yeah⌠sometimes he ended up teaming up with you behind his familyâs back.
You two were literally doing that right now. And he bitterly regretted making that damn call.
The warehouse you two had broken into thirty minutes ago reeked of cheap gun oil and rust. Smoke still curled in the rafters, clinging to the air. Jason stood near a half-shattered window, body tense, pistol aimed at the last conscious thug crawling toward his dropped knife.
"Okay, but hear me outâwhat if, instead of just shooting them, we had, like, a dance battle first?" your voice rang out behind him, chipper as hell, despite the blood soaking your suit from shoulder to knee. "Real Step Up vibes. I couldâve been Channing Tatum, Hood. You robbed me of that."
Jason let out a slow, pained sigh.
You strolled into view, katanas dripping, mask rolled up just enough to chomp on some suspicious-looking beef jerky youâd stolen off one of the corpses.
He stared at you â hard â judgment practically radiating from behind the helmet.
You winked. "What? He wasnât gonna need it. I checked. Real dead. No pulse."
He holstered his gun like he was trying to keep himself from choking you with it.
"This was supposed to be stealth," Jason growled. "You came in like a Michael Bay explosion in clown shoes."
"I only wear clown shoes on thursdays. Todayâs monday, obviously I wore my sexy combat heels. They give me great posture."
He rolled his eyes, not that you could see it â but you probably felt it.
"You decapitated a guy mid-sentence."
"Yeah, I freed him from the shackles of his spine. Heroism."
Jason sighed, loudly. It came out all warped and mechanical through his helmetâs voice emulator, like a dying vacuum cleaner. Fitting, given his shitty mood.
"Do you even remember the briefing?"
"Absolutely not." You beamed. "But you looked super hot while explaining it. I was distracted by your mouth. It moves like a really angry kiss."
He turned to you slowly, the glare behind his helmet palpable.
You tossed your bloodied jerky onto a pile of corpses. "Also, sorry about the headshot bet. I thought we were still playing. I win, though. That guyâs brain did a little jazz hands at the end."
Jasonâs jaw ticked. His fists clenched. He hated you so fucking much. Every mission with you ended in some kind of bloodbath or blown cover. And heâd put up with it. Again and again. Because, unfortunately, you were useful when managed correctly. Royâs words, not his.
Heâd managed feral dogs with more grace.
Every time he managed to think of you as just a useful tool â and not an actual person capable of annoying the absolute shit out of him â some of that deep, deep hatred eased up. Just enough to keep him from having a heart attack mid-conversation.
"Letâs just sweep the building and go," he muttered, shouldering past you. You could feel the raw, seething loathing rolling off him. He was pissed. Yikes.
You grinned. "Câmon, donât be mad. They were assholes. One of them called me a slut with swords. Jokeâs on him, though, Iâm also amazing in bed. Two for one."
He turned slowly. Here we go.
You took a playful step back. "Ooh. Somebodyâs got the grumpy face on. Whatâs wrong, Red?"
He inhaled, deep, slow, like he was trying not to explode.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Iâm serious," he snapped. "Youâre a fucking useless dumbass. You blew the side off the building before I even gave the signal!"
"Well, to be fairâ" you started.
Your mouth closed, but your smirk widened.
Jason stepped toward you, voice dropping to a hiss. "I have had it with your psychotic bullshit. You treat every op like itâs a fucking improv skit. People are dying. Real people. And all you care about is if your one-liner hit or if I laughed at your dumbass joke."
You raised an eyebrow. Not that he could see. "To be fair, the âpencil-dick mafiaâ line was comedy goldâ"
"SHUT UP!" he barked, voice raw now. "Jesus, do you ever stop running your mouth? Itâs like your brainâs stuck in horny stand-up mode while the rest of us are trying not to fuck up the mission. Youâre not fucking funny. Youâre a goddamn walking catastrophe with no fucking impulse control!"
"You think youâre charming? Youâre exhausting. You make every mission ten times harder than it has to be. You blow our cover, you disobey orders, and you laugh while slicing people open like itâs a fucking cartoon. I donât care how fast you healâif you get me or anyone else killed with your bullshit, I will personally find a way to keep you dead."
"And for the record, stop flirting with me. Youâre not sexy. Youâre not even fucking attractive. Youâre loud, obnoxious, and about as subtle as a chainsaw to the face. You think I havenât had people throw themselves at me? Women with class, with self-control, with an ounce of fucking dignity? I donât want you. I donât even like you. Fuck."
You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Holy shit."
You stepped closer, eyes gleaming inside your mask. "That was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. I think I need to sit down."
You pointed at him. "That? That whole verbal curb-stomp? I think I just came a little."
"No, seriously," you whispered, leaning in like it was a secret. "I am so unwell right now. I think my ovaries did jazz hands. My therapistâs gonna hear about this. If I had a diary, Iâd write âToday, Red Hood called me a useless bitch, and I got horny in a warehouse full of corpses."
He took a step back like you were radioactive.
You followed. "Say more mean shit. Call me pathetic. Tell me Iâm annoying again but in that gravelly âI want to strangle youâ voice. Maybe spit on me?"
Jason turned sharply. "I hate you."
You cupped your hands around your mouth. "Is that foreplay?!"
He ignored you while leaving the warehouse.
You grinned like a devil.
Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the roof together, watching the flames lick up the side of the warehouse. Jason was smoking, trying to pretend you werenât five inches from his thigh. Heâd given up smoking a while ago, but being around you made him seriously reconsider. Alcohol or nicotine felt like the only way to survive your presence.
He was so out of it, he couldnât even bother worrying about you seeing his face without the helmet.
"Iâd call this a win," you offered, sipping from a cup of coffee you definitely hadnât been holding five minutes ago. "We stopped the arms deal, torched the stockpile, and I got to see you yell like a stressed-out dom in a CW drama."
He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Stop talking."
"I can be quiet. If you put something in my mouth."
Jason side-eyed you with the force of a thousand suns.
"Like a gag. Or a sandwich. Or your cocâ"
He shoved the rest of his cigarette into your coffee and stood up.
TO JASON'S GREAT MISFORTUNE, the two of you kept working together. Worse, you somehow wormed your way into Roy and Koryâs lives, like this was some kind of team-up he never asked for. Naturally, Roy adored you. You made him laugh so hard he had to stop eating and drinking around you just to avoid choking to death. Kory didnât get your sense of humor at all, but she liked your honesty. And Jason?
Jason just kept hating you for using his damn safehouse like it was your personal Airbnb.
At least during that time, heâd managed to run a few background checks on you â always keeping tabs, just in case. Dug up some interesting things, like the fact that youâd had terminal cancer and underwent some sketchy experimental treatment. It saved your life, sure⌠but it also wrecked your body. Now you were covered in scars and practically unkillable thanks to a healing factor so extreme it bordered on obscene.
But being honest, he didnât give a fuck about your messed-up origin story. Cancer, shady experiments, freakshow healing factor. Whatever. Join the club. Heâd been blown to pieces and dumped in a Lazarus Pit, so forgive him if he didnât feel special sympathy. Your problem was your problem. All he wanted was for you to stop eating his food, leaving weapons in his couch cushions, and walking around his place like it had your name on the deed.
You were needy and reckless, an obnoxious pain in the ass with zero boundaries. Jesus Christ.
But, anyways, things had really gone downhill after that garbage fire of a day he had. He and Isabel were done for good, â sheâd been his last attempt at feeling something decent in his shitty life, something soft, something that didnât hurt â youâd tanked another mission, and now you were somehow giving him unsolicited dating advice, like your love life wasnât a fucking joke. He knew damn well the only person youâd ever seriously dated before turning into Deadpool was a stripper named Vanessa. Sweet girl. Way too good for this mess. She died in New York months ago, because of you.
And then came the shitshow.
Jason had snapped at you again, like it was becoming a habit.
He would never forget the way your body froze, how your shoulders locked up, your breath caught, and every trace of humor bled out of you. Even with that stupid mask on, the look in your eyes gutted him. Like youâd been slapped.
And he meant it to hurt. Every word he spat was sharp and aimed to cut deep. And judging by the silence that followed, he had.
"The only person who ever loved you was a fucking hooker. And even she had to be paid to do it. So fuck off."
The world stopped in his living room.
You didnât make a stupid joke.
Your fists clenched before your brain could even register it.
Then you hit him. Hard. Square across the jaw.
No more nice âPool, hm?
His head snapped sideways with a grunt, blood blooming in his mouth, but he was already swinging back. Jasonâs body twisted with trained precision, his fist caught your side and you gasped, more from fury than pain.
You grabbed him by the front of the shirt and slammed him into the wall hard enough to make it shudder. The plaster cracked behind him, flakes drifting to the floor like ash. His hands came up again, but you were already pushing him back, breath hot, eyes wild under the mask.
"Call her a hooker again," you growled, breath ragged. "I fucking dare you."
Jason spat blood, his grin feral.
The next punch came fast. His knuckles cracked against your jaw. You grunted, stumbled, but swung back instantly â he ducked under it, shoulder-checked you into the wall, and the two of you collapsed in a flurry of fists and curses.
He grabbed you by the waist and slammed you onto the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your back. You didnât hesitate. Your boot caught him square in the chest and knocked him back into the fridge. The whole thing rattled violently, a magnet flying off and clattering to the tile floor.
Neither of you even looked.
Your eyes burned. Your chest heaved. You were soaked in sweat.
Jasonâs pupils were blown wide, locked on you. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, smeared across his lip, but he didnât wipe it away. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he couldnât tell if he wanted to hit you again orâ
"You donât talk about her. You donât even fucking knowâ"
Jason rolled his eyes, and then his mouth crashed into yours, taking full advantage of the way your mask was rolled up to the bridge of your nose â your lips exposed and vulnerable for him. You bit his already-busted bottom lip out of pure fury, tasting copper and spite. You swung at him again, but he caught your wrist, groaning low in his throat.
Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, devouring you like he was starving and furious about it. His knee forced your legs apart, pinning you where he wanted you. One hand fisted in your collar, the other wrapped around your throat. Not choking, not yet. Just holding.
"Always running that loud, stupid mouth around me," he growled against your lips. His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm, intoxicating, and for one fleeting second, you almost forgot. Forgot how he disrespected you. Forgot the way he spat on the memory of the only person you ever truly loved.
"Gonna do everyone a favor and keep it busy."
The kiss tasted like iron, blood on both your tongues, heat rising like a fever. And despite everything you felt yourself melting into it, breath hitching against his mouth. Your hands curled in his jacket, unsure if you meant to push him away or drag him closer.
Jasonâs hand fisted in your leather mask, rough and impatient, and tore it off completely. The air hits your skin like ice. You flinched. You felt naked. Your scars, your ruined skin, were now fully on display. And for a second, you hesitated. You turned your face just slightly, instinctively, already bracing for disgust.
But Jason didnât stop. Didnât hesitate.
Instead, his hand came to your jaw, guiding your face back to his and then his tongue slid past your aching lips, slow and deliberate.
Your brain short-circuited.
You whimpered against him, a soft, unguarded sound you couldnât even stop. His bigger body pressed against yours, pinning you to the counter. He was already hard, you could feel it heavy against your thigh.
"All that goddamn noise, every smirk, every wiseass comment, walking around my place like you owned itâŚ" His mouth dragged along your jaw. "Youâve been begging for this. Dripping desperation under all that leather."
His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers finding your clothed cunt. Youâd never been a prude but the sound that left your throat was a full-bodied, surprised whine, like some Victorian maiden getting her ankle glimpsed at a ball.
"Is that what gets you off, huh?" he growled against your skin, his thumb finding your poor clit. "Pissing me off until I snap? Playing dumb little games, fighting me in my fucking kitchen, so Iâll bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you?"
Yes, you were absolutely eating that shit up. Thighs already twitching, core pulsing, hips aching to grind into the heat of his thumb. But being a little shit was practically a personality trait by now.
"You sound like a discount Christian Grey or, I donât know, one of those garbage Tumblr fanfics written by aâ"
Jason didnât let you finish.
He spun you around with zero finesse, hands gripping your hips like handles, and bent you over the kitchen counter so fast your breath left you in a grunt. Cold marble met your cheek as your hands scrambled for purchase.
"Try saying that again with my cock halfway inside you."
You just smirked, eyes wild.
He yanked the bottom half of your uniform down in one smooth, breathless motion. The cool air licked across your thighs and your ass.
"...Hello Kitty panties? Are you fucking serious?"
You craned your neck with the most unapologetic grin known to man.
"I got them at a Walmart discount bin. Two-ninety-nine."
He stared for a second, dead silent, like he genuinely couldnât decide whether to fuck you stupid or haul you in for crimes against fashion. His fingers hooked the waistband of your ridiculous Hello Kitty panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp flick.
From that angle, bent over the counter, ass bare, pants around your knees, he could see everything.
Strong legs braced wide. Thick, powerful thighs. And the scars, God, the scars. Burns, patches of rough, discolored skin where your healing factor hadnât cared about aesthetics. Jagged textures that twisted and crawled across your flesh.
He didnât say anything.
You sighed after a few seconds.
"Gonna leave a lady hanging?"
"I donât see any ladies here."
He dropped to his knees behind you.
Rough hands yanked your thighs apart as he ducked between them, spreading you open â your ugly panties were already balled up in his jacket pocket, swiped without a second thought after heâd torn them off you.
"Hey," you panted, voice wobbling through a half-laugh, half-moan, "you donât have to steal my underwear, okay? I can buy you your own. Maybe with little bats on themâJason?"
His only response was a low growl as he sank his tongue into you without a shred of mercy.
You jolted, mouth falling open.
"Fuckâokay, okay, take the panties, Jesusâ"
He didnât even look up. Just shoved your thighs wider, buried himself deeper, and groaned like your pussy was the first meal heâd had in days. Whatever joke youâd been about to crack turned into a breathless scream, your fingers scrabbling across the counter for something to hold on to. He licked like a man possessed, angry and hungry. You tried to push him back just enough to breathe, and he slapped your thigh. Hard.
"Donât fucking move," he moaned against you, voice wrecked, wet sounds echoing through the room as he sucked your clit. Then he spit directly onto your cunt, tongue catching it before it could drip, and shoved two thick, warm, fingers inside you without warning.
"OhâGodâwhat the fuck?" you gasped, legs trembling as his fingers did something positively illegal, curling them just right inside you.
"Where the hell did you learn that?!"
He bit your thigh, hard enough to bruise, then sucked another mark into the skin.
He pulled back just enough to speak.
"Did you ever shut the fuck up?" Jason growled, fingers still deep inside you, knuckles slick, "you sound like a fucking chatterbox."
You gasped, moaned, and tried to sass back but it caught in your throat. His fingers were so big, stretching you up so goodâŚ
He smirked, mean and low. "Yeah. Thatâs what I thought."
He stood up suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and his fingers on his jeans. You didnât get to finish the way you wanted.
"Heyâ I was in the middle of somethingâŚ"
Jason didnât even glance at you. Just muttered, "Didnât ask," as he undid his belt with sharp movements, the clink of the buckle cutting through the room. You twisted around on the counter, half-smirking through your haze.
"Hmm, someoneâs eager. I get it, okay? Iâm hot. Hot like Jessica Alba in The Fantastic Four."
He stepped forward, belt dangling from one hand, eyes dark, mouth set in a flat line. His other hand grabbed your hip hard enough to bruise and spun you back around with no effort at all. Jason lined himself up and thrust in, deep, splitting you open in one filthy, perfect stroke.
Every snarky comeback, every filthy one-liner, every sarcastic jab â all gone. For the next thirty minutes, you couldnât even form a normal sentence. You moaned loud. Legs shaking.
"Fuck," you gasped. "Jasonâ"
"Shut up," he grunted. "You can take it."
He fucked into you hard. Brutal. Like punishment. Like he was trying to tear you apart from the inside out and stitch you back together in his shape. You were moaning high pitched, snarling, begging under your breath.
God, that was the best of your life.
He grabbed your wrists, pinned them behind your back with one hand, his other braced on your lower back, pressing you flat to the counter. Every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. His cock dragged against every overstimulated nerve, punishing and perfect.
"Ahâ Fuck, please, Jaâ!"
Jason grabbed your hair and pulled you back against him.
"What?" he muttered behind you, giving your cheek a wet kiss, hand tangled tight in your hair, tugging your head back hard enough to sting. "Runned out of jokes? Got nothing for me now?"
He fucked you until the slap of skin was louder than your ragged breathing, until your thighs were shaking and your voice was breaking. And you moaned happly, pressing back into him like the goddamn animal you were, desperately trying to fuck yourself on him.
Jason chuckled, his grip tightening for a second.
