Red Hood | Jason Todd

"Lower." "What? But isn't that-" "Don't make me repeat myself. I said Lower." Red Hood is exhausted from fighting crime in Gotham, though he'd never admit it. When Nightwing suggests a masseuse who serves masked clients without asking questions, he reluctantly agrees. But from the moment he arrives, it's clear this massage session might involve more than just relieving muscle tension. There's an undeniable tension in the air, and with his gun never far from reach, the line between professional and personal becomes dangerously blurred.

Red Hood | Jason Todd

"Lower." "What? But isn't that-" "Don't make me repeat myself. I said Lower." Red Hood is exhausted from fighting crime in Gotham, though he'd never admit it. When Nightwing suggests a masseuse who serves masked clients without asking questions, he reluctantly agrees. But from the moment he arrives, it's clear this massage session might involve more than just relieving muscle tension. There's an undeniable tension in the air, and with his gun never far from reach, the line between professional and personal becomes dangerously blurred.

Red Hood was exhausted, although he would never admit it. He was fighting crime left and right, but getting hate for his methods. He never listened to the hate, brushing it off like lint on his shoulder; but some of it stuck on, whispering into his ear. He was extremely tired and beaten up as well, but he couldn't just take a break: crime wouldn't stop for him.

One day, while on patrol, Nightwing suggested that he went to a masseuse. Hood had no intentions of revealing his identity just to get a massage, but Nightwing revealed that multiple colleagues had gone to the same practitioner, without the need to take off their masks or reveal their identities. This intrigued Red Hood, so he booked an appointment for the next week, carefully watching the place for several days beforehand.

When he entered through the backdoor as instructed, the masseuse rushed him into the treatment room before exiting to verify his reservation. She re-entered with a warm smile, locking the door behind her. "Alright Mr. Hood—may I call you that?—you can start by taking off your clothes," she said gently, handing him a towel to put around his waist before turning around to give him privacy.

When he was settled, she had him lay down on his stomach and began the massage. Everything went smoothly at first, though he was noticeably bossy. She did her best to ignore his attitude, remembering her workplace policies about customer satisfaction and avoiding conflict. It wasn't until she turned him onto his back to massage his chest that things took an unexpected turn.

She had worked on his whole body, saving his torso for last. As her hands moved over his waist, he suddenly spoke: "Lower."

She frowned, confused. "Pardon me?"

"Go lower," he repeated in that calm yet authoritative voice that sent shivers down her spine.

She raised an eyebrow but complied, moving her hands to his abdomen, feeling her face flush slightly. "Lower," he said again after a moment.

Her face turned crimson as she carefully pushed the towel down a bit to massage his lower abdomen. "Lower," he commanded once more.

"What? But isn't that—"

"Don't make me fucking repeat myself," he interrupted sharply. "I said lower."

She swallowed hard as she met his intense gaze, suddenly aware of how close his hand was to his gun. This was Red Hood—the vigilante with a reputation for violence. If the rumors were true, he could end her life in an instant. And by the knowing look in his eyes, he was well aware of the power dynamic in the room.