dopedreamobject

You walked into the office, shrugging off the purple cardigan that was slightly bigger than your usual size and draping it over your chair. As usual, you placed your bag under your desk and turned on your PC before settling down, ready to focus for the day. Though, the second you spotted Spencer approaching, you instantly announced your daily fun fact.

“Did you know that peanut butter can be turned into diamonds? Fun fact.” From the corner of your eyes, you saw Emily pause at your statement. Spencer, on the other hand, grinned at your words.

“Good morning.” Spencer placed his coffee cup down on his desk first before coming to your side, holding yours out for you. You carefully took the ceramic vessel from him, muttering gratitude at his kind action. His other hand lingered on your back before withdrawing out of respect for the fact that you were both clocked in at work. 

His eyes soon noticed the clothing item that hung on your chair. 

“Was wondering where that one went,” your boyfriend murmured.

Boyfriend. Even after three months and having grown used to calling Spencer by that title, you still feel giggly at such a term. In fact, your lips curled right then while thinking of the word again.

You took in Spencer’s attire, specifically, the way that his purple button-up (coincidentally) matched the purple cardigan you had stolen from him two weeks ago. For a split second, you considered coordinating outfits deliberately with him, but in subtle ways.

“Hold on a second, peanut butter can what?” Emily double checked.

“I know, right?” you breathed out before reaching under your desk and pulling out an information-packed tome, dropping the heavy object onto the furniture’s surface. 

It was Rossi’s courtesy. A month and a half ago, the old man decided to give you a fact book in hopes you could still win this bet before eight months were up. Unfortunately, his gift was unable to aid you much in your intellectual combat against Spencer, and thus, failed to prevent Rossi’s loss of his bet on a victory before the eight-month mark. 

You carefully opened to the page where you had seen the fact and held it up for Emily to see.

“Well, would you consider having a peanut butter diamond ring?” she joked, though Spencer quickly jumped in.

“Actually, I would advise against it. Oftentimes, the lab-manufactured results are small. So they’re unsuitable for proposal rings.” His words almost felt personal with the way Spencer’s eyes fell to your hand, and you smirked teasingly.

“Why? You think I should have a big diamond instead of a small rock?” Instantly, your boyfriend’s ears grew hot, and you almost laughed at the way he started stuttering. 

“Well, I just—on average, women tend to prefer a sizable diamond ring when proposed to. But also, like—well, I mean—you—”

“Me?”

“With your finger size—”

“How do you know my finger size?”

“Your ring was next to a couple of coins the other day—”

“Oh? And you decided to notice and remember this information, why?” You smirked, enjoying the way your relentless teasing was turning Spencer into a mess. But in all honesty, you were not that surprised. Spencer’s brain often stored information that most tend to overlook.

“Yeah, Spencer. Planning to drop down on one knee soon?” Emily’s added effort to poke at Spencer only made him more flustered, though the genius eventually was able to overcome it and continued speaking.

“With your finger size, the most suitable—preferences aside—would be a 1.0-1.5 carat diamond ring, and the peanut butter manufactured ones would be nowhere near that. Besides, diamonds made of peanut butter are often discolored largely due to impurities such as hydrogen and nitrogen, which are non-carbon components, getting trapped during diamond formation processes that involve high heat. Meanwhile, diamonds are mainly made of carbon atoms.”

“Would you like to know my diamond size preference, Spence?” was your only reply, and those words had Spencer’s face blooming bright red. Once again, he stammered to organise his words, yet a sentence could not be strung together.

Together, you and Emily burst out laughing at Spencer’s speechless state. Though the two of you began shifting to get back to work. Emily returned to her own desk, amusement lingering on her face. Meanwhile, you slowly spun your chair back to your PC, your laughter replaced by a full-on smile.

Yet, Spencer did not move from his spot. In fact, the sight of you smiling and your eyes crinkling had Spencer’s gaze softening.

Eighty seven days since he had told you that you were his favorite fun fact, a title Spencer continued to frequently refer to you as.

Prior to the prospect of you two, Spencer had made peace with a mundane dating-less life, living in a repetitive monotone manner. But now that he has you, that kind of life sounded dreadful. With you, mundane things became highlights of his day and the staples of his boyfriend-adjusted daily routine.

But above all, every day, he got to learn new things about you, like where you like to read in your apartment, how you like to separate your laundry, or your preferred side of the bed. Each and every new detail he discovered folded into the wrinkles of his brain like all along, the organ was made just to hold facts about you.

The genius bit back a smile.

That afternoon, Spencer walked you to your car like always. But instead of saying goodbye and heading off to the metro station by himself like before, the genius got into your passenger seat, and the two of you left the office together. As you were driving both of you back to his apartment, Spencer’s eyes darted to your hand again.

His forever favorite fun fact.

Spencer found himself really liking the sound of that.

The corner of his lips lifted before he looked away.

Maybe someday.

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Suguru was supposed to stop by tonight. However, he had to take care of his "nuisance," as he called his wife. A rather bitter claim, considering the way he'd held you against his chest earlier, his arms wound around you, gentle yet trapping all the same. Keeping you there as Satoru sat beneath your exposed slit. Panties had become a clothing option removed around year three or four, and he tentatively lapped at your juices while Suguru's fingers brushed through your hair. You could still hear his voice, soft and warm despite the cruelty hidden beneath. A thick finger had tilted your chin upward until your weary, blissed-out gaze met his half-lidded violet one.

"If I could stay here with you all day, I would, but duty calls, my dove."

You only wished you were the bird he claimed you to be. At least then you would have wings. The horizon would belong to you instead of them. A treat to imagine sometimes, usually on nights when sleep refused to come despite the drugs in your system fighting for your body to rest. Endless skies painted in baby blues and golden rays. Freedom so vast it hollowed your chest with longing. Anything would be better than a cage, even an endless sleep.

You supposed it was a mercy that Suguru wasn't here tonight. No risk of being dragged from your crate and into their bed in the dead hours of the morning. No Satoru burying his face against your throat, his voice dissolving into desperate little whimpers as he begged you not to leave him with his cock nestled deep inside you. Sometimes you wondered if he was searching for the woman he had once loved. Not you. Not the person you'd become after your wedding night, after discovering what kind of monster you had married.

You should have run. Should have thrown yourself from the hotel balcony and trusted the pavement more than the man waiting at the end of the aisle. Instead, you stayed. Or perhaps you were simply too pathetic to leap.

The beeping continued as your thoughts drifted through a haze of exhaustion. When you stirred again, your mouth felt stuffed with cotton. Satoru must have put too much in your kibble last night. Yet something felt off. After seven years of hell, one learned to recognize the smallest inconsistencies. You couldn't taste the lingering graininess. Nor the taste of the chalky bitterness of crushed multivitamins. All you could hear was that soft, rhythmic beep from a machine nearby.

For a moment, you wondered if you'd finally gone mad. Perhaps this was what happened when a bird spent too long in a cage.

Then other sounds emerged from the fog.

Voices. Footsteps. The distant murmur of nurses drifting through a hallway.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Fluorescent lights glared overhead, nothing like the perpetual twilight of the basement you'd come to know so intimately. Beneath you was not the cold metal flooring of the crate but the soft embrace of a mattress, swallowing you in warmth, like Suguru's waiting arms. The air smelled sterile and clean, yet beneath the antiseptic lingered the overwhelming fragrance of flowers. Bouquets crowded every available surface, vibrant bursts of life pressed into a room that felt strangely unreal.

A hospital.

Before you could fully process the realization, another sound reached you. Familiar footsteps.

"Visiting hours are over, Satoru!" a nurse called after him, irritation dripping off the tongue. You wished you could tell her not to waste the effort.

You could practically picture the careless shrug he'd offer in response. The charming smile. The complete disregard for rules that were never meant for men like him. Because knowing Satoru, he probably brushed right past her without a second glance. And knowing Satoru, he probably believed he owned the place.

Perhaps he did.

The Gojo family owned enough of the city to make the distinction meaningless. And Satoru Gojo sat comfortably at the center of it all.

You squeezed your eyes shut, counting sheep in an attempt to calm your racing heart. One. Two. Three. Anything to avoid confronting whatever strange dream this was. A hospital? Had you done something in your sleep?

The click of the door interrupted your counting. You stumbled somewhere between sheep twenty-three and twenty-seven. You'd have to start over. Ever the nuisance, Satoru somehow managed to invade even your sheep counting.

"Hey, baby."

Your ears perked at the softness in his voice. You'd grown so accustomed to his exaggerated baby-talk over the years that normal speech sounded almost foreign coming from him.

"I brought you more flowers. I don't want you to miss a year of us together. Happy year three."

You heard the quiet clack of a vase settling onto what little space remained. A moment later, the mattress dipped beside you. A careful gesture, as if the bed might break from his presence. Or you might too. An arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you close, mindful of IV lines and wires. You felt him shake. Once. Twice. Almost in time with your counting of sheep. Maybe he knew you were awake. Maybe he thought enough comfort might coax you back to him. A moment later, something warm dampened your hairline.

Tears.

You refused to process them. Satoru had cried before. Thrown tantrums. Pouted. Begged. Sulked when you forced yourself behind the couch, and he could no longer reach you, forcing him to call for Suguru to deal a punishment. This type of tear was different, far more raw than the version you've seen. As if you'd taken a beak to his ribs and pecked straight through his heart, splitting it open just for you.

"Suguru says it's time to move on. Says you and I were only arranged, that I shouldn't have gotten so attached."

Silence settled between you, and despite everything, your chest loosened.

You hated that it did.

Hated that hearing his voice still felt like coming home. How your body relaxed into him. As if some part of you recognized him as safety.

When he was the reason you needed saving.

You tried to remember the bites, the bruises, the cage, the crate, the years. You tried to remember every violation against your human rights disguised as affection, everything that should have filled you with disgust. Yet all you could feel was the way he clung to you now. Broken. Loving.

His face nuzzled against your temple. Wet kisses pressed against your skin, not heated and open-mouthed like usual, but damp from the tears spilling freely down his cheeks. You could almost picture those impossibly blue eyes glistening.

Maybe it had all been a nightmare.

A horrible, twisted nightmare.

"Suguru says we'll get rid of the crate," he whispered, his voice cracking as his lanky body trembled beside you. "If you come home with us."

The words shattered the fragile hope forming inside your chest.

If it had all been a nightmare, then why did he know about the crate?

And why would you trust a man like him?

“Cause I can get him outta here if he’s giving you a hard time.”

“I’m all good, thanks P,” you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. “Buuuut, you can top me up again.”

“You’re out of it, kid,” he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadn’t asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.

Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?

That solace turned reflection was cut short however.

“I’m just saying, everybody’s skirtin’ around it and looking at me sideways.” The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. “But you’re a good looking girl… like a fine piece a’ somethin’ you know?”

Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.

You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

“What? Are you shy?” The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.” His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.

Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. “You actually need to back up—”

“Hey, man— you need to watch it. Jace doesn’t play about that one,” came a random voice you’re sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.

“And you need to mind your fuckin’ business,” Grimey Guy whipped his head around. “Cause if that’s true, it’s his fault for not watching his girl.”

Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.

Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure — and some well needed release of frustration — you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out — and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?

But, Jay’s Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didn’t. Sort of.

“Well, that sure is a sight.” Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Meanwhile, Dick’s mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. “No way... isn’t that…?”

“Shut up,” Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.

A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in ‘disguise’ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.

It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.

Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.

In truth, this was supposed to be Roy’s job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now he’s here with reinforcements — a bored Dick Grayson who should’ve been back in Blüdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called ‘The Great Departure’ and figured he’d stick around to boost his poor little bro’s morale — so now Jason is here.

He’s here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.

You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.

From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music — those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.

“Wow,” a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.

The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back — a little bird’s chest, Jason thought.

His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up — would say it’s a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.

Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, you’d tease him for it all the time but he didn’t even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.

Madonna, he cursed in his head. He’d been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.

“You’re a natural,” the guy whose name you’d already forgotten murmured against your ear. “You related to Lola Falana maybe?”

You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone out, a couple more minutes since you’ve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.

“Maybe.” It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.

His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.

You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.

You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.

The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.

“Repeat that?”

You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. “Woman, you tryin’ to get me killed?” He exclaimed in horror.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Your lips curved into a frown.

He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “Look, you’re a nice girl and all…” he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. “Like what I mean is, you’re nice— in a friend kinda way— like I wasn’t tryin’ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like that—”

The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?

“It’s just… you know, I don’t know what’s the situation with you two and if you’re steppin’ out,” he went on, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can’t go there— not that I was trying to, of course! Let’s get that solid— cause you’re Jay’s girl and I—”

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He shook his head firmly. “Everybody knows he doesn’t play about you.”

“Everybody knows this?” Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. “Listen, we broke up—”

He barked a laugh, right in your face. “Look, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I don’t know, at least six feet between us.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You have a good night,” he shrugged. “And congrats when you two get back together,” he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.

“Fucking punk!” You yelled after him. What a drag.

“Do I have to keep wearing this mustache?” Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.

“Oh, lookey here!” Roy’s posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. “Cassio is steadily approaching.”

He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re not well read at all, man,” he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.

“And who are you supposed to be, Bianca?” Jason’s brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question — the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.

A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.

Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.

“Do I know you?” The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. “You from around here?”

“No.” Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.

“Ah,” the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Roy’s lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“So, uh,” Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. “That’s a nice necklace, man.”

The guy looked up at him oddly. “You tryna rob me or something?”

There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. “Just fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,” he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. “My girl got it for me.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. “Damn. That’s real sweet, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny — or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. “Li mortacci tua.”

No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, there’s just no way.

He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl… nags like hell though,” Random guy who you might’ve possibly moved on with, said. “Just the way these broads are, I guess.”

“It’s a bit much talkin’ shit about a lady who can’t defend herself ‘cause she’s across the room,” Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didn’t have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.

“Oh, that one? Nah, not her.” The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. “That one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.”

“What do you mean?” Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.

“She’s a real cute thing, you saw her right?” Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. “We’re dancing, right? And I’m feeling her and she’s feeling me—”

“Yeah, fuckin’ stunad…” Jason grumbled to himself.

“Then I go and ask her name, she tells me, and I’m thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, y’know?” The guy continued. He shook his head. “Man, would you believe that’s Jay’s girl?”

Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.

“Jay? You know how many Jays are in Gotham—” Roy started.

“Fuckin’ Jay from the Alley, man,” the guy exclaimed. “Big, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfucker’s built like a matador—”

“Oh, really?” Dick rested a hand against his jaw.

“Really,” the guy huffed. “And she’s just out here looking like that and dancing on people— have you seen the size of that guy’s fist? Fuck’s sake… I could’ve lost my life...”

Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You weren’t his girl, you weren’t. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.

Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But he’d been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.

“Yo, Benny!” Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You would’ve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.

“Go easy, fellas,” Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. “And watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldn’t wanna see any of you on the Missing Persons’ list.”

When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.

Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. “O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on—”

“—You’re done.” Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.

“Oh, wait a minute, I get it now!” Dick shouted, rising from his seat. “Othello!”

“Need a light?”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.

“Announce yourself first, Dracula.”

Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter he’d intended to use earlier but didn’t have the chance.

The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.

You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.

“You got a ride home?” Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.

“Something like that,” you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

He understood why. Of course, this wasn’t a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.

“What’s with the mustache?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.

“Oh, that… that, uh…” Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. “That was part of a covert operation,” he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.

You laughed despite yourself. “A covert operation?”

“What’s it to you, Columbo?” He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadn’t even been apart for long and he missed you.

You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.

“So… you and that guy in there—”

“Is that seriously how you wanna start right now?” You turned to look at him. “You were watching me?”

“I was gonna say sorry,” he looked up at you. “For ruining your night. He didn’t seem to stick around long, so I figured…”

“No, you’re not.” You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. “No, you’re not, you fucking asshole—”

You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. “I… I don’t know, I just can’t remember why we broke up.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a break—”

He turned his body towards you and interrupted. “A break, not a break up.” Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “And then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. “Maybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe don’t spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?”

He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. “If this is about what happened at Paulie’s…”

You scoffed. “What happened at Paulie’s was none of your business. I can handle myself.”

Jason’s eyebrows rose in mock pride. “Yeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.” The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. “I know you can. I know that. It’s just different because—”

“Because I’m yours?” Your gaze met his, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. “I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot… And I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that.”

“But you did.”

“But I did,” he hung his head. “I did, and I fucked up, and you shouldn’t even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckin’ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I just….”

“You just what?” He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. “Got jealous?”

“Follia,” he huffed. “Don’t get hasty, I didn’t say all that—”

“Oh my God, you were jealous,” you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. “You thought I was with that guy in there.”

“As if,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Look at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sorta—”

“But I was with him and not you,” your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. “Did it make you mad?”

A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.

“What do you think?”

“Jealous, mad,” you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. “Mad or jealous. Uno dei due.”

“Brava,” he hummed. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. “I’m still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,” you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. “So, if you felt jealous, boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s your penance to pay.”

“I know that,” he nodded. “And I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, I’m sure.” Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.

He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. “But I do want to apologize, if you’ll let me.”

You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. “I mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Head—”

“Again, it was a covert operation—”

“I just don’t think a little apology is gonna cut it…” you sighed with faux hurt.

“I swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.” Jason said, deadpan.

You quirked a brow at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason—” you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.

“Guardarmi,” he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. “Focus on me. Let me fix this.”

Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. “Apologize,” you said.

“I was wrong,” he scooted closer. “I was wrong and I’m sorry and I swear to you—”

“Don’t promise me anything,” you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. “Apologize, better.”

“I messed up,” he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. “I should’ve called or come to you but I didn’t. But I’ll fix it, I’ll do better by you. I know I don’t own you… I know that, but when you take me back—”

“If I take you back,” you clarified firmly. “I’m not your girl—”

Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl — maybe not even mine, I just need you.”

“Not your girl yet,” you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. “I don’t hear you apologizing.”

“Madonna Santa,” Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. “I know, I fuckin’ know and I’m begging on my knees here, doll,” he groaned. “Mi dispiace, mi perdoni…”

He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that, it’s cheating.”

“Amore,” he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. “Ho bisogno del suo perdono.”

You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.

“Oh my God, get up, you look stupid,” you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.

“Does this mean—?” Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.

“Fuck no,” you rolled your eyes. “At least take me home first,” you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, you do owe me a rum and coke,” you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.

“Yeah?”

“What about your little entourage?” You asked and he looked at you quizzically. “The rest of Mustache Incorporated.”

Jason’s brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. “They’re uh… working on some notes about Othello for me.”

“Othello?” You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.

“Covert operation, remember?” Jason whistled. “We have to have codenames.”

The closer you got, the more you could make out the form of Red Hood.

You cursed and wondered if you should run. What if he tried to kill you for fracturing an important bone or—

Your thoughts were cut off by his strained voice.

“You gonna help or stare at me?”

You steadied yourself and forced your mouth to work.

“I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you running. Obviously I didn’t do this on purpose—fuck.” You said it as calmly as possible, which sounded more like you were being held at gunpoint.

He didn’t move a muscle, just stared at you like you were the insane one. His helmet had been removed, his jaw was clenched, and his raven hair was a mess. Oh. He was one of those people who looked hot while frustrated.

You swallowed and crouched down, awkwardly trying to help him up. You weren’t much help with lifting a six-foot-something man.

“I’m so sorry,” you said again while the vigilante leaned on your smaller form.

“It’s fine,” he grunted.

“It’s not. I mean, you could have died.”

He snorted as you helped him onto the sidewalk where he stiffly sat, not showing any signs of major injuries. You could barely read the man, and the mask covering his eyes didn’t help.

“Eh, been there, done that,” he replied, watching you intently like he was enraptured by the person who got him temporarily incapacitated.

You gave him a weird look, your face screwing up. You opened your mouth to ask what that meant but decided against it. Was it rude to ask people about their death? You assumed it was.

“Okay…” You trailed off. He wasn’t saying much and you didn’t know what to do. So, you rummaged through the pocket of your jeans and pulled out a lollipop. You winced—it was all you had.

You held it out to Red Hood with a hopeful look in your eye.

“A peace offering,” you added when he didn’t move, white lenses fixed on your face rather than your offering.

He sighed, a white strand of his hair falling across his forehead, and you wanted to brush it away.

You willed yourself to stay still—you would not embarrass yourself. But the way he was looking at you made you feel like it was too late for that.

“I already said it was okay, sweetheart.” His voice was low and rough.

Your mind decided to focus on the last word, zoning in on the way he said it. You numbly pushed the candy closer to his face.

A reluctant half-smile formed on his face, gloved fingers brushing yours as he took the candy from you, lingering a second too long to chase the warmth.

You cleared your throat.

“Next time, you should look both ways before crossing,” you told him.

His half-smile deepened.

“And deny myself the pleasure of meeting you again?” 

His hair's a mess, the black strands sticking out everywhere. He looks so good even when he's a grumpy mess. 

You pout, and his eyes narrow.

"I'm sorry. I love you. Now shower me in love," you beg, reaching for the coffee. "Or at least lemme have a sip."

He holds the cup higher. "I don't know…maybe he can cuddle you." The coffee he made is probably just as bitter as his tone.

"Oh my god, it was a joke. I only want you." 

"Then why the hell did you have to say, whatever the fuck his name is, is your hall pass?" he grumbles. 

"It's Michael B Jordan," you say, "he's everyone's hall pass." 

He glares. Unfortunately, it's kinda hot when he does it. His blue eyes fix on you, and his jaw is tight like he’s trying not to react. Your heart races at the way he's leaning against the counter casually.

"Jason—

"Nope," he cuts you off, and chugs all the coffee down. He goes to kiss your forehead as if on instinct, but stops halfway. 

He grimaces. "No cuddles or anything for the rest of the day," he nods to himself, satisfied, like this is a perfectly reasonable plan.

But you know damn well he isn't going to last an hour without touching you.

masterlist

‘I’m fine’ you looked at him ‘It’s just a little cut, I’ll wash it-’

‘I’ll clean your wound’ He reached already for the first aid kit he kept tucked in the top drawer, fingers moving with that effortless, practiced grace that made you trust him more than you should.

You didn't protest, it was good getting attention.

He squeezed your wound gently in the sterilized piece of cotton ‘I told you I am perfectly capable of cooking on my own.’

‘I still want to help.’ You simply replied.

He caressed your injured hand; sipping in the smooth flesh covered in skin, the wound just a crack into the red within— you'd taste exquisite, he's sure.

“Being alive for me is enough” He shoots you a sweet smile “You shouldn't bleed for just helping me.”

You mirror his expression, basking in the attention and care of your husband; one of the small joys you wanted.

The cotton sank in water, immediately drinking the liquid as faint red bloomed across the glass: blood.

The bathroom lamp sliced stern white light; you went to bed hours ago and he's finally left alone: he is never bored of you, he just wanted a little time to indulge in something else he loved about you.

As the cotton emptied its last elixir, he pulled it out and in one graceful move, he threw it in the trash can before drinking the glass of blood and water— slow sips, full taste and his hands shook in joy.

He resisted the urge to lick your wound earlier because he's fully aware of how his appetite rattled in its cage when you were the meal, he might have bitten off your thumb or chomped your palm. It's easier this way but never satisfying enough, your blood was the most he could have for now -even if they're just a few drops-.

Leisurely, the glass emptied and so his soul after each of these small occasions.

You were still asleep inside, having no idea nor aware of what your husband is doing. On his and your rings there is written:

“Volo bibere aquam puram quae es tu.”

Back then, you called it romantic and sweet, stroking your ego and need to be worshiped, and he can't help but wonder in these moments: Has it ever crossed your mind that it could be literal?

Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, she might cut her finger off. Yet he doesn't want you hurt; torn between the urge to protect you and gore you apart as if a worshiper beholding his abusive idol.

Maybe if you die first he'll allow himself a feast.

Sometimes to the couch. Sometimes to the guest room. Sometimes to the futon at the end of the bed, just so you could breathe. Hannibal never commented. He would simply glance at the empty side of the bed in the morning, raise a brow, and then at breakfast, ask mildly:

“Did our resident cephalopod chase you away again?”

You’d grunt into your coffee. “You try surviving a night with his death grip.”

Will, bleary-eyed and unrepentant, would only squint at you, hair sticking up like a disgruntled cat. “I don’t do that.”

“Oh, you absolutely do,” Hannibal would say. “You nearly dislocated my shoulder last Tuesday.”

Will glared half-heartedly at his toast. “You two exaggerate.”

But was it really exaggerating when that night, under the guise that Hannibal found a solution, you were yet again hogged like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. And Hannibal, that traitor, simply laid away on the other side of Will, and looked at you with amusement.

When you tried to move, Will groaned and clutched tighter. “Don’t go.”

You sighed, resigned, and caught Hannibal’s smirk over Will’s head. “You find this funny?”

“Excessively. I find his attachment rather endearing.”

“Then you deal with it.”

“I intend to.” And before you could respond, Hannibal wrapped an arm around both of you, trapping you in his own elegant brand of possessiveness.

Now you were truly doomed.

By morning, all three of you were a tangle of limbs, hair, and warmth. You couldn’t tell whose leg belonged to whom, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore. The sunlight spilled across the sheets, Will snored softly against your throat, and Hannibal’s hand rested lazily over your heart.

You thought, maybe, just maybe, this was worth the occasional suffocation.

Still, when Will stirred, blinking groggily and smiling that crooked, sleepy smile, the first words out of your mouth were: “You’re getting your own bed.”

Hannibal chuckled softly behind you. “A futile threat. You love him too much.”

Will unwrapped his burger like it was a sacred relic. “You know,” he said between bites, “Hannibal would call this ‘culinary self-sabotage.’”

“He’d call it a crime,” you said with mock solemnity, dipping a fry into your milkshake. “A heinous one.”

Will snorted. “He probably feels it in his soul right now.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the low hum of pop music from the speakers. For a rare moment, everything felt simple. No elaborate wine pairings, no bone china, no Latin phrases before dinner. You were halfway through your fries when Will froze mid-chew. His eyes went wide.

“Don’t look now, but I think your prediction just came true.”

You turned your head ever so slightly and nearly choked on a fry. Because, outside in the dim glow of the streetlight, stood Hannibal. One hand was tucked in his pocket, the other holding an umbrella. His gaze was fixed on the two of you like a hawk observing misbehaving fledglings.

Will set his burger down slowly, as though sudden movement might provoke the predator outside. “Do you think,” he said, voice trembling with fear, “if we just pretend not to see him, he’ll go away?”

“Will, he’s Hannibal.”

“Well, then, we’re dead.”

It was then that Hannibal moved. You could see the faintest curl of disappointment at the corner of his mouth, the sort that made your stomach twist with guilt and laughter all at once. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, his presence immediately too large for the fast food chain.

The teenage cashier behind the counter froze, but Hannibal paid them no mind. He approached your table like a judge to a confession booth. His gaze moved from Will’s half-eaten cheeseburger to your empty nugget box, then up to meet your eyes.

“You left the house without saying goodbye. I was concerned.”

Will cleared his throat. “We were, uh, getting some air.”

“In a McDonald’s?” Hannibal sought, his tone so politely neutral it could have been mistaken for sincerity.

You swallowed. “We missed the smell of…preservatives?”

A long silence. Then, unexpectedly, a sigh escaped him. Hannibal reached down, plucked a single fry from your tray, and studied it like an alien artifact before eating it. “Cold oil, sodium, and preservatives. I suppose there are worse vices.”

“So, we’re not in trouble?”

Hannibal’s mouth twitched, the barest ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Later, when you were both shepherded back into the car, your precious Happy Meals confiscated like contraband, you and Will couldn’t help but laugh. Hannibal drove in silence, the faint scent of truffle oil clinging to him. From the backseat, you whispered to Will:

“Next time, we go to Taco Bell.”

“There will not be a next time.”

Will shot you a grin. “He says that now, but you saw the way he finished that fry. I mean, come on. He examined it like he was conducting an autopsy, and then what? He ate it. That’s not disgust. That’s curiosity. You were curious, weren’t you, Hannibal?”

His gaze flicked towards you two before returning to the road. “I assure you, curiosity is not the same as indulgence.”

“Right,” Will said dryly. “You only indulged in it for scientific purposes.”

You leaned forward from the backseat. “You did seem rather contemplative. Maybe you're developing a taste for the common man’s cuisine.”

That earned you a low hum, a noncommittal sound that might’ve been amusement, or might’ve been Hannibal calculating exactly how to make you both repent by breakfast.

“I would hardly call that cuisine. It's simply a fascinating exploration of how humanity manages to strip food of both nutrition and dignity.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you didn’t hate it.”

“I am saying,” Hannibal replied evenly, “that it would pair nicely with cyanide. Tell me, was it worth it? Sneaking out into the night like adolescents for fast food?”

“Absolutely.”

You nodded, smiling despite the weight of his tone. “Every greasy, glorious bite.”

When you arrived home, Hannibal was the picture of grace. Helping you both out of the car, holding the door open, but as you kicked off your shoes and exchanged a guilty glance with Will, you heard the faintest sound from the kitchen.

You peeked around the corner and there was Hannibal standing at the stove, a small pot of oil heating beside him. “Since you enjoy fast food so much, I thought I might improve the recipe.”

And that’s how, the next morning, you both found yourselves sitting at the table in front of a pristine plate of hand-cut, golden fries drizzled with some kind of herbed aioli and sprinkled with shaved truffle. They smelled divine, looked sinful, and were clearly meant as both punishment and temptation.

Will took one bite, blinked, and sighed. “He’s weaponized fries.”

You nodded gravely. “We can never go back to McDonald’s.”