diana

Jason Todd had never been good at feelings.

He’d spent years building walls so high no one could climb them. Death had only made them taller. But you - quiet, patient, stubborn you - had somehow slipped through the cracks anyway.

Now those cracks felt like canyons.

He’d spent the first few days throwing himself into work. Patrols. Warehouse raids. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind quiet. But every night he came home to an empty apartment and the silence screamed louder than any gunshot.

Then he saw you.

It was at a small café near the university. You were sitting outside with a guy — some tall, friendly-looking idiot with glasses and a soft smile. He said something that made you laugh, head tilted back, eyes bright the way they used to be with him.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a friend. You were allowed to have friends. But the image stuck - you smiling at someone else while he was falling apart.

That night he did something he’d sworn he’d never do.

He drank.

Not a beer. Not a glass of whiskey.

A bottle. Then another.

The alcohol burned going down, but it didn’t quiet the noise in his head. It only made it louder. By 2am he was drunk for the first time in his life, sitting on the floor of his apartment with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over your name.

He pressed call.

You answered on the third ring, voice sleepy. “Jason?”

“You’re out there smiling at other guys,” he slurred, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “While I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot thinking about you every second. You said a break. Not a breakup. But it feels like you’re already moving on. Like I was just a phase. Like-“

“Jason,” you cut in, sounding more awake now. “Are you drunk?”

He laughed — ugly and raw. “Yeah. First time in ages. Congratulations. You made the emotionally constipated zombie drink. Happy now?”

There was a pause. Then your voice, sharper. “Stop it. You’re spiraling. Come over. We need to talk.”

“No,” he snapped, but his voice cracked. “You wanted space. You got it. Go smile at your new friend. I’m sure he’s nicer. Doesn’t have blood on his hands. Doesn’t wake up screaming—”

“Jason Todd,” you said, voice firm but gentle, the way you always got when he was like this. “Stop. You’re breaking my heart right now. I’m coming over. Do not hang up.”

He didn’t.

He sat on the floor, phone pressed to his ear, listening to you move around your apartment, the sound of keys, the door closing. Twenty minutes later there was a knock.

He opened it.

You stood there in sweatpants and one of his old hoodies, hair messy, eyes wide with worry. The second you saw him - red-eyed, swaying slightly, looking smaller than you’d ever seen him - your face crumpled.

“Oh, Jay…”

He broke.

The tears came fast and ugly, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold them back. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry. I thought… I thought you were done. I saw you with that guy and I just… I panicked. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, and pulled him into your arms. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your waist like you might disappear.

“I’m not done,” you whispered, holding him tight. “It was a break, Jason. Not a breakup. I needed space because I was scared too. Scared that you’d keep shutting me out until there was nothing left of us. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

He cried harder, the kind of raw, broken sound that tore at your chest. You guided him to the couch, pulling him down so his head rested in your lap. Your fingers stroked through his hair, slow and soothing, the way you knew he liked.

“I love you,” you said quietly. “The angry parts. The scared parts. The parts that think they’re too broken to be loved. All of them. You’re not too much. You’re not too damaged. You’re mine. And I’m yours. Okay?”

He nodded against your thigh, fingers clutching the hem of your hoodie. “Okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I got drunk. I’m sorry I said those things. I was just… scared. I saw you smiling and I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“You haven’t,” you assured him, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I’m right here. And I’m staying. We’ll figure out the rest. Together.”

Jason stayed curled in your lap for a long time, breathing gradually evening out as your fingers continued their slow path through his hair. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your thigh or your wrist, like he needed the constant reminder you were real.

“I love you,” he said again, softer this time. “More than I know how to say. I’ll try to be better. Less… constipated.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm. “I love you too. Even when you’re emotionally constipated. Especially then.”

He shifted, pulling you down so you were lying beside him on the couch, your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you like you were the only safe thing left in the world.

The city hummed far below. The argument, the fear, the drunk call — all of it faded into the background as Jason held you close, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“I’m keeping you,” he whispered into your hair. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

In the quiet dark of the apartment, Jason Todd — the man who came back from the dead, the one who built walls so high no one could climb them — finally let someone in.

And you?

You stayed.

Because loving Jason Todd had never been easy.

But it had always been worth it.

She doesn’t bother questioning it after five or six rounds in one night over the Saturday of her last jobless weekend before the start of her new position the following Monday. It had done wonders for the stress in her body, the tense and worried state it was nearly permanently in. She’d gotten better at taking it all up to the hilt, stuffing it inside up to her stomach after taking an edible and throwing on whatever TV show could make decent background noise. She grins with her heavy lidded eyes falling closed while another load pumps inside her. The second one of the hour to be exact. That addicting feeling of her toy cock gradually just losing it, losing all control like her pussy did things that triggered this quick, heavy release.

She’ll hang around her home in nothing but her underwear and her robe, eating cookie dough ice cream straight out of the carton, higher than a dopey teenager stuck in her own element. It doesn’t take long for her to take her favorite toy and rut her clit against it until it got warm like some kind of horny genie lamp. And then like clockwork it fills up for her again like it’s getting hard, twitchy, and ready all just for her pleasure. In the very back of her head she thinks this thing is so real it could have the off chance of somehow getting her pregnant since the cum had the consistency and the warmth of a real breathing person.

When Monday inevitably arrives, she gives up making sure every single hair stays in place and just parts it all to one side, buttoning up her favorite coat as armor against the unpredictable weather. As she strolled along the streets to her new work building, petting the dogs passing by on their owners’ leashes and twirling the cord of her headphones, she imagines what kind of office would hire someone like her. Blunt, casual, some neurological differences that make it difficult to focus if the topic didn’t interest her. Virtually no prior experience in the field she’s been hired in. It didn’t feel real getting the call back to learn she’d been selected, but who the hell was she to call them stupid for picking her of all the candidates?

The hustle and bustle was apparent as soon as she entered the building, asking around with wide eyes where her section was, what floor was she supposed to go to. Everyone looked busy but remained patient and kind, directing her to her floor, telling her to find a tall, shaggy haired man by the name of Clark.

It wasn’t hard to seek him out of everybody else, large frame still evident even with his hunched over posture, diligently typing away on his computer. When he looks up she was struck to find that he was almost dangerously beautiful. Handsome, pretty, dorky, everything that had always baited her into making terrible decisions. Just by talking to him she could tell he had anxiety, stiff movements and facial expressions that had her wondering if he was nervous from the pressure of being in charge of a new hire, or if he was more specifically nervous about being around her in particular.

Clark is attentive and sweet, helpful and patient with her learning new things, getting used to the environment and what was to be the new routine. Picking up the mail, distributing the mail, transferring phone calls, helping Lois with office duties and finding supplies with low stock to re-order. Certain areas felt overwhelming but overall the job itself seemed mundane. The only thing sticking out to her was Clark and his antsy eyes and big arms, anxious ticks and shy smiles. How he bent over backwards to help her with just about every question thrown his way or another way, making himself of use to her in any way she may have needed.

On her smoke break she feels the rain start to pour within seconds of going outside, and although she’s walked through rain and shine plenty it was still a bit of a test to see how far Clark would actually go if she’d asked to take her home. And he was so eager, so easy. If she got to know him well enough and if they became comfortable enough, she could give him the nickname of being her own mister Yes Man. Yeah, of course I’ll take care of that for you. Yes, you don’t have to worry about that, I’ve got it. Yup, no worries. Yeah, I’ll get this going for you. He was so full of yes’s she almost wonders what the limit may be.

Throughout the day he reciprocates just about every glance, every minor, innocent brushing of arms and fingers and touches on each other’s shoulders, upper back, arms. He hands her a pen and she grazes his fingers entirely on purpose and doesn’t hide dragging the moment out. The more she does the more flustered he’s become.

When Jimmy meets her and shakes her hand, he pulls her aside to whisper in her ear that Clark is very, very single and she laughs so hard she snorts. And when Clark comes back from his lunch break wearing different trousers than he was before he left, she doesn’t attempt any subtlety at eyeing his new pants up and down and shrugging with a little knowing nod at what might’ve made him have to change. Clark makes up some half baked lie about spilling hot sauce on his other pair, and she nods enough to try convincing him she believes it.

After her training is done and the paperwork is filed and the day is finally, finally over she gets a nod from Clark across the room, tilting his head in the direction of the elevators with briefcase in hand. He nudged his glasses further up his face and sniffled, waving bye to staff and pressing the button to head down, holding the door open with an extended arm.

“Thanks so much again by the way,” she graciously squeezed the thick muscle of his upper arm as the elevator doors close. Clark’s turned bashfully red almost immediately, chin down at the ground pretending to look at his shoes.

“It’s nothing. I really wouldn’t want you um, getting all soaked out in the rain, that wouldn’t be right. I’m glad you felt safe enough to ask me.”

“Of course I did. You’ve been nothing but a big sweetheart. Seriously, if anyone’s intimidated by the height they could have one conversation with you and it’ll change their mind,” she laughs, meeting his wide eyes framed by his thick glasses. The elevators ding to alert they’ve arrived to their destined floor, Clark taking a second too long to process before shoving his arm back out to stop the doors from closing in on them again. His version of a curse word slips under his breath while he nearly drops his briefcase, clearly still tripping and stumbling his way out to the parking garage.

“Well I guess so. I’m not that tall. Maybe a little over average, but— I hope I’m not intimidating. Um, here, let’s go this way,” Clark awkwardly trails off, pointing to his little beat up blue vehicle parked way over in the corner. When he points it out she wonders how he even fits himself in there.

“Uh, usually I prop the drivers seat back for my legs. A little crammed but I’ve had her since I started driving. My Pa gifted me this, and she’s still been up and running good after all these years so I don’t really see a need for finding anything else.”

She nods her head and smiles, impressed. He doesn’t let her hand go even near the handle, ripping it open and holding it while she slides in and sets her bag down on the floor near her feet. “Wow. You know, that shows a ton of loyalty to keep one of these for years like you have. I like that.”

He sheepishly nods his head with curls moving on his forehead before gently closing the door and jogging over to the other side.

She takes in her surroundings, observing the little details. His hanging dog charm around the rearview mirror. Taking in all the neatness, the warm vanilla scented air fresheners. How the seat is propped back as far as it could possibly go to accommodate for his height. She notes how he kept himself a spare pair of glasses in one of the cupholders, another style than the ones he wore to the office. When he turns the car on, music began to boom through the speakers, jolting him with a twitch as he rushed to turn the volume all the way down, laughing through a string of apologies. She only giggles harder, clearly less upset than he was, more amused if anything.

Each mundane little thing about Clark piled more on to this growing irresistible urge to just make the plunge already, to crawl in his lap, to kiss him so hard his glasses get crooked and eventually fall right off his face. It became more tempting with each passing glance from the side, every accidental brush of her thigh with his hand while he shifted gears, a murmured apology with those signature pink cheeks. He always looked so embarrassed, and it somehow always served to really turn her on.

“Uh, so I’ll turn here right?”

“Yeah. Yeah just, just turn then you’ll go straight for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re approaching.”

Clark follows directions, going about five miles below the speed limit as he keeps his eyes on each house passing by, curiously wondering which one could be her home. Was it the well groomed, modern style with a picket fence, or an old school, overgrown lawn with an artsy mailbox?

He slows down more as the end of the street was coming, pulling off to the side as she pointed out her home. Clark forgets to hide how eager he is to scope it out, the little pink painted one story home with healthy plants branching out from their pots on the porch, the lady bug mat, the absence of any cars parked out front. Figures she must only get around anywhere on foot.

Rain still patters on the windshield as his windshield wipers barely keep up in time from the heavy drops, and puddles outside forming in the potholes of the road. Her plants looked to be the only happy ones to have some rain to quench them.

“This is me right here,” she reluctantly says, a sigh leaving her throat while she peers back over to the man in the driver’s seat. “I had fun, says a lot for a first day at a new job. Those are always pretty stressful but you’re such a great teacher that I know I’ll be in good hands,” she says, rubbing the lipgloss leftover on her lips together while eyeing him up and down, back and forth between his pretty face and his robust chest.

“I… I’m not that good, you just made it easy,” he disputes. “You asked all the right questions, you’re smart. I know you’ll get the hang of it real soon—“

“—You know, when I met Jimmy today he told me you were single,” she interjects before her mind could steer her away from the risky decision. “So was he… was he joking or was he—“

Clark groans loud, making a fist and then nearly slamming his forehead into it to hide his face, mortified that Jimmy set him up like this. To have this awkward interaction with his now co-worker.

“Gosh…. of course he did… that’s— no. I’m sorry he was acting inappropriate—“

“No as in you’re not single.”

Clark pulls his head back up, blinks, utterly confused.

“No, no I’m—“

“No as in yes?”

“N-No, no as in he’s right. I… I am, it’s just I didn’t want him disclosing stuff like that that to you, that information. Like as if you’d even care if a co-worker is single or not is ridiculous. If he makes you uncomfortable again I can talk to him, it doesn’t have to be a whole HR thing but if you want it to be I can absolutely help…”

She chews her bottom lip to prevent another shit eating grin from spreading onto her cheeks, placing a deliberate hand back on his upper arm to nab his attention, soothe any of his sudden woes.

“Listen, stop. Listen to me Clark. I was asking to clarify it with you because I was hoping that he was right,” she admits, a soft laugh not far behind the end of her small confession, trailing off with a rub of his shoulder, making him hold his breath and keen from the contact.

“You um. So you aren’t freaked out, you aren’t uncomfortable in any way? I just can’t imagine what it’s like, being a… a woman. A beautiful woman you know, like you, in a new workplace and having men be obnoxious on top of that—“

Clark stutters and takes a breather, shutting his car off and tilting his head up so his neck is exposed, blankly looking up at the ceiling.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t look back down or turn his head, Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing as he swallows more nerves down.

“I’m not uncomfortable. Not freaked out. And if you want me to just get my stuff and go, not mention any of this tomorrow, then I could,” she starts. Clark takes a deep breath in like he wants to interrupt, but she holds a finger up and he obeys, shutting his mouth closed. “Or,” she began. “I could kiss you for being so sweet, and we can act normal tomorrow, but you can give me another ride home if you aren’t busy again. And we can see where this goes.”

The drop of his jaw was nearly out of a cartoon, heartbeat throbbing so fast it might as well be audible in the quiet of the small space of his car. He can’t take his eyes off her, blinking ever so slightly when his eyes start to dry up. It looked like he wanted to pinch himself just to make sure everything was real.

“I… I really like the second option more. A lot.” he finally mutters. Licks his lips while staring down at hers like he had countless times today, this time with layers of restraint stripped away.

“I like the second option more too,” she chuckles at his dumbstruck face, soothing a palm over his thigh and rubbing his flexed muscles through his trousers. “I also noticed you changed your pants after lunch.”

Clark swallows while her face comes closer, nearly nose to nose, sharing and exchanging breath.

“Uh, yeah, yeah I….”

“That story about spilling some hot sauce was bullshit, right?”

Clark nods without a second thought, confirming everything she already knew.

“Did you have a little too much fun? Make too much a mess, had to end up changing before you got back to the office?”

“Yeah, yeah I did,” he bows his head down a bit, licking his lips again. Still close enough to smell her perfume, to stare at the glittery shine of her lipgloss, begging to know what it tastes like.

“I thought so.”

Clark doesn’t get another moment to think or conjure up a response before she’s leaning in and he’s dreamily shutting his eyes, humming into her mouth while she tilts her head to the side. Her nails splay out across his neck while he whimpers in her mouth, trying to keep up and savor the exquisite taste of her while he can. With plenty of hesitation trying to hold him back, he goes for it anyway and takes his own palm to the middle of her back, hugging her close to him while they kept making out like it wasn’t any different than coming home after years of being away.

“You’re really pretty, makes it really hard,” he pants. Pulls away but not too far, lips still brushing hers as he speaks.

She laughs right at him, tucking a curl behind his ear and adjusting his glasses so they’re straight again on his face. “Apt word choice there.”

“No! No I mean, that’s not what I meant….”

“As much as embarrassment looks cute on you, you don’t have to be,” she assures with another giddy laugh, kissing his cheek and leaving a subtle glossy mark on the skin. Then aims for each corner of his lips only to be pulled back in by him to get the heated momentum back up and running.

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathes. “I want to just… I wanna keep going forever.”

Shit, is he talking too much too soon?

“I mean you don’t have to, really, you can head home whenever you like… I only meant I like this a lot.”

She doesn’t let his overthinking become worse, just grabbing him by the collar and kissing him again. Adding tongue swirls into the mix.

“You taste like your Spearmint gum,” she observes. “Really nice.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Clark nods, his meek persona still in full swing even after having her tongue in his mouth. “You’d tell me if my breath was bad, right?”

“Of course I would.”

The pair still kept exploring each other’s kissing techniques, her hands stroking his arms and his chest while Clark’s stayed on the middle of her back in easy circles. It could’ve been ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes passing by while the rain hardly lightens up from pouring out from the gray clouds scattered in the sky. Clark offers to walk her up to the door so she could get home safe and dry, and she couldn’t pass up the offer, even if he kept reassuring her he didn’t mean to allude to any funny business. He takes off his own jacket to hover it over her head as they make the short trip, insisting he does it as to not get her hair wet.

“I like your plants, your place is cute. I can pick you up and take you home tomorrow if you’re up for that.”

She grins and gets up on her tippy toes to kiss him once again, an innocent little smooch he graciously accepts and reciprocates.

“And how about the day after that, and then the day after that, and the next week after that…”

Clark laughs at her and puts his jacket he’d been using to shield her from getting doused by the rain, squeezing her hip with another smile and going back in for yet another because it was too good to pass up.

“Absolutely. Rain or shine, I’ve got you.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bright and early. Do you have my number? Wait, hold on,” she unzips her purse and shuffles through it before finding her keys, unlocking the door and barging inside. Clark remains respectfully at the doormat, not willing to push any boundary this early, besides a car makeout here and there. He watches her in blissful astonishment as she scribbles on a piece of paper, folds it up then marches back to put it in his front pocket herself.

“For emergencies. And you know, anything else.”

Anything, she says. Anything else. “Right. Yeah. I’ll text you.”

“Please do. And text me when you’re home safe!”

“I will,” he chuckles, leaning his head back down to steal another goodbye kiss before he walks back to his car with a pep in his step that he hasn’t had in a long, long time.

“Bye!”

She waves from her porch before he chastises her to get back to her house so she doesn’t stay in the rain, but she just sticks her tongue out at him then goes back anyway.

It all felt intoxicating. He wondered if he could even drive in such a distracted, head in the clouds state like this.

His gut fluttered with butterflies and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much, back on autopilot as he starts up the car, blasts the volume back up and turns back to the main road. It felt overwhelmingly unreal that he can still taste her lip gloss and how much it’s rubbed off on him. How he can still feel the ghost of her hands touching and caressing parts of him that haven’t been touched and felt like that. He has stars floating above his head like he’d been knocked the fuck out, unconscious.

Just as he’s venturing back to the street towards his place, his dick starts to feel wet against his left thigh. Still trapped by his boxers and his trousers, that same familiar sensation creeping back up on him before he could press the gas after a red light turns green. He clenches his jaw and tries to stay concentrated with tight hands on the wheel. Gasping when his dick starts tingling as he’s teased and rutted on by that same mysterious force, gliding him in between their lips, teasing their opening with his tip.

Clark barely makes it home and sticks his face in the steering wheel, licking his lips, breathing with his mouth stuck open. He feels when it goes inside, how the thrusts are long and filling and slow at first, excruciatingly wonderful as it’s taking him in down to his balls. Drenching him down with wet arousal on every pull out. His full body shivers again, butts his head against the wheel five times before accidentally bumping the horn.

Mortified with horror, he ducks his head down as much as he could and peaked around to catch only a few witnesses of his neighbors taking out their trash bins out on the curb. He awkwardly waves and subtly grabs onto his bulge through his trousers, dampness seeping through the fabric. With a braced huff, he counts to ten to enjoy the warm embrace before he’s exiting his vehicle, slamming the door and not bothering to fix his floppy hair before snatching his briefcase from the backseat, covering his crotch from the world and jogging to his door, soft rain still falling from above.

When he makes it inside he throws his belongings to the ground, rushes his clothes off akin to how he did on his lunch break earlier. As naked as he was born with those glasses still on, he lies back on the couch and clenches his jaw, absently thrusting up into the unknown heat. Feels the heat react with more tight clenches, taking his breath away. He closes his eyes and hugs a pillow to his abdomen while he pictures his new co-worker on top of him again, bouncing just like this wet heat on top of him right now. Wants her lipgloss to stick to his skin, wants to be engulfed in her hair, her perfume, her smile. Her laugh when she’s making fun of him.

Without any warning but the pit in his stomach squeezing and dropping, he cums like a fountain and it ripples out of him so fast it punches him into a straighter posture, all the sudden sitting up. He sees his own cum lathering his dick and his pubes, and he can distinguish the very moment she’s cumming not long later too.

After Clark lays there and chugs an old but full glass of water lying on his coffee table, he caught up to his breath as he tries to get himself together to draft up a text when he finds the energy to get up and pull that crumbled piece of paper out of his pant pocket.

With multiple tired, anxious tries of attempting to find some neutral ground between sounding caring and interested versus sounding desperate or obsessive, he takes a deep breath and presses send before he could talk his mind out of it.

Hey this is Clark. I made it back home safe awhile ago and forgot to let you know. Just wanna say I had fun and I’ll pick you up around 8:30 if that’s cool. Good night :)

Clark thinks of throwing his phone across the room to ignore the insecurities bubbling out of him. What else should I say. Was what I said too much. Will she even want to kiss me again? She said she’d tell me if my breath tasted bad. What if tomorrow things are different—

A text tone buzzed his couch cushion, phone screen lighting up. Surprised but delighted, he rips it back up off the couch and shoves it in his face to read carefully.

I probably had even more fun than you. Glad you’re home safe and I’ll see you tomorrow :) 8:30 sounds perfect Mr. Yes Man. I’ll be waiting out front for you, get good rest! goodnight!

Gobsmacked, he’s left re-reading the same words over and over and over until his eyes grew heavy and he knew time for bed was gonna have to be a little early tonight. He brushes his teeth, wishing he could keep the remnants of her lips on his mouth but knows he just has to wait until tomorrow for more kisses. With a hiss he scrubs his dick of the sloppy mess left thick and slathered on his entire lower half with a warm washcloth.

While he’s in bed he idly wonders what her nights looked like. If she spends them alone like Clark does. If she was more outgoing than him, had people over, went out more. If her life had more color on the pages than his. Dirtier thoughts naturally start to seep in after that, threatening to really take over the narrative he’s built in his mind. Does she touch herself nearly as much as he does? Can she cum multiple times if she’s coaxed? Does she take more charge or does she want him to take over? Or maybe she wanted both. He could do both.

Endless wonders still can’t help flooding his thoughts, so much so that they infiltrate his dream as he slowly drifts off to sleep. Dreaming of her on top of him, of playing with his tie before yanking on it to pull him around as she pleased. She got down further and nuzzled her cheek against his bulge through his office pants and took him out to lick it down like a lollipop was between his legs, even squeezing on him so good it hurt a little bit.

The dream ended with her on top and riding him, backwards cowgirl style, tight hold of his tie still in her fist. When he’s pulled out of his dream and awoken it’s around two in the morning, and somehow his dick had gotten just as wet and used in the night again, this time while he wasn’t even conscious. Clark thought he’d aged out of having any more dirty, raw, cum-in-his-pants type of wet dreams like these. He guessed that now after the day that he had and the girl that he met that everything was about to turn upside down.

. . .

thank you thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and liked my first part im so happy you guys are enjoying its so fun reading everyone’s reactions :) i like the alternating POVs too for this between her + him

****(only able to fit 50 tags per post, I’ll make another one linked to this post so I can tag the rest!)

jason isn't stupid—he knows there's rules that define whether or not two people are dating. but he is just a bit dense.

you'd met on a rooftop about a year ago, a classic vigilante encounter. instant tension, instant bickering between you and jason. he hadn't been entirely smitten. he simply thought you were beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.

not until you two start working together. bruce sends the two of you out on a mission, and you say something along the lines of, "let's make it a date, then." you said it with such an arrogant, cheeky grin.

and because that mission had gone so well, you and jason are consistently sent out together. alone.

because you'd said "let's make it a date!" he began to say it back. just a little joke. he'd say something like, "save the date..." quite bashfully. and you'd snicker and agree.

and that consistency is what makes jason think the two of you have started dating.

every single time the two of you are dispatched on a mission, it's always "save the date" or "let's make it a date" with you.

it happened so effortlessly, in his mind. so seamlessly. he doesn't feel like he needs to perform around you. he's not a blushing mess, he doesn't stutter or even treat you very differently, hence why you don't notice that he thinks the two of you are together.

except for when he stops by and gets little trinkets. maybe a stick of chocolate for valentines day. not flowers, because he wasn't able to gauge whether or not you'd want some.

for your birthday, he got you a small gift. something that reminded him of a childhood story you'd once babbled on about.

he's just a little bit sweeter and a little bit softer around you, compared to when he's conversing with other teammates.

this you notice, and you begin to consider that maybe he has feelings for you. a little crush. but you'd never in a million years consider that he thought you guys were fully dating.

his strange acts of kindness spark a tiny crush inside of you. you're spending more time with him. enjoying your missions with him just a bit more. laughing, smiling. and he begins to feel like home.

you wonder—should you ask him out? he doesn't seem like he's going to make a move any time soon. and, after all, he's been picking up so many small gifts for you here and there. maybe he's waiting for you to do something.

so, one night, you consult his brothers.

"jason likes you. i can tell," dick reassures. "he likes being around you, whether that's as friends or because he likes likes you, i dunno."

"definitely," tim had said. "jason with chocolates in his hand? never seen before. until you."

damian rolled his eyes when you asked. he scoffed and said, "i've been waiting for you to catch on. why don't you just ask each other out already?"

they act like jason is acting so differently. perhaps you just don't know him as well as they do.

one night, on a mission, you gather enough courage to turn to him and ask. "hey..."

"yeah?" he says, tipping his head towards the starless sky.

"i...um...i know we do a lot together. and i don't want to ruin our friendship."

"friendship?"

you nod. did jason even consider you a friend? why did he seem so confused? "yeah. i just...i really like having you around. so don't make it weird, okay?"

he dips his head. "okay...?"

"do you...want to go on a date with me?"

he blinks. once, twice. "are we not on one right now?"

you shrug. "i mean, i would hardly consider this a date." you gesture to the honking cars below, to your feet swinging off the edge of the roof.

"why are you asking me out?" he says, leaning forward.

you're a little stunned. a bit hurt. "because...i like you? because we spend a lot of time together and i think you're fun to be around? i don't know."

jason waves his hands in the air. "yeah, i know. but...why? i mean, we're already dating. if you wanted to go for a date and not have to go on a mission at the same time, you could've just said—"

"i'm sorry, what?"

"you...could've just said you wanted to do something different for our dates?"

you shake your head frantically. "no, no, no. you said that...you just said that we're dating?"

he stares at you like you're the one not making sense. "yeah...?"

"we're not dating, jason."

his mask hisses as he pries it off his face. his brows furrow and his cheeks redden with embarrassment. "we're...not?" he says it so softly, so painfully that you almost want to convince him that you are dating him.

"jason...oh, jason. did you think that all our talk about dates made this a date?" you can barely stifle your laughter. "jason, oh jason...you're so sweet. darling, it's an expression."

"so we're...not dating?"

"how long have you thought that?"

"about a year now." bashfully, jason's shoulders sink. "i thought we were, since you never turned down any of my gifts."

"i just thought that was you being nice. i'm sorry, i never thought to give you anything back. i just...thought you were being nice."

"of course i was just being nice. i...liked having you around."

it sounds silly saying it all aloud, but now that you think of it, jason's loyalty to you was plain as day. he was a reserved person, so it was easy to think he was just being a loner, like usual.

there was time the two of you went undercover. two girls had been ruthlessly vying for his attention. both infinitely attractive. some men, too. and he hadn't even blinked. you assumed he was just playing his part when he scooped you into his arms and wouldn't let go of you the entire night.

the way he listened to you—that gift he'd bought you for your birthday. reminiscent of some stupid childhood story you'd told him on some meaningless, random night. yet he'd remembered.

because that night hadn't been meaningless to him. no night with you had been meaningless.

perhaps he wasn't dense or stupid for thinking the two of you were already dating. perhaps you were in fact the dense one, for not seeing the signs. for not seeing how sweet he was sooner, for how silently loyal he was.

"jason." you loop his hand in yours. his pulse beats steadily. he's not nervous around you. neither are you anymore. "how long did you say we were dating?"

"we're not—"

"how long did you say we were dating for?"

he bites his lip. "tomorrow would've been...uh, our one year anniversary. i didn't know if you wanted me to plan something. you didn't seem to care very much, like the people do in the movies." because you hadn't even known. "i did want to plan something, though. you just never seemed like an 'event' sorta person." he chuckles. "i guess...i guess i know why, now."

"i love surprises," you mutter. "you can still plan something. there's still time."

"but we're not...you said we're not dating." he just seems so damn sad about it.

you shake your head. "what're you talking about?" you grin and rest your head on his shoulder. you can't believe he thought you just didn't like events, you didn't want to cuddle. you just hadn't known.

so you smile, allowing the stench of gotham celebrate the countdown to your first anniversary. the moon hangs high in the sky, and you check your watch. midnight strikes, and you snuggle into jason.

DICK GRAYSON

This man is a FREAK, since you've started dating, the two of you have done just about every position possible. That being said, he's obsessed with giving you head. And by the time he is ready to cum he wants to do it whilst fucking you, not in your mouth.

It takes some manoeuvring, catching him after a long patrol or work out when he’s slumped against the couch (you don’t let him get the sheets sweaty if it’s not from sex). But the second your hand wraps around the base of him and you’re pressing a teasing kiss to the tip of his dick he’s putty in your hands.

He’s got a trembling thigh thrown over your shoulder, hands clutching the closest couch cushion as he babbles incoherently.

Tries to pull you off several times cause “baby, He’s not gonna last. Honey, he’s gonna cum before he can fuck you” :((.

Somehow still doesn’t get that that’s kind of the point. Ends up accidentally overstimulating himself cause he’s trying not to cum while you’re trying very hard to make him.

JASON TODD

It's not often that Jason's in the mood to let you suck him off, not when he deals with and sees so much fucked up shit every day. When you do fuck, he wants to hold you close. Wants to kiss you senseless and bury his face in your neck.

Your best bet? Wake him up with it. Jason’s a light sleeper, he’ll pretty much wake up if you shift even an inch beside him but it’s not impossible. It still takes his brain a few seconds to kick the sleep from his system and if you’ve already got your lips wrapped around his dick then he’ll simply malfunction.

Forgets your name, forgets his name, forgets where the fuck he is the only thing he knows for sure is the glorious warmth sucking his soul out.

Tries to hide his groans by burying his face in his arm, you’re not afraid to use a little teeth to warn him otherwise.

Genuinely meets god for a few seconds after he cums, hips jerking as he moans so loud the neighbours are definitely gonna complain later.

TIM DRAKE

Blowjobs are how you often bribe him into spending time with you.

He’s working on a case for too long? Hand in his pants, until you can get your mouth on him, a lot harder for him to smack you away.

Busy dealing with WE shit? You’re on your knees beneath the desk until he’s dragging you home/to bed.

You really, really want something? He’s so fucking weak to the feel and sight of your tongue sliding against his dick that you can get him to promise you anything in the moment. Though he probably will forget about it so you need to record him making those promises :))

Cries. No matter how often you suck his dick he never gets used to it. It’s like he’s a virgin and it’s the first time anyone is ever touching him Every. Single. Time.

He’s so overworked and exhausted all the time that it honestly doesn’t take much before he’s trying to tug you off as tears line his lashes cause sweetheart you’ve already made him cum twice. He’s sensitive. He can’t go again yet!

(Spoiler alert: he can. Though he might need a few hours to recuperate after)

BRUCE WAYNE

We all know he's done some questionable shit to maintain his secret identity. Once you've been dating for a while you're even willing to sometimes help him nurture the Brucie Wayne act. It's never anything super raunchy, but one encounter with a slightly too friendly-for-comfort Selina Kyle later and it's you who's acting up.

Pulling him into an abandoned corridor of whoever's sprawling mansion this party is taking place in and dropping to your knees. He puts up a token protest, (you both know he could easily stop you) as you undo his slacks but the second your lips wrap around him he's a goner.

Listen, he’s disciplined. He’s withstood literal torture but the way you swirl your tongue against him before you take him so deeply your nose brushes his pelvis is probably the most overwhelming sensation he’s ever experienced.

Keeps one large hand on the back of your neck, forgets to even use it for leverage he’s so out of it, thighs shaking and head thrown back against the wall as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

You certainly hadn’t expected to end up in his office, dressed in business attire you’d bought just the day before, because how were you supposed to explain to the Batman that you’d been joking when he’d gone out of his way to schedule this meeting himself? 

You weren’t naive enough to believe that Bruce spent enough time actually working at Wayne Enterprises to even warrant having a PA. Nor would his control freak tendencies. Thus, the silent question, “Why were you here?”

He quirked a perfectly sculpted brow, no sign of the mask he adorned for the paparazzi in sight, as the two of you stared each other down. Your skin prickles slightly under his gaze. Bruce Wayne is, after all, an unfairly beautiful man, yet you refuse to be the one who breaks first. 

“I have to admit, I was surprised to read your application.” He drawls, eyes flashing with a hint of amusement that has you wanting to melt into the floor. Instead, you lean back in your seat with a pout, crossing your left leg over your thigh, the pencil skirt you’d chosen riding up slightly. 

His eyes follow the movement before quickly flicking back up to your face, but it’s too late, you’ve seen him looking, and suddenly, it's not nerves stirring low in your belly. Slowly, you change your position once more, shifting an arm so it pushes up your tits, tilting your head slightly to show off your neck and collarbone. 

Bruce’s face remains placid, but blue eyes flicker down traitorously to trace the expanse of skin in a barely there movement. 

Interesting. Perhaps there was slightly more merit to that Playboy “persona” than the League believed. 

Teeth dig into your lower lip, perfectly manicured nails drumming a line across the meat of your thigh. “So, do I get the job?”

“Hmm,” he raises a brow, blinking once before he seemingly regains his composure, “the job… Yes, I’m sure we can work something out.”

The contract is all for show; you don’t need this job, nor do you expect to do much paperwork. But you still grasp Bruce’s calloused hand eagerly as he “welcomes you to the team,” and boasts about “what a pleasure it’ll be to have you working with him.”

His touch lingered just a little longer than strictly appropriate, not that you minded. “I do believe the pleasure will be all mine.” You bite back a victorious smirk. 

Just like you didn’t technically need the job, you didn’t technically need the fancy new apartment Bruce had set you up in. Not when you had a zeta tube readily available for your use, though, given how difficult it would be to explain you suddenly zipping between Gotham and Star City repeatedly, you’d taken the leap and moved to rainy Gotham. 

Your father had, predictably, pitched an absolute fit. 

Not that you cared much when it meant you got to have Bruce beneath you like this, a red flush spreading across his sweaty chest and face, muscles taut beneath your hands as you rolled your hips teasingly. 

It had taken surprisingly little to coax the older man into your bed. A few carefully tailored outfits, lingering gazes, and touches. A little game for just the two of you, seeing who will bend first under the pressure. 

The bat breaks first, slipping through your window, bruised and bloodied after yet another night of fists thrown and hurtful words exchanged with his second eldest son. 

As Roy’s older sister, you’ve seen a lot of Jason in recent years and witnessed the fallout from many arguments as well. “He loves you, Bruce, it’s why he lashes out so much. If he didn’t care, then he wouldn’t bother.”

It should have been weird, discussing one of his children when you’d fantasised about climbing him like a tree for the past few weeks, but the minute relaxation of his muscles at your words had made it worth it. You weren’t sure how the world never seemed to notice the pressure Bruce placed upon himself, trying to shoulder every burden alone. Then again, you doubted many people cared enough to look past the carefully crafted veneer he donned. 

“I suppose you’d know, having spent a lot of time with him.” Bruce’s voice is gruff, his brow furrowing as he lets you take off the cowl to assess the damage, and your hands pause in their movements. There was something there, an underlying… bitterness? Jealousy? 

Your stomach swoops. He wasn’t trying to imply… “I have never been involved with Jason!” Your voice is slightly shrill as you reel back to look Bruce in the eyes. “I… where… why would you even think that!” 

“You seem… close.” He grumbled, shrugging his broad shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance, but the way he continued to avoid your gaze betrayed him. 

No way, he really was, “Are you jealous?” The giddy words slip past your lips before you can think better of it, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, only for it to drop as he slips out of your grasp abruptly. You can see his walls going up as he retreats, and you reach for him desperately, fingers curling around his bicep in a grip you both know he could easily escape. 

“Wait, Bruce?” You try not to let your sudden panic show, but you doubt you succeed. 

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t come here to be mocked.” 

There are a hundred things you could say, that you should say, instead, what comes out is a hoarse whisper. “Then what did you come here for?”

He remains stoic in his silence, but his eyes, always so expressive for you, dart down to your slightly parted lips. You don’t think; you simply move, grabbing his face with both hands so he can’t wriggle away, and you kiss him. 

He inhales sharply against you before grasping your hips in a split second, pulling you closer until you’re standing torso to torso. Your hands slide down his neck, arms locking themselves behind his head as one of Bruce’s migrates to rest on the small of your back. 

You pull apart for breath, his forehead resting against yours as he gasps. “This is… we shouldn’t.” 

“I know.” You whisper, but don’t move. 

You’re not quite sure who initiated the second kiss, but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you stopped when clothes were shed or when you collapsed clumsily onto your mattress together. It’s… tender, a far cry from the teasing little game you’ve been playing and the earlier kiss, fuelled by desperation. 

Bruce worships you with his touch, takes you apart bit by bit, and before the night is even over, you know it can never be a one-time thing. Bruce has ruined you for all other men. And when you wake the next morning, still curled up in his arms, you think a part of him feels the same. 

Sex with Bruce is always Earth-shattering, whether it’s rough and desperate or slow and gentle, and every time you fall into bed together, you find yourself falling a little more in love, though you’d never dare to voice it. Lest you lose the blissful rhythm you’ve fallen into together, one that sees you lying with your head on his chest, a palm splayed over his heart, still beating slightly faster than its normal resting rate. 

It’s the middle of the day, and Bruce probably has all sorts of responsibilities, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move, and you won’t be the one to bring it up. In fact, “we should just spend the day in bed,” you plead, eyes still closed as you try to snuggle further into his side. 

“Whatever you want, darling.” He hums, still slightly sex drunk, and you press a kiss to his chest to hide your gleeful giggles. 

Unfortunately, your bliss doesn’t last much longer, not when fate itself seems determined to fuck with you, in the form of your father. 

It’s like something from a horror movie, the way your bedroom door swings open and your dad’s familiar voice filters into your previously peaceful space. 

“Sweetheart, are you home? Can we talk? Don’t you think it’s time you quit with the rebellious act… and come… home?” His voice trails off into nothingness as you sit upright, tugging the blankets up to cover yourself. 

“Dad!” You scream. 

“Bruce?!” He yells shrilly in outrage, the man still lying beside you, sighing as he mentally prepares for the inevitable confrontation.

“Oliver.”

“Bruce! You— My daughter?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ll fucking kill you!” His skin has gone nearly purple with rage, and you suspect it’s only your body acting as a barrier that prevents your dad from launching himself at Bruce. 

“Dad!” You scream again, throwing a pillow at him, “Get out!”

“So that deviant can make a hasty retreat out the window? I don’t think so!”

“So I can get dressed, you freak!” He hesitates, but when you reach for your bedside table to brandish the lamp menacingly, he gets the hint. 

Bruce is silent as the two of you get dressed, and it makes the nerves in your stomach worsen tenfold. You feel as if you’re about to throw up, until Bruce takes the shirt from your hands, the confused question dying before you can ask when he slips you his shirt instead. Holding out his hand for you to take, he leads you out to meet your father. 

Oliver scowls fiercely as he notices your conjoined hands, mouth opening to no doubt start yelling again when you beat him to it.

“Bruce and I are together, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.” You’ve never voiced it out loud, what this thing between you and Bruce is, and you don’t dare to look at him for fear of how he’ll react. Your fears are instantly assuaged when his thumb softly strokes the back of your palm, grounding you with a silent message: I’m right here. 

“He treats me like a princess.” You admit softly, overcome with a sudden wave of embarrassment. 

“I treat you like a princess!” Oliver whined, actually whined like he wasn't a fully grown man nearing 50. 

You shoot him a withering scowl, refusing to back down, you’d always given in to your father before, always been the one keeping the peace in your fucked up dysfunctional family, but not this time. Not when it mattered. 

Like always, your dad breaks first, collapsing against the couch dramatically with a huff, as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Fine!” You raise a brow in surprise at his easy acquiescence but allow your shoulders to release some of their tension, letting out a sigh of relief as you lean into Bruce’s side, only to jump when your dad starts screeching bloody murder once more. 

“Nope! Nu-uh, we’re not doing that!” He leapt between you, pushing you behind him and holding an arm out like he was shielding you from some great threat. “Don’t smirk at me, you asshole!” Oliver jabs a finger at Bruce, who only thinly veils his amusement. Which of course, sets off your father even further as you fight back a whine. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to appear nonchalant, but you couldn't prevent the flutter in your stomach at his attention. It was hardly your first gala together, Dick had seen you dressed up plenty of times before, but everytime he looked at you as if you were a goddess.

He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you snug against his side. "Let’s just get through this thing. Then it’s you, me, some cheap Chinese takeout, and most importantly, no pants."

"Oh, baby, you really know how to treat a woman." You giggled, kissing his jaw and leaving a lipstick stain that he either doesn't notice or doesn't care to wipe off.

The two of you stay like that, standing on the fringes of the room, content to ignore everyone else, until you spot Cass looking longingly at the dancefloor.

"Dick," you nudged him, "you should dance with Cassie."

You can tell he's hesitant to leave you, but Cassie clearly wants to dance and Dick would do anything to make his siblings happy. "Take this?" He holds out the drink he'd been nursing for 10 minutes but had yet to touch.

"Why, Mr Grayson, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk." You joked, gently tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.

He grins as you steal a kiss just before lifting the rim of the glass to your lips. "Moscato?" You raise a brow at the choice, your favourite, "You really were planning this."

"I didn't say drink it." He tries to play innocent, but you both know he's been waiting to hand it off to you. You give the liquid a swirl before taking another sip, relishing in the sweet taste as it coats your tongue.

"Now go on, dance with your sister."

Dick’s still smiling when he leans in, brushing your cheek with a kiss. "I’ll be back in a minute."

"I'll count the seconds." You joke, waving him off like a woman seeing her husband off for war, delighting in the way Cassandra lights up as Dick leads her onto the floor.

With Dick gone, Tim sidles up to your side seamlessly, your own sleepy little guard dog as he eyes the other gala goers mistrustfully.

You snort before pulling him into your side, which he readily accepts. Your heart swells with affection for the boy you'd come to view as your own little brother.

You take another drink, trying to stave off your sudden bout of cotton mouth. When that doesn't work, you clear your throat before downing the rest of your glass.

Tim gives you an odd look, but you wave off his concern, "just a little thirsty." You don't admit that your throat is suddenly drier than the Sahara as you take a glass of water from the nearest waiter.

You take slow sips, but no matter what you do, your tongue still feels like paper. Annoying, but not unbearable, an unfortunate side effect you sometimes suffered when drinking.

A few minutes pass, and you start to think something might be wrong when your vision blurs a little. You unconsciously lean slightly against Tim, who startles as he feels the heat emanating from you. Placing the back of his palm against your forehead, before you can stop him. "Jesus, you're hot."

"Careful Timmers, wouldn't wanna make Dick jealous." You joke weakly, fanning yourself with your free hand as the heat crawls down the back of your neck and chest. "Though, it is kind of hot in here."

"I guess." Tim seemed a little unconvinced, pulling out of your grip, only for you to stumble. "Oh wow, I think you might've had a bit too much to drink."

"Hmm, maybe." You agree even if you don't remember having that much. You turn your head, wincing a little as the light reflects harshly from the chandeliers into your eyes.

"Ok, I think it's time we get you home." You nod your head, only to immediately regret it when the world spins a little bit.

"What's this? My little brother is trying to abscond with my girlfriend? Say it ain't so." Dick suddenly appeared, a hint of worry hiding behind his good natured demeanour.

You beam, going to embrace your boyfriend, only to trip when your ankle wobbles. Your heart thumps wildly against your chest, as you lean heavily against Dick's chest.

You don't see the alarmed glances Tim and Dick exchange, keeping your eyes closed to try and abate the odd pressure building up behind them.

Dick says something, hand cupping your jaw as he keeps your head upright, but you don't hear it. His voice is muffled, as if he is trying to speak to you through water.

He seems worried, but you don't understand why; everything's so floaty.

"I'm fine... think I just need to... to" you trail off, losing your train of thought.

"Hey—hey, no, no, no. Stay with me." Dick’s voice cuts through the haze, low and urgent, a stark contrast to the earlier soft teasing you’d shared over stolen kisses and that glass of Moscato.

His hand is warm against your jaw, gently cradling it, thumb brushing your cheek as he keeps your head propped up.

Despite your best efforts, your vision slips in and out of focus. All you can see is Dick's face, so pretty even in his panic. You don't want him to look at you like that, you never want him to be upset, you want him happy, always.

You try to tell him that, but your tongue refuses to cooperate. You don't know why he's so frantic; you're just a little overheated. Your mouth finally opens, but you can't remember what you wanted to say. The thought, whatever it was, slips from your grasp like sand.

Your legs suddenly give out, the new glass of water you'd been clutching slipping from your lax grasp and shattering against the marble floor.

Dick is already moving, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap tightly around you, cushioning your fall.

"Hey, hey—look at me. Look at me, baby."

The sound is distant to your ears, as if from another world entirely. But the commotion grabs the attention of the nearby gala goers, and alarmed whispers reach Bruce's ears from across the room just in time for him to witness his eldest catch you and sink to the floor.

He forgets his charming, genial mask, shoving through scandalised socialites as he runs to reach his son.

Tim's already calling an ambulance, and Damian has appeared suddenly as if from thin air, snarling at anyone attempting to get a closer look.

Dick is hysterical, tears in his eyes as he holds your face in his hands as he tries to get you to respond, but any words he can elicit from you are slurred and confused.

His son doesn't even register his presence until he's kneeling opposite him, clasping a grounding hand on his shoulder. Dick looks up at him, tears sliding down his devastated face. "Bruce, Dad, help her, please!" He begs, voice cracking.

Bruce inhales sharply, the word Dad hitting him like a freight train. Dick hadn’t called him that in months. Years, maybe. It's a word he'd secretly ached to hear for so long, but not like this, not tinted with raw desperation.

Bruce inhales sharply at that, at his son desperately looking at him to fix something they're both powerless to combat.

"She’s going to be okay," Bruce tells him, quietly, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal.

"You can't know that! You can't promise me that!"

Dick looks down at you, taking in the way you gasped raggedly for air, pupils blown wide as you twitch in his grasp.

"Dick." Bruce squeezed his shoulder, grounding him and forcing him back to the present moment. "The ambulance will be here soon. She's still breathing and still has a pulse, she's going to be okay."

"She just... she just collapsed," Dick babbles, as if he hadn't even heard Bruce. "She was fine when I left her, she was, she was fine! But when I got back she couldn't, couldn't breathe - "

"She’s breathing," Bruce murmurs, his hand pressed lightly to your neck. "Pulse is faint, but still there."

"She couldn’t focus. She can’t speak, Bruce." Dick sounds like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. "I don’t... I don’t know what’s happening!"

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t care—God, he cares so much it aches—but because he doesn’t know, and that terrifies him.

Dick is muttering, a mindless stream of thoughts as he clutches you tighter against his chest. "I gave her my drink," he stammers suddenly, as if the memory just struck him. "I didn’t touch it, I just… handed it to her. It was moscato, she likes moscato."

He looks up at Bruce, haunted. "Did I do this? Did I—was it the drink? Or—what if it was something else, what if something's wrong with her heart, or she's sick or something, she was unwell last week. I don't know. I don’t know."

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not yet. His mind is already spinning, cataloguing symptoms, possibilities: low blood sugar, dehydration, cardiac event, something neurological. The possibilities were endless.

"We’re going to figure it out," he tells Dick quietly. "Help will be here soon, she'll be ok son."

"She has to be," Dick whimpers, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, and then a little quieter. "She promised me forever."

Bruce watches, his heart in his throat as he watches Dick's hand absentmindedly reach into his pocket for something. Was that... a ring?

That train of thought is abruptly derailed when the paramedics finally arrive.

Dick tries to stay with you as they check your vitals, his hand gripping yours like a vice even as you're lifted onto a stretched and rolled into the back of the ambulance.

One medic tries to gently pull him back, but he doesn’t budge, refusing to leave your side. "I’m staying," he snaps, voice low and dangerous. The paramedic hesitates, glancing at his colleague, who just nods their assent.

"Just stay out of our way," he mutters, but Dick barely hears him, already sinking onto the bench beside the gurney, white-knuckled fingers still wrapped around yours. 

"She was fine," he whispers to no one in particular. "Twenty minutes ago, she was teasing me about getting her drunk. We were laughing."

He can't stop the tears from falling any longer when they attach an oxygen mask, your eyelids fluttering open and closed at random intervals.

"Stay with me, please, baby, just hang in there." He begs you feverishly. Your head lolls toward him, something like recognition flashing in your eyes before it's gone again in a blink. 

"Miss," the second paramedic says suddenly, gently lifting one of your eyelids and shining a small penlight into your eyes. "Miss, can you hear me?"

"Pupils are dilated. Sluggish response," he mutters, more to his partner now. "Could be neurological."

Dick’s stomach drops. "Neurological? Like what, a stroke?"

"We won’t know until we get her stable. It could be toxins. It could be a reaction to something. Could be—" The medic stops himself, shooting Dick a look. "Could be a lot of things."

"She didn’t take anything," Dick says quickly, defensively. "She doesn’t even like taking Tylenol without checking with her doctor first."

"You gave her a drink?" the other medic asks.

Dick nods slowly. "Moscato. Mine. I hadn’t touched it; I was holding it for too long. I didn’t want to waste it—" He swallows. "She was happy. She kissed me. She was fine."

You let out a soft, breathless sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a word. But it yanks Dick forward like a lifeline, his hand tightening around yours.

"Hey, hey, I’m here," he says urgently. "Babe, can you hear me? Just squeeze my hand, yeah? Just let me know you can hear me."

You don’t respond, you can’t, and Dick nearly starts to sob again. Helpless to do anything but watch and pray to a god he doesn’t believe in, as the paramedics work around him. He rests your clasped hands against his lips, rocking restlessly back and forth as he watches for any change in your condition. 

Your eyes flutter weakly open for half a second, glassy and unfocused, and he leaps to reassure you. "I’ve got you," he whispers, running his free hand gently down your cheek. "I swear, I’ve got you. Just stay with me."

Your fingers twitch—the smallest, weakest movement, but Dick clings to that like a lifeline. His hand tightens around yours, and you suddenly twitch again, your whole body flinching as your eyelids blink rapidly.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice shakes as he leans forward, cupping your cheek again. "You with me?"

Your eyes are wide open, but they’re not focused, unseeing as you stare right through him before abruptly attempting to recoil. "Don’t touch me!" you gasp, trying to pull your hand away, though he doesn’t let go. "Get off me, get—"

"Hey, hey, it’s me!" Dick says quickly, panic clawing up his throat. "It’s me. It’s Dick, you’re safe, baby, you’re safe."

You’re thrashing now, feeble but undoubtedly panicked. Your pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the colour of your irises. 

"There’s someone! He’s behind you, Dick!" you sob suddenly, eyes locked on the corner of the ambulance where no one sits. "He’s watching me, he’s watching me. Stop looking at me—"

"There’s no one there," Dick breathes, helpless. "There’s no one there, I promise, I swear—"

One of the medics leans over. "Hallucinations. She’s panicking, we need to sedate her before she hurts herself."

"No," Dick says reflexively. "She’s scared. She needs to know she’s not alone. She doesn’t like being sedated."

"She can’t hear you right now," the paramedic says gently, already preparing a sedative. "You have to let us do our job."

You scream again, incoherent, like you’re fighting something only you can see. "I’m right here. I’m not leaving," he says, voice trembling. "You’re okay, I’ve got you. There’s no one else here, just me. It’s just me."

But you don’t hear him, head thrashing from side to side, murmuring something over and over, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. His heart splinters.

"Give it to her," he says quietly. "If it’ll help her stop being afraid... do it."

The sedative enters your bloodstream through the IV, and your breathing begins to slow within moments. Your muscles go slack, and your face's tension eases slightly.

Dick swallows hard, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand once more.

"I’m right here," he whispers. "You’re safe now. Whatever you’re seeing… It’s not real. I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you." But the words feel cheap and hollow against his tongue, because he’s already failed to keep you safe. 

His mind's a mess, but Dick’s sure that this whole thing really is his fault. The timeline, the symptoms, you’ve been poisoned, with a glass of wine that had been meant for him. If you die, it’ll be all his fault. If you die, then Dick thinks he might just die with you. 

The thought hits him like a bullet to the chest. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t hear your laugh, doesn’t feel your hand reaching for his across crowded rooms, doesn’t get to kiss you goodnight and pretend, just for a moment, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You whimper in his arms, body twitching against the restraints that keep you from hurting yourself. The EMT had told him it was necessary, but it felt like cruelty.

You start to seize right as they get to the hospital, thrashing against your restraints as they wheel you through the ER doors. The paramedics speak rapid fire at the awaiting nurses and doctors, Dick barely hears any of it.

"Sir, you need to stay here—" someone tries to stop him from pushing past the double doors, but Dick shrugs them off with more force than necessary.

"I’m not leaving her!" he shouts, his voice cracking at the last word. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that they tremble.

"Mr. Grayson!" An overworked nurse tried to calm him down, and had he been in his right mind Dick would have been appalled at his behaviour.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulling him back and Dick whirls around, snarling in Bruce's face.

"Let them work," Bruce says quietly, yet sternly.

Collapsing into Bruce's awaiting arms, Dick feels like a small child again. Completely helpless. He's sobbing, gasping against Bruce's chest.

The man is silent, aware that nothing he says can make it better, no matter how badly he wants to take away his son's pain. He wishes he could absorb it all and make everything magically better. But he can't, so he remains a pillar of support, holding his son up.

Time doesn’t pass normally in the hospital. Every second feels like an eternity, every tick of the clock on the far wall drawn out like torture. Bruce tries to get him to sit, but Dick refuses, staring at the doors they wheeled you through like it will bring you back.

"Please be okay," he whispers into the silence, his voice barely audible. "Please." He doesn't know who he's begging anymore: you, the doctors, God, or himself.

The hours feel eternal, a torturous, maddening slog as they wait for any sort of news.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly white glow that makes the hospital hallway feel more like a purgatory than a place of healing.

Dick’s been pacing outside the ICU for so long he’s probably worn a hole in the ludicrously expensive shoes. Every nurse who walks by earns a hopeful glance, and every time they pass without stopping, it feels like another knife to the gut.

He’s running on adrenaline and guilt, the phantom image of your limp body in his arms haunting every breath.

Then, finally, footsteps approach, and Dick's nearly manic when someone finally adresses him.

"She’s stable. Still weak, but the anticholinergic treatment’s working. We’ve flushed most of the toxins from her system. You can see her now"

Anticholinergic treatment? That meant... poison.

Dick's already moving before she finishes, murmuring a breathless "Thank you" as he slips past her and into the private room Bruce is undoubtedlybpaying for.

The sight of you hooked up to various machines, IV lines, oxygen monitors, heart rate beeping slow and steady, makes his chest tighten, but at least you’re here. Alive.

He drags a chair up to your bedside and takes your hand, careful not to jostle the IV. It’s warm, but no longer searing like it had been in the ambulance.

"Hey, baby." He murmurs, voice cracking as he brushes his thumb gently across your knuckles.

You don’t respond.

He speaks softly anyway. He promises you’re safe, that everything's fine, that he’s right here, and that his family is already tearing Gotham apart, trying to figure out who did this.

The nurses try to get him to leave when visiting hours are over, but Dick kicks up a such a fuss that he's sure he accidentally scares them. Bruce ends up flashing some money to smooth things over, the benefits of being rich.

He refuses to leave your side; he won't leave you alone when you're so vulnerable. He does his best to stay awake, he needs to be there for you when you wake up, but eventually he succumbs to the exhaustion.

The room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft mechanical whir of the machines monitoring your vitals.

Dick sits slouched in the chair beside your hospital bed, one arm resting awkwardly across his chest, the other still holding your hand like a lifeline. His head is bowed forward, chin tucked against his chest, breathing deep and even.

His suit jacket has long since been discarded, his tie loosened, his hair a mess, and dark circles paint shadows beneath his eyes.

You stir slowly, fighting desperately against the lethargy. Your eyelids feel like cement is weighing them down as you attempt to open them.

Your fingers twitch. A slight, barely perceptible movement before you manage to curl them around the hand clasped in yours.

The light is blinding, burning your retinas when you finally manage to pry them open. The world swims, but you push through it, turning your head as you follow the trail of the hand holding yours up to the blurry image of your sleeping boyfriend.

"…Dick?" Your voice is raw, no louder than a whisper. Not enough to stir him from his exhausted slump.

You squeeze his hand weakly, but it’s enough for him to jerk upright, eyes wild with panic, before they lock on yours.

"Hey," you croak, attempting to smile, but your facial muscles won't cooperate.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s not sure he’s really awake. He lets out a shaky, tearful laugh before dragging the chair closer. "You’re awake," he breathes through a sob.

"I… yeah," you rasp, coughing from the dryness of your throat. "Hurts."

"I know love." He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’ve been out for almost a day. They said you were stable, but, god, I didn’t know if—" His voice cracks on a sob, and you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him but your sluggish body refuses to obey.

"M'sorry, didn’t wanna scare you."

"No, no, no, honey. Don't apologise, this isn't your fault." He shakes his head, eyes wet with unshed tears. "It's mine—"

"Don’t," you interrupt as sternly as you're able. "Don’t do that. Not your fault. I’m okay. I'm okay."

You start to cough again, and Dick reaches for the cup of water on the bedside, helping you drink slowly through the straw.

He helps you lie back down against the pillows, looking at you with such tenderness you almost cry. "You didn’t leave."

He smiles, a broken, crooked thing, but still shining with so much love. "I never will, never."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, a broad smile stretching across your face.

"You two are sickeningly sweet," Donna rolls her eyes, but her own fond grin gives away her true feelings, "it's cute, even if it makes me feel depressingly single."

"With how sexy you look tonight? That could be about to change." You wriggle your brows.

"From this crowd? They'd be so lucky," she scoffed, making you throw back your head and laugh.

As if your words had been a spell to summon desperate assholes, a hand slides down your back, resting dangerously low. You turn to smile at Dick, only to falter at the sight of a complete stranger. "Buy you ladies a drink?"

Even when you recoil in shock, a smirk he must think is suave pulls at the corner of the man's lips, but Donna's look of disgust lets you know she's not charmed either.

Your skin crawls as you slide out from his grasp and next to Donna, who's stepped forward, shielding you slightly from view. "Not interested," she deadpans, arms crossed and showing off her impressive biceps.

The douchebag only flinches minutely before his grin comes back full force, apparently suicidal as he steps closer into your personal space, even when you and Donna back away even more.

"Playing hard to get? I like that in a woman." He reaches for your face, only for you to smack his hand away harshly.

"What are you? A cartoon villain? The answer's no. N-O." You sneer over Donna's shoulder.

That strikes a nerve, his eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Donna, "Oh, I get it, you're a —"

Fury lights in your chest, and a nasty retort readies itself on the tip of your tongue as you push past Donna, but Dick beats you to it, appearing from thin air and clapping a hand down on the creep's shoulder harshly.

"You harassing my girl?" Dick's voice is upbeat, an eerie smile stretching across his cheeks.

It's more than a little satisfying to watch the man wilt under Dick's stare, and if you're being honest with yourself, it's kind of hot.

"I—your—no?" the guy stammers, flinching away from Dick's touch and wincing when Dick's grip tightens painfully.

Your boyfriend leans in, whispering something that you can't make out over the music blasting from the dancefloor speakers, before he lets go.

You don't think you've ever seen a man scamper away from you so quickly, nor so inelegantly, as he ends up stumbling and crashing into the corner of a table.

Dick's by your side in an instant, sliding a hand up to cup your cheek loosely as he scans your person, "You ok?"

"Mm, you got here in the nick of time," You nod seriously, even if your smile betrays your mirth, "my hero."

Leaning up to him, you press a kiss on his cheek, turning to whisper in his ear when he pouts that 'you missed', "You know, seeing you defending me like that was sexy. What do you say we head home early?"

Since then, Clark had unintentionally made it a goal of his to study each and every microexpression, committing each to memory. He could spend hours just staring at you, admiring every emotional detail as it flickered to life.

Not in a creepy way! You're just so... special.

He sighs softly, unaware of the knowing smirks thrown his way, Batman pausing mid-sentence as he turns to stare at his friend with a raised brow. "Superman?"

When Clark doesn't answer, Bruce follows his gaze, huffing as he crosses his arms in a show of stern disapproval despite his internal amusement at Clark's obvious pining.

"Superman?" Bruce clears his throat, speaking a little louder as snickers ring out across the room.

Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Clark blinks rapidly, a blush covering his sheepish face as he stares into the blank white lenses of Batman's cowl whilst trying to play off his inattention.

"Anything to add, Superman?"

"I, er..." he coughs, "No, I think you've covered everything."

There's a handful of snickers that let Clark know he's failed spectacularly, and he has to fight the urge to sink down in his chair. Mortification flooding his veins, cheeks flushing an undoubtedly bright red, had he really been so obvious with his... admiration of you?

Oh gosh, had you noticed him staring? He thinks he might throw up. What if you thought he was some weirdo lecher?

You hide a laugh behind your hand that only he can hear, eyes sparkling in amusement, and suddenly the embarrassment is worth it.

The first to intervene are Oliver and Dinah, a half cocked plan forming over wine and dinner the night of Clark's pitiful display during the League meeting.

"Oh, come on, Ollie, you have to admit, it's cute."

"It's pathetic, I was cringing in second-hand embarrassment for him." Oliver denies. "I mean, he's been pining like a puppy for how long now?"

"You're getting really worked up about this, babe." Dinah raised an amused brow.

"I mean, they're clearly perfect for each other." Ollie tugs at his hair, "It's painful, Di, painful I tell you!"

Dinah's not sure how that one conversation led her here, sitting next to you in a cozy cafe across from Ollie and Clark in what is definitely a double date, despite her husband's reassurances they were just friends 'hanging out.' But she's starting to understand Oliver's frustration.

"Where are Hal and Barry?" You ask, clearly a little suspicious when 15 minutes pass and neither of them shows up, narrowed gaze focused on a fidgeting Oliver.

"I didn't tell you? They're uh busy, work things, you know how it is."

"Yeah, work things." You hum.

"Right, looks like it's just the four of us then, who's ready to order?" Oliver claps, flagging down a waiter as Clark keeps alternating between staring dopily at you and staring holes into the poor menu.

"So, Clark, you working on anything at the moment? This one's always telling me how much they enjoy reading your articles." Dinah prompts, elbowing you with a sly grin as you stare at her with wide eyed betrayal.

"Really?" Clark coughs, staring at you hopefully.

"Well, yeah, you're a talented reporter, Clark. I can tell you put a lot of heart into everything you write." Clark looks torn between puffing his chest in pride and collapsing in on himself in embarrassment.

"I think you're really talented too!" Clark blurts, and it's your turn to be flustered at the compliment.

Dinah's beginning to see what Ollie means.

Diana's the next to meddle, deciding it's time for a more physical approach. Which is how you somehow find yourself standing across from Clark in the Watchtower training room, trying (and failing) to keep your traitorous eyes from trailing over his ridiculously toned form.

The biceps he usually kept hidden away beneath his suit were on display for once, drawing your attention like a blaring neon sign. Look at me! They taunted you, beckoning your gaze as your imagination began to delve into sinful places. How easy it would be for him to pick you up, hold you against him or even throw you around—

"Are you ready?"

"Ready?" You parrot in a daze, swivelling to stare at a smug Diana.

"To spar?" Right. Yes. That. The spar, the spar you were about to have with Clark. The no powers, close quarters, sweaty, contact-filled spar.

Your heart hammers like a jackrabbit, and though Clark throws you a concerned glance, he's kind enough not to mention it.

The spar is, quite frankly, painfully embarrassing.

At first, you're both hesitant, circling each other as you test the waters. When it becomes clear that Clark won't attack first, you make the first move, slowly building confidence as you find a rhythm. Confidence, which turns to annoyance to outright anger when Clark doesn't even attempt to hit you back.

As your frustration builds, so too does the power behind your hits. "You're not even trying," you hiss.

"I don't want to hurt you." Clark stammers, and your rage reaches an all-time high. Did he think he was better than you?

"Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?" Instantly, Clark knows he's said the wrong thing, your brows furrowing even further in anger. His stumbled explanations fall on deaf ears as you lash out with renewed vigour.

"Yeah! Kick his ass!" The unexpected voice takes you both by surprise, your eyes briefly darting to the sidelines, and when did Wally and Nightwing get here?

You looked away for one second. One second of inattention, a brief, infinitesimal moment in time. But one second was all it took (you could practically hear Batman's scolding tone in your mind) before pain exploded across your face like a supernova.

You're not even entirely sure what's happened as your knees buckle, hands instinctively clutching your face, only to come away concerningly wet.

Tears of pain slide down your cheeks, but you don't even notice over the searing agony of your definitely broken nose.

The gallery devolves into chaos; the spectators are yelling, clamouring around you as Clark profusely apologises repeatedly. There's horrified tears in his eyes, and you can't help but think that if anyone should be crying, it's you.

Still, he's clearly distraught, trailing after you as you stumble half blindly toward the infirmary.

"I'm okay," you try to reassure him, the word's garbled through your mouth full of blood.

This has the opposite effect of reassurance.

You see very little of Clark in the weeks following him accidentally breaking your nose. Not because you’re holding it against him, but because he’d looked so distraught upon seeing your healing face that you’d opted to stay away from the Watchtower until it completely healed over.

That didn't stop the influx of apology texts, or the apology flowers, or other little knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the globe. It was cute at first, but your living space was starting to get a little crowded.

"Clark, seriously, it's fine, it was an accident." You sigh, for what must be the hundredth time.

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." You take his anxiously twiddling hands in yours without thought, just wanting to calm him down. It stuns him into a flustered silence, and in keeping up with your emboldened momentum, you manage to bite the bullet. "Make it up to me then. There's a movie I've been wanting to see. Come with me? You're paying."

The high of your victorious attempt to ask Clark on a date lasts all of five seconds before it's ruined in the form of Booster Fucking Gold.

"Wait, are you guys talking about that one with the hot redhead? I wanna come!"

"He likes you too, you know." Bruce can't believe he's doing this, but it's been years, and neither you nor Clark has made a move. It was pitiful.

(Also, he may have overheard his children concocting some harebrained kidnapping scheme with Harley Quinn of all people and decided enough was enough.)

"What?! I have no idea what you're talking about." You respond somewhat shrilly, the picture of nonchalance. Trying not to falter under the weight of 'unimpressed batstare vol. 3.'

Your shoulders hunch in on themselves, eyes alternating between the monitor and his stone faced expression. "Really? I mean," you cough. "he said that? Like... to you?"

Even behind the mask, Bruce's stare is deadpan, the kind that said he'd rather be literally anywhere else right now. "Just put us all out of our misery and kiss him already."

"Wha? Like right now?" His stare is expectant, with the promise of hell to pay if you don't get out of his sight right now.

You take the hint. Nearly tripping over your feet in your scramble to escape from under Batman’s heavy stare.

You're not sure if you're hoping Clark is currently on the tower deck or not. Batman’s words had given you the confidence boost you needed, but there was still that underlying anxiety.

What if he was wrong? What if Clark’s feelings had changed? What if -

Clark finds you first, sunny smile on his face as he approaches you. He’s so beautiful, radiant even in the sterile watchtower lighting. He’s saying something, asking you a question maybe but you barely hear it over the roar of blood in your ears.

You don't speak, you know you'll lose your nerve if you do, and quickly lean in to kiss him mid sentence. Gently at first, hands just ghosting the tops of his shoulders, giving Clark ample opportunity to pull away should he want.

Large hands move to cradle the small of your back, pushing you closer against your chest as Clark tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a soft sigh.

Your arms move to lock around his neck and Clark lets out a small hum of approval that makes your stomach swoop.

“Get a room!”

“Yeah Supes, get some!”

“Fucking finally!”

The various jeers and exclamations startle you so badly you jolt in Clark’s arms. If it weren’t for him holding you up you likely would’ve hit the floor, because at some point during the kiss Clark had started floating.

Over his shoulder you catch a glimpse of some colourful costumes before you’re suddenly whisked away. It’s not the first time you’ve experienced Clark’s speed but it’s still enough to pull an alarmed scream from your throat.

“Clark!” You hiss in embarrassment when he finally sets you down in a room occupied only by the two of you, though his hands still linger on your hips.

“Sorry, just wanted to get you alone.” He grins bashfully, and it’s enough to douse your annoyance. Your eyes stay narrowed in a mock glare but you both know there’s no heat behind it.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He whispers before kissing you once more.